Page 43 of To Touch A Silent Fury (The Bride of Eavenfold #1)

Tani

T he brightness of the noon sun hit against the golden tower that marked the city as one of Edrin’s, with its curling spire, and the marble city sprawled beneath us, snaked with deep azure canals and shadowed paths under tiny bridges.

The skies were far warmer here, and we shared the wind with wyverns in every shade of yellow and green, cawing and playing in the near cloudless blue.

This was a city welcoming the first day of Tanmer.

Excitement and curiosity swelled in my chest as we began our spiralling descent.

This was all I had wanted: the freedom to travel, see new places.

Experience culture, fashion, and music. Even now I heard the music of the city, the yells and laughs and bells below.

After years surrounded by trees, it was hard not to be overwhelmed by it.

The sun bounced off Chaethor’s ruby scales; they looked a touch darker than they had back on Eavenfold.

The sun casts its glittering embrace on the sea at the edge of the city, and I found myself narrowing my eyes into the edges of its horizon, searching for signs of distant cliffs.

But Eavenfold was hidden, as it ever was, by the rain and fog of Stormnoon.

A carved, circular mosaic roof awaited our landing, its tiles forming the pattern of the Sightlands’ banner, a gold wing against a blood-red background. Already I could see the dots of several heads around the outside of it. Courtiers awaiting the prince’s arrival, I guessed.

From the roof, a narrow path led to a small semicircle, a high balcony of the castle. A man stepped out, pitching his head back as Chaethor spread her wings wide to slow us, and we fell with the catching wind, landing softly on the mosaic.

As soon as Chaethor landed, I felt the true warmth of the day as it basked down upon the top of my head. I shuddered at it, the heat reminding me of my true home, the Touchlands. I hadn’t felt it in so many years, and I wanted nothing more than to curl into it until the sunset caught up to us.

But Langnathin distracted me by tensing around me. “I’m sorry for that.”

I looked over my shoulder, my mouth parted in confusion. He stared away from me, at the far edge of the roof, his lips pressed together. Then he leaned back and jumped down from Chaethor, unfastening his coat as soon as he landed.

Sorry for what , I wondered. Following the path of his gaze, I froze as my stomach rolled.

Heads. The same heads I had seen from above and assumed to be a waiting group of courtiers.

No. They were just heads. My gaze caught on one, the man’s eyes still open as flies rested on his lips, nose, and brow.

Fresh blood oozed down the wooden spike, and from the rivers of it in the gutter, each of the dozen men must have died very recently.

I focused back on Chaethor as the heat all of a sudden made me feel nauseous.

It was tradition, I reassured myself. This was a lofty roof in a place that worshipped the Five; it was only natural that the dead would be positioned as high as possible.

But just as the scaffolding of Eavenfold had left a bad taste in my mouth, so too did this.

I hooked my good leg over, ready to drop down to her wing, as the man from the balcony reached the roof’s circle.

From the renewed pain and the darkened patch of dried blood across my thigh, I must have reopened the arrow wound during today’s flight, but that was a problem for later, when I wasn’t surrounded by decapitated heads.

Langnathin stood beside Chaethor’s face, his hand on her nose, watching the man’s approach.

His thick brown hair instantly gave away his youth and made me discount my theory that it could be Braxthorn.

He was also built like a house: a similar height to Langnathin and yet twice the width.

He wore a fine red doublet which didn’t suit him, and his arms protested against the fabric of his pale shirt.

A narrow scar lined his wide jaw, and his nose looked like the work of too many brawls.

“Brother,” he called. “Welcome home.”

So this was the Wragg. Langnathin’s older brother.

By all reports, a strong fighter but a weak thinker.

I understood the nickname more now. The Wragg, the thick wall which historically separated the Scentlands from the Tastelands.

Long destroyed now since the two nations found peace, but parts of the Embergrin Pass still tracked through its rubble.

If any man was to be named after a wall, Langnathin’s brother was an apt choice. I realised then that I had completely forgotten the man’s true name.

Langnathin’s answer was icy. “Thank you, brother. I see you went to the effort of preparing a welcoming party.”

The Wragg laughed. “Yes, I thought you would be relieved. Spared from killing your deserters yourself. ”

“How kind,” the Dragon Prince replied. “Your handiwork?”

