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In the end, a majority of the Lights joined their old Tyr. They ended up with seven, all of whom had memories of his time as Tyr. AuRon suspected they’d been moved to sympathy. He felt them go over to his brother when his brother said that the rightness of his cause would not shield him, but it would strengthen him. He wondered just how much of that speech was DharSii and what belonged to his brother. DharSii certainly looked satisfied with the result.
Chapter 14
NiVom startled at the step of the messenger-flier. His firebladder ached as though it had been stabbed, and it took a moment for it to calm down. Anxiety always gave him a sour bladder. The messenger had been the wrong color for his mood. For just a moment, RuGaard stood in front of him. Then he realized it was a gray, serving as messenger for the Light Wing of the Aerial Host. He was standing in their expansive quarters in front of a copper sheet etched with ancient Elvish characters. Imfamnia had found it somewhere among the Red Queen’s possessions years ago and saved it from being shredded and devoured. He really should make a study of Elvish someday. There was a good deal of it lying about in the Red Queen’s old archives and some of it might be very interesting reading. It would be nice to know the words ringing his face every time he looked at it. For all he knew, it was the Red Queen’s final curse on those who would steal her palace.
The Red Queen and Imfamnia shared a fault: vanity.
“My Tyr,” the messenger said, bowing.
No briskness to the bow, no excitement to the step. It must be bad news. Messengers always crackled with energy when delivering good news, even when exhausted after a long flight.
“Refreshment? Food? Wine? Co-comfortable lounger?” he finished awkwardly, realizing he was about to offer a gray coin.
“No, my Tyr. Thank you, my Tyr,” the messenger said.
“Out with it, then.”
“CuSarrath found the former Tyr. He was with his brother, sister, and that renegade DharSii.”
“I take it CuSarrath didn’t bag the lot.”
“No, my Tyr. In fact—”
“Well, he’s a slippery fellow, the old Tyr. We fought together, back when a campaign in the Upper World was a rarity. With Ghioz, over a nothing dustbowl of an uphold. We won, though.”
“Of course you did, my Tyr. But if you don’t mind me saying, you’re mistaken. He didn’t get away. Not exactly. He’s marching south.”
“Into Hypatia? He and what army?”
“That’s just it, my Tyr. Ours. Some of the Lights went over to him.”
CuSarrath! Strong of wing but weak of brain! He should never have allowed the Light Wing its own headquarters; it should have remained attached to the rest of the Host. He’d have the Grand Commander’s head for this—
Back to the matter at hand, NiVom. Matter at hand. He struggled to return his face to the usual calm interest he displayed when dealing with messengers.
“Dare I ask if there’s more?”
“CuSarrath asks for more dragons. All of the Aerial Host, gathered at Hypat. He sends that it is urgent, but the rebels are traveling on foot, so there is time.”
On foot? Why under the stars would they do that? A dragon was ten times as fast in the air. It made no sense.
“Been in the air long, gray?”
“Three days getting here, my Tyr.”
“Very well. You’re relieved. Recover for a day, and report back for duty to the ready post. Before you go, send up a fresh messenger. The fastest they have available.”
When the new messenger arrived, he gave orders to the Grand Commander of the Aerial Host to send as many of the Heavy Wing as he could back to Ghioz. He could suspend operations on the Sunstruck Sea for now.
Waste, waste, and more waste. If they were lucky, they’d lose only supplies. If they weren’t, the supports and auxiliaries with the Aerial Host would be captured. But the political threat must be dealt with, and quickly. If he’d learned anything in his years in the Lavadome, it was that each Tyr lay atop a heap of duties and challenges, an ever-shifting mound of old bones, new enemies, traditions, and, most important, rivals.
A Tyr needed support atop such treacherous ground. He would have to consult Rayg.
The trip to the Lavadome was tiresome. It seemed everyone was still shocked by the massacre at the feast in Ghioz. NiVom dropped a hint or two that it may have been a very deep plot by certain interlopers who once thought they were fit to rule the Lavadome and the Upper World.
Before seeing Rayg, he paid a quick call on Regalia, the titular ruler of the Lavadome. He needed to console her on the loss of her brother. He was enormously satisfied to find her keeping to her quarters and the throne hall empty.
She refused to see him, which worried him for a moment. Maybe he should ask Rayg to fix something else . . . but best to consult with Imfamnia before making such a step. She could become so touchy, even in areas traditionally left to male dragons.
