Dragon Mage Academy Box Set

by Cordelia Castel

  “Fall back!” cried Madam Maritimus.

  Fyrian’s fire caught the disintegrating grid and spread along its threads of magic. For a second, we were all encased inside a hollow sphere of fire. The witches cut off their magic, and the fire disintegrated into sparks. Then Fyrian dove, the speed of her escape making me rock back. I twisted, checking on the witches. They had all gathered around Madam Maritimus. I exhaled a breath of relief.

  “We’re nearly there,” she said.

  “How much longer?” I asked.

  “Twenty minutes.” She picked up her speed.

  “Good, because we’ll be all right as long as we pass the palace grounds.” My stomach churned. That wasn’t quite true. The Queen’s Guard would rush at us for having invaded the palace, and Father would probably run out with his Sword of Lightning blazing. But they’d give us a chance to explain ourselves, and Fyrian would be safe from execution… as long as Aunt Cendrilla wasn’t visiting Uncle Armin or Prince Vanus.

  My neck convulsed. Father would be furious, but at least he wouldn’t attack.

  A huge shadow blocked out the sun from overhead. I glanced up to find a purple dragon swooping down toward us.

  “Is that who I’m thinking of?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was flat. “And he’ll probably rip us to shreds.”

  My heart thudded. I hadn’t seen Fogo in nearly a decade, because I’d stopped visiting the palace the moment I became old enough to understand why Mother cried when she thought I’d gone to bed, and why Father spent all his time away from home. Would he recognize me with the male glamor, or would he attack to protect his territory?

  I glanced down the stretch of road. All I could see was leagues of barren scrubland and no palace in sight. “H-how did he get here so quickly?”

  “Purple dragons can teleport,” she said.

  “Oh.” My stomach plummeted. “How are we going to outfly him?”

  “We can’t.” Her voice echoed with resignation.

  The purple dragon glared down at me through eyes that blazed like a furnace. He stretched out his talons, ready to slice my head off. I cowered behind my raised forearms.

  Fyrian dipped her wing, tipping me ninety degrees, and rolling out of the purple dragon’s strike.

  Blood rushed to my head, then back to my stomach as she righted herself. Spots danced before my eyes, and I snapped them shut, panting and trying not to be sick.

  “Open your eyes!” she cried. “He’s disappeared.”

  I snapped my eyes open, bringing the world back into focus. I turned my head, looking for signs of the purple dragon. Behind us, the red dragons flew in wide formation, maintaining a distance of about two hundred feet. Beneath us, the Sandbrick Road stretched to the palace, and above us was the cloudless sky.

  My eyes kept darting around, waiting for his return. “Where is he?”

  “He could be anywhere. With Auntie Rilla as his partner, he’s the most powerful dragon in Steppe.”

  I shuddered. My memories of Fogo were of a dragon who was devoted to Aunt Cendrilla. He’d probably do anything if he thought she was in danger. Maybe he had gone to warn her of the green dragon approaching the palace.

  “Fyri, can he communicate into Aunt Cendrilla’s mind like you?”

  “He doesn’t need to!”

  I was about to ask why, when massive claws wrapped around my middle and yanked me off Fyrian’s back. My only response was a shriek of surprise and outrage.

  “Alba!” she cried.

  The purple dragon soared up into the skies, pulling me away from Fyrian and our connection. She raised her chin and flew after us, fury burning in her eyes like flames of crimson.

  My scream continued, and I stretched my arms toward her, but it was no use. The purple dragon twisted, spinning me around, and my insides flip-flopped before I slumped into a dead faint.

  “Alba, where are you?” asked Fyrian. “Open your eyes.”

  I awoke on the sandstone courtyard outside the reception building. Thin, iron shackles encased my wrists, restricting my movement. When I lifted my head, it was to see the Witch General staring down at me, lips pursed, arms folded. “You are under arrest for perverting the course of justice.”

  My eyes fluttered shut, and despair washed over me like ice water. “Fyri, where are you?”

