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but they were brandishing weapons and screaming bloody murder, which set off a few it’s an ambush alarms right there.
In almost every circumstance, Clay knew, throwing an arrow was an awful idea. He’d tried doing so only once before, years and years ago, but it hadn’t gone well—and so no one was more surprised than Clay when it sank halfway to the fletching in the archer’s throat. Well, no one but the archer. The archer was almost certainly more surprised than Clay.
What was it about fathers, Clay wondered, that compelled so many of them to test their children? To insist that a daughter, or a son, prove themselves worthy of a love their mother offered without condition?
No one does a good basilisk egg anymore,” he remarked sadly, and Clay heard Ganelon mutter under his breath: What the fuck is brunch?
The entire front of the shrine exploded outward. Blocks of stone rained down on the plaza, bursting on impact into spinning shrapnel shards, and a dragon—a real live you-gotta-be-shitting-me dragon—came roaring from the ruin.
Ginny reached out to him, and Clay stepped into the circle of her arms like a pilgrim come, at the end of his days, to the last house of the holy. Her scent surrounded him. A loose strand of her hair tickled his nose and gods-be-damned if he was going to scratch it now. Her breath was warm and soft as summer wind on his neck as she whispered, “You’re home.” And finally, he was.
