Chapter 4
Finnick’s contact is a sly little man called Piri Wex. He’s short with a stocky build and grimy hands that look like they could easily find their way into unsuspecting pockets.
“Nova Lindwen, I presume,” Piri says, shoving off the wooden archway he’s been waiting under.
I trek toward him, boots shuffling over cobblestone.
The growls of juvenile dragons quicken my pulse with each stride.
According to Piri, a meeting at the trade authority was too susceptible to curious ears, so his solution…
the hatchery. Because hungry younglings and a wide open courtyard are definitely a better option.
The sacred keepers take a vow of silence—sacrificing the common tongue for the language of dragons—so at least we can speak openly without discretion, but the dragons…
get too close and you’ll lose more than just information.
“Piri Wex, pleasure to meet you,” I reply, keeping my gaze locked on the crimson dragon eyeing me like I’m the prized pig.
Of course, like everyone else on the continent, I’ve spent my life around dragons.
Coming to the hatchery for Scorath’s Grace—when the new generations of dragons hatch—watching the flight patrols overhead during ops training, and so on, but I’m close enough to Little Red over here to feel the steam pouring from his needle sharp teeth.
“Finnick said you had some questions regarding an inter-border exchange,” Piri says. I nod and shift closer to him, leaving the youngling to his freshly butchered bull.
“A source provided me with some information about a trade authorization made between an unspecified courier and a Cael Fleetwing of Shadow. Tell me about that.” Before he makes his demand for payment, I retrieve the pouch of stipen from my satchel and toss it to his boot.
“That should be enough to slick your tongue.”
“I’ll answer your questions, but Cael Fleetwing isn’t someone I’d go looking for if I were you.” Piri’s joints crack as he bends to take the pouch, weighing it in his palm before speaking.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He raises a brow and watches an aging keeper stroke a palm down the scaly length of Little Red’s neck.
The youngling rumbles low in his throat, almost like a purr.
In another life, perhaps I’d enjoy being a keeper.
At least I wouldn’t have to interrogate any more greedy pricks like Piri.
I’m good at pulling information, but I’m better at minding my own business.
“The courier’s name is Maeve Emera. She’s head of our rare exports agents and took on the assignment herself, but she won’t tell you anything. Maeve’s specialty is discretion, hence why she’s in rare exports,” Piri says.
“Rare exports suggests this isn’t the first authorization for a shipment of this kind.
I thought the borders were locked down years ago.
” The keeper tosses another ration of meat to the dragons in the yard.
Little Red arches his spine like a cat. Each scale, layered on its tiny outstretched wings, burns in the daylight like gleaming pyre flame.
“You’re only half correct. After the war, all regular trade was terminated, but we still need a means of importing and exporting items of interest,” he replies.
“You mean dragonstones.” My eyes dart to his.
Dragonstones bind us, through offerings and blessings, to our gods.
The more a faction holds, well, the more powerful they are.
A month or so back, there were whispers around the apothecary that Magnius Ashar had taken to stockpiling them.
For what purpose, I’m not sure, but I know I don't want to be around to find out. Now, Piri’s insight confirms what we all hoped wasn’t true.
“Yes. I mean dragonstones,” Piri says, pocketing the coin pouch.
“That doesn’t make sense, though. Why would an export of dragonstones be authorized? It goes against everything Ashar wants.” I pull at my tunic for any relief from the smothering air.
“Perhaps what was promised in return is of higher value,” Piri suggests, his tone all too casual.
“Perhaps…” I trail off. The only thing of higher value than dragonstones only exists in heavily guarded hatcheries—dragon eggs.
Not to mention, smuggling eggs is forbidden. Punishable by death in every faction.
Hatchlings stay connected to their sacred breeding grounds until they reach adulthood. Without access to the natural magic, rooted in their ancestral land, they wither and die. To take an egg before it hatches—my stomach knots at the thought.
“Want my advice?” Piri crosses his arms.
“Not particularly.”
“If you’re set on chasing this, forget about Maeve.
She’s loyal to Ashar. If she catches wind that Finnick’s taken interest…
well it won’t just be this mission that’ll be terminated.
” The old man scans my reaction, waiting for any hint of a message received.
I tuck my fists into my trouser pockets and keep my features expressionless.
