Rhiannon stared at Tiufalli’s still form, lying in its nest, its scales pale and dull. Rhiannon’s hands shook; tears welled in her eyes. That the kit was dead wasn’t in question, nor was the cause. Morraine had killed it and consumed its soul to sustain herself. She’d admitted the souls of deer and wolves hardly helped to stem her hunger, but dragon’s souls were more complex, richer than those of common forest animals.
Rhiannon had many questions, but several stood out. If Morraine had come this far only weeks after being raised, what next? How long before she needed to feed again? And would her hunger grow?
She vowed to find answers to these questions, but first things first. “Can you handle Tiufalli?” she said to Ayasha, the dragon handler.
“Aye, girl.” She jutted her chin toward the eyrie doors. “I’m more worried about Irik.”
“I’ll speak to him.”
Ayasha nodded. “And there’s the matter of the cause of Tiufalli’s death.”
“I’ll speak to her as well.”
Ayasha was a hard woman who rarely showed emotion, but she seemed relieved. “She’ll take it better coming from you.”
Rhiannon left the nest, entered the yard, and trudged across the gouged earth toward Irik, who was hugging himself at the far side of the training pen.
Irik watched her approach, then blinked fiercely, tears trailing down his cheeks. “She didn’t have to take him.”
Rhiannon’s heart wept as she took him into her arms. “I know.”
“She could have taken a deer or an elk.”
“I know, Irik”—she held him tighter—“and I’m so very sorry.”
The words felt insufficient. Meaningless. The sort of bond Irik had made with Tiufalli was for life, and it was deep beyond the understanding of people who’d never experienced it. Irik’s bond might have been recently forged, but that hardly mattered. The loss would be devastating.
Rhiannon felt Irik’s warm tears against her cheek. He slipped his arms around her, held her tight. His whole body wracked as he wept, and Rhiannon wept with him.
A short while later, Ayasha left the shelter and pointed toward the workhouse, beyond which lay the paddock with their few horses. “I’ll go fetch a cart. We should bury him.”
Irik pulled away from Rhiannon. “We’re not going to render him?”
Everyone in the Holt knew how valuable dragon remains were. They accepted it as a way for their bondmate to provide for those who outlived them.
“His flesh,” Ayasha said. “His scales, his bones. I’m sorry, boy, but they might be tainted.”
Rhiannon wasn’t sure about that, but she knew Ayasha wouldn’t to listen to her—the Red Knives were a superstitious lot.
Irik stared at the shelter, wiped his eyes, and said, “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to,” Ayasha said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“No.” Irik walked to the gate and opened it. “I want to.”
Rhiannon took the stairs up to her burrow. Morraine was sitting in a chair at a table on the deck out front, staring out over the forest. She made no outward sign that she was aware of Rhiannon, not even when Rhiannon passed in front of her and sat in the chair opposite her.
As a family of swamphens chirped below and insects buzzed overhead, Rhiannon searched for the right words to start what was going to be a hard conversation. An auburn dragon trumpeted one long note from the nest in an adjacent tree. Another answered. Then Bellicor roared and silenced them both. The onyx, whose bond had been severed in sudden and ruthless fashion when Aarik was burned, was still inconsolable, which brought a certain clarity to Rhiannon’s thoughts. “Tiufalli’s dead,” she said.
What sort of response she’d been hoping for, Rhiannon wasn’t sure. Certainly more than the momentary gaze Morraine gave her.
“Tiufalli’s dead,” she repeated, “and Irik is heartbroken.”
“He’ll find another dragon.”
“You think it’s so easy?”
“You’re making a dragonbond out to be something precious. It isn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
She pointed up at Bellicor. “Did you know Aarik was bonded to another dragon before Bellicor? It died in a raid not far from Thicket. And Bellicor himself is old. He’s had seven bondmates that I’m aware of, maybe more.”
“You’re making it out to be meaningless.”
“No. I’m saying life goes on. Irik will find another dragon, perhaps one of the other cobalts that were flown to the nesting grounds. Or maybe he won’t, and he’ll come to accept the loss of a dragon kit.”
“You killed Tiufalli.”
“If you think I had a choice in the matter, you have little understanding of what’s become of me.”
Rhiannon stood and leaned over the table, pressing her face close to her mother’s. “You cannot do it again.”
Morraine’s eyes softly glowed. She met Rhiannon’s hard stare. “If I were you, I’d choose my next words with great care.”
On the way up, Rhiannon had been terrified of what her mother might do, but her mother’s callousness had vanquished that fear. “You cannot do it again. I won’t allow it.”
“Is that so?” Morraine smiled. “And how will you stop me?”
“I won’t help you search for Yeriel. I won’t go near the vyrd or the shard.”
Morraine’s smile vanished, and her wrinkled brow furrowed. She looked angrier than Rhiannon had ever seen her. “You will do as you’re told, Rhiannon.”
“No, I won’t, and all Llorn’s plans will have been for naught. But there’s another choice. You can get what sustenance you need from me!”
A sudden chill bit the air. Morraine stood and loomed over Rhiannon, but Rhiannon refused to budge. Her mother raised a gnarled finger, as though she were about to rebuke Rhiannon, but Bellicor warbled long, low, and loud.
