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Charlie ran from the dragon then, leaving Corayne and the Companions to burn.
He wanted to run now.
But he did not move, holding himself rooted to the spot.
“A dragon roost,” Corayne repeated next to him, her voice small.
In recent months, she’d seemed older than her age. Stronger, faster, more skilled. Smarter than any of them. Not so anymore. Charlie saw the teenager, the girl barely gone from home, still taking her first steps in the wider world.
“A large garrison was left at the ruin. A dragon feasts on the corpses,” Valnir said. “At least one, a juvenile judging by its size.”
A child.Charlie bit his lip, mind spinning. The dragon of Gidastern had looked big as a storm cloud, massive, anything but a young creature. Trembling, he wondered how many dragons roamed the Ward now.
“I remember the dragons of younger days, when this realm still bristled with Spindles.” The Elder’s hawkish face softened a little, his own eyes filled with memory. “I know what it is to face them.”
“Do you?” Corayne bit back harshly. Pink spotted high on her cheeks as Valnir recoiled. “I watched a dragon burn a city before my eyes three weeks ago. And I promise you, it was no juvenile.”
“Certainly not,” Charlie heard himself murmur.
Valnir wisely chose not to press them.
“If we circle back into the forest,” he said, “we should be able to pass without alerting the dragon to our presence. It will cost us time, of course.”
“Better a few days lost than all our lives,” Garion spat, crossing his arms.
Valnir dipped his head once. He even exhaled a sigh of relief. “I am inclined to agree. War comes and I should not spend my warriors yet.”
As much as he wanted to do the same, something gnawed at the back of Charlie’s mind. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the braid with errant fingers. Suddenly he could only look at his boots, watching as the fog curled over his feet. He wished he could disappear into it, lost in the forest again. Instead, his mind swirled with the illuminated pages of old scripture, adorned with calligraphy and a dragon’s wing painted in vibrant shades.
“Charlie?” Corayne nudged him, her own dark brow furrowed deep. “What is it?”
He swallowed hard, wishing to swallow his own tongue.For once, Charlie, keep your mouth shut.
He spoke anyway.
“In another life,” he began, “I was a priest of Tiber, dedicated to my god. And his Dazzling Realm.”
Garion’s eyes bored into his own, rare fear rising in the Amhara. Charlie ignored it, painful as it was.
“Irridas,” Valnir said. “From whence the dragons came.”
“Jeweled their skies, jeweled their hides,” Charlie murmured, remembering the old words and even older prayers. In his church, they laid offerings of gold, silver, and gems, a weak shadow of Tiber’s realm.
“You say the young dragon feasts on the remains of a garrison.” He let the words sink in. “From what army?”
“My scouts saw remnants of the Gallish flag,” Valnir said.
“Erida is at war with the entire Ward,” Corayne muttered. Her eyes worried back and forth. “Why would she leave a legion out here to defend a ruin?”
The answer felt like a blow from a hammer. Charlie went cold beneath his gloves, his fingers tingling with numbness. Across the many years, he heard the sound of a choir. Coins clinking on an altar. The smell of candles burning, the scent of ink all over his hands.
“They weren’t defending a ruin,” he whispered, meeting Corayne’s black eyes.
She stared back, her mouth dropping open. “They were defending a Spindle.”
“Gods help us,” Charlie cursed, gritting his teeth.
“Vergon holds a Spindle torn,” Valnir murmured, one white hand flexing at his side.
