by Jodi Meadows
Crystal went immediately, whipping around me so quickly that my dress fluttered in her wake. But LaLa was mid-dive, hurtling toward Altan with flame licking from her jaws. In the dim cavern, she was a brilliant, golden star; her scales shimmered in the light of her own fire. Her wings fanned as she jerked back her head and inhaled, then released a long blaze across his face.
Altan shouted and ducked his head—too late to save himself. But even with his skin withering under dragon fire, he was strong enough to lift his mace and swing it at LaLa.
He missed her body.
But he clipped her wing.
LaLa screamed and went down, and the thud of her body hitting the ground was my heart shattering apart.
Light flared from my fingertips, blinding bright as it flooded the room. In that hot glare, I saw warriors with their burned faces hidden in the crooks of their arms. I saw Altan with a twisted grimace or a smile, his mace fallen to the ground near him. And then there was LaLa, my tiny dragon flower, lying prone on the floor. Her injured wing trembled.
Without thinking, I lunged for her.
Altan took up his mace, strong because of his god.
The other warriors gathered their weapons.
But my eyes were for LaLa only. I scooped her into my arms, pressed her small body against my chest, and looked up just in time to see a warrior’s mace falling toward me.
I lifted a hand, as if I could push him away, and light and heat and rage surged out of me, knocking him back three steps. The noorestone energy inside me felt ready to explode as I retreated toward the tunnel to follow my friends.
My heart thundered in my ears. A nimbus of fire flickered around me, and a heady, drunk feeling grew within me. It wasn’t like before—in the Pit. There weren’t as many noorestones. But still, my soul remembered the moments before I exploded—or didn’t explode—when I’d screamed for everyone to leave.
I couldn’t let myself explode now. Not with my friends just on the other side of a wall. Not with the dishonored so close by. And not with LaLa pressed against me, her injured wing hanging limp across my hand. Her heartbeat fluttered against my fingers; I had to get her to safety.
Faintly, around the rushing in my head, I heard Ilina urging me to hurry.
I spun and dashed toward the tunnel. At the entrance, I dropped to my knees and scoot-crawled as quickly as I could, given the dragon in my left hand. Kelsine came behind me, a shield she and I both knew the warriors would not strike.
The blue-white light came with me as Ilina and Gerel helped pull me to my feet in a narrow passageway. Kelsine was on my heels, scrambling and clawing through the narrow space.
“Come on,” Gerel said. “Move quickly, but pay attention. This way is tricky.”
“Good thing Mira is glowing.” Chenda glanced over her shoulder, worry in her eyes.
I pressed my mouth in a line and shook my head. “It’s fine.” Hopefully. But when I looked at Aaru, the same worry reflected in his black gaze. “I’m fine.” There had been only five noorestones back there, and the power would fade with distance. I could handle this. I could.
“Walk,” Gerel commanded.
We obeyed, careful as we put one foot in front of the other. Five steps. Fifteen. Thirty. This was more tunnel, yes, but it was nothing like the other areas of the cavern; the walls here were ragged, with chisel marks still scarring the stone walls. It was more like the entrance to the mine, with several sharp turns, and drops and rises in the floor, forcing us to walk one at a time.
Fifty shuffling steps.
It was too small, especially with a dragon like Kelsine following. Some of the passages were almost too narrow for her, and we were forced to pause while she squeezed through. We wouldn’t be able to outpace the warriors. Not like this.
“Hurry,” Ilina whispered. “Hurry, hurry.”
Behind us, warriors echoed the sentiment. “Catch them.”
We wouldn’t make it. And in spite of my reassurances, the hum of noorestone fire under my skin was not diminishing. It was growing.
“What kind of mine was this?” I rasped.
Gerel answered without hesitation: “Noorestone.”
“Seven gods.” I grabbed Ilina’s shoulder, and the moment she turned, I thrust LaLa into her arms. Razor-sharp scales sliced my palm, but I hardly felt it. “Careful of her left wing.”