Morraine glanced up at the onyx and lowered her finger in increments. The chill in the air faded. “You don’t understand, child. I can’t always control myself. What happened to Tiufalli could happen to you.”
Rhiannon took her mother’s cold hands in hers. “I do understand, Mother. And I’m willing to try if it will help you.”
Morraine closed her eyes and clutched Rhiannon’s hands. “Then so we shall.”
• • •
Late the following afternoon, Rhiannon stood at the base of a citadel, holding the shard, as Morraine, in her red cloak, and Irik, in his woodsman’s clothes, approached along the wooden walkways of the fen. Irik didn’t look pleased—far from it—but neither did he look as heartbroken as he had that morning. Morraine had requested he accompany her so she could explain what she’d done and why. Rhiannon sincerely hoped she’d apologized as well. Rhiannon knew Irik well enough to know he wouldn’t easily forgive Morraine—especially not in the near term, when the sting of Tiufalli’s death would still be strong—but he’d never been one to hold a grudge. With a better understanding of the compulsions that drove her, he’d likely forgive her in time.
Llorn, returned from his meeting in the mountains, met them, and spoke with Irik for a time. He patted Irik’s shoulder when he was done, and Irik nodded and walked away. Irik glanced at Rhiannon as he went, but didn’t so much as wave as he climbed the corkscrew stairway into the trees.
Llorn spoke with Morraine. He seemed serious and somewhat irate. Everyone said he’d flown to the mountains to speak with the Hissing Man. Had that gone poorly? And if so, what would it mean for Morraine and Rhiannon?
Soon they separated, and Morraine approached Rhiannon. “Come,” she said, glancing up at the darkening sky. “We’ve little time to waste.”
“What was that about?” Rhiannon asked.
“Put it from your mind, child.”
“Llorn looked angry.”
“I said put it from your mind.” They made their way to the vyrd to the growing sound of crickets and bullfrogs. Fireflies sparked among the wisps. “All you need to know is that time grows short.”
“How short?”
“We need progress, soon, or I may as well return to my second life.”
Overhead, Bellicor uttered a groan that rose in pitch until it was a long keening. Irik was just passing Bellicor’s nest, which made Rhiannon wonder if the onyx dragon’s call was in response to Irik’s mourning.
Rhiannon pointed up to him. “Irik and I were talking yesterday.”
“I’ve already apologized to Irik.”
“No, it’s not about that. He reminded me of the palisade in Ancris.”
The Rookery was lost as they took a bend in the path. “What of it?”
“That’s how you’re going to undo the spell around the shrine, isn’t it? It will be destroyed when the palisade releases its aura.”
Morraine glared at her. “Do you have a point?”
“Yes. I just wonder, is there more to it than that?”
“I told you. We’ll take Strages.”
“I mean will more happen to Ancris? That’s a lot of power to unleash in a city packed with people.”
“You’re worried over a city a thousand miles from here?”
“Well, yes. I am.”
“Fear not, child,” she said in a sneering tone, “Ancris will survive. Our purpose is to get Strages and the shard. Nothing more.”
“You’re certain?”
Morraine only glared, and Rhiannon let the subject drop. When the empty space inside Rhiannon yawned wider, she said, “You should feed before I start searching.”
“I’ll allow our bond to deepen,” Morraine said, “but know this. It’s the feeding itself that sometimes makes me lose control. My hunger feels insatiable at times.”
Rhiannon swallowed involuntarily as she wove her way around a willow sapling. “I’m still willing to risk it.”
Morraine stared over at Rhiannon, her eyes softly glowing. Her chin quavered, a common sign of her hunger, but she smiled. “Very well, child.”
At the vyrd, Morraine and Rhiannon knelt near the looking glass and clay jug. Morraine, facing Rhiannon, spread her arms wide and made a beckoning motion, as she had with the wisp, and the gnawing feeling inside Rhiannon yawned wider. In moments, it felt as if she were being hollowed out from within. She coughed from it, and the feeling ceased.
Morraine stared at her.
“I’m fine,” Rhiannon said. “It just takes a bit of getting used to.”
Morraine seemed to size her up, then she nodded and the empty place grew wide again. The discomfort was easy to deal with at first, but the longer it went on, the more exhausted Rhiannon felt. Minutes in, Morraine closed her eyes and threw her head back. Her nostrils flared, and Rhiannon’s body ached like it did when she had the flu. She worried her mother’s inhibitions might fade or vanish altogether, and Rhiannon would be devoured from within as Tiufalli had been. She pressed her lips tight and steeled herself to go on for as long as her mother needed, but the empty feeling ebbed mere moments later.
“No,” Rhiannon said. “Take what you need.” She meant it, but was relieved all the same when Morraine shook her head.
“It’s enough,” her mother said.
Though Rhiannon had eaten just before leading the burrow, she felt suddenly famished, like she hadn’t eaten in days, and she had a horrible case of cottonmouth. She took several large gulps of sapwater from the jug, and both the cottonmouth and the hunger ebbed.
