Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Except … it’s not the wind.
Eighty-One
The Goddess and the Climb.
More gusts come, and the screaming call continues. It’s not, in fact, me, but when I try to figure out the source, panic starts to strangle me. It’s while I try to find my composure once again that I see the first flash of a dragon’s wing. A blink later the whole beast appears out of the clouds, its scaled body and speared tail as graceful in flight as any bird’s, its horned head and gaping, tooth-filled mouth exactly what I do not need in my current situation.
I flatten against the statue as the thing swings by, and the flames that protect me dim as they’re hit with a downdraft that carries so much humidity.
Beneath me, the spiders are unaffected, dousing my hope that they might be scared off by the arrival. No doubt they’re not enough sustenance for the predator to be bothered with. But a woman, such as myself? That’s a different story. And just as with the skystalker, no doubt the fire that circles me was what called them from their summits. They came to check things out, and now they might get fed—so they’re not going to leave.
Sure enough, the dragon disappears only for a moment into the mist, and then it comes right back for another pass. He’s red and black—or maybe it’s a she?—and I’m reminded of the old wives’ saying: Be one dragon, there are three; keep thy light dim and in a lee.
I’m really sick of sky-bound creatures who are attracted by light.
As the air beast makes yet another pass, his great wings open up a column of visibility around the goddess—and I see only the trial ahead, only my impossible journey.
Up I must go.
With the torch still in my teeth, I ladder my way forth, and there’s more swinging and worry over losing grip as the dragon creates its own weather system of gusts. When I get to the parted hem of the goddess’s robing, I have to stop and catch my breath again—
The red and black dragon makes yet another pass, even closer this time. And the old wives are right. There’s another on its tail, also coming to investigate, either because of the light or to see what its ilk is toying with. My body buffets back and forth in the breeze, and I desperately try not to think of how far I am from the ground or what waits for me below if I fall:
Hard marble or hungry spiders.
Spoiled for choice—
As if the latter want to protect their potential food source from the apex predators who’ve shown up, the red tips of some of the spiders’ front legs appear directly below me. With all my distraction, my ring of protective fire has dimmed, and they’ve taken immediate advantage to close in.
Palming the grip of the torch, I send fire at them with my mind. “Get back!”
A fresh blast of flame bursts out and there are squeals of pain. I keep going because I have no other choice. My forearm aches from what now feels like an ancient injury, my palms are going raw from gripping the salted metal hooks, and my toes burn from grabbing on and being my body’s anchor. Then there’s my front teeth, which were not meant to be used as a third hand. As I pull myself higher and higher, the flames keep the dragons interested, but the spiders stay away—and I gather a third has joined the pair who’ve been swooping by. With every pass, I must flatten myself, which is hard with the bundle of lit reeds being so big and ungainly in my mouth.
I work my way up her skirt, and then over her bust on the side by her ribs, following the line of bolts, being followed by a line of spiders. I slip at her shoulder and nearly fall off, my damp, soft shoe going out from under me. But I recover and continue up to her arm, grunting, straining, sweating in spite of the cold. The mist is impossibly dense up here, such that I see only what’s immediately above and immediately below. At least the dragons’ wings part it from time to time, so that I can measure my progress.
How kind, really.
Finally, I am at the wrist. My hair is whipped around in the wind, and I am breathing salt water for all the droplets in the air. The temperature is much, much colder, and this presents a problem for my hands, but I force them to keep gripping even after I can’t feel them anymore.
Now I must go slowly. Peering over the heel of the palm, I see the ruby. It’s nearly the size of my head, and cradled in a depression deep enough to settle the gem in tight, but not so deep that the facets cannot be reached by the sunlight.