by JA Andrews
She shot him a look of such venom, he took a half step back.
She stepped forward until she was right in his face. “I don’t need anyone to rescue me.” She spun and marched toward the pot. Hurriedly, as though trying not to think about it, she climbed in.
The pot sank a little more, and Tomkin leaned forward to hold it while she got settled. Her knuckles were white on the edge of the pot as she tucked herself into it. When she was kneeling, she flashed him a defiant look. But the defiance looked brittle. He hoped it would last long enough to get them out.
He gave her a nod. “Alright, She Who Writes Her Own Story, grab that railing over there, and get to it.”
“Fine.” She reached over to the far wall and grabbed the iron bar. Tugging on it, she pulled the copper pot along the wall toward the channel. When she reached the end of the boat room, the pot bounced in the rougher water. She stayed there for a breath, then glanced over her shoulder.
“You’ll hold on to the chain?” Her voice was tight.
Tomkin nodded. “And it’s anchored to the wall. Even if you lose your grip, you can’t go far, I’ll pull you back in here.”
Mags clung to the rail for a long minute.
“Mags,” Tomkin said. “You are the most determined person I’ve ever met. And it’s just a little farther.”
Mags straightened in the copper pot and looked back at the tunnel. She pulled the pot forward, shoving it out into the channel as though daring it to push back.
It did push back, and she let out a small scream. But she held on to the rail, and with a noise somewhere between a shout and a growl dragged the pot upstream, around the corner, and out of sight.
Tomkin stood in the empty boat room, watching the chain drop into the water, trailing after her. He let the cold iron run through his hands in spurts and jolts as Mags tugged herself up the tunnel.
With each link of the chain that slid through his fingers, he felt the terror of the day receding. It was working. She must be near the grate by now, and after that the water would open into the lake. She was almost safe. It would be a matter of moments before the copper pot came floating back for him. Then Tomkin would pull himself out, too. He wouldn’t waste time being scared of the water. He’d just get himself out and the two of them could be up the cliff and on their way north.
Another handful of links slid through his fingers.
No. That’s not what was going to happen. At the top of the cliff, their paths would part. Mags would head west to the Scale Mountains, and Tomkin north to Marshwell Holding.
It was an uncomfortable thought that she would be going in a different direction. Somehow, in the bits of the future he’d let himself imagine, his mind had offered up the story of her racing back to Marshwell with him, warning everyone of Vorath.
Somehow, when he imagined himself running home alone, her absence was almost palpable.
A deep splintering sound ripped through the silence of the boat room.
Tomkin whirled around, trying to figure out what the noise was. It couldn’t be from the copper pot, the noise was too wooden.
There was another crack, this one longer, like the slow splitting of a log, and Tomkin realized it came from behind him.
From the kitchen.
An image of Vorath filled his mind. The scaled head battering through the kitchen door, the great creature slithering into the kitchen, destroying the table, the counters, everything.
It was the third crack that snapped the truth into Tomkin’s head.
The winch.
Tomkin dropped the chain, praying the hook would hold if Mags needed it, and took the stairs two at a time. He reached the winch just as a fourth crack caused it to shudder. A gap in the wood spread from the locking pin toward the center of the wheel. Tomkin grabbed at a spoke, trying to shift the weight of the wheel off the pin. His efforts split the crack further.
He grabbed opposite sides of the split at the same time, trying to hold it together.
Tomkin’s arms and back strained against the heavy wheel. His ears strained down the tunnel, listening for any sound from Mags. She had to be past the grate by now.
The winch held for a moment, then with a crack like thunder, it broke in half.
Behind the spokes, the coil of chain burst free and spun, length after length of chain flying up into the hole in the wall. Tomkin’s breath was ripped away with it.
He grabbed a torch and raced to the edge of the channel. His torchlight glinted off the grate sunk deep in the water.
There was no pot.
“Lissa!” Tomkin hissed into the tunnel, not daring to call louder. The image of Vorath breaking into the kitchen was too fresh in his mind. “Lissa!”
A large shape moved and Tomkin held the torch out farther. Through the grate he caught a flash of copper.
She had made it through. He almost dropped his torch into the water in relief.
With a dull clank, the pot bumped against the grate. Its handle spun past.
“Lissa?” he called, the strange motion of the pot sending a dart of fear into him.
With a lurch, the current caught at the copper pot and slammed it against the grate. It listed sharply away from him and he saw the bottom of the pot for just a moment before it sank beneath the black water.
20
In the space between that heartbeat and the next, Tomkin felt as though he had been pulled under with her—water, chilling and raw, dragging him under, snaking cold, dead fingers around his heart.
“LISSA!” The word tore out of him, but the sound of the water broke it apart, pulling the fragments downstream and tossing them over the waterfall to the river below.
He lunged into the channel, one hand grabbing the metal rail along the wall, his other reaching for the grate but closing on nothing. The gap between him and Mags stretched vast and uncrossable.