  She sighed. “I’m close by. When you were taken, the witches froze my wings. They’re carrying me through the wards.”

  “However,” said the Witch General. “Due to your status as a… minor, we are obligated to contact the head of your Noble House.”

  “No!” I raised my head, eyes bulging. “Father will send me straight to King Magnar!”

  “You may keep her in the jailhouse until Bluebeard arrives,” said Master Fosco from behind.

  Two security witches pulled me up by the arms and led me across the courtyard, under an archway, to another sandstone courtyard, where witches knelt on the ground, painting runes around a ritual circle with blue pigment.

  Dr. Duclair hovered over them, holding a leather tome half her size. She spared a glance at me then turned to the other witches. “Roseate, prepare the dragon’s last meal.”

  A pair of dragon grooms dragged the carcass of a bison into the ritual circle. Roseate pulled her apprentice staff from her sleeve and glared at it before setting the carcass alight.

  “I didn’t say to char it!” snapped Dr. Duclair.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s hard to go back to an apprentice staff when you’ve had the real thing.”

  The healer pursed her lips. “You may leave.”

  Roseate’s shoulders slumped, and the pencil-sized staff slipped from her fingers and rolled across the sandstone courtyard. She stumbled after it, reminding me of that time I thought I’d dropped my useless militia staff in the reception area. Evolene had said it was her pencil and then put it away.

  Realization hit me like a boulder. I had been right all along! Master Fosco wasn’t the murder. The murder would be stealthy and hide his guilt and lack of regard for his victim. The murder would act upset and unassuming. The murderer would hide his ability to wield the murder weapon.

  The murder weapon hadn’t been a dragon.

  It had been a witch’s staff.

  Who had Mr. Jankin bullied and tormented? Who had the biggest motive for getting rid of him? And who had an apprentice staff to create fire?

  The very daughter Mr. Jankin had persecuted.

  The murderer had been Evolene all along.

  Chapter 21

  One of the witches opened the jailhouse door and the other ushered me inside. Its interior consisted of a rectangular room that looked like a hollowed-out block of sandstone. At one end, a narrow cot lay wedged under a window that overlooked the courtyard, and at the other was a desk and chair.

  I dragged my feet and turned to the witch at the door. She was a gaunt woman whose slate-gray hair reached a navy blue breastplate, indicating that she was one of the security witches who worked for Madam Maritimus.

  “I know who really murdered Mr. Jankin,” I said. “Please, let me speak to the Witch General.”

  She pursed her lips. “No one has the authority to overturn a guilty verdict. You’ll have to go through the Magistratus.”

  The other witch gave me a gentle prod in the back. “Don’t make things difficult for yourself, Cadet. We’re authorized to use magic to move you into your cell.”

  Clenching my teeth, I stepped into the jailhouse and walked to the window. Didn’t anyone seem to care that the real killer had gotten away with murder? From the witches’ weary expressions, they seemed to care more about keeping me confined.

  “Is he still on Mount Fornax?” I asked. “Please tell him I have a crucial piece of evidence.”

  The gray-haired witch pointed her staff at the ceiling, paused for a second, and then headed toward the exit.

  “Excuse me?” I rushed after her, only to hit a wall of solid air.

  She stopped at the door. �
��I don’t know who you are, but the average witch doesn’t get to approach an ogre like the Magistratus. The best I can do is speak to Madam Maritimus or one of the Militia witches.”

  Although my stomach spiraled with a sinking hopelessness, I forced myself to nod. “T-thanks. I’d appreciate anything you can do.”

  The two witches stepped out of the jailhouse and shut the door. I turned to the window. Witches on the backs of red dragons lowered Fyrian onto a ritual circle. A golden mesh of magic encased her like a mold. Every time she moved a limb, it would tighten around her.

  My throat thickened, trapping a sob, and tears blurred my eyes. How could they treat an innocent dragon like a feral beast? She hadn’t hurt anybody!

  Fyrian opened her mouth to roar, but the mesh clamped her jaw shut. Roars and bellows of outrage of dragons filled the air. These had to be from her friends, the green dragons who knew of her innocence.