Morraine placed the looking glass between their knees and filled it with sapwater, then cast the spell that would allow Rhiannon to search the forest. She struck the basin’s rim with a fingernail, and it rang like a gong. As the sound attenuated, Rhiannon held the shard close to her heart, entered the looking glass, and cast herself into the forest like a canoe on a river.
She could immediately tell that the link to her mother was stronger; it felt as if she were helping Rhiannon search instead of merely watching. Even so, hours passed with no success. But then Rhiannon felt the strange ripple in the air, as she had in days past. The link with her mother granted a better sense of her perceptions, and that, in turn, gave Rhiannon a sense of direction and of distance. She could feel where the waves were coming from.
“Good,” Morraine whispered. “Now find the thread.”
Rhiannon gripped the shard tighter and for the first time in all her searching sensed something like a curtain running along a winding gully.
“That’s it,” Morraine said in an awed voice. “That’s the veil, the border of Gonsalond.”
In the gully, a squad of five men and three women suddenly appeared. All wore brown clothes and mottled green cloaks. They had swords at their belts and bows and quivers on their backs.
“Who are they?” Rhiannon said.
“Wardens,” Morraine replied, “the keepers of Yeriel’s domain, protectors of Faedryn’s prison.”
The wardens completed their crossing, and the ripples faded. It was then that Rhiannon felt something new: an impossibly thin thread traveling through the veil.
Rhiannon drifted away from the gully, fearful of what pulling on the thread could mean, but Morraine reached across the looking glass and gripped her wrist. “Stop. It’s Yeriel. It must be. Follow it, Rhiannon. Pass through the veil.”
Rhiannon tried but had no success. She might be aware of the veil’s boundaries, but it was doing nothing to help her pierce it. She felt Morraine’s desperation, felt her join in the effort, felt her tug on the thread.
Rhiannon felt suddenly cold, then a pain, like needles being pressed into the corners of her eyes, grew and grew until it felt like spikes were being hammered into her skull.
“Release it!” Rhiannon screamed. “Release the thread!”
When Morraine didn’t, Rhiannon drew her awareness back to her body. Her mother was lying on the stones beyond the basin, quaking and staring up at Lux. It was Yeriel’s doing, Rhiannon realized, mere moments before her own body went rigid. Sweet Alra, it felt as if she were turning to stone. She reached for the basin, hoping to tip it over, but her arm seized, her fingers mere inches from the rim. She gritted her teeth and tried again, but it was no good. Her arm wouldn’t obey.
The shard, still held in her opposite hand, thrummed loudly. She gripped it harder, hoping to command Yeriel to release her, but doing so only deepened the pain. It reminded her of her conversation with Irik about crop stones. “If a dracora tries too hard,” he’d said, “the dragon can refuse his command or even attack. But if the dracora takes the time to match the dragon’s tone, the dragon hardly has any choice.”
She loosened her grip on the Heartstone shard and opened herself to it, allowing its resonance to become hers. For long moments, she felt nothing but the hammering pain in her skull, but then she sensed someone on the string’s opposite end. She felt recognition, like she and Yeriel were staring at one another through a window.
“Release me!” Rhiannon shouted, and shoved Yeriel away.
She felt surprise, anger, even fear—
—and was suddenly able to move again.
She flipped the looking glass upward. Water flew in bright arcs, splashed against the vyrd’s central stones. The basin clanged loudly, rattled, and came to a rest.
Morraine pushed herself off the stones with shaking arms. Her white hair was mussed. She looked exhausted and confused, then she smiled faintly. “You did it, child.”
Finding no comfort in those words, Rhiannon stood and stared into the trees. In the days since her mother’s raising, Yeriel and Strages hadn’t felt real. They’d been mere concepts, parts of futures that might or might not come to be. Now they loomed large, as did the notion of who they’d once been in life. “This is madness,” she said. “We can’t hope to control Alra’s paragons.”
Morraine made her way unsteadily to her feet. “They’re paragons no longer, child.” She looked hungry in ways that were different from the raw need for sustenance, hungry in ways Rhiannon couldn’t define. “They are servants now—our servants—who will drive the empire from the Holt and beyond the mountains. Soon enough, the empire will be rewritten in our image, not Alra’s.”
Rhiannon was stunned. She saw at last the true purpose of Morraine’s raising. It wasn’t so the Kin could defend the Holt from the empire. It was to become the aggressors.
“Come,” Morraine said and headed toward the path to the Rookery. “Llorn will be glad of our tidings.”
Rhiannon wanted to run away—she wanted to take the shard with her and rob her mother and Llorn of the ability to hurt—but she couldn’t. Her courage had vanished, leaving her terrified of what Llorn and her mother would do to her if she tried.
Morraine glanced over her shoulder, then stopped and turned. “I said come.”
“Yes, Mother,” Rhiannon said, and trudged after her.
When they got back to the Rookery, Morraine talked with Llorn for a time. Eventually, Llorn nodded and headed toward Rhiannon.
“Prepare yourself, Rhiannon,” he said to her. “We’ll be traveling soon.”
“To where?”
“Glaeyand. There’s a council of quintarchs we’re inviting ourselves to.”