Dreadgod (Cradle, #11)

by Will Wight

Ziel rose from behind the couch and stuck his horns in Lindon’s face. “What are we talking about?” Yerin moved her arm away from her eyes. She and Lindon stared at Ziel from inches away. “Apologies, Ziel, but what are you doing?” “Popping out from the couch,” Ziel said, with a perfectly flat expression. “I thought it was what Eithan would do. Did it help?” Lindon couldn’t find the right words. Yerin made a thoughtful sound. “Bleed me, but it halfway did. If you’re looking for a tip, then veil yourself better next time. We could feel you coming.” “I’ll do what I can,” Ziel said gravely. “Don’t push yourself.” Ziel straightened his spine, visibly steeling himself. “No…no, I can do it. To cheer you up.”

[Not dream madra,] Dross muttered. [Not dream aura. Something more than those, deep and secret as the ocean.] It feels older than those, Lindon thought. [Yes…older than dreams…]

“You have the arrogance of the dragons, if nothing else.” The vulture flapped her wings and extended her neck, eyeing Orthos from another angle. “If you can advance fast enough to help us against the Dreadgods, we’d be grateful, though I personally can’t see why you’d bother. Advancing in a hurry is for humans.” Orthos snorted. “A dragon,” he said, “does not back down from a challenge.”

“Bright-and-warm welcome to my dirt circle,” Yerin said. “You can help yourself to some dirt.”

“This is my territory now,” Ekeri announced, in a haughty voice that Jaran imagined must come from royalty. “Get off my land.”

Jaran slowly shut the door. Seisha slid a hand around his waist. “You’ll have to get used to these things sooner or later.” “No,” Jaran grumbled. Then he tossed his useless spear into the corner.

“Why?” Cassias asked at last. “I’ve asked that myself every hour since he left,” Lindon said. “If you’ll pardon me for half a guess, I think he was lonely.” Cassias nodded. “Yes. I think he was.”

[You considered it very strongly. I should win at least fourteen percent.] “Fourteen of what?” Yerin asked. [Satisfaction. I will be fourteen percent more satisfied than I am now.] “How about, instead, I let you explain the next target?” Lindon suggested. [Oh, I will be doing that anyway. I cannot be stopped.]

“I picked this one,” Lindon said. “Shouldn’t you be telling all this to Yerin?” She had stayed behind with the Ninecloud troops to make sure no one tried to ambush Lindon from behind or to fly off for more help. [Don’t worry! I left a copy of myself behind so that she will never be without the benefit of my instruction.] “She must be grateful.” [She has tried to destroy the copy several times, but I predicted that. There are thirty-seven more of me waiting to continue.]

Larian lounged with one cloud beneath her and another above, for shade. Far beneath her, the White Lion Bank—a staple of House Shen—dominated an entire city as a fortress of white marble. It had powerful security scripts, a network of observational constructs, and guards like she’d never seen outside a Monarch’s personal home. It would take some kind of Dreadgod to break that security. Beneath her, Lindon and Yerin Arelius dragged chests out of a hole they’d cut in the back of the building. They bypassed the script somehow—Larian had never been interested in scripting—and were fooling the rest of the security with an elaborate illusion that must be exhausting to maintain. She could see through them too easily. The Bow Icon gave her keen eyesight, but even she wouldn’t be able to pierce an illusion fueled by the Silent King’s madra unless they were stretched too thin. Lindon’s mind-spirit needed practice with the technique, she guessed. “Oh no, we’re under attack,” Larian muttered. With one finger, she plucked the string of the bow lying next to her. “Eat my best techniques, robbers! Pchew, pchew!” She clapped a hand to her armored chest. “Ack! They got me! I’ll tell my grandchildren of this battle. Let us part with mutual respect.” Then she yawned and leaned back, pillowing her head on her hands.

* * * Lindon sat at a table, mug of hot tea in his hands. “Is it just me, or does this book feel shorter than the others?” “That’s the goal, isn’t it?” Eithan pointed out. He was leaning back in his chair, with his black armor hanging on a stand behind him. “Don’t you want a story to feel shorter than it is? To leave you wanting more?” “Couldn’t say I care if it is,” Yerin said. She rolled her empty mug across the table. “Tea’s not bad. Where’d you get it?” “Space.” Eithan turned back to Lindon. “I’m not usually one for measuring things precisely, but I get the feeling that this book will actually end up longer than the last one. Thanks to a little strategic addition.” “Really?” Lindon frowned and took another sip of tea. “You think this story is longer than the last one?” “If my calculations are correct, this book should have more words than the last by exactly…” Eithan counted to himself. “…one.”