Page 6 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

Ice slushed through Britt’s veins. Hadn’t Malcolm told her of their injuries? On second thought, probably not. General Helsing had no capacity for illness or pain. Her tolerance for failure to show up for one’s duty was null. Besides, she’d probably blame Britt for the whipping, as well.

“What does that mean?” General Helsing demanded. “Why were you convalescing?”

A roar sounded.

Britt ducked as something flew by, so massive it blocked out their view of the sky in a sweep of black, then departed as quickly as it came.

General Helsing froze, eyes wide. Denerfen squeaked.

He flung himself away from his latest puddle, through the window, and winged to Britt’s shoulder.

She raced for the veranda, throwing open a glass door, and rushed outside.

Her waist hit the top of the wall as she bent over it, seeking the dark image in the air.

“Den,” she whispered. “Am I seeing things?”

He chirruped again, this one low-toned and questioning.

Her stomach clenched as clouds shifted, revealing the monster she had surely imagined.

A wyvern. The ashen creature nearly blended in with the thickening clouds.

It soared through the fog, dodging in and out of banks.

General Helsing scuttled around the desk and joined Britt outside.

Islanders screamed. Shouts erupted, echoing through the gentle rain.

The wyvern banked as it flew around Dragul Mountain, spiraling toward the top.

“The draguls!” Britt cried.

“Britt!” General Helsing shouted. “Don’t you dare!”

But she had already skidded out the door, headed for the top of the mountain.

Wet floors sent Britt careening into the comblike walls more than once.

Her teeth rattled as she rounded a corner, arm scraping the rocks.

Denerfen dug his talons into her shoulder while she skidded to a halt, hooked a sharp left, then raced ahead.

Occasional flashes from open windows along the outer corridor gave glimpses outside.

No visual of the barbed tail, the wild wings as sprawling as Pedr’s sails, the hanging back legs.

Shouts followed the wyvern’s path, tripling through the hallways as the beast flew up the stony slopes.

No one met her in the hallway. The almost-empty outer passage spilled into a wide, main corridor that ran along the exterior.

It sloped toward higher levels, allowing access to the top.

No one but Keepers had any reason to be up there, and ancient arcane prevented others from accessing the doors.

Britt’s heart thudded as she raced, hair streaming in wet clumps.

She halted at a wrought iron door and wrenched it open.

It groaned as she forced herself between it, Denerfen croaking a protest. Quick as she slipped through, it thudded shut.

Moss-covered stone stairs ascended into the foamy clouds, revealing a circular swatch of sky.

Rain drizzled onto her scalp as she hurtled up the stairs two at a time, zig zagging up each flight.

Vines warbled along seams in the stone walls as she flew past, panting.

Her ribs ached along her scars, where remembered pain ignited.

They hadn’t bothered her unless she lay on her back or breathed too fast.

She halted at the top. The world lay at her feet, sweeping into verdant black rock mountains, draped by emerald carpets peeling to the left and right. Clouds smeared each ridge like scrapes of whipped butter, their mountain forms mere suggestion in the inky night.

A scream sounded behind her. Still gasping for air, she whirled.

The slippery mud squelched and squashed under her feet.

The wyvern circled Dragul Mountain, the tallest peak.

Its giant wings soared around the highest spire behind Britt and Denerfen.

Definable markings spread from the bottom of its neck and across the underside of the wings.

The wyvern headed away from the draguls’ main perches, where they nestled into hollows and caves, and almost out of sight. It became more outline than monster.

Was it . . . only flying?

Not pillaging?

Destroying?

With deepening astonishment, she watched it spiral, twirl.

It screeched. Unlike true dragons, which were long extinct, wyverns had no fire.

By reputation, any wyvern could smell the tiniest creature, even in the rain.

When no dramatic plunge or attempt on her life resulted, she relaxed.

The wyvern didn’t mean the draguls harm.

Wonder replaced the original flush of fear.

A wyvern.

Visceral majesty emanated from the creature.

It was hauntingly beautiful, despite the lashing teeth and frequent bellows.

They lived on the mainland, too far away from Kapurnick to journey on their own.

So why was it here? Their wings couldn’t accommodate so many hours flying without a reprieve, and they avoided the ocean as much as possible.

“How?” she breathed.

