Page 63 of Soul of Fire

“Monkey?” I frowned.

“It’s a kind of animal from the Orcish jungles. Comical. Sort of useless.” They scowled. “I read about them.”

“Honestly, I sort of love the title,” Serrilda said with a completely serious expression.

Ingmar scowled at her, and I had to intervene to forestall another argument. “You’ll come with me. No drage flies alone, remember?”

Serrilda gave me an approving nod, and Ingmar’s frown morphed into a look of shock. “In the name of the heavily-breasted Goddess, did you just ask me for help, Rev?”

“It’s a small miracle,” Serrilda agreed.

I ignored them both and began rolling up the maps and parchments, trying not to crease the papers and enrage the archivist. “Don’t get too excited, Ingmar. I need you to pack supplies.”

“Better than being stuck here for the rest of the day.” Ingmar stretched, looking absurdly pleased. “Ilka is itching to stretch her wings.”

“We leave tonight, then. Have Ilka ask Bryndis what supplies they might need.”

“I’ll tell Adira before you go, in case she has any questions I can’t answer,” Serrilda said as Ingmar gave me an irreverent salute and practically ran for the smokestack.

I nodded, rolling up the last of the maps. “I’ll let you know when we meet up with Jorgen and Branka.”

Serrilda nodded, seeming to hesitate before she threw her arms around me.

I was so shocked I failed to return the hug. Serrilda hated demonstrations of affection—it was one of the many reasons our relationship ended.

Adira must be having a positive influence on her.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, patting her back awkwardly with my arms pinned to my torso.

Serrilda stepped away hurriedly and nodded, her face as blank as if the hug had never happened.

“I know. It was for luck.” She headed toward the winding ramp that would take her back up to the smokestack, turning back before she disappeared around the corner. “Bring back our Dragehersker. In one piece, if you can.”

I nodded. Hearthmother on high, I really hoped I could.

Chapter twenty

Eisa

Itwasrainingheavilyand almost dawn by the time we knocked on the door of the bakery, and I was certain I did not look even remotely drage-like.

I was wearing Jorgen’s shirt and Arik’s boots and jacket, my bare legs stark white as I shivered in the rain and tried my best not to vomit from the effects of the shift.

“Come on, open up,” Arik grumbled, his temper wearing unusually thin.

The cut above his brow was the fresh pink of a new scar, but he looked exhausted. Haunted.

My instinct was to go to our mental bridge, and I nearly recoiled against Baldur’s absence. It felt like a gaping chasm—a wall of solid stone between our minds. Idunn was pounding at it unceasingly as if she could force her mate back into consciousness.

“We can try somewhere else.” I raised my hand to Arik’s arm and gripped his bicep. I was too tired to physically restrain him, and Arik seemed to sense my exhaustion despite Baldur’s absence.

He sighed heavily and pulled me into him, keeping me upright as we sheltered beneath the door frame.

“I’m sorry, Kjære.” His words were barely more than a murmur against my temple, and I could hear the self-loathing in them even if I couldn’t feel it. “It’s my fucking fault we’re stuck like this.”

I shook my head, shivering as water—or possibly blood, I was too wet and tired to tell—dripped down the end of my nose. “Not your fault. You didn’t fail to retrieve the Book.”

I had been racking my brain the entire flight trying to figure out what had gone wrong. How Branka and I had been discovered with seemingly so little difficulty. The skalds must have suspected us from the get-go, which is likely what led to Arik and Jorgen’s capture, although the mistletoe poisoning was a treachery none of us had anticipated.