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  “That’s none of your concern,” Mainard snapped. “Furthermore, you will refrain from spreading your unfounded superstitions throughout my academy, do you hear?”

  “I will do no such thing!” said Yenni, standing. “Do you not see that we can save so many—”

  Mainard also stood. “Mam’selle Kayerba! I understand that things are different where you are from, but here there are rules that must be obeyed! Should you cause unrest by disseminating false information there will be consequences. Legal consequences. Is that clear?”

  “This is lunacy,” Yenni said through her teeth.

  “Is. That. Clear, mam’selle?”

  She gave him a curt nod, which was all she could manage without screaming in his face, and marched from his office.

  Outside the administrative tower, Weysh took one look at her face and said, “Let’s go for a flight.”

  He changed on the grass and Yenni fairly jumped on Weysh’s back, eager to be away from stubborn Mainard, the campus, Cresh itself if she could. However, even with Weysh’s warm, reassuring bulk beneath her and the wind whistling its sweet tune in her ears, Yenni’s mood stayed resolutely irate. The rainbow houses of Imperium Centre passed by in a muddled blur, largely unappreciated. How Yenni wished she could reveal to that bullheaded Mainard her true status as the chieftain’s daughter. Perhaps then he would show her the respect she was used to. But she knew that would be unwise. Dayo’s warning was not lost on her, and even if her brother was being overly cautious in warning her not to reveal her identity, there could be Creshens who might seek to capture her for ransom. Creshens like those who had attacked her in the alley. She wouldn’t go without a fight, of course, and she had her friends to help her, but it would be nonsensical to put herself in unnecessary danger. Father Ri was always ready and waiting to instruct the foolish.

  They couldn’t have been flying for more than a quarter of an hour when the sky began to rumble and flash so suddenly Yenni half wondered if she’d drawn the storm with her ire. Weysh screeched, letting her know they would have to cut their flight short. He glided a few minutes more, his neck bobbing and stretching as he scanned the landscape, until finally he shrugged his wings and let out that familiar cry that meant he planned to descend.

  They landed among the ruins of some Creshen structure. Yenni slipped off Weysh’s back and ran through the warm spring rain, which hissed and splattered on the cracked stones of a wide pathway. She darted past rows of chipped white arches that bordered the path on either side, and headed for the relative shelter of a high and crumbling dome at the path’s end. As she ducked inside she heard Weysh’s splashing footfalls behind her. Yenni stood in a dry corner under the arched ceiling, folding her arms as she surveyed their temporary shelter. Broken stained-glass windows revealed the overcast sky of the storm and stubborn blades of grass pushed up through the cracks between the floor.

  Weysh sat against the wall beside her. “Apologies, lovely. I can usually smell a storm coming. We’ll have to stop here for a while. Lightning and flight are not a terribly good mix.”

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “It was a chapelle—a place to pray and worship. Some rich noble must have built it but then fallen on hard times and couldn’t afford the upkeep.”

  Weysh patted the spot beside him, but Yenni was too full of restless energy to sit. She paced back and forth in the small dry patch where the high dome of the roof didn’t leak.

  “How can he be so stubborn?” she fumed. “Not only did Mainard dismiss me, he says I cannot tell anyone about the demon that causes the wither-rot, or I will be reprimanded legally.” She jerked to face Weysh. “Is this true?” she demanded.

  “Erm, I’m no barrister, but I believe there is some law against the spread of harmful information, yes. Mainard has something of a reputation for being self-important—I had him as an instructor myself for one of those mandatory first-year magic classes, but it’s not completely unfounded. He is a Magus Grande. He has clout, Yenni, and power.”

  “Unbelievable! So many deaths could be prevented—your stepfather’s, for example! But this disease will continue to fester and grow within Cresh, all because of the idiocy of one man. So be it, but if our Yirba healers should find a way to destroy this evil spirit instead of merely shuffling it from host to host, I will make it known.”

