Page 19

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N YX STOOD VIGIL with Bashaliia. The pair watched from the stern of the ship’s cavernous hold. With the Fyredragon still moored, its rear hatch had been left open to the sky. Hot winds blew a dusting of sand inside. Overhead, the sun blazed, baking the wind-scoured ruins.

She kept her gaze fixed to the east, searching for any sign of Daal and his crew. A farscope hung loose in her hand. She had raised it repeatedly, but its lenses had offered no remedy to her distress.

Where are you all?

Her other hand rested on the saddle atop Bashaliia’s back. She had never removed his tack after her last ride, when she and Bashaliia had followed a skrycrow back to the Fyredragon. The bird had carried word of an approach of a trio of ships, with one bearing the Bhestyan flag.

That had been an entire bell ago. If Daal and the others had retreated after dispatching the crow, following in the bird’s wake, they should’ve returned by now.

Nyx lifted her farscope yet again and searched the horizons. Her heart pounded, demanding that she leap atop Bashaliia and set off to the east. She fought against that urge. Such a flight would only serve to foreshorten this vigil, to allow her to spot the returning raash’ke a bit sooner than merely waiting in place.

Little else would be gained.

Still, Bashaliia sensed her desire. Warm breath caressed her cheek. Velvet nostrils brushed under her chin. A soft pining filled her ear, echoing her need, in harmony with her heart. In his song, Nyx recognized his notes of longing… and loneliness.

This, too, resonated inside her.

She shifted her hand from the saddle and rubbed the tender spot behind Bashaliia’s ear, trying to soothe him as much as herself. He ruffled contentment, but that melancholy undercurrent still remained.

While she missed Daal, Bashaliia pined a similar loss. He had spent all his life within the bosom of the Myr colony back home. There, he had been both himself and part of a greater whole, communing within the vast and ancient horde-mind that made up the past and present of his brethren.

To join Nyx, he had forsaken so much, but with the five raash’ke aboard the Fyredragon, Bashaliia had found some semblance of a family again. She often came down into the hold and discovered him nestled with the others, sharing the warmth of their bodies, the quiet chorus of their song.

Now he’s alone again.

“They’ll return,” she whispered to him, doing her best to reassure him—and herself.

A treading of boots rose behind her, amplified by the breadth of the hold. She knew who approached—both from the stolidness of his pace and from the patter of paws that accompanied him.

She turned as Graylin strode toward her, his face stern. Kalder trailed him, his tail swishing in agitation, likely a reflection of his partner’s tension.

She hardened herself at the graveness of Graylin’s manner, fearing the worst.

Has another skrycrow arrived? Did I miss its passage?

“What’s wrong?” she pressed him as the pair joined her.

Graylin stared out the hatch, his gaze extending to the horizon. “Krysh just returned,” he finally said. “They were able to secure a guide, a young woman from the nomadic tribes that travel the Barrens.”

This could not be the reason behind the knight’s dour countenance.

We need that guide.

He continued, “Darant and Jace stayed behind with her, while she gathers her belongings for this trek. But there was trouble. A skirmish with a rabble of rough men. It could lead to problems if we stay.”

Nyx noted Graylin’s eyes narrow, just a pinch. He clearly knew how she’d react to such a suggestion. She didn’t disappoint him. “We can’t leave,” she insisted forcefully. “Not before the others return.”

“They can still follow us.”

She shook her head. “Daal and the others will be exhausted and hard-pressed to fly even this far. To expect them to carry on…”

Graylin lifted a palm against her objection. “We do not have to go far or quickly. Just enough to put some distance between us and the fire that was lit below.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, recognizing the sense of such a plan.

Graylin reinforced it. “With a Bhestyan warship already en route, we cannot be caught tied down, especially if trouble arises on the ground.”

Despite her misgivings, Nyx slowly nodded.

Graylin looked relieved, which irritated her. Plainly, he still viewed her as a stubborn child, one blind and deaf to reasonable caution.

Does he think so little of his own daughter?

Nyx knew this thought was ungenerous. Since embarking on this journey, she had slowly found her voice, one steeled by the weight of her responsibility, by the tragedies endured, by the blood spilled. She had also noted how Graylin had grown to accept this, to listen to her—not as a daughter, but as a part of this crew.

But not always.

Too often, her newfound voice still rankled him—as if he could not see the woman she had become and only viewed her as the child he had lost.

Graylin continued, “I’ve ordered Darant’s men to free our mooring lines. We must be aloft as soon as Jace and the captain board with our guide.”

Before she could respond, a low rumble rose from Kalder. The hulking vargr had shifted closer to the open door. As he stared out, he chuffed heavily with his hackles shivering tall.

Next to him, Bashaliia also cast out a sharp note of alarm, shaking his wings wider. Both beasts’ eyes were fixed to the horizon.

Nyx crossed between them.

Graylin followed. “What’s riled them?”

Nyx squinted. Through the glare, she spotted black specks.

As she lifted her farscope, relief and trepidation warred within her. She prayed it was Daal’s crew rushing home. She twisted the scope’s lenses to focus on those specks. At such a distance, the view wavered in and out.

“Is it them?” Graylin asked.

She took a breath, held it, and steadied her hands. Through the glare, she finally discerned dark wings, beating rapidly, racing with the winds. She blew out a breath, thanking all the gods, and answered Graylin.

“Yes, it’s—”

Then she stiffened.

It cannot be.

Choking down her terror, she focused again and confirmed her fear.

With a gasp, she shoved the farscope into her riding vest, turned to Bashaliia, and leaped for his saddle. Already sensing her intent, her brother lowered and caught her in the leather seat.

“Nyx!” Graylin shouted to her.

“It’s the raash’ke,” Nyx called back to him. “Just not all of them.”

In her heart, in her bones, she knew who was missing.

Graylin must have guessed her intent. “Nyx, don’t—”

Without word or song, Bashaliia bounded out of the open hold. Her brother needed no encouragement beyond the will of his rider. His wings snapped wide, cupped air, and set off eastward.

Graylin called after them, but the rush of winds scoured away his words, leaving behind only the angry tones of his judgement.

Nyx ducked low, accepting this.

Maybe I am the stubborn daughter you know after all.

She sang to Bashaliia, urging him faster.

So be it.