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“It’s an Assembly meeting,” Bodhi whispers to me. “Only a quorum of five is required to call a vote, since all seven are almost never here at one time, and four votes carry a motion.”
“Well, he’s definitely not going to trade with us now,” she retorts, her gaze narrowing. “Especially if you won’t even contemplate his latest offer.” “He can fuck right off with his offer.”
“Xaden has already taken responsibility for her.” Imogen sidesteps, moving slightly closer to me. “As brutal of a custom as it may be.”
My mother locks eyes with me for one heartbeat, a side of her mouth tilting upward in an expression I’m almost scared to call…pride,
One heartbeat. That’s all it takes for me to know that I’m right. There’s no anger in her eyes—no fear or shock, either. Just relief.
“Touch me and I swear to the gods, I’ll cut your fucking hands off and let the quadrant sort you out in the next round of challenges, Dain Aetos.” My words earn more than a couple of gasps, but I don’t give a shit who hears me.
“Secrets make for poor leverage. They die
with the people who keep them.”
three books on the craft of weaving fabric into traditional Tyrrish knots he left for me—strips of fabric included—on
“Between us?” I whisper, and she looks over at me with an arched brow. “King Tauri’s third son.” “Oh shit.” She looks over her shoulder at the parapet. “Pretty much. And I can guarantee his father doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“If Solas comes near you again, he knows I will devour his human whole and let him rot within me while his heart still beats, and then I’ll take the eye I so graciously left him.”
“And we aren’t friends?” I question. “We’re…” Her face scrunches. “Coconspirators with a vested interest in keeping each other alive.” That only makes me smile bigger. “Oh, don’t go getting soft on me now.”
“If you mean to ask how I feel about how he stopped the needless execution of bonded riders by your dragon after Parapet, then I’d have to say that I feel pretty good about it.
“Weaving isn’t taught until third-year, and anything beyond is classified.”
“They’re woven to the ground out here,” she says quietly
“But how do you weave new wards?
“You don’t.” She shakes her head. “The extensions are what we weave. It’s like continuing a tapestry that’s been stretched too far. You’re just adding threads to something that already exists, and we can’t extend the wards to Athebyne.
“What’s with the weaving book you left me after graduation?” I change the subject with a small, confused shake of my head. “And the strips of fabric? Do you think I’m suddenly going to start crafting?”
“An amalgamation of Talladium, a few other ores, and dragon egg shells.”
We’re running out of civilians around here for Nolon to mend, and if you think she hasn’t told the rest of her squad your little secret, you’re giving her far too much credit.”
“Does Solas enjoy hiding?” My voice croaks, and I cough. He blinks but quickly masks his surprise. “Just because you’ve blocked my ability to talk to Tairn doesn’t mean he doesn’t know exactly what you’ve done to me.” My lip splits again when I force a smile. “You’re hunting Xaden. But Tairn is hunting Solas. You’re the weaker on both counts. I might die in this chamber, but I promise you will.”
but we can’t trust him not to kill her. Can’t trust that kid for anything, really, can we? Too unpredictable.”
“He can search your memory,” Liam tells me. “But logic says he’ll have to muddle through what you’re thinking first.”
“He made the mistake of thinking you’d be easy to control, but I know my daughter.”
“We won’t stop you,” Devera says to Xaden, then shifts to where her own dragon perches beside the parapet. “In fact, some of us have been waiting to join you.”
His head tilts as the sound of the wind approaches a dull roar, and I follow his line of sight as the massive riot approaches the town, en route to the valley. “What have you two done?”
“My offer is simple. As long as you don’t step foot into the arena, Riorson, and she doesn’t leave the field until she strikes the target, we’ll open discussions for your luminary.
Defeating a dark wielder begins with knowing where they rank in age and experience. Initiates have reddish rings to their eyes that come and go depending on how often they drain. Asims’ eyes fluctuate in degrees of red, and their veins distend when riled. Sages’—those responsible for initiates—eyes are permanently red, their veins perpetually distended toward their temples, expanding with age. Mavens—their generals—have never been captured for examination.
Cat can’t plant emotions, warp them, or even sway them unless you are already headed that way. Cat can only amplify what you’re already feeling.”
The blood of life is actually the breath of life, and setting the stone ablaze in an iron flame…
“I’d rather live.” She puts her hands up. “If I thought it was going to kill you, I’d hand it to Cat.” I hold the conduit out to her. Cat snorts, but I think there was a note of laughter there.
“Please, do,” he challenges. “What’s your second signet?” His eyes widen, and the blood drains from his face as his hand falls away. For the first time, I think I’ve actually managed to shock Xaden Riorson.
And no one knows,” he repeats, his voice dropping. “Because if they did, I’d be dead.”
“My love isn’t fickle.” I shake my head slowly, keeping my gaze locked on his. “So you’d better live, because I’m ready to ask
you all the fucking questions.”
“I’m sorry she didn’t tell you.” “We will settle matters of emotion after matters of life.”
And just because I can’t imagine walking away doesn’t mean I won’t do it if we can’t find some healthy ground.
The color drains from Mom’s face as she looks between Mira and me, past us, and for the first time in my life, I see her wobble, like someone has knocked her off her center.
revealing Jack Barlowe in his seat on Baide’s back.
“You…you’re better than this! You can choose!” My chest tightens. “The way he said that is almost like he expected this.”
“I think I found the difference between the two, but I think Lyra’s journal is the lie.”
“I think it’s a seven.” She lifts her brows at me. “But it can’t be.” “I don’t understand.” I shake my head. “Seven what?”
Seven dragons is impossible. There are only six dens: black, blue, green, orange, brown, and red.
“I waited six hundred and fifty years to hatch. Waited until your eighteenth summer, when I heard our elders talk of the weakling daughter of their general, the girl forecasted to become the head of the scribes, and I knew. You would have the mind of a scribe and the heart of a rider. You would be mine.” She leans into my hand. “You are as unique as I am. We want the same things.” “You couldn’t have known I would be a rider.” “And yet, here we are.” A thousand questions go through my head, none of which we have the time for, so I give her exactly what I wanted—to be seen for who and what she
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