Chapter 19
While the salve simmered in a pot and a berry cobbler baked in the oven, Syla found twine and did her best to tie it to the frames of her spectacles.
She had a spare pair in her pack, but they were older, the lenses even weaker than the ones she was wearing.
She didn’t want to lose these, something that might well happen if dragons kept plucking her up to carry.
Even though she’d asked for Wreylith to return, she’d nearly fainted when the dragon had come at her with her talons outstretched.
She hoped her plan would work, that Wreylith would agree to carry at least two of them to Harvest Island.
She would need Aunt Tibby to help her remove the shielder when they found it and then to install it under the castle back in the capital.
And they would need Fel to protect them along the way.
And Vorik? Once they arrived, they needed to find a way to escape Vorik.
As helpful as he’d been, Syla couldn’t let him trail her to a shielder.
She wouldn’t make the same mistake that her sister had.
As horrible as Venia’s death was, it might have been a blessing for her.
Better to die than to live with the knowledge that one had betrayed one’s people and caused the deaths of thousands.
While the salve and the cobbler cooled, Tibby entered the kitchen with a backpack so stuffed the seams bulged out. Hers looked to contain even more books than the one that Syla had packed. Maybe it was a genetic tendency?
“We’re going to have to swim,” Syla reminded her.
“The pack has been oil-skinned, and I’ve further wrapped everything inside.” Tibby pointed at the cobbler. “That’s not for the dragon, is it?”
“No.” Syla hadn’t intended to make the dessert, but Vorik had given her the berries, and most of the ingredients had been sitting out on the kitchen counter, as if the gods themselves had wanted him to have a cobbler.
More likely, someone had been in the middle of baking preparations when the attacks had started.
Since the salve had needed time to simmer anyway… “Vorik requested it.”
Tibby’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re baking for him?”
Syla lowered her voice though she hesitated to speak any of her plans aloud since Vorik had a knack for overhearing everything. “Let him think he’s winning me over. Then it’ll be easier to slip away later.”
“We need to slip away now. How can we get rid of him?”
“Well, as we talked about, the dragons won’t be able to reach land with us. It’ll be easier to get away from him when he can’t mount Agrevlari and fly after us.”
“He’s still going to be faster on foot than we are. Did you see him jump off his dragon’s back from twenty feet in the air? And land like he’d hopped down two feet?”
“I’ve observed that he’s athletic, yes.”
Tibby gave her an exasperated look. “That’s a lot more than athleticism. As I told you before, he has magic. Powerful magic. You of all people should recognize it.” She pointed to the back of Syla’s hand.
Syla sighed and scooped the salve into a bowl. “I do recognize it.”
“He could kill us easily. Any time he wishes.” Tibby pointed at her chest and Syla’s, then waved toward the garden outside as well. Including Fel?
“Yes, and he hasn’t. That’s not what he wants.”
“What do you think he wants? You’re a comely girl, but I’m positive he’s not here because he’s smitten with you.”
Syla’s cheeks heated as the memory of riding with Vorik again popped into her mind.
“He wants the shielders,” Tibby said. “And he thinks you’ll lead him to them.”
“You said that before, yes. And I haven’t discounted it. But that faction he told me about… Fel has heard of it. It apparently does exist, so it’s possible…”
“It exists. I’ve also heard of it. But he isn’t in it. It’s mostly women who are tired of scavenging for their food and constantly being threatened by predators that can bite one of their children in half if they’re careless outside of their caves for even an instant.”
“You don’t think some men are also tired of scavenging and threats to their children?”
“Not him.”
“We’ll escape him on Harvest Island.” Syla grabbed a large wooden spoon, then took the cobbler pan and the salve bowl and headed for the door.
Tibby intercepted her, leaning close to whisper in her ear. “Does he trust you enough to eat that without question?”
Syla shook her head in confusion at the question. “I don’t know.”
“There’s some dried zalok in the root cellar.”
Syla froze. Since she knew herbs well, she recognized that one and what it did.
It was a potent poison, one that was taken to the castle so that anyone who knew kingdom secrets, which included her, could consume it if they were traveling between islands and captured by stormers. It was supposed to be one’s godly duty to kill oneself to keep from divulging vital information.
“You can easily mix some into the topping, and he wouldn’t taste it,” Tibby added.
