Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Codagh speaks through Melgren, not the other way around.
“Then Tairn chose poorly.” The lump in my throat grows, and I’m torn between the pathetic instinct to wallow in self-pity and the opposing yet growing urge to channel a power greater than Tairn’s—anger.
“Say that to him when he’s awake and see how it goes for you.” Xaden brushes his knuckles down my cheek. “I’ve seen the moments you don’t just rise to the occasion—you own it. Deverelli. Unnbriel. You poisoned the entire triumvirate of Hedotis, for fuck’s sake. Imagine who you’ll become when you finally learn to not just embrace that confidence but live it.”
“You?” I force a smile.
“Better than me.” His thumb grazes my lower lip. “You have to be. You promised to help me protect Tyrrendor, remember?”
“I remember.” I nod. “I meant it. I’ll stand by your side.” Exhaustion slows my breath and weights my eyelids. “And between Andarna’s kind and the research we’re compiling about dark wielders, we’ll cure you.” My eyes give in, sliding shut.
“There is no cure for me.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s why you have to become better than me. There’s only you.”
Conscription rates are hereby doubled for each province until further notice.
—Public Notice 634.23 Transcribed by Percival Fitzgibbons
CHAPTER FORTY
We fly northwest at dawn.
Aotrom clutches Trager’s body in his foreclaw.
Tairn carries Sila.
The ocean turns the blackest shade of blue I’ve ever seen as we soar over deep waters, leaving the safety of the trade routes and the major isles behind in hopes the map has been drawn correctly.
When night falls and the ocean only reveals the reflection of the moon, fear sours my belly. If we’ve erred, the dragons will be able to turn around and fly for Zehyllna, but the gryphons won’t make it.
There’s every chance that choosing to bury Trager and Sila on a minor isle will cause us to bury the others unless they consent to being carried.
By the middle of the night, I’m ready to give up and order our return when Tairn spots land.
Thank you, Amari.
Not sure I’ll ever pray to Zihnal again.
The perimeter sweep of the tiny isle and its one, hollow-tipped peak takes approximately ten minutes, and after we’re sure it’s uninhabited, we land on a northern beach nearly as wide as Tairn’s wingspan.
It could be a trick of the moonlight, but I’m pretty sure the sand is black.
Power ripples through me and energy crackles along my skin with about half the intensity that it does in Navarre.
We’ve found magic. And more than there was on Zehyllna, too.
The group seeks out fresh water from a nearby stream that runs through the beach, ensure the riot is hydrated, then make quick work of gathering wood from the edges of the jungle.
Sweat drips down the back of my neck as we carry load after load to the high point of the wide beach, halfway between the tide line and the forest behind us.
Once the pyre is built, we stand shoulder to shoulder, our backs to the jungle as Aotrom lowers his head and sets the wood ablaze. The fire lights up the night, and heat washes over my face.
Maren’s shoulders shake, and Cat hooks her arm through her best friend’s as she stares into the flames.
My throat tightens at the pain in their faces, and Xaden laces our fingers.
“Silaraine and Trager Karis,” Drake says from the left, his voice booming over the roar of the bright fire and the crashing ocean waves behind it. “With honor, love, and gratitude, we commend your souls to Malek.”
And so it’s done.
We make camp close to the stream, and the fliers take turns keeping watch over the fire through the night. By morning, the flames rise no higher than a few inches.
I fill waterskins at the stream with Ridoc, and when we walk back to camp, we find the others in a somber discussion.
“I think we’re off course,” Drake says, fighting to hold the map with one hand and the squirmy kitten in the other. The paper’s been folded so many times, holes have worn through the corners.
“Give me that.” To my surprise, Mira takes the kitten, not the map, cradling it against her chest with one hand.
“Her name is Broccoli, not that,” he mutters.
She looks at him like he’s sprouted whiskers. “You named a kitten Broccoli?”
“No one really wants broccoli, but it’s good for you, so seems fitting to me.” He shrugs. “Now, that’s clearly remnants of an old volcano”—he gestures to the peak high above us—“and the first marker for any such formation is here.” His finger swipes over the detailed painting of a small archipelago on the northeast side of the minor isles.
I start comparing landmarks.
“We didn’t fly that far,” Xaden notes, folding his arms across his chest and studying the map.
“Why not Carrots?” Mira asks, scratching under the kitten’s chin. “She’s orange.”