Nisha

NISHA LIMPED. EACH STEP REQUIRED AN AGONIZING EFFORT to avoid using her left foreleg. She would have flown, but her brilliant wings hung in tatters around her shoulders. Her vision blurred, but she had her destination in her sights: the sheltering shade of an outcrop, a black and hardened wave of lava, frozen for eternity.

Collapsing there, she let the roar of battle and the ever-present hiss of fire wash over her. Pain penetrated her every atom, and she considered the rising probability of her death with a detached indifference. One day some intrepid miner might stumble upon her bones here and wonder what became of her--or then again, they might not care.

When she came to again, the din had dwindled: the battle raged, but had moved on. Stirring, she remembered why she was lying there. The memory hurt.

"Be still." A Guardian near twice her size sat beside her, a wrap of bandage in hand. "I'm no healer, but . . ."

"Your eyes," Nisha gasped. He blinked at her: a clear and golden gaze that she had seen so recently through the frame of a visor, veiled with hate, and rage, and fear. So much fear. "You're one of them." She thought the accusation would have more anger in it, more sting. But her voice held nothing but apathy and despair--not an accusation, merely an observation.

The massive dragon ducked his head, eyes focused on the cloth in his claws. He was ashamed, she realized. A deserter, and now a sympathizer. A small part of her, whatever had survived the fighting, wanted to snarl at him to leave her alone to live or die as the Flamecaller demanded. The rest of her, the scarred, scared, and wounded part of her, said nothing.

"We need to get you out of here, to a healer," the Guardian muttered, putting the bandages back in his bag. "They'll see us if we fly. Can you stand?"

They. Their comrades, his and hers both. Nisha pushed herself up and stumbled, blinded for a moment by the wash of pain and the tears that filled her eyes. The deserter caught her and steadied her against his shoulder. With his broad side supporting her, Nisha found she could take a few steps at a time over the uneven ground, pausing to rest her injured leg and breathe. Together they made their way, slowly but surely, toward the forest of vents that would screen their retreat.

"Where are we going?" He looked at her, mouth agape, then shook his huge head.

"Away from here."

Nisha sat back on her haunches, breathing in the familiar alchemical smoke, tasting the metallic ash that filled the air. Where would they go? Scorned by gods and dragons alike. Exalted had no families. And yet . . .

"My father's family. They're Windsinger's folk--they'll take us, I think." She knew them only from her father's stories: a bold, brilliant grandmother and an anxious, Skydancer grandfather. More importantly, she remembered talk of the old Matriarch, a fiery, whimsy-driven creature who collected dragons with pretty scales and interesting histories. If anyone would take them, she might. "The Windswept Delta's not so far from here," she added grimly. "We'll make it."

The Guardian gave her a long look, his head lilting lightly to the left--as if listening: to her, to the wind, to the beat of his own heart, who knew?

"What's your name?" He said, finally.

"Nisha. You?"

"Jai."

"Pleasure meeting you, Jai," she said. The response was automatic, drilled into her since hatching, so banal and civil and starkly out of place in this field of corpses that she really couldn't blame him when he began to chuckle. That first snicker unleashed something inside her that broke through all the pain, misery, and blood with the force of a river bursting through its floodgate. In seconds they were both howling with laughter. It felt like a sudden deluge in summer, the kind that breaks the tense, still afternoon heat all at once and vanishes just as quickly. It felt good.