Ilina’s mouth dropped open, but I pushed her to continue after the others.
“Now you, little firefly.” I pressed myself to the wall to make space for Kelsine to slip by, but she only turned to face the oncoming warriors, her posture low and defensive.
I didn’t want her to stay with me, but I really didn’t have the time to argue with a juvenile Drakontos ignitus about who was in charge. Not with the warriors coming. Not with the power coming.
Deposits of raw noorestone were scattered throughout the walls. I could feel them even through the stone, tugging at the parts of me that knew the crystal. Sensed it. These noorestones were unilluminated—not yet exposed to the sun, which was what made them glow—but they were still filled with the power of Noore. The inner fire of our world burned within, growing in intensity the longer the stones sat underground.
And that was the power that called to me.
Just as Ilina and the others disappeared around a corner, I spun to face the warriors behind us. I pressed my palms against the ragged tunnel walls, and blood from my cut seeped down the stone, shimmering a deep purple in the light cast from my body.
They were twenty paces away.
Kelsine growled at them.
Fifteen.
Light throbbed from my skin, pulsing as fast as my heartbeat.
Ten.
Altan led the charge, his burned face contorted with pain and rage. Then confusion as he took in my posture, my power, my bared teeth. He paused just four paces away. “What are you?”
“Angry,” I whispered, and something in me snapped. The tether holding the noorestone power in check. The dam that held back the enormity of my fear and fury.
The earth shook. Just a faint shudder at first, but power thrummed through me, pushing past my fingertips. Fire called to fire as the energy inside me sought the unilluminated noorestones buried in the dark, and pieces of the walls began to break off. Pebbles at first. Then fist-sized chunks. The patter and thud of the tunnel caving in was startlingly loud.
Altan’s mouth dropped open as he realized what was happening. At once, he spun away and grabbed the nearest warrior. “Run!”
Then, before I could stop her, Kelsine surged forward—a bolt of brown and fire and teeth—and leaped onto one of the warriors.
“No!” My entire body ached as I tried to pull in the power again, to reverse what was already in motion.
But it was too late. Rubble filled the passage, and plumes of dirt rose with every clap of stone on stone.
Somewhere on the other side of the collapsing tunnel, I heard a man shout about his leg, and someone else call for help. Then, the noise of rocks crashing beat away their cries for aid, and the only thing I could hear was Kelsine screaming for me as she realized the tunnel had collapsed with her on the wrong side.
My heart shattered all over again. “Kelsine!” I scrambled to move rocks out of the way, but they were too heavy, and plumes of dust rose into my face. I coughed.
On the other side of the cave-in, I could hear talons on stone—Kelsine trying to dig her way to me—and the brash voices of warriors as they dragged her away.
“Kelsine!”
As the symphony of destruction died, I dropped to my knees and sucked in a deep breath. There, I finally registered the facts:
1.Nothing had fallen on me, or behind me; when I reached out to feel the ground around me, there was a clear line where the cave-in stopped.
2.Even the dust obeyed that line.
3.I’d stopped glowing, and now I was alone in the dark.
4.Kelsine was gone.
5.I couldn’t save her.
My b
ody felt drained, like the moments after I’d not-exploded in the Pit, but I picked myself up. I needed to get to my friends. But even before I could step away from the destruction, the sound of footfalls came from behind me.
“Mira?” Hristo appeared around the corner, a small noorestone in hand. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. But he meant “Are you hurt?” or “Can you walk?” not “Is all within you right?” so I answered the question he’d meant to ask, because the other question was too complicated.
Ilina, Gerel, Chenda, and Aaru came after Hristo, peering over one another’s shoulders to see what happened. “Where is Kelsine?” Ilina asked.
The dust had settled unnaturally fast, as though the cave-in had happened three months ago. There was nothing to see but a path blocked by fallen rocks, and my bloody handprint on the wall.
“She’s gone,” I said. “Altan has her.”
