Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

Deep in my heart, I make a vow—a bone-oath of my own, that even if he’s gone, I will remain his for the rest of my life. I’ll see him everywhere—in the brightness of the sun, the flicker of firelight, the smoke from chimneys, the clouds of a thunderstorm, the blackness of night, the steam from a cup of tea. Sometimes it will hurt, and other times it will make me smile, like seeing the face of an old friend.

“Kyreagan.” I breathe his name into the quiet evening air, sealing the promise. It suffuses my heart with a mystical peace, even though my pulse is racing with the fear that at any moment, my absence will be discovered and Rahzien’s soldiers will drag me back to the room I left. If the King catches me, I’ll be punished again—no doubt of it. I’m starting to wish I’d stayed put, rather than risk the keen lash of his tongue, cleaving my heart into bloody slivers. I fear his words more than I fear physical violence from him.

Ondette returns with one of the stable-boys at her elbow—Callim, the one who glared with such fury at the Vohrainians as I was loaded into the carriage.

“Go with him,” Ondette says, low. “He’ll get you out of the palace. Then go to the Snarling Hound tavern on Rivenlee Road, near the south gate, and ask for Ambert. He can take you out of the city tomorrow.” She squeezes my hand briefly. “Fortune follow you.”

“Burn the blanket I left in your room,” I tell her. “Let no one know you helped me.”

She nods, and I hurry away with Callim.

He guides me behind a bristly hedgerow to the back of the stables, where sits a small cart half full of garbage and horse-shit. A donkey stands in the harness, flicking its ears to startle away the flies.

“It’s the only way,” mutters Callim, gesturing to the cart. “I’m sorry, Princess.”

“I’m supposed to climb in there?” I ask.

He grimaces. “Yes.”

“It’s not a problem.” I almost laugh. He has no idea that I’ve pissed in a dragon’s nest, smeared myself in dragon-shit to conceal my scent from my captor, and pushed dragon eggs out of my vagina. I do what I must to survive.

While I stare anxiously up at the towers looming above us, Callim uses a shovel to create a hollow in the mess of garbage and offal. Then he lays a ragged piece of canvas in the hollow. I climb onto it, and he wraps me in the canvas from head to toe, leaving space for my mouth so I can breathe. At least I’m somewhat protected from the shit, though the stench makes my eyes water. I breathe shallowly through my teeth, praying that I won’t vomit.

Callim shovels more filth on top of my canvas-wrapped body, then arranges half-rotted vegetables and lawn trimmings over my face, leaving a gap for air. With the gloom of evening and the stench of the cart, it’s doubtful anyone would look closely enough to see the lower half of my face.

At a click of the boy’s tongue, the donkey starts walking, and the cart trundles over the cobbles. I close my eyes and focus on breathing just enough to stay alive and conscious. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up.

It takes ages to reach the offal gate, but once we arrive, the guards let us pass without incident. A few gruff words, and we’re rolling through, toward Murkmouth Square, where Callim is supposed to offload his cart into a larger one that will leave the city in the morning.

I lie still until the cart stops again. The shovel thunks into the manure beside me, and after removing a few scoops of garbage, Callim hisses, “Now.”

I surge up, rotted vegetables and straw-studded clumps of manure rolling off me. I scramble out of the cart, keeping as low as I can, and run bent over under my cloak, toward the nearest alley. The stable-boy parked near the edge of Murkmouth Square, so it’s not far.

In the darkness of the alley I pause and inhale great lungfuls of the comparatively fresh air while I mentally map out my route to the southern wall, to Rivenlee Road. If I take it slow and stick to less-traveled streets, it’ll take me a couple hours, maybe a little longer. It would be so much faster on horseback, or by carriage. But I have no way to secure such transportation, so I set off on foot.

Shortly after I leave Murkmouth Square, two women pass me. One coughs and chokes at the lingering fumes of manure trailing from my cloak. It’s just as well—my odor will encourage people to keep their distance and not ask questions. I pull my hood lower over my face and stick to the gloomy dark, avoiding the circles of light cast by the gaslamps along each street.

Vohrainian soldiers patrol the city in pairs or groups of four, so I make sure to give them a wide berth. Lucky for me, they seem more interested in harassing attractive women heading home from their day’s work. They don’t seem interested in hooded waifs who reek of the stables.

The foul stench from my clothing and my hands curdles my stomach until I have to stop in an alley and retch up bile. I don’t dare leave my cloak behind, despite its smell, but I find a bucket beneath a drain pipe and rinse my hands and face in the rainwater before moving on.

During the next hour, my stomach pain worsens, as if I swallowed a bag of razor blades and they’re twisting deeper into my gut. My head aches, too, like nails being hammered behind my eyes. I duck into another alley and vomit again, behind a rain barrel. Gasping, I cling to its edge, my back and chest slick with sweat.

After a few minutes I keep walking, refusing to believe what my body is telling me. If I truly am poisoned, and I can’t go far from Rahzien without falling ill, it means he wasn’t lying about having a skilled poisoner in his service. Not just any poisoner—one with magic, who can design the cruelest, most twisted types of poison. Which also means that what he told me about the death of the dragons is probably true as well… and I can’t accept that.

So I stagger on, clinging to brick walls and storm shutters and window boxes to keep myself upright. Forcing one foot in front of the other.

Night has truly fallen now. I’m ignored by the guards. They probably think I’m one of the drunkards who haunt the city during the late hours.

I don’t remember exactly where I am, or where I’m going. My head reels, and I barely manage to round the corner of the next building before I fall headlong into a puddle of brackish rainwater. My stomach clenches, and a raw retch breaks from my throat, echoing in the alley. I can taste blood on my tongue. Something warm trickles from my left ear.

Wings rustle and flap somewhere overhead, and for a moment my dizzy mind brightens with hope. But the creature that lands near me isn’t a dragon, only a bird. A small hawk with a white-and-brown-flecked breast and glowing red eyes.

That’s not possible. Birds’ eyes don’t glow red. I must be hallucinating.

The bird cocks its head and hops closer to my face. “Found you,” it croaks.

Now I know I’m hallucinating. Birds can’t talk.