Syla couldn’t keep from giving her aunt an aggrieved look. While she understood the logic, she was a healer, not a murderer. She couldn’t contemplate poisoning someone.
“Or I could do it,” Tibby said, her voice low. “So you wouldn’t have to. I know it would be hard for you.”
“I would hope it would be hard for you too.”
“Not after what he’s done. What they’ve all done. You were there. You have to know even better than I the horrors.”
Syla closed her eyes, tears threatening as the words brought to mind her sister’s body and all the other dead she’d seen in the courtyard, the pure horror of the wyverns feeding on them.
Throat tight, she whispered, “I do.”
“I’m sorry,” Tibby said. “I know what you lost. What we lost. I just… This may be the only chance to get rid of him.”
Syla shook her head. “Even if I could, he doesn’t trust me that fully. He’s aware that I’m suspicious of him. I don’t know if he’ll even eat this.”
Was that true? Vorik’s eyes had lit up at the idea of a blackberry cobbler, and he had been so delighted to have found simple pears and other fruit in the orchard.
But he might even now be listening to them. If she had been willing to do this, she should have done it on her own, without saying anything. Hell, she didn’t even know if thinking was safe around those dragons.
“No,” she said and walked outside.
Her heart almost stopped when she found not only Vorik standing on the path in front of the porch but the red dragon waiting on the other side of the fence. Sweat broke out under her armpits, and she forced a smile.
“This is for you.” Syla handed the spoon and pan of cobbler to Vorik, forcing herself to meet his eyes, if only briefly, then hurried past him toward the gate.
She half-expected Vorik to grab her and confront her about the discussion, but he didn’t, and she made it past the fence to stand in front of the stern-faced Wreylith.
“I, uhm.” She held up the bowl of salve, like the offering Vorik had mentioned.
Of course, the dragon didn’t have thumbs and fingers and would struggle to apply such a thing.
Wreylith lifted her forelimb and spread her talons. The deep gouge that the fang had left was already healing, appearing less inflamed than it had that morning, but the flesh around it remained swollen and red. Despite the dragon’s words, Syla had no doubt that it continued to hurt.
Human concoctions can do nothing to aid dragons, Wreylith stated, though her foot remained raised. And dragons do not need slimy slop smeared on their toes. With our great power and stamina, we can regenerate from all but the greatest of wounds on our own.
“I’m certain that’s true.” Syla dipped her fingers in the salve—she would consider it unctuous rather than slimy—and gently coated the gouge.
The dragon stood so still, her wings and tail out rigid, that she might have been a statue. Tendrils of smoke wafted from her nostrils, and Syla swallowed, worried the pain of the application would cause fire to spontaneously flare from Wreylith’s maw.
When did my world become so insane? Syla wondered and smeared more salve.
A blurry shadow appearing to her side made her twitch. Vorik. He moved without making a sound, seeming to pop up out of nowhere. He wasn’t holding his sword, and he stopped a few feet back, but she sensed that he was letting Wreylith know he would fight to protect Syla if necessary.
The dragon gave no indication of being worried or even caring about him.
Syla decided not to look at him either—she didn’t want him to see that he’d startled her again—and finished applying the salve.
Per Gerin’s suggestion, she’d mixed in some powdered tangtor grass.
She knew nothing of lizards and what natural medicines they favored but doubted it would do anything to diminish the potency of the salve.
Besides, it added a pleasant, almost minty, scent to it.
You have called upon me and made this offering as a bribe. Wreylith set her foot down.
Syla thought about feigning innocence—no, lying—to the dragon but doubted Wreylith would fall for that. If dragons could read minds, she definitely would not.
“I did hope for a favor,” she admitted.
I have not slain you despite you not once but twice impertinently and unwisely using the magic of that statuette to spy upon me.
“It was never my intent to spy.”
I know this, else you would already be dead. But you’ve invaded my privacy nonetheless.
“I apologize for that, especially the first time. That was an accident.”
But this time, you want something.
“For you to carry me to Harvest Island.”
“To carry two of us there,” Fel said.
He and Aunt Tibby stood side-by-side in front of the gate, not far behind Vorik.
“It can be in your maw,” Syla made herself say, though that had been a dreadful means of transportation, “if you won’t allow humans to ride on your back.”
Fel issued something between a groan and a grunt to opine on that.
“I’ll ride with the enemy captain,” Tibby said faintly.