“We should get Skyhigh into the air, too,” suggested Donnar. “Have him run some patrols to the south.”
“Find him for me, will you, Erich? I want to talk to him.”
As the commander departed, Rendor allowed himself an unguarded moment. Since the attack, there hadn’t been time to think about Fiona or Moth. Rendor liked being busy. It kept him from feeling afraid. Now that it was quiet, all his fears rushed at him.
Across the field, Skyhigh’s dragonfly glistened in the sun. Rendor smiled, remembering the thrill of seeing his invention take flight for the first time. He crossed the tall grass and went to the craft, sad to see its battered fuselage and hastily repaired wings. Still, it was beautiful to Rendor. He ran his hands over it as though it were his child.
“Governor?”
Skyhigh’s voice carried across the field. The young man, handsome and blond, wore a scarf around his neck, his leather flight jacket as beat-up as his dragonfly. He pulled on his gloves as though readying for takeoff.
“Commander Donnar told me you wanted to see me,” he said. “If it’s about Fiona, I promise—I’ll do my best to find her.”
Rendor had to force himself to say his next words.
“No more searching for Fiona, Captain.”
Skyhigh blinked in disbelief. “No?”
Rendor reached into his pocket and took out his watch. He ran his thumb over its embossed surface before popping it open.
“The Skylords aren’t going to let us out of here,” he said without looking up. “They’ll try to keep us from going home, pin us here against these mountains. Until we can get the Avatar airborne again, we’re vulnerable.”
“All right, but…”
“We need your dragonfly. You’ll be our eyes while we’re grounded. I need you to run patrols back the way we came, see if the Skylords or their Redeemers are starting to gather. Daylight flights only.”
“Sir?”
“Hmm?”
“When the Avatar’s repaired, are we going home?”
Rendor snapped the watch closed. “We haven’t gotten any of the things we came here for,” he said. “Not Fiona, not Moth, and not the Starfinder. No, Captain. We’re not going home.”
Skyhigh beamed at the news. “Good.” He glanced down at the watch. “Nice watch. Real gold?”
“A gift,” sighed Rendor. “From my daughter.” He patted the tail of Skyhigh’s dragonfly. “She gave it to me the day I first got one of these contraptions to fly. I suppose she was proud of me.”
“Fiona talked about her a lot,” said Skyhigh. “She loved her very much.”
Rendor put the watch back in his pocket. Talking about his daughter was something he rarely did. It was easier just to look at the watch.
“Fiona’s a lot like her,” he said. “Strong. Beautiful.”
Skyhigh looked at him strangely. “Beautiful?”
“Yes. Fiona’s very beautiful. Don’t you think so?”
“It’s not that, sir,” said Skyhigh. “It’s just… have you ever told her that, Governor?”
“Why would I?” asked Rendor. “She hates me. She doesn’t believe a thing I say.”
THURMWOOD
MERCERON DESCENDED ALONG the coast, the choppy sea spraying his spectacles. Lady Esme glided alongside him, her sharp eyes searching the cliffs for an opening.
Even over the ocean’s briny scent, Merceron could smell his fellow dragons. He remembered the fold in the cliffs, a crack just large enough for him to squeeze through. The tangled vines clinging to the salt-covered rocks pointed the way. Lady Esme followed Merceron as he swooped lower, the waves licking at his belly. A tiny, sugar-white beach skimmed the bottom of the cliffs.
“There!”
With a flurry of his wings, Merceron landed on the sand. Esme alighted on his shoulder. Together they stared into the dark crevice. Merceron’s long snout tasted the air.
“A dozen of them,” he determined. “Maybe more.” The smell of fish and seaweed mingled in his nostrils, masking the lingering note of his beloved Dreojen. For a moment, Merceron couldn’t move. The tide rolled in, splashing against his back and driving Esme from his shoulder.
“Wait!”
Inhaling deeply, Merceron pushed his big body sideways into the crevice. The sunlight vanished instantly. The rocks scraped his wings. Slowly, the crevice opened into a tall, dripping cavern. Overhead, stalactites hung like daggers.
“Esme?” Merceron whispered. “Come here.”
He put out his arm. The gesture called the kestrel back to him. Just as her claws grasped his coat, something moved in the shadows. Merceron scraped his talons together, summoning a fiery spark. He blew on it until it lit the chamber. On the far side of the cavern, a familiar face stared back at him.
“Thurmwood.”
The dragon peeled himself from the shadows. His yellow, catlike eyes frowned. A single, upturned fang protruded from his lower jaw. Fifty years had barely changed him.
“Still alive,” groaned Thurmwood as he hunched his way across the cavern. “The mermaids said so, but I didn’t believe it.”
Merceron held up his fiery claw. “The others, too,” he said. He glanced around the cavern. “Ganomyrn, Varsilius—show yourselves.”
Two more dragons slipped from the shadows. Old Ganomyrn led the younger, small-boned Varsilius into the light. In the years before the war, Ganomyrn had been a close friend, an architect who’d designed some of Taurnoken’s grandest buildings. Varsilius, his son, was to follow in his work.
“Ganomyrn, where’s Dreojen?” Merceron asked. “I know she’s here.”
Before Ganomyrn could answer, Thurmwood stepped forward. “Of course she’s here,” he snapped. “She’s the one who led us here. She doesn’t want to see you, Merceron.”
Merceron frowned. “Is that true, Ganomyrn?”
Ganomyrn nodded. “I’m sorry, Merceron. Dreojen asked us to speak for her.”
“Why are you here?” asked Thurmwood. Before the war, he’d been Merceron’s assistant. A very able librarian, but prickly.
“Look closely,” said Merceron. He gestured to Esme. “Don’t you recognize her?”
Young Varsilius cried out, “Esme!”
Thurmwood put out his arm quickly, stopping Varsilius. “The humans brought her back here,” he snorted. “They must have.”
Merceron looked at him, surprised. “You know about the humans?”
“We hear things,” said Thurmwood. “The mermaids and fey have seen their airship.”
“Airship?” gasped Merceron. “What airship?”
“The black ship, near Pandera.” Thurmwood’s eyes narrowed on Merceron. “You didn’t know?”
Merceron shook his head. An airship could only mean one thing—Rendor had come.
“The Skylords have seen the humans, Merceron,” said Ganomyrn. “They’re massing to stop them.”
“Already?” sputtered Merceron. He was quickly running out of time. “Thurmwood, I need to see Dreojen. I have to speak to her.”
“Are you deaf? I told you—she doesn’t want to see you.” A bit of sympathy flickered in Thurmwood’s eyes. “Really, Merceron, can you blame her?”
Blame. The word made Merceron wince.
“There are others here with you,” said Merceron. “How many?”
“Fifteen,” said Varsilius quickly.
“What about everyone else? What happened at Taurnoken?”
Thurmwood replied, “The war, Merceron. You remember the war, don’t you?”
“But I left to end the war!”
“Well, I guess that wasn’t good enough for the Skylords.”
Old Ganomyrn said sadly, “We fled to save ourselves.”
“We don’t have to explain anything to him,” sniffed Thurmwood.
Merceron forced himself to stay calm. “Fine. If Dreojen won’t see me, then I’ll speak to you. I need your help, Thurmwood.”