Chapter 15
The island lord’s palace was almost as large and sprawling as the castle back home, and Syla brimmed with impatience as the guard led her, Fel, and the Royal Protectors through marble-floored hallways laid with blue runners.
They passed destroyed statues and busts, as well as artwork that had been ripped from the walls, the work of annihilation-loving humans rather than dragons.
It was a reminder that people could be as savage as the ruthless predators.
Though the sights distressed Syla, it wasn’t until they reached an infirmary that she lost her temper. The door had been blown open, and tools, beds, and equipment were strewn about, many destroyed and all covered in soot.
“Those animals!” Syla stumbled and gripped the doorjamb. “Did they hurl an explosive in here?”
“You didn’t mind the rest of the destruction, but a slight to the infirmary is worth an outcry?” Fel poked her in the shoulder and pointed after the guard, who hadn’t stopped his trek.
“A slight? It looks like drunken yetis swatting at wasps rampaged through there.”
“This way, Your Majesty.” The guard had reached stairs heading upward and waved for them to come.
Syla forced aside her affront and hurried to catch up. “We’re taking a long way, aren’t we?”
It had been more than a decade since she’d visited the palace, so her memory of it was fuzzy.
“Yes. My apologies for the circuitous route,” the guard said as they climbed. “The main stairs collapsed under the roof. One of their explosives dropped on it. Or was intentionally set in that spot. That’s where the lord and lady were when the roof came down.”
“We’re lucky the stormers don’t use explosives more often,” Syla said.
“They don’t have the capacity to make them,” Fel said. “If they’ve got them now, it’s because someone gave them to them.”
“Or they took them from one of our armories? They’ve had access to Harvest Island for weeks.”
“True. We’re lucky they haven’t thought to hurl them through the barriers.”
“That’s been tried in the past, at least according to the history books.
I don’t know if black powder had been discovered yet when the gods walked the world, but they probably anticipated attempts to get dangerous weapons through.
Explosives apparently blow up on contact.
” Syla slowed when the guard stopped in front of another uniformed man standing in front of double doors that were leaned closed instead of truly closed.
No doubt because the hinges were warped or gone completely.
Soot covered the wall opposite the doors.
“How come arrows can get through the barrier?” Fel touched his hip. Had one of his own wounds come in that manner?
“Maybe the gods thought you would be fast enough to move out of the way if you saw an arrow coming from a mile up in the sky.”
Fel looked sourly at her. “It’s the arrows you don’t see coming that you have to worry about.”
A woman’s pained moan came from within the suite as the guards moved one of the heavy doors aside.
“She’s here,” the guard called into the room before stepping inside.
There were probably more armed guards inside protecting the lord and lady.
“The healer?” a man asked. “Send her in.”
Syla hadn’t spoken with Lord Oyenar for several years but recognized his voice. Though he was in his sixties, it remained firm and authoritative. She recalled that he’d been a high-ranking Fleet officer before retiring to serve.
“Yes, my lord. It’s the healer who came in person with a fleet of ships and stood on a great weapon of the gods to fire magical projectiles that struck and killed dragons.
” The surprisingly enthusiastic guard curled his fingers into a thank-the-gods circle in front of his heart and waved for Syla to go in.
“That… doesn’t sound like any of our usual healers,” Oyenar said.
“I believe she’s from Castle Island,” one of the guards inside said, smiling.
Lord Oyenar, a white-haired man with a broad jaw and eyebrows like caterpillars, sat in a chair beside a four-poster bed and held his wife’s hand.
She lay under a blanket, dyed red hair sprawled around her face on a pillow, and a pair of spectacles on the bedside table.
Her eyes didn’t open, but Oyenar’s bushy brows rose in surprise when Syla entered.
“Princess Syla,” he blurted. “Queen Syla. I’d heard…
” He waved to the guard who’d done the introduction.
“That’s what I heard, but I didn’t expect you to come personally into the city.
It’s dangerous right now.” He grimaced, as if its state represented a failing on his part.
“You shouldn’t have risked— I don’t even understand why you’re sailing about with the fleet.
I am grateful that you brought the ships, and I suppose your mother would have come with them too, but you’re… ”
“Here to heal Lady Abrya.” With her medical kit in hand, Syla walked to the bed.
“I do appreciate that. Gessa—the healer who usually handles injuries and ailments among the palace staff—was also injured. Even if she hadn’t been, she doesn’t have the gods-gift.” He waved at Syla’s hand.
