Chapter 13

“SO WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN for the last sixty-two years?” the drake in the blood red armor asks.

“Who are you? Can I get some introductions at least before all of you continue to paw through every facet of my life?” I ask, aiming a critical look at Lorn. “You’re being a shitty host.”

He rolls his eyes at the jibe.

“That’s Farrow,” Aeson supplies, gesturing to the drake with the dark complexion and deep red armor. “Ogdan, Tove, Jori, Chastain, and Blay you met in Lairwood.”

My attention moves to the Shield from the lirocar, the one in purple armor with long golden brown hair and gray eyes. Blay. He gives me a friendly smile and doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest when I don’t offer one back.

Aeson waves behind him at a Channeler and then over to the big Thrasher guarding him. “This is Gatlin and Karis. I have two other members of my Wing, Herm and Sondar, who you’ll meet when they return from assignment.”

I find myself wondering what kind of assignment would have pulled two members of Aeson’s detail away, but I let the question float off and settle somewhere else in my head when Lorn starts introducing members of his Wing.

“This is Nils and Urser,” the heir tells me, nodding his head at the two drakes in burnt orange scale armor that are flanking him. “That’s Razeer and Atol.” He gestures to another Shield and a Channeler. Both are positioned behind everyone else, their bodies angled to show that one is guarding a door over by the sitting area, and the other is keeping an eye on the archway across from him. “You’ll meet the rest of my Wing another time.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I snark while slinging an impudent glower at both scions. “I’m Ever,” I offer politely and then look over at Farrow to answer his question. “Where I’ve been for the last sixty-two years is safe; the rest is none of your business.”

The affable gleam in Farrow’s black gaze gutters out. His countenance shifts to something that’s more confrontational, and it’s clear this isn’t a male who’s used to being denied or defied.

“The Scorch?” Aeson asks, but it sounds less like a question and more like a conclusion.

Shock pings through me, and my head snaps so fast in the commander’s direction I feel and hear my neck pop. A satisfied little smirk slinks across the asshole’s face, but I already know I fucked up and want to deck myself.

Rookie fucking move, Ever!

I school my features and study Aeson as he ambles casually from the archway toward his brother.

“Don’t look so surprised, Claws. It wasn’t that hard to figure out when you know what pieces to put together. We’ve been getting reports of wyvern activity in that area for decades. People still think there’s a Reward for Capture order, so they call in sightings. It’s never been worth looking into before now.”

Raw panic pumps through my veins, but I don’t react. We have strong wards in place that keep our camp hidden. No one, not even The Horde, has ever found it, and despite what Aeson’s claiming, there are patrols out there who look.

The Scorch is a massive stretch of wasteland. The commander can send his best trackers, but it’ll take them forever to pinpoint anything of value, and even if they do, they’ll still never get inside. Enslee won’t open those doors to them for any reason, not even me.

“You were with wyverns?” Chastain asks, the look on his too pretty face a mix of bewilderment and disgust. “But they betrayed us.”

I scowl over at him. “Not all of them.”

“Enough of them did,” Lorn argues.

I throw up my hands in exasperation. “I can say the same thing about dragons.”

“Yes, your feelings about The Horde have been crystal clear, but I don’t see that same level of resentment for the other Arcs who turned on the Syphons. Why is that?”

“Oh, there’s no love lost between me and the Tainted, I promise you that, but I’m not going to condemn—”

“Who are the Tainted?” Aeson interrupts, and I draw back, stunned.

“Tainted sorcai,” I answer, confused. “They’re sorcai, but their magic is darker. It stinks like it’s unnatural or going bad somehow. It changes them, makes them different. That’s who I escaped from in Newden.”

“I thought blood brokers had you?” Ogdan inserts, suspicion thick in his tone.

I let loose an irritable huff, confused as to how they’re not getting it. “The blood brokers work for the Tainted,” I explain, expecting the light to finally go off, but instead, I’m met with looks of uncertainty and puzzlement. Realization clammers like a gong in my head, and apprehension floods my system. “How do you not know about the Tainted?”

Lorn and Aeson share another one of those annoying cryptic looks, but I’m reeling too much to give a fuck about what it could mean. There’s no way The Horde doesn’t know about a psycho group of magic users who kill, kidnap, and drain Arcs? Their victims are the people the dragons are responsible for protecting. The Syphons have known about the Tainted for a while now. Are these dragons that out of touch with what’s happening in their own territories?

A loud knock rhythmically thuds through the room. I look around, but I have no idea which of the surrounding four doors it might be coming from. Razeer strides to the one he’s been watching and opens it. A statuesque woman practically floats in on a sea of ruffles. She gives a respectful nod to Razeer as she passes and then starts to glide our way.

She wears a round headdress made of blush-colored pearls and beads that makes her look even taller than she already is. Her pale pink dress is sleeveless and tight on her torso before cascading into a rippling mass of fluttering fabric that drops to mid-calf before spilling into a long train of ruched pleats and tucks behind her. Her honeycomb-yellow eyes are fixed on Lorn, and with each step she takes toward him, my heart starts to hammer harder and harder.

Is this his mate? Am I sitting on her bench in her room and she’s here to demand I give it back? I stand, prepared to do just that, but I have no idea where I’m supposed to go. So I do my best impression of a statue and freeze right where I am.

