A mysterious past, an unrequited love, and a desperate need to find himself, fifteen-year-old Kalyn has enough to occupy him without being on the verge of a massive societal upheaval. Join Kalyn and his friends as they explore what it means to come...
Once I would have relished the thought, but now it is a curse. I wish I could stop breathing to conserve the moisture in my lungs. Dry air rasps in and out of them with the necessity of surviving, and my chest aches from each labored inhale.
My water jug is unnervingly light, and the view today is the same as yesterday's. There are rumblings that we are lost; each afternoon that passes without a single glimpse of green earth seems to diminish our leader's once unflagging confidence. Kari, no longer towering and beautiful in her self-possession, hunches over maps by the fading firelight late into the night.
Her worry is infectious. I can feel it festering. Even Teak, our touchstone, has become as brittle and coarse as his surroundings.
Bickering breaks out among the parties. We have had nothing to eat but small game and preserved rations for days. Those who have rushed through their supplies are getting desperate.
There are nightly squabbles over the distribution of food. My once boisterous and hopeful companions have gone sullen. There is no more singing, no more laughter. Now there is only open talk of breaking into factions. Alliances are made and unmade within hours. No one can seem to agree on anything. I worry what will become of us without one another. The Balaiins, at least, seem to hold steadily to one another, whether out of loyalty or loneliness. They have no one else.
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Some Incarnates seem to be suffering more than others. Using one of the linens Ohna gifted me in our short time together, I fashion a sarong cradle for the tabby to shelter her from the heat and exhaustion of walking. Köv has shorn his wolf's coat, which does little to assuage its constant panting, and, without the energy to fly, Agan's hawk sticks mostly to her shoulder. Mab has taken to walking to spare her doe the added burden of her weight.
Wart's enthusiasm for the desert has waned. He is growing sluggish, his scales flaking and peeling. The bumps on his back have started cracking into painful-looking fissures. I rub salve on them to no avail. Though he has learned to withhold the worst of his aggression, I can tell his patience is thin.
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A piercing scream startles me from a half-dream, and I throw my hands over my head in reflex protection from a sandstorm. I note by degrees, however, that it is deadly still. It is one of those rare, clear nights where the sky is visible, an inky overhead ocean of constellations.
I look around me, where my travelling companions slumber fitfully beneath their thick blankets. A fog rises on my breath in the chill. Whoever was in charge of the fire has fallen asleep, and the flame has died to embers. This is a grave sin with kindling as precious to come by as it has been, but there is no time to reprimand them or even restore the warmth.
What was that cry, and why is no one else awake? In my head, it was shattering. Did no one else hear it?
I get awkwardly to my feet, doing my best not to disturb those huddled sleeping around me. There is another scream, though none appear to register it, and I know immediately that the source is Wart.
Sometimes he goes out on his own to hunt the few nocturnal animals that inhabit this wasteland. I fret that one has gotten the best of him. He is all alone. I have to find him.
Clumsy feet stumble through the sand as I pray for him to call out again. In some ways, the silence is reassuring, but I can't convince myself to feel it. I strain my eyes against the darkness. Another screech has me hurtling in Wart's direction.
When I find him, he is bleeding. My hands come away warm and wet. In the dark, his eyes glow. He blinks at me, apparently unphased, and my racing heart begins to slow.
"What happened to you?" I demand of his calm expression. "You scared me half to death." It is only then that I feel the draft. The rush of air as he spreads his wings. His wings.
A pair of great, bat-like appendages test the breeze casually. Wart watches me as if I am the fool for being surprised. Panic turns to laughter, and I hug him around the neck, relief coursing through my veins. Is it my imagination, or does he rest his head against me in the impression of an embrace?
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When morning comes, the troupe seems reunified in amazement at the transformation. It is generally believed to foretell good fortune for our passage. No one has ever seen the likes of him. Dragons are the stuff of legends. To have one of our own is unfathomable.
We march with renewed energy. I notice Agan following Wart and I with her bright, all-seeing eyes, though she remains wordless as always.
A mountain looms in the distance, and we are giddy with relief. We are saved! Some empty their tankards while others reserve their stores until a refill is within reach. The word mirage is more offensive than a curse.
Inte is within sight! How long I have waited for this moment. In retrospect, it all seems worth it, though I can't say I would do it again...
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