Drogan, his enemy.
It only took him a few days to make arrangements and tell the appropriate lies.
He informed the Zenith that his wife’s advancing pregnancy required his presence at home and he would not be receiving petitioners for a few days, so the Zenith temporarily assigned another gargoyle to staff the Nadir’s desk.
He convinced Hannalinde that he was staying with his parents because the Zenith had assigned him a sensitive matter requiring several long nights’ work in the Tower. She accepted his explanation along with his assurances that he would return in time for the birth.
He told his parents that he and Hannalinde were enjoying some time alone together before the baby came. The lies were clean and contradictory, each audience hearing only its own version, and the gap between them was wide enough to fly through.
Flying.That was the critical component of his plan.
He stood on the balcony of Rose House in the hour after midnight and unbound his wings.
The healed membranes caught the wind and pulled taut. Five years since he’d felt that. Five years of climbing ladders and looking up at a stolen sky.
The wings felt stiff and fragile, like paper. Though he’d been exercising to rebuild their strength, he wasn’t sure they could carry him.
There was only one way to find out. He dove off the railing.
The drop lasted two heartbeats. Then his wings caught an updraft, the membranes held, and the city lights grew small as stars.
Heflew.
Ugly. Graceless. Muscles he hadn’t used in years burned with the agony of resurrection. But he didn’t care. Flying was flying.
He headed north, staying high to avoid detection, and the tears that streaked his face were stolen by the wind before they reached his jaw. This was an ugly errand, but he would have no time for tears once he reached his destination.
He flew at a pace that wouldn’t strain the new membranes, barely making it in time to find a safe roost before dawn. All day, he watched the herds of deer and wild sheep on their wanderings as they sought good grazing and fresh water. And when dusk fell, he ignored his own hunger and circled above the hunting lands like a vulture, looking for Drogan’s camp.
It was easy to find in the foothills. Drogan and Lucan had built a large fire in a clearing to roast their kill from the previous night. They were carousing with a flagon of mead while they waited for it to cook. Rikard silently landed in a tree a hundred yards downwind, folded his wings against his back, and waited.
As he anticipated, Lucan departed after eating, no doubt heading to find someone warm and willing. Even in exile from his responsibilities, Lucan’s appetites kept their schedule.
Drogan sat alone by the fire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone. The rhythmic scrape carried through the still air. His broad shoulders hunched over his work, his long horns throwing shadows like spears across the ground. He looked like what he was: a powerful hunter designed to kill. But this time, the hunter was the prey.
Rikard dropped down from the tree and walked into the firelight.
Drogan’s blade stopped mid-stroke. His head came up, and the expression that crossed his face moved through three stages in the space of a breath: shock, confusion, and then a warmth so genuine it nearly buckled Rikard’s resolve.
“Rikard.” Drogan stood. “How did you get here? Did Bastien carry you?”
“I made my own way.”
“On foot?” Drogan shook his head, the disbelief softening into admiration, the respect of one soldier for another’s determination. “It must have taken you days.”
Rikard let the assumption stand. “I needed to talk to you.”
“You look different.” Drogan studied him with the appraising eye of someone who’d known him since they were hatchlings. “Have you finally gotten rid of the human? I told you it was ill-considered.”
The words were a door opening, and Rikard stepped through it. “Tell me what you think of her. My wife.”
Drogan shrugged. “I understand your base impulse. You needed an heir, and a human vessel seemed like a convenient way to get one.” He resumed sharpening his knife, the blade scraping in long, even strokes. “My advice? Once the child is born, set her aside. She’s worthless to you once she’s birthed the hatchling.”
“Do you object to her because she’s human or because she’s a Lamont?”
Drogan’s blade paused. A fraction of a second, no more. “I’d say the same of any human, but you know what the Lamont name cost me.”
At least he did not pretend that he was unaware who she was. “Hanna had nothing to do with that. It was her father’s treachery, not hers.”
