The Dragon Round (42 page)

When he's halfway there, though, the tower guards burst onto the walk, Chevron calling orders, and the distraction opens his ears to the crowd.

He turns the dragon around. She'll have to wait. The plaza is filling again. All the streets around the tower are filling. Everyone is looking up at him and cheering. He's a parade of one, triumphant. He lifts an arm. The city roars. He can see them in the Harbor. He can see them on the roofs of Hanoshi Town. On the lanes and streets and boulevards up and down the Hill. Only the Crest is quiet. This is his city. This is his real army. He will give them the war they need to mold them into a people again.

For too long Hanosh has followed the sail of the sea. Now they will follow the sail of the sky. And knowing what his people want, Herse snaps the reins. The dragon's wings clap above his head, and Herse holds on for his life as the dragon screeches and takes flight.

EPILOGUE

In the highest room of the Castle's highest tower, Sivarts scans the city from a tall paned window. He can't imagine what's taking the surgeon so long. He has to get back to his galley. He's on the verge of having Felic find the man and escort him there directly when a woman on the street below grabs her companion's shoulder and points at the tower.

Something circles the cupola. “That's the biggest raven I've ever seen,” Sivarts says. The creature lands on the dome, perfectly profiled, shining silver in the sun. “Or is it an albatross? Immense.” It snaps at something on the walk, shakes it and releases it then the creature vomits fire. Flames shower the east side of the tower, dissipating halfway down.

“That's no bird,” Sivarts says. “That's a dragon. And—” A figure rises on the dragon's back and, despite the distance, looks straight through Sivarts. “That's a man,” he says. “Can you believe it?”

Sivarts looks over his shoulder at Vel. She's still gagged and fixed to the stretcher set on the floor. She's been watching too. Her eyes grow wet, then huge. Sivarts turns to see the man arch as if shot. Another man climbs out of the cupola and walks with incredible ease down to the dragon. He takes the rider in his arms and lays him on the dome. Strangely his eyes reflect the dawn like two white diamonds. A moment later the second man climbs into the saddle.

When the dragon bites into its former rider, Sivarts chokes on his gorge and the woman moans. He wants to back away. Instead, he fills the window so the woman can't see anymore. He suspects who it must have been, her Jon.

Her expression confirms his suspicions. Her eyes have dried as hard as flint. The burned flesh on her face can't hide such vital fury.

The steps outside creak. Felic opens the door to let the surgeon in. He's wearing the outfit of his profession: loose cotton pants and a long-sleeve tunic with a hood, both black to better hide blood and other errant fluids. Even the bandage around his hand is black. He crouches beside the woman and sets his leather satchel down.

“So, this is our patient,” the surgeon says. He notes how she's biting the gag and lifts the covers to see the straps. “What's all this for? Is she dangerous?”

“Possibly.”

“We'll take care of that,” the surgeon says. “Now leave us. Our examination requires privacy.”

“I'll post a guard outside,” Sivarts says.

“At the bottom of the stairs, if you must. Stamping and snorting is terribly distracting.”

The surgeon locks the door behind Sivarts and removes a small bottle and a black rag from his satchel. He uncorks the bottle. A sickly sweet odor fills the room. He dabs some onto the rag.

The woman's brow furrows. She protests through her gag.

“Oh, no,” he says. “This isn't for you. It's for us. We've had a very trying night.” He huffs his rag, sighs, and tucks it in his collar. He puts the bottle away and pulls out a scalpel and a pair of pliers. “These are for you. To cure you of your reticence. We want to know everything you know. Things you don't yet realize you know. Let's start with where you got that blouse.”

As the surgeon huffs his rag,
Everlyn looks out the window. Gray makes another circuit of the tower. The new rider waves. To check her feelings, she concentrates on the placket of Jeryon's captain's blouse. She slides her arm slowly between a strap and her belly to run her thumbnail along one edge of the placket until it catches on a tiny hard surface inside. She presses. Having taken a cue from the pant cuffs of Jeryon's uniform, she pokes a long, needle-thin, but single-edged dragonbone blade through the cloth.

Also released, or maybe it's just her mind playing tricks, is the last faint whisper of how he smelled. Her hands shake. She thinks of his beard and how nice it made him look, how rough it felt at first, then how soft. Her hands settle.

Everlyn slides the blade free one finger push at a time and palms it.

She will escape this monster, escape this place, and then she will get their dragon back.

In the highest room of her
compound, the White Widow looks up through tall windows at the dragon circling the tower. The flames on the dome are dying down. The cheers are not. She gongs for one of her maids.

The young woman has rough hands like most maids, but her calluses didn't come from churning a lye pot. She's better fed too, and her arms and legs are taut as drumheads.

“Dress like a trade rider this time,” Asper tells her, “and bring word to my father immediately. They may close the gates. Hanosh has a dragon.” It swoops low over the compound, and Asper realizes who the rider is. “No, tell him Herse has a dragon. And whether or not we're at war already, Ayden must take it. Or kill it.”

Acknowledgments

Nobody makes a book alone.

I'd like to thank:

My first readers: David Fantini, Brian Hopper, Eric B. Lass, and Nathan Ophardt, for their excellent advice and much-appreciated encouragement.

My team at Simon451, especially my editor, Brit Hvide. Her editorial vision and enthusiasm is why I signed with them. Her pointed notes and unflagging desire to get the book right demonstrated that I'd made a good decision. Elina Vaysbeyn, my online marketer, gave me extensive notes on my website. Tornstein Nordstrand painted the perfect cover image. Jonathan Evans and Dominick Montalto made sure that every comma was in its place.

My former employer, John Wiley & Sons, which, by laying me off and giving me a generous severance package, thereby provided both the impetus and the means to write this book.

My wife, Chris Condry, and our daughter, Alice Hope Condry-Power, for many things, but in particular for their forgiveness. I can get testy when I'm writing. The same is true when I'm hungry, but that's not important here.

And finally my agent, Eric Nelson, who found the book a wonderful home, who gave me critical advice along the way, and who inspired it in the first place. One day he said, “Why would someone write a book for kids without a dragon?” and I thought, “Why would someone write a book for anyone without a dragon?”

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Interior design by Lewelin Polanco

Map design by Robert Lazzaretti

Jacket design by Christopher Lin

Jacket illustration by Torstein Nordstrand

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-5011-3320-6

ISBN 978-1-4767-9461-7 (ebook)