“I can’t do it. You’ll be killed, and it’ll be my fault.”
“How would it be your fault?”
“Because I appointed you to the position when I know—I know that eventually you’re going to overtax yourself, or take a blow to the head, or collapse two hundred feet in the air!”
“I won’t. I’m very good at my job.”
Valenna’s magic burned behind her ribs, and thorns crawled slowly over the ground, twining in her skirt. She tried to will them away, but they persisted. Evander didn’t seem to notice.
“The last dragon master,” she said with deliberate calm, “was eaten, Evander. And he died. Now you want to take his place?”
“The last two,” Evander corrected.
She threw her hands up in frustration.
With a dismissive shrug, Evander leaned against a tree and slid his hands into his pockets. “Reginald was a drunk. He wasn’t good at his job, and it was only a matter of time before he got eaten.”
“You think it’ll be different for you?”
“I know it will.”
“I’m serious,” she continued. “You’re not qualified. You have a physical impairment.”
Evander pushed away from the tree and turned toward the barn.
“Evander!” she called after him. “Please! Listen to me.”
He whipped around and tore off his glasses. “It’s either me or Haldir, and you can see that Haldir’s a fool.”
“Better than someone who could drop dead any second.”
Evander inhaled like he was about to shout. She held her breath, waiting for it, almost hoping for it. He was always so placid, so controlled; sometimes she wished he would shout at her. Fight with her. Tell her he left because he knew she was lying to him, and he hated her dishonesty.
He clenched his teeth and rolled his head back like her argument was a crick in his neck. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with quiet anger. “If Haldir is dragon master, then I’ll answer to him. Every day. Do you imagine that will be particularly safe?”
Shame washed over Valenna, and her furious magic clawed at her ribs and curled around her, snaking venomous vines up the trees. In the darkness, Evander didn’t see them, but she needed to escape this conversation and get away from him before he did. He stepped closer, hooking his finger under her chin and raising her face. She felt overwarm and achy. His chest was so near hers, she could feel the brush of his shirt when he breathed.
“I’m not afraid of death,” he said.
“If you knew death,” Valenna said softly, “you would fear it more.”
“I know her,” he replied.
Valenna started, and her gaze snapped to his, searching.
Evander leaned down and kissed her neck below her ear. It sent a thrill through her body, but before she could react, he stepped back and walked down to the barn.
Why had he said “I know her” when he spoke of death? In Allagesh, where death came quietly in the night when one was old and ready, people never saw Raska—the old crow who brought the dead to Marwenna—and if they told tales of her, they falsely referred to her as “Roz” and used male pronouns. Only inSennalaith and Ashkendor, where Raska was a presence on the battlefield, roaming the carnage, picking through the bones of shattered soldiers, did people know death to be female. How could Evander know this?
A buzzing interrupted her melancholy thoughts, and an indignant messenger sprite bounced off her shoulder, chirping, “Missive! Missive!”
“Yes, what is it?” Valenna asked tersely.
“The master dracologist requires an update.”
Valenna’s mind whirred. She needed to just do it. Make Evander the dragon master and return to Largotia before he broke her heart again. She needed to focus on strengthening her magic, sharpening her rage, finding her sister, not agonizing over an old flame who was too stubborn to take care of himself.
“Tell her I need a few more days to decide.”
