Page 44 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Yuánchi’s colossal form exploded from behind the ridge, the wind of his passage flattening the flames of the fire, then drawing them into an envious swirl. He landed a hundred yards behind us.
“I have boots there,” she announced abruptly. “We will go to Longbourn tomorrow.”
My sleep was tossedby evil dreams of war and thunder.
Dawn hadthe chill of a late-spring morning, cold but soon to warm. Elizabeth was awake when I opened my eyes, standing in her black gown and watching the distant forest. The ever-present ring of draca had vanished. The fire was dead.
Her pose had the stillness of a long wait.
“Did you sleep?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Time to go.” She walked from the camp, her eyes over-bright, her posture brittle.
I had left my meager equipment with Escalus at the farm, keeping only sword and pistol. I strapped those to my belt and strode after her.
Yuánchi waited at the top of the ridge, his sightless head aligned to the rising sun. In the rose light, his mismatched colors were garish—scarlet simmering like hot coals beside swaths of midnight. His scales, whether black or red, were glossy, and they shimmered with the motion of his tremendous breaths.
The pair of cream firedrakes watched me, one perched in a tree, the other atop a boulder a few paces from me.
“You mount first,” Elizabeth said crisply. Perhaps I had imagined her over-bright eyes. She added, “If you fall off, I do not want you dragging me with you.”
I looked up at the dragon’s towering form. “I have never touched him. Will he speak to me?” He had done that in the past, or at least let me listen when he spoke to Elizabeth.
“He no longer speaks. Not since he rose—” Her voice caught.
Was that due to Fènnù’s corruption of their binding? Or was it a symptom of a more profound change, that blackness spreading over Yuánchi’s hide?
I placed my palm on the front of his wing. Seen in the sky, Yuánchi’s silhouette looked as delicate as a firedrake, his wingspan more than twice his body length. This close, the rounded bone leading his wing was like a ship’s mast, eight inches across. The scales, two inches long, were dry and textured, not slippery like a fish.
I had seen how Elizabeth mounted at the lake, so I stepped onto the knurl of his wing joint and, like balancing on a log, walked up the wing’s front, the tip of my scabbard clicking his scales when I crouched too low. At his shoulder, I waited for the lull in the bellows of his breath, then stepped onto his back. The center was decorated with a series of knobby ridges as tall as my boots, but a six-foot span near the base of his neck was smooth. I sat there astride, bracing my back against a ridge and leaving as much room in front of me as possible.
Like thunder from an ancient storm, Yuánchi’s voice filled my mind:
The broken song corrupts me. Save your wyfe. I cannot.
Rattled, I wet my lips and twisted to see Elizabeth. Her eyes were narrowed impatiently. She had not heard him.
“Yuánchi no longer speaks?” I asked her.
“No,” she said tightly.
Did he choose not to speak to her? Or could the wyfe of war no longer hear the scarlet dragon of healing?
She mounted. Her lithe ascent would have mocked mine except it was too effortless, a master horseman who sweeps into the saddle without breaking stride because he has forgotten how else to mount. She walked casually around me, stepping over my leg, and settled into the natural saddle at the base of Yuánchi’s neck.
That left two feet between us. She frowned over her shoulder. “If we dive, you will slide forward across the scales. That direction cuts.” Her gaze settled where my crotch straddled Yuánchi’s back. “I imagine that would be unpleasant.” She slapped directly behind her. “Sit here.”
Apparently flying relaxed the rules. I waddled forward, rocking on my rear to avoid shredding my trousers. When there were inches between us, she pulled my arm around her waist. “Closer. Hold tight. Or fall off now and get it over with.”
Her back settled against me. We had touched more intimately than this every day of our wedded life, but her slim figure made my heart pound. Without petticoats, her dress was a single layer of fine linen. I could feel every contour of her skin. Elizabeth had always been fit, a tireless walker, but now her waist was ridged with muscle.
Tense muscle. Her back and shoulders were rigid as well. For all her brusque directions, she was as uncomfortable as I.
That made my responsibility clear. I adopted her businesslike tone. “I am ready.”
In answer, Yuánchi stood. Our heads rose level with the tops of some good-sized trees, not unthinkably high but very different from standing on a structure. Yuánchi embodied living balance and inhuman power. It was like being astride a racehorse, but a hundred times more. A thousand times more.
“He is incredible,” I said. “Unbelievable.”
