Page 17

Chapter

Sixteen

ANYA

T he icy chill of the morning crawls through the rookery and it’s utterly miserable. I don’t bother to hide the fact that I hate it, even if Daghel watches on with amusement as I practically wedge myself completely under Drisk’s wing in order to bathe in the natural heat the male possesses.

“Have I told you how wonderful you are, Drisk? My personal furnace,” I moan, tucking my toes into the toasty warm webbing of his wing as the wyvern shakes with his clicking laughter.

“Strange female to cling so to a wyvern,” he growls in mock threat, but he turns his big body, gently cushioning my head and upper body against his powerful chest.

“What’s wrong with cuddling with a wyvern?” I muse with a small yawn. “Your scales are soft and wonderfully warm. Besides, Daghel is not much of a cuddler when he’s got so much to do.”

I spare a teasing look toward the orc seated in the chair, and he smirks back at me as he lifts his mug and sips at some sort of thick, cinnamon-y brew that is too strong for my human tongue.

“You would not be so cold if you dressed properly and drank your fill of spice,” he points out, tapping a claw against his cup in emphasis.

“Spice would be a name for it,” I reply with a faint shudder. “I like to keep my tongue intact, thanks… and I would imagine that you should as well, considering that you seem to enjoy what I can do with it.”

A dangerous grin spreads across his face as he regards me. My stomach flutters with excitement, but he makes no move to rise from his chair. Instead, he strokes his jaw, his claws catching the firelight as he watches me, his eyes glittering dark pools. Staring into his eyes is like staring into an abyss, and it makes me tremble with desire whenever he looks at me that way.

“As for the clothes,” I say, wrenching my gaze away from his to focus on teasing the inside of Drisk’s wing with my toes, “all the layers are simply too confining. I prefer being comfortable, and sadly orc fashion isn’t any more comfortable for females than it is in Zyerk.”

Here I am, living in a damned mountain where everyone expects females to wear layered dresses of all things over their surcs while the males get to walk around in nothing more than surcs and tunics. I have nothing against dressing up when I want to look devastatingly impressive, but I have newly discovered that I value comfort more than the lessons hammered into me over the years. Madrina would be turning in her grave if she knew.

Daghel’s brows rise, but his head turns toward the window as a brassy bellow from a young wyvern pierces the air. Drisk’s ears snap forward and a rattling growl rises in his throat until Daghel lifts his hand as rises from the chair, heading for the window.

“Impetuous males! They dare too much in directly approaching the rookery without invitation.”

“Calm yourself. It was merely a summons for my rounds,” he mutters and then turns to pull his fur cloak around his shoulders.

“No one should be ‘summoning’ you either,” Drisk mutters darkly. “ You are a gathol, not a servant.”

“You will receive no argument from me, but this is on Vorn’s orders. I will play his game for now. It will at least give me an opportunity to work against him, especially if he attempts to make a move against Linahna.”

“Linahna?” That catches my attention. Didn’t Kael insinuate that there was some sort of relationship between them? Clearly it never was allowed to flourish for whatever reason and doesn’t threaten me, but I’m admittedly curious. Dropping my feet from Drisk’s wing, I turn and sit up to peer at him expectantly. “Why would he move against Linahna?”

Daghel pauses in the midst of fastening his cloak to look over at me gravely. “Linahna is the princess and heir. The female leads and the male defends. This is the way it has always been in the Cold Mountains. But the current queen has not been seen in years, and Vorn has made it clear that he intends on blocking Linahna’s ascension to the throne, preferring to keep it for himself.”

“I see,” I murmur. “That certainly tracks with his particularly loathsome pretense at authority. It practically reeks.” I glance at him from beneath my lashes, watching as he resumes fastening his cape. “I should have guessed it was something like that when Kael remarked that it was impossible for Linahna to mate you.”

He freezes at my words, and his dark eyes rise to focus on me. “He suggested that Linahna and I would have mated?”

My stomach drops at his curt words. Had I misjudged the situation? Had he wished to mate with her and had not known of her interest? Daghel is not a male to let small things like Vorn stop him from mating. He proved that by capturing me, hadn’t he?

Eyes narrowing me, he strides forward, his hand curling firmly around my arm. “He spoke this in front of you?”

I frown down at his hand and step back, pulling my arm free from his grasp. “As a matter of fact, he did.”

