“We’re making good time,” Marek says at one point around a mouthful of travelbread. “Are you sure you don’t want a snack?”
“Really sure,” Vana answers.
“What about you, Daromir?”
“No, I’m good.” Daromir does okay with heights, but eating mid-dragonflight is beyond him.
The flight is long and smooth enough that Daromir even dozes off a few times, as does Vana. Daromir can hardly believe that Ostomar is falling farther and farther behind them. He should be too excited to sleep, but the exhaustion catches up to him.
As fast as Loska flies, the sun moves faster. By the time Marek helps them down along a rocky, forested ridge, the evening is deep and lavender-blue.
“Are you flying straight back?” Daromir asks when Marek tosses down their bags without unharnessing himself. Daromir is too shaky from the flight to try catching the bags, and hopefully the knives he packed aren’t harmed.
Loska answers instead.This is nothing! We can fly a week straight without rest.
“Three days at the most,” Marek corrects, stretching his shoulders. He flashes a grin. “Two days is more comfortable, though. Are you two set? This is a weird spot for a royal mission.”
“We’re set,” Vana says. He grabs Daromir’s arm for balance as he shakes out his legs. “Thank you, Marek.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Marek slaps Loska’s neck. “Come on, boy. Let’s take the scenic route back.”
I never understand when you say that,Loska says, rocking back on his hindquarters. He launches into the sky with a gust of wind.Every route we take is scenic.
Pulling Vana into his chest, Daromir throws his arm up to protect his own eyes from the flurry of leaves and dirt. When the air around them stills, Loska is already high overhead, wheeling away like a slice of midnight in the evening sky.
Daromir is going to be sore as fuck tomorrow. That was entirely different from riding a horse. But right now, he’s focused.
“We’re about a six-hour hike from the old waystation,” Daromir says. He hadn’t wanted Marek to know their precise destination. Hopefully even if Marek talks, the king’s drasgard won’t find their route until it’s too late. “Arla should still be a couple days away since he didn’t get the expedited transportation.”
“So, we have time.” Vana picks leaves out of his tight braid.
“We have time. Now, I’m fucking sore from that dragon ride. Or is that just you through the bond?”
“Definitely both of us.”
Daromir rubs his neck. “Bet it’s more you than me. Anyway, we’ll both pass out if we try to make the waystation tonight. There’s a creek about half an hour northwest. It isn’t the right direction, but we can make up the time tomorrow.”
Vana pulls the last leaf out of his braid and stares, a slight, fond smile tugging his lips.
“What?” Daromir asks. “Do I have leaves in my hair too?”
“Yes, but that isn’t what I’m thinking about.” Vana steps forward. He’s lighter and less worn down than Daromir’s seen him in years. Vana pulls a leaf from above Daromir’s ear. “You didn’t know the area this well last time we were here.”
He brushes dirt from Daromir’s shoulder, and Daromir’s heartbeat quickens.
Last time they were here was four years ago, scouting the region for messenger rest stops. They didn’t travel here personally during the actual incident, but they’re heading for the same waystation where Indra and Zuzana held Rakos Tem.
Daromir exhales and catches Vana’s hand. “I’ve been dreaming about getting you out of here for years.”
“Us,” Vana says.
Daromir cocks his head.
Vana squeezes Daromir’s hand and takes the other, regret and relief mingling in his dark eyes. “This country’s been killing you just as much as it’s been killing me. Even when there wasn’t a literal assassin after you.” Vana’s grip tightens. “I should have listened to you for your sake, if not my own.”
“That’s not how it works,” Daromir says. “I’m the bloodguard. You’re my ward. I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“We can work however the fuck we want.” Vana lifts Daromir’s right hand and kisses his knuckles, so softly it hurts.