The ruffled goddess stops in front of Lorn and executes a smooth and polished curtsy that I couldn’t dream of emulating even if I practiced it for years. The veneration in the female’s actions and overall countenance helps to snap me out of my open-mouthed fascination.

“My apologies for the wait, My Scion. How may I serve you today?”

I bite back a snort at the stiff formality, but I must not stifle it completely, because both Lorn and the female look over at me.

“Your name?” Lorn asks emotionlessly.

“Tahir, My Scion,” the female answers, even though they’re both still staring at me.

Not his mate, then.

“Tahir, everything you see and confirm in this room will stay in this room. If it does not, your life is forfeit. Do you understand?” Lorn queries, but it’s more command than question.

“Yes, My Scion. My silence and my discretion are yours to command.”

The suggestion dripping all over that statement isn’t missed by anyone standing around. A grin sneaks across Chastain’s face before he covers it with a hand. And I swear I see a subtle quake of Blay’s shoulders, like he’s laughing, but his head is down.

Lorn doesn’t look amused at all, or interested. “I need you to identify the breed and bloodline of this Arcane. Can you do that, Tahir?”

“Most certainly, My Scion. If it pleases you, I can begin now.”

I’m taken aback as Lorn nods and Tahir begins to float in my direction.

This is the Oric?

Flabbergasted, I stare at the stunning female who can’t be much older than me. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting when Jori mentioned an Oric was on their way, but it certainly wasn’t the ruffled vision before me.

I tense as she approaches, my mind going straight to the knives and ichor part of the stereotype I had in my head. It’s not lost on me that Lorn didn’t provide the Oric with any clues about who I am and what I claim to be, and it feels like a test he’s hoping we both fail.

“May I read you?” Tahir asks as she draws even with me.

I look up at her and realize that what I thought was a headdress is actually her hair. It’s piled on her head in a voluminous sphere that has pearls and other small jewels woven through. The layers of fabric that comprise her dress look as soft as clouds, and I almost have to slap my own hand to keep from inappropriately reaching out to touch it.

“What exactly do you have to do to read me?” I ask hesitantly, fighting the urge to finger comb the snarls out of my hair while trying to smooth the wrinkles out of my soiled stolen clothes.

Tahir reaches into the ruffles of her skirt and pulls out what looks like a thick wand and a porcelain box. She must have pockets hidden within the depths of her cloud dress. Maybe the over-the-top outfit isn’t as impractical as I thought. She holds the thick wand up for my inspection.

“I’ll scan your form with my sequencer first, and then I’ll run a small sample of your blood through my centrifuge.” She lifts the small porcelain box in her palm. “Both tests will compile data that will pinpoint breed markers and familial bloodline connections with ninety-three percent accuracy.”

“Only ninety-three percent?” I tease, and Tahir smiles.

“Correct. We leave room for the natural evolution of species and also recognize that there might yet be unidentified genomes and bloodlines that we’ve yet to add to our records.”

I nod as though all of that makes perfect sense. “How does your centrifuge procure my blood?” My throat tightens around the question, and my hands start to get clammy.

If she pulls out a knife, I can’t guarantee that I’m not going to end up in someone’s lap again for round three of let’s break the Syphon .

“You just set your finger here.” She points to a subtle divot in the surface of the box. “You’ll feel a tiny prick and then a slight sucking sensation as the machine procures the sample, and then you’re all done.”

The bands of dread that were winding around me loosen, and I blow out a relieved breath. I can handle a tiny prick. I snicker at that thought and then get a hold of myself. I thought I’d gotten over my Source-drunk giggles, but maybe they’re making a comeback.

“Okay. You can read me, then,” I agree, and Tahir’s bright smile blazes even brighter.

“Excellent,” she chirps. “If you have any talismans, dampeners, charms, or other magic-imbued items, please remove them now,” she instructs, and a pit forms in my stomach.

Tahir must see my face fall, because her honeycomb-colored eyes sharpen and go from vapid and congenial to astute and no nonsense.

“Before you lie to me and tell me you don’t have anything, the sequencer will pick up on it. We’ll stay here as long as we need to get a clean reading. I’m certain the Royal Wing will happily assist as needed to ensure that happens.”

Threat made crystal clear, I scowl up at the Oric before looking around at the determined faces of the surrounding drakes.

“Can everyone leave the room?” I ask, hopeful.

“Not a chance, Claws,” Aeson immediately answers.

Tahir giggles. “Don’t be nervous; you don’t have anything that the scions haven’t seen before,” she offers sweetly, but I rear back like she just spit in my face.

“That’s disturbing as fuck. Never say that again,” I admonish. She just looks at me blankly. “I’m not getting naked. I just…” I flounder, unsure of what to say…how to explain. “If I ask you to turn around, will you?” I look at Lorn, hoping he’ll be the more reasonable scion of the two.

“No,” Aeson interjects, his blue eyes bristling with challenge, his bearing dark and stormy, like he’s itching for a fight.

My glare is fulminating, but he isn’t cowed as he squares off with me. Fury unfurls in my chest, but maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s exactly what I need to face this.

“Fine,” I snap, bending over to unlatch my boot. “I tried. If you fuckers lose your shit like the healers in the hospital were terrified you would, good. I’m going to enjoy watching you tear up your own shit.”