As Dragos listened in silence, he strode south down the shoulder of the interstate while traffic whizzed past, oblivious to his presence. Snow began to fall in fluffy, fat flakes that swirled over the dark gray land. The snowflakes that fell around him hissed as they boiled to nothing before they reached the ground, until a cloak of mist trailed behind him as he walked.
Fifteen more yards. He knew it like he knew the back of his own hand, just as he had known to a penny what had been in his original hoard before he downsized it. He knew to a precise inch the many miles of border that surrounded his demesne.
Monroe fell silent after he described flying away from the High Lord’s home. Dragos asked, “Where are you now?”
“I’m on the north side of the Wood, in the Francis Marion National Forest,” Monroe told him.
“You’ve done what you were told to do,” Dragos said. “Now go back in.”
Ten yards.
“I will certainly give it my best shot,” Monroe said. “But I’m not sure I can. I could feel the Wood close behind me as I left.”
Five.
“Try,” Dragos said. He hung up.
He checked through the rest of his messages, but there was nothing that couldn’t wait. Bayne had texted that Sidhiel had not made an effort to leave town. He sent out a blast message to his sentinels in a brief update and then he turned off his phone.
The thing about laws was, at their essence they were a decision. Before he had met Pia, Dragos had counted law as his finest achievement. Law was the necessary bridge he had needed to build between him and other creatures when the world had become so goddamn crowded.
But at his essence, he was a lawless creature. Other imperatives ran much deeper.
He would not tolerate being separated from Pia, nor would he let this Elven Wood keep his mate from him. If Pia herself was angry or upset with his decision, why then, so be it. They would just have to figure out a way to get past it.
And he would not let any other race dictate his actions.
Not when Numenlaur was involved, and prophecy might be at hand.
As he stepped across the Wyr/Elven border, he changed back into his Wyr form, launched into the air and continued south.
Choosing to copy the gargoyle’s actions, he landed in the Elven Wood’s much larger neighbor, the national forest. Coming to ground about a quarter mile out from his goal, he changed and walked the rest of the way through the new, slender young trees.
He had left the snow behind, but the chill, damp, cloudy day was little better. Even though he did not expect it, he kept his senses sharp in case the Elves chose to send periodic patrols around the Wood’s border.
Despite his wariness he did not encounter any Elves or any hikers either, for that matter. He sensed the Wood well before he came upon it. Then the visible landscape changed as he saw the dark, tangled edge of the old growth forest up ahead, and for the first time he came toe-to-root with Lirithriel Wood.
The Wood was aware of him. He could feel it watching and waiting. He pushed at it gently with Power, and it pushed back. It was wild and wary, and it did not want any part of him inside its borders.
He respected that. He just didn’t accept it.
He walked along the edge of the Wood and studied it. A couple of times he thought he had figured out how slip past its barriers, but when he rose into the air to try to fly inside he felt the Wood turn in on itself, and he lost his sense of direction. When that happened he wheeled immediately to fly away again until he broke clear again of its influence.
Eventually he settled on a wide, flat bluff, his head between his paws as he regarded the dense forest with the patience of a very old predator. It had been successful in keeping him out thus far, but he knew one thing it didn’t. He knew that he would find a way to get inside. He was far older than the Wood, and smarter, and much, much more convoluted. It was only a matter of time.
Sometime midafternoon, a male voice said in his head, Sir, did you still come south after we talked?
He said, Monroe?
Yes, sir. I can’t get back inside.
Various facts moved through Dragos’s thoughts like chess pieces journeying across a black-and-white checked board. Across the chessboard in his head the face of his opponent might vary, but there was always an opponent.
He said, Go to Lirithriel House. Explain to them that you were sent out to deliver a message and ask to stay there while you wait for Pia and the others. It is a reasonable request. I would like to know more about what happens inside that house, especially now.
Yes, sir, Monroe said.
Update me when you have a chance.
He could think of no possible good reason for those at the house to deny hospitality to the gargoyle. That might prove useful. And if they did turn Monroe away, Dragos would be most interested in learning why.
Once he had settled that matter, his attention drifted back to the Wood. He was not surprised at its stubborn rejection of his presence. It was, after all, a creation of the Elves. And it was impossible to reason with something that had no language.
Night slipped slyly across the sky, a stealthy assassin that murdered the bleak, lonesome day. The more the Wood resisted, the angrier Dragos became until his rage burned as a feral fire deep in the pit of his chest.
He could break it. He could splinter it to pieces and tear his way in. He was not only older, smarter and more convoluted. He was much stronger as well.
But Pia thought this tangled, obstinate piece of real estate was beautiful, and he supposed that counted for something, so he would hold on to his temper for a little while longer.
Then Monroe said, Sir, I’m at the house, and they’ve agreed to give me a room.
Very good, he said, for the first time pleased with how something had gone that day. Contact me if you notice anything out of the ordinary.
With that he launched into the air and flew east toward the coast, following the Wood’s border.
By now there were twenty-eight contestants and only two more days of the Games. He expected that all five of his sentinels would have made it through to the semifinal round, and he suspected that the elegantly fighting, disingenuous Quentin Caeravorn would have too. He was also very interested in finding out if Elysias had won through.
That was when a part of him noticed a small but entirely logical curiosity.
When he stopped pushing against the Wood, it stopped resisting him. That was all, and it was a remarkably simple fact, yet instinct had him changing his course minutely while he kept the main focus of his attention on the events in New York.
Then he slid into the Elven Wood obliquely, as if by accident, and he allowed himself a slight, predatory smile.
In the next instant, he lost his smile. Now that he was past the border, he could scent on a billow of wind the acrid bite of wood smoke and the dark taste of a chaotic Power that was so familiar to him even though the last time he had sensed it had been so long ago.
The Power came from one of the Deus Machinae. Someone was wielding one of the God Machines.
The damned fools were doing it again.
Pia.
He flung himself forward, hurtling through the sullen, deadly night.
“Are you saying we can’t break through the fire?” Eva demanded as she stared at Miguel.
“That’s what it looks like,” he said. “Leaving the building shouldn’t be an issue. All the exits are useable. The problem is leaving the area. That blaze is going like gangbusters and it doesn’t seem to matter that the forest is damp. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s been burning a while, couple days at least. That blaze looks mature.”