“Agreed.” Visia nods. “He has to be kidding. That’s not a trail—it’s a death trap.”
The path Brennan’s so excited about isn’t wide enough to support a full wagon, let alone the width of a gryphon…and he wants them to hike it? For us to hike it with them while dragons fly patrol?
“Pretty sure he’s serious or we wouldn’t all be here,” Rhiannon says over her shoulder.
“What the hell does he expect us to do besides climb with them?” Aaric asks, keeping his voice down.
“Catch them if they fall off?” Ridoc suggests.
“Right, because we’re capable of catching a gryphon,” Imogen remarks.
My brow furrows as I study the steep trail. It’s not the narrow path or even the gryphon traps Brennan described that worry me, but my own endurance. Twelve hours of constant climbing is going to torture my knees and ankles.
“Watch your back,” Xaden warns, his voice already fading as he flies east with Sgaeyl on a mission I’m not privy to. “I didn’t have time to question every flier about their intentions.”
As if his personal recommendation would help the lack of trust between our two colleges.
“You’ve already warned me,” I remind him, feeling him slip away. “Don’t die. I’ll see you in a few days.” There’s a rush of warmth, and then it fades along with his shadowy presence in my mind.
Ahead of me, Baylor covers a jaw-cracking yawn with his fist as Brennan continues to lecture us about the length of the journey ahead from where he stands on a bound stack of crossbolts, amplifying his voice over the field. “The journey should take you twelve hours, though I recommend taking time to rest along the trail.” His gaze scans over us, as if gauging our reaction, which is mostly…speechless.
The only sound is the fall breeze rustling the leaves from the scrub oak trees at the south end of the field. Even the dragons and gryphons fall silent around us, as if they can’t quite believe what’s being suggested, either.
“So they can push us off?” a rider from Third Wing asks, and I don’t think he’s joking.
“That question is exactly why you’ll be going with them,” Brennan says, avoiding my gaze entirely as Syrena climbs up the pile of bound crossbolts to stand with him. “Not only have the wingleaders been given the locations of the gryphon traps to disarm them, but you need to learn some mutual respect and trust before you can be educated together. No rider will respect a cadet who hasn’t crossed the parapet.” He gestures at the trail behind him. “Behold a parapet for them to cross.”
“It’s narrow, but it’s not that narrow!” Ridoc calls out, earning a few scoffs of agreement from the riders around us.
“And if we were just risking ourselves, perhaps it would be appropriate to deem it inferior to your death bridge at Basgiath,” Syrena states, clasping her hands behind her back and facing the riders’ half of formation. Sunlight catches on the palm-size metal rings that fall at the fronts of her shoulders, connected to the leather above. “But consider while you climb, while you decide if you’ll truly accept fliers into your ranks”—her gaze catches mine—“that while this trail is perfectly safe for humans, it’s perilous for gryphons. And ask yourself if you would risk the lives of your dragons climbing a trail built specifically to kill them into hostile territory so you can learn how to better destroy your enemy with the very people you considered your enemy up until last week.”
Riders all around me shift their weight.
“She’s right,” I tell only Tairn, since Andarna is more than a three-hour flight away, no doubt in the midst of her morning training with the elders. Yesterday she almost managed a full wing extension. Almost. “I wouldn’t risk either of you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Why would you, when I’m quite capable of carrying you all over the world?” I can feel his eyes roll. “You did not bond the inferiority that are gryphons. You bonded dragons. Take them for a walk and let them prove themselves.”
“The way the fliers look at us is more like they expect us to prove ourselves.”
“You were chosen by dragons. That is enough.”
“Each squad will be paired with a drift of equal strength to make the ascent,” Brennan says. “Hopefully by the time you reach the top, you’ve found some mutual ground on which to build a framework of partnership.”
This is all in the spirit of comradery?
“Highly doubt it,” Ridoc mutters.
“In the meantime, your dragons will remain close,” Brennan asserts.
“I’ll never be more than a minute’s flight away,” Tairn promises. “Have fun hiking.”
I hold him to it when we’re given our assignment—Cat’s drift.
Three hours later, my calves are screaming from the constant climb, and the silence in our small, forced group has grown from uncomfortable to painfully awkward. Removing my right hand from the sheer rock wall, I adjust the weight of my pack on my shoulders to ease the growing protest in my spine and check on Sloane. She’s climbing steadily a few feet in front of me, giving the gryphon ahead of her plenty of room to flick its lionlike tail.
We’re climbing single file, with Fourth Wing leading the way. Only Claw Section is above us.
The trail itself is challenging although not unpassable, and while up to six feet wide at parts, it narrows to a quarter of that in places where the path has disintegrated, leaving gaping holes that have the humans hugging the cliff wall to get by. Every time we reach one, the gryphons stretch their grappling talons across while balancing on clawed back paws, and I find myself holding my breath that they make it. Considering the ones we’re walking with are easily a couple of feet wider than the path, I’m surprised only two have fallen that I know of. They’re able to catch themselves for now, but at higher altitudes? It could get ugly.
I look back at Maren, the flier I’ve been paired with until evening, and her gryphon as we approach an already triggered trap, the battering-ram-size log now lying harmlessly along the cliff wall where the path narrows. “Be careful here.”
“Right at chest height. Nice.” She offers me a pressed-lipped smile. She’s petite for a flier, though still taller than me, with a heart-shaped face under dark hair woven into a long single braid that falls along the bronzed ochre skin of her neck. Her dark, hooded eyes meet mine without hesitance every time I look back to make sure she’s still following, which earns my respect, but she’s also Cat’s best friend, which has me watching my back in more ways than one.
I look back again to make sure they pass safely.
“I’m not going to fall off the cliff,” she promises as we make the sharp turn of the fourth switchback. Or maybe it’s the fifth. The curves are the only places on the trail wide enough to walk in pairs. “Neither is Dajalair.”
The brown-and-white gryphon’s front left claw slips off the trail, and her talon screeches against rock with the most godsawful sound I’ve ever heard as she regains her balance.
Sloane and I trade a look that’s surprisingly empty of hostility.
“Are you certain about that?” I ask Maren as all three of us pause, watching to see if any stones break off the rocky terrain. Anything that falls can be deadly to those climbing below us.
