Chapter 7
I’m a man conflicted, Agrevlari, Vorik told the dragon telepathically as he rode away from Lyvor behind Syla with Wreylith carrying them inland.
Agrevlari remained off the coast of Castle Island, not far from the barrier, as if he expected Vorik to be ready to leave at any moment.
After what Wise had told him, shouldn’t Vorik be ready to leave?
If the stormers were to have a future of peace—and enough food to see them through the winters—wouldn’t it behoove him to try to take control of the Wingborn Tribe and vote with those whose thoughts were in line with his?
Because you are riding on a dragon that you are not bonded with, Agrevlari asked, and you feel it is a betrayal to me?
It’s not a betrayal. It’s not my fault you can’t come in here.
I believe you do not mind riding the mighty Wreylith with your mate nestled between your legs.
I never mind having Syla nestled, no. As they climbed in altitude, Vorik had a view to the south where Harvest Island was visible on the horizon.
Dark clouds hung low around the volcano, a contrast to a few hazy white ones floating high in the blue sky over the surrounding sea and the rest of the island.
The previous night’s storm had come and gone, but over Harvest Island…
Was it his imagination, or was there a tinge of something almost otherworldly about those dark clouds?
Maybe even a slight menacing green tint to the heavy gray?
Is something going on over there, Agrevlari?
Are dragons still doing… whatever they were doing near the volcano?
I was not permitted to come close to investigate.
Not permitted? By whom?
Ozlemar was over there when I approached. Other dragons as well, all stormer-allied. They’ve reclaimed Harvest Island and, from what I could tell, driven off the Freeborn Faction dragons.
Are there riders with them? I assume Ozlemar is alone— Vorik grimaced at the reason why, —but what of the others?
I am uncertain if there are riders present.
The dragons have been inside a cave on the slope of the volcano.
From what I can sense, there are still about ten of my kind there.
Most of the stormer-allied dragons returned with their riders to the mainland after the failed attack of Bogberry Island.
Only these remained to do… as I’ve said, I am uncertain what they are doing.
Last night, I observed red lightning crackling among those clouds, and I sensed magic as well. Ominous magic.
Dragons don’t find many things ominous.
As sublime apex predators, we do not, no.
Syla was looking pensively toward the south as well, but her attention shifted downward when they flew over a lake nestled among grassy hills at the core of Castle Island.
She pointed toward a stone manor sprawling along the shoreline, the largest of only a few homes around the body of water.
A dock, a stable, and a few other outbuildings were near the manor, all surrounded by pastures supporting placid-looking horses chomping grass.
“That’s Teyla’s home, Wreylith.”
I will descend shortly, the dragon told them but continued to the far end of the lake toward a couple of craggy hills. They were more rock than grass.
Several goats nipped at tufts of vegetation growing among the boulders, and Vorik thought Wreylith might want food before dropping them off.
But she weaved in and out over the rocky terrain, peering at gaps—was that a cave?
—and paying little attention to the goats, the creatures wisely fleeing at her approach, or marmots that popped out of holes to squeak angrily at her.
Syla looked back at Vorik with pursed lips. “We’re on a rescue mission, and my dragon ally has paused to shop for real estate.”
“She may be experiencing a… nesting imperative.”
“I’m experiencing an imperative to rescue my cousin.”
I will descend shortly, Wreylith repeated, more tersely this time.
“Moodiness,” Vorik mouthed.
Syla nodded.
Fortunately, it didn’t take Wreylith long to investigate the caves. She declared them too small with insufficient access to morning sunlight.
Vorik suspected there were better caves along the coastal cliffs but didn’t bring it up, not wanting to distract the dragon further.
Wreylith soared over the lake toward the manor.
A road meandered away from the main keep, passing the outbuildings and a guard tower before eventually meeting up with the main highway that ran through the center of the island.
Dogs barked as Wreylith approached, her wings spread wide. The formerly placid-looking horses showed impressive spirit as they galloped into their stable. A woman hanging laundry on a line rushed indoors almost as quickly.
Wreylith landed atop the guard tower, lowering her head on her long neck to peer into one of four narrow windows overlooking the lake and countryside. A man inside cursed.
“Don’t attack anyone, please,” Syla hurried to say.
