9

Midway through trying to eat a meal with a fork, I transform, smashing the stool beneath me and part of the table. I rush for the exit, blasting out through the waterfall in a burst of fire and steam and savage wings.

It's been two days since we arrived at the rebels' cave and I'm still unable to perform convincingly as a natural-born human.

I land above the pool, tear a sapling out of the ground with my jaws, and fling it from the grassy edge of the bank. As it falls, I light it on fire and watch it burn on the way down.

"Impressive." It's Meridian, picking his way down the path toward me. The early morning sunlight glints on the gold embroidery of his eye-patch, and the rays turn his dark red hair to bloody fire.

I chuff out a frustrated breath and swerve my head away from him.

"You're doing well," he says.

"I'm not. "

"You are . So well, in fact, that I think we should make our first excursion."

I whip my head back around and huff smoke at him. "I'm not ready for the palace."

"Not quite, but I've been talking with a few of the others. We're going to visit the market just outside the east gate of the city. Sort of a trial run, as it were. We'll be in disguise, and there won't be any dining, dancing, or court conversation to worry about. It'll be good practice for you and Hinarax, and we might pick up some information. At the very least we'll get an update on the state of things among the people. A few of my friends will wreak a little havoc while we're there, but they'll keep their distance so no one links us to them."

A little havoc sounds far more satisfying than the painstaking work I've been doing—cramming knowledge into my brain, trying to learn how to use fiddly little tools like forks, practicing the different types of bows and salutes that are appropriate in a court setting. I'd much rather learn about the rebellion—how humans use their small size and stealth to their advantage when faced with a greater foe. "You said you've been harassing the Vohrainians. How, exactly?"

"Like any other army, they have to receive supplies. Sometimes we intercept the carts and wagons, steal the goods, and give them to the people. Remember when Anzuli and the others left yesterday? They went to burn one of Vohrain's census stations."

"Do you have more allies, beyond these caves?"

He huffs a laugh and props his back against my shoulder while filling his pipe. "There are members of the resistance all over Elekstan. A good two dozen of them have been undercover as Vohrainian sympathizers for weeks, working on a special project for me. Did you know Rahzien established two weapons forges on Elekstan soil, long before he conquered this kingdom? "

"I heard something to that effect, once, but I was never told where they were."

"The most recent one is located in an old mine not far from here, between the Capital and Guilhorn, in the hills to the east. It runs on water power harnessed from a subterranean river. It's been in operation for a few months, harvesting Elekstan resources with a very specific purpose—to design more accurate guns for Vohrain's army."

"Some of my dragons were assigned to that area." I inhale the fragrant herbal smoke unspooling from Meridian's pipe. "I was told to have at least three of my clan on guard in that region both day and night, but they never told us why."

"Now you know." He blows a smoke ring toward the waterfall. "Did you also know that Vohrain is conscripting anyone with even the slightest magical ability? The few healers left in the land are now confined to the palace, forbidden from using their powers on anyone but the Vohrainian soldiers. Imagine being forced to heal the enemy."

"That would be infuriating," I reply.

"Indeed."

"Conscription, identity papers, census stations… Human life is far too complicated," I tell him.

Meridian chuckles. "No doubt. A lot of humans seem to enjoy adding conditions and regulations to their lives. Personally I prefer to live free of all that. But to dismantle a system, you sometimes have to conform to it, so you can get close enough to hit where it hurts. This morning some of our folk will be creating a controlled explosion to destroy the gallows at the center of the market. The gallows has stood there for ages, mostly inactive, but the Vohrainians have been making frequent use of it lately, executing anyone who openly rebels or refuses to show Rahzien the proper deference. Speaking of which—you and Hinarax must remember to bow and step aside for the Vohrainians. That is the one rule you must follow during our excursion. "

"Very well." I'll hate it, but for Serylla's sake I would do anything. Bow to an enemy, eat with a fork, walk in boots… even wear a fucking cloak.

"You and Hinarax have about six hours of humanity left, yes?"

I bob my head in confirmation.

"Good! Then we'll set off as soon as we assemble your disguises. Oh, I forgot to ask—have you ever ridden a donkey?"

I stare at him blankly.

