Chapter 17
Stesha
Nilak spreads her wings and beats them, scattering snow in all directions.
The beating travels through her body and up her long neck, and she finishes the motion by tossing her head.
As she returns to stillness, fresh flakes land on her scales.
The sky clouded over in the middle of the afternoon, and snow began to fall soon after.
There are several inches on the ground now, and it’s settling over the flare, making the older dragons restless and the younger ones playful.
I tip back my head and groan, rubbing my aching jaw and then the back of my neck.
I didn’t want it to be true. I’ve been ignoring the signs all day, but I have a rut coming on.
I disliked my ruts before, but ever since Zenevieve left me I loathe them with a passion, because they’re the reason she’s gone.
I no longer need to go to the ruthouse because my home is my own, but pacing around the rooms I used to share with her is worse.
Occasionally I’ll catch her scent on something and snatch it up, inhaling deeply, before I throw it aside with a frustrated snarl.
I yearn for her. I hate the gods who drove Zenevieve into my home and into my arms, made me adore her, but fated me to another.
Maybe I’ve done something in my life to deserve this torment, but Zenevieve hasn’t.
As I stare across the dragongrounds at the falling snow, misery settles over me, and I remember all the little touches I gave my former ward.
The kisses I dropped onto her brow and her hair.
How our fingers looked when they were entwined, my large, calloused hands and her slender fingers.
Her body a warm weight against mine as she rested on my chest. The happiness I felt every day because she was close to me.
She can’t be my mate, and we can’t even have the simplicity of a tender friendship because of my fucking, godscursed ruts.
A thousand times I have begged the gods to banish from my heart the certainty that my mate is an unknown Omega.
I have spent long nights on my knees in the deserted Flame Temple, but the gods don’t listen, or they don’t care.
I wonder if she even lives, or if she’s as wretched as I am.
Perhaps she’s given up searching for me and has made her home with another Alpha.
When he kisses her, does she feel a painful tug knowing that her heart belongs to another, or has she shrugged me off as an irritation and made herself happy without me?
I can’t do that. I want my woman. When I take her into my arms and kiss her, I want to feel free.
I don’t want to inflict pain on her day after day as she wonders if I’m longing for someone else.
Sighing, I take stock of the flare, checking that all the dragons are accounted for.
It’s snowing heavily now and getting dark, and I have to brush flakes from ice-crusted scales to be certain which dragon is which.
That’s when I notice that Minta is not at her usual resting spot by Omaira, a swift and sweet-natured pink dragon.
I frown and circle around the entire flare again, looking for her.
No Minta.
I proceed to the barracks and pound my fist on the door to the women’s building and ask for Zenevieve, only to be told by Sundra that she’s not there.
“Minta isn’t at the dragongrounds. Who saw Zenevieve last?”
It’s probably nothing. The dragon and rider may have gone for a dusk ride and are finding their way slowly back through the snowstorm, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Sundra calls over her shoulder to ask the other riders. Menelope, Omaira’s rider, comes forward and tells me that Zenevieve flew to the Bodan Mountains this morning to search for Princess Mirelle’s body for the queen.
A jolt goes through me. The queen asked her to do this?
When? Why is Zenevieve alone in the Bodan Mountains while the storms are so unpredictable?
Before, when Zenevieve trusted me, she would have spoken to me of such a heartrending mission over dinner or while we tended our dragons.
I would have gone with her to keep an eye on the sky and to comfort her if she needed it.
I glance toward the north, but I can’t see the mountains through the darkness and all the snow that’s falling. If Zenevieve has been gone since this morning, she and Minta should be back by now.
“I will go after them.” I turn on my heel and jog toward Nilak.
Menelope calls after me, “The weather is turning stormy, dragonmaster. It would be safer to wait until morning. Are you sure you’re thinking clearly?”
She must have noticed my scent. Rut or not, I would never just go to bed if I thought one of my dragons or a rider was in danger, least of all Minta and Zenevieve.
By morning it could be too late. A dragon can survive icy weather beneath the snow for several days, and a rider can huddle against them for warmth, but only if they’re together, and uninjured.
