“And this, cadets, is no conjecture. No propaganda. No game.” That last word is said with a sideways glance at Markham. “It’s unprecedented not only in its proximity—we’ve never had outposts attacked this close together before—but also because it involved three drifts.” She lifts her pointed chin.
I glance up at the map, forcing my mind to work. Pelham near the Cygni border is my first guess, but Keldavi—along the Braevick border—is a close second after it nearly fell last week. Maybe the fliers are recognizing our weaknesses.
“They attacked Samara a little after sundown, while most of the riot was wrapping up the day’s patrol.”
The breath freezes in my lungs and my heart stutters. She has my full, undivided attention. Who cares if Jack Barlowe is seated beneath me or if papers are flying around with Poromish news? None of that matters more than whatever Professor Devera is about to say.
They’re alive. They have to be.
I can’t begin to fathom a world without Mira…and Xaden? My heart can’t comprehend the possibility.
Oh gods, Sgaeyl’s anger. I drop my shields completely, searching for a bond I wouldn’t be able to feel from this far anyway. Still, I search.
“Tairn?” I reach out, but anxiety floods my bloodstream, overpowering every logical thought. It’s not mine, but it may as well be. My heart begins to pound, and my ribs close in on my lungs.
“The outpost was successfully defended by the three riders who were not on patrol. Their victory is nothing short of astonishing. While no riders were killed in the assault”—her gaze snaps to mine—“there was one rider severely wounded.”
No. The denial is sharp and fast.
Rage and terror pump through my veins.
Professor Devera lifts her hand and scratches the left side of her neck before looking away. “What questions would you ask?”
The left side of her neck.
Right where Xaden’s relic is.
Mira’s all right, but Xaden… I can’t be here. It’s impossible to be here when I have to be there. There’s no reality outside of me being there. Here doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t exist.
“I have to go.” I grab my bag from the floor and shove the strap over my shoulder.
“Was the outpost breached?” someone in front of me asks.
“Vi?” Rhi reaches for me, but I’m already standing, moving down the row toward the staircase.
“Cadet Sorrengail!” Professor Markham calls out.
There’s no time to answer him as I climb the stairs. No world outside the impossible-to-ignore drive that propels me up. My body isn’t even my own because I’m not here.
“Cadet Sorrengail!” Markham yells as I leave the briefing room. “You do not have leave!”
“Get to the courtyard,” Tairn rumbles through my mind.
We’re on the same page, neither of us willing to wait for me to walk to the flight field. It doesn’t matter if the uncontrollable urge is coming from me or Tairn, not when we both need the same thing.
“Violet!” someone shouts after me. Bootsteps race down the hall.
Jack Barlowe is alive. I whip a dagger from my thigh sheath and spin toward the threat.
“Whoa!” Bodhi throws up one hand, the other clutching his rucksack. “I don’t want you to freeze to death on the flight there.” He yanks his flight jacket out of his pack and hands it to me.
“Thank you.” I take the jacket with motions that don’t feel like my own. He’s right. I would have climbed onto Tairn without a jacket. At least I carry my flight goggles in my bag at all times. “I can’t stay. I can’t explain. I can’t be here.”
“It’s Tairn.” He nods. “Go.”
I go.
By their third year, a rider must attain full and complete control over their shields. Otherwise, in moments of extreme stress, they are susceptible to being not only influenced by their dragon’s emotions but controlled by them.
—COLONEL KAORI’S FIELD GUIDE TO DRAGONKIND
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time we land at Samara just before nightfall, I’m a jittery, frantic mess. I can’t bring myself to care about whatever retribution waits for me at Basgiath. I’ll handle whatever punishment Varrish wants to dish out.
I’ve spent every minute of the eight-hour flight trying to separate my feelings from Tairn’s, but I can’t, and he’s definitively in primal mode.
He has to be the reason there’s a hollow pit in my stomach threatening to devour all logical thought if I don’t set eyes on Xaden in the next minute. It’s Tairn’s desperation to see Sgaeyl unharmed making my heart pound, not my own concern for Xaden. After all, if he was at death’s door, Sgaeyl would have told us once we flew close enough for them to communicate. At least that’s what the barely functioning logical part of my brain is telling me.
This is all Tairn. But what if it isn’t? How seriously has Xaden been wounded?
Sgaeyl may have told Tairn that Xaden lives and I could see how bad it was for myself, but I’m still counting every second it takes the guards to raise the portcullis. The increased security is protocol and completely reasonable given yesterday’s attack, but every moment that ticks by grates on my last nerve.
Just because I logically know Tairn is still flooding my emotions doesn’t mean I can control them.
The second the portcullis is high enough for me to duck under, I do so. For once, my size works to my advantage. I’m inside the outpost before it’s even a quarter of the way open.
