To Nikolai, itwasa dance. Because they, as he, were in tune to the energy that emerged from the living things that walked or grew with the earth. It swirled around them, in deep, contented blues and greens, pulsing in time to their music.
Elephants did not frequent the southern parts of the Kalahari, and he and Ngubi only saw them when their travels had taken them closer to the great Okavango Delta. But their seismic harmonics traveled for many miles through the earth itself, interweaving with the life essences until one was barely distinguishable from the other.
He therefore recognized this herd, even though he’d never physically met them. The old matriarch was a great singer, interweaving her rumbling harmony with many stories of their lives, and the lives of those that had come before.
One of the oldest elephants in the region, nearing seventy, her skin hugged the bones of her skull—her ears and hide were notched and torn from close encounters with irate farmers. How she’d managed to attain that age was largely due to the fact she lacked tusks. Without them, she was worthless to the poachers.
Two of her daughters shared this characteristic, as did some other herd members. Mostly females, with the only males being young, they swayed to the song of life.
Nikolai scooped up Mai and tucked her beneath his hair before walking down among them. They towered over him, but he had no fear—he was as one with them. The babies trailed their tiny trunks over him, their eyes bright and curious. The mothers gathered close enough to touch him. Their life essences, and their wisdom, flowed around him and soothed away the jagged edges.
The herd was interconnected to many elephant bulls that roamed this area. Their contributions to the communal song were bass rumblings counterpointing the females’ lighter subharmonics. Some were obviously far away, others much closer.
It started as a tremble through the song—at first barely decipherable, but every elephant in the group froze. The matriarch curled her trunk, the tip twisting this way and that, as though searching the wind for answers.
Then it hit, and hit hard. Terror. Pain. A psychic scream from afar that tore their song to jagged pieces, sending frissons of vivid red through their gentle energy.
From beneath his hair, Mai squeaked in anger.
The matriarch trumpeted, her daughters drawing close to her, ears waving in agitation. But Nikolai was already sprinting up the rock, leaning down to grab his gear. Slinging it over his back, he jumped down, skirted the milling herd, and yanked on the frantic pulses penetrating his surroundings.
This way,it said.
He grabbed hold of it, and ran.
11
Aria blinked. She lay on something soft—a mattress, she confirmed as she squinted at it. By the smell, not overly clean.
Where the shards was she? She pushed herself up to a sitting position and grimaced as the world tilted and spun.
She wouldn’t be sick. She just wouldn’t.
It was a battle, but one she eventually won. The spinning in her head slowed, and she was able to put some things into perspective.
Aria remembered Udo, and the Torshin client. Her fingers traced the metal around her throat—the collar. The chaos coursing through her—she brushed at the dried blood on her upper lip. When she also found some near her ears, her gut twisted.
What had those blasts done to her? Like all shapeshifters, Dragons possessed amazing recuperative powers. But blood from the ears and nose was not a good sign of what had gone on within her head.
Most of her memories were muddled, but she remembered being dragged through a gate. The Torshin—Demeti, his name was Demeti—must have taken her away with him. But how had he built a gate?
Aria glanced around her—if he’d taken them through one, she could be anywhere. Glancing down, she saw far too much exposed skin. With a shudder, she grew more scales to cover herself from foot to throat.
With that mission accomplished, Aria took a deep breath and looked around.
She was in some kind of containment chamber. Lit by only a single, small lantern, the walls were made of interlocked stones, and had no windows. The door was solid, sheathed in metal, with only a small barred opening. In addition to the mattress, the floor was heaped with old, moldy straw.
Aria rose on shaking legs and pushed on the door, but found it securely locked. She stood on her tiptoes to peer out the window, but all she could see was more interlocked stone.
Despite the room being cool, she wiped beads of sweat off her brow. It was oppressively humid. Dragons loved heat, but they preferred it dry.
She definitely wasn’t in Zakaron anymore. Was she still in the Martinak realm? It was more humid in the few remaining forests to the south...
Aria leaned against the scratched and dented metal. The room was small, and obviously deep within a building. The thought of all that stone overhead—she fought the wave of panic that swept through her. Then she put her back to the door.
Trapped in such a tight space, Aria closed her eyes and attempted to achieve some semblance of calm.
The second she closed off the visual input, she sensed him.
