Page 17

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D AAL SAT TALL in his saddle, balancing on his knees atop Pyllar, as his mount glided a smooth path through the air.

From his perch, Daal clutched a farscope in hand, extended to its farthest reach. Through its lenses, he spied upon the trio of wyndships sailing toward them. The fires of their forges blazed against the blue skies. He focused upon the two largest vessels, clearly warships from the battery of cannons stationed across their decks, set amidst rows of ballistas armed with huge arrows. To Daal, the latter looked like the harpoons used by hunters at the Crèche.

He had already confirmed that one ship waved a green flag bearing a crest of a rearing crimson beast with daggered claws and a fanged mouth. It was the sigil of the Kingdom of Bhestya, representing a monstrous panther, the symbolic defender of its shores and forest.

Fenn had warned him to watch for that flag.

What of the other ships?

He swung his scope. The angle and the breeze kept him from confirming the second warship hailed from the same land. Before he could learn more, a massive shadow swept across his view.

He cursed and lowered his farscope. Tamryn angled back around, tilting Heffik up on a wing. The Panthean rider drew abreast of Daal.

She called over to him. “Why do we tarry? It will take most of the day to return to the others.”

Even with her shouting, Daal heard the disdain in her admonishment. He bristled against it. “To return with only a warning is not enough,” he bellowed back. “It’s just yelling into the wind. We must discern the true extent of this threat.”

She scowled at him from beneath her goggles.

He ignored her and cast his gaze toward the team’s other three mounts: two bucks and another doe. They spun a slow circle under them. The riders stared up, waiting for orders. He recognized their exhaustion and sun-weariness, both in their expressions and in the flared nostrils of the raash’ke as the beasts sought to shed the heat.

He let out a long breath, recognizing that Tamryn’s concern was not unwarranted. She irritated him, like the crust of sand at the edges of his lips and goggles, but he knew he should heed her in this regard. There was a reason he had chosen her as second saddle.

She is arrogant, but not to the point of blindness.

He stared westward toward the distant line that marked the cliffs of the Tablelands. It stretched twenty leagues away, which made for a long flight to reach the Fyredragon.

He nodded and fixed his gaze on Tamryn. “Lead them back!”

He reinforced this by signaling those below. He raised his free hand, formed a fist with his thumb and smallest finger extended. He swung his arm to the west, his message easy to interpret.

Fly home.

Tamryn frowned in puzzlement. “If I’m to lead,” she shouted, “what of you?”

Daal swung to face the enemy, still three leagues off. The wyndships had barely entered the White Desert, having sailed out of the mists that covered the sultry jungle of Wyldweald.

“I’m going to get closer,” he answered, and pointed his farscope. “Try to assess what manner of danger they pose. We need as much knowledge as possible if we’re forced to confront them.”

Tamryn shook her head. “I’ll go with you. Barrat can take the others west.”

“No. One set of wings will be easier to miss. Any more risks discovery.”

Tamryn stared at him, with Heffik teetering under her as if the doe were silently expressing her rider’s waffling.

Daal didn’t know if this hesitation was born of concern for his safety or irritation that she wouldn’t share in any glory gained by spying upon the enemy.

Finally, Tamryn huffed, tilted Heffik, and dove to the waiting crew. Signals spread among them, faces glanced up at him, then Tamryn led them away.

Daal watched the four depart for several breaths, then returned his attention eastward. The trio of vessels continued their blazing flight across the blue skies.

What are we about to face?

Daal shifted his weight forward, guiding Pyllar into a low glide. He aimed for the ridges of rolling dunes, interspersed with the blinding glare of salt flats. He intended to use the latter to help blind his approach, to hide in the reflected glare.

As he descended, the air grew hotter. It seemed the desert reflected the sun’s heat as much as its shine. He reached a hand forward and rubbed his fingers through the ruff that ridged Pyllar’s neck.

Thank you, my friend, for taking on this burden.

Under his palm, he felt the thunder of his mount’s heart, along with the rumble of contentment, acknowledging Daal’s words. Daal lowered closer, letting the wind ride over him. His lids closed against the glare below, allowing his eyes rest. For a moment, the darkness shimmered away, replaced with a sweeping sight of the passing landscape below. He shook his head and the view vanished, like the mirages that haunted these sands.

