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Abarōz and Shāhpuhr took his mother’s advice: they sought the clearing, where they feasted on birds brought in by other warriors. After they’d finished, Abarōz lay on the grass, content to stare sideways at Mihr.
“What are you thinking?” asked Shāhpuhr, sinking down beside her.
“That we are lucky,” she said, “to be here at all.”
He chuckled.
“That’s only because you fought off two vicious wolves.”
Abarōz considered this.
“Yes,” she answered, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She felt a blaze of pride as she thought of their time in Abaxtar. “What do you think we missed here?”
“A great deal of training, most likely.”
“Hmm.” Abarōz couldn’t imagine how hard Bükrek must have pushed everyone. “Do you think . . .?”
“Yes?”
“That if Sangal attacked right now, our side would be ready?”
“To be frank—no. We weren’t gone long enough for the Dardans to become Aswārs.” He shot her a grin. “Not everyone learns as quickly as you.”
Abarōz closed her eyes, hearing the soft hum of bees.
“I guess if it really comes to it, they can fight on foot.”
She opened her lids to see her friend frown.
“Like the first battle? You honestly want a repeat?”
“No, but now we have ebrens who at least can fight Sangal’s.”
“True. But Aswārs on dragons is really our best defense.”
Abarōz sighed, plucking a blade of grass. She wanted to see for herself how much progress Bükrek had made.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing Shāhpuhr’s hand to pull them both up. “Let’s go back to the river and check on the Axwaš.”
He shrugged, and they made their way to the bank, where dragons seemed to be everywhere: on the ground, taking off, landing, and soaring above their heads. Each bore a gold-plated rider who, though not at ease, were neither screaming nor falling.
“How goes it?” Shāhpuhr called his mother who sat on her usual rock.
“Not ba—NO! Do not cover your ebren’s eyes! How can you expect her to see?!” She turned back to her son. “Like this.”
“Are they ready,” asked Abarōz, “to fight on dragonback?”
Bükrek’s yellow eyes dimmed as she beckoned them closer.
“I will tell only you two, but no. They can barely keep their seats, much less swing a sword. But will they be forced to, and soon? I fear the answer is yes.”
“Sangal?” Abarōz breathed.
“I’m amazed he’s waited this long. He must have something in mind: training new allies or waiting for Dardan to die. Probably both.”
Abarōz stepped aside to allow a white dragon to land. The female Dardan on its back seemed relieved to be on the ground.
“How was it?” Abarōz asked her.
The would-be warrior climbed off her mount.
“Frightening,” she panted. “And . . . exhilarating! To be out in the fresh air, not buried in a cave—this was always my wish!”
“And the flying?”
The woman practically beamed.
“Magickal. Such a feeling of freedom! So different from Dardan’s constraints!”
Abarōz returned her smile.
“I know just what you mean. Well . . . best of luck. I sense we’re all going to need it.”
The woman heaved off her helmet, freeing her long, dark hair.
“Thank you,” she said.
Abarōz froze.
“For what?”
“For giving us . . . all this.” The woman swept an arm over Bükrek, her gold plate, and all the dragons around them. “A chance to get back at the S̆āh. I was made Axwaš because I had a sore throat. No children of mine should suffer a similar fate.”
Abarōz nodded, overcome. Lately, her reason for escape had been pushed aside: by the return of her father; the trip to Abaxtar. But, as the woman waved goodbye, that reason struck her as if she’d been doused with water: The S̆āh. Revenge. For Rastag and all the others.
“Shāhpuhr,” she said, “let’s find our dragons and practice.”
After an intense session where they learned to dodge fellow Aswārs, Abarōz patted Iotapa. Shāhpuhr did the same with Catanes, then gave her a wink.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Where?”
“To the forest. I have a taste for rabbit.”
He ran back to the clearing to retrieve his quiver and bow, then led her down a shady path. From high branches, the birds chirped sweetly, no doubt exchanging the gossip.
“Better?” he asked with a grin.
“Than Abaxtar? Just a bit.”
The trees relaxed under Mihr’s rays, hosting their feathered guests while sheltering small animals. There was nothing dark or menacing—no worries of some unknown beast skulking out to assault them. Razūr was so perfect, so pleasant, it reminded Abarōz of the snake queen’s garden.
Shāhpuhr found his rabbit—not to mention two fat partridges—and trudged back to his unlit cookfire. He set it ablaze and prepared their meal as Abarōz searched for her father.
“Father!” she called, shielding her eyes from Mihr. “Rastag!” She spotted his shaggy grey head bouncing in her direction. “Come, eat!”
“Thank you, Daughter,” he said, looking more than usually weary.
“Has Mother been working you hard?” asked Shāhpuhr.
“Oh yes,” Rastag panted, “but I can’t say I really mind. It is far better than weighing gold all day.”
Abarōz smiled, pointing to a flat rock where they both sat down.
“Bread?” she offered from a newly-baked store.
He bowed.
“Thank you,” he said, tearing off a corner. “This warrior life makes you hungry!”
Abarōz laughed, so glad she could be with the two people who meant the most to her.
They shared a hearty supper topped off by delicious berries. All around, Abarōz heard the murmur of Aswārs as they discussed their day.
Now Mihr seemed to move quickly, speeding away from Dardan. Abarōz tried to imagine how miserable life there must be: most everyone parched, even children; fearing the return of Sangal and the wrath of Al-razi. This couldn’t go on for much longer—not while the aqueducts emptied and cracked. Abarōz knew the S̆āh must be stopped before just he and his family were left.
