I toss up my hands and turn away. What is the use of any of this? Everyone has ideas about what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to be…only no one has anything actually useful to help me do or be it! I’ve had about as much as I can stomach. Of him. Of Alderin. Of Philippa and the other champions. They can all just go to Drathoridan and cast themselves into the Dracor Flame for all I care!
Silence lingers between us for so long, I lose track of my own counted breaths. Then I hear his footsteps, soft but not silent. Am I about to get a knife slipped between the ribs? I tense but refuse to turn. The next thing I know, the warm folds of his cloak wrap around my shoulders. The gesture is so simple, and yet suddenly I find myself fighting back tears once more.
“Why weren’t you there yesterday?” I ask, my voice breaking. “Why weren’t you at the final trial?”
“Alderin and I had a…disagreement.”
I close my eyes at his mention of that name and clutch the cloak a little closer. I don’t think I’ll ever reconcile the idea that Alderin, of all people, is dracori. Not to mention my father!Father.Gods spare me. I always knew my father had to besomeone,but I don’t remember ever asking Durona about him. I assumed she would tell me if it mattered, but then she was gone. And there was no one left to ask. After that, I simply put the question out of my mind and got on with life, as one does.
Not in a hundred lifetimes would I have dreamed my father was the High King of all Belanor. But then, I wouldn’t have guessed my mother was a demonic dragon queen either. Funny how these things work out.
“So what happened?” I press. “What did you find to disagree over?”
“Whether or not I should remain alive.”
I snort. I can’t help it, though Philippa would no doubt die over such an unladylike sound. “Let me guess: You two started blasting each other with hellfire?”
“Something like that.”
“How did you escape?”
He is silent for such a long while, I begin to wonder if he simply didn’t hear the question. But then his voice rumbles again, much closer than before. “I knew you would need me.”
He stands just behind me. So close I could easily lean my head back to rest on his shoulder. And I want to. I want to so badly, and more than that, I want to turn on heel, grab the front of his scorched tunic, and drag him to me in a lip-bruising kiss. I want to believe again that he’s the man I invented in my imagination. The hero, the prince, the valiant protector with the noble heart. I want to reshape reality into something just for the two of us and forget all the rest of this dark, terrible world. A world I never asked for; a world none of us deserves.
But I can’t. There’s no changing what is. He is dracori, and I am dragon spawn. Hardly the stuff of heroic ballads. Most likely we’ll end up killing each other before all this is through. Or let’sbe honest—he’ll kill me. Because I’m still not convinced I could bring myself to squash a fly, much less end a man’s life.
Suddenly needing to put some distance between us, I march to the edge of the copse, watching rain fall in sheets. A cold wind blows, but Valtar’s cloak keeps out the sting of it. I wish both the rain and the wind could cool the blisters across my hands and face. What I wouldn’t give for some of Philippa’sylyndarointment right about now!
After a little while, I realize Valtar is gone. He slipped away sometime in the last several minutes, all silent and shadowy. Gods above, why did it never occur to me to suspect he was an assassin? With all his sneaking and looming, it should have been self-evident.
But the truth is, I always felt sosafein his company. I still do, damn it. And I liked the feeling. It’s not one I’ve experienced often in my life, not since Durona died. Even Mistress Iliyani never made me feel fully safe. We had an uneasy alliance, but I always knew she might choose to kick me out of her house at any time, for any given reason.
But with Valtar it’s different. I don’t know how to explain it. From the moment I set eyes on him—or, more accurately, set lips on him—there’s been something in his presence that made me feel so secure. As though his very being gave my soul permission to open its tightly curled petals and bloom.
Perhaps it’s all part of his assassin mystique, a trick to get a mark to let down her guard. Or perhaps I’m just that naive.
The storm begins to let up. So does the fire for that matter—the green hell-blaze dies away, replaced by a thin column of black smoke. A faint stench lingers, but the rain seems to have washed most of the world clean, and the clouds roll by, leaving behind a streaky sky. All feels very still, very quiet. Desolate.
How long will it be before Alderin is on my tail? He’s probably set out already, traveling by river barge underneath that vast forest. And what of Mhoryga? Did she send more than one assassin? Or is she still counting on this one to accomplish his mission?
I glance around but spy no sign of Valtar. With a sigh, I set out from under the dripping trees onto the soggy field. My shoes are soaked through and the hem of my gown and torn petticoats are six inches deep in mud by the time I reach the dragon boy where he lies. He’s taken human form once more, curled up in a sad bundle of scrawny limbs. I reach out tentatively via our mental connection and sense that he is still sleeping, that same dreamless sleep which held him in its grip while he burned. His mind shivers in reaction to my appearance, and I hastily back out again. No reason to disturb him.
Removing Valtar’s cloak, I drape it over his little body, then take a seat on a fold to keep my bum from getting soaked through. Thus I wait…I’m not sure for what. Wait beside this brother of mine. It’s funny—I never once imagined I might actually have brothers or sisters. And it turns out, I’ve got hundreds, maybe thousands! Mhoryga has been hatching dragon spawn for centuries now, hasn’t she? How many of them are like this boy? Enslaved and terrified of their own monstrous selves? How many of them have been deprived of agency, forced to serve out the will of our dreadful mother? Unable to escape, unable to spare the world from the destruction they are forced to wreak upon it.
And who is to stop them? Me?
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper, clenching my fists so tight, my elongated nails dig into my palms. “I didn’t ask to be made, to be born into this world, for this purpose.”
The gods choose who is worthy.
Alderin’s voice echoes in my head, stern and solemn. I wish I could shrug it off, forget everything he ever told me. If I could simply go back to being the girl I was a few short weeks ago, I would in a heartbeat. Because I’m not worthy. I never claimed to be worthy, never aspired to worthiness.
I bury my face in my hands, fingers pulling at the roots of my hair. Still that voice will not leave, and soon another voice joins in, gentler, softer, but no less urgent:You will not abandon us?
“Oh, Philippa,” I sigh. “What difference will it make if I abandon you or not? It will all come out the same in the end.”
But if I don’t try…how will I ever know?
