Chapter 4
ALARYK
Samryn’s amusement strummed through the bond as he watched a Dakkari stumble down the wings of the Elthika.
“Amusement” with a heaping dose of derision. Samryn was a Vyrin, after all. An ancient. He could be impatient and temperamental because he’d lived long enough to run through his supply of patient understanding.
It was my duty to keep him tethered, and so I pressed my hand to the side of his wide jaw, a heaping huff falling from him, blowing back my hair. I sent a rebuke of my own, funneling it down the thread of my own magic.
“Because of the Dakkari, we have heartstones once more,” I reminded Samryn. His red gaze flicked to me. There was a strain there. Something he’d been trying to shield from me. I could feel it grow in conjunction with my own worry. Not again. “We should show…gratitude.”
Elthika could not understand our language. They had one all their own, which the Karag could not replicate. But Samryn and I were bonded beyond imagine…and so we communicated with shared emotion.
He shook off my rebuke, raising his head so my palm fell away, and made a chortled growl when a young Dakkari male took a topple to the ground.
“You’re impossible,” I murmured, trying to hide the way my own lips twitched. A feeling within me bloomed, one of annoyance, but it was my Elthika’s. “Very well. Sit here and enjoy the spectacle.”
Samryn’s smug satisfaction had me shaking my head as I walked away.
The ground quaked behind me when he curled himself down onto the earth.
I tried to shake the feeling of unease. I feared the sickness was returning.
Samryn’s breathing had been labored during flight, but every time I’d tried to squeeze beyond the gap of our natural bond, he’d shut me out, an edged warning following the simmering rejection.
Though we were bonded and had been for years, Samryn was still an Elthika. I could not break his trust, and he deserved his privacy and my respect. Even if I was only trying to help the stubborn ancient.
Myzalla was instructing my kya’rassa—my rider horde—to be ready within the next hour for the final leg of the journey.
There was a group of trusted riders from Sarroth—Sarkin’s territory—that would lead their Dakkari to its borders.
This was our resting place, and then both groups would break away to their final destinations.
“Anything you want to add, Karath?” Myzalla asked me when she saw my approach. She was my second-in-command, my wing commander. A damn good rider, a longtime friend, and she kept a tight leash on the kya’rassa for me…if I was otherwise distracted.
I looked around the small circle. A rider horde I had handpicked for this brief journey, many of whom I still made uneasy.
“Nothing at all,” I replied. “We’ll leave as soon as the Dakkari have rested. Take advantage of the break.”
I dismissed the group, catching sight of the Dakkari female over Myzalla’s shoulder. She’d helped up the Dakkari male who’d fallen on his descent, the one who’d be helping to work the cropland. Brune was his name.
But my eyes were drawn to the female in particular. I recalled her name on the list from the Dothikkar’s own advisors.
Amaia of Rath Savenal. The pyroki master’s apprentice in Dothik, who was said to be particularly gifted with the beasts.
“See something you like?” Myzalla’s voice cut through my observation.
“I see something I don’t trust,” I told her, keeping my voice low so I wouldn’t be overheard. Her teasing smile faded, and she darted a look over her shoulder. “That’s even worse.”
“The girl?” Myzalla asked quietly. “She’s so young.”
“Irrelevant,” I said, thinking that she could only be a handful of years younger than Myzalla.
“What did you feel?” my wing commander asked.
“Wildness. Untamed magic. She’s powerful,” I said softly and without thinking. I met Myzalla’s golden eyes as she digested the words. “But what she can do remains to be seen. Heartstone magic isn’t a crime against her. But she was able to break my tether easily. That’s what worries me.”
“The Dakkari didn’t mention that—”
“The Dakkari are afraid. Likely, so is she,” I said. “I’d bet the Dothikkar’s advisors don’t even know what they sent to me.”
A gift. Or…trouble.
“I’ll keep careful watch of her,” Myzalla promised me quietly, “when we reach the Arsadia.”
I inclined my head. “She’s assigned to the hatchery, correct?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Do you think we should split them up? Keep the Dakkari rider acolytes in the Arsadia and her and the other boy in Grym?”
“No,” I decided. “They all go to the Arsadia.”
“Do you want me to alert Tarkosh about her, at least?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “I’ll dig into her more before I decide. But I’ll make that decision when I join you in the Arsadia. Keep them out of trouble for the week.”
Myzalla threw me a dry look. “Running off to Grym and leaving me saddled with a bunch of Dakkari? When you chose me as your wing commander, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
I grinned, warm and hopefully charming, because I knew she was only teasing. “You were my only choice. Never forget that.”
Her expression softened. “I know, Alaryk.”
I inclined my head at her, one of my oldest friends.
She’d known me ever since I was a Hartan boy, with strange hair and even stranger eyes, dropped into the unforgiving place of Grym as a hybrid child.
We’d grown up in the same village. And, well, children could be mean, I knew.
But I’d shown I could be meaner, and she’d never been frightened of that. She’d understood.
I looked to the sky, seeing the sunlight waning. “I’ll leave now. If anything changes, send a missive to the citadel. I’ll finish up there as soon as I can and be in the Arsadia before the moon wanes.”
“Fly beneath Muron’s wings, my friend,” she murmured, something she always said. A superstition she clung to, just as she always kissed the pendant her husband had gifted her before she got onto the back of her Elthika.
“You as well,” I replied, knowing it would bring her comfort.
The Dakkari were huddled together, sitting on logs of the forest clearing we’d landed in.
They were tearing into the bread they’d been given and drinking from water skins.
I felt a strand of pity wind through me.
They weren’t used to being on Elthika-back, but they would learn.
Especially the ones who wished to be acolytes.
My gaze landed on the girl. As if sensing my gaze, hers rose to meet it. She straightened in mild alarm to find my sudden observation, the lump of bread that had been afforded to her resting in her palm, forgotten.
Her black waves were windswept, making a wild but beautiful mess around her head. Her skin, a light tawny brown, looked irritated from the violence of the flight. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, red veins branching towards the luminous green of her irises. Fascinating, I thought.
She was tall for a female, I’d noticed. Her build athletic, strong. No doubt from handling pyrokis for years. While pyrokis were no Elthika, I’d observed the wild beasts during my time in Dakkar and knew they possessed a strong will coupled with their sheer power. It couldn’t have been easy.
Puzzlement filled me. She’d broken my tether so easily on the wildlands, and yet I’d sensed no steady, certain root within her magic.
It was likely she didn’t know how to wield it properly…
and that was a dangerous thing. Unrooted heartstone magic was unpredictable. I would know that better than anyone.
Amaia of Rath Savenal broke my gaze first, darting it back down to the lump of bread in her hand, as if surprised to see it there.
She was a problem I’d deal with in the Arsadia, I decided.
But for now, I had one too many of those in Grym. And so I turned back to Samryn for the next leg of my journey home.