Dragonfire: Freedom in Flames (Secrets of the Makai Book 3) (26 page)

His wings hung from his back like curtains of iron, blanketing the surrounding rocks. He tried to lift them off the ground, for their own safety, and couldn’t. “Donovan, I—” Queasy waves rolled in his stomach. His shoulder burned more than usual, but he was so tried, it hardly mattered. “I do need...not as fine.” The words scrambled and he wasn’t even sure he’d said them out loud.

INNER SQUAD

A DAMP CLOTH
with the scent of spring covered his left shoulder, while he lay with his knees pulled up toward his chest on a narrow cot. Thin white fabric draped as walls around him and a chocolate-brown rug covered white tile. His wings were stiff, pulled in tight behind him.

Quiet arguments about how much longer they should let him sleep drifted through the fabric.

“I’m awake,” Tristan whispered. If Donovan was out there, he’d hear.

Welcome back, Tristan,
said Samara, just before Donovan, followed by Landon and Pink, threw open a flap in one of the walls.

“Victor has a table of food prepared,” said Donovan, entering the tent. “You can eat and drink, then we must go.”

Tristan straightened his legs and tried to stretch his back. “What about the meeting?”

“We had it without you.”

“Oh. Good. I guess.” He pushed himself up to sit and waited for the dizziness to pass.

“You’re going to have to strengthen your heart if you don’t wish to give up the wings.”

“Give them up? That’d be like cutting off my ears, or my feet. You can’t expect me to cut off a limb.”

“No. But your heart will have issues keeping that much blood circulating. Whether you’re immortal or not, your organs still need oxygen to function.”

“Fine. I’ll keep it in mind.” His heart would strengthen enough if he could fly every day to build up endurance. He accepted a glass of orange juice from Landon. “How long did I sleep?”

“Almost twelve hours.”

“I didn’t have issues staying awake in the desert during the day.”

“Perhaps you just needed to crash after a long night, after a long week.”

“I guess. Where’s the staff? I can’t even remember when I had it last.”

“It’s in the corner. Your energy hasn’t been spiking like it was.”

“The council did something when I was there—a negotiation or something.”

Donovan closed his eyes and shook his head. “Why me?”

“Their theory is as good as any other,” said Tristan, “and close enough to what we thought. So the deal is, the energies I absorbed need to be patient and I’ll restore them as soon as I can. They’re apparently feeling ignored, and push to be recognized when I relax. And I relax when I’m not starving.”

“Is it something you can communicate with?” asked Landon.

Tristan shrugged. “It’s just what the council said. They wanted to observe me without all the debilitating factors, because Jacques said no one could be judged fairly in the conditions I was in. So they took away my shoulder pain, all the powers I took in, and all of you.” Tristan cringed, unable to remember how much truth he’d told them the first time around. “So I could make decisions without consequence to my wellbeing, since you guys pretty much control everything.”

“We do not.” Landon sounded so offended, Tristan regretted speaking at all. “We’ve let you choose most everything—”

“I realize that, but what would I do if you threw me out? I’d have no idea how to do any of this by myself.”

“What else did they say?” asked Donovan.

“Lots of things.” Tristan accepted the staff from Landon and waited a long moment before using it to haul himself to his feet, curling his toes into the soft rug. What he should do is learn to keep his mouth shut. “We talked for hours, but time is confusing there.”

Tristan left the tent, hoping to end the conversation, feeling less lethargic with each step. Samara’s grove of birch trees was gone, replaced by a circular, dome-topped, marble structure. Large square windows, crisscrossed with ornate iron bars, spanned between curving pillars, and at the top, stained-glass starred outward from the peak.

The falcon perched at the top of an enormous tree, bare of all leaves and small branches. “Well done, Samara!” Tristan beamed up at the bird, who was too busy preening his feathers to notice him. Tristan’s smile faltered. “It’s not him. How can that be? Where—?” He glanced at Donovan.

“I too found the lack of recognition and interest a possible indicator.”