“Few healers do. Since your wife isn’t fully conscious, I’ll ask your permission to use my magic to heal her.”
“You have it.”
“You’re aware that it may leave her feeling kindly inclined and possibly beholden to me for a time?”
“That’s fine. She’s rarely beholden to me so it’ll be good for her to be beholden to someone.” Oyenar smiled, though his brow creased with concern as he glanced at his wife.
“I’ll take care of her,” Syla promised.
He nodded and relinquished his seat, letting Syla sit down to clasp Abrya’s hand.
She appeared unconscious but moaned softly at the touch.
Oyenar winced and walked to a window, limping and rubbing his thigh.
Two of his guards joined him, their view over the courtyard walls and toward the river.
From the palace’s elevated position in the city, they could probably see to the docks and maybe out to sea.
More concerned about her patient than the view, Syla set down her medical kit and closed her eyes to use her magic to examine Lady Abrya.
I’ll be distracted while I heal this woman, she told Wreylith, sensing the dragon remained on the rooftop, but let me know if the stormers get into the palace, please. If you have to yell into my brain to get my attention, that’s fine.
A dragon has no trouble speaking in a firm tone. Yes, when Wreylith was this close, her telepathic voice had a tendency to boom.
I have noticed that.
One does not want a soft-spoken or meek ally.
Certainly not.
Abrya had the broken leg that had been reported, as well as a concussion and numerous other fractures and blunt traumas.
Choosing the most dire injury to start on, Syla willed tendrils of magic into her patient to repair flesh and bone.
She was glad to use her power on what it was meant for, healing not harming.
Though she sometimes fell into a trance to heal, the peril hanging in the air must have made her awareness want to remain present, for she found herself able to hear the men conversing at the window while she worked.
“I didn’t expect Syla to come herself,” Oyenar said softly.
“From what I’ve heard,” one of his men said, “she’s the one who retrieved that weapon from the desert and knows how to use it.”
“Yes,” another said. “She was always so quiet when she came with the family. I didn’t realize. Well, I’m glad she’s here.”
“I’m glad she brought ships and drove the stormers away,” Oyenar said. “They’re up to something. More than a few random attacks. They have to be after our shielder. They want Bogberry Island, the same as Harvest.”
“Oh, no doubt, my lord. Do you know where… Er, it’s safe, right? The shielder? The stormers couldn’t have learned…”
“Only my wife knows the location, yes. And I suppose Queen Syla must. The stormers shouldn’t have a clue.”
The men fell silent, and Syla focused on her task. She had no idea when the stormers would breach the palace and if Captain Lesva would be with them, but she expected to have to face that awful woman again, and she dreaded it.
Healing, fortunately, came easily to her, and she managed to work, despite the intrusion of distracting thoughts.
She’d finished healing Abrya’s concussion and broken femur and was focusing on cracked ribs, the lady stirring a little and her sighs less pained now, when a new voice spoke from the door.
“Erm, Lord Oyenar? Did you know… Well, there’s a dragon on the roof.”
“That’s Queen Syla’s dragon,” Fel said, as if Syla could claim or control Wreylith.
She hoped Wreylith wasn’t threatening anyone. Of course, if the red dragon ate a few stormers trying to sneak in, that would be acceptable.
“I’d heard about that,” Oyenar said from the window, “when minor lord Axton sent a message from Castle Island full of gossip and asking if I planned to support her appointment as queen or if I was interested in backing someone more experienced.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man in the doorway said, “but he didn’t mention—er, I don’t think anyone mentioned—that this dragon of hers can pass through barriers. Our barrier.”
“We knew she was able to on Castle Island,” Oyenar said.
“But here, my lord? Is she a threat? She’s, uh, looming.”
“Let her loom. Maybe she’ll keep the stormers away.”
Syla hoped so.
A roar floated through the closed window. That had to be Wreylith.
Problem? Syla asked telepathically.
A crossbowman touched his weapon while looking at me.
And you let him know that’s unacceptable?
Precisely.
Did he move his hand away from the weapon?
He ran into a stable. I believe after he wet himself.
If he’s in that state, I guess it doesn’t matter if his hand is on his crossbow or not.
Likely not, Wreylith said. The rider I sensed with the power of a dragon bond is nearby now. She seems to be underground. I left to fly circles and attempt to locate her and was unable to see her in the area where I sensed her.