  She continued to pace, muttering to herself about how these closed-minded Creshens would be the cause of their own demise.

  “You’re making my head spin, lovely,” Weysh said. “Come, sit with me.”

  She settled in beside his warmth, and his rough fingers stroked the back of her neck. “Relax,” he said softly. “Listen to the rain.”

  It sighed and pattered heavily against the chapelle’s roof, landing in musical droplets in puddles on the floor where the roof failed to shield. A black lizard, maybe the size of her hand, crawled almost shyly across the floor toward them, coming in fits and jerks. When it was about two strides away from Weysh it burst into flame.

  “Ah!” cried Yenni, jerking away from it.

  Weysh ran a comforting hand down her arm. “It’s only a salamander, sweet. Nothing to be afraid of. Sometimes they come out and ignite when it rains.”

  “Oh, truly? Even though they are creatures of fire?”

  “Consider it the wisdom of Byen—they ignite only in the presence of water. Imagine what would happen if salamanders were igniting all over dry fields in the heat of summer. I suppose the flames keep them warm in the rain or some such. If they get too close for comfort just use Yoben’s Rainfall to put them out and they’ll scamper away.”

  Another eruption of flame caught her attention somewhere to her left. Then another, by the entrance. The creatures slowly made their way toward them, illuminating the chapelle like candles. One got close enough for Weysh to touch, and he ran his fingers through the flames sprouting from the creature’s back while Yenni gaped at him. “Does that not hurt?”

  “Not if I concentrate,” he replied absently. “Then it simply feels warm. The perks of being a dragon,” he said, and winked.

  “They like you, they know their own kind,” Yenni teased.

  “Erm, Yenni, you should never call someone dragonkind a salamander. It’s considered very rude.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. I did not realize.”

  Thunder crashed outside, and Weysh wrapped an arm around her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. “Don’t trouble yourself, my heart. You didn’t know. Oh! Speaking of culture clashes, these salamanders remind me of something. Do you have your paint with you?”

  “Not my paint; Professor Devon’s mixture. But, yes, I always carry some.”

  “Well, remember that conversation we had in the library some moonturns back, when you painted me with a rune? Why not try painting me in dragon? We’ve got some time to kill after all.”

  “Oh!” said Yenni. “Yes, let’s try it!” She welcomed the distraction.

  Weysh pushed off from the wall and made his way to the center of the circular chapelle, right among the rotting wooden benches that ringed the space. He spun slowly, judging the distance, seemed to come to some conclusion, and the next moment he was in dragon, errant raindrops plopping on his scales. There was just enough room for Yenni to scoot around him. She stroked his face and kissed his warm nose bridge, smiling at his low, delighted hum. Taking out her paint from her satchel, she bade him lie flat. She painted the rune for wind right there on his nose bridge, ach’e welling in her throat as she softly sang the hymn.

  “There, now try to activate the rune.”

  Yenni watched, breath held with anticipation, for the familiar glow, but nothing happened. “Weh-sheh? What’s wrong? Can’t you do it?”

  He closed his pretty jewel-tone eyes and let out a soft, hissing sigh. Let me focus.

  She watched him, silent before the rain’s serenade. He breathed deep, his lar
ge body expanding, then exhaled. The rune flickered and glowed, and a burst of warm wind fanned her face.

  “You did it!” Yenni cried, and clapped her hands together. “Incredible! Come, let’s try it again.”

  She tried painting a wind rune under his chin, and after a few moments of concentration he blasted her with that one as well. Yenni shuffled around him, painting different parts of his body—his leg, a wing, his tail—dodging and shooing curious salamanders as she went. She sent a silent prayer to Ib-e-ji that the creatures wouldn’t set the rotting benches ablaze, damp as they were. In fact, she drew two quick water runes on the backs of her hands just in case. But whether the Sha had heard her, or just by their own natural instinct, or perhaps fascination with Weysh, the salamanders stayed clear of the wood.

