Chapter 11 #3
Since her voice was gone, Lyla wished she could think to him as she’d done earlier, but he seemed oblivious to any of the thoughts she propelled his way.
Maybe it only worked whenever she was under extreme duress.
Once her throat decided to cooperate and let her speak again, she would have to remember to ask him.
Just as they exited the tombs, a fearsome pair of blood-red dragons landed in front of them, blocking their way.
The smaller of the two lowered its head while submissively crouching.
“Divine One—ye awakened my Ipsillian from the never-ending sleep. Because of yerself, my children will now know their father’s love, the sound of his voice, the ring of his laughter.
Forever and longer am I indebted to ye. Call upon me, call upon Hellys, and I shall defend ye until I am too weak to exist.”
Lyla so wished she could speak. She thumped a fist to her heart and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“The Divine One’s healing magic has drained her, Hellys,” Magnus said. “But know she appreciates yer gratitude.”
Lyla nodded, hoping Hellys wouldn’t be offended.
The larger of the pair, apparently a red dragon of few words, also bowed his head, then stretched forth his handlike foreclaw, sliced open his palm, and allowed three drops of blood to fall upon the stones in front of them. Dipping the tip of a claw in the crimson pool, he held it out, waiting.
Lyla looked at Magnus and barely tipped her head. “What am I supposed to do?” she mouthed.
“Ipsillion extends the offer of a sacred blood oath between his bloodline and yers.” Magnus studied her, eyeing her as if half leery of frightening her. “It is a most holy honor between dragonkind and humankind, but whether or not ye accept is entirely up to yerself.”
She didn’t want to offend the dragon or insult dragonkind—and Magnus had promised that none of them within the fortress would try to eat her.
Deciding to take a leap of faith and act on instinct alone, she held out her right hand, palm up, and braced herself.
It must’ve been the right thing to do because she felt the tension leave Magnus’s hard, muscular chest. He’d relaxed. Surely it wouldn’t be too bad.
Ipsillion dragged his bloody claw across her palm with a slow, deliberate swipe, cutting open her hand and mixing his blood with hers. Then he closed her hand into a fist and bowed his head over it.
Teeth clenched against the sting of the cut, Lyla held her breath. That cut would be sore for a while and slow to heal in the crease of her palm.
Then Ipsillion opened her hand, and a single teardrop swelled in the corner of his large golden eye, broke free, and splashed across the wound.
Lyla braced herself for a worse sting brought on by the salty tear, but it never came. Instead, as the dragon’s teardrop washed across her palm, the bleeding stopped and the slice healed, leaving behind nothing more than a silvery scar as testament that the wound was ever there.
With his head still bowed, Ipsillian stepped back and returned to stand next to Hellys. “My bloodline shall forever recognize yers, Divine One, honoring and serving ye as our closest kindred till death and even beyond.”
Even beyond? Lyla wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded holy and meaningful. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper, then thumped her fist to her heart once more.
Then both Hellys and Ipsillian launched upward, catching the wind in their massive wings until they disappeared into the clouds.
Suddenly wearier than she could ever remember being, Lyla sagged against Magnus’s chest and rested her head on his shoulder. Even breathing took a Herculean effort.
“Lyla?”
She heard the panic in his voice but didn’t have the energy to open her eyes and lift her head.
To ease his worries, she found the strength to slide her hand up his chest and rest her fingertips on the warmth of his throat.
The strong, steady tap of his pulse made her smile.
His heartbeat played beneath her fingers like music, like the soothing vibration of a piano chord when the hammer struck it.
“Sleep,” she whispered, using every last bit of strength to say it.
“Oothfos alwed marin,” he uttered in a rumbling tone that echoed like the deep, rich tolling of a massive bell.
Then she felt herself being lowered, and she clawed at him, holding fast as the baby dragons had held to her.
“I am right here, my love, lowering ye into our bed.” Ever so gently, he settled her among the pillows with a kiss to her forehead.
“Ye’re not the only one capable of a wee bit of magic.
” He removed her leather slippers and tucked her under the plump, downy layers of the bedclothes.
“Ye still be cold as ice. Martha!” he called out. “Stoke the fires!”
“Aye, my chief,” Martha said from somewhere off in the distance.
Lyla curled into a shivering ball. She’d felt this way once before when battling influenza.
Had she taken the sickness away from all the dragons and absorbed it within herself?
Was that even possible? Or maybe this was an allergic reaction to Ipsillian’s blood.
Could that be a thing? Like being allergic to shellfish or peanuts?
Maybe she was allergic to dragons. That would be bad.
Even in her weary stupor, she snorted at the ridiculousness of her delirium.
She reached for Magnus. Or, at least, she thought she did. But he wasn’t there. Where had he gone?
He’ll be back. She knew he would, and until he was, she’d sleep a little while and recharge her batteries.