I reach down and grasp the bottle of spirits, bring it to my lips, and draw a long swig I immediately regret. “What would you like in exchange?”
He doesn’t even turn from the floral-engraved urn he’s stuffed his head in, his next words silky smooth—echoing. “My favorite.”
I stiffen.
“Borg …”
“This is a two for one,” he purrs, pulling free. He twists, taking an empty interest in a collection of plates stacked in a wall nook. “Information on your beloved Elluin and the location of a moonshard. I’m giving you a deal.”
“You’repunishingme.”
He shrugs a misty shoulder. “I’m still in the same boring jar, void of color or even a dangly decoration. And the cork got damp while I was in your pocket. Now it stinks.”
Teeth gritted, I stamp the bottle on the ground, clenching my hands into fists so tight my knuckles pop. I set them on my knees, easing back against the seater, head tipped as I look at the fucking ceiling. “Hurry up.”
“Your foreplay leaves a lot to be desired,” he says, the words so droopy it’s like I stabbed a pin in them. “Can’t you at least sound alittlebit excited?”
Rygun’s flame churns beneath my stretching skin, burning the cold nip from the room. “My patience is wearing thin, old friend.”
“Understood.” He slaps forward, perched above me. “Please don’t tip me out.”
A low rumble boils in the back of my throat.
He lets out a panicked squeal, then opens his shredded maw.
I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him as he begins to slurp, jostling one of my most painful memories from where it’s nesting amongst the embers of my past—
Mah’s screams echo through the lofty hallway. Agonized bursts that slice deeper than any hurt I’ve felt before.
My grip on my lute tightens.
I use the heel of my boot to shove back against the wall, staring at the doors to her suite as her Sabersythe releases a roar so loud the corridor trembles around me. The sound tapers into a guttural wail, the heavythud-umpof Jógo’s beating wings a constant reminder of his circling presence.
I have no doubt that he’d be in Mah’s suite with her, watching over her while she labors, if only he could fit. Have no doubt she’d be in his burrow, birthing beside him, had Pah allowed it.
Pulling my lute into my lap, I begin plucking the tune of Mah’s favorite song, singing as loud as I can. Though my voice keeps cracking on the cheerful notes not at all aligned with this heavy feeling in my chest, I keep going, hoping she can hear. That the song brings her some sense of comfort as she battles to bring my newest sibling into the world.
A keening wail makes my heart skip a beat. Makes my fingers fumble over the next few chords.
The guards stationed on either side of Mah’s ornate doors look at each other. The first time they’ve broken from their stoic regard since her screaming began.
My instincts prickle.
The same guards were stationed here when the twins were born, and they didn’t move a muscle. Not once.
I push the thought away, playing deeper.
Singing louder.
Her screams whittle.
I stop, listen. Wait to hear the sharp wails of new life, but only silence comes.
Jógo releases an aching screech so loud it makes my inner ears throb, and a coldness seeps through me.
Something’s not right …
The doors shove wide.