Meridian makes an apologetic face. "Of course you haven't. Well, you learn something new every day."

"Or a thousand new things every day," I mutter, following him toward the cave. As the path narrows, I shift back to human form.

Meridian casts a glance over his shoulder and does a double-take at my nude body. "Fuck, man—you can't be swinging that thing around in polite company, or even in unsavory company. You're a fine specimen, but not everyone is as comfortable with large dicks as I am."

"When I lost my temper and transformed, my clothes were shredded," I reply. "I will need new pants."

He sighs. "Do you think pants grow on trees?"

I stop walking, suddenly uncertain. "No… I don't think so. I believe you fabricate them somehow… though I've never given much thought to the process."

"God, no—it's a saying." He laughs. "Something that grows on a tree is common, easy to access. Pants are less common, less easy to access."

"I don't understand."

"Never mind. Wait here, and I'll fetch you some pants. Then we'll see about your disguise."

Apparently the most esteemed wig-maker in the region is part of Meridian's rebellion. The wig-maker, Galather, plies his trade in one of the upper caves, where light pours through a crack and provides ample illumination for his work. On pegs and hooks studding the rock wall, Galather has arranged a selection of false facial hair and wigs for the rebels to use when they perform their deeds of sabotage and sedition.

As Galather bundles my long locks into a tight knot in preparation for the placement of my blond wig and beard, he comments on the length and silkiness of my hair several times. He even asks if I'd be willing to cut it and gift some of it to him, but I decline. Serylla likes my hair. I'll keep it, for her.

Hinarax's locs prove too thick to conceal beneath a wig, so he wears something called a turban, in which a length of cloth is wound many times around the head, then pinned in place. With the addition of a false black beard, he looks so different I would never recognize him.

Clad in voluminous layers of coarse, thick, brown clothing, Hinarax and I follow Meridian and a handful of the other rebels along a narrow tunnel, a secondary exit from the cave system. Beyond the exit, a little way down the slope, lies a pen in which several donkeys and a few horses are grazing on the patchy grass.

Meridian opens the gate. The moment he steps inside, a tall dapple-gray mare trots over to greet him, nearly dislodging his hat with her slender nose. He's wearing a glass eye instead of his usual patch, probably so his appearance will be less memorable to those we meet in the market .

"I'll be riding Jester," he says, patting the mare's nose. "The rest of you will ride the donkeys. They'll save us precious time getting to the city." Using his walking stick for leverage, he bounds up and lands neatly on the horse's back, then gestures to me and Hinarax. "Kyreagan, you take that one—Hinarax, the one over there. Quickly now. Get your asses on the asses."

Aeris rolls her eyes. "He makes that joke every time." She conceals her knives in the folds of her clothing, adjusts her black wig, and hops onto a donkey.

I've never been astride any living thing—except Serylla, in a very different context. My long human legs make mounting easy, but my feet drag until Aeris points out two triangles of leather and metal, called stirrups. Once I've tucked my boots into the stirrups, riding turns out to be less uncomfortable than I thought. It's far preferable to walking in boots, and there's a pleasant rocking rhythm to the donkey's gait as we descend the sloping, forested path leading down from the mountain.

Serylla would enjoy this morning—the bright, fresh spring air. But thoughts of her lead my imagination into dark places, and my body heats with panicked fury. I can't let myself envision what might be happening to her—what she might have suffered in the few days since I lost her. If I visualize it, I will go mad, transform, and dismantle the capital of Elekstan with claws and with fire until I find her, or until Rahzien's forces kill me.

Despite their inaccuracy and frequent misfires, the Vohrainian guns are still formidable weapons. Each bullet is the size of a human eyeball, shot with a force capable of piercing armor or dragon scales. If Vohrain's battle against Elekstan had been fought mostly in open fields, Vohrain would have won easily. But Elekstan had the defensive advantage. Many of its cities possess high, thick walls fortified with asthore, a strong, lightweight material against which human catapults and battering rams have little effect. And Elekstan had airships—slow, clumsy, and fragile compared to dragons, but still a technology Vohrain has yet to develop. Without my clan's help, Rahzien would have had to lay siege to multiple cities for months, maybe years. Our alliance shortened the war dramatically.