“Of course. As father has always told us. A king’s word and his sword should be the same thing.”

“As one,” I whispered, before pinning my lips together.

Langnathin looked back. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

It was a scholar’s correction, and certainly not a Soundlander’s. A pedantic one learnt through too much pedagogical insistence on quoting something exactly, or not at all. I was only fortunate they had barely heard my murmur.

A king’s word and his sword should be as one. They weren’t Braxthorn’s words. They were Norgallin’s, his brutish father. If that was who the men here wished to emulate, I did not think them likely to welcome me.

The Wragg’s eyes slid to Chaethor, and then caught on me. “What have you brought us?”

Langnathin barely gave me a customary look. “Something to discuss with our father.” He turned back to the heads. “Maybe sharpen the blade next time.”

“It was sharp the first time.”

The glee in the comment rolled my stomach.

I slid down to the joint of Chaethor’s wing, managing it with more grace than my ascent, despite my wobbling legs.

He’d been right about dragonback; even with the well-crafted saddle, it was a punishing ride, and I was aching in muscles I didn’t know existed.

It was saying something that the pain rippling through my thighs and lower back was far worse right now than the pain from the recent injury that could have shattered half my leg.

Chaethor yawned and lowered herself closer to the rooftop, and I hopped down, proud of myself for keeping my footing even as I grimaced from the landing.

My arm went to cradle the sleeping child at my front, checking he was still in place. Then I looked at the Wragg. He stared at me, openly, chewing on something. From the ground, he looked even more intimidating, the size of a barn door.

He had caught my movement, and his eyes scanned my front with delight. Then he hit Langnathin on the chest. “You’re a sly dog, brother. You knocked up a Soundlander?”

I flinched as my cheeks immediately flushed.

The Wragg threw his head back in a raucous laugh. Was he drunk? I studied his movements, the strange lurching of them, and I couldn’t quite tell. “How did you get one to sleep with you? Was she a prisoner? I thought all their lot hated us.”

I bristled, ready to spit at the man, but Langnathin glanced back. The gesture looked casual and unaffected, but I saw the warning in his red look.

“She is not pregnant,” Langnathin drawled. “Trust me, my standards have not fallen so distinctly that I would bastard a child with one of their rank.”

I blinked, his words finding a target I didn’t believe existed. The blatant disinterest, coupled with the lack of respect, burned my insides. If that was how he wanted to play this, I would have next to no chance of convincing his father I was worthy of him.

The Wragg laughed again, though it lacked the same enthusiasm. “Why’s she here, then?”

“She has something Braxthorn will be interested in,” he replied. “I mean to present her to him tomorrow.”

The Wragg shook his head. “Father expects your full report immediately. He is awaiting your arrival in the war room.”

Langnathin sighed. “Fine, I will make my report at once, then.” He gestured to me with a finger, as one would bid a servant. “Come, girl. Unless you wish to be skewered by Chaethor.”

I glanced up, seeing the great dragon preparing to fly once more, and hurried to the edge of the circle, where the two princes stood beside the pathway back into the castle .

As soon as I was out of her reach, Langnathin dropped his touch on her and walked towards the castle without a backwards glance. His brother followed him, matching his martial pace, though he turned to glance back at Chaethor with something akin to hunger.

The dragon pushed off, throwing herself back into the air, before rolling through the wind and curving away. She let out a huge shriek, and I flinched as she soared away. It was hard to fathom I had been riding her not minutes prior.

I followed behind the two Sightlanders, my legs like watery dough beneath me.

We stepped into the shade of the castle, the stained glass atop the tower creating hexagons of purple light on the marble floor.

From the top of a stone staircase, I looked over the bannister and saw it spiral all the way down to a parquet hall far below.

The men descended the stairs, speaking in low tones. I could not hear them amid the noises of the city. I wasn’t used to filtering so much out, and it was all I could do to keep up with them, as bells chimed and gulls squawked and servants rushed below.

I skimmed my hand along the smooth varnished bannister for support, and after a few levels, the men stepped down a corridor.

Again, they barely checked to see if I was following, and Langnathin’s glance was bored at best. With every turn of my head, I noted more opulence: tapestries twice my height and sconces filled with fine beeswax candles.

My boots sank into the plush, golden runner carpeting the hall, and I instantly became aware of my appearance.