Acting on instinct, Sardovian soldiers scrambled for their weapons and took defensive positions all along the decks. Talasyn splayed her fingers, ready to spin whatever she would need out of light and aether. But it wasn’t long before it became obvious that no crossbow or blade—perhaps not even the Lightweave—would do much good.
A winding shape unfurled in the mists to the north. It easily dwarfed the Summerwind, was longer even than the Nautilus. It was a serpentine creature covered in barnacle-encrusted sapphire-blue scales, with two forelimbs that bore wickedly curved claws the color of steel. The swift roll of its slithering caused its massive spine to form mountains that collapsed into themselves and took new shape in the next breath. Propelled on a pair of leathery wings that spread out to cast vast shadows over the world, it flew closer with alarming speed, and the sunrise washed over it as it sliced through the fog and circled overhead.
The beast’s head was crocodilian, its snout draped in slender whisker-like barbels that twitched as though trawling the wind currents. Narrowing its rust-colored and star-pocked eyes at the gawking Sardovians, it unhinged its great jaw wide, revealing two rows of sharp, sharp teeth, and it emitted another roar. Talasyn’s flesh broke out in a million goosebumps—and then a second such creature erupted from the surface of the Eversea.
This one had blood-red scales instead of blue, glistening wet and dripping with seaweed tendrils. It shot into the air, sending up an eruption of salt water so immense that it drenched the passengers closest to the Summerwind’s railings. It joined its fellow in sweeping wide arcs across the sky in a dance of lethal grace. The dawn air swelled with the scents of plankton and overturned seabed, of the rotten wood of shipwrecks and the soft things that lived and died in them, there in the black depths where sunlight couldn’t reach.
Bieshimma’s disbelieving tone cut through the stunned stillness suffusing the quarterdeck. “I guess that Nenavar does have dragons, after all.”
Chapter Twelve
Talasyn stared at the dragons. They were too big for her senses to encompass but she drank in the sight of them, anyway.
It had struck her as odd that the Zahiya-lachis’s flagship didn’t have an armed escort. Even if the W’taida possessed weaponry hidden somewhere in its black-and-gold facade, amidst its copper struts, surely a handful of coracles wouldn’t have gone amiss, given that the head of state was about to deal with an unpredictable element in the form of desperate, battle-hardened outsiders.
But who needed coracles, who needed cannons, when they had these? The two dragons positioned themselves on either side of the floating castle and hung aloft on the wind, flapping their mighty wings. They eyed the carrack warily, ready to spring to action at a moment’s notice, at the first sign of threat.
They probably breathed fire as well. There was no reason to presume otherwise, now that the age-old rumors of their existence had ended up being true. Those who’d posited that a dragon could bring down a stormship had been correct. Those gargantuan claws alone looked perfectly capable of tearing through metalglass in one swipe.
Talasyn was struck by the overwhelming urge to—to cry. To scream. To rage at the heavens. The creatures were terrible and beautiful, and what was left of the Sardovian Allfold beheld them far too late. She thought about how many lives would have been spared if the Dominion had agreed to help in the fight against the Night Empire. The stormship fleet wouldn’t have been Gaheris’s trump card for long. The Hurricane Wars would have ended before the cities in the Heartland were razed to the ground. Darius would never have become a traitor, Sol and Blademaster Kasdar would still be alive, and Khaede wouldn’t be missing in action.
But all it took was one glance at Vela’s expression for Talasyn to pull herself together. The Amirante looked stricken, as though her thoughts were running in a similar vein. Not wanting to add to the burden, Talasyn schooled her features into something blanker and more restrained and, after a while, so did Vela.
The aetherwave crackled to life. The brisk voice on the other end ordered the Summerwind to halt and informed them that they could now send a small boarding party “at their earliest convenience,” whatever that meant.
“I think they’re implying that they’ll have those big damn worms eat us if we don’t get a move on,” Bieshimma grumped.
Bieshimma could not, of course, join the boarding party, given what he’d done the last time he’d been in Nenavar. After some discussion, Vela decided that a group of two people was as small and as non-threatening as it could get, and she and Talasyn headed for the grid that contained the carrack’s skiffs—tiny flat-bottomed vessels that were frequently used as shuttles or escape pods.
The crowd of soldiers and refugees parted for them deferentially, but Talasyn was all too aware of their mutterings of unease and their lost, questioning gazes. She couldn’t blame them; they were within range of the dragons, and one good blow from those scaled tails could probably break the Summerwind in half. All eyes were on her as she helped the Amirante into the skiff, fired up the aether hearts, and steered away from the carrack’s decks, toward the shimmering castle in the sky.
The dragons were huge from a distance. Up close, the sheer breadth of them made Talasyn feel about as significant as an ant. Their jewel-toned eyes tracked every movement of the skiff and its passengers, missing nothing. She didn’t breathe until she and the Amirante made it to the landing grid carved into the rock at the base of the castle—and, even then, she didn’t, couldn’t relax.
Elagbi was waiting for them at the threshold of the main entrance, accompanied by the same Lachis-dalo who’d been guarding him on the Belian range. Stock-still at first—nudged forward only by Vela—Talasyn approached the regal figure nervously, having no idea what the standard procedure was for greeting your estranged father on your second meeting. Should she hug him? Gods, she hoped not. Perhaps she was expected to curtsy, since he was a prince, but she was the heir to the throne, wasn’t she? Did she rank above him? Maybe he was the one supposed to curtsy—no, that was wrong, men didn’t—
Elagbi solved her dilemma by clasping her hands in his. “Talasyn,” he said warmly, the gentleness in his dark eyes somewhat at odds with his aristocratic demeanor. “Everything pales before the joy of seeing you once more. I regret that it has to be under such grievous circumstances.”
“I—I’m sorry about—about last time,” Talasyn stammered, inwardly cringing at how very undignified she sounded compared to him. “I had to get back right away—”
“No harm done,” said Elagbi. “We recovered the alindari that you commandeered without any trouble. And you were not the one who left a trail of injured Nenavarene soldiers in your wake.” His expression soured as he uttered this last part, and in that moment Talasyn felt a crystal-clear kinship with him. She was all too familiar with what it was like to have one’s day ruined by Alaric Ossinast.
Talasyn labored through the introductions. Vela inclined her head at the Dominion prince, and Talasyn belatedly noticed that she was standing tall even though the newly stitched wound that raked her from sternum to hip was surely still aching.