A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold—thisis where we’re going.Thefirst quest mentioned in theTimeWeavingspell.
I shift slightly whereIsit, tightening my grip as another strong gust of wind buffets us.TheDrakeadjusts immediately, angling his wings, steadying us with an ease that speaks of long practice.Ifeel it again—that quiet awareness, that sense of him watching over me even as he flies…caring for me…protecting me.
“We thought this would be the easiest one,”Imurmur aloud, thoughI’mnot sure ifI’mspeaking to him or to myself.
I need the feather from theEmperorHawk—just a single feather.
How hard can it be?Thereare no demons…no sacred rivers…no ancient trees guarded by spirits.
There’s just a bird andIonly need one of its feathers.
I almost laugh at that—almost.
Because as the mountains loom closer—growing larger with every beat of theDrake’swings—that uneasy feeling in my chest only deepens.
I can’t lie to myself—Ihave a bad feeling about this quest.
The wind around the mountaintops is stronger, colder, whipping around us in unpredictable currents.Ithowls through the narrow passes between the jagged peaks, making a strange, lonely sound that makes the small hairs at the back of my neck stand up.
Nothing about this place feels welcoming…nothing about this feels easy.
I swallow hard and lean forward slightly, my hand pressing more firmly against theDrake’sscales as thoughIcan anchor myself to him.
“We’ll be fine,”Isay, talking to both him and myself.“Everythingis going to be fine.
I want to believe it—Ireally do.Butas the first of those jagged peaks rises up before us, vast and unforgiving,Ifeel a flicker of doubt curl low in my stomach.
A feather—that’s all we have to get.It’sso simple—almost too easy.
I have no idea how wrongIam.
27
THERON
The farther north we fly, the worse the land gets.
At first the mountains look almost beautiful from a distance—jagged blue shapes stacked against the horizon, their peaks brushed with snow and silver clouds.Butbeauty from afar doesn’t mean a damn thing when you get close enough to smell the ice and stone.Closeenough to feel the wind cutting at you like a blade…close enough to see how sheer the cliffs really are and how little mercy there is in them.
I’ve never flown so far before.Thesearen’t hills or even proper mountains the way most folk think of them.
They’re fuckingteeth.
Great broken fangs of rock thrusting up into the sky, with deep ravines and dark cracks between them where the sunlight barely reaches.Thewind screams through the gaps and races over the narrow ledges and tears at anything foolish enough to come too close—including myDrake’swings.Notmuch grows on these heights except patches of stubborn gray moss and a few twisted trees clinging to the stone as if they’re too mean to die.
MyDrakedoesn’t like the place and to be honest, neither doI.
Still, we keep going.
The curvy little priestess clings to myDrake’sback, tucked between his dorsal spines with the heavy bag of supplies strapped behind her.Ican feel every shift of her weight and every small tightening of her hands.She’sfrightened—Ican smell it on her, sharp beneath the sweet scent that always seems to cling to her skin.Butshe’s not panicking and she’s not trying to tell me to turn around.
She’s a brave little thing—I’llgive her that.
We circle one peak and then another, looking for the nest.TheEmperorHawkdoesn’t build small—Iknow that much from the storiesKlineused to tell me whenIwas a boy.Hesaid they make their homes where no sane creature could ever follow and line them with enough broken branches to house a family of mountain trolls.
He wasn’t exaggerating.
I spot the nest at last on the far side of a broken spire of stone—a massive tangle of weathered branches and mountain boughs wedged into a shelf of rock jutting out over open air.
