Leave now,Jildarin said.And do not threaten my bookkeeper again.
“Better than being called a servant,” Rylana muttered and lowered her bow, relieved that whatever battle fury Jildarin had felt must have faded. He sounded calm now.
The black dragon summoned her strength, sprang into the air, and flew off toward the south. Soon, Loxvonla and her sister disappeared from view.
Rylana walked into the charred meadow, smoke wafting up from what had been fresh dewy grass, and looked at the spot where the bags had rested. All trace of them was gone. And their contents… Here and there, powder was visible where smoke wafted up from the bare earth. It even glowed slightly. Of course. The spices were—had been—magical. Unfortunately, they were scattered too thinly to scrape up and use. And who knew what they would taste like after a dragon had breathed fire all over them?
“I’m sorry,” Rylana said as Jildarin approached, still in his dragon form. A few gashes had torn open his flanks, and one of the sisters had bitten his maw, leaving his snout bleeding, but there was no hitch to his step, no lopsided tilt to his wings. “I was hoping I could get them for you.”
I was not willing to trade my pride for the spices.Jildarin didn’t sound that disappointed. Maybe he’d figured from the beginning that it would be a long shot if he could get them from the sisters.I will win the competition without them,he added.
“I told you that you would.” Rylana smiled, as impressed by his battle prowess as the sisters had been, but she didn’t intend to bring up mating. She decided she liked his character too. All ofhim, really. By the gods, maybe Sylin was right. Maybe she was developing feelings for him. How silly.
Jildarin walked closer, muscles rippling under his moonlit scales.You fought with me.
“Not very effectively, I’m afraid. I would need magical arrows to do real damage against your kind—their kind.”
Yet you distracted one of the sisters so that I did not have to face both at once. That was advantageous for me.
“You might have been able to handle both at once. You’re… pretty special.” Rylana snorted at herself. Pretty special? Who said goofy things like that?
Jildarin gazed at her for a long moment, and heat flushed her cheeks.
Come,he finally said, not commenting on hisspecialness. I will take you back to the city, and then… Then I must prepare.
25
On the morningof the Golden Whisk, Rylana walked beside Jildarin as he led the way through the city to a venue she’d visited in her youth but didn’t remember well, the New God Arena. On a rocky rise overlooking the lake, tiers of worn stone benches offered a view of a field in front of a covered outdoor stage. In ancient times, when it had simply been called the Amphitheater, sporting events had taken place in that field. These days, in the summer months when the weather could usually be counted on to be nice, the arena hosted many outdoor plays, operas, and symphonies.
Rylana remembered how the music could be heard from across the lake, and she felt a twinge of nostalgia, reminded of being a child and playing outside along the shoreline with her brother and their friends. That was when Mother had still been alive and before they’d been burdened by the expectations from Father and their tutors.
“Your elven comrade is skulking along behind us,” Jildarin announced without looking back. His fingers strayed to the blackknife case he carried, though the blades were for mincing vegetables and cutting meat, not deflecting attacks from assassins.
Not that Sylin would attack him. If she was indeed back there—Rylana hadn’t spotted her but wasn’t surprised by Jildarin's announcement—she was coming for the entertainment value, not to ply her trade. Rylana didn’t doubt that Sylin would find a way into the venue without an invitation or ticket.
“She’s a natural skulker.” Rylana patted Jildarin's arm, the white sleeve of his chef’s coat covering his muscles. In addition to the knife case, he carried a leather bag that looked like a doctor’s medical kit but that housed his chosen spices, and he started to move it away from her, as if he worried she would prove she wasstill an enemy by swiping it, but then he relaxed his arm and left it between them. Maybe someday, he would stop being wary around her. “I believe the elves are still looking for her, so she’s not walking openly anywhere,” Rylana added so he wouldn’t worry that a rival had hired Sylin to go after him—or whatever was going through his mind.
“Ah. She will have weapons?”
“Tied with a tranquility ribbon, probably.”
“You did not bring your bow or your sword.” Jildarin looked at her as they turned onto a street that climbed toward the arena.
“I almost did, since I suspect Yerin will try something else, but you saw the peacekeepers tie new ribbons on when we got back to the city last night. There’s not much point in carrying weapons that can’t be used.”
“Even a bow with a ribbon may be swung as a staff.”
“You think I should have brought it to club your opponents?”
“Only if they attempt sabotage and I am too busy cooking to defend my pots.”
“You didn’t bring weapons to defend them with, did you? Other than the kitchen knives.”
As Rylana waved to Jildarin's case, she admitted the collection of blades inside could take down a small army. It was surprising the peacekeepers let him carry them around without a ribbon, but he wore his chef’s jacket and was a known competitor in the Golden Whisk—maybe the authorities had instructions to leave the contestants be.
That morning, theLumi Lake Chronicleshad featured a front-page article proclaiming that the competition would determine the city’s greatest chef. It had listed the names of the contestants and the diners and restaurants where they worked, though Jildarin's diner had been last and his write-up the shortest, saying only that he was a dragon with an indeterminate culinary pedigree. Yerin’s name hadn’t been on the byline, but Rylana had a feeling he’d been a part of putting it together.
“A dragonisa weapon,” Jildarin said.
