Her hands gripped him so tightly it hurt. He didn’t mind.
“Now, you promise me,” he said, “that you will not be consumed by darkness. Whatever magic you choose to use, I want you whole and well at the end of the day.”
“I will, because I, too, have a purpose, and a husband I couldn’t exist without, and a kingdom I want to restore. Sins I want to atone. My old magic is a language I no longer speak.”
He smiled. “You are everything I always knew you could be, and more, and I’m so proud of you.”
She wrapped her arms around him, and they leaned into one last, long kiss. He drank her in—her warmth, her smell, her taste. Savored it. Longed for more. But the night was waning, and there was a battle to fight. He pulled away.
“I have to go prepare the crew.”
The ends of her fingers still curled around his. “I can’t … Vander … can’t you run just one more time? Can’t you escape to Silvanlight? I’ll come find you when this is over.”
He let out a rueful laugh. “Oh, Val, I can’t.”
“Please, please, for me.”
“It’ll be alright. I’m a good soldier, and it’ll all be over soon.”
“Don’t say over,” she said.
“Then it will all be better soon.”
It took more courage than facing the dragobat, but he drew his hands from hers.
“Go now, before your father finds out about us.”
“I love you,” she said. “Recklessly. Unreasonably. I will find you on the battlefield tomorrow.”
“We’ll meet under the dragon willow when it’s over.”
“Under the dragon willow, then.”
Evander watched until she was out of sight, then walked back to camp.
He passed the tri-razer and the aft-razer from Dread Seven. They were hiding behind a tent, locked in a tight embrace, kissing. Smiling, Evander passed them. What better time to be in love, he thought, than at the end of everything?
Chapter fifty-two
Evander
The camp was lively, nervous soldiers moving between the tents, receiving final battle plans, checking their shotfires, buckling on dragonscale vests.
Plate armor was suicide when riding a dragon to battle. It heated too easily, broiling the body inside like a partridge in an oven. But dragon hide was strong enough to withstand shotfire balls at long range, so most soldiers wore vests made of the close-fitting scales. Dragon hide was also durable, flexible, and most soldiers kept the same vest for years until it conformed to their body like a second skin. In Ashkendor, Evander owned a vest the color of coal, the most coveted shade for mounted soldiers. He wished he had it still.
The vests came in an array of colors from ice blue to tar black to bruise purple. Red was cheap because it was so visible in the sky or on the ground, like wearing a target. Soldiers sometimes tried to paint over their vests, but dragon scales didn’t like to be altered, and so the paint would flake off in hours.
When Evander returned to his tent, he found Samara sitting on the cot, sharpening his cutlass. She was biting her lower lip, the shing, shing, shing of the steel on whetstone staccato under her trembling hands. A package lay beside her, wrapped in brown paper.
She looked up grimly. “It’s red,” she said.
“What is?” he asked, dropping his coat on a chest by the tent opening.
“My armor, your armor, the whole crew’s armor. It’s all bright red.”
Evander crossed the space between them and tore open the package. Inside, he found a neatly folded vest made of brilliant scarlet dragon scale.
He swore, tossing it onto the cot. “Everyone’s? The whole crew?”
