Page 23 of Storm to Victory
On the stage, the tone of the ballad changed. An acrobat portraying Fieran’s great-grandfather Ellarin whirled onto the stage. Blue ribbons fluttered from his hands, but they were small, not the long bolts the other dancers had wielded. The ballad told of how he’d reigned over hundreds of years of great peace and prosperity for the elves.
When that actor stepped from the stage with a dignified exit rather than the dramatic death of the others, a new warrior stepped onto the stage, this one with blond hair and a storm of blue ribbons whirling around him as he moved. He held two swords in his hands alongside all the ribbons.
Fieran slouched deeper in his chair, as if he was hoping everyone would forget he was there. He leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear, “Dacha would really hate this.”
She could imagine. His dacha didn’t seem the type to enjoy watching a dramatized version of his past battles play out like this.
And then, more dancers with blue ribbons joined the one portraying Prince Farrendel, including one with red hair—long as if the elves didn’t know how to show him as anything else.
Pip straightened. This was definitely new. The last time she’d seen this performance, it had ended with Prince Farrendel. A great victory over the trolls, but a warrior still standing alone. This time the ballad ended with the magic of the ancient kings reborn in a family standing together.
Next to her, Fieran stiffened, his eyes widening. Down the line, the other flyboys and flygirls gaped from him to the actor portraying him.
Pip squeezed his hand, then leaned her head on his shoulder once again.
Perhaps Fieran’s ending wouldn’t be like that of previous warriors of the magic of the ancient kings. He had a family at his side.
And he had Pip. Her magic. Merrik. The whole squadron.
She wouldn’t let him ever fight alone.
Chapter
Seven
Rain drummed on the mansion’s roof, a low rumble of thunder announcing more thunderstorms on the horizon. The breeze that swept through the open double doors that led onto a brick patio and garden behind the manor held the damp chill of the coming autumn.
Fieran sprawled on a plush, overstuffed chair facing the open doors, staring at the rain and enjoying a few rare minutes when he didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be.
The rest of the flyboys lounged about the mansion in a similar fashion. Some napped. Some read books. Others played cards or board games. At a desk, Tiny was industriously writing a rather lengthy letter to his girlfriend back in Defense City.
Lije, Stickyfingers, and Aylia had somehow roped Rothilion into a game of cards. Despite the fact that they were still teaching Rothilion the rules, he appeared to be winning.
Several of the flyboys had stumbled across some lawn games in a closet, and they’d turned the marble-floored foyer into a game area. The crash of a heavy ball knocking over pins reverberated at intervals while cheering and hooting accompanied the noisy games. Surprisingly, a bunch of the elvenpilots had joined in with the games, creating a racket right alongside the humans.
Heaving a sigh, Merrik eased onto the chair next to Fieran and stretched out his boots before him, his left foot propped on his right prosthetic foot. The pant leg over his prosthetic glowed slightly green, showing he was using his magic.
“Tired?” Fieran eyed Merrik, taking in the slightly darker smudges under his eyes.
“Weather fronts make my ankles ache.” Merrik spoke without opening his eyes. “It kept me awake last night.”
“Ankles?” Fieran emphasized the plural in Merrik’s statement.
“Yeah. It is annoying enough when the ankle I still have aches. It, at least, has an excuse.” Merrik grimaced without looking at Fieran. “But it is especially aggravating when the ankle I do not have decides to hurt.”
Fieran wasn’t sure what to say to that. Merrik spoke so matter-of-factly with an edge of humor that indicated he didn’t want the compassion that welled within Fieran’s chest.
And yet Fieran couldn’t come up with anything humorous to say in reply. It was one thing for Merrik to joke about his lack of a leg, but Fieran still wasn’t sure when it was appropriate for him to joke about it or when Merrik wanted him to do so.
When Fieran’s silence lingered too long, Merrik lifted his head and met Fieran’s gaze. “It is just a few aches, and they are infrequent. Often, wearing my prosthetic the next day and using my magic to move my foot makes the phantom pain go away, as my magical senses tell my brain I am feeling my leg. If it gets worse, I will go to the healer.”
Fieran nodded and cleared his throat. “Good. Uh, good.”
Merrik sighed, reached over, and lightly punched Fieran’s shoulder. “I am fine. And I can now predict when storms are coming.”
“That’s convenient. Especially for an aeroplane pilot.” This time Fieran actually managed a note of humor.
“Exactly.” Merrik settled back in his chair, closing his eyes again.