PART TWO
THE WORLD’S POWER
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OUR ESCAPE IN NUMBERS:
1.Seventeen small cuts from LaLa’s scales. They’d been bleeding before, but now they were only faint scabs. Like the scar on my face, they’d been healed under noorestone fire. The gash on my shoulder, when I felt around for that, was better now too.
2.Three hours of breathlessly slipping through the tunnel, knowing we had to reach the docks before Altan or we would be killed.
3.Twelve rungs on a ladder that led into a secret room in someone’s wall. It was stocked with food, water, and medical supplies, and though Ilina gathered supplies to set LaLa’s broken wing, we had no time to help my poor, whimpering dragon.
4.Two men—one tall and one short—who lived in the house connected to the tunnel. They greeted us with wary eyes, a story about their allegiance to the dishonored, and finally directions to the port. More importantly, they told us of a secret entrance to the port that smugglers used to move a drug called grayhand.
5.Fifteen-fifteen—the location where the Chance Encounter was docked.
6.Ten thousand echoes of Kelsine’s cries as we unwillingly left her with my worst enemy.
GUILT GNAWED AT me as we made our way to the port.
Guilt about Kelsine. Guilt about LaLa. Guilt about being unable to explain what I had done in the tunnel.
But there was no time to let myself steep in it. As quickly as possible, we passed through yards littered with toys or decorated with immaculate hedges trimmed to look like animals. The scent of the sea wove through on the breeze, rustling palm trees and wind chimes made of empty glass bottles. The late hour meant we didn’t run into anyone, but still, we needed to be quick.
Altan wouldn’t be far behind.
Only when we came within sight of the main gates did we pause, crouched behind a quiet building, to orient ourselves.
The port was bright, lit with hundreds of noorestones. They shone coolly from iron casings on poles every three paces, and along the docks themselves. Every pile driven into the sea boasted lights; if we could have looked at the port from above, we’d have seen an illuminated outline of every structure.
“The secret entrance should be that way.” Gerel pointed south, along a line of warehouses that effectively blocked the way into the port. “Warehouse thirty-nine.”
“Then let’s go.” I picked up my bag—taken from the house at the end of the tunnel and filled with dried fruit and meat—and hiked it over my shoulder. Aaru and Chenda had bags, too, while Ilina carried a lidded basket. Both dragons rode inside, nested in a pile of blankets and the supplies for a wing splint.
I should never have let the dragons help fight the warriors. LaLa had paid for my foolishness with a broken wing—a fractured radius and ulna, Ilina had guessed—and Kelsine had been completely lost to Altan. I could only imagine how frightened she was.
Carefully, we made our way south, passing two other entrances like the first. We hurried past them, trying not to give anyone a chance to wonder about the six dirty people moving through the streets in the middle of the night.
Above, seagulls called and dived for scraps. The roar of the sea was a constant thrum in my heart, with water crashing against hulls and docks and the cliffs on the southern end of the port. Every few minutes, bells rang and workers shouted, but everything was obscured by distance and heavy stone buildings in between.
“This is the one.” I paused at warehouse thirty-nine, and within minutes, the six of us slipped through a cleverly disguised door and into a bright space.
Shelves upon shelves, pallets upon pallets: crates of goods rose from floor to ceiling. Where we stood at the back, a dozen crates were labeled as sugarloaves, but a scrawled handprint indicated they were almost definitely grayhand. Just as our benefactors had promised.
Suddenly, I realized we weren’t alone in the warehouse. Fourteen workers were moving crates, lifting pallets, and calling out instructions. They hadn’t yet noticed us—we stood behind a tall shelving unit with the grayhand—but it wouldn’t be long before someone realized they’d heard the door open and shut and came to investigate. Or worse: someone else might open the door to find us here.
We all crouched and moved along the wall, taking care to stay behind the cargo.
Aaru tapped on my arm. ::What do we do?::
There were ten rows of shelves, three with clear aisles in between. The workers were mostly focused on the north side of the building, so if we were quick and kept low, we might be able to creep to the huge, open door on the opposite end of the warehouse.
