The Schemes of Dragons

XIV

OMRIL STOOD ON THE balcony of his tower, scanning the clouds to the east. A tiny speck appeared, grew, and resolved into the shape of a pigeon. Omril held up his hand. The bird landed on his glove.

"There, there, Swiftwing," the wizard murmured, stroking his servant's neck. He could feel her staccato pulse against his finger. She was barely able to keep her grip. Omril cupped her gently in his palms, comforted her as he stepped into his chambers, and returned her to her coop.

"Your eyes told me a great deal," he said, double checking to be sure the bird and her three siblings had adequate feed and water. He had worked Swiftwing close to her limit, both physically and in terms of the amount of magic she could channel. Still, even her death would have been worth the result.

The rebels had been gone by the time Swiftwing had guided Puriel's quarter cohort of guards to the cottage, but Omril was content. He had flushed them from cover. It was only a matter of time until he did it again. Sooner or later he would trap them. He regretted only that he could not have heard as well seen the rebels' conversation. However, sending one's eyesight to distant locales was one thing, sending one's ears at the same time was another. Swiftwing had done what she could. The Dragon would be pleased with the news.

Omril unrolled a tiny scroll and dipped his pen. In clear, precise glyphs, he wrote: I have seen the talismans of Setan. He closed the scroll, held it under a dripping candle, pressed his signet ring to the hardening wax, and attached the message to the leg of Swiftwing's brother Windborne. He released the bird and watched as it flew south toward Elandris.