An exasperated cry from Hinarax dispels my reverie. "This creature doesn't like me," he complains.

In truth, his donkey does seem unhappy. It keeps bucking as if it's trying to throw him off.

"Normally I would think of this type of animal as lunch," mutters Hinarax. "Walk straight, donkey, or I'll dine on you before the day is out, I swear."

"Perhaps refrain from threatening it," I suggest.

"It can't understand me."

"But I think it senses your mood. Try breathing deeply and settling into the rhythm of the ride."

Hinarax shoots me a glare. "You look quite at ease there. They gave you the nice donkey."

"Actually Kyreagan's donkey is usually quite restive," Meridian says, grinning over his shoulder. "I gave you the docile one, Hinarax, out of the sheer goodness of my heart. I'm devastated that the two of you aren't getting along."

Hinarax grumbles under his breath.

I frown at Meridian. "You gave me a difficult donkey on purpose?"

Meridian laughs and faces forward again. "I knew you would either clash or cooperate. Two stubborn, grumpy asses."

Aeris, who is riding a few paces behind me, erupts in a peal of laughter, which startles Hinarax's mount. His donkey begins bucking wildly all over the path, and within moments Hinarax flies off and tumbles into the grass. The donkey bolts, springing across the mountainside like a goat. It vanishes within seconds.

Hinarax climbs to his feet, brushing dirt from his rear, while I cup my hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter. I hate myself for laughing while Serylla is in danger, but at the same time, I know if she were here, she'd be laughing too. She'd be grateful that I could enjoy a moment's relief from my worries.

Meridian is doubled over with laughter. He laughs so hard that his big hat falls off into the dirt. "Grab my hat for me, would you?" he says to Hinarax. "You can ride with me. Jester is strong enough to carry both of us."

Hinarax struggles to mount the horse, but he finally makes it into the saddle behind the rogue. I can't help noticing how snugly he and Meridian fit together, and it makes me miss Serylla even more. After I save her, maybe she and I can share a horse sometime.

Or perhaps she'll want nothing to do with me, since she was planning to leave anyway. She was all too ready to abandon me and our eggs.

Whatever happens between Serylla and I, at least I will have them . Our little ones, each carrying a part of her. Watching her birth those two eggs was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I've ever witnessed. Her courage, her strength, her beauty—fuck, I'm weeping. Not sobbing, but tears are rolling down my cheeks as we ride. At least most of the others are riding ahead; no one will notice—

"You alright, Prince Dragon?" It's Aeris. She has moved up to ride alongside me.

I clear my throat and swipe the back of my hand across my eyes. If I had a cloak now, it would come in handy for drying my tears.

"I already liked the Princess before the war," says Aeris quietly. "But after watching you do all this for her—she must be even more special than I thought."

Her tone is usually sharp and sardonic, and it's strange to hear her speak softly. It weakens, dissolves, and disarms me.

"She sat with me in my grief," I confess. "She should have hated me, and yet her heart was so full of empathy and compassion that she couldn't. She helped me find empathy, too. Bared her heart and her body to me. She birthed my children."

"Oh shit," breathes Aeris. "But… how?"

"The spell that changed me also enabled the synthesis of our reproductive cycles into something entirely new. From my seed, she laid two eggs. Their emergence did not harm her, but she was weary when Fortunix took her from me. I had almost forgotten him in my need to reclaim her." My voice hardens with new purpose. "When she is safe and Rahzien is dead, I must kill Fortunix, too."

"Sorry, I'm still stuck on ‘seed' and ‘egg-laying,'" gulps Aeris. "Fucking weird shit happens on your island, eh?"

"That's fair to say." I give her a half-smile.

She has many questions about Thelise's spell, and though I don't have all the answers, I do my best to give thorough replies. For once, I'm grateful for the human propensity for conversation, as it makes the time pass more quickly until the forest ends, and across the fields I see the outlying buildings and high walls of a city whose shape will be forever seared in my memory—the capital of Elekstan.

This is where I came when the memory of my sister's death was fresh and bleeding. This is where I first saw Serylla, standing atop that tower, gripping the giant crossbow, aiming it at me. She looked so tiny and fierce, with her pink skirts whipping around her and her bright golden hair streaming in the wind. Something linked us from that first look, a cord tied between her soul and mine, drawing me toward her even as she trained that arrow on my heart. The arrow itself may have missed, but I was doomed to love her from that moment.

