“And yet, we’re still flying,” I counter, shaking off the feeling of wrongness that sinks further into my bones with every wingbeat. From experience, I know it’ll pass once we’ve been out beyond the wards long enough for my senses to adjust.
“Only because I vowed to let you make your own choices after Resson, not because I agree with you.” He follows the slope of the peak, banking left to skim the landscape. Tonight’s full moon means keeping a low profile. “This is an unnecessary risk.”
“One Xaden and Sgaeyl take all the time.” I stop fighting the wind and lean forward as he dives, grinning into the wind.
“The shadow wielder is not my concern.”
“Sgaeyl is.” The saddle’s straps dig into my thighs, a constant reminder that I can’t keep my seat without it.
“Sgaeyl would never be taken down by something as puny as a gryphon.”
He scoffs. “And as for losing the shadow wielder, she would be emotionally inconvenienced, that is true.”
I scoff at his bluster. “An emotional inconvenience? Is that what I am to you?” If so, then we don’t need to worry that my death would cause Tairn’s, or Sgaeyl’s and Xaden’s.
“You’re currently a prize annoyance.”
The wind steals my laughter, and I brace as we approach what looks to be a forested valley. The edge of the nearest ridgeline glows with the light from a Poromish village, but I’m not sure which one.
Tairn flares his wings, and gravity catches up with us, forcing me deeper into the saddle in the instant before he lands at the edge of a dark lake, jostling every bone in my body. Before I can get my bearings, he swings, leaving me grasping for the pommel as he puts his back to the water, facing the open meadow.
“That was abrupt.” Good thing I’m still strapped in.
“Next time, you fly and I’ll ride.” His head sweeps from left to right as Sgaeyl lands next to us, Xaden on her back.
“He’s still pissed that I came along,” I tell Xaden, reaching for the buckle.
“You’ve gotten strong enough to handle Aetos,” Xaden says, already moving for Sgaeyl’s shoulder. Moonlight catches on his swords as he dismounts.
“I’m more worried about the company the lieutenant keeps than Aetos,” Tairn growls. “And don’t even think of dismounting, Silver One.”
“I’m sorry?” I pull the leather through the first loop.
“Undo that strap and I’ll launch.” His head swivels, eerily snakelike, to glare at me over his shoulder.
My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious,” I whisper in a hiss.
“Try me.” His golden eyes narrow into slits. “I agreed to come to the drop-off. I did not agree to endanger your life when we are easily within a wyvern’s flight from Zolya. I, too, remember what happens to dismounted riders.”
“You’re being an overprotective ass.” Not that he doesn’t have a point. Maybe I’m not the only one with bad dreams.
“I am a credit to my line.” He swings his head forward, completely dismissing me.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to hear everything from up there.” Xaden’s voice carries from where he stands just ahead of Tairn and Sgaeyl.
“Says the guy whose dragon isn’t putting him in the corner,” I grumble.
“I could have refused the rendezvous. This is a compromise.” Tairn chuffs. “They’re approaching.”
It’s on my tongue to fire back, but I close my mouth when I hear the wingbeats of gryphons. The sound is softer than those of dragons, less enunciated. Like a gale wind instead of a drumbeat.
Seven gryphons—a full drift—land in the clearing ahead and walk forward, their formidable heads darting left and right as they glance between Tairn and Sgaeyl. The gryphons are about a foot taller than Xaden, and though I can’t make out colors well in the moonlight, I can see their razor-sharp beaks just fine from here.
“Please tell me you recognize them,” I say to Xaden, my heart pounding. Power rises under my skin and charges the air around me.
“I do. You will in a minute, too,” he replies as if we’re meeting friends at the local tavern.
Tairn lowers his head in a gesture I recognize as both a threat to them and a favor to me, allowing me to see the rest of the approach.
The gryphons, half eagle and half lion, halt about twenty feet away, and three of their fliers dismount, leaving the pairs at the edges ready to fly at a moment’s notice.
Our trust is as thin as December ice. One misstep and the fracture will have deadly consequences.
The trio walks toward Xaden through the knee-high mountain grass, and I recognize the one in the center almost immediately as the veteran that came upon us at the lake, then fought with us in Resson. Her face is a little more drawn, and she has a new scar down the side of her neck that disappears into her uniform, but that’s definitely her.
But the man on her left isn’t the same. He’s a little shorter, a little more wiry than her stocky companion had been, and there’s no malice under those slashing eyebrows when he glances past Xaden and up to me before quickly looking away.
I can’t help but wonder if the man she’d been with at the lake was killed in the attack.
“Riorson,” the woman calls out, pausing about ten feet from Xaden. “Syrena,” Xaden says, lifting two bags and then setting them on the ground before him. The message is clear: if they want them, they’ll be coming closer to Tairn and Sgaeyl.
Syrena sighs and then motions the others forward.
The younger woman walking on Syrena’s right is dressed in a paler shade of brown than the others. She looks to be my age and shares enough of Syrena’s features that they could be related—cousins, maybe…or even sisters. They have the same straight noses, full mouths, lithe builds, and glossy black hair that contrasts their fair skin, though the younger one’s is plaited in a simple braid over her shoulder. Her eyes are slightly larger, and her cheekbones are a little higher than Syrena’s. She’s the kind of beautiful that would normally lead to positions in a king’s court or on stage in the theaters of Calldyr.
My chest tightens. The way she looks at Xaden isn’t just doe-eyed. There’s an unmistakable longing there, a hunger that has me blinking. It’s like she’s been trudging through a desert and he’s the oasis.
She looks…like how I feel.
“Good to see you made it through the unfortunate assault on Samara,” Syrena says as they reach Xaden.
“You want to explain what the fuck that was about?” Xaden’s tone ventures into less-than-friendly territory. “Because one of your gryphons nearly took me out. If we didn’t have a mender nearby in the Eastern Wing, I’d be down an arm because I hesitated, thinking it might be one of you.” He glances at the other woman. “I thought we were on the same side, but I won’t hesitate if it happens again.”
I lean forward in the saddle, but there’s not much give. Being up here, where I can only guess at what his expression might be, is torturous. Energy crackles in my fingertips, but I hold steady, keeping ready in case this drop doesn’t go according to plan.
“I can’t control every drift, Riorson,” Syrena responds. “And I’m not going to blame other drifts in other chains of command who have to follow orders. We need more weapons than what you can supply. There are enough daggers in that outpost to arm a hundred fliers—”
“Those are powering our wards.” His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Our wards? Since when do you sympathize as Navarrian? And at least you have wards, Xaden,” the girl on the right argues.
“For now.” Xaden looks in her direction for a split second before returning to face Syrena.
That tone. The way she used his name… They definitely know each other.
“The attacks have to stop, Syrena,” Xaden continues. “In your chain of command or not, the second I hear of fliers actually stealing daggers from outposts or any Navarrian wards being weakened by flier thievery, I’ll cut off what shipments we do have coming your way.”
I suck in a deep breath at his threat.
“You’ll condemn us to death.” Her shoulders straighten.