What have to be newer battle sites are marked with an alarming number of bright red and orange flags. The red ones mar not only the oceanic eastern border of the Krovlan province along the Bay of Malek but are heavily concentrated north into the plains as well, spreading like a disease, even infecting dots of Cygnisen. But the orange ones, those are heavily concentrated along the Stonewater River, which leads straight to Navarre’s border.
“So the fables are all true. Venin coming out of the Barrens, sucking the land dry of magic, moving city to city.”
“You’ve seen it with your own eyes.” He moves to my side.
“And the wyvern?”
“We’ve known about them for a few months, but none of the cadets did. Until now, we’ve limited what Riorson and the others have known for their own safety, which in retrospect may have been a mistake. We know they have at least two breeds, one that produces blue fire and a faster one that breathes green fire.”
“How many?” I ask him. “Where are they making them?”
“Do you mean hatching them?”
“Making,” I repeat. “Don’t you remember the fables Dad used to read to us? They said wyvern are created by venin. They channel power into wyvern. I think that’s why riderless ones died when I killed their dark wielders. Their source of power was gone.”
“You remember all of that from Dad reading?” He glances at me, bewildered.
“I still have the book.” It’s a good thing Xaden warded my room at Basgiath so no one will discover it while we’re here. “Are you telling me you not only didn’t know they’re created but have no clue where they’re coming from?”
“That’s…accurate.”
“How comforting,” I mutter as electricity prickles my skin. I shake my hands, pacing in front of the large map. The orange flags are awfully close to Zolya, the second most populous city in Braevick, and where Cliffsbane, their flier academy, is located. “The one with the silver beard said we have a year to turn it around?”
“Felix. He’s the most rational of the Assembly, but personally I think he’s wrong.” Brennan waves his hand in the air in a general outline of Braevick’s border with the Barrens along the Dunness River. “The red flags are all from the last few years, and the orange are the last few months. At the rate they’ve been expanding, not only in their numbers of wyvern, but in territory? I think they’re headed straight up the Stonewater River and we have six months or less until they’re strong enough to come for Navarre—not that the Assembly will listen.”
Six months. I swallow the bile fighting to rise in my throat. Brennan was always a brilliant strategist, according to our mother. My bet is on his assessment. “The general pattern is moving northwest—toward Navarre. Resson is the exception, along with whatever that flag is—” I point to the one that looks to be an hour’s flight east of Resson.
The desiccated landscape around what had been a thriving trading post flashes in my memory. Those flags are more than outliers; they’re twin splotches of orange in an otherwise untouched area.
“We think the iron box Garrick Tavis found at Resson is some kind of lure, but we had to destroy it before we could fully investigate. A box like it was found in Jahna, already smashed.” He glances my way. “But the craftsmanship is Navarrian.”
I absorb that information with a long breath, wondering what reason Navarre would have to build lures besides using one to kill us in Resson. “You really think they’ll come for Navarre before taking the rest of Poromiel?” Why not take the easier targets first?
“I do. Their survival depends on it as much as ours depends on stopping them. The energy in the hatching grounds at Basgiath could keep them fed for decades. And yet Melgren thinks the wards are so infallible that he won’t alert the population. Or he’s afraid that telling the public will make them realize we aren’t entirely the good guys. Not anymore. Fen’s rebellion taught leadership it’s a lot easier to control happy civilians than disgruntled—or worse, terrified— ones.”
“And yet they manage to keep the truth hidden,” I whisper. Sometime in our past, one generation of Navarrians wiped the history books, erasing the existence of venin from common education and knowledge, all because we aren’t willing to risk our own safety by providing the one material that can kill dark wielders—the same alloy that powers the farthest reaches of our wards.
“Yeah, well, Dad always tried to tell us.” Brennan’s voice softens. “In a world of dragon riders, gryphon fliers, and dark wielders…”
“It’s the scribes who hold all the power.” They put out the public announcements. They keep the records. They write our history. “Do you think Dad knew?” The idea of him structuring my entire existence around facts and knowledge, only to withhold the most important of it, is unfathomable.
“I choose to believe he didn’t.” Brennan offers me a sad smile.
“Word will get out the closer those forces come to the border. They can’t keep the truth hidden. Someone will see. Someone has to see.”
“Yes, and our revolution has to be ready when they do. The second the secret is out, there’s no reason to keep the marked ones under supervision of leadership, and we’ll lose access to Basgiath’s forge.”
There’s that word again: revolution.
“You think you can win.”
“What makes you say that?” He turns toward me.
“You call it a revolution, not a rebellion.” I lift my brow. “Tyrrish isn’t the only thing Dad taught us both. You think you can win—unlike Fen Riorson.”
“We have to win, or we’re dead. All of us. Navarre thinks they’re safe behind the wards, but what happens if the wards fail? If they’re not as powerful as leadership thinks they are? They’re already extended to their max. Not to mention the people living outside the wards. One way or another, we’re outmatched, Vi. We’ve never seen them organize behind a leader like they did at Resson, and Garrick told us that one got away.”
“The Sage.” I shudder, wrapping my arms around my middle. “That’s what the one who stabbed me called him. I think he was her teacher.”
“They’re teaching each other? Like they’ve set up some sort of school for venin? Fucking great.” He shakes his head.
“And you’re not behind the wards,” I note. “Not here.” The protective magical shield provided by the dragons’ hatching grounds in the Vale falls short of the official, mountainous borders of Navarre, and the entire southwestern coastline of Tyrrendor—including Aretia—is exposed. A fact that never quite mattered when we thought gryphons were the only danger out there, since they’re incapable of flying high enough to summit the cliffs.
“Not here,” he agrees. “Though funnily enough, Aretia has a dormant wardstone. At least, I think that’s what it is. I was never let close enough to Basgiath’s to compare the two in any detail.”
My eyebrows rise. A second wardstone? “I thought only one was created during the Unification.”