His brows pull into a dark glower as his eyes follow my retreat, his breath hissing from between his teeth. “He should not have said such in front of you.”

“Why?” I demand. “Is it something that I should not have known?”

“He should not because it is a disrespect to you,” Daghel quickly replies, his voice dropping in temperature with his mounting fury. “You are my mate. You are Drisk’s mate. It is clear that we have chosen you and will want no other. He sought to embarrass you so that you would believe you were not the first chosen.”

“I told you that you should have let me eat him,” Drisk rumbles, and Daghel inclines his head in agreement.

“If he should attempt to err again where our mate is concerned, cleanse the Fang Peaks of him.” His cloak flutters around him as he spins toward the door. “In the meantime, we have our ‘duties.’”

I scamper from the bed and hurry toward the wardrobe that had been just recently set up for me in the far corner of the room. “Wait! I would like to come.”

Daghel pauses, an expression of intrigue entering his eyes as they follow me. “Dress warmly then. The air is bitterly cold today, and it will feel even colder as we fly.”

“Warm… got it,” I reply as I yank open the wardrobe cabinets and inspect its contents.

“Wear your thick boots,” he adds as if in afterthought. “And dress for comfort and ease of movement. After the aerial inspections, Drisk will drop us just outside the lower village. From there, we will need to do rounds on foot. I trust you know how to protect yourself with a blade,” he says.

“Not at all,” I reply as I pull out a woolen gown and bodice to go over my chemise and glance back at him curiously. I altogether forget what I’m doing because he goes to another cabinet and pulls out a belt with a sheathed dagger hanging from it. “What is that for? Won’t we have Drisk there? I don’t think there is better protection,” I add with a chuckle.

He does not laugh, nor does he return my smile. Even Drisk growls quietly as he climbs from the bed.

“Wyverns are not allowed within the villages beyond our access to the rookeries,” Drisk hisses.

“What? But… that’s absurd. You have an entire culture built around the wyverns and the bonding of gathols. Why wouldn’t a wyvern be allowed in the village?”

Now that they mention it, however, I seem to recall the one particularly brutish orc saying something similar when I first arrived. He had forced Daghel into making Drisk leave before taking him away from me.

“It was not always like this,” Daghel explains, his gaze thoughtfully focusing on Drisk. “Once there were more gathol because being a gathol was something prized among all males, and they were the most desirable of mates. Our villages and palaces were built to accommodate the movement of wyverns everywhere.”

“What happened?”

“Durethikal, the wintry one, fell,” Drisk rumbles . “And when he fell, the clans began to war and the power of the gathol became so feared that the rulers of the clans pinioned them in an attempt to control it.”

Well… that explains it. It’s utter bullshit, but I have seen enough to know that fear is a great motivator. Still, it is a sad and bitter testimony that likely planted the seeds of what is happening now to the Cold Fang Clan.

“What will you do?” I ask.

I must have betrayed some hint of distress with my question because Drisk immediately begins to croon in response. His reaction is so instinctive that I know the moment it catches him off guard, and the sound stutters briefly as his amber eyes blink in surprise before resuming at full throttle.

“Do not be concerned, wyva,” Drisk purrs. “You will be safe, and I will be watching from a distance. What use do I have for being stared at by frightened humans and drinking spice?”

“There will be many humans?” I ask, and Drisk inclines his head in a graceful bob on his long neck that other species couldn’t possibly help but envy.

“Always,” he hisses as he creeps closer to me. “The lower villages are not like the upper village where you were brought. They are very large and sprawling to cover segments of the Fang Peaks. In the lowermost villages, most of the clan’s humans dwell there with their mates. There are several villages, each of which has fallen to the command of generals loyal to Vorn.”

“That’s just perfect,” I mutter dryly, and am treated to another one of his creepy laughs.

“We will be going to Glas Village,” Daghel interjects. “It is the farthest of the lower villages. So, again, dress warmly. And be quick if you truly wish to come.”

With a nod, I throw myself into getting ready until I am wearing an under dress over my chemise, a surc tied under it, and a woolen skirt and bodice over that, as well as my fur cloak. My hair is plaited, which seems the best option considering that we will be flying. Overall, I feel very warm, with every bit of clothing bound as tightly as my hair. And it is something I quickly am grateful for because the moment Drisk leaps from the rookery’s access point, the cold air immediately whips around me, stealing my breath completely as we sail over the glittering white landscape.