Denerfen mimicked her quiet uncertainty with a muffled sound.

He shuffled under her curtain of hair, heading to the other shoulder to peer out between rain-soaked strands.

Out of sight and hearing below, Malcolm would be gathering Kapurnickkian sailors to mount a defense.

They couldn’t possibly, but General Helsing would demand the attempt.

The wyvern spiraled the peak to their west, bursting over the top with a roar. She whispered, “It’s . . . beautiful.”

Moonlight pierced through thinning clouds, glinting off the wyvern’s stormy wings as they cut in and out of the clouds, seamless with the teeming storm.

Britt stepped onto an established footpath to the dragul homes.

General Helsing would be furious that she left.

Rolf, the other Keeper, would demand she stay put.

She could hear his weathered voice chastising her.

Don’t go to the caves and lead the wyvern to the draguls!

She dismissed the heedless and imagined concern. If the wyvern meant the draguls harm, it would have attacked already. Some distant ancestor bound the two creatures, despite the sheer vastness in the wyvern’s unequivocal size.

A boom ricocheted through the night, drawing her gaze.

Fireworks erupted in tens of streaking colors.

The flying colors scattered into miniature, arcane wyverns.

They chased the true wyvern amidst the broiling clouds, probably an attempt to scare it away.

They didn’t last longer than fifteen seconds in this damp environment—not even Pedr’s arcane could solve all problems—and the wyvern was a big problem.

Pedr’s arcane fireworks must have done their job, because the wyvern’s call calmed. Its wings ceased zipping through fractured moonlight. It meant something that Pedr tried. He loathed drawing attention to himself. She tucked her questions away to ask him later.

Denerfen nudged her earlobe with his snout. She put a hand on his shivering body. He jumped to the end of her shoulder, nostrils flared. With another squawk, he bounced off her shoulder and took to the air, scenting it. He called to the dark night as he flew. Stars appeared in the breaking clouds.

“Come back,” she whispered.

The wyvern did not return.

Denerfen aimed himself toward hidden nooks and crannies straight ahead. He flew into a cave, causing a flutter of color to ignite. Draguls erupted from the crevices, welcoming him with excited cheeps and squeaks.

Britt veered off the path that strode along the ridge, chaining from one peak to another, and toward the dragul cave. She’d check on them, but of course no harm came to them. A darker hint of movement drew her gaze west.

There.

The wyvern winged away, riderless, heading into the western storm.

Rolf, the lead dragul Keeper, met her at the bottom of the mossy stairs a short time later.

His white eyebrows knitted together, forming grooves between his wrinkled eyes as she squelched off the stairs.

Denerfen remained with the other draguls, feasting on rich, mulchy foods Rolf painstakingly ground together.

She descended far more carefully than her ascent.

Rolf grunted a greeting.

“They’re fine?”

“Completely.”

“Good.” He eyed her. “They missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed them.”

His fuzzy eyebrows lowered. “Rumor says you’re leaving again soon.”

“Gets around that fast, eh?” she muttered, then tilted her head. “Will that be a problem?”

Rolf sucked on his front teeth. After a prolonged silence, he shrugged. “You brought Tesserdress back alive, which means you have my unswerving loyalty. Go, if you must. We’re fine here.”

She would have hugged him, if the idea wouldn’t have repulsed the taciturn, distant curmudgeon. She tilted her thumb the other way.

“I need to find someone.”

Rolf nodded.

“Ta.”

Anxiety followed her into the undermountain, where controlled chaos rippled.

Kapurnickkians striding with purpose, their robes billowing around their pants.

Workers whispered, kids scuttled by, wide-eyed and squealing over the wyvern.

Rainwater surged through trenches in the mountain side and sloshed into storage containers.

Moisture streamed off Britt with each step toward the main corridor. Her thoughts tangled twice as fast as her feet. Where was Henrik?

Instructions barked by General Helsing filtered up from the ground floor. Calm, firm, yet fast, she commanded the crisis with her usual aplomb. Britt veered to the left to avoid her aunt. It would take longer, but prevent . . . complications.

To her relief, a familiar baritone shouted her name.

“Britt!”

Henrik jogged toward her, Einar and Agnes at his side.

“Come with me.” She grabbed his arm, tugging him with her because she wouldn’t stop moving. “We need to find Pedr. Right now.”