Daal sat straighter. Over the past half year, he had experienced such glimpses before, but only in flashes, brief and fleeting. It was as if he were seeing through Pyllar’s eyes. As infrequent as they were, he had wanted to dismiss them as fantasies, but lately they had been occurring more often.

“Pyllar…” he whispered.

The bat’s ears pricked at his name, forming wide bells. Dark eyes swung toward him, then away again. In that moment, Daal had recognized the golden glow of bridle-song shining behind those pupils. Such a gift was potent within the blood of the raash’ke.

And in my blood…

While Daal’s gift of bridle-song had been forged long ago into a wellspring of power, he wondered if his time spent with Pyllar had begun to merge them.

Am I beginning to sink into Pyllar’s heart as I did with Nyx? Is that why my control over him has grown so acute?

He stared down at his saddle. He had designed the gear based on the harnesses and tack used for riding the sea-dwelling orksos back at the Crèche. He had modified them with a strap over the lap to secure a rider to his or her seat. Plus, he had added reins that led forward and were tied to tufts of fur behind a bat’s ears. While raash’ke could be guided by shifts in weight and pressure, the reins allowed for quicker communication between rider and mount.

Daal noted the laxness of his own lap strap. He and Pyllar rode with such coordination that he had never felt the need to cinch it any tighter. Likewise, his reins hung loose over his saddle’s pommel. He had yet to use them, finding no need.

Is it our shared gift that forged this bond between us?

Before he could ponder it further, Pyllar rumbled beneath him. Again, for a breath, there was an unsettling doubling of his vision: one dimmed by amber goggles, the other burning brightly. He blinked away the confusion, until his sight settled to just the view through his own eyes.

By now, the trio of ships had swept closer, flying only a league away.

Daal lifted his farscope again and studied the vessels. He fixed on the second warship and searched its flag. Once more, he spotted the reared crimson panther of Bhestya.

Clearly, Fenn’s uncle was not sparing resources in pursuit of his nephew.

As Pyllar continued to sweep closer, he noted the trajectory of the ships. The trio was not aiming toward where the Fyredragon was set to land among the ruins of Seekh.

These hunters must not know the exact position of their prey.

Still, the ships headed toward the only prominent feature of the White Desert: an oasis that surrounded the lake of Kaer’nhal. It sheltered a village of white stones on its shores. The town of Fhal served as a trading post, a place of respite and commerce in this unforgiving landscape.

But Daal feared it also suited the enemy for another reason.

He adjusted his farscope and spotted a flurry of black specks winging between the town and the approaching ships.

Skrycrows…

Daal gripped his scope. The commander of those forces must be seeking information from the villagers, inquiring about a wyrm-helmed ship traveling over the desert. Daal frowned at this. The Fyredragon had indeed skirted not far from that lake, passing it to the south.

Eyes surely spotted its passage.

Worried, Daal continued forward. He aimed for the lake, the only watering hole across much of the desert. Birds of all sizes stalked across the shallows or flocked throughout the sky in swirling dark clouds. Daal trusted that the constant motion through the air, the blinding sheen off the lake, and the focus of the ship on the village would help mask his approach.

As he raced low, he finally got an angle on the third, smaller ship: a sleek corsair with a tapered balloon. Fascinated by such wyndships, Daal had learned all their various shapes and sizes from Jace. Corsairs had been designed for speed and nimbleness. Daal searched its decks. With the exception of a pair of cannons at the bow, it was not as heavily armed as the Bhestyan warships.

He lifted his gaze to its flag and flinched at the sight of a white flag, emblazoned with a black crown set against a six-pointed gold sun.

The Hálendiian crest…

Clearly, Bhestya had chosen sides in this growing war, which only made his group’s circumstances more dire.

Daal reached the oasis that fringed the lake and glided over the grove’s dense canopy. Heavy fronds stirred under his passage. He kept bowed in his saddle, but his gaze remained high. Once he reached the lake, he ducked Pyllar into the stir of flocking birds, trying to mask his mount’s wingspan, doing his best to hide in the blinding glare off the water.

