Luminous

75 - The Catalyst

"Ah, milord." The old fellow spun around at the sound of his approaching footsteps. Spotting the scroll Zier had retrieved from his sleeve, he reached for the cage on the left, "To Hyacinth?"

Zier surveyed their vicinity with a cursory glance. Seeing no-one within earshot, he took a step closer to the servant.

"No. Hadrian, please." He passed the sealed letter to the man's veined hand, then leaned in further and murmured into his ear, "Not a word to anyone, especially my brother."

The old man nodded. He must have felt the weight of the golden coin attached to the scroll.

"Of course, milord." He drew away and fiddled with the padlock on one of the remaining cages, proclaiming heartily as a maid walked past with a basket full of dried laundry, "Tofty is our fastest. He'd reach Lady Hyacinth by evening."

Zier nodded, eyes following the maid, who hadn't bothered to investigate their shady dealings. She disappeared into Coris and Meya's tent.

"Very well. Thank you." He muttered his gratitude, then hurried away, his sweaty, clammy hands shoved deep into his pockets. By the time he realized where he was going, his knowing feet had brought him past their enclave of tents to the wide sand plain dotted with boulders, which had served as last night's training ground.

To the left was the rock under whose shade he had sat commiserating with his brother. The very rock Coris had shoved him against, shielding him from the oncoming dragon-Persephia with his body. She swatted him aside like a rag doll she'd grown out of, as she'd done with Simon and Christopher seconds earlier. It was a futile act, yet one fueled by raw protective instinct—there wasn't time for his brother to scheme or tabulate profit and loss, let alone think.

Zier felt his hands trembling in his pockets, and he twisted the fabric lining to still them. Coris's doodle, along with the stick he'd used to draw it, had long been carried away by the harsh desert gale, while the flower-topped stem of weed remained where Zier had erected it. 

He uncorked his waterskin and tipped a splash of moisture over it, along with his prayers to the goddess, shuddering as he imagined his parents' reactions to his secret letter.

There was no turning back, and what was bound to come horrified him, but it was high time for the truth.

⏳

The sky was cloudless, occupied instead by circling shadows of dragons, like a mural depicting the Everglen skies of legend. One of the beasts dove with breakneck speed towards the men sitting half-asleep astride their steeds. Having startled them awake with the screaming wind, the little dragon—who was obviously Frenix Pearlwater—pulled up and away, keening with laughter as he banked to avoid the stone Simon had lobbed after him in annoyance.

The day had started slow and didn't pick up pace as the hours wore by. The officials, maids, yeomen and servants were still suffering the after-effects of Persephia's sleeping draught spiked in last night's dinner. Some were merely groggy and could do with nodding off occasionally on their horses, but an unfortunate few were confined within an arm's reach of the chamberpot.

Coris, Simon and Christopher, having slipped pieces of Lattis cut off from Meya's collar under their tongues beforehand, were unaffected, but drained nonetheless from the intense chase and the subsequent cleanup.

No-one felt like chatting or singing, or playing an instrument, making for a dreary, subdued journey. Meya longed to be up in the Heights, frolicking and chasing and hurling balls of leather and fire with her four fellow dragons-in-training, but transforming would mean stretching her lacerated skin and inundating it with sizzling liquid metal.