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31
Isavelle
In a field by the village, all the bodies of my fellow villagers have been laid out under sheets, and a wingrunner gently points out which lumpy forms belong to Ma and Waylen. Some of the Temple Mothers are here, and they’re arranging red blooms around the bodies and murmuring what sounds like blessings.
Forty-seven people are dead, which is more than a third of the village of Amriste. Tears sting my eyes as I gaze at them all. I wish I knew why these forty-seven people had to die. I wish I knew why any of the villagers had to die. Is this my fault? Have these people been punished because I escaped the Brethren and fell for the Flame King? Whoever this Shadow King is, whatever he is, he’s cruel and unforgiving. Only the worst kind of leader kills innocent people.
As we walk among the bodies, Zabriel keeps a tight hold of my hand, his face etched with grief. He’s suffered losing soldiers and dragons, but the sight of this slaughter has shaken him. Innocent people weren’t meant to die so that he could claim his crown.
Why these forty-seven? The thought keeps nagging at me. I catch a particularly strong scent from one of the largest bodies. My nose is growing more sensitive by the day, and it tells me things I never used to be able to detect before. The body must belong to Hirax Gorran, the blacksmith, for no one in the village was as big as he was. Aside from the scent of blood, I catch the whiff of ash and metal, and licorice and molasses. The sizzle of red-hot horseshoes being quenched in a tub of river water. Safety and dependability. Sweat and salt. All the things he embodies are expressed in his scent, which isn’t a human characteristic at all. It’s a Maledinni one.
I keep walking with Zabriel, and at the end of the row of bodies, I turn to him and ask, “Have you noticed anything strange about the scents that are coming off these bodies?”
Zabriel frowns and moves back among them, his head turning this way and that as he’s deep in thought. Finally, he comes back to me, and he says, “They’re all Maledinni. I can smell their designations emerging. There’s not a human among them.”
“That’s what I thought.” My heart hurts as I realize Ma and Waylen were Maledinni, and they might have been Betas or Alphas, or even Omegas like me.
“Waylen could have grown up to be a wingrunner or a dragonrider.” I wipe fresh tears from my cheeks. “Why did this happen, Zabriel?”
“Whoever did this hates the Maledinni, but to do this in your village, and only yours, feels vindictive.” He takes my face between his hands. “I swear to you and every single person here, every family in this village will be avenged. I swear it on my crown.”
He folds me in his arms and holds me tight, and I can feel the fury and grief racing through him.
A moment later, I pull away and gaze up at him. “If these people are all Maledinni, can we give them the same last rites that we gave to Tish and Damla? Or is that just for dragonriders?”
Zabriel’s eyes are red-rimmed, and he nods. “I think that’s a beautiful idea,sha’len. Any Maledinni may have dragon rites. I wasn’t in time to see that the people of Amriste were born as free Maledinni, but the very least we can do is send them off into the sky as our own.”
He speaks with the Temple Mothers, and as dusk starts to fall, we all assemble on one side of the field along with a handful of wingrunners. Scourge and Esmeral are nearby, the huge black dragon standing protectively over his mate, who is grief-stricken as well, thanks to me. Her wings and neck have been drooping all day, but she straightens up now she has a duty to perform.
The Temple Mothers are singing in our ancient language, a beautiful but sad song, and Scourge and Esmeral move closer to the bodies. There’s a rumbling, and then they both open their jaws and release a gentle stream of dragonfire across the bodies.
It flows like water and lights up the dusk. The wingrunners climb onto their wyverns and take to the skies, flying circles around us, their elegant, silvery bodies lighting up in shades of red and gold. Scourge and Esmeral fan the flames with their wings, sending sparks dancing up toward the stars. I wrap my arms around Zabriel’s waist and hold on tight to my mate.
“Forever flying,” I whisper, and then bury my face in Zabriel’s chest.
He bends down and murmurs in my hair, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t in time for them, Isavelle. This never should have happened.”
I shake my head emphatically, but my throat is too tight to speak. I could have found him sooner. I could have woken him up from beneath that mountain long ago if I had let my feet follow my instincts. If I’d learned to be a witch instead of swallowing all the nonsense that the Brethren told us about witches being evil.
“None of this is your fault, Zabriel. You’re saving us and we need you.Ineed you. Don’t…”
Don’t ever let anything happen to you, Alpha, or I won’t be able to bear it.
I’m filled with so much grief that I’m drowning in it, but with Zabriel’s arms around me, he prevents me from sinking beneath the tide. I hold on to the man who saved me from the funeral pyre, feeling like he’s saving my life all over again.
* * *
Three days later,I’m packing up the house I used to live in. Putting away my family’s cups and plates that were left behind in their haste to flee. Folding up clothes and putting them in trunks. Discarding remnants of rotten food.
The dragonriders have captured the missing wyvern, and Zabriel has remained in the capital in the hope that Odanna will soon be found. The only dragon nearby is Esmeral, who is snoozing in the winter sunshine by the well, but an entire wingrunner unit is here protecting me, including Fiala and Dusan.
I meant to collect a few things from this house that were meaningful to me, but there isn’t any meaning in wooden cups and bowls. Plaited rush mats and darned socks. Even Waylen’s small carved horse toy. We were desperately poor people, and our belongings were scarce, but even if we were rich and this cottage was filled with gold candlesticks and velvet cushions, I don’t think I’d want any keepsakes. Nothing is going to make me feel better about Ma’s and Waylen’s cruel deaths, though the last rites performed by Scourge and Esmeral and the Temple Mothers gave me some comfort.
I pack everything away and leave it where it is. When I step outside, I close the door behind me, feeling hollow and wrung out. Fiala and Dusan follow me at a discreet distance. Fiala shed tears during the last rites ceremony. Dusan has given me a dozen wordless but emphatic hugs, which are surprisingly comforting.
In the square, Esmeral is still asleep, so I carefully curl up next to her and leave her be. Between false heat cycles and my grief, the little Omega needs her rest. I could do with a long sleep as well, but hers is more important when she has to carry me back to Lenhale.
Stroking her beautiful scales, I wonder what the remaining people of Amriste would think of Esmeral if they all came home now. I assumed they’d be afraid of a dragon and insist that she didn’t belong, but this is Maledin. Dragons belong everywhere. Esmeral belongs with me, just like Scourge belongs with Zabriel.