  I stood on the cot, palms pressed against the window’s ward, and reached out to her in my mind. “F-Fyri?”

  She didn’t answer. Dr. Duclair flew over Fyrian’s struggling form. Magic streamed from the witch’s oversized staff into the golden mesh encasing Fyrian’s body. She tilted her head up to the red dragons and shouted something, then the dragons flew away, and the golden mesh transformed into a network of gilded chains snaking around Fyrian at the neck, legs, wings and tail.

  “Fyrian!” I called again.

  “A-Alba?” Her voice was muffled, like I was hearing her through a thick wall. It was nearly drowned out by the pulse pounding in my ear. “The witches are talking about blocking our connection. I can’t move.”

  “Stay still. The magic is designed to tighten the more you struggle.”

  “They’re going to execute me!” she wailed.

  Nausea writhed up my gut, and I struggled for words of reassurance that weren’t an outright lie. We were both caught. Both sentenced. Both doomed. But I was condemned to an uncertain fate, while Fyrian would be killed in the next few minutes if I didn’t act now.

  The Witch General strode through the archway, flanked by an entourage of four Militia witches. Each wore black leather uniforms, topped by patchwork cloaks and held tall, crystal-tipped staffs.

  A disheveled Master Fosco followed them, his shoulders slumped with defeat. There was no sign of the Magistratus or his ceremonial witches. They must have left when I had escaped with Fyrian.

  “What am I going to do?” I whispered to myself.

  A crimson dragonet, much like Fyrian’s companion at the palace, flew past. I lurched forward, pressing my head against the invisible barrier. “Excuse me?”

  It turned and tilted its head to the side.

  My heart leapt. “Yes, I’m talking to you.”

  The dragonet perched on the external windowsill and blinked at me through amber eyes.

  “I’m a friend of Fyrian, the dragon who’s about to be executed for a crime she didn’t commit. Can you help us?”

  It nodded.

  A breath whooshed out of my lungs, but it was too soon to feel relieved. My plan was simple, but I wasn’t sure if the dragonet would be able to convince my classmates to come and help me to escape. I explained what I needed it to do, and it nodded and flew out into the terraces.

  The next hours stretched past. Witches consulted leather tomes, moved between the jailhouse and the ritual circle, taking measurements, adjusting runes, and examining my magic. When Dr. Duclair came to draw runes on the floor of the jailhouse, she barely listened to my pleas. I gazed out of the window, looking for signs of my classmates or of the crimson dragonet.

  Fyrian’s sobs became more and more muffled.

  “Sorry.” I said the words into our bond.

  She sat in the ritual circle, unmoving, either unable to hear me or not wanting to reply. I didn’t blame her. Right now, anything I had to say would be useless.

  “Bluford,” said a male voice from behind.

  I turned around and met the hard, steel-blue eyes of Rufus. His auburn hair was pulled off his face, making his features even more harsh. The snarl on his lips told me that he wasn’t here to help.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Ivan and Stafford are discussing ways to rescue you.”

  The weight on my chest lightened. “Oh.”

  He glowered, folding his arms across his broad chest and reminding me of a less murderous version of Father. “You must refuse their aid.”

  I stepped off the cot and hurried to the barrier. “Why?”

  “This…” his face twisted into a rictus of disgust. “This arrest is an illusion. They will lock you up for a few days and release you to the palace.”

  “But Fyrian is—”

  “What will happen to your classmates?”

  I stepped back. “What do you mean?”

  “If Master Fosco discovers their treachery, they will be expelled or imprisoned.”

  My stomach twisted into a writhing mass of knots. He was right, but Fyrian would die if someone didn’t intervene on her behalf. I was going to tell him I’d worked out the true identity of the murderer, and that everything would be all right as soon as the Magistratus got the new evidence, but he spoke first.

  “Neither of them have a King for a father. Stafford is an orphan, and Ivan told us his mother is an elderly widow.”

