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“Definitely.” It just felt…right.
“No one knows who carved her. Of course”—he shot her a wide grin—“legend has it she isn’t carved at all. That eons ago, dragons really did roam the skies, and when all the rest were gone, she was lonely and came here to sleep, slowly turning to stone as the centuries passed.”
She knew it was supposed to be a story. But some piece of the Song sparked in her at its telling, and she found herself walking onto the broad forehead, lowering herself to place her palms flat against the wide stone scales. The Song perked up again and Clare let it, let it stretch a tendril into the stone, like saying hello. She felt the distant echo of a force, a consciousness, barely noticing that wisp of Song that spoke to it.
A flicker of interest and then it was gone, replaced by an immeasurable sadness. As if the dragon had been waiting for someone all this time, but Clare wasn’t them. “I don’t think she missed the dragons,” Clare said softly, “I think she missed her rider.”
And she wasn’t going to wake until they came to her.
She stood, dusting off her hands, to find Numair looking at her oddly. But then, to him, it probably seemed like she’d taken a story a little too seriously. He was quiet the entire ride back down the mountain, and every now and then, she would glance over to find him looking at her strangely.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Are You the Second Prince of Faelhorn, or Aren’t You?
Numair contemplated the new and fascinating ways in which he was an idiot. He hadn’t been mistaken about that power he’d felt slip out of her at the Hawk and Scepter. It hadn’t been some secondary facet of Songweaving, and her ability to stand under his uncle’s power wasn’t an anomaly some branch of mage theory could explain.
Because he’d felt it again, spearing into existence where before there had been nothing, as she’d placed her hands on a stone dragon he now had the uncomfortable feeling wasn’t actually stone at all.
He didn’t remember Verol’s last apprentice. He’d been too young when she died. But he knew why she had died. Knew the truth of it where few probably did. He should have expected that Clare was like her. And if he should have expected it, he knew his uncle already had.
If there was anywhere he could send her where Alaric wouldn’t find her, he would do it in a heartbeat. But nowhere in this realm was safe, and if Alaric hadn’t moved on her…maybe he didn’t know.
He thought of saying something to her, but what was the point? Verol would have already warned her. What was Numair going to say that wouldn’t make her look at him differently? He selfishly wanted to keep her just like this—the only person he knew who didn’t want something from him except himself. And he thought, maybe, that was what she wanted—needed—too. That maybe being that for her was the best thing he could do.
You know that isn’t true. You aren’t good for her. You aren’t good for anyone, and you’ll only cause her trouble, in the end.
Fingers snapped near his face. He jerked, Hellack flicked an ear back at him in concern, and he looked over to find Clare smiling at him.
“How deeply lost in your head were you?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Too deep, apparently.” Since they’d already reached the palace stables and he hadn’t really noticed. “You were saying something, I take it?”
“Countess Duval has graciously invited me to sing at the Musicale House tomorrow night,” she said, a world’s worth of sarcasm in her voice. “I plan to be spectacular. You should come with me.”
“I don’t believe the countess sent me an invitation.”
She gave him a look. “Are you the second prince of Faelhorn, or aren’t you? It’s not like they’re going to tell you no.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “If you don’t want to go, you can just say so.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“This”—he pointed a finger between them—“friendship. It isn’t a good idea.”
“For me, or for you?”
“I…don’t know.”
The horses stopped at the edge of the stables and she said, stiffly, “I’ve made up my mind. Make up yours. I’ll be waiting at the Inner Gate at the sixth bell tomorrow evening. Show up or don’t. I don’t care.”
She dismounted and led Kialla inside, her shoulders rigid.
And now he felt like an ass. Wonderful.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Good Enough Excuses
