Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

I clear my throat and swipe the back of my hand across my eyes. If I had a cloak now, it would come in handy for drying my tears.

“I already liked the Princess before the war,” says Aeris quietly. “But after watching you do all this for her—she must be even more special than I thought.”

Her tone is usually sharp and sardonic, and it’s strange to hear her speak softly. It weakens, dissolves, and disarms me.

“She sat with me in my grief,” I confess. “She should have hated me, and yet her heart was so full of empathy and compassion that she couldn’t. She helped me find empathy, too. Bared her heart and her body to me. She birthed my children.”

“Oh shit,” breathes Aeris. “But… how?”

“The spell that changed me also enabled the synthesis of our reproductive cycles into something entirely new. From my seed, she laid two eggs. Their emergence did not harm her, but she was weary when Fortunix took her from me. I had almost forgotten him in my need to reclaim her.” My voice hardens with new purpose. “When she is safe and Rahzien is dead, I must kill Fortunix, too.”

“Sorry, I’m still stuck on ‘seed’ and ‘egg-laying,’” gulps Aeris. “Fucking weird shit happens on your island, eh?”

“That’s fair to say.” I give her a half-smile.

She has many questions about Thelise’s spell, and though I don’t have all the answers, I do my best to give thorough replies. For once, I’m grateful for the human propensity for conversation, as it makes the time pass more quickly until the forest ends, and across the fields I see the outlying buildings and high walls of a city whose shape will be forever seared in my memory—the capital of Elekstan.

This is where I came when the memory of my sister’s death was fresh and bleeding. This is where I first saw Serylla, standing atop that tower, gripping the giant crossbow, aiming it at me. She looked so tiny and fierce, with her pink skirts whipping around her and her bright golden hair streaming in the wind. Something linked us from that first look, a cord tied between her soul and mine, drawing me toward her even as she trained that arrow on my heart. The arrow itself may have missed, but I was doomed to love her from that moment.

We leave the donkeys in a trampled field studded with wooden posts—hitching posts, as Meridian calls them. One of the rebels stays behind to watch the animals, while three others, including Aeris, leave us and go their own way.

“Will they be punished if they’re caught?” I ask Meridian.

“They won’t be caught,” he says cheerfully, adjusting his broad hat. “Come on, lads.”

We wind through streets lined with human houses, built shoulder to shoulder in slightly crooked rows. It’s like marching along a roofless tunnel, being channeled toward some sinister destination. Now and then a window or a door bangs open, or someone shouts in rebuke or greeting.

I’m not used to being this size, enduring the suddenness and volume of human life on this level. I prefer soaring above such buildings, knowing that I could demolish them and their owners within seconds. I don’t like being small, without my scaly armor or my fire, attacked on every side by the voices and jostling shoulders of passersby, all hurrying in the same direction.

“Lots of neighborhoods like this,” comments Meridian. “Folks who work in the city, but can’t afford to live within the walls. It’s quiet for a market day.”

“Quiet?” I snort.

“There’s such life here,” Hinarax says. “Do you feel the energy? The intensity?”

“It’s called ‘the drive to survive after a wretched fucking war,’” says Meridian dryly. “Here we are. The Outer Market.”

The street along which we’re traveling empties into a broad space paved with lumpy cobblestones. During our alliance with Vohrain, I saw many streets and squares with such rocky surfaces. I like them. There’s room to land, and the stone is familiar. Unfortunately this square is crowded with booths, tables, and tents, a bit like the market we visited on the coast, except on a much grander scale. If the tiny coastal market was a puddle, this one would be a lake.

At the far end of the market, across the colorful tops of the tents, beyond the pennants snapping in the brisk breeze, I spot the gates of the city.

“The gates are open.” I point out, and Meridian nods.

“Open, yes, but there’s a blockade and a checkpoint,” he replies in a low voice. “No one enters without the proper identity papers and either a tradesperson’s day pass, a residence permit, or foreign dignitary documents, properly sealed. We’ll get there soon enough. Now let’s do some shopping. Mind your disguises. Keep your wigs and beards on straight.”

“No problem there.” I wince, feeling the tug of the glue the wig-maker applied to keep my false beard in place. In human form, my hair doesn’t seem to grow. I still have no stubble along my jaw, and the light dusting of hair across my chest never seems to thicken. Another strange effect of the spell Thelise cast—one that sets me apart from human males, who apparently must groom their hair if they wish to keep it under control. I’ve seen Meridian shaving his face meticulously, as well as trimming the hair of his chest and underarms. Odrash, on the other hand, is the hairiest man I’ve ever seen. His entire back is coated with dark hair, just like his chest and stomach. Hair even sprouts from his shoulders.

Human hair has always fascinated me. I used to find its placement extremely odd, but now, as I follow Meridian and Hinarax into the market, I’m fascinated by all its colors and textures, by the vast array of styles and ornaments. Hair seems to be an extension of a human’s personality—part of their being, an expression of themselves. A way of blending in or being noticed.

Today, I’m dedicated to blending in. As I watch other men walking through the market, my own walk becomes easier, less studied. Voices swirl around me—the low mutters of hurried conversation, strident cries from sellers at their booths, peals of raucous laughter… And then, in the midst of it all, a tiny voice crying.

My attention snaps to the source—a young man with a bundle strapped to his chest. Not a bundle—a baby. As I watch, he absently pats the infant’s back with one hand while correcting the trajectory of a second child, an older one who toddles at his side.

It strikes me like a bolt of lightning from the Mordvorren itself—that my children, once they hatch, will not only be dragons, but babies.

I can’t take care of such miniscule humans alone. What if I accidentally hurt them when I’m in dragon form? According to Thelise, they won’t shift into humans for the first time until they’re six months old, but even with that delay, the thought of raising them myself is terrifying. I won’t know what they need, or what instruction they require at different phases of life. Only with Serylla’s help can I ever hope to navigate the unknown skies of their childhood.

My boot hits a jutting cobblestone and I nearly fall, my shoulder bumping against a broad back. The man turns around. He and his two companions wear uniforms of smoky blue, their faces concealed by metal helmets with skeletal jaws. I’ve seen those uniforms and those helmets many times.