“You’re late,” Draven told Dorian upon his reaching the tower.
Dorian paused on the top step and pulled the horn from around his back along with a pail of water. “Would you like me to go back? I can wait and show up another night.”
Draven’s jaw clenched and he exhaled an audible breath, watching Dorian cross the room to him. “Thank you,” he said as Dorian placed the horn in his hand. “Get your sister and get out of here. Hide below the Belwark Temple and do not come out until sunrise. They will not know the difference between friend and foe.”
Dorian nodded. “What will you do?”
Draven stared past him towards the open doorway that led to nothing below, and he clenched the horn in his fist. “Burn it to the ground.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
THE FIRST SONG he played on his horn was of Samar’s.
The water in the pail rippled, the wind encircling him. He watched as Samar’s figure assembled itself, first with bone, then with muscle, and finally with flesh. When she took her first step out of the bucket, her eyes opened, and a look he was not accustomed to being greeted with by Samar filled her features.
Tears.
“She is gone, isn’t she?” Samar whispered.
Draven’s hand clenched around the horn. “Will you help me?” he asked softly.
Samar’s velvet touch lingered on his hand, and she nodded. “Anything.”
He asked her to turn the water to the waters that ran through the Forest of Darkness. He would need such waters to call on the Wyverdraki and Rhamocour. Samar poured the pail onto the floor, and she crouched down, her hands pressing into the wet stone as she muttered words Draven did not hear.
The water warmed beneath his feet. She stood and once more faced him. “Your hand,” she said, holding out her own. He placed his hand in hers, and she drew a deep cut into his palm.
“You are ready,” she told him.
Draven’s weight shifted. He curled his bleeding hand around the horn, and then he brought it to his lips.
The sound of the Wyverdraki call pulsed through the horn, followed by the great song of the Rhamocour.
And then he waited.
Samar sat across from him in the cell as Draven leaned his back against the wall. He wasn’t accustomed to her being so quiet, but he knew why. He knew she’d come to love Aydra during her time in the Forest.
All Draven could think about was the promise he’d made her.
It was two hours before he heard the cries of the Wyverdraki echo in the night air. His heart constricted as he was reminded of their song. The tears that stung his eyes, he pushed away.
Samar picked the lock on his door, and it creaked open.
“They await their orders, my King,” she said with a bow.
Draven’s hand tightened on the horn, and he remembered the bellow Duarb had taught him the night before. His lips pressed to the end of it, blood on his palm, and he closed his eyes as he blew through it.
Fire cut through the sky.
The tower shook, and he felt the Rhamocour wrap herself around it. Her great roar made a chill run down his spine. Purple flames erupted in the air above him. He could feel its heat on his skin, and he closed his eyes.
He blew through the horn again. Shrieks and screams filled his ears from the shops below. He stepped to the edge of the archway and looked out of it to watch the Wyverdraki family’s fire burn through the streets.
The Rhamocour curled her head down to him. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against her nose, his hand reaching up and stroking her face.
“For her,” he whispered.
The beast’s apple green eyes blinked deliberately at him, and then she lowered her head. Draven lifted himself to her neck. He pressed the horn to his lips again, and they dived into the darkness.
