Page 156 of Deadly Maiden

“According to this, the crater is ten miles wide by about fourteen, and the bottom is judged to be fifteen miles deep. It is impossible to be sure of that due to the churning blue fog of etharum that covers the bottom. The edge of the Maw has a small river flowing over the side to the north, in a waterfall that goes all the way down, creating a lighter mist layer.”

“We should check in at Cloud Chalet before sightseeing.”

“If you want to, Rorsyd,” I say in a quiet voice, then I remember the noise of the flight and repeat that in a yell. “Hey! Has no one really ever climbed down? I mean, people do love to climb everything. And say they were first.” Not that I would. The idea gives me chills. I’m not scared of heights, but falling fifteen miles bothers me.

“Wait until we land.” He cups his wings and begins to drop faster.

Trees are rushing up though he’s aiming for a cleared patch. I hold onto his tendril, brace myself for the bump followed by the small run he always does to stop.

Even so, I gasp a few times. Then I slide and climb down, hop off onto the cropped grass. A few brown-and-white goats bleat at us before resuming munching on the grass beneath the trees. The rim of the Maw is visible past the trunks and branches. An adjacent road we flew over goes up to the chalet perched on a hill overlooking the Maw.

Rorsyd closes his eyes, shakes, and goes through that eye-popping transformation where he turns inside-out and blurs. He immediately jogs to where he left our bags, rummaging to find his pants, boots, coat and shirt.

As he dresses, I admire his body and give a wolf whistle just to get him to react. He jogs over and taps me on the ass.

“Want to know a secret about the Maw?”

“Sure.” I walk alongside him as we head up the road, our bags slung over his shoulder.

“A dragonshifter dove, or fell in, during the Wars of the Monsters.”

“Oh my. Let me guess. Dead?”

“No, but he did vanish into the blue fog, and he never came out. Some say he was on the side of the demonancers and already slain by the sword.”

“Yikes. A sword killing a dragon seems unlikely.” I grab his free hand. “So that was four hundred and seventy years ago? Well, there goes that idea of mine of exploring it.”

He chuckles.

The owner of the chalet is standing out the front with a pair of gardening shears on his shoulder. He’s a middle-aged goatshifter, with a triangular, grey beard and prominent ears, a rare species of fae. It explains the goats near the road, since goatshifters have an affinity with the animals.

The exterior looks well loved and pretty, with the high-angled roof, the elaborate if small garden, and recent applications of bright paint on the walls.

“My wife is off preparing meals.” He shakes our hands.

He’s been pruning a hedge but takes us inside up the timber steps to a reception desk. The place has ten bedrooms for guests and only five are occupied.

“Slow season,” he tells us as he shows us up the pale-timbered internal stairs to our room.

It’s large but with two separate beds. I can see us pushing those together.

Mr. Tivaldi is talkative and ready to drag us downstairs for lunch. We chat for a while but beg off the lunch. A picnic today is our goal, before dusk falls.

“A picnic basket then?” he offers. “I can have the cook make you one.”

“That sounds perfect.” I smile at him.

“You have a letter, too, delivered yesterday by messenger bird and from the palace at Tensorga. I must say I am impressed. May your stay here be peaceful. May Artreos bless you.” He clasps his hands and gives us a small bow.

Since we came here via the islands of Vorple, south of Orencia, there has been time for new developments back in Zardrake. I hope it’s nothing worrisome.

“Thank you.” Rorsyd accepts the letter and the basket when they arrive, and we traipse back down the road in the direction Tivadi told us is best to get views of the Maw that are also private.

After twenty minutes of serenity, solitude, and heavenly walking hand in hand with Rorsyd, we find the recommended place on the edge of the Maw. Wrens and honeyeaters are chirping in the trees shading us, and two palm-sized, blue butterflies swoop and flutter between drooping red flowers.

We spread out a blanket beneath the trees, and I’m smoothing its last curled edges, when Rorsyd pushes me flat then rolls me onto my back. “Heyyy,” I whisper, wriggling.

He presses on my shoulders until I remain still. Breathless already, everywhere on my body tingles and awakens with need.

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