CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
C HAPTER F ORTY- F IVE
Ryon hears the word whispered around the clearing, rising to the strange moon above them “Malishka?” They say, passing it between them. A question.
But Samskia cackles again in her deep timbre, watching Ryon and Dawsyn exultantly. “Did I not tell you, night wing?” she says to Ryon. “I told you your woman would find you this night!”
“What is this?” another mage demands. Ryon recognises her. She was here the last time he had become ensnared within the mountain clan’s traps. A tall woman with black hair.
“A fated pairing, Roznier!” Samskia says and she makes to approach Dawsyn. Ryon tries to move his hands to come between them, but his wrists remain bound. His strength may have returned, but the tangles of roots still rise from the earth and bite into his flesh, holding him there.
Dawsyn pulls a blade from her side and holds it in line with one of Samskia’s eyes. The mage merely turns cross-eyed, completely unperturbed. “Unbind him,” Dawsyn says, promising death in every syllable.
“She is foul-tempered, night wing,” Samskia says in the old language. “I relish the foul-tempered ones.”
Dawsyn does not drop her blade nor her sights. “What is she saying?”
“That you are… spirited.”
The mage called Roznier tsks. “Lower the blade, Sabar. There is no need to fight.”
“Cut him free,” Dawsyn repeats, “and I shall do whatever you wish.”
“Ah,” Roznier mutters. “A promise no mage should ever make. But fear not. If Samskia says this Glacian is yours I shall not take him from you, child. Be at ease.” Roznier eyes Ryon balefully, then curls the fingers of her left hand inward. At the movement, the root that binds his arms and legs fall away.
“The half-breed,” Roznier says as Ryon comes to his feet. “I hadn’t known you’d returned. Very unwise of you.”
But Ryon is reaching for Dawsyn. He takes her arm and pulls her back into his chest. “I’d agree,” he says. “But I did not come by choice.”
Roznier dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “Very well, Dawsyn. You have what the blood moon intended for you this night. You can be away if you wish, though I do question the fates’ designs if they have brought a Glacian and a mage together.”
Dawsyn turns rigid, the lines of her body tensing against his. “I’ll be taking these as well,” she says firmly, gesturing down to where Tasheem and Rivdan still await their deaths. Both now unconscious.
Roznier tsks. “You cannot spare them all, Dawsyn. However much you might sympathise with them. The moon calls for blood tonight and we will heed it!”
“Not these,” Dawsyn says again, and she moves to stand in front of them.
Ryon bares his teeth at Roznier. He summons his wings.
“You disappoint me,” Roznier says now. “I would not expect a descendant of Melares to defy her own kind in favour of the bats of Glacia.”
Ryon’s fists clench, but he knows better than to start brawls among mages.
“You disappoint me too,” Dawsyn counters. “You hide behind your wards, ensnaring roaming Glacians you can sacrifice, rather than take back the mountain they took from you. You hide in corners and refuse to fix what you ruined.”
Roznier smiles icily, but it does nothing to conceal the touched nerves. “You know very little of this mountain, child.”
“I know little else but this mountain,” Dawsyn says. “And I know what it is to be confined to one small piece of it, and you– ” Dawsyn looks to the clan collectively, “–you are as trapped as I once was. Seeking your small vengeance. Afraid to do more than that.”
At the bite of her words, the mages surrounding them become eerily still. For reasons Ryon cannot explain the air becomes thick. Metallic. He tastes rust on his tongue. Ryon knows well the smell of violence that precedes a battle. It smells like this, like blood.
He wishes there were swords on his back. He comes closer to Dawsyn, eyes tracking those mages closest.
Roznier laughs without parting her lips, but the sound is not mollifying. It elicits fear. Ryon is suddenly sure the women could smite them where they stand. “And what more would you do, Dawsyn?” she asks slowly, her voice slick and deadly. “Tell us.”
Tasheem groans suddenly, then coughs, spluttering blood to the snow. Ryon bends to lift her upright. He looks at Dawsyn desperately.
“Your friends are close to death,” Roznier says redundantly, for blood spills down Tasheem’s front and Rivdan has still not opened his eyes.
“ Dawsyn, ” Ryon utters. “Help them.”
“She cannot,” Roznier answers instead. Ryon’s eyes dart to the mage’s, then Dawsyn’s. Dawsyn is looking down at Tasheem determinedly, her lips pressed tightly together.
“She spent all she had on you, half-breed,” Roznier remarks, eyes alight. “And now she must make a deal with me to heal them for her. So, make your ask, Dawsyn. Go ahead and tell us whatever it is you can do, that we apparently cannot. Make it worth my while, child. I have no desire to let three Glacians walk free from our midst this night.”
Dawsyn’s eyes find Ryon’s and in them is a storm. They waver once, then quickly solidify. She turns back to Roznier, her chin lifted, blade lowered.
And Ryon feels inexplicable dread flood through him.
“Heal them and cut them loose,” she says. “And I will destroy the Pool of Iskra myself.”