I back farther up the ridge, trying vainly to see more, but the approaching hummerbill obstructs my view. I reach out to her, imagining the skrill, the shadow monsters, but her focus is intent, her flight only seeming to pick up speed as she nears me. Too late, I hear the burst of chittering chirps and squawking excitement as I realize what’s happening here.
Gent may not have heard my cry for help, but Kreya did. And she’s going to try to answer my call.
“Light—no—no!” I hold my arms up, stumbling back, but there’s no stopping her as she screams with utter joy and shoots across the top of the ridge, her claws out, her wings flapping surprisingly well. I don’t think she’ll be able to build up the momentum for another run, and at the last breath, I turn and start running ahead of her, my cape flowing in the wind, giving her as big a target as I can—and praying she doesn’t rip me to shreds.
I wince with blinding pain as her raptor-like talons skewer my right shoulder yetagain, my head jerking to the side as her left foot tangles in my cape. Then we’re off the ledge andshe’s soaring up—up—but I already know we’re too slow even to reach the limits of the Blessed Plane, and far too slow to break through. We’re tooslow!
We’ll never make it.
And once again, Gent won’t be there to catch me.
Chapter 45
For the second time in what seems like only a few hours, I’m dropped unceremoniously to the earth, the wind completely knocked out of me as I land on a patch of turf that’s thick, lush, and endlessly green.
Only this time…it’s breathing.
If I could breathe, I would shout—scream—howl with joy. But I’ve clearly re-entered the Fated Plane with its harsh, dry air and shimmering heat, and my lungs aren’t reacting well. My breath squeezes tight in my throat, and I’m also buried in what feels like four feet worth of fur that doesn’t at all seem right for the creature I know has to have caught me, the creature whose broad back I’m sprawled over, next to a wide swath of skin that’s smeared with…
I freeze.
Blood?
Slowly, carefully, I sink down deeper into the thick fur that was never a part of my glorious Divh, but which I know must be his all the same, and desperately try to take stock of my surroundings.
Kreya has done the task she endeavored to do. Blue sky stretches out above me, and I’m lying on top of Gent againsta wall that stretches up—up. I know where we have to be. The coliseum at Trilion. I can hear a distant roar, though it’s impossible to understand with my ears still ringing from the force of my fall. I flop over on my belly and move over Gent’s bulky body until I can peer through his fur to see…
What in the Light?
I stare in absolute confusion as I pick out the scene in the center of the coliseum. A platform has been set up there, almost rivaling the ornate battle stages of the Tournament of Gold. But while those were tall, functional towers intended to support warriors guiding their Divhs into battle, this platform seems entirely created for show. As if a famous bard might be holding forth there, or perhaps a priest of the Light.
Despite my high vantage point, I can’t take the risk of sneaking a true look at what’s going on across the tournament field, because to do so I would have to lift myself out of the thick fur that’s hiding me, and I’m too bleary and confused to do that quite yet.
But without question, there’s something intensely wrong with everything that’s happening here.
For one, it’s broad daylight, and I’m lying on top of a giant Divh, but no one is paying any attention to me—or, more importantly, to Gent. Secondly, though I’m still struggling to breathe while grasping the long, flowing hair of my Divh’s back…Gentdoesn’thave hair like this. There’s too much of it and it’s a pale sage green. My mighty goliath is also at least twice as big as the creature I’m currently laying on, though admittedly, from what I can tell, this version of Gent is still as big as three manor houses stacked on top of each other. Worse, though Gent is alive and breathing, he’s desperately damaged, his back sliced open to allow thick green blood to ooze out.
Also—damningly—I can see one of his mighty legs stretched out behind him…chained to the coliseum wall.
What in the Light has happened here?
I collapse back down over Gent’s body, taking comfort in his warmth even though there remains no connection between us. He may as well be a shaggy green mountain for all the awareness he has of me, but at least he breathes. At least he lives.
I close my eyes tightly, willing the tears that are now leaking through my lids to slow, to stop, even as I futilely attempt to make a connection again with my Divh. The sentient band that’s wrapped around my arm is still active and vibrant. The heat pouring out of it is real. But as I desperately search in my mind for a link to the giant beneath me, I get nothing in return. It’s as if he isn’t there—as if I’m sprawled on the back of some other warrior’s Divh.
I choke back a sob and Gent ripples beneath me, his broad back shifting as he groans in his slumber. How did they manage to restrain him with a chain? How had they even caught him in the first place? The only time I’ve seen anything like this was when I crept down from the banquet hall in the First House to see the fabled beast being held in the caves beneath the castle. That fearsome monster turned out to be Szonja, the glorious Divh destined for Fortiss, yet stolen from him by Rihad. Rather than shifting the band from father to son according to the tradition of the Protectorate, Rihad had taken Szonja for his own. Taken her and imprisoned her for no real reason other than, I’d supposed at the time, he could.
But if Fortiss’s vision in the Eighth House prophecy chamber was to be believed, there’d been a definite purpose behind Rihad’s horrific imprisonment of Szonja. Rihad had needed a Divh to enter the Western Realms and locate the crown of wings—never mind the cost that might entail. He’d chosen Szonja as his victim, and then, when she had escaped his clutches, had sacrificed his own mighty Zhang to find the crown.
But why?Rihad clearly already had command over the skrill. He didn’t need the crown to call them to Trilion.
Besides that, had he known what awaited his Divh in the Western Realms? The desolation and danger of the entrapping ash? Surely not. There’s no way he would have ever risked the Divh who had protected his line forgenerationsby sending him to an almost certain death?—
A blast of trumpets scatters my fevered thoughts into cartwheeling frenzy. I scrub my eyes, shoving my tears away. Then slowly, carefully, I crawl farther up the steep rise of Gent’s back and peek over his shoulder, gaping at the view.
There are easily three hundred spectators gathered around the broad base of the stage. Torches as thick as tree trunks stand at the four corners of the pavilion. They’re lit to a full blaze, never mind that it’s mid-afternoon here. On the pavilion, a familiar man stands dressed in the splendid robes of his former position and holding his arms out to the adulation of the crowd.Rihad.
Despite my sinking horror, I’m not surprised to see him. It’s the only possibility, really. Rihad has been preparing for his triumph for more than twenty years. The fact that Fortiss bested him in the tournament melee surprised the lord protector, clearly, but he wasn’t left completely without his defenses. Somehow, he was able to call the skrill to attack Trilion, and now, after we left to go battle the skrill at the western border, he’s come to life again.
