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“Let’s go,”he whispers in my ear, his tone both deep and featherlight, sending a ripple of goosebumps across my skin.
How delicious he is.
How can I be afraid of anything when I’m with this man? When he backs me up with his heart and soul?
And he’s swift and resolute. Always constant. Never wavering.
Together, we step into the frosted, moonlight night.
We’re in the sky, amongst the glittering stars, and the trees are whispering my name.
Could darkness’s embrace feel any more seductive than this? And if the world, lying at our feet, falls away, what would I do?
WhatcouldI do?
49
FINLEY
The entire nation of Rahava flows beneath Corvan’s massive leaps. He covers leagues upon leagues in a single jump. We cross forests and rivers, frost-limned fields and tiny hamlets, crude dirt roads and wide paved highways. We fly over villages and townships, patchwork fields lying barren in the winter.
We even pass over Ruen. I recognize the castle from the air, and it is indeed smaller than what I remembered. Compared to Tyron, it’s insignificant.
And I wonder exactly what my father was so proud of all these years. Ruen is barely productive. Aside from its small army and a scattering of wheat and sheep farms, there’s nothing much.
Father just squeezes every last drop of taxes out of the villagers. Season after season, they grow poorer.
Corvan’s feet hit the ground again, but I never feel the impact. He absorbs everything with his strong, inhuman body.
He leaps.
Again and again.
We’ve left Ruen. We’re flying over a vast network of lakes, dotted with islands covered in silver-trunked trees. The onset of spring is earlier here; I can make out tiny buds on the ends of the branches.
We cross a rocky landscape, where the stone formations give way to open pits where they’re digging things out of the ground. Then there are farms. Acres upon acres of farmland, fields ploughed and planted; waiting for the onset of spring. They’re lined by long, straight irrigation channels that stretch as far as the eye can see. There are more houses here, large farms and lands giving way to smaller blocks and narrow streets. Eventually, there’s nothing but buildings and houses.
Corvan drops to a rooftop. And then we’re off again, with a clatter of roof tiles.
Moonlight gives way to artificial light. Tall lamps illuminate the streets, giving off a warm gaslight glow. The streets become straighter. I can see vehicles. Carriages and carts. Horses asleep, tied to their posts for the night.
Occasionally, I even see a person, walking hastily, eyes downturned, coats tightly buttoned, as if they’re trying to ward off the night.
They have no idea of what soars overhead.
We’re ghosts in the sky; mythical things that only exist in fantastical stories.
The houses grow larger, the buildings grander; now they’re made of more substantial materials, wood and tin and reed giving way to stone and tile and brick. There are taller buildings, too, not just one or two, but three, four, even five stories.
We cross a river spanned by four or five bridges, some made of stone and graceful arches, others metal, suspended by an array of metal cables.
I see avenues. Trees. Skeletal branches are budded with the promise of spring. Corvan lands on the street itself. A passerby turns in the darkness, startled by something—a sense of our presence, perhaps—even though Corvan doesn’t make a sound.
And then we’re gone again, before they have a chance to perceive what was right in front of them.
We’re so fast. We’re invisible. The realization is intoxicating.
We can goanywhere.
