Jess eyed the massive beast with blazing red eyes and enormous wings. “I'm not getting on that!” Chynne certainly made an imposing overgrown flying lizard.
“Might I remind you I am not athat?” Chynne snipped. “If you wish to help Pieravor, you must come with me.”
“You can stay here, Jess,” Saris assured her. “You don't have to come. I'm sure we can handle things.”
Jess puffed out her chest. “Piers is in trouble. I'm coming.” She deflated. “Is there a magical equivalent of Xanax? I kinda”—she scrubbed the toe of her boot in the dirt— “don't like heights.”
“What is a Xanax?” Chynne asked.
At the same time, Saris asked, “You don't like heights?”
Well, damn. If Xanax allowed Jess to get over her fear long enough to help Piers, Wycke would try conjuring some himself. “Something that’ll leave her aware we’re flying but make her not care.” Or so Wycke overheard in a club once; paraphrased, of course.
Two mages approached; arms filled with bundled leather. A third carried something long, concealed in a blanket. “Lord Aberfrer,” the first said, “we found them. They're old.” He eyed Chynne warily. “No one has seen a dragon in Dhugach in generations, let alone ridden one.”
Aberfrer began lifting tunics and breeches from the mages. “Your Majesty”—he handed what appeared to be a human-realm jacket to Saris, who nearly buckled under the weight— “these belonged to a long-ago queen, preserved by spells. Not only will these garments keep you warm in our travels, but also offer protection against minor enchantments and blades.”
One by one, he outfitted Saris, Jess, and Wycke in leather jackets, breeches, and tall over-the-knee boots.
Jess stared at hers, mouth hanging open, then she grinned. “Wicked!”
“Yes?” Wycke asked.
“Oh, not you, Wicked.” Jess held up the clothes. “These are wicked.” To Aberfrer, she said, “Just so we’re clear, you're not getting these back.”
Aberfrer’s eyes nearly disappeared in the wilderness of his bushy eyebrows on the upward swing of his eye roll.
Saris and Jess helped each other dress, commenting all the while about braid work on the sleeves and Jess suggesting the addition of zippers. Aberfrer conjured a tent to protect their modesty. Jess? Modesty? Wycke barely knew her but already figured out “Jess” and “modest” weren't well acquainted.
Especially not after she’d lifted her shirt to show her back in the cells.
Wycke managed by himself, not caring who saw what. Many of the guards were already well acquainted with his bare ass, and a few whistled as he stripped off his old clothes and put on the new. Besides, every moment he took was one moment longer to get to Piers.
For all the garments were ancient, they kept a fresh-leather smell and were as supple as a well-worn glove. Like Wycke’s wristband, the clothing adjusted to fit his body. He turned to Aberfrer, now wearing purple robes. “You're not wearing these?”
“My robes are spelled to keep me protected.” Aberfrer unwrapped the blanket from around a long object. A sword and scabbard. “Since you don't have a suitable grasp on your magic yet, I'd go with brute force.”
Good thing, since Wycke had hidden his old guard’s sword back in his former bedroom in Myrgren castle.
But wait! “My magi…” Wycke's mouth dropped open. How had Aberfrer… Yeah. Not a good idea to use even the faintest hint of magic around a man who’d made magic his life’s work.
Aberfrer smiled, dropping the lid over one eye in a knowing wink. “Give an old sorcerer some credit. If your magics weren't compatible, you couldn't have bonded with Pieravor Gimitri.”
Before Wycke managed a reply, the women stepped from the tent, fully dressed in matching leather. Aberfrer said, “We must depart.”
About damned time! Though Wycke had to admit, Saris and Jess looked badass.
Chynne lowered a wing to the ground. “Me first!” Jess hollered, racing up the wing and perching between two prominent ridges on his neck.
“Did she forget her fear of heights?” Wycke asked Chynne.
“I think I might have gone a bit too far with the magical Xanax,” Chynne said. “I've seen her drunk. I worried she might have a high tolerance.”
Wycke had witnessed Jess drunk too. Not a pretty sight.
Saris scrambled on after Jess, Wycke after Saris, and Aberfrer last, settling between Chynne’s back ridges. Aberfrer waved a hand. A sensation of being wrapped in a cozy blanket surrounded Wycke. “To keep us on this beastie's back,” Aberfrer explained.
“I am not a beastie,” Chynne growled, then studied the guards, who’d gotten bolder and crowded around. “Or rather, only when I’m hungry.” The guards instantly retreated, forming a loose circle around them—close enough to watch, not close enough to get eaten.