  With some effort, Weysh was able to use all the runes Yenni painted. She found that the bigger the rune, the more fierce a gust he was able to produce. It seemed his bigger body needed a bigger anchor.

  “Well, this has been a great success!” Yenni said happily.

  Weysh changed and grinned at her. “That it has! Casting magic in dragon, who would have ever thought it. We should show this to General Sol—she’s head of the dragon division at Prevan.”

  “Absolutely!” said Yenni.

  “And I’ll have to practice so I can put on a proper demonstration for your family, en?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And when might that be?”

  Yenni paused, her silence filled by the crackling flames from the salamanders, until finally Weysh crossed his arms and grunted. “Have you even told them about me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I see.”

  That stung him, she could tell. As always she could see his emotions plain on his face. He was warring with himself. He likely wanted to challenge her as to why, but was reluctant to undo the progress they’d made by starting an argument.

  “I need time,” she said before he could speak further. “To decide—”

  Decide what? If she wanted him? She could no longer deny that she did. If she was brave enough to bring him home? If her happiness was worth a war?

  “—how to tell them,” she finished.

  She knew that answer didn’t make him happy, but he nodded all the same. With each day that passed she came closer to the crossroads, to the decision she knew she must make.

  But not today.

  “The storm has passed,” said Weysh, and in truth the rain was nothing more than a light drizzle now, the crashing thunder long gone. “Shall I take you back?”

  “Oh, so soon?”

  “Yes, I should get in some melee practice.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Strange, it was usually her who suggested they head back. Nevertheless, he led her out of the chapelle ruins, changed to dragon, and took her back to her residence. She paid the toll, and he received his fare with enthusiasm, but watching him wing away to the training sands, Yenni couldn’t shake a strange sense of unease.

  31

  In the following weeks Weysh found himself somewhat subdued. His recent success with Yenni had been cause for elation, but there was still much they needed to overcome. Their conversation at the chapelle ruins was a sobering reminder that she hadn’t truly pledged herself to him. He’d been plagued by strange fits of melancholy since Noriago’s attack, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling to know the one you loved didn’t quite feel the same way about you. Coupled with how she’d dropped his hand like a hot coal when they’d bumped into Carmenna, he might almost believe she was embarrassed by him.

  So it was with a troubled heart that Weysh flew to the offices of Montpierre’s Healer, Veronique, but he did his best to remain optimistic. She was quite in demand, and it would normally have been a few moonturns before he could see her, but after hearing the nature of his injury she’d decided to bring him in as soon as possible, and even then it took a good three weeks. Weysh wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or anxious about her urgency.

  She kept her offices in a three-story townhouse in the upper-class district of Empress Way. The main floor was manned by a pale and pointy-nosed clerk who directed him to fly up to the rooftop and wait for the healer there.

  She clearly had experience with dragons. The rooftop was paved in the same soft mixture as the roads of Sir Lamontanya, and surrounded by a simple wrought-iron fence. Weysh lounged in dragon, waiting. At last a short, plump woman of perhaps sixty years emerged from the rooftop door. Her crisp, gray Healer’s robes were accented by a white stole that drooped over her shoulders, denoting her as the highest order of Healer Magus. Weysh rose and bowed to her.

  Her blue eyes were sharp and assessing as she examined his nose. She had him sniff a few vials and shone a light up his nostrils, looking for Watcher only knew what. Though Weysh worried he might accidentally sneeze and roast her, she went about her examination fearlessly.

  She had him change to a man and sniff the same vials, asking him if he could smell or feel anything, which he could not. The way she clucked and hummed at his answers did not fill him with confidence.

  “Yes, it seems both of your bodies are affected,” she said. “This is often the case with nerve damage or injuries to the brain in dragonkind. It’s one of the biggest blows to the theory that the dragon body is a separate entity hidden away in otherspace.

