Ven had another reason, though it was one he did not readily admit to himself. He needed to talk to Draconas. The need was grudging, for it implied weakness on Ven’s part. He’d determined that he would never again ask for help from anyone. With the long night to think things over and the vision of Draconas slipping into Grald’s mountain lair before his eyes, Ven had come to the conclusion that exchanging a modicum of pride for Draconas’s assistance in carrying out his plot against Grald was not such a bad trade-off.

I won’t ask him to help me fight Grald, Ven resolved. I just need information about fighting dragons.

Ven didn’t dare leave the white-shielded cave of his mind to go in mental search of Draconas—such a move would place them both in danger. But he could leave his room.

Flinging open the door, Ven found two monks standing guard outside. One of the monks jumped nearly out of his skin as the door banged against the wall. The other regarded him with a wary look.

“I’m going for a walk,” Ven announced, and shoved past the two of them. “You can come, if you want.”

The monk who was not quivering frowned.

“Your father—”

Ven rounded on him. “I have heard rumors that the people of Dragonkeep think I am dead, killed in the explosion. If I am to be the leader of these people, then they should see me, see that I am alive and strong and well.”

Either this inspired argument carried the day, or the monk saw that he had no hope of stopping Ven from leaving, and so he gave in, though not without a whispered conversation with his fellow, who immediately darted off, presumably running to Grald with the report.

Accompanied by three monks, Ven left the Abbey for the first time since he’d gone out that fateful morning to meet his brother.

He emerged into morning air washed fresh by last night’s rain and paused to gulp in great draughts. He set out to walk the streets of Dragonkeep, with no particular destination in mind, just the need to get the blood flowing and perhaps find Draconas.

Ven could not forbid the monks from escorting him—they were far more terrified of Grald than they were of Grald’s son. But he could make it difficult for them, and he did. The dragon-blood gave him extrahuman strength and, even weakened, he was stronger than any of the monks. His dragon legs carried him at an easy lope through the city streets. The monks kept up as best they could— the image of Grald’s fury acting as a spur—but none was accustomed to exertion of any kind, and soon they were gasping and winded.