Chapter 8
There is a matter I must speak with you about, Wreylith said as she flapped her wings, following the road away from Lake Ferringtar and toward the highway. Clouds had rolled back in from the sea with rain threatening again.
Do you have any idea who murdered Lord Abbingdar?
Syla was gnawing over that in her mind, not wanting to believe it had been Teyla—she wouldn’t have killed her own father, even if he’d been complicit in her confinement.
But who else would have attacked him? Abbingdar had been aligned with the people who’d taken power.
I do not know who that is.
Teyla’s father. The man we found dead on his bedroom floor.
Granted, the dragon had been by the stable and hadn’t seen inside the manor, but Wreylith always seemed to be monitoring Syla’s conversations, and sometimes even her thoughts, through their link.
At that time, I believe I was contemplating how the flavor of domesticated equines might compare to the undomesticated variety.
The wild ones are more of a challenge to hunt down. I’m sure they taste much better. You’d better stick with those.
Indeed. The matter on my mind… Wreylith banked to follow the highway past farms and small villages as it headed toward Sky Torn Harbor and the castle. I believe you may have already suspected this, but I will lay a clutch of eggs this winter.
Yes, there have been some signs. Syla smiled at Vorik’s term, nesting imperative.
Hm. It is unexpected. This is an atypical time of year for dragons to lay. Further, as an older female, I’m less fertile than I once was. My last clutch was many, many years ago. Long before you were born, certainly.
Have you, uhm, mated much since then?
I enjoy sexual encounters regularly. They are stimulating and rejuvenating.
Ah. And you don’t usually employ any kind of… er, contraceptive? Syla removed her spectacles so she could rub her face. Had her cheeks grown warm? She’d never expected to discuss such a topic with a dragon. A few months ago, she’d never believed she would ever speak to a dragon.
I do not.
Do you think it was from when you joined with Agrevlari?
There have not been other encounters since then. Fewer males than typical have approached me since I bonded with you.
I’m sorry. I had no idea— Er, I didn’t mean to put a damper on your sex life. Syla rubbed her face again.
Vorik touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Wreylith is chatting with me about… personal matters.”
“Ah, that explains your facial expressions then. Agrevlari has a tendency to get personal too.”
“How can you see my facial expressions from behind me?”
“I’m gifted. Your shoulders are hunching too. I thought you might be distressed by the death of your cousin’s father, but that wouldn’t turn your cheeks pink, presumably.”
“No. I am distressed by that. We weren’t close, but I’m tired of losing family.”
“Understandable.” Vorik rested his hand on her shoulder.
She leaned back into his touch but didn’t let herself cry, reminding herself that there would be time to mourn once she reclaimed the throne and ended the war with the stormers. She would make sure of it. She needed it.
It matters little who fertilized my eggs, Wreylith continued, probably not concerned about the passing of Lord Abbingdar. Among dragons, the males rarely play a role in laying eggs and raising hatchlings.
They don’t help hunt or anything? I bet Agrevlari would be delighted to bring you some of the interesting foods that you crave.
He is not whom I wish to discuss.
Sorry. Is there… something I can do? Syla wondered if Wreylith was about to tell her that she would need a few months off for a maternity period.
Since I am more mature in years, the egg laying may be more difficult than when I was younger. As powerful and magical as we are, dragons can suffer from stress-induced infections and egg binding.
Do you think the services of a healer might be helpful? Syla touched her chest.
A puny human, whether healer or not, is never needed by a dragon, certainly not to deposit her clutch.
Of course. I should not have thought that.
No. But… you may be present in the cave when I lay my eggs. I will allow you that honor.
Shall I have my medical kit on hand?
Wreylith flicked a dismissive wingtip.
I’ll bring it just in case.
Do not allow it to contain anything slimy or unctuous this time.
I will keep your preferences in mind when choosing appropriate medications.
Do so.
A woman’s yell came from the road ahead, and Syla leaned forward to peer between Wreylith’s horns. Was it her imagination or had that voice sounded familiar?
A carriage is being set upon by men in gray uniforms, Wreylith said as another angry yell came from the road.
“Enforcers again,” Syla said grimly. “Let’s help, please, Wreylith.”
“Do you think they’re rounding up more people with moon-marks?” Vorik asked.
“I think I recognize that voice, and she does have a moon-mark…”
As the dragon flew closer, soaring low over a clump of trees, Syla spotted the carriage stopped on the road.
