Page 12 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
She sputters a nervous laugh. “Wind Spears?! That would be sadistic.”
I sit next to her, resting elbows on knees and burying my face in my hands. “Better get used to it. Things won’t be better on the front lines.”
“True.”
Phoebe taps her foot nervously and picks at her robe’s fabric, making a scratching sound with her fingernail.
Fifteen minutes pass.
“Maybe it’ll only be us two.” Phoebe sounds hopeful.
She’s barely finished saying this when High Prime Stormsong walks in with Gilbert Drifttown.
Dammit! Now what?
Phoebe and I climb to our feet.
Gilbert comes to stand next to us, looking peeved. His gaze goes from Phoebe to me and back again. My Weaver powers are bottled up as they should be, but I can nearly hear his thoughts. He doesn’t think two women should be able to become dragon riders ifhedoesn’t. If he only knew I shouldn’t even be here.
“Congratulations for making it this far,” High Prime Stormsong says. “As you know, there are only two wind dragons available. So only two of you can be chosen. We will return to the main chamber to find out who will receive the honor.”
Following him, we retrace our steps to the first chamber with the tall, vaulted columns. Others are already there, though a lot fewer than in the beginning. I quickly scan the room and spot Silas. He stands next to Nate Torchfist, another Blaze, though I guess I should saySkyblazesince they’re the only two of their kind left, which means they’ve secured their dragons. No more fretting for them. Lucky bastards!
High Prime Stormsong walks to the Commander and confers with her. She glances in our direction, appraising our threesome. One more Prime goes up to her. She has a group of fourTideswith her, candidates with power over the water element, including Adelaide Icesurge.
I interlace my fingers behind my back to stop myself from fidgeting.
“The Singer and Tide candidates, please remain,” the Commander says. “The rest… return to the changing rooms.”
Our lucky mates file out. Silas glances over his shoulder and gives me a thumbs up.
High Prime Stormsong walks toward the back of the large chamber and orders us to follow him. The Tides go in the opposite direction.
As we get going, Gilbert leans to whisper in Phoebe’s ear. “You don’t belong here.”
I barely catch the words, but I see they have their desired effect. Phoebe shrinks, while Gilbert grins with satisfaction.
Jabbing an elbow into his ribs, I insert myself between them and drive the asshole away from her. He wants to get under her skin, hoping nerves will cause her to fail whatever test awaits next. I offer her a reassuring glance, biting my tongue against the words of encouragement that rise within me. I would pick her over Gilbert anytime, but what if I’m the one who gets cut for building her up?
The High Prime glances back, seemingly annoyed at our slow pace. We hurry along. At the back wall, a large square containing six tiles identical to the ones in the second chamber is etched at eye level. In the middle, there’s an empty space where I assume the Weaver title used to be. I wonder what the emblem used to look like, and suddenly, a chilling thought creeps in: is there still a possibility my true nature might be revealed?
High Prime Stormsong sends a jet of air into the middle of the Skysinger tile, and an unseen door springs open to our right. He turns, his gaze alighting on me.
“You first,” he says, then heads for the door.
I almost protest, tell him Phoebe should go first. I don’t want to leave her out here with Gilbert, but I can’t do that. We are here to follow orders. I give Phoebe a quick nod to reassure her, then follow. My heart riots, assailed by fear.
Heratrix, please, please, please, help me pass this test.
6
Rhea
Past the door, I find myself inside a room just big enough to fit a small square table and two chairs. A large candelabra hangs above, casting the room in dancing shadows. The walls are made of dark stone, and a second door stands on the other side. A sliver of warm light shines under it, much more inviting than this… closet.
High Prime Stormsong takes one of the chairs and gestures toward the one across. His expression is unreadable. If our encounter on the balcony built any rapport between us, it’s impossible to tell.
I sit, keeping my hands on my lap, hidden as I pick at a hangnail.