We leave the donkeys in a trampled field studded with wooden posts—hitching posts, as Meridian calls them. One of the rebels stays behind to watch the animals, while three others, including Aeris, leave us and go their own way.

"Will they be punished if they're caught?" I ask Meridian .

"They won't be caught," he says cheerfully, adjusting his broad hat. "Come on, lads."

We wind through streets lined with human houses, built shoulder to shoulder in slightly crooked rows. It's like marching along a roofless tunnel, being channeled toward some sinister destination. Now and then a window or a door bangs open, or someone shouts in rebuke or greeting.

I'm not used to being this size, enduring the suddenness and volume of human life on this level. I prefer soaring above such buildings, knowing that I could demolish them and their owners within seconds. I don't like being small, without my scaly armor or my fire, attacked on every side by the voices and jostling shoulders of passersby, all hurrying in the same direction.

"Lots of neighborhoods like this," comments Meridian. "Folks who work in the city, but can't afford to live within the walls. It's quiet for a market day."

"Quiet?" I snort.

"There's such life here," Hinarax says. "Do you feel the energy? The intensity?"

"It's called ‘the drive to survive after a wretched fucking war,'" says Meridian dryly. "Here we are. The Outer Market."

The street along which we're traveling empties into a broad space paved with lumpy cobblestones. During our alliance with Vohrain, I saw many streets and squares with such rocky surfaces. I like them. There's room to land, and the stone is familiar. Unfortunately this square is crowded with booths, tables, and tents, a bit like the market we visited on the coast, except on a much grander scale. If the tiny coastal market was a puddle, this one would be a lake.

At the far end of the market, across the colorful tops of the tents, beyond the pennants snapping in the brisk breeze, I spot the gates of the city.

"The gates are open." I point out, and Meridian nods .

"Open, yes, but there's a blockade and a checkpoint," he replies in a low voice. "No one enters without the proper identity papers and either a tradesperson's day pass, a residence permit, or foreign dignitary documents, properly sealed. We'll get there soon enough. Now let's do some shopping. Mind your disguises. Keep your wigs and beards on straight."

"No problem there." I wince, feeling the tug of the glue the wig-maker applied to keep my false beard in place. In human form, my hair doesn't seem to grow. I still have no stubble along my jaw, and the light dusting of hair across my chest never seems to thicken. Another strange effect of the spell Thelise cast—one that sets me apart from human males, who apparently must groom their hair if they wish to keep it under control. I've seen Meridian shaving his face meticulously, as well as trimming the hair of his chest and underarms. Odrash, on the other hand, is the hairiest man I've ever seen. His entire back is coated with dark hair, just like his chest and stomach. Hair even sprouts from his shoulders.

Human hair has always fascinated me. I used to find its placement extremely odd, but now, as I follow Meridian and Hinarax into the market, I'm fascinated by all its colors and textures, by the vast array of styles and ornaments. Hair seems to be an extension of a human's personality—part of their being, an expression of themselves. A way of blending in or being noticed.

Today, I'm dedicated to blending in. As I watch other men walking through the market, my own walk becomes easier, less studied. Voices swirl around me—the low mutters of hurried conversation, strident cries from sellers at their booths, peals of raucous laughter… And then, in the midst of it all, a tiny voice crying.

My attention snaps to the source—a young man with a bundle strapped to his chest. Not a bundle—a baby. As I watch, he absently pats the infant's back with one hand while correcting the trajectory of a second child, an older one who toddles at his side.

It strikes me like a bolt of lightning from the Mordvorren itself—that my children, once they hatch, will not only be dragons, but babies.

I can't take care of such miniscule humans alone. What if I accidentally hurt them when I'm in dragon form? According to Thelise, they won't shift into humans for the first time until they're six months old, but even with that delay, the thought of raising them myself is terrifying. I won't know what they need, or what instruction they require at different phases of life. Only with Serylla's help can I ever hope to navigate the unknown skies of their childhood.

