“You can’t afford to lose the riders necessary to fight us,” Ulices answers. “We’re too expensive to keep, especially with the number of riders—and the riot—who chose to leave you.”
“Perhaps.” Melgren tilts his head. “Or perhaps I let you.”
My grip tightens on my dagger.
“Perhaps”—the general draws out the word—“I knew we’d need you for a coming battle.”
Highly unlikely. Who would they possibly be fighting behind the wards?
“I’ll meet Malek before I fight for Navarre again,” Ulices snarls.
“You were always too quick to make important decisions,” Melgren says with a sigh, patting his chest. “That’s why I didn’t mourn your loss.”
Damn. That was harsh.
“This meeting is over—” Ulices starts, red rising up his neck and splashing onto his cheeks.
“They’re going to overrun us at Samara,” Melgren interrupts.
Everyone quiets.
I struggle to draw my next breath. Surely he didn’t mean to say that. I look at Mom, and my knees weaken at the subtle nod she gives me. Even Mira tenses.
“I’ve seen it,” Melgren continues. “They come for us on solstice, and they win.”
Shit, he said exactly what he meant. A chill races up my spine as the blood drains from my face. If Samara falls, if any of the outposts do, wyvern would have unfettered access to parts of Navarre the ward extensions have protected for the last six hundred years.
Without the outposts, Basgiath’s wards would rebound to their natural limits, only a few hours’ flight, reaching nowhere near the border.
“How?” Ulices challenges, and the riders from Mira’s unit exchange disbelieving looks.
“Do me a favor,” I say to Xaden. “Forget feeling guilty about reading my intentions and please read theirs.”
“Everyone but the major on the right is shielded, but she’s scared shitless and intends to do whatever she needs to get us to agree,” he answers, shifting so his hand brushes the back of mine. “Oh, and she wants to eat after this meeting, and argue with your mother over her supposed affection for her daughters. Now put your shields up and block me—and everyone else—out.”
Holy shit. No wonder inntinnsics aren’t allowed to live. Xaden is both a jaw-dropping weapon and a frightening liability. I do as he suggests, only leaving space for Tairn and the opaque, glimmering bond I feel with Andarna, even at this distance.
“How isn’t how it works.” Melgren folds his arms across his chest, and Codagh bares his dripping teeth. “All that matters is that we lose on solstice.”
They lose. If the wards are breached, there’s no way to estimate the death toll. Every Navarrian civilian between the border and the wardstone’s natural limitations will be in mortal danger.
“Silver One?”
“I’m fine.” But I’m not.
“If you’ve already seen the outcome, then what the hell do you expect us to do about it?” Ulices challenges, lifting his hands as he shrugs.
My head turns in his direction, but I bite my tongue before I can reply that he obviously expects us to help.
“Change the outcome by fighting at our side.” Melgren frowns like he’s being forced to swallow rotten fruit. “In the battle I see, none of you are there.” He glances at Xaden.
“And we’re not going to be.” Ulices shakes his head. “We don’t fly for you.”
No, we fly for… Wait, who do we fly for? Not just Aretia, or even Tyrrendor. And if we’re willing to fight to defend the civilians of Poromiel, why wouldn’t we fight to defend Navarrians, too?
“No, but you do fly for the Empyrean,” Mom interjects. “Dragonkind won’t stand aside if the hatching grounds in the Vale are compromised.”
“Your mother is presumptuous to speak on behalf of dragonkind,” Tairn mutters.
“If the hatching grounds are compromised. Losing one outpost won’t take down the entire system, and half your riot left with us,” I remind her.
“And you’re proud of that? What you caused may very well be the reason we lose this battle!” the box-framed captain beside Mom snarls, lifting his shortsword in my direction.
I flip my dagger, pinching the tip in readiness to throw, but shadows jolt forward, knocking the sword from the captain’s hand and putting him on his ass.
Xaden clicks his tongue and wiggles his pointer finger. “No, no. I’d hate to lose the spirit of civility, wouldn’t you? We were all getting along so nicely.”
“Godsdamned traitor,” the captain spits out, fumbling for his sword before finding his feet. “Malek will meet you for your crimes.”
Mom sheathes a dagger I never saw her draw, her focus flicking between the captain and Xaden.
“Tried that. He didn’t want me—or any of us, remember?” Xaden scratches his relic with his empty hand.
“Enough,” Melgren shouts. “I don’t expect you to ally yourself with us for nothing. Fight for us at Samara, and I have it on King Tauri’s word that we will respect the independence of your riot…and the city you’ve taken refuge in.”
The breath freezes in my lungs. “Does he know about Aretia?”
“I can’t tell.”
