Echion came around the corner as the dandelion dragon crashed into the waters. She felt the two dragons overhead plunge down to intercept her, even as Echion did the same from the other direction.
She closed her eyes, knowing she was trapped between them. And then, in her mind’s eye, she saw a glyph. A burning symbol, two words in one. Sudu.
The Immortal Word for “speed” or “quickness.”
She clamped the sword against her side in free her hand and quickly drew the glyph with her burnt finger. The air ignited at her command. The word had been written, its power invoked.
Echion snarled as he saw the writing form in the air. She shot forward like an arrow launched from a bow, passing the two dragons, which were suddenly too slow to reach her. She felt Echion invoke a word of power too, but hers had already been activated and could not be undone by him. She raced through the mazelike canyon, twisting and turning, leaving the dragons behind.
Cries of frustration and rage came from behind and above her as she went faster and faster. Dodging the canyon walls became increasingly perilous. She’d die if she struck a boulder or hit the waves. It was madness.
Bingmei felt a stab of warning in her heart. The time had come to leave the canyon—she knew in her two souls she couldn’t maintain her breakneck speed. As she zipped up and past the edge of the cliffs, it was as if the whole world stretched beneath her. The dragons were all behind, unable to keep up with her. She’d escaped their hunt. But her twin souls grieved, not knowing what had happed to Quion and her baby.
The magic faded, and she felt her limbs begin to slacken. Darkness would soon overtake her. She’d pushed herself too far, too hard.
There—an eagle’s nest. She had just enough time to reach it before blacking out.
When Bingmei awoke, she was huddled in the bottom of the nest, curled up like a little child. The meiwood staff had bits of feathers sticking to it. As she lifted her head, she saw an eagle sitting on the edge of the nest, perched on the rim of large, pointed sticks. The interior of the nest was made of softer stuff, a thick matting of pine needles that she found covering her legs and shoulders. The short sword was still tucked under her arm. She moved, and the eagle spread its wings, hopping around in a circle. She didn’t feel threatened by it. Quite the opposite. She felt safe, protected. As if it had been sent to watch over her.
The sense of something missing made her sit bolt upright. Her son. Where was Shixian?
The memory of the flood returned, and a horrible, keening pain shot through her heart, far worse than the burn in her arm. The nest was built within a set of three pine trees at the top of the mountains. She could see the chasm in the distance, its dark shadow standing out. The sun had shifted positions and was heading down now. She’d been unconscious for a long time.
The eagle cocked its white head to the side as it stared at her with glaring yellow eyes. And then she saw the eagle eggs also within the nest. It was a mother protecting its young, but it had still saved her. Although it looked as fierce as the dragon, it had a different kind of ferocity—the same emotion Bingmei felt for her own child, for Shixian.
I must go, she thought to the majestic bird.
Help.
It lacked the clarity of a human thought, but she sensed the intention. The eagle wanted to help her.
Looking into the great bird’s eyes, she conjured a memory of Quion and his pack. Of the basket he’d been carrying.
The eagle leaped off the nest and began to search. Filled with gratitude for the bird, Bingmei slid the short sword into her belt and fetched the staff, which was partially disguised as one of the sticks making up the nest. The structure was very firm, and she was light enough that it didn’t wobble with her. The clutch of eggs sat together near her.
She felt a connection with the eagle as it soared toward the ravine. She could see through its eyes and feel the wind ruffling its feathers. Bingmei wasn’t confined to just the eagle, though. There were other birds in the area, even more than there had been in days past. She began to search from them all, desperate for a clue that would tell her about the fate of her friend and her child.
The answer came quickly from a pair of vultures circling overhead farther downstream, where the narrows widened to the valley plains. The mouth of the canyon. Beneath them was a body that lay unmoving, sprawled facedown on a sandbar.
She saw the hump of the pack, soaked and heavy, still clinging to his back. It was Quion.
But where was the basket? Where was her baby?
When Bingmei arrived on the spot, she commanded the vultures to depart, and they obeyed her. She was sick inside—sick with pain, with dread, with disbelief. The basket was nowhere to be found, and her stomach clenched with dread when she saw the dead snow leopard nearby. There was sand in Quion’s hair. He didn’t move, and he smelled like nothing at all. Anguish thrummed inside her.
“Oh, Quion,” she gasped, setting the meiwood staff aside as she knelt by his body. The water was frigid, but she ignored it as she grasped him beneath the arms and