My boot hits a jutting cobblestone and I nearly fall, my shoulder bumping against a broad back. The man turns around. He and his two companions wear uniforms of smoky blue, their faces concealed by metal helmets with skeletal jaws. I've seen those uniforms and those helmets many times.

"Watch it," snaps the Vohrainian soldier.

I glare into the eye-slits of his helmet. My first instinct is to grip him by the throat and hurl him against the nearest market booth, then smash his skull on the ground until he coughs up information about the Princess.

But Meridian tugs at my arm. "So sorry, milord," he says to the soldier. "Our apologies. Won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." The three Vohrainians march on, while Meridian pulls me between a couple of booths and into an alley at the edge of the square.

"Watch yourself," he whispers sternly. "If they say you've done something wrong, confess it and apologize for it, immediately. Grovel if you must. There's no room for foolish pride here, not if you want this to end well. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," I grit out .

"Good. We're going to stick to the fringes of the square and buy a few things. Stay close."

With firm taps of his staff, he ventures into the market again. Instead of walking ahead with Meridian, Hinarax slinks along near me, and though he doesn't speak, I can sense that he's brimming with a hundred questions. He stares with barely concealed delight at the goods spread along the tables, which to us seems like endless bounty, although Meridian mutters that "pickings are scarce today, nothing like post-war deprivation to make folks discontented."

Apparently he has a list of things he was asked to purchase for some of the other rebels, and he takes his time chatting up each vendor and poring over their goods. Sometimes he'll hold up an item and compliment it in great detail. "What a fine straight razor! And it folds so nicely!" or "These long matches are perfect for lighting a fire without burning one's fingers."

After he's done this several times, I realize that he's explaining the items to Hinarax and me, sating our curiosity without arousing suspicion. We're learning about common human items and their value, all while observing normal movements, greetings, and social behavior.

Gratitude surges in my heart. This man could have taken our treasure and left us in that cell, but he is helping us. True, he's getting something out of it—our help to defeat Rahzien—but that's a future benefit, one he might never enjoy if things go wrong. In the meantime he's being patient with us, teaching us. He's willing to wait until I find Serylla and get her to safety before we move against Vohrain. Thief and miscreant though he is, he's honorable.

Meridian guides us to the next booth. It's the most interesting one yet, stocked with bolts of cloth in every imaginable color and pattern. At the side of the booth stands a rack with ready-made clothing on it, including a pair of black leather pants. I run my fingertips along them, pleased by the supple softness of the leather. If the pants were thick or rigid, like the boots, I would hate them, but they feel both protective and pliant. The way they shine faintly in the light pleases me, too.

"You like those?" asks Meridian, grinning. "They look about your size. I'll buy them for you."

If he hadn't taken our treasure, I could have purchased them for myself. But I don't argue the point. "Yes, I want them."

Meridian argues goodheartedly with the vendor. Once they've settled on a price that satisfies them both, the vendor wraps the pants in thick paper and string before handing me the bundle.

Just as I tuck it under my arm as I've seen other humans do, a horn blares from the direction of the city gates. That single burst precedes a volley of triumphant, brassy notes. From our vantage point, all I can see is the top arch of the gateway—but I don't need an unobstructed view to know who's coming. I've heard that fanfare before, after each successful conquest of an Elekstan city.

My head whips toward Hinarax. His mouth is grim, his shoulders tense. He went to war with the clan. He knows that sound as well as I do.

"It's Rahzien," he breathes. "The King of Vohrain is coming."

"Stay calm," advises Meridian in a low tone. "We didn't expect this, but it was always a possibility. Observe only. Do nothing to draw attention to yourselves, understand?"

Hinarax nods, but my blood is suddenly awake, red-hot in my veins, and my body thrums with a desperate awareness.

"She's close by. I feel her. She's with him." My voice deepens to a growl.

"Are you sure?" asks Meridian. "How do you know?"

"I just know." I lunge forward, but Hinarax clutches my upper arm and speaks tersely in my ear. "Look, my Prince. See the Vohrainian soldiers there, and there, and over there—everywhere, scattered through the market. Many of them have guns. If you transform right here, snatch her up, and try to fly away, they will shoot both of you. Your wings will be blasted with holes, and she'll be killed by the bullets before you crash to the ground. Don't do it. Not like this."

