I spit out a dismissive sound. “I do. And Trystan’s powerful. But magic that can break Elfin steel—if those spells exist, he doesn’t have access to them.”
“What if I knew where we could find them?”
I stare at her. “How could you possibly?”
“There’s a spellbook called the Black Grimoire,” she says. “Only the Mage Council and military have access to it. It contains highly protected spells. Military spells. My father has a copy of it in his office, and he’s away meeting with the Northern Lupines. He won’t be back for at least another month.”
I stare at her, disbelieving. “Aislinn, one does not simply borrow a military grimoire.”
Aislinn slumps down, timid, her expression roiling with conflict, but then her jaw stiffens with resolve and she meets my eyes. “Well, I’m going to borrow it. And I’ll have it back to him before he even notices it’s gone.”
I’m stunned by her boldness.
And proud. So incredibly proud.
“Well,” I tell her, a smile spreading across my face. “I suppose it’s time to speak to Yvan Guriel about freeing his dragon.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Military Dragon
The next evening, the atmosphere in the kitchens is as dark and oppressive as the day before, everyone’s faces drawn and rattled.
“I need to speak with you,” I tell Yvan as he comes in from the cold and stoops to load wood into my stove, the heat blasting out like a hot wave.
He looks around warily, the evening shift thinly populated, Iris and Bleddyn blessedly elsewhere. “Now?” Yvan asks as he shoves a log into the stove, the lean muscles of his arms tensing as he does so.
“Soon.”
He pushes the iron stove’s door shut. “Meet me outside after you’re done with whatever you’re working on.”
*
I finish prepping an apple pie, then find Yvan near the livestock pens, a lamp in hand.
He silently leads me around the pens and past the kitchen gardens. Then up a long, sloping field toward a ramshackle structure set just inside the wilds.
The abandoned barn is huge, enveloped in the evening’s lengthening shadows. The door creaks as he opens it for me, and I step inside.
The barn’s ceiling is impossibly high with crisscrossing rafters. Bats flit back and forth, the lamplight illuminating them as they cast frenetic shadows on the walls.
“Is this your secret hideout?” I ask teasingly, glancing around as Yvan sets his lamp down on a dusty barrel.
Yvan nods, watching me as he leans back against a thick support beam.
I muster a small smile and he lifts his lips slightly in response, but the intensity of his gaze doesn’t waver.
The shadows play across his face, highlighting his stark, angular appearance. A tremor runs through me, heightening my awareness that I’m alone with him in a very secluded place.
Ignoring the breathless pull I feel toward him, I look at him levelly. “I want to help you free your dragon,” I say, steel in my voice. “There may come a time when flight is needed.”
Yvan’s eyes fly open with surprise, but he quickly gathers himself. “Elloren, my dragon can’t be freed.”
“Maybe not by you alone, but we have a large group...”
He coughs out a dismissive laugh. “Of inexperienced, naive youths.”
“Of people with a large variety of gifts and skills.”
“There’s a big difference between stealing a Selkie from the University groundskeeper and freeing a Gardnerian military dragon.”
Frustration flares in me. “What’s the harm in letting everyone...have a look at the situation?”
“Besides getting arrested and shot? None that I can think of, really.”
I press on, undaunted. “If that dragon can be saved...the Icarals might be able to go east. And others, too.”
He stands there for a moment, looking stunned by my words. “I don’t understand you,” he says, his expression going harsh. “Why are you even thinking about this? You’re a Gardnerian. And not just any Gardnerian...you’re Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter. Your grandmother...” He pauses, as if angry and struggling to find the right words all at the same time. “She was...a monster.”
My back goes up at the word. How was my grandmother different from any other successful military leader of any race? “She was wrong about many things,” I counter, “but she was also a great Mage...”
“Who killed thousands and thousands of people.” His angular jaw tightens, his green eyes boring into me.
“Your people were just as monstrous to the Gardnerians when they were in power,” I challenge.
He glares at me as if struggling with strong emotion. “Your grandmother,” he grinds out, an unexpected fury breaking out around the edges of his words, “was responsible for the death of my father!”
Oh, Ancient One. I’m stunned into silence. But only for a moment. Pain seeps through me and quickly morphs into outrage.
“Your people,” I counter, my voice breaking, “killed both of my parents!”
We’re silent for a long moment, the constant, raw ache we both carry around suddenly unguarded and fully exposed.
“I know my grandmother did a lot of terrible things,” I finally say with no small amount of effort. “Since coming here, I’ve learned that my people do a lot of really terrible things. But don’t you think it’s possible for someone to be different from everything you’ve heard about their kind? Even if they look...like I do?”
Yvan takes a deep breath, his eyes intent on my face. “Yes,” he says, “I think it’s possible.”
I let out a long sigh and slump down on a hay bale, defeated. “I’m trying, Yvan,” I tell him hoarsely. “I really am. I want to do the right thing.”
“I believe you,” he says, and there’s kindness in his tone.
We’re quiet for a few minutes, just staring at each other.
“I’m sorry you lost your parents,” he finally tells me, his voice low.
Tears sting at my eyes, and I struggle to hold them back. “And I’m sorry about your father.” The words are stilted as I try to bring my emotions under control. “What happened to him?” I ask.
Yvan’s angular face tenses. “He was killed on the Eastern Front, a few days before Verpacia was liberated from the Gardnerians.” He takes a deep breath, eyes narrowed, as if sizing me up to decide if he can fully trust me. “My father...he was a prominent figure in the Resistance. My mother didn’t want anyone to know I was his son. So she moved me to a remote area and schooled me at home.”
“You must look a great deal like your father.”
Yvan smiles at this, as if I’ve inadvertently said something extremely ironic. “The resemblance is striking, yes.”
“Our lives,” I muse, “they’ve been similar...”
Yvan makes a contemptuous sound of disagreement. “There is nothing similar about our lives.”
“No, there is,” I counter, a bit put out by being so summarily dismissed. “When I was about five years old, my uncle moved us out of Valgard and to Halfix. It borders the northern wilds, in the middle of nowhere. I was schooled at home, just like you. I realize now he was trying to protect me from the attention looking exactly like my grandmother would bring. Just like your mother, he wanted me to be safe.”
Yvan considers this, and I can tell he sees that I have a point.
“So,” I say, after a few minutes of awkward silence, “you’re becoming a physician.”
“Yes.” He nods. “Like my father. And you? You’re becoming an apothecary?”
“Yes, like my mother,” I reply. “I’ve always been interested in growing herbs, making medicines. But I never dreamed I’d be attending University. I always wanted to. Before I was sent here, I thought I’d be a violin maker, like my uncle...”
The words catch in my throat, and I can’t help it. At the thought of Uncle Edwin, I start to tear up. “He’s...he’s very sick.” I look down at my feet, struggling with my emotions.
“So...you know how to make violins?” Yvan’s voice is low and kind.
I nod.
“From...wood?”
This strikes me as funny, and I smile, wipe my tears and look up at him. “With the right tools, yes.”
He thinks about this for a moment. “That’s...impressive.”
“I suppose it is,” I agree, feeling unsettled by the compliment.