“What about Darius?” she asked.
“He didn’t fare nearly as well as you,” Larylis said.
She needed to see for herself. Clenching her jaw, she tried to sit again, and this time she managed to lift herself on her forearms. Larylis braced her back and raised her to sitting. Several feet away, she found a charred husk that must be Darius. A sword lay between his shoulders and severed head.
“For good measure,” Larylis explained.
Not far from the body, the soldier who’d held Larylis captive had also been relegated to a corpse, his sword stolen. She hadn’t had to feign her terror at seeing Larylis with a sword at his throat. They hadn’t anticipated him getting captured. They’d only discussed him holding back just enough to give Mareleau an opportunity to pretend to surrender. It could have gone wrong a thousand different ways, yet Larylis had played his role and she hers. She wasn’t the only one who’d risked their life.
Mareleau shifted her attention from the dead to the living—herself. She stared down at her arms, finding them red and raw. Her robe’s hem had been fully burned away and what little remained was charred. Every inch of flesh she could see was as red as her arms. Yet just like Garot had said, there were signs of healing too. She frowned. She didn’t have fae blood, so she shouldn’t be armed with rapid healing. Her glamour and protective wardweaving couldn’t be responsible for the feat either.
In that case…
She turned her attention inward and felt the same tingle of magic she’d sensed after Ailan’s death. It was stronger now, pulsing between her and Noah, who’d finally ceased crying in Garot’s arms. “Themora,” she said. “It’s stronger now, isn’t it?”
Garot nodded. “Even without using my pathweaving, I can feel my abilities have been fortified.”
“Did the wardweavers make it to the tear?” Larylis asked. “Did they seal it?”
Garot had no answer. None of them could know for sure, not until Etrix returned. But Mareleau didn’t want to wait. With a pained groan, she attempted to stand. Larylis aided her efforts, though his expression told her he’d rather she kept still. Someone else helped her rise—a solid force that nudged her other side, as if to help her keep her balance while she clung to Larylis.
Brow furrowed, Mareleau glanced beside her. An enormous head of white feathers and scales braced her ribcage. She bit back a yelp but managed to keep from flinching away.
Ferrah, however, seemed to sense her reaction. She pulled back slightly, her throat vibrating with a high-pitched chirp as she stared at Mareleau with slitted purple eyes. Wait…that chirping. Was it one of the sounds that had awoken her? It made more sense that she would have been perturbed by the strange hum of chirps than her husband’s voice.
“She’s been like that ever since she cut off her flame,” Garot said.
“You mean, you didn’t enjoy trying to burn me to a crisp?” Mareleau muttered. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
Ferrah flicked her tongue and nudged Mareleau’s shoulder, bumping her tender flesh with far more force than necessary. She made to push the creature away, but Ferrah nuzzled her palm, eyes closed, her humming chirps softening to a slightly more melodic tune.
“Oh,” Garot said, pulling his head back. He blinked a few times. “Ooooh. Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” Mareleau wasn’t sure whether to try to push the dragon away again or if she should hold still lest Ferrah chomp her wrist.
“She’s bonded to you.”
“Bonded,” Mareleau and Larylis echoed in unison.
Mareleau reassessed the dragon, who continued to nuzzle her hand, with new eyes. “You mean…nearly killing me endeared me to you?”
Sorry. The word entered her awareness. Not through sound butknowing. Mareleau sucked in a sharp breath, not daring to believe that word had come from Ferrah.You insult me. You think I wanted to burn you? I trusted you to cast a better wardweaving. I didn’t think you’d get hurt.
With every word, the voice grew clearer in her mind, taking on a feminine lilt with an unmistakable edge of chagrin.
Ferrah finally pulled away and removed her face from Mareleau’s palm.I expect better of my mistress and her magic in the future. With that, Ferrah slithered down the cave and out of sight.
Mareleau stared after her, dumbstruck. After a few bewildered moments, she recalled why she’d wanted to stand in the first place. “We should get to the tear at once and confirm that it’s been sealed. Garot, will you weave us—”
“Notus,” Garot said. He passed Noah to Larylis, who in turn cradled his son against his chest with the tenderest care. “I will go myself. You’re regent now, and I’ll not have you making such a poor spectacle of yourself until you’ve healed, washed, changed, and…and done something about your hair.”
Her pulse quickened at the last part. She reached for her shoulders, then her neck. It wasn’t until she touched her nape that she felt even a hint of singed tresses. Her throat tightened, and she wasn’t ashamed of the sorrow that filled her. Maybe it was vain to mourn her long pale locks, but she was only a hero, not a saint. And she wasn’t even a real hero. Real heroes wouldn’t relish watching their enemy burn.
“Fine,” she said, voice quavering. “Please see that the wardweavers have succeeded and report back at once.”
Garot gave her a tired smile, looking almost like his carefree self again. “You didn’t waste any time settling into your new position, did you?”
She gave him a haughty shrug, ignoring the scream of her muscles. She didn’t exactly delight in her role as regent, for it had come at the cost of many lives. Most of all, Ailan’s. And many more goodbyes would soon follow. But Mareleau was born to be queen. Born to rule. Born to scheme and lie and deceive. She’d convince this world she was the best regent, the best Edel Morkara’Elle, they’d ever know. She’d make a life for herself, her husband, and her son. Not just any life. A happy one. A fulfilling one.