I nudged Gerel and pointed to the empty aisles, praying she understood my intentions.
She nodded, passing it on to Hristo and Ilina.
::Can you make us quiet?:: I asked Aaru. ::Muffle us?::
His eyebrows drew inward, not with a frown, but with focus. ::I can try.::
I leaned toward Gerel and kept my voice as soft as possible. “Let’s go.”
But before we could get moving, a man came toward us—one I hadn’t counted before. A fifteenth worker.
I knew the moment he spotted us, six ragged people hunched next to the crates of grayhand, because his eyes went wide and he opened his lungs to shout. “Thieves!”
And then the warehouse went dark.
“Go,” I hissed. “Go, go.”
I’d thought I hated running before, but now it was dark. Now, I carried a heavy bag full of food I hadn’t had time to eat. Now, I was exhausted from a day of hiking, a run through the dishonored camp, the exertion of using my power over noorestones, and walking another league through a tunnel.
But I ran. We all did.
We raced down one of the empty aisles, and past crates marked as wheat, rice, and sugar. Exhaustion clawed at me, but I kept going toward the glow of the port.
“Stop! Thief!” The workers’ footfalls slammed after us, and along parallel aisles.
My head pounded with each impact of my feet on the stone floor, but I kept going, even as the workers behind me gained.
And then I saw them. Five men with crowbars blocked the way to the door, with three more joining them from the other aisles. Plus the seven behind us.
We were surrounded. We couldn’t go forward. We couldn’t go back.
Breathing hard—except for Gerel—the six of us stood in the center of the aisles and weighed our options. We couldn’t run through the line of workers, not without getting hit with an iron bar. But we couldn’t stay here.
We needed a third option.
“All right, thieves.” One of the workers stepped forward. “Just put down your bags and we’ll let you go.”
None of us moved, and gradually, the noorestones began to illuminate once more. ::Thanks for trying,:: I tapped to Aaru. He didn’t reply.
The lead worker tried again. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, and you’re all clearly struggling. But you can’t steal. Leave the bags and get out of here.”
Ilina glanced at me, just a flicker of a smile before her entire posture shifted. She tilted h
er head, all sweetness as she pitched her voice slightly higher than normal. “We’re not thieves,” she said. “We just want to see the ships.”
“They’re out there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What’d you do? Come in during the day and hide out back there to steal from us?”
“Oh, no.” Ilina shook her head, still speaking with that saccharin-sweet voice. “We came in just now, through the back door.”
“There is no back door.”
“There’s the one they sneak the grayhand out of.”
His jaw worked, but he couldn’t seem to find the words.
And at once, I saw what Ilina was doing. This man—the supervisor of this group, perhaps, if he was speaking for them—didn’t know about the grayhand. Or, if he did, he was doing a good job pretending otherwise.
I bit the insides of my lips to keep from smiling.
“We just want to see the ships,” she went on. “We heard they were most beautiful at night.”
The supervisor turned to one of the other men. “What door is she talking about? There’s no grayhand here. Not in my building.”
“I saw a dozen crates back there,” Ilina said. “By the door. They were marked with handprints.”
“Go look.” The supervisor turned to one of his workers. “Tell me if she’s right.”
The other man didn’t move, and that was enough proof of betrayal for the supervisor. The moment all the men started yelling about tariffs, smuggling, and honor, the six of us darted for the exit.
The controlled chaos of the port welcomed us with squawking gulls, clanging bells, and shouted orders. It was easy to get lost in the crowd, out of sight of any of the warehouse workers who might come after us. Once we were twenty paces outside the huge doors, we slowed and let ourselves get caught up in the current of traffic. Still, we had to stay alert to avoid getting crushed under carts loaded with enormous crates.
Somehow, we reached the long piers that stretched into the water, with ships moored as far as I could see. “It’s fifteen-fifteen,” I said, scanning the piles for numbers. Seventeen, sixteen . . . “This way!” I headed toward the pier, glancing over my shoulder to make sure everyone was following.
