Free Reawakening by Amy Rae Durreson Page B

how to bind a spirit—how about freeing this one? If nothing else, I reckon he’s pretty mad by now, and it might be nice to have a grateful and angry desert on our side.”
    “Lying here, far from the source of this spell, I can only free him by binding him myself,” the dragon said.
    “So do it,” Ia snapped, glaring up at him. “Preferably before we’re all buried alive.”
    “Take his freedom?” the dragon questioned. “When he has already been much abused? It is an affront to his honor.”
    “Can you undo this binding tomorrow?” Barrett asked shyly. He was staring at the dragon with quiet wonder, his fingers twitching in the air as if he craved a pen.
    “This I do not know,” the dragon admitted. “Such things are against the Laws of Amel, that bound us of old.”
    “Well, if I was taken as a slave,” Barrett said, “and you should know that attacks happen to even the best of caravans, I’d rather be bought by someone kind and set free than keep my dignity in slavery. Now, I may not be a proud man, and I have no shame in that, but I’m sure even the most arrogant soul in the world finds actual slavery worse than being rescued. What’s the worst Alagard can do?”
    “Big. Fucking. Sandstorm,” Ia pointed out.
    “We’ve got that anyway,” Barrett retorted. “Don’t know if you noticed it?”
    The dragon could see the reason in that, but still it hurt him. The desert was meant for his hoard, but a true hoard lord did not steal and scavenge. He took what was offered—love, loyalty, and precious things. He did not force them.
    But if the desert had already been stolen from him, retrieving his property was the righteous path, whether Alagard resented him for it or no.
    Looking at the gathered humans below him, facing him despite the way that some were still quaking with fear, was little comfort. They were but part of his hoard, and it was good, but he had wanted the desert so much—hot, lively, and beloved as it was. Nonetheless, he said gravely, “Then it shall be done.”
    He withdrew his head, shifting his neck to snake out into the storm.
    The tearing sand was starting to hurt now, grinding through centuries of limescale and quartz to score the scales below. He braced himself against it, drawing on the fire within him as he reached out into the storm.
    “ Alagard, ” he sent into the tempest. “ Little sprite. Come to me. ”
    But the storm kept screaming, and there was no sign the desert had heard him.
    He tried to grasp at that whirling spirit next, willing it to him with all his might.
    The wind tore down hard enough to rock him, forming great clawing masses that ripped at his eyes and nostrils and pounded down on his outspread wing.
    The dragon closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was trying to find a different road from the Shadow. When it came to coercion and hatred, it outmatched him.
    Instead, he remembered the desert as he had first seen it—the warm heat and golden rocks, the squeaking lizards and sly fox, the snake and the huffing dust devils. He held on to that, and then opened his mind to the storm again, murmuring, “ Come to me. Come to this place of safety, and let me watch over you, Alagard. Come home to me. ”
    The agony of the storm broke across his mind, more searing than the sharp sand. It came tainted with shadow, a seeping rot of pain and despair. Grimly, he clung to the memory of the desert, offering it into the storm, holding the picture of sunlight, warm sand, and little creatures bright with love and loyalty.
    As the wind roared like falling rock, and the sand heaped against his side grew hot and then splintered into glass lightning, the picture in his mind changed. A sand-colored caracal lay flat on the side of the dune, its black-tufted ears alert and its slitted eyes fixed. It was utterly still.
    The dragon kept calling softly to the desert, and slowly the cat relaxed.
    “ Be mine,” the dragon murmured. “ Take what I’m offering. ”
    The