Grimult sighed deeply, taking the pouch from her and standing. To his credit, he did not waver, his stance solid even if his wings drooped tiredly. “If they were keeping such careful watch, it would seem a reasonable conclusion.”
Penryn’s lips tightened. “I did not think...” she shook her head, thoughts warring in her head. “I thought we would be warning of a danger far off. That there would be time to think and plan.” She took a deep breath, pushing down the fear and trying to become as numb as her legs currently felt. “They are not ready. Not for a mob like that.”
Grimult eyed her steadily. “They will have to be.”
She shivered at that, knowing he was serious and also that he was right. For all that she had resented the peaceful lives of a people that did not quite feel like hers—that even now, did not fully—the thought of danger coming to them unawares was intolerable to her.
And despite the closeness they had shared for the entirety of the day, she still found herself stepping close, burring her face against his chest and heaving something that was far too close to sobs, although she convinced herself they were merely deep breaths of gratitude that she was on the ground once more.
And not a remnant of the fear and danger that she had carefully suppressed, unable to do anything with such strong emotions while in the midst of it.
And Grimult held her with his free arm. “We will make it,” he assured her. “Speed is on our side, and we will go and we will tell them of what we have seen.”
“What if they do not believe us?” she enquired, peering upward at him, her true fear revealed.
His eyes, sombre and sad met hers. “Then they will see the truth for themselves before too long.” A heavy sigh, and he leaned his head down against hers. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”
That was all they could do.
Hope.
And fly.
And make a journey that had taken weeks on foot take only handful of days.
And see how long they could both endure.
Ten
“Are you all right?”
Penryn blinked, uncertain of the voice that spoke to her.
Her head pounded, and she swallowed, trying to sit up, pain lancing through her as she struggled upward, a hand reaching out and gripping her shoulder. She shied away, the touch unfamiliar, and she tried to force her vision to focus. The earth beneath her was strange, gritty and rough against her palms, and she looked down to see bits of it clinging to her palms.
She swallowed, trying to force some moisture into her parched mouth.
She was not supposed to be alone.
An awareness pressed firmly against the hazy feeling in her mind, an urgency, and the hand was back, keeping her steady.
“Her wings are missing,” a smaller voice called out, louder than the other by far, making her wince. “She must be hurt real bad if they fell off. Mine won’t do that, will they Papa?”
“Hush,” came the gruff reply, and she was finally able to bring her eyes to settle on them. A fledgling, although she could not begin to guess the age. A son and father.
And she was...
The sea was battering against the beach where she lay, and the urgency was bringing her breath out in short pants. She needed to get up, needed to find...
Grim.
Where was he?
She was not supposed to be alone. Not with strangers. Not with those that might question if her wings had fallen off.
She needed to see the sages, needed to tell them...
“Grimult,” she tried to call, but her voice came as a hoarse whisper.
“You say something?” the man asked, his wings sending a brush of air against her as he got to his feet.
A figure, some distance away, the water lapping at the body, and a sob already lodged in her throat.
An unrelenting storm, heralding the change of season.
A chase.
Had they been found again? Arrows that did not pierce, horns ringing in her ears, and then...
Her feet were moving, and she shook off the hands that were grabbing at her, and she wanted to say they had no right to touch, that she was not theirs, that she was... someone...
But all she could manage to do was to jerk forward, pushing at the body that lay prone in the surf, pleadings and prayers at her tongue that he still lived, that he breathed, that water had not found its way into his throat and lungs...
Someone was over him, fingers pressing and assessing, but she pushed the hands away, uncertain of their intention.
And she needed to see, needed to know...
A groan, from him, and a sob from her. There was blood at his temple, and she remembered the wound he had already suffered there so soon before, and surely it was dangerous to have sustained another in such quick succession. Her hands rubbed at him, and she called his name, trying to bring some warmth back to him.
She remembered the exhaustion seeping into her bones, the worry as her husband felt it all the more, the way she had to choke back her urgings that they wait, that he rest, that he eat more, that surely they would not be found, that there was time, even if it was short.
The storm that made the sky nearly black, although they both were certain it was still midday. The beasts that had found them, riders with their curved swords, determination in their eyes whenever they drew close.
And sleep became shorter still, and rest was no longer possible, not when to tarry
