I wrap my arms around her without opening my eyes. “I’d like that.”
Meanwhile, there is plenty of work to do. My least favorite thing to do is meet with King Aylard and report to him about “his” dragons. The flare belongs to the crown, and it’s the king who orders us into battle. But King Aylard doesn’t ride, doesn’t interact with any of the dragons, and he barely understands them, let alone respects them. Destrin once told me that the most painful thing about being dragonmaster is knowing in your heart that the flare trusts you and will follow anywhere you lead, but sometimes you must lead them into danger because those are the king’s orders.
One morning I’m standing before the king in one of the royal drawing rooms while Queen Magritte sits off to one side, her needle dipping in and out of her needlework. King Aylard wants to know how the Alpha dragons and their riders fare, and how many new Alphas are among the fledglings, but I stubbornly report on the Betas and Omegas as well. They’re just as important.
Suddenly, Prince Zabriel bursts into the room, red eyes burning, black hair flying. He’s dragging Captain Harding of the wingrunners with him, and the man looks disgruntled by the indignity.
“Tell Father what you told me,” Zabriel urges the captain. “Tell him what your wingrunners have seen.”
Oh, please, interrupt my meeting and waste my time.
I slink away and lean against the wall with my arms folded, knowing that the king will give precedence to his eldest son.
As politely but as firmly as he’s able, the middle-aged captain disentangles himself from Zabriel’s grasp, straightens his uniform, and turns to the king. Unlike the prince, he must wait to be addressed before opening his mouth.
“You may speak, Harding,” King Aylard says with a lazy wave of his hand.
Captain Harding inclines his head and briefly places his fist over his heart. “Ma’len, it appears that a dark sorcerer has fled Grendu and is hiding in the mountains. Several villages have been raided for supplies and razed to the ground, and people and livestock are dead. My scouts traced what theHratha’leninform me is called a lich back to its lair.”
“So kill it and throw the body back where it came from,” the king says with a bored sigh. “Grendu knows that we breach each other’s borders on pain of death.”
“I have been told that killing it is not a simple matter. The Temple Crone says that within the lich’s lair will be a vessel called a phylactery that contains a piece of the sorcerer’s soul. Unless that vessel is destroyed, the sorcerer will keep returning from the grave. A wingrunner cannot kill him.”
“Can dragonfire destroy this vessel?” I ask, curious about this thing called a lich, despite my irritation.
The captain nods. “TheHratha’lenbelieve so.”
Zabriel turns urgently to the king. “Send me please, Father. I’ll kill the lich.”
Has Zabriel not been listening to one word the captain has said? The phylactery must be destroyed as well.
King Aylard casts a skeptical gaze over his son before turning to me. “This seems more suited to a rider of your experience, dragonmaster.”
It’s taking all of Zabriel’s self-control not to argue with his father and insist that he be given the mission.
“It would be better to have a team,” I begin thoughtfully. Enemy sorcerers must be treated with caution.
I think of Zenevieve, and how little she has ventured from the capital. Now that her grief is no longer all-consuming, this could be the time for her to stretch her wings. Grow her confidence. Keeping someone safe isn’t about always shielding them from danger. Sooner rather than later, Zenevieve is going to become a full-fledged dragonrider. She and her dragon should know what true peril looks and feels like, and it had better be while I’m watching over her and keeping her safe. It’s about time her peers learned to think and act like dragonriders as well.
“Are the wingrunners willing to dispatch the sorcerer once the phylactery has been destroyed?” I ask the captain.
He nods. “Fighting mages is a wingrunner’s specialty, dragonmaster.”
I turn to the king. “Ma’len, I’ll form a team to destroy the phylactery, and I’d like the team to be the trainees.”
Queen Magritte looks up from her needlework. Prince Zabriel’s red eyes glow with excitement. Captain Harding of the wingrunners stares at me like I’m crazy.
“You wish to take the crown prince into certain danger?” the captain asks.
I keep my gaze fixed on the king. “The crown prince is not a boy, and he rides the flare’s Alpha. He should be able to handle a little danger. Prince Emmeric as well.”
“Both my heirs, dragonmaster?” the king asks me coldly.
“It is one sorcerer,Ma’len, and it is not our aim to meet him in battle. I will also take my own ward, and Onderz as well.”
“And Mirelle,” insists a soft voice. Queen Magritte rarely speaks in her husband’s presence, but now she looks at me anxiously.
“You don’t want a weak little idiot in the party, dragonmaster,” the king drawls.
