Total pages in book: 295
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
“Oh.” I shake my head. “No. You just have to cross it, which is harder than it sounds. What do you go through to be chosen?”
“We walk to the edge of Cliffsbane, look out over the river—it’s about thirty feet deep at that point—and wait for the drifts to fly by.” Her tone lightens, and when I glance back, she’s smiling. “When they approach, we jump.”
“You jump?” Sloane whips her head back, her eyes wide.
Maren nods, and a dimple forms in her cheek. “We jump. And if we can land on a gryphon, climb into position, and hold on, they bond us.” She reaches up and scratches under Dajalair’s chin where beak turns to feather.
“That’s pretty badass,” Sloane admits begrudgingly. “What happens if you miss? Do the bodies wash up on the shore?”
We both pause, turning fully to watch Maren respond. Have to admit, I’m curious, too.
Maren blinks. “Bodies? No one dies. It’s just like cliff jumping. If we miss, we swim to shore, dry, and shake off the embarrassment—and pick another branch for service. Infantry and artillery are popular.”
Sloane and I exchange another look. “You just…swim to shore,” I say slowly. “Yeah.” Maren nods, then points between Sloane and me. “And before you ask, it’s you all who are the weird ones, killing cadets on your conscription day.”
I draw back, letting her words sink in.
“Technically, they’re candidates,” Sloane mutters. “We’re only cadets once we cross.”
“Well, I guess that makes it better,” Maren quips sarcastically.
“Hey, are we moving or what?” Sawyer calls from behind us.
“Moving!” I answer, then turn and keep hiking up the incline as a pulse of star-bright energy courses down the bond from Tairn.
“Whoa,” Sloane says, putting her hand over her heart. “What was that?”
“I felt it, too.” Maren blinks.
“Aretia’s first hatchling has chosen to emerge,” Tairn tells me, his tone clipped, considering the news.
“We have hatchlings?” I grin. “Why don’t you seem happy about it?”
“The hatchling’s choice transforms the valley back into a hatching ground. It changes the magic. Every channeling creature within a four-hour flight of the valley will know.”
“That’s just us. We’re on the edge of about three hours away.” I glance around, noting that the others seem to be in conversation with their bonded ones, too. “Well, us and the fliers, and they’d find out once we get there anyway.” My smile widens at the thought of an Aretian-born feathertail. “We have to trust them for this to work.”
“I suppose we do.”
By late in the afternoon, I’d rather commend my soul to Malek than take another fucking step up this never-ending trail. No wonder Tyrrendor never suffered an invasion from Poromiel. Their troops would either be exhausted or dead—picked off by patrolling dragons—by the time they reach the top.
Every muscle aches, somehow simultaneously burning with exertion yet stiff from how calculated my steps have become the higher we’ve climbed, a result of the dizziness I can’t quite shake. Even reciting facts in my head isn’t making it feel connected to my body anymore. My heart beats at a humming, stressed pace, and I would give almost anything to lean against the cliff on my right, stop, and rest for an hour. Or two. Or four.
We’ve halted at least twice in the last hour. The gryphons are slowing to a pace that’s starting to make me worry about reaching the top at all, but at least none have fallen to their deaths.
And the fights breaking out between fliers and riders aren’t helping, either. We’ve had to stop the march three times just to switch up where certain cadets are walking. Brennan might be right that we’ll respect the fliers for having climbed, but a daylong hike isn’t going to solve the years of hatred we’ve borne for each other.
The afternoon is extra fun as we enter a thick layer of cloud that only allows a dozen feet of visibility and our progress slows to what feels like a crawl.
“Hopefully these clouds mean that we’re close to the top, right?” Maren asks, glancing with concern at Daja, whose steps have grown slower with each ascent. Her head hangs and her feathered chest rises faster, shallower with every step. Hypoxia. Maren’s in the same condition, as is the pair in front of us, Cibbelair and his flier, Luella. His silver-specked wings aren’t just tucked in at his side; they’re drooping.
While we riders have been conditioned in the mountains surrounding Basgiath and often fly at twelve thousand feet, the fliers can’t say the same. The highest mountain in Poromiel tops out around eight thousand feet, which explains why only the summitwing drifts would carry out the high-altitude village raids we heard about in Battle Brief.
Even Sloane looks worried.
“Let me check how much farther we have to go,” I tell Maren, softening my tone. “Please tell me we’re almost off this damned cliff?”