The cold water shoved against him with so much force he grabbed the rail with both hands. He tried to pull himself upstream, but the current was too strong. His arms shook, exhausted, and his fingers began to loosen against his will.
“Tomkin!” the voice was thin and barely audible above the sounds of the water, but it came from the kitchen.
Tomkin slid down the rail back to the kitchen floor and scrambled out of the water. He stood up and stopped. The kitchen was empty. “Lissa?”
“Tomkin!”
Tomkin ran toward the window, clambering up on the counter to press his face against the thin arrow slit. Something moved near the bottom of it.
“Tomkin?” Mags whispered, terrified. “Tomkin! The grate closed! I—”
“Are you alright?” Tomkin interrupted.
“Yes. When the grate fell it pinned the chain down, but I was around the corner already and, since I could see the steps out, I just climbed out of the pot and pulled myself along the railing to the end.” She sounded proud of herself.
Tomkin sank onto his knees, dropping his forehead forward against the narrow window. “I thought you were—” his voice shook slightly.
Mags’ small hand reached in and Tomkin closed it in his own. It was freezing.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re shaking. Your face is in the shadows, I can’t see you very well. Are you alright?”
He held her small, icy hand in his and began to rub it, trying to put some warmth back into it. “The pot, Mags. It….” His chest tightened at the memory. “I thought you….” The window was wide enough for him to see her face. “I’m so sorry.” The words came out in a whisper.
“It’s alright. I’m okay.” A smile flashed in the darkness and she squeezed his hand. “I did it, you know.” The note of pride was back in her voice. “I climbed out of the pot, even though I didn’t know how deep the water was, and pulled myself over to the steps.”
The solid feeling of her hand began to steady him and Tomkin took a deep breath. “Of course you did. The lake is lucky it didn’t try to stop you. Who knows what you’d say to a body of water that vexed you.”
Mags let out a little laugh. “What happened with the grate?”
Tomkin glanced back at the winch, hanging broken on the wall. The chain was gone. It must have been dragged up into the wall. The winch was not only broken, it was utterly useless.
“The winch…cracked.”
Her breath caught. “How will you get out?”
“I can…put it back together.” That wasn’t a complete lie. He could piece the winch back together. It wouldn’t open the grate again, but… “Mags, start up the cliff. You need to get away from here. Head west to the Scales. Get as far as you can before dawn, then find somewhere to hide. Vorath wants to destroy the holding. If you’re not on the road to Marshwell, you should be fine. But be careful.”
“I’m not leaving you,” she said, indignant.
Tomkin felt his stomach drop a little. The wall between them felt like the wall of a prison cell, stretching around him, unbreakable. He shook his head. “It’s stupid for you to wait. We’re not going the same direction anyway. You should get started.”
“You’ll be coming soon?” she asked.
Tomkin squeezed her hand slightly. He forced the words out. “Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.”
She stood silent for a long moment, her hand small and cold in his. He didn’t want to let go of it.
“Lissa,” Tomkin said. “I’m glad I met you. And I’m sorry I judged you before I did. I hope you find a good place in the Scales.”
“When I do,” she asked, her voice trembled slightly, “will you come visit me?”
Tomkin paused. An image of a little fort nestled in the pine forests of the Scale Mountains came to his mind, smoke rising from a chimney. He wanted to ask if he could come to stay. He shoved that thought away. There was no point in thinking a future that wouldn’t happen. “That would be great.” It wasn’t hard to make that sound sincere.
The torchlight behind Tomkin reflected off a little grin on her face. “I hope your dad finds you a better wife than me.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” he answered. “We’ll just give her a quick test. Question one. If you were to come into contact with a vicious dragon would you run away, or domesticate it?”
She let out a little giggle.
“Question two. Do you boss people around incessantly? Question three. Have you alienated everyone of importance in the royal court?”
She let out a laugh that was so free and happy Tomkin felt a stab of pain in his chest that he would never hear it again.
“Good luck with that,” she said. She started to pull her hand away but Tomkin held it back.
“I don’t think it’s likely that he’ll be able to find someone better.”
Her smile faded and she peered up at him.
“But I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Her hand trembled and he realized she was standing there soaking wet. He dropped her hand. “You should go.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said, but it sounded more habitual than annoyed. She pulled her hand out of the window. “Goodbye, Tomkin. Stop dawdling and go fix the winch.”
“Bye, Mags.”
There was a rustling noise outside and Tomkin saw a dark shape move across the grass. In a few breaths she had escaped the shadow of the castle and he could see her, running through the moonlight toward the cliff. Tomkin pushed against the wall, straining to see far enough over to watch Lissa begin to climb the path. But in a few more steps, she was out of his view.
Tomkin sank down on the counter and glared at the winch. It couldn’t have held a few minutes longer? A few minutes and he’d have been climbing that cliff with Mags right now. He might have even convinced her to come back to Marshwell with him. At least to get Wink.
A few more minutes and the winch could have splintered away and no one would have cared.