  “I won’t mince words, Messer Nolan: the damage is quite extensive. I’ve only come across two cases similar to this in all my time as a healer. I can prescribe you a sniffing potion I came up with. It’s infused with old magic, spells completely in San-Uramaik. It will stimulate the nerve endings in your nose, encouraging them to regenerate. I should have it ready for you in the next two days. Sniff it for five minutes in the morning and again at night, both in human and dragon.”

  “And that will repair my sense of smell?”

  The healer clucked her tongue at him again in a motherly way. “I hope so, but it will never quite be what it was, I’m afraid. We’re attempting to bring the dead back to life, after all.”

  “I see.” Weysh had to close his eyes against the sinking despair that suddenly engulfed him. He would never be a whole dragon again. Never fully smell spicy-sweet Yenni, or metallic Harth, or flowery Maman.

  A warm, soft hand squeezed his upper arm, and he opened his eyes to Healer Veronique’s sympathetic gaze.

  “Walk with Byen, Messer Nolan,” she said softly.

  Back outside, the bustle of the city and the sunny day seemed to mock him. The hope that his sense of smell might come back, which had buoyed him through the days after the attack, fell apart like paper in the rain, until he found himself stumbling like a drunk, his legs weak. It was all he could do to direct himself to the alley between two overpriced boutiques and sit with his head between his legs.

  He felt dizzy and sick, as if he’d spent the night before drinking barrels of beer. Could emotion truly affect someone so physically? What was to become of him now? His future, his post in the Imperial Army? How was he to protect Yenni? He was a dragon, he was not used to this helplessness! The idea that someone had come along and just taken something so important from him, just taken it, and there was nothing he could do—the buzzing, maddening violation of it was overwhelming. It was a new, unbearable form of pain, but one that made him want to scream all the same. This was his life now—the world as he had known it through sharp and magnificent scents was lost to him forever.

  He sniffed, then frowned. Why was his nose running? A reaction to the sniffing vials? He wiped at it, and felt more moisture collected right at the crook of his nostril. Tears. He was crying. When was the last time he’d cried? From sadness? Weysh tipped his head back to try to stop them, but that only sent them cascading down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. So he simply gave up and let the tears fall.

  When Weysh at last dragged himself from the alley and changed to d
ragon, even that took none of the edge off his misery. When he set out from the city center he’d intended to go home, skip his classes, and lick his wounds. But in the end it wasn’t his townhouse rooftop he closed in on, but the familiar red brick of his family home.

  Why am I here? he thought, even as he knocked on the door. Genie opened it and welcomed him warmly.

  “Is Maman up?” Suddenly he realized he very much wanted to see her.

  “Bright and early, as per usual. She’s having a morning cup of coffee in the back garden—whatever is the matter, Weysh? Your face is as long as a horse’s!”

  Weysh shook his head. “Nothing I’m too eager to get into now, Genie. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

  A lie.

  Genie led him through the house, clucking and tsking her concern the whole way, but she didn’t press him. His maman was sitting on one of the white wicker chairs scattered among the paving stones. She turned, her face surprised and then warm at the sight of him.

  “Weysh, lovely! Come sit,” she said, reaching for him. He took the seat across from her.

  With her free hand she squeezed his. “I do love it out here in the mornings,” she said, and breathed deeply, as if she could inhale the low, musical cooing of doves, the green of the trees, the red of the roses, the cool, dewy grass of the lawn.

  Weysh kissed her hand. “Good morning, Maman.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Genie, bowing. She left them in private.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” asked his mother, and Weysh was gratified to see she looked genuinely happy to see him.

  “I just came back from Healer Veronique.”

  “Oh!” She put her coffee cup down with a clink on her saucer. Her brows scrunched up in concern and she seemed, at last, to catch the gravity of his expression. “And?”

  Weysh did his best to swallow the stubborn lump in his throat. “It seems I’ll never fully regain my sense of smell.”