Not much escapes his notice on the island.
So when the macaws take to the air in a reverse shower of reds, golds, and royal blues, he is quick to grow his own wings and follow them. It takes only a few straining pumps of his leathery appendages to lift him into the hot thermals. Normally, he would relish the rush of the trade winds (the dangerous force that often pushes him towards the deep sea, that toys with him as they blow indiscriminately from one direction to another). But today, he turns his nose into the fury, slips into the stream that sails him towards the ocean.
In this way, Sabrael trails their march across low tide from high above.
It is a sight that makes his blood boil – quite literally. The beast roars a challenge within him, shakes at the bars he is firmly imprisoned behind. Because the number of horses crossing the water is telling. It tells him that this is no welcoming party. It tells him that they will soon have a fight on their hands, if they think the Ischians will roll over and submit to whatever they have in mind. It tells him – although not implicitly – that nothing will be the same for their sleepy home once their hooves hit the sand.
But as Sabrael plummets towards the sloping, amorphous beach, his family steps out of the jungle’s shadows. It isn’t enough to keep the intruders from drying their feet on the burning sand as they emerge from the shallows. They come in like waves in one’s, two’s, three’s (a pale purple man, two grey girls, a dark grey woman, a black man and his own company). The islanders form into a dike against them. With a hard thud and a spray of soft sand, he fortifies their defense. It isn’t much, he realizes as he moves alongside his silver-brushed mother. Too many faces are absent in their ranks (he is glad to not see Wallace, at least; he hopes she is safe elsewhere). But though they are few, they have hidden weapons in their arsenal – none more powerful than Ashley.
The mage demands an answer as to why they’ve come and Ea is quick to echo the question. For the bay roan it is obvious and unnecessary, wasted time when war is thrumming in his veins. He waits, though. He keeps the fire pressed firmly behind his quickly elongating fangs until one of the grey girls confirms his suspicions.
And then he lets free the beast.
The horse grows and contorts and hardens as he gives way to the dragon. His bones bend and crack as he enlarges. Scales the color of dried blood cover his skin and shimmer in the tropical light. He blinks and when he opens his eyes again, the pupils are slit. Slit, and fixated on the lavender leader of the invaders. Sabrael inhales Ischia (all of it, from the tangy brine to the fragrant forest) and exhales his rage as fire. A wall of flames flares up in front of the outsiders – bright and hot, but temporary. He will do no more unless Ea asks him to. “Ischia will never belong to you.” Not even if we fall.
Sabrael