Tristan fell into the nearest chair and rubbed at his cheeks. “I didn’t save the wrong bird. Did I?” His chest ached with losing Jacques yet again. “They promised. Didn’t they? I found the falcon, they set us both free.”

“Did you commit to saving Jacques or the falcon?” asked Donovan.

“They’re one in the same, aren’t they?” He refused to be caught in a riddle of words when it was Jacques’ life they were talking about. “Is this what they meant by ‘sacrifice’?”

“I don’t know,” said Donovan. “Maybe ‘free’ means something different for Jacques, and he was free to continue on his way, spiritually.”

“They said we’d
both
be sent home.”

“Your homes could be in different locations.”

Tristan clenched his jaw and felt a roar build in the pit of his soul. A baseball bat appeared in his hand and the food on the table vanished, replaced by ceramic bowls and glass decorations. “What is this for?”

“Protect his face and vitals, nothing else,” said Donovan.

Tristan gripped the bat, unsure if he really wanted to go berserk on a pile of dishes.

“Go ahead,” said Donovan. “Let off some steam.”

Tristan took careful breaths, eyeing the tallest stack of pottery. He swung the bat and shards of clay ricocheted off piles of cheap glassware. He brought the bat down harder on a stack of plates, pouring his anger in with it.

Glasses and dishes exploded with each strike, though he avoided the figurines and animal statues. Samara seemed to notice and replaced them with other things to destroy; giant cement spheres and stacks of flat glass. His wrists ached and his wings took a lot of shrapnel. Finally, the weight of the bat was too much to lift and he let it clank to ground, covered with jagged layers of rubble.

Adrenalin slowed and the dizzy won out. His stomach growled with hunger. He glanced at the small crowd on the other side of a thick glass wall—Donovan, Landon, Victor, Alvi, Pink, and half a dozen others he barely recognized. “That’s it,” he said quietly, for Samara’s sake. “I’m done.”

The dividing wall vanished, along with all the evidence. His wings were no longer impaled by anything.

“Very well, then,” announced Donovan. “Let’s eat and discuss the plan.”

Tristan frowned. No critique on how he should or shouldn’t have swung a bat? He stretched his back as he walked toward a new table, covered with the original food, and noticed his right arm must have done most of the work. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t use his left arm at all.

He glanced up at the falcon, who’d retreated to the farthest branch possible, mostly hidden.

Behind the table, a huge map of the world was dotted with color-coded pins and numbers. Tristan breathed with his mouth gaping open and sat in the chair Landon pulled out for him. “Is that how many gems there are?”

“One hundred forty-two,” said Donovan. “The green pins are actual locations. Yellows are possible locations, strung together if they refer to the same stone. Orange means they were moved at some point, some more than others, and they are strung with red to the new location.”

“Do we know what they are?”

“Some. Each location has a number, and all the information we could gather for each number is recorded in that book.” Donovan nodded toward a large leather-bound book on a small side table. “You requested all information to be in a written format, in case you wake up one day and find yourself alone, well past the computer era.”

“Thanks.” The idea brought tightness to his chest. He could never do this alone. Not in a million years. “Do you think that will happen?”

“No. But any computer format might be obsolete in twenty years, so it’s not a bad idea.”

Even if he released all the races within one year, one every two or three days, he would need to document exactly what races they were, where they were going to establish themselves, and what sort of conditions and abilities they had. And then, keep it all up-to-date as populations grew? His heart raced. “I can’t do this. I would mess everything up.”

“We’re not dead yet, you know,” said Victor, handing him a plate of sliced meat and steamed vegetables. Alvi smacked his arm and scowled. “What? I’m just sayin’ he’s not alone.”

“Right.” Tristan took a quick, deep breath. “I’m sorry. One day at a time.”

He’d been starving a moment ago, now it was all he could do to put food in his mouth and chew.

“This is your inner squad of guards,” said Donovan, motioning to the fifteen or so men and women standing around the table.

Tristan glanced at the line of people. There were only a few he couldn’t name, but he did recognize most of them. “Why aren’t you all eating?” There was enough food piled on the table to feed a small army.