Gray-uniformed men with swords and maces had pulled an enforcer wagon across the highway to block the way, and two troops stood atop it with crossbows pointed at a coachman.
Two more enforcers had yanked open the door of the carriage and were trying to extricate someone who…
kicked one of them in the chest. After the man stumbled back, a woman sprang out with a sword in her hand, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Cousin Teyla.
The crossbowmen glanced at each other, as if asking if they were supposed to fire at her, but one spotted Wreylith and stumbled back, almost falling off the wagon as he pointed at her.
The other man swore, his eyes bulging, and jumped off.
As Teyla slashed and stabbed at one of the enforcers who’d been trying to extricate her, Wreylith soared over her carriage with smoke wafting from her nostrils.
“Try not to kill anyone, please,” Syla called.
Without hesitation, Wreylith blasted a gout of fire toward the road.
The men who’d been on the wagon had time to spring away and flee, but it burst into flames.
The dragon’s accuracy had been pinpoint, and the horses hitched to the wagon weren’t burned, but their reins were incinerated, and they fled into the countryside.
Though the carriage hadn’t been damaged, its terrified horses also took off.
Their reins were still attached, so they dragged it and its startled coachman off the highway behind them.
Soon, with her foes fleeing along with the others, Teyla stood alone on the highway. She gawked at Wreylith as the dragon circled the area, but she didn’t run.
Syla lifted a hand toward her cousin. Teyla returned the wave and waited for them to land, though she gazed across a field in the direction her carriage and horses had taken off, maybe wondering if the rest of her journey would be on foot.
Was she heading to the capital? Did she know her father was dead?
Had she, despite Syla’s belief to the contrary, been responsible?
With questions threatening to bubble over like boiling soup, Syla slid off Wreylith’s back.
“Are you all right?” was the first thing she asked.
“Yes.”
Teyla turned in the direction the enforcers had run—none of them looked like they would return—and then regarded Vorik. She hadn’t sheathed her sword yet, but she’d seen him slay a gargoyle that had nearly killed her and Fel, so she couldn’t think challenging him would be a good idea.
“The last time I saw Captain Vorik,” Teyla said, “he was working against us.”
“Actually, we were working together to achieve a common goal,” Syla said.
“After its achieving, he and his man took off with the prize.”
“Well, I’ve suborned him since then, and he’s fully on our side now.” Syla waved for Vorik, who’d dismounted but hung back, to join them. “I also reclaimed that prize, and Aunt Tibby is in the process of building a new shielder as we speak.”
“Oh.” Teyla brightened. “You got the components back from the stormers? How?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Does it involve how Captain Vorik became… suborned?” Teyla looked him up and down as he approached, as if clues about that might be on his form.
He still wore his black riding leathers, his dark hair tousled by the wind, and his weapons in sheaths at his waist, so he looked the same as usual.
Maybe even fiercer than usual, though Syla deciphered the set of his jaw as he gazed toward the coastline as pensive more than anything else.
“Not exactly. Vorik kind of suborned himself.” Syla didn’t point out that he was contemplating returning to his people to try to wrest control of a tribe. Suborned probably wasn’t the appropriate word for what Vorik was.
“Because of Syla’s influence,” Vorik said without disagreeing with the usage. “Good morning, Lady Teyla.”
“Uhm, hi. It’s good to see you, Syla. I thought—well, I didn’t really believe it—but Lord Fograth, who is now calling himself King Fograth, if my father can be believed, said you were dead.”
“Ah,” Syla said. “Not surprising, since it’s easier to claim a throne when its occupant is deceased, but… about your father, Teyla.”
“Yes?” Teyla peered in the direction from which Wreylith had flown. “Did you come from Lake Ferringtar? Did you see him? I’m sure he realized first thing this morning that I was gone. Is he irate about my disappearance?”
“I, uh, don’t think so.” Syla scrutinized her cousin, trying to tell if the questions were an act. She’d never considered Teyla a duplicitous sort, not like her brother, Relvin, who, if his mouth was open, was lying. “He’s dead, Teyla.”
She frowned at Syla. “Who is?”
“Your father.”
“What? How?” Teyla rocked back and looked at Vorik, as if he were a likely suspect. After a heartbeat, she shifted her gaze to Wreylith, who’d perched on a log and was nipping at scales under her armpit like a preening bird—or a dragon with an itch.
“We don’t know,” Syla said.