Chapter 17
I slash a metal hook through the leathery skin of the slow-moving magma river, carving a bright-orange wound. Smoke and lava spew free, releasing a heat so brutal the air distorts, squirming around it.
Tossing the tool aside, I scoop my bucket full of loose molten stone. Move away from the scorching heat, up the steep bank, into the dark tunnel beyond. Not that it grows much cooler, the air in these underground warrens a thick sulfuric haze I doubt I’ll ever get used to choking back.
The bucket’s glowing contents light my short journey through the tight passageway—barely taller than me and just as wide—until I come to a small, domed cavern I spoke into the orange stone.
I set down the bucket and jostle a jar of firelice, encouraging them to rouse and better illuminate my humble lodgings.
Basic. Large enough for my nest, some flat stone to slumber on, and space to stash my few belongings.
I pull off a glove and tug my dense shroud down around my neck, thankful for the air-purifying runes Roan was kind enough to teach me as I fill my lungs with slightly less-toxic air. The only comfort I have in this caustic place, but a welcome one.
Crouching beside the makeshift nest I’ve spent cycles perfecting, I slop some magma into the bowl, quick to smooth it around. Reshape it.
Again.
Probably not the last time either, given the smog that’s bearing down on the Sabersythe hatching grounds, making it impossible to venture farther than the huts on the outskirts. Leaving nothing for any of us to do other than sit around, obsessing over nests that will largely go unused.
For most, shaping a nest in Gondragh is our final act. Something I accepted long ago.
Mostly.
I slop more magma on, molding it with a piece of curved metal. Once I’m happy, I splash it with water from my skein.
The fresh layer sizzles and spits, releasing more sulfuric smog that has me lifting my wrap over my mouth and nose, tucking it in my hood while I wait for the runes to clear the air.
Leaning back, I visualize the egg sitting within—
Too deep.
Fuck.
I scoop another glob in, smooth it, splash it with water. Lean back to reassess. Inkah’s nest was made of snow and ice, so this is new to me.
Don’t wanna mess it up.
Another scoop, and I tip the skein, emptying my final dregs before realizing how dry my mouth is.
Better get more water.
I pull off my other glove, gather my things, and tuck them under a large shroud, pocketing the silver scale I’ve been shaping into a blade. I toss my other shroud over the nest and move deeper down the tunnel I also spoke into existence the dae I got here.
Nobody trusts each other in these parts, given it’s almost impossible to obtain a coveted Sabersythe egg. Bonding with such a fierce, powerful creature is one of the world’s greatest honors, but not everyone is honorable.
Thieves lurk in dark corners, meaning most folk stick to themselves. Burrow down until they find an underground magma river to build a nest beside.
It’s a good thing I like the quiet.
Reaching my tunnel’s end, I pause before the camouflage sheet I hung at the opening and listen for footsteps.
Hearing only the distant grumble and groan of the nearby volcanoes, I push past and move up the jagged stone stairway, pausing every now and then to shake the dangling firelice jars nailed against the walls.
I’m almost at the surface when the hammer of heavy boots on stone has me stilling, dagger poised.
My breaths turn slow and steady as I wait.
It doesn’t take long until a fae comes into view—large and broad, descending the stairs two at a time. Brown material covers half his face, leaving only a peek of ebony skin, thick brows, and bright-blue eyes that are wide and bloodshot.
Upon noticing me, his shoulders fold forward.
“Thank the Creators,” he blasts, and I notice the cloak bundled in his arms. He sweeps the material back from a large golden egg with perfect symmetrical scales.
My heart flips. Again when the egg jolts, like it’s trying to jump from his arms.
The male rips aside his face covering, revealing the blue beads knotted throughout his long beard. Though he glances at the blade in my hand, he doesn’t posture. Nor does he pull his own weapon.
I tuck mine away.
“The southwestern hut was destroyed. I barely escaped.” His egg jolts again. “It started rocking just as I breached the entrance.”
And he doesn’t have a nest prepared …
I wave for him to follow me deeper down the stairs, past the camouflage sheet and through my tunnel. When I rip the shroud away to reveal my nest, the stranger falls to his knees.
“Thank you,” he weeps, over and over, easing his egg into the bowl. Almost a perfect fit, I think. From what I’ve seen of diagrams anyway.
