The Draykon Series (1-3)

Lokant: Chapter Forty-One

Two pale, composed faces, framed in night-black hair spread out over white pillows. Eyes shut, breathing steady and slow. One lay alone in her narrow infirmary bed; upon the torso of the other rested a small bundle of grey fur, curled into a sleeping ball.

Aysun had scarcely looked on any other image in days. He had placed a chair between the two beds in which lay his wife and his daughter. Hour after hour he sat there, gazing first upon Ynara's face and then upon Llandry, so like her mother and yet so different also. The signs he craved never came: no quickening breath announced a wakening from slumber, no flutter of the eyelashes, no slight movement of hands or fingers. They remained still as statues, white as marble.

Pensould sat on the other side of the room, by Llandry's side. He and Aysun hardly spoke; both maintained their dejected vigils in near silence, unable to find anything to say. Pensould had been optimistic for a time, after whatever feat he had pulled using Aysun's own vitality. But when Llandry still didn't wake, his spirits had steadily sunk further and further.

Aysun still found the draykon-man unnerving, and he certainly didn't know what to make of his relationship with Llandry (of whatever nature it was). But his devoted guardianship over her warmed Aysun's heart. Whatever he might be, his affection for little Llan was obviously sincere.

Aysun shifted in his chair, his muscles cramping with inaction. He was neglecting his duties, he knew. In the aftermath of the draykon attack, there had been calls for new weapons to be developed, for Glinnery possessed nothing with which to respond to the attacks of those vast, airborne beasts. As a leading engineer of the realm, he had a clear duty to participate in the project.

He did try. Every day he left the infirmary for a few hours and turned his thoughts to the problem of city defence. But it was hard; all he could see was those two still faces, their beloved features as much dead as alive. Who could think of war machines under such circumstances? Not him. He was not equal to it.

Sigwide woke and stood up, stretching his short legs. Seeing Aysun, he gave the tiniest wag of his stubby tail, then wobbled over to install himself in the big man's lap. Aysun petted him abstractedly. The orting's fur was dense and matted; he hadn't been grooming himself properly. He hadn't been eating properly either, though he was regularly provided with food. Sigwide had always been so in tune with Llan; Aysun was afraid that this listlessness was the product of that bond. Was Sigwide already mourning?

The door clattered open and Rufin almost fell through it, his enormous feet tripping over the mat. He cursed loudly, barely managing to catch himself before he fell headlong to the floor. A mug he'd been carrying dropped and shattered.

Aysun sighed. If even Rufin's regular clumsiness couldn't wake his ladies, they were heavily asleep indeed.

'Still moping?' Rufin thrust the surviving mug at Aysun, scowling. The cup contained strong-smelling soup, the scent of which turned Aysun's stomach immediately.

'I am keeping them company,' he replied stiffly. 'Any moment there could be a change. Someone should stay with them.'

Rufin snorted. 'Has it escaped your notice that we're under attack? You're needed out there. Those creatures aren't done yet.'

Aysun shrugged. 'I'm not the only engineer in Glinnery.'

'Luckily for us, you're the only useless one.'

Aysun said nothing. Rufin couldn't rile him, not now.

'You going to drink that?'

'Can't. Sorry.'

Rufin held out his hand. 'Give it back then.' The gunman reclaimed the mug. He offered it perfunctorily to Pensould, who mutely shook his head. With a shrug, Rufin drained the contents in two gulps.