James Wyatt - Storm dragon

“The censure of House Lyrandar means little to Arnoth.”

“And what about you, Lady?” he whispered, uncomfortably close now. She could feel him behind her.

Rienne stepped forward and whirled on him again, resting a hand on the hilt of a dagger in her belt as she did so. “What about me, Sentinel Marshal?”

“You were engaged to be married. Gaven has been in Dread-hold for twenty-six years, and you have not married anyone else. Might love be blinding you as well?”

“My marriage to Gaven would have been advantageous both to my family and to House Lyrandar. It was a political allegiance. After Gaven’s arrest, my value in such a bargain diminished significantly. House Lyrandar has made other alliances with other noble families, and the ir’Alastras have waned in influence. Surely you, a scion of House Deneith, can appreciate what is involved in such an alliance.”

Evlan raised his palms as if to deflect the force of her anger. “I married a woman I loved.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky?”

Evlan met her glare and held it for a long moment. “Very well,” he said at last. “If you hear from Gaven, please contact me immediately. I don’t imagine that I need to remind you of the consequences if you do not.”

“I would hate to imagine that a Sentinel Marshal is leveling petty threats at a member of Aundair’s nobility, however much my family’s influence has fallen.”

“Farewell, Lady.” Evlan turned and strode out of the hall.

Rienne watched his back until the servants had ushered him out the front door and closed it behind him. Only when she heard the satisfying slam of the door did she turn and run to her chambers.

Bordan looked up through the shattered ceiling of Dreadhold’s tower to the dazzling arc of the Ring of Siberys overhead. He tried to imagine the force it must have taken to break through the thick stone, the size and sheer strength of the dragon that had done it. Blinking several times to clear the dust and drowsiness from his eyes, he set a thick sheaf of papers down on the bed beside him and stood up to stretch his back.

He walked around Gaven’s tiny cell, reading whatever words his eyes fell on, hoping that something would leap out at him that would help him understand. He could certainly see why so many people thought Gaven was at least halfway across the Sea of Rage, practically lost to madness. Disjointed fragments full of strange imagery and obscure descriptions covered the walls. Bordan had been wrestling for hours with numbers: twice thirteen years, the first of sixteen, shards of three dragons, thirteen cycles of the Battleground, nineteen turns of the thirteenth moon.

The thirteenth moon? Bordan thought. To the best of his knowledge, there were only twelve. And he could only guess at references for most of the rest of these numbers.

His eyes fell on a scrap of writing at his eye level, and he read the words aloud. “The cauldron of the thirteen dragons boils until one of the five beasts fighting over a single bone becomes a thing of desolation.” Bordan stroked his beard. “Very well, Gaven, let’s play this game. Five beasts fighting over a single bone-is that your code for the Five Nations? Are we talking about the Last War here? And Cyre, bless it, has become a thing of desolation. So Galifar is the boiling cauldron of the thirteen dragons? It’s a boiling cauldron because of the war. Thirteen dragons-thirteen dragonmarked houses!”

He looked up at the Ring of Siberys again. “But there were only twelve dragons before House Phiarlan split, Gaven. Is that why you conspired against them? Did you orchestrate the schism so there would be thirteen dragons and your precious Prophecy would make sense?”

He looked around the room again, at all the writing on the walls, the rubble on the floor, the crack in the ceiling through which Gaven, formerly of House Lyrandar, had escaped.

“So your Prophecy would come true?”

The Aerenal jungle teemed with life. Even discounting the insects that swarmed around them, the sounds of movement were everywhere-gibbons leaping through the canopy overhead and whooping at each other, the hiss of an emerald-scaled snake coiled around a nearby branch, the harsh cries and elaborate songs of a dozen different birds. More alarming, something large rustled in the undergrowth not far enough away, off to Gaven’s right.

“Welcome to Aerenal,” Haldren announced. He swept his arm grandly around him, taking in the jungle, then pointed behind Gaven. “The City of the Dead lies in the valley in that direction.”

“The City of the Dead?” Darraun paled, but Haldren ignored him, shouldering past Gaven to walk in the direction he’d indicated.

Gaven followed, falling into step beside Cart. Senya slipped between them as she hurried to catch up to Haldren, and Darraun brought up the rear, grumbling to himself. Gaven saw a clump of ferns shake slightly, opposite where he’d heard the rustling a moment before. Without thinking, he reached over his shoulder to where his sword should have been, and cursed softly when his hand met only empty air.

“What is it, Gaven?” Cart said, slowing his pace. “Did you see something?”

Senya darted forward, shouting, “Haldren, look-” Another rustle in the undergrowth, then a creature collided with Haldren, knocking him to the ground. It was covered in sable fur like a panther and resembled a cat in its general form-a cat the size of a horse. Two long tentacles arced up from its shoulders, trying to rake at Haldren’s flesh even as it clawed him with six feet and bared long fangs. Gaven found that looking at it was like peering through a curved glass-it seemed to shift position without moving.

Haldren did not cry out or make any exclamation. Calm and sure, he chanted a few words of power that grew in volume until they became a thunderous shout that blasted the beast off him, sending it sprawling on its back. As Haldren got to his feet-a little unsteadily, Gaven noticed-the beast flailed its six legs in the air for a moment before managing to right itself. Senya had already reached it and swung her sword toward its head in what should have been a deadly blow, but her weapon failed to connect. To all appearances, it passed right through the creature’s head.

Cart took up a position between Haldren and the beast, waiting in case it threatened his commander again. Darraun produced a slender wand from his belt and reached toward Haldren, working magic to stanch the bleeding. For a moment, Gaven thought about running-getting as far away from Haldren and his team as he possibly could, and making his way on his own. Then he saw the rest of the beast’s pack emerge from the ferns, forming a wide circle around them. He cast his eyes around for a branch or even a stone he could use as a weapon, but then the beasts closed the circle. One pounced at him, rearing up to plant its front paws on his shoulders, trying to knock him down. Gaven planted his feet and stayed upright, raising his hands to grab the thing’s head just as it tried to bite at his neck. Its middle pair of legs tried to tear at his chest and sides, but it couldn’t quite reach him.

His dragonmark was burning. The shadows around him deepened, and the sky grew dark. Gaven growled with the effort of wrestling the beast, and a rumble of thunder rolled overhead. He felt disconnected from the struggle-he was in the storm brewing in the sky, looking down at his tiny form far below-and the storm brewed in his blood. Lightning flashed in the clouds above, and Gaven felt it jolt across the Mark of Storm on his chest.

The beast’s tentacles bludgeoned his back, but he barely noticed. His hands held its jaws open and twisted its neck around. With another rumble of thunder overhead, he snapped its neck and roared as he threw its corpse away.