The Land Beyond the Waste by B. F. Peterson

Author:B. F. Peterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781803416915
Publisher: Collective Ink
Published: 2025-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The Tirisslythra

Lëanor stopped to kill a deer and drink from a river before they crossed into the Waste. Rydara drank little and ate less, distracted by the burden Lëanor bore. The dragon’s movements were fluid and careful, even as she devoured the deer, and Chaenath’s body stayed balanced on her back.

“Why did she do it, Lëanor?” Rydara asked, cupping her hands under the flow of the icy river. Her knees were wet with snow—there was no way to avoid it—and Rydara shivered as she brought the water to her mouth. Her hands burned from the cold, and when she drank, the chill spread to her stomach. “Why didn’t she just let Neremyn heal her?”

Lëanor tore another piece of meat from the deer, gulped it down, and exhaled a small puff of smoke. Rydara sensed weariness from the animal. The elves are a stubborn race.

“I do not understand.” Rydara wiped her hands dry on the sleeves of her dress. She was shivering.

Neither do I. Lëanor lowered her head and ripped into the animal again, spraying a little of its blood across her snout. Rydara averted her eyes. But you are wrong to keep calling him Neremyn. Lëanor moved closer to Rydara and plunged her head in the water, drinking deeply before raising it again and shaking it off. Droplets ran down her spike-rimmed face as she turned yellow eyes toward Rydara.

He is the High Wizard Numbran now, enemy of the White, the elves, my race and yours. The elf who flew with us from Edriendor no longer exists.

“Why did he help us, then?” Rydara asked. “Why give us the shard?”

He is partner in mind and flesh with a thing from hell that lusts for power and enjoys inflicting pain, Lëanor tried again, and Rydara sensed impatience from the creature. The matter was quite settled in the dragon’s mind. Numbran may not plan to join our other enemies, and that makes him a lesser enemy for now, but if we meet him again, it will not be as allies.

Come. It will not be cold in the Waste.

Lëanor extended a wing, and Rydara climbed aboard, her whole body shaking now. She sank to her knees and pressed her head against the scales of Lëanor’s neck as they took off. The dragon was warm to the touch.

Rydara tried not to look at Chaenath. The elf’s face was peaceful in death, but dried blood congealed on her clothes where her wound had been. Her eyes were empty.

The flight back to Edriendor was long and somber. Rydara’s clothes dried out as they left the snowy forest behind, and the chill of Kilethe was replaced by the relentless heat of the Waste.

The day dragged on, but Lëanor did not stop again. Toward evening their solitude was broken by the appearance of another dragon. Rydara recognized the dragon’s rider from the brief meeting she had had with the Edren Guard. It was Sarya—the elf whose facial features reminded her so strongly of Arcaena.

Sarya and her dragon did not hail Rydara as they approached.

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