Chapter 15 #2
It’s Captain Lesva, I trust? Syla’s dread returned.
I do not know the names of insignificant humans, but I can tell she is female and, when compared to the other puny members of your kind, powerful. I believe she is the one who attacked you on the deck of your ship. With the death launcher, you slew her dragon ally.
Yes, she won’t be happy with me.
Indeed not. The slaying of a dragon ally is an unforgivable crime. Something about Wreylith’s tone suggested that a human slaying any dragon was unforgivable.
I would prefer not to attack your kind. You’re magnificent and beautiful and not a threat to the Kingdom when our shields are in place. But I must defend my islands.
I am aware. And we are beautiful and magnificent but not so shallow as to favor humans simply because they flatter us.
I would never think to do so to win your favor, Syla said.
That is wise.
I would deliver delicious livestock instead.
I approve of the plan to create a horn-hog farm. Perhaps it can be located near the cave lair I desire to establish.
That does seem the logical location for one, though it may be difficult to keep it populated with horn hogs.
Abrya stirred, her eyelids flickering for the first time. Her bleary gray-blue eyes fixed on Syla without recognition.
“Do you need your spectacles?” Syla asked, though enough years had passed since her last visit that she wasn’t surprised that Abrya didn’t remember her right away.
“Usually,” she rasped.
Syla handed them to her and also offered a cup of water.
“Lord Oyenar?” She waved for him to come over. “Your wife is awake.”
Oyenar joined them, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You look beleaguered and disheveled, my lady.”
“Yes, but after I heal, I at least won’t be haggard and pot-bellied.”
“As I’ve informed you on many occasions, I like to store fat in my belly in case famine ever comes to the islands.”
“As of last night’s dinner, you were storing cranberry tarts and hazelnut cookies in there.”
“I’m relieved the blow to your head didn’t affect your memory,” Oyenar said. “A roof fell on you, you know.”
“I did see it coming down, yes. It was rude of you not to fling yourself atop me to nobly protect me.”
“I did try, but age is catching up with me, and I’m not as fast as I used to be.”
“It could be cranberry tarts slowing you down.”
“I suppose that’s possible.” Oyenar reached over to Syla and clasped her hand. “Thank you. It’s been dreadful not having anyone to tease and torment me this past day and night.” His words were warm, and his eyes twinkled as he looked at his wife.
“He must have been terribly bereft,” Abrya said, then squinted thoughtfully at Syla, a hint of recognition kindling in her eyes. “You’re Princess Syla.”
“Queen Syla,” Oyenar said, though he’d also forgotten her title at first.
With the coronation so recent, it would take people time to grow familiar with it.
And not everyone wanted to become familiar with it.
Syla hadn’t missed Oyenar’s comment about one of the minor lords back home hesitating to accept the succession, and she remembered Relvin skulking around the castle with his aristocratic dice-playing comrades.
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right away, especially since we’re relatives.” Abrya smiled, but it faded as she considered Syla. “You’ve changed though. And you’re not wearing a healer’s robe, like you usually do.”
“No, though maybe I should be wearing one. Fewer people and dragons might try to kill me.”
No dragon has any concern about what garments a human wears. Back to perching on the rooftop, Wreylith was monitoring the conversation.
“Kill you?” Abrya asked.
“Even as we speak. A stormer invasion force including at least one bonded rider with enhanced abilities is in the tunnels under the palace and could attack at any moment.”
Oyenar blinked and looked at Syla. “How do you know that?”
“A powerful ally with keen eyes and senses told me.”
Abrya looked at Fel.
“Not him,” Syla said and pointed upward. “Though his eyes are keen compared to mine.”
Oyenar looked at her thick lenses but didn’t say what he was probably thinking, that most people’s eyes were keener than hers. Alas, true.
“Wreylith, the red dragon up there, is working with me,” Syla told Abrya, who’d been unconscious when the guard had reported Wreylith’s presence.
“Someday, you’ll have to explain to us how you managed to wrangle the assistance of a dragon. They generally like to eat people.” Oyenar rose and waved for his guards to come into the room.
“They’re predators and enjoy a little wanton destruction here and there, but Wreylith assures me that humans aren’t tasty,” Syla said. “She prefers eliok, sheep, and horn hogs, the latter of which I believe I’ve promised to populate a farm with.”
“Horn hogs aren’t easily domesticated,” Abrya said. “They don’t get along well with humans or other animals, and those horns are sharp.”
“Yes, but I understand they’re delicious so I’ll have to find a way to make it work.”
Near the cave lair I will claim, Wreylith said.
Certainly. Then if there’s trouble at the horn-hog farm, you’ll be nearby to put an end to it. To them.
Oh, yes. If a dragon could telepathically purr into a person’s mind, Wreylith did.
Oyenar had turned his attention to the guards. “Silor, Hilks, tell everyone to be alert, and check the storm drain grates in the courtyard. That’s the only way people could get into the palace from below. They’re very strong and locked to ensure that doesn’t happen, but if someone were enhanced…”
“Yes, my lord.”
Two guards remained after the pair ran off to relay Oyenar’s orders.
As Abrya eased her legs out of bed and looked around for clothes, Oyenar considered Syla.
“Do you know what the stormers want? When they came last night, they didn’t make any requests or take anything. They seemed happy just to destroy things.” Frowning, Oyenar looked toward Abrya. “Including our roof.”
“I believe it was an anyone they were trying to take.” Syla extended a hand toward his wife. “You may have thwarted their plans by being buried under the roof.”
“How fortunate for us,” Abrya murmured, her hand straying to her leg.
“The invaders in the city disappeared when your ships were sighted and started shooting silver balls at their dragons.” Oyenar pointed toward the sea.
“Unfortunately, the weapon isn’t ideal for attacking people, and it would have done damage if I’d tried to send rounds into the city,” Syla said. “More damage than the stormers had already done.”
“Oh, I didn’t expect you’d turn it toward us, any more than you would a cannon, but I was glad you came and used it on the stormers. Any blows we can strike to those bastards…” Oyenar nodded firmly at her.
“Yes.” Syla found herself liking the man—and that he’d sounded disapproving when he’d spoken of minor lord Axton mentioning the possibility of other candidates for the throne.
A boom came from the courtyard. Fel came to stand beside Syla, his mace in hand as he placed himself where he could monitor the doorway and the windows.
“If any of your men need healing, Lord Oyenar,” Syla said, “bring them in here. I’m not a combatant, but I’ll do my best to help.”
He nodded at her.
Syla debated what she would do if Lesva charged in to kill her. She didn’t know, but she grabbed her medical kit and pulled out a scalpel and a couple of vials of astringent substances that she could throw in a person’s eyes. She would at least try to do something to the rider captain.
Fel watched her but didn’t tease her about the tiny weapons. He nodded, as if he agreed with the sentiment, then rotated his shoulder and lifted his leg to stretch his quadriceps. One never wanted to go into battle stiff, after all.
Another boom sounded, this time from the grounds at the back of the palace. Syla had a feeling the supposedly strong and locked storm grates were no longer secured.
“Brace yourself,” she murmured to Fel.
Fel lowered his leg. “Always.”