“They’ve eaten. I just wanted you to see these people again before we arrive at the Forest of Darkness.”

Tristan swallowed the bite of un-chewed meat and stood from his chair to face the people. What they must think for his careless loss of control, breaking dishes to blow off steam.

“I’m sorry.” He looked at each person carefully, determined to make sure he never forgot who should never be harmed. They stiffened as he walked toward them. “Really,” he added. “Thank you. Um. This is awkward.” Embarrassing was more like it. “You know I—I’m...I would like it if you don’t mind....” He glanced at Donovan for help, but the man merely cocked an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Tristan said. “Or accidentally step on you—you should know I can’t always see what’s under me if I—”

“They know,” said Donovan.

Their scents mingled together, and what he really wanted was individual smells to focus on. “Please,” he said, letting his eyes shift. “Please step forward one at a time.”

They glanced at Donovan for reassurance. Landon stepped forward, probably to ease everyone else in the room.

“You already know what I’d say,” Tristan whispered. He’d know Landon’s scent in a heartbeat, but circled him anyway, so the others could see what he intended to do to each person. “Thanks for everything.”

Landon nodded and stepped back in line.

Victor stepped up next, looking stiffer than usual with his shoulders back and eyes forward. Tristan laughed. “You always smell like food to me—barbeque sauce, onion, and garlic.”

“Is that a problem?” The creases between Victor’s brows deepened. “I—”

“No, it’s not a problem,” Tristan said, grinning. It probably wasn’t a smart time to make food and feeding jokes. He made a show of circling Victor, pausing for a moment behind him to take a deep breath, then continued around to the front. “You are an amazing musician, and your music does help me. Thank you.”

Victor nodded and stepped back, waving Alvi forward.

“You guys engaged?” Tristan whispered.

Alvi smiled and waggled her eyebrows. “Better not make him jealous.”

Tristan glanced at Victor for a split second. “What’s he going to do, glare at me?”

“Oh, I’m sure he could think of worse things,” she teased.

“So long as he doesn’t mess with the food,” Tristan joked in return, circling Alvi cautiously. Victor’s scent was all over her, and he briefly wondered if he’d paid any attention to Philip’s scent, and how much of it was on Dorian. He bristled at the thought and stood face to face again with Alvi. She did a little curtsy and moved to step back.

“Wait.” He put a hand on her arm and stepped closer than he’d been before. “I worry about you the most,” he said, as quietly as possible.

“You just haven’t seen me in action.” She sounded both flirtatious and angry.

“I don’t want to see you in action, is the thing.” He took advantage of their nearness and breathed in more of her personal scent—one less contaminated by Victor’s.

“You think I should be at home raising babies?”

“No, but—”

“But what? Stop being so sexist and get over it.”

Tristan stepped back. “I’ll try.”

She gave him a crooked smile with a wink and returned to Victor’s side.

Talak stepped forward, unreadable behind the mask of tribal tattoos. The man reminded him so much of Molajah, his chest tightened and remnants of grief pooled in his eyes. He blinked away the moisture before anyone might notice, and lifted his chin to gaze up at the giant warrior.

“You’re doing a good thing,” said Talak.

Tristan held back the ‘how do you know’ question and felt his throat wobble. “I hope so.” Tristan circled the man, breathing in.

“We have a saying in my tribe.” Talak put a hand on Tristan’s good shoulder and stepped closer. He smelled like earth and crisp water—it would be difficult to smell him at all in the wilderness. “Do not chain yourself with doubt, for it is heavy and keeps you from finding your way.”

Tristan put a hand on the man’s arm. So much like Molajah—he felt torn between apologizing and saying he’d do his best not to disappoint. “Thank you. I’ll have to remember that.”

It went much the same for each person; a little bit of fear, but mostly supportive. Madam Galina, the doctor, wished he’d wait a few days. Alpheus and Eleonora’s scents mingled as much as Victor and Alvi’s, but he didn’t say anything.