I don’t know the wordskugvels,but I’m willing to bet it meanstunnels.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I left it outside, with the journal. I can show you if you like.’
The other wyverns begin leaving the cave, creeping away down various tunnels while casting curious looks behind them, as if summoned by an inaudible call.
‘From what do you seek shelter?’ the first wyvern growls.
I hesitate, wishing I had discussed this with the others before we entered the tunnel.
‘War,’ I say simply.
‘War?’ he says. ‘What war?’
I cast a look back at the others.
‘He’s asking what war I’m talking about,’ I tell them.
Their expressions echo my own confusion.
‘The war between Prime Minister Wyvernmire and her Bulgarian dragons, and the Human-Dragon Coalition,’ I say.
‘We are not aware of such a war,’ he says.
‘And we are not interested in participating in it,’ the female wyvern adds.
I grab hold of the ledge of the pool, my legs tired from treading water. ‘But you must go above ground sometimes?’ I say slowly.
‘Have you not seen the Bulgarian dragons flying above?’
‘We do not occupy ourselves with the affairs of other species,’ the first says.
I nod, trying to process what I’m hearing. The wyvernswe’re supposed to seek an alliance with don’t even know there’s a war going on. I feel a rush of despair.
‘Canna is dangerous for us,’ I say. ‘We are being hunted. We ask that you let us stay.’ I hesitate. ‘Like you did for Patrick and his family.’
‘No,’ he replies. ‘Wyverns have lived in concealment, far from all humans, for half a century. We cannot help you.’
‘They invokedfasgadh, Abelio!’ the female wyvern says.
Abelio.
I remember the name from Clawtail’s last journal entry, the sentence he never finished.
The two wyverns stare at each other, communicating silently. Then Abelio lets out a low hiss.
‘Cindra insists we award you the shelter you claim,’ Abelio says finally. ‘But you must prove yourselves to be amenable to our own requests.’
‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘What are they?’
His talons twitch. ‘All in good time.’
We step out of the water and follow the wyverns down a tunnel. The air is stiflingly warm and steam rises off our bodies as we walk. I stare at the wyverns’ backs, studying the way they walk on their hind legs, how they gesture with the scaly limbs attached to their great wings. They’re much smaller than dragons, though they still tower over humans by several feet. They move quickly, their gestures fluid and sinuous, and their wings quiver every so often as though lifted by a breeze. They are like silent, blue phantoms in the dark tunnels, which grow lighter the deeper they wind. The path ahead is lit by lanterns filled with what seems to be oil-soaked sheep’s wool.The stone walls drip with condensation and glitter with flecks of tiny orange rock like the ones we found in the dirt by the stream. Soon my skin and hair are completely dry, but I feel like I’m suffocating from the overpowering heat.
‘They accepted us rather easily, don’t you think?’ says Atlas’s voice in my ear.
I startle, not having realised he was so close. He walks next to me, his hair a sweep of humid curls. Sweat glistens on his bare shoulders and I see him snatch a glance at me before dropping his eyes to the ground. I avert my own.
‘They want something from us, too,’ I whisper.