There’s no assurance Piri himself won’t report us the minute our meeting concludes.
“Ok, so tell me how to find Cael Fleetwing then. If Maeve’s a non-option, I’ll go directly to him.”
Piri barks a laugh, then blanches, realizing I’m serious. “You’ll be burnt to a crisp before you even step foot over the border.”
“I’ve survived this far in my line of work. Tell me where to find the smuggler.” My voice is steady with resolve, but I know Piri’s right. An attempt at crossing any of our borders is a death wish, especially into Shadow.
Piri clicks his tongue, but obliges my request. “From what I’ve heard, Fleetwing operates out of a tavern just over the border. We haven’t received any import authorizations yet, so whatever he’s traded the dragonstones for is still in Shadow at least.”
“And how do I get into Shadow undetected?” I ask.
“You don’t.”
My eyes narrow at the old man. “Okay, then how do your couriers cross the border without getting incinerated on the spot?”
“An official directive…granted by King Ashar himself.” My jaw threatens to drop. Ashar must really be desperate for these deals if he’s authorizing official border crossings. “Like I said, it’s impossible.”
“Piri…” I lower my voice. “Finnick doesn’t pay you that amount of stipen for anything to be impossible. I’ll ask again, how do I get my hands on one of these directives?”
Piri shifts, and suddenly, I realize the old man’s withholding. He’s most certainly already formulated a plan to cross into Shadow and retrieve the dragonstones, but whether it’s concern or cowardice, he’s kept it to himself.
My fingers twitch over the pommel of my sheathed dagger. Desperation is a ruthless ally, and for a chance at my freedom…I won’t hesitate.
Before I pull my blade, my eyes catch on the old man’s wrist. He’s pushed his sleeve up. The gesture was an unintentional reaction to the morning heat, but I see it. The rider insignia on his forearm, tangling up toward his elbow, like a swirl of flames and wings.
My throat dries.
He was a rider. The ridge of scars dividing the tattoo down its middle suggests he’s a dragon-less one at that. Maybe he served in the war. Maybe his dragon fell. I choke on the thought, and suddenly it makes sense why his location to meet is the hatchery.
“Piri…if they’re smuggling a dragon egg for these stones…you know just as well as I what Ashar would do. Do you really want to give him the opportunity?” I press.
The factions only bond with dragons birthed from their patron deity. For Smoke that’s Crimsonclaws. Storm, Jadetails, and Sea, Sapphirejaws. Shadow’s dragons, Blightfangs, refuse to bond, and Sovereign’s Astralwings went extinct with their people.
A bond between rider and dragon of opposing factions could be…
cataclysmic…apocalyptic. It goes against every law of the cosmos we have.
I shudder at the thought. To bond a dragon outside of one’s faction is to mock the gods themselves.
And if this egg is a Blightfang? Morvayne’s wrath nearly buckles my knees.
Piri wraps his cloak tighter around his stocky torso.
“Fine. There might be a way. Another courier’s completing a trade with Fleetwing.
Nothing as enticing as dragonstones or gods forbid an egg, but she’s scheduled to cross before sunrise.
If she were to be intercepted…well, the couriers travel under pseudonyms… ”
“So no one would question if I took her place.”
“She’ll be following the spice routes up toward the western gate. I’m not at liberty to give out her name, but she’ll be wearing her courier uniform. You won’t miss her.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it too.
He nods and scans the hatchery grounds. Two more crimson younglings joined Little Red for their breakfast and now nip and wrestle with one another. Their small growls and puffs of smoke echo through the yard, and my heart breaks.
How difficult it must be to live with a severed bond. Most riders are lost to madness or depression, taking their own lives shortly after their dragon falls. Either Piri is really good at faking it or he’s accepted the pain enough to survive. I can understand either.
“I promise Piri, I’m not after the egg, if that’s what it is. Just the dragonstones.”
He smiles sadly. “I hope so, Ms. Lindwen. For that hatchling’s sake, I really hope so.”
I nod and offer a quick goodbye, but the weight of Piri’s trust is heavy on my chest. To put his faith in me feels more like a shackle than it should. In my line of work, we’re taught to trust only ourselves. We work alone. Live alone. Die alone.
I already know what my sentence will be, and I pray to the gods that when I face Morvayne, he sees past the blood on my hands.