“I don’t like how my story is being written, Mags,” he said to the empty kitchen. He leaned his head back against the wall, exhausted. His limbs were heavy, his back and shoulders ached from fighting the winch. “I always thought I’d play the hero. I never thought I’d be one of those side characters who doesn’t even make it back home. Maybe this was your story all along, and I’m just a bit character who helped you through it.”
The empty kitchen didn’t bother to answer him back. The walls of the castle were a prison cell. Every exit was blocked, the wall impenetrable.
Tomkin felt the last of his energy seep out of him, into the stones behind him. The endless rushing of the channel filled the silence. He stared at a torch burning across the room until his eyelids were too heavy to hold open. Then there was nothing but darkness.
21
When he opened his eyes again, the kitchen was dark. The chill of the castle wall had seeped into his back, and his stomach felt hollow from hunger. He groaned as he leaned forward and climbed off the counter.
It took him several moments to understand the room was dark because the torches had burned out. His gut clenched and he spun around to look out the window, afraid he would see the sky lightening with dawn. But outside the world was still black. The moon had risen enough that the shadow of the castle where Mags had stood was now full of grass, bleached grey in the moonlight. The moon must have risen high while he slept, but it was hours from dawn.
The only light in the kitchen was the thin flame of the oil lamp. Tomkin found another torch on the shelf by the door and lit it.
He walked back to the winch. The wheel had broken in half and hung off the wall, connected only by a thin splinter of wood. Behind it, the spool that had held the chain was bare. He held the torch up and looked into the hole where the chain had disappeared, but saw nothing.
He hadn’t expected to, really.
The kitchen felt distant. His arm holding the torch did so lifelessly. There was no point avoiding the truth of his situation any longer. There was no way out of this castle, and at dawn, Vorath was going to kill him.
He grabbed the dangling piece of wheel and tore it off the wall. It made a satisfying crunch. He grabbed the other side and pulled. The wheel complained with a long groan, but held firm. Tomkin yanked at it. The winch ignored him.
Why wouldn’t the stupid thing move?
He yanked again and again. It was broken and useless. And he still couldn’t budge it.
He put a foot on the wall and pulled with every bit of strength left in him. He hated this wood more than he had ever hated anything else in his life. His back ached and his hands felt raw. A fury grew inside his chest, until it clawed its way out into a barbaric, enraged roar. The sound filled the kitchen, drowning out, for a breath, the endless rushing of the water.
But the wood did not move. Tomkin shoved himself away from it, panting.
This was not how his story was going to end. He was not going to be devoured by a dragon as an example to his family. He was not going to be the one who hid in the kitchen and scrambled away like a mouse.
Tomkin stood and glared at the kitchen door.
This dragon was going to leave.
Tomkin picked up his sword from the end of the counter and leaned it against his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he let his anger shove down the fear that was rising, and marched toward the kitchen door.
When he reached the door he glanced back at the dark kitchen. The noise of the channel continued, uncaring. The copper pot must be pressed against the grate by the flow. The water pushing against it relentlessly, sliding by, slipping through the grate, rushing across the kitchen canal and then shooing out into the blackness of the night, before falling, falling, falling through the blackness to smash against the rocks and the river below.
It pulled at him. His mind kept being caught by the water and rushing out into the darkness.
If he were going to be killed and dropped, the channel would do a kinder job than the dragon. He let his hand fall off the kitchen door. It would be so easy. It would only require one step of bravery, and the water would do the rest.
His body ached with exhaustion. H
e was bruised from being hit by failure after failure. He had been a fool to come here in the first place, and more of a fool for not running at the first glimpse of scales. Running to find someone competent and strong.
The water called to him, but he pictured his broken body, swirling in the bend of the river where his boat had been. He straightened.
His death would not be that useless.
If Vorath killed him this morning, so be it. But if there were only a handful of choices left in his story, Tomkin was going to make them count.
He turned his back resolutely on the water and considered his situation again.
He couldn’t fight the dragon. Tomkin didn’t have the skills and Vorath had no weaknesses.
He couldn’t bargain with the dragon. There was nothing Vorath wanted that Tomkin could leverage. He wanted nothing but revenge. And the only way for him to get it was for Tomkin to die.
What else did the creature want?
The answer flashed into his mind like a white, wooly thing falling from the sky.
Sheep. The dragon wanted sheep and didn’t like their wool.
The Isle of Bald Sheep! Tomkin pulled up the memory of the map he’d looked at back at the holding. It felt like an eternity ago. But it was an entire island overrun with sheep no one wanted. No one except a dragon who didn’t like the taste of wool with his mutton.
There were no people nearby. It was the perfect place for a dragon.
Tomkin pushed the kitchen door open and walked into the dark hallway leading to the great hall. The hallway was longer than he remembered it, and colder. Shadows sat defiantly along the edges of the ceiling and near the sunken frames of the doors. The pressure of the emptiness pushed against him. Pushing aside his plan as though it were an insubstantial thing.
Which it was.
He paused. There was no Mags to point out that this plan was just as bad, if not worse, than his original one. How was he going to get a dragon to leave the place he’d wanted his whole life and live on a deserted island?