I ignore the uncomfortable shaft of jealousy, wishing it were my own egg sitting in there. Focusing instead on the fact that my nest is saving a life that would’ve otherwise been forfeit.
I gather more runny magma that he pours over the precious treasure; a process we repeat until the pile is bulging, the egg smothered. And we wait—standing either side of the nest, arms crossed as we watch for any changes.
Moments pass, the air growing heavy with tension and a silence I should fill but don’t. Ever since Inkah passed, I lost the desire to fill space with anything but my bare minimum.
Grief is greedy. Sometimes a wound is too deep to patch up. But if words did come easy, I doubt voicing my concerns would be very helpful.
Was the egg away from the heat too long?
Was the magma hot enough?
The nest too shallow? Too deep?
I see in the stranger’s eyes, narrowed on the steaming mound, that he’s thinking the same.
So perhaps silence is best. After all, we’ll know the answers soon enough—once a dark crust forms atop the cooling heap.
If a hatchling doesn’t claw free, that’s that.
And so many mourn themselves into an early grave after a failed hatch, making it a double death sentence.
“Name’s Kilíth,” he murmurs, dropping onto the large stone I use to sharpen my blades. His gaze briefly meets mine. “Just in case.”
In case he needs someone to carve it on the wall upstairs in the common space.
A heaviness settles between us, like death just sat beside him, waiting. Watching the nest, too.
I nod, sitting on the ridge I’ve been using as a pallet, elbows on my spread knees. The silver blade in my pocket is being shaped with similar thoughts in mind.
I came here to get an egg. I leave with a hatchling or not at all.
Kilíth unbinds the rest of his face covering. Reveals a gnarly burn up the side of his neck and across his right shoulder, his runed leathers melted into his skin.
It’s hard not to look, knowing how that feels.
Burns are common in Gondragh, unlike skilled Fleshthreads who so rarely venture past the Loff into this hostile part of the world. With nobody around to patch folk up before their wounds set, he’ll probably live with that for the rest of his life.
He unlatches a skein from his belt and offers it to me. I accept, swallow an icy mouthful, and pass it back.
“Guessing you’re waiting for the smog to clear?” he asks, eyes on the mound as he tips water on his wound, making my insides knot.
I nod, looking away.
He corks the valve, knee bouncing. Either to disperse his nerves or distract himself from the pain. “You’re not planning on scaling the Vihn Peaks by any chance?”
Another nod.
He grunts, raising both brows. “So you’re aware, you’ll likely end up dead. There’s a rabid dragon set on making a mess of anything she can get her claws on. She did this,” he says, pointing his thumb at the burn. “Tore apart the hut I was at and blew fire through the tunnels. I barely escaped.”
He’s either telling me this to deter me or as a warning to get my affairs in order. Send larks. There’s only one message that comes to mind, but things have always gone unsaid between us. Probably best to leave it that way.
I pull the silver scale from my pocket—purchased off a merchant in exchange for most of my gathered riches—rustling through my pack for clamps and a file.
“You’re after her eggs?”
I look up.
He jerks his chin at the scale. “The Great Silver Sabersythe. You’re not mad enough to attempt to raid her burrow?”
I let my silence answer.
“Creators be damned. Well, good fuckin’ luck.” He chuffs and points at his burn. “I’ve got her to thank for this.”
I frown, looking at the scale, then past it to the mound that’s no longer steaming. Beginning to darken off.
Creators, it’s time.
Kilíth pulls a steadying breath. “Fuck,” he mutters, bouncing his knee with renewed ferocity. “It’s not going to—”
Part of the hardening crust bulges, then splits away from the hotter, brighter magma beneath. Cracked bits of golden shell spear up, slowly pushed to the surface.
The first signs of a successful hatch.
The molten blob jolts and stretches, like a womb, splitting as a thorny head pushes free—the size of my fist, bearing a hint of gold scales visible through the magma slurry.
The hatchling draws breath then releases a scratchy lament. A good, strong sound.
I nod to myself and stand, pocketing my scale. Wave my skein at Kilíth, then turn down the tunnel, leaving them to bond without me watching, chased by heavy words of gratitude drowned by my churning thoughts.
There’s nothing more important than those primitive moments.
Perhaps I’m greedy for seeking this great honor a second time, but I’ve never been one to battle fate.
I have to believe everything happens for a reason, otherwise I’d have found my way back to Inkah’s grave and curled up beside her long ago.