Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(64)

27




DAELLA





M abel’s words followed me all the way into the forest. I’d wondered why so few had put themselves forward for the Midsummer Games, when such a prize was within reach. None of them knew what Rivelin would ask of the island. He could never tell them, but they trusted he’d make the right choice. They believed he would find the perfect words to protect them from the empire.

And they were right to put their faith in him. He would do it.

If I had my way, I’d steal it all away from them. Or I would have, when I’d first arrived here. I didn’t think I could do it anymore, even if it meant I would never taste freedom again. Perhaps there was another option, but I didn’t see a way out of this.

“You’re quiet,” Rivelin said as we walked along the trail that wound east through the Ashborn Forest. A marvelous collection of trees stood like silent sentinels all around us. Redwoods with their brilliant rusty bark were interspersed with oaks and big leaf maples, forming a lush canopy overhead. Rabbits scampered by, along with red-bellied newts. Everywhere I looked, there was life.

Isveig hated life, and magic, and the elements themselves—except for the kind that thrived in the frosty wilds.

“I’m just thinking. It won’t be long before I must return to Fafnir.”

Rivelin glanced at me sharply. “You have a couple weeks yet, and we’ll find a way to free you before then.”

“If the fire didn’t work, nothing will.”

“I haven’t looked through all the tomes in the Archive,” he tried.

But I knew time was running out.

We continued to search for any sign of Gregor, venturing deeper into the forest. The day passed quickly, and soon, the haze of dusk began to creep through the dense trees. After taking a break to feast on one of Mabel’s mouthwatering pasties, I broached the idea that we should turn back.

“I don’t think we’re going to find him out here, at least not today,” I said quietly from my perch on a fallen log. I brushed the crumbs from my trousers and stood. “By the time we get back, it’ll be dark.”

Rivelin braced his forearms on his knees and frowned. “He can’t have just vanished.”

“Perhaps he stole the swords and went north to one of the other villages. He could do what you thought I would and pawn them off for a bit of coin. That could be all this is, instead of some plot for revenge.”

“That seems unlikely,” he said.

“Well, he’s not out here, so we should get back. We can’t protect the village if we spend the night in the forest.”

For a moment, I thought he might argue. Rivelin was a very stubborn elf, I’d discovered. It made sense with everything else I’d learned about him. He had decided on his role in life and he refused to waver from it. In his mind, if he bent he might break. If I wanted to reach him, I had to do so in terms he would understand.

“We need to get started on the next trial for the Midsummer Games,” I said. “If we don’t win this one, Viggo’s lead will be impossible to erase. And Isveig is far more of a threat than Gregor.”

He looked up. “You’re right.”

Just as he stood to go, a screech echoed through the skies above. A thunderous boom soon followed, like the heavy beating of a war drum. The trees quaked in response, their rustling branches raining leaves all around us.

My heart jolted in my chest. “What is that, Rivelin?”

“A dragon,” he murmured with a hint of confusion in his voice. “But I don’t know why they’d be here. They only leave their cave to hunt at night, and they rarely venture far from the mountains.”

Still, the dragons—or at least one of them—were very much here. The trees above seemed to spread wide, like the pages of a book fanning open. A red-scaled dragon swooped low and landed on the ground just before me. Hot air blasted into my face.

Sulphur and spice and saltwater. Hints of leather and dust.

The scent of the dragon consumed me, choking the breath from my lungs. I stumbled forward and fell to one knee before the creature. Its leathery snout inched toward me and sniffed. Even though it was bound, my hair whipped my face and neck, stinging my skin.

“Aska,” Rivelin murmured from somewhere nearby. “Stay back. This is Daella. She will not harm you.”

I glanced up sharply. The dragon was so close now I could see the varying shades of red on its scales and the reflection of my own face in its bulbous orange eyes, along with the sharp points of every tusk along its wings and the wicked teeth that were larger than my head. I could smell the smoke and fire and the overwhelming power that seemed to pulse from its skin. A tremor went through me.

I swallowed and managed to find my voice to say, “Aska? That’s its name?”

“Her name, yes,” Rivelin said, though he sounded more tense than I’d ever heard him, almost as if he wasn’t convinced these dragons were as harmless as he’d told me. “The others are Eldi, Reykur, and Hita.”

How odd. Those were orcish names.

“And why is she here?” I whispered.

A pause. “I do not know.”

That was not particularly reassuring, nor did I breathe even when the dragon relaxed onto her haunches and neatly folded her leathery wings against her back. She blinked at me, then sniffed again, cocking her head.