I focus, shielding out that pearlescent bond I now recognize as Andarna. “Done.”
“There are many reasons younglings do not leave the Vale. The mass expenditure of energy in Resson forced her into a rapid rate of growth. You know that. But if it had happened here, or at Basgiath where she could have been quickly, safely sheltered for the Dreamless Sleep, perhaps she would have grown as usual.” His tone is enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. He’s never this careful with his words, never this careful with my feelings. “But we flew that critical day between Resson and Aretia,” he continues. “And then we waited again to fly to Basgiath, and even then she woke several times. The elders have never seen a dragon remain Dreamless that long. And now her growth is unpredictable. There is a second set of muscles along the fronts of our wings that forms during our growth. Hers did not. The elders believe she’ll still fly… in time. Once she’s strengthened the existing muscle to compensate.”
“Can Brennan mend her?” It’s my fault because I used her power in Resson. Because we’d flown that day. Because we’d had to return to Basgiath. Because she bonded when she was a juvenile and I interrupted her Dreamless Sleep. I could list reasons all day.
“You cannot mend what does not exist.”
I watch her quicken her pace to catch up to Sgaeyl, snapping her teeth at a bird that immediately regrets flying too close with a squawk.
“But she’ll fly?” I’ve learned enough about dragons to know that a life without flight is more than a tragedy.
“We believe she can eventually train the existing muscle to bear the weight of her wing,” he assures me, but there’s a note of something else in his tone that has me bracing.
“You believe.” I turn slowly to glare up at the second-biggest dragon on the Continent. “Which means you’ve had time to discuss. How long have you known?”
“Since she woke here in the high summer.”
My heart stops sinking and flat-out plummets to the grass. She hadn’t fully extended her wing then, either, but I’d thought nothing of it, since she seemed generally… clumsy.
“What else aren’t you telling me?” There’s no way he’d have cut her out of the conversation unless he was worried about my reaction to the information— or hers.
“What she herself has not recognized.” He lowers his head, his great golden eyes locking with mine. “She’ll fly, but she’ll never bear a rider.”
She’ll never bear a rider. Tairn’s words repeat through my head for the next three days while we’re tossed back into classes, headed by the professors who flew with us to Aretia, as well as a few members of the revolution and the Assembly. Even translating Warrick’s journal can’t keep the thoughts out, and every time his prediction runs through my mind, I immediately think of something else just in case Andarna is listening in.
“Iron… rain,” I say, writing the words on parchment as I finish translating the passage for the third time. I’ve come up with the same process every time, no matter how… odd it is.
“Iron rain mean anything to you?” I ask down the bond, closing the notebook on Xaden’s desk and reaching for my pack. I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.
“Should it?” Tairn replies.
“Clearly, or she wouldn’t be asking.” I can practically feel Andarna’s eyeroll. “Ooh… sheep.”
“They will not stay down if you keep stuffing them in like”—Tairn sighs— “that.”
I bite back a smile and race to meet my squad.
Have to give it to Brennan and the Assembly. We might be sharing books and cramming ourselves into every open room on the first floor for lectures, but every cadet is clean, fed, housed, and learning.
History is held in what I think was Xaden’s father’s office, and we started a new unit on the Tyrrish Rebellion yesterday so everyone can know what really happened six years ago, but we’ve only gotten far enough to cover the political landscape of the years before the rebellion.
Instead of challenges and hand-to-hand, Emetterio has us running the steep, rocky trail to the valley every day until our aching lungs adjust to the altitude, but he’s warned us not to get too comfortable slacking off. Pretty sure the number of cadets vomiting beside the trail would indicate we’re not, but the urgency in his tone pushes us to run harder.
“Hawk Nose” Ulices has taken over physics, which only gives him another reason to spend an hour every other day glaring at me. And “Battle-Ax” Kylynn is set to take on flight maneuvers once the Assembly agrees we’re safe enough to let the riot rise from the hidden protection of the valley, which means we have more than two hundred restless dragons.
Suri, the member of the Assembly with the silver-streaked hair who blatantly hates me, flew off with Xaden and the other lieutenants two days ago. Not knowing where he is, wondering if he’s in danger, worrying every single second that he might be in battle, has me breathing through another wave of nausea as we file into the rebuilt theater in the northwest wing of Riorson House.
The sight is more than impressive. Not just that there’s enough seating for every cadet, but that of all the things they could have rebuilt in the last six years… they chose a theater.
“Welcome to Battle Brief,” Rhiannon says, leading us halfway down the steps on the right and into our seats.
“Good. Maybe they’ll tell us what’s happening in Navarre,” Visia says from the row ahead of us. Besides Aaric and Sloane, there are four other first-years, whose names I have yet to learn.
Unlike our usual Battle Brief, we’re seated as if in formation: by wing, section, and squad. And unlike the map at Basgiath, this one is the height and width of the large stage where the curtain would hang, and it includes the isles— the five large and thirteen smaller islands that surround the Continent in every direction.
“Those red and orange flags,” Ridoc notes from my left, pointing up at the map. “Are those… ”
“Enemy territory, I’m guessing,” Sawyer remarks, sitting next to Ridoc.
“Not like Poromish enemy.” Ridoc takes his pen and parchment out of his pack, and I do the same, balancing the bound notebook on my lap. “Like… dark wielder enemy.”
“Right. Drained land, destroyed cities like Zolya. Red is old movement and orange is new.” Nearly all of the Krovlan province remains untouched, but the enemy is just a day’s flight from our border. The only movement I notice since viewing this map in midsummer is up the Stonewater River—toward Navarre. “Did you guys get letters to your families?”
My friends couldn’t give out our location, but they could warn their loved ones to leave the border region, or just leave. I wouldn’t put it past Melgren to start executing the families to punish those who deserted.
And it’s all my fault. I’m responsible for Andarna’s wing, for forcing the exposure of the truth before Aretia was ready to act, for bringing a hundred riders here without permission, for the worry etched in Brennan’s forehead about boosting the sheep population for all the dragons I led here, and for putting a target on my friends’ families’ backs. I grip my pen so tight it groans under the strain.
How could I make every right decision last year and every wrong one this year?
They all nod, with Rhiannon adding, “I’m hoping it convinces them to move.”
Aaric doesn’t bother turning from his seat directly in front of me. “I declined the offer to correspond,” he says over his shoulder instead.
“I bet you did.” I force a small smile. His father would shit himself if he knew Aaric had not only joined the quadrant but turned against Navarre.
“Any luck on the wardstone?” Rhi asks, and every head turns. Even Aaric and Sloane look over their shoulders.