Leaving the road, Seth and Merek walked around the nearest hill outside of town. Seth knew it was crazy to brave the weather, but they needed the Unforgiving Blade and the Harp of Ages, and Merek had stressed that the Dragon Temple would only admit them during the Perennial Storm, so it was either win the Games in the next day or two or else wait seven years.
Around the backside of the hill, they found two figures huddled in oilskin coats, hoods drawn up to conceal their faces. The pair emerged from the partial shelter of a recess in the hillside to greet Seth and Merek.
“How considerate of you to show up!” Isadore yelled over the wind. “We were about to abort.”
“Serena?” Calvin called from Seth’s pocket.
“I’m here,” she answered.
“Can we fly in this mayhem?” Merek asked.
Basirus gazed up at the threatening clouds. “Into the storm? Not a chance. Away from it? I’m willing to try. It will be a rough ride. Don’t blame me if somebody gets dropped.”
“I need your word that won’t happen on purpose,” Merek said.
“You have it,” Basirus said. “Are you ready? If we’re going, it has to be now.”
“We’re ready,” Seth said.
Basirus swelled into a dark gray dragon with three rows of spikes down the back of his neck, a crown of sharp horns on his head, and a quartet of long spurs on his tail. Turning, he snatched Seth and Isadore with his forelegs and Merek with a hind leg. The scaly grip squeezed Seth’s chest tightly, but at least he felt secure. Seth couldn’t help noticing the black talons, each the length of a dagger and wickedly curved.
The dragon sprang into the air, and as his great wings unfurled, they took off like a kite in a hurricane. Twice they dipped dangerously close to the ground, but after some adjustments, Basirus stopped rocking and wobbling so much and gained altitude. Propelled by a mighty tailwind, they rocketed forward, relentlessly buffeted by crosswinds and other turbulence.
“This is an atrocious day to fly,” Basirus said. “I’ll take us high so that if I lose control, I’ll have space to recover.”
Seth could hardly believe their breathtaking speed, or the shocking turns and dives that left his dangling legs swinging in the wind. With no warning, Basirus would plunge unexpectedly, swooping out of the dive only to be blown in a new direction. Occasional updrafts elevated them at rates that made Seth’s insides lurch, and violent gusts added haphazard bursts of acceleration. Sometimes the dragon spun, wings splayed helplessly, until he fully tucked them, righted himself during the free fall, then extended them anew to resume the chaotic flight.
As the winds impelled them farther ahead of the storm, the air currents became less blustery. For longer stretches they would bullet forward instead of tumbling into wild corkscrews and pretzels. The ground below became a barren wilderness of windswept ridges and prairies. At their outrageous velocity, Seth felt sure they would all be reduced to smears if they crashed.
Sometime after Seth had given up hope that the exhausting flight would ever end, a monumental pyramid of boulders came into view up ahead, the sides too steep and the apex too lofty to seem architecturally sound. The closer they got to the pyramid, the better Seth could see that the stacked boulders were a diverse jumble of irregular shapes and sizes, puzzled together with startling cohesion.
“Is that the reliquary?” Seth called, but either his words were lost on the wind, or else nobody bothered to answer.
The lower they flew, the more aware Seth became of their breakneck speed. Basirus started banking, first left, then right, back and forth, perhaps trying to slow, but whenever he turned too much, he began to lose control.
“This is going to be a difficult landing,” the dragon announced. “Wish me luck.”
Seth witnessed with horrified fascination their dive toward the ground, gaining speed when he thought they should be slowing. For a moment they skimmed above scrubby bushes and brittle grass until Basirus turned sharply into the gale, wings trimmed, and let the wind abruptly slow them. The dragon got one foot down and managed to fold his wings, flopping onto his side to avoid crushing the passengers he carried.
The huge claw gripping Seth receded as Basirus resumed his human form. Basirus stretched, rolling his shoulders. “My wings will be sore for weeks,” he said.
“Can you still feel them?” Seth asked.
“Only phantom sensation in this form,” Basirus said. “In my shoulder blades mostly. What would be the equivalent? Imagine hanging from a limb during an earthquake for an hour. No, better, imagine an hour with each wrist tied to a different horse as they run wild. How would your shoulders feel afterward?”
“Sounds painful,” Seth said.
“Good job getting here,” Merek said, gazing up at the pyramid, hair ruffled by the constant wind.
“The Reliquary of the Wandering Stones,” Isadore said.
“It looks ancient,” Seth said. “And weirdly tall. A pyramid shaped almost like an arrowhead. Who built it? Giants?”
“If so, they accomplished the feat long ago,” Isadore said. “I suspect not. Giants refuse to tread in this desolation.”
“I figured,” Merek said, hands on his hips, surveying the area. “You could have given us a clearer warning.”
“Would it have mattered?” Isadore asked.
“In truth?” Merek replied. “No.”
“We don’t relish coming here either,” Isadore said. “But since when was it easy to win the Games?”
Seth noticed many individual rocks apart from the grand pyramid, scattered on the dry plain. Some were huge monoliths standing on end, like giant dominos. Others were smooth and rounded, ranging in size from bowling balls to bulldozers. Large or small, irregular or symmetrical, the stones tended to exist alone, rather than in clusters, and many had furrows to one side of them, as if they had recently skidded to a stop.
“Do the stones really wander?” Seth asked.
“You see the trails,” Isadore said, clutching her oilskin coat as the wind tore at it. “Without wind erasing the evidence, the tracks would extend much
