BooksBarbecue
Back The Endless Skies
Chapters (57)
  1. Copyright Notice
  2. Dedication
  3. Map
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. EPILOGUE
  54. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  55. Also by Shannon Price
  56. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  57. Newsletter Sign-up

I drift between death and dreams. I see my mother as I’ve often imagined her—happy, dancing with my father long after Shirene and I had gone to bed. I see Callen as a boy climbing trees, waiting for me to catch up and offering his hand.

I see one of the Storm’s End girls, though I can’t place which one. Her large eyes look at me sideways as if trying to see the ground as I’m seeing it.

The taste of dirt and the ocean’s roar bring me back to my senses. I assess my body, wiggling my toes and fingers first before daring to sit up. Every part of me aches. The tree I clung to rests inches from where it should have crushed my skull. I remember hitting the ground, my grip slipping. I must have fallen off at the last moment.

I cough grossly, spitting metallic blood, and fragments of my tooth come with it. Instinctively, I reach for the place where it should be, now soft and unnatural, shock coursing through me. It must have fallen out when I hit the ground and my jaw slammed against itself. My left eye is swollen to the point that I can’t open it, and my head throbs as if someone were using it as a drum, but I’m alive.

For a moment, I forget my body’s pain and turn my head to look up the cliff where I’d fallen.

“Ox,” I say, voice barely a croak. With great effort, I turn my head, looking for any sign of the others. “Callen?”

Collapsing, I start to shiver. It’s then that I notice something by my hand. Sitting back up, I examine the small drawstring bag. I hold the side down with my thumb to keep the wind from stealing it. The bag is kept closed by a faded blue thread, and there’s something familiar about it. I undo the tie.

The sight that greets me makes me laugh from sheer surprise and relief. Pain ripples through me, but I can’t stop. A pair of wilted red flowers. The cure.

I don’t ask how. I don’t think to wonder where they came from.

“Prince Tabrol,” I whisper, somehow cognizant that this amount will save him. Closing my fingers around the delicate blossoms, I tug on a few of the precious petals and bring them to my lips.

Instantly, the dormant heat in my chest flares to life, the sensation not unlike what I feel when calling to birds. Magic recognizing magic.

As relief sweeps over my limbs, I clutch the remainder of the cure to my heart. Death hasn’t come for me yet. I still have time, in every sense of the word.

30

CALLEN