On the far side of the lake, the streaming of skrycrows flowed toward one of the Bhestyan warships. Wanting a better look at who led this force, Daal angled Pyllar up, but he dared get no closer. He lifted his farscope and focused on the bow of the lead ship, where the skrycrows spiraled.

He twisted the lenses and searched the forecastle. Figures clustered there. He watched an armored knight strip a message from a crow and pass it to a tall, older man. This one wore a dark blue half-cloak, trimmed in gray fur, over a snowy waistcoat. His white hair had been oiled to a steely-flat sheen.

Daal felt no shock at the sight of this regal-looking figure. Fenn had described the man in great detail, even down to the trim beard that etched his chin and lips.

Thus, Daal had no difficulty identifying him.

Fenn’s traitorous uncle.

Satisfied, Daal urged Pyllar to swing away, to start the journey back to the others. But as his mount tilted on a wing, Daal caught sight of a woman standing at the forecastle rail. An armored knight clutched her upper arm, as if fearing she might throw herself overboard. Abject despair shone in her face. A bruise shadowed an eye. Still, defiance stiffened her back. Her hands gripped the rail, where chains linked her wrists.

A prisoner…

Daal had no trouble recognizing her, too. Not from any description given to him, but due to a clear resemblance. She had the same ice-white hair, the same slim nose and generous mouth, as the Fyredragon ’s navigator. She could be his twin, but Daal knew she was not.

There stood Fenn’s older sister.

Daal remembered the navigator’s story of an uncle’s betrayal and a warning by a sister in the night. It seemed that tale had not come to an end. The passage of the Fyredragon across the Eastern Crown had stirred it all into motion again.

Momentarily shocked, Daal spun Pyllar a full circle—then a fiery pain sliced through his shoulder. The agony came close to tossing him off his mount. He crumpled tight against the pain, dropping his farscope. One hand clutched his lap strap, helping to hold him in his saddle. The other grabbed for his burning arm, as if his palm could smother that fire. He needed to stanch the flow of blood.

But his fingers only found intact leather.

No blood.

At least, not his own.

His gaze—already turned in the direction of the pain—noted a crimson stream flowing from the edge of Pyllar’s wing. His mount swung sharply. Daal only kept his seat due to his grip on the saddle strap.

A shadow speared past them, glinting with steel at the tip.

Pyllar had dodged this new threat, but more of the harpoon-like arrows flew across the sky. Daal traced them to their source. Focused on the lead vessel, he had failed to note the second Bhestyan warship drifting closer. Searchers there must have spotted him.

Fighting down panic, Daal shoved his weight forward and sent Pyllar into a steep dive, but his partner was already in motion—whether out of self-preservation or innately responding to Daal’s unspoken desire to escape.

The lake rushed up toward them. Birds burst out of the way with raucous screams and explosions of panicked feathers. Steel-tipped shafts peppered the water.

As Pyllar swept the lake, his wingtips grazed the surface, casting up sprays. Daal urged him away from the ships, but he knew Pyllar needed no further guidance. The fiery ache continued to burn Daal’s unscathed shoulder, reflecting his mount’s wound.

Together, united in purpose and heart, the two fled across the lake.

A glance back showed the trio of ships turning toward him. Their forges flashed brighter as the enemy set off in pursuit.

Daal ducked lower, while picturing what was needed of his partner. Pyllar again responded. Out of range of the deadly ballistas, the raash’ke slowed his flight. His steady glide wobbled. Wings slapped the lake, splashing water to either side.

Keep going…

Daal held the image in his head, knowing that Pyllar must see it, too.

He pictured a sight from the Crèche, of a frost-sparrow fleeing a kree-hawk. Such small prey often feigned injury, bobbling and spinning, to lure the threat away from a nest in the cliffs.

Pyllar imitated that now, dipping and rising, quavering with great shudders. His angle of flight turned erratic. Still, as they escaped the lake and fled for the sands, their general path led north—away from where the Fyredragon had been headed.

Like the frost-sparrow, Daal hoped to lure the hunters astray. But unlike the sparrow, he was not feigning.

He stared to his left.

Blood streamed from Pyllar’s wing, spattering into the wind, leaving a clear trail across the sand. With the two already exhausted, their flight could not last much longer.

Daal recognized this grim reality and knew what it meant.

Eventually the hawk will catch the sparrow.