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I raise my own hand, my scars just as twisted and ugly in the soft evening air as they were back in the barracks of Valgros. Our palms press together, and our eyes meet. Some of the many things I wish I’d said to him vanish in the cold air between us, as silent as the dead, and then he pulls away. I ease off the path to let him pass. With a final nod, he disappears into the crowd of soldiers moving silently into position along the ridge.
I watch for a moment longer, until the ache in my chest is almost too much to bear, and then I turn my back on the mighty army of Valgros and face the other side of the ridge. The dragon’s side.
The silver wire leads me through the little notch in the ridge’s steep face. The footing is uneven, and stones shift as I press my body through the narrow opening. Another dragon beats the air overhead, its wings sending a rain of grit against my face, and I freeze until it descends on the far side in a clatter of falling stone. I take a deep breath, then pull myself through the gap.
The cirque beneath me is filled with dragons. Dozens of them line the rocky ridge, shaking their wings or flicking their tails against the stones. The air hisses with a low rustling murmur that I slowly realize is the sound of voices. Dragons’ voices. Two dragons stand on the grass beside the tarn, their chests puffed out, their claws gleaming in the twilight. I swallow, then pull back, pressing my body against the mountain. My boot scuffs stone, then reaches and finds nothing.
My heart catches in the back of my throat, and I look down. I’m standing on the lip of the cliff. The silver wire threads its way below me, then continues along the edge of the cliff. It’s nearly invisible in the fading light, and there’s nothing beneath that wire but empty, open air and the army of Cassonia’s encampments far, far below.
The world spins sickeningly; I gulp a breath that’s tinged with the taste of iron. The silver wire threads so close to the cliff’s edge that I half-imagine a dragon must have hung it, or someone else with no fear of falling. My hand feels slick on the stones, and I close my eyes, trying to quiet the roar of my own blood through my skull.
I open my eyes slowly and trace the path of the silver wire, trying to ignore the looming emptiness beyond the cliff’s edge. The wire leads down this side of the ridge, then vanishes among the scattering of pine trees, the little forest that stands like a row of sentinels along the cliff.The General went over last night, Anslo had said. Whoever the General is, this silver wire must have kept him invisible, just like it’s hiding the Valgros army.
I take a tiny, sliding step forward as fear pulls my throat tight. Is Rensivar the mysterious General? Is that what’s waiting for me at the end of this wire?
Another rush of wingbeats stirs the dirt around my feet, and I freeze, my heart hammering inside my rib cage. There’s a loud rustle of scales and wings; I don’t dare turn to see what’s happening above me.
And then a dragon lands beside me, claws alighting on the stones with an elegance so unlike everything I’ve ever done in my dragon form that it makes me want to cry. Another dragon follows the first, this one with bright scales the color of polished coral, landing as delicately as a butterfly and then huffing out something that might be a sneeze.
“The stench of them!” the coral dragon declares.
“I know,” the first dragon agrees, arching a deep midnight blue neck toward the sky. “How can so few humans stink up the entire mountainside?”
The coral dragon makes a sound like a laugh. “What are they thinking?” the dragon sneers. “Are they trying to intimidate us with their horrible smell?”
Both dragons laugh, and I take advantage of the noise to slip further down the mountainside.
“Oh, look who it is,” the coral dragon cries. “Haven’t seen him in a dragon’s age, now have we?”
Both dragons twist their long necks into the sky. And there, flying between a massive silver dragon and the familiar emerald gleam of Wendolyn’s serpentine body, his golden scales radiant even in the gathering darkness, is Doshir.
Chapter31
Doshir
Iwatch the horizon as Wendolyn descends in a graceful arc to land on the grass beside the tarn. The Queensmoot begins once the last of the light has fled, and we’re almost there. The western horizon still throbs with a dull red glow, but it won’t be long now.
Nyrgin lands on the stones of the rocky cirque that surrounds the little meadow, keeping a respectful distance from the dragons on the grass who must have entered their names to be the first speakers. Wendolyn is on the grass, of course, and so is Greimbyss. I run my gaze over the meadow one more time as I fold in my wings and settle on the stones beside Nyrgin. I feel like I’m missing something.
Oh. It hits me like a punch to my gut. I’ve never seen a Queensmoot where my mother was not one of the speakers on the grass. I look again at the empty Throne of Claws, at the way Wendolyn and Greimbyss subtly ignore each other. The Tarn of the Maiden feels smaller without my mother, as if the entire world has been reduced in her absence.
Pain hits sharp and sudden, grief like a blade beneath my scales. I close my eyes and suck in a breath. The air reeks of that filthy human settlement, the cold, metallic scent of dragons, and the last of the day’s heat rising from the rocks, and—
I freeze as the tangled threads of scent play across my snout. Dragons and humans, stones and grass, the cold tang of the water that’s been hidden here for generations.
And something else. Something soft and rich, like rare floral perfume laced with frost wine. I raise my head slowly, trying not to attract attention as I tip my snout toward the cliffs and breathe. The scent comes again, soft and delicate, a golden thread woven through a tapestry of wool. Rayne’s scent. My eyes rake the mountainside, then the strange little grove of pine trees, where the air still shimmers in a strange, subtle way that makes my head ache. I’m searching for scarlet scales or for a flash of red hair, but I find nothing.
She’s here, though. I know it with the same strange bone-deep certainty that I know she hasn’t betrayed me. Rayne is here, and I don’t smell pain or fear or blood. I take a step back, moving toward the ridge, my nostrils flaring.
And the gong tolls. Every voice on the ridge falls silent. I turn toward the meadow and see Greimbyss, the spines on his neck puffed out so far he looks utterly ridiculous, holding the brass gong between his claws.
“Let the Queensmoot begin,” he announces.
His voice rolls across the stony amphitheater like the tolling of a bell, and my claws dig into the rocks. That was my mother’s role, holding the gong. Calling the Queensmoot to order. Seeing the gong in Greimbyss’s greasy claws makes my heartbeat pulse low and angry in the back of my neck.
“The Throne of Claws is empty,” Greimbyss continues, with a mournful glance at the sharp tangle of dark metal waiting across the water. “Put forth your names and arguments, please.”
He falls silent. Stones shift and scrape beneath claws as dragons turn to one another, whispering. Wendolyn stares at me like she’s trying to drill a hole through my skull with her eyes; I swallow, then look away.