Zenevieve could have fallen from her dragon.
Minta could have been attacked by Golden Terror, or something worse.
I think of Prince Emmeric, his heart filled with dark and violent thoughts toward Zenevieve, and a fury toward the queen bursts through me.
She should have asked me to look for Princess Mirelle, not Zenevieve.
Nilak is as eager to go after Zenevieve and Minta as I am, and as soon as I climb upon her back, we launch into the sky.
I’m almost blind as we fly through snow flurries, but Nilak’s senses are better than mine, and she has an excellent sense of direction.
She remembers where Princess Mirelle threw herself from her dragon, and so we head there, starting in the valley and flying back and forth as we ascend the mountain, looking for any sign of dragon and rider.
The snow is falling more thickly now, and the wind is whipping through my riding leathers. Every sensation is heightened by my rut, turning irritations into cataclysms in my head until I can barely think straight. I have to shield my face with my arm just to get a glimpse of the dark ground below.
As we fly low over the slopes, Nilak notices something strange about the snow in one area.
I open my eyes to look. Instead of a smooth white surface, the ice on this slope is choppy and churned up.
There’s been an avalanche, hundreds of yards across, and it happened not long ago.
It has the barest covering of fresh powder.
Avalanches at this time of year are not uncommon.
A slight thaw can make drifts on these steep slopes unstable.
A horrible vision comes to me, of Zenevieve and her dragon buried beneath dozens of feet of snow. Injured. Bleeding.
I press my hand against Nilak’s scales. Can you see anything? Can you hear anything?
Nilak doesn’t respond, but I feel her scouring the ground below.
Desperation claws at my chest the longer we go on searching, but Nilak hears nothing over the howling wind and sees nothing but ice and snow. The tips of my ears burn from cold. Every breath I take feels like broken glass scoring my insides.
Again, I tell Nilak. Search again. Minta didn’t bring Zenevieve home. Minta always takes care of her rider.
My dragon flies lower this time, gliding just a few feet above the massive expanse of churned-up snow.
My dragon has always been sensitive to sound.
Sometimes it’s been to her disadvantage, such as when screeching fights break out between young dragons, ratcheting up her temper.
I once asked a namyr player to perform for the trainees and their dragons.
Long ago, the instrument was used by our enemies against our dragons, as they find the sound unbearable.
Nilak was so enraged by the shrill, discordant instrument that she screamed, raked her teeth through the dirt, and flung stones at the cliffs.
Her sensitivity is a blessing to us now.
If Zenevieve and Minta are trapped beneath the snow, she will find them.
A short time later, Nilak picks up a sound, deep within the churned-up snow, and relays it to me. We both know what the sound is. A dragon struggling to breathe.
Nilak dives for the spot and rakes away the snow with her powerful talons.
I jump down from her back and join her, digging with my gloved hands.
A moment later we spot midnight black scales peeking out from the snow.
Nilak breathes hot air and sparks, melting away the snow and freeing Minta, who slowly raises her head and shakes off the ice that has crusted around her scales.
With enormous effort, for she is exhausted, Minta gets to her feet and crosses the snow, dragging her wings behind her.
I frantically search the area around where Minta lay. Where is Zenevieve?
Minta struggles thirty feet across the churned-up ice, and begins nosing and clawing at the snow, calling for her rider.
Nilak and I follow her, and I frantically scoop away armloads of snow.
A terrifying amount of snow. My heart is in my throat as I dig alongside the two dragons, Minta crying in despair.
Every second seems to take a lifetime. Zenevieve doesn’t have a lifetime.
She could be crushed. She could be suffocating.
I uncover the edge of a black and emerald green cloak. With a ragged cry, I shove my arms beneath the snow, take hold of Zenevieve, and pull her out.
I fall backward on the snow with the young woman in my arms. She’s as limp as a rag doll, and her face is white.
“Zenevieve. Zenevieve.”
Her eyes are closed, and her lips are blue. There are snow crystals clustered on her lashes, and I can’t even tell if she’s breathing. “Zenevieve. Can you hear me? Wake up.”