  Even though he was wrong about Uncle Armin being my father, the Bluebeard fortune was one of the most vast in Steppe. I’d never needed to worry about being hungry or poor. Compared to an orphan or an ogre-hybrid rejected by his noble house, my situation was better than most. It had never occurred to me that saving Fyrian might make my classmates’ lives worse.

  I gulped. “Sorry, I didn’t think.”

  His expression loosened. “I worry for Ivan. He is weaker than a human and does not even have the strength to become a groom. If he is caught helping you escape, he will be destitute.”

  I backed away and lowered myself to the cot. “All right. I’ll turn them away when they come.”

  He gave me a sharp nod and strode to the exit. At the door, he turned and said, “You would have solved your problem by speaking to your parents. Her Majesty would not have married King Armin if he was an unreasonable human.”

  “Um…” I chewed my bottom lip. “I don’t suppose you could send Queen Cendrilla a message and tell her I need some help?”

  He shook his head. “There is more to your story, and I refuse to get involved.”

  Rufus disappeared through the exit, and I sighed. What he had said about Uncle Armin applied to Father, I supposed. Although Father was bull-headed, there were ways of getting through to him. That morning he entered the breakfast room, I could have dueled him and explained my feelings when his senses were at full alert.

  “But then you wouldn’t have been here to bond with me,” Fyrian said into my head.

  My heart leapt. “I thought they’d dulled our connection!”

  “They’re trying again with different runes,” she replied. It’s going to be more difficult than they’d thought.”

  “At least that buys us some more time.”

  Dr. Duclair flew in through the door, staff raised. “Don’t mind me, dear. I need to get a better gauge on your magic and vital signs in preparation for the separation ritual.”

  She removed the barrier and encased me with magic. I glanced at the door, heart thrumming in anticipation. If I could rush to the exit and run around the back of the jailhouse, I might—

  “Aha!” Dr. Duclair restored the barrier. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  Fyrian sighed into my head. “It wouldn’t have worked. A witch like that would have caught you in her magic before you reached the door.”

  “I have to try something.” I turned back to the window. Dr. Duclair glided to where the Witch General and Madam Maritimus huddled around a giant, leather-bound tome.

  “Albert!” hissed a voice.

  Two male heads poked through the door. My heart flip
ped. “Stafford? Ivan?”

  Ivan scurried through the door. “The dragonet led us to where the witches were keeping you, and we went back to our common room to work out how to help.”

  Stafford stepped inside. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry for getting you involved.” I slumped deeper into the mattress, folding my arms across my chest. “You could both get into a lot of trouble for even being here.”

  Ivan furrowed his brow. “There’s nothing wrong with talking to a friend. If the witches wanted to keep us out, they would have used magic to seal the door.”

  Stafford nodded and perched himself on the desk opposite. Ivan leaned against the wall, still looking winded from all those laps. They both remained silent, waiting for me to speak.

  “There’s no harm in telling you what happened, I suppose.” Sagging further onto the cot, I told them about how the Witch General had caught Master Fosco trying to intercept my letter about his cover up of Mr. Jankin’s murder.

  Then I explained how the evidence against Master Fosco had been either forgeries or coincidental. This had led to the Magistratus, who had come along out of curiosity, finding Fyrian guilty of murder and sentencing her to death.

  Ivan’s brows were furrowed, and Stafford stared at me in wide-mouthed shock.

  “I won’t ask you to help me escape, because I’m facing criminal charges, but will you send a message to the Queen about Fyrian, please?”

  “They won’t really put you in jail, will they?” asked Stafford.

  “Nobody imprisons royals for minor offenses,” replied Ivan. “Albert’s still underage, too.”

  I shrugged. “But I’m not worried about myself. As soon as they work out how to sever my bond with Fyrian, she’ll die, and the murderer will be free to attack anyone who offends her.”

  “Her?” Ivan pushed off the wall and walked to the barrier of my cell.

  “Yesterday, after finding the dead body, I bumped into Evolene, and she dropped her apprentice staff. I was sure that I saw its crystal tip, but she told me it was a pencil, and I thought nothing of it until now.”