Wreylith’s head was too large to fit through any of the windows, but whoever had cursed must have leaned out to fire, because the dragon plucked out a crossbow and flung it into the lake fifty yards away.
If a human presumes to shoot at me, she said tartly, I will defend myself.
“Just disarm them. That’s fine, yes.” Syla gazed toward the crossbow sinking under the surface. “This estate belongs to my relatives, and most of the people living here are probably not our enemies.”
“You don’t think that lady hanging laundry is involved with nefariously keeping your cousin captive?” Vorik asked.
“No, she’s probably washing Teyla’s underwear and has nothing to do with restraining people.”
“Strange, nobody who’s captured me has ever laundered my undergarments.”
“When you were my captive, you didn’t ask for that service.”
“I assumed it wasn’t an option.”
“Next time, I’ll send a bag for you to fill for the laundry steward.”
“You’re a thoughtful captor.”
I do not believe anybody is imprisoned in this guard tower. Wreylith lifted her head. Do you wish for me to capture a human to forcibly question about the location of the captive? Does the stone abode have a dungeon?
“I don’t think so,” Syla said. “We’ll knock on the front door and ask first before interrogating people.
I think this might be the kind of captivity where you’re simply confined to your room with the door locked.
Maybe a guard outside. If the rumors are true and Fograth is thinking of arranging a wedding with Teyla, he wouldn’t want her treated too badly.
Will you put us down on the lawn, please, Wreylith? ”
With a single hop, the dragon descended, landing before glass windows at the front of the manor. A door thudded shut somewhere inside, and someone shouted, “Dragon!”
“I guess we’re not sneaking in.” Vorik slid to the ground and lifted a hand to help Syla down, but she also slid off easily, with agility she hadn’t always possessed.
“I gave up on the notion of sneaking when Wreylith became my ally.”
“I occasionally sneak with Agrevlari.”
“Effectively? Even the unobservant tend to notice a giant fire-breathing dragon approaching.” Syla started for the front door but noticed several books in the damp grass under a window at the end of the keep.
“The sneaking is helped along if people are sleeping.” Vorik watched as Syla—was that a horrorstruck expression on her face?—ran toward the books. “Are you going to rescue those as well?”
The wet grass was an unusual resting place for paper-based items. Had someone thrown the books out a window?
With his hand on his sword hilt, Vorik walked after Syla, eyeing the various places around the manor where one might lean out with a weapon. Probably deterred by having a dragon rip his crossbow out of his hands, the tower guard hadn’t made an appearance.
Syla gathered the damp books, straightened crinkled pages, and looked at the titles.
“Proper Etiquette for Court. A Guide to Manners, Courtesy, and Polite Behavior. How a Lady Can Please Her New Husband.” She looked up at a second-story window.
“I’m beginning to see why these might have been cast out. ”
“Not typical books in your cousin’s library?
” Vorik hadn’t spoken much to Teyla, since they’d been on opposing teams on the quest to find the shielder components, but she’d wielded a sword and joined in with Sergeant Fel against the gargoyles.
She hadn’t struck him as the type to care about etiquette—or pleasing a husband.
“History and archaeology are her passions and what filled her shelves the last time I visited. Admittedly, this one does look old.” Syla brushed grass clippings off a tome with yellowed pages. “Maybe, if Fograth is thinking of Teyla as a potential wife, he sent these over for her to read.”
“If that’s true, the delivery person may be fortunate that your cousin threw the books out the window instead of at him.”
“That sounds right.”
Syla eyed the titles as if she might return the books to the damp lawn. Instead, she tucked them under her arm and carried them to the front door. Maybe she didn’t approve of the mishandling of any books, even those on unappealing subjects.
“If that’s your cousin’s window—” Vorik pointed back to the second-story room, “—maybe we should climb up, open it, and extract her that way.”
“Climbing walls isn’t my forte. Or trees. Or ropes. Anything, really.”
“Did you forget that your fortes have been expanded?” Vorik pointed toward Wreylith, but she’d moved away from the tower and was sniffing at the stable doors.
“Horses aren’t for eating, Wreylith.” Syla lifted a hand to knock on the front door, but it stood ajar.
They smell like prey, the dragon replied, including Vorik.
“I’ve had this discussion before with Agrevlari,” he said.
“How did it turn out? For the horse?” Syla lowered her hand and frowned at the door before pushing it fully open.