Astarot’s eyes blink, and he watches my approach. I start with the stake that holds him to the ground, trapped in the same agonizing position as when we freed him from the trainer. The soldiers had kept him bound like this the entire time, I realize with a lurch in my stomach. I can’t imagine the pain he’s endured, just with this torture device.
A deep groan escapes the dragon when I pull out the rod, giving him some freedom to move and release the pressure on his wings. I can almost feel his relief as I remove the harness and, at last, the metal contraption that keeps his wings bound to his sides. When he’s free, he stands on legs that tremble and shakes himself, crimson and black feathers finding the wind he creates.
His snout spins and nudges me, a gentle thanks. “You’re welcome,” I tell him as my hand reaches out to rub his nose, and then the space behind his horn that Tindera always loves.
“I’m not sure what to do here,” I tell him as I scratch. “I don’t want to leave Sifa there—I can’t stand the idea of her suffering—but I need help if I’m going to free her. I can’t do it alone.”
Astarot watches me, his eyes unblinking. He’s waiting for me to explain what I have in mind.
“Sifa’s best friend is a troll,” I tell him, my voice still warbling with guilt. “I think he can help us. My plan was to get you, then go to Revalle and convince him to join us. We might not be able to get her free, but it’s our best hope.” I pause, Sifa’s pain as we chase help filtering through my thoughts. “We’d have to leave her there a few more days. And she’ll suffer if the Dróttning starts to torture her again.”
Again, Astarot watches me without speaking. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Whether he trusts me despite what I did to Sifa. I doubt he and Tindera have spoken and risked the Dróttning learning about their mating bond. All he knows is what he saw, the hurt and anger Sifa felt when I betrayed her. Or appeared to.
Troll, he says at last.
I suck in a breath, grateful to have the decision taken from me. He’s right, I know. But the savage in me would have ridden Astarot back to the Nest and killed everyone we found if the dragon had suggested it. Even though I know we’d have died—or worse—and Sifa would still be trapped.
My savage is a gods-damned idiot sometimes.
Thank fuck Astarot’s more rational than I am right now.
“Can you fly?”
Astarot’s eyes never leave mine as he stands—steadier this time—and spreads his wings. They’re glorious, the sun reflecting off them to cast scarlet and ruby and hints of cherry into the air around us. For a moment, my mind draws up an image of Tindera and I can almost see them flying together in the sky above.
Yes, Astarot tells me at last. He can get us to Revalle.
“I’ll leave Sigurd here and send someone for him,” I tell Astarot. “It would be too much for you to carry him. We’ll go high, so nobody can see us. We should be able to reach Revalle in a day and a half, maybe two, resting for a few hours tonight. When we get there, we’ll stop in a field a few vikus north of town. There’s a cave there you can hide in. I’ll get a message to my people. Then I’ll get the troll and meet you back there.”
Astarot’s chin drops, his agreement with my plan. It’s half-assed, but it’s as good as I’ve got. He’s trusting me to get Sifa out without tossing Tindera into the Dróttning’s clutches.
I have no idea if I can do it. But I’m sure as fuck gonna try.
Chapter twenty-seven
Sifa
It's Not Time Yet
Itmakesabsolutelynosense—because I’m in a hopeless situation—but for some reason, I have hope. Hope that I can survive and even get home.
I’m not sure if I would go, though. If Joralf’s right and dragons can’t pass through whatever portal between worlds brought me here, I’d have to leave Astarot behind. I don’t think I can do that. Even if it means I’ll age and die as a human would in this world.
And then there’s Fhord. Whatever he is to me. I don’t want to think about him.
I could find a way to send Toffer home. He doesn’t have to stay here just because I may choose to.
Of course, none of this matters if I can’t get out of here. Which seems impossible.
Five days pass while I wait for the guards to come back and get me. My wounds have closed, but they’re still pink and angry, not healed enough to give the Dróttning the unblemished skin she demands for some reason. I should have another day, perhaps more, before she takes her knife to me.
So I’m surprised when the guards show up early one morning and open my cell, the shrill squeal of little-used hinges waking me from a restless sleep.
“Stand.” The demand echoes around me as I roll over and look at the four guards she’s sent this time. My bones ache with the effort, days of sleeping on concrete amplifying the agony of the Dróttning’s abuse.
“It’s not time yet,” I whisper, dread coiling in my stomach. “The Dróttning wants unblemished skin.” The cold around me seeps deeper into my joints, triggering nerves up and down my spine that had calmed for a time. I’ve barely moved and I’m already miserable.
“We’re not gonna play with you yet,” the guard insists, his gaze turning toward Joralf’s cell. And then his door is screeching as another guard’s voice, low and menacing, floats toward me. “We’ll see how you like his punishment.”