I shake him off and forge ahead through the churning crowd. Many of the people seem to be trying to leave the market, but the Vohrainian soldiers have spread out along the fringes of the crowd, herding everyone together, preventing them from leaving the square. Whatever is about to happen, the King wants it to be a public spectacle, with an audience. Which does not bode well for Serylla if she's with him.

I've reached the center of the crowd, where Vohrainian soldiers have created a protective ring around a large wooden platform. At one side of the platform, narrow steps lead up to a walkway. Along the walkway are three trapdoors, with loops of rope hanging above each one.

The other two catch up to me and Meridian speaks in an undertone. "That's the gallows. The square chunk of stone on the platform is the chopping block, where they remove heads."

Ice solidifies in my chest, chilling my blood. This may not be the same square where Serylla's mother was beaten and executed, but it's similar. And it's also the spot Meridian's allies were planning to attack today.

I glance over at the rogue. The taut concern on his face does nothing to allay my fears.

"There wasn't an execution or a flogging planned—I checked," he says, low. "Not on market day. Never on market day."

"Does that rule still apply under this new regime?" Hinarax inquires anxiously.

"So far it has," Meridian mutters .

The half-hearted reassurance isn't enough. I grip Meridian's shoulder, leaning down so I can speak in his ear. "Tell me your people aren't going to do anything while Serylla is near this spot."

"I'm sure they won't," he says. "They'll notice what's going on… they'll wait." He swallows hard. "But if the King of Vohrain steps up there, they might see it as our chance to—you know."

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. If Rahzien mounts the platform and stands over the spot where the rebels planted their explosives, they will blow him up without hesitation, along with anyone nearby.

A carriage halts beside the platform. Vohrainian guards swarm around it, brandishing pikes, holding back the crowd.

Hinarax nudges my arm. "More on the rooftops," he says out of the side of his mouth.

Sure enough, helmeted figures draped in smoky blue cloaks perch among the chimneys and gables of the buildings around the square, guns in their hands. They're covering the area, watching for threats, ready to eliminate them.

The carriage door opens.

Rahzien exits first, his broad figure unfolding from the darkness within the carriage. He looks different than when I met him on the clifftop. He has trimmed his hair and beard very short, which fascinates me. It's as if the change of his hairstyle represents a change in how he wants to be perceived.

He wears a shining breastplate, and a lightweight cloak billows around him like sinister smoke. The effect is admittedly impressive.

Rahzien turns back to the carriage and snaps his fingers imperiously.

From the gloom within, Serylla emerges.

She's thinner and paler than when I last saw her, clad in a black garment so sheer that every curve of her body is visible. Her hair is elaborately braided, and her face has been painted—her eyes, lips and cheeks tinted to exaggerate their color and shape. As if her natural beauty isn't breathtaking enough.

My throat swells tight as rage burns through my brain. Heat boils inside me—the fire of my dragon side, demanding to be unleashed. My mind races through scenario after scenario, but there are too many unknown factors here, too many dangers, and I can't concoct a plan that would ensure Serylla's survival. Either the rebels will set off the explosion and she'll die on that platform, or she'll die in the air, pelted with gunfire as I try to carry her away.

I must wait, and trust that the rebels will postpone their plan. I hope Rahzien only intends to humiliate Serylla, not kill her. If he threatens her life, I will transform instantly and do my best to protect her, no matter what happens to me.

Hinarax stands with his shoulder pressed against mine, letting me know with his body that he is here. He is with me. He's a decent warrior—not as good as Varex, but loyal and zealous. If necessary, he'll fight until we're both killed.

I've spent my life yielding to impulse, making choices in the heat of the moment. Swearing a bone-oath to my father, allying with Vohrain, concocting the plan to capture the women, snatching Serylla as she fell from the wall.

This time, I will be ready to act. But until the moment arrives, until I have no other choice, I will do something infinitely harder. I will wait . I will stand here, in this disguise, pretending to be human, while the King of Vohrain draws my Princess onto the platform with him.

At his direction, she kneels, facing the crowd, while Rahzien takes his place behind her.

He places one hand on Serylla's golden head, almost fondly, and my hatred for him doubles.

"Citizens of Elekstan," he calls out. "Behold—your beloved princess has returned."