The Burning Sky tet-1

by Shelly Thomas

  Tonight, however, that future was dimmer and more distant than ever.

  She lifted her face. “Is it over the Commander’s Palace that you would fall?”

  To his death, she meant.

  He swallowed. “It is possible. My mother saw a night scene. There was smoke and fire—a staggering amount of fire, according to her—and dragons.”

  “Which stories in the Crucible have dragons?”

  “Half of them, probably. ‘Lilia, the Clever Thief,’ ‘Battle for Black Bastion,’ ‘The Dragon Princess,’ ‘Lord of the—’”

  “What about ‘Sleeping Beauty’? My first time in the Crucible you said you’d take me to her castle someday to fight the dragons.”

  He had deliberately not mentioned Sleeping Beauty. “The dragons there are brutal. I put in the toughest ones as part of my own training. And I still get injured, even though I have been doing this for years.”

  “I want to go after supper,” she said.

  “You already did two sessions in the Crucible today; you will not be in top form for the dragons.”

  Her voice brooked no dissent. “I imagine by the time I get to the Commander’s Palace, I’d be quite tired too. I might as well get used to deploying my powers under less than optimum conditions.”

  He wavered. He had no good reason to refuse her, but if she succeeded . . .

  He was being irrational. Her first time she would not even get inside the castle’s gates, let alone climb all the way to the garret. He had nothing to fear.

  “All right,” he said, “if you insist, we will go after supper.”

  A thick ring of tangled briar girded Sleeping Beauty’s castle. The prince pointed his wand and blasted a fifty-yard-long tunnel through the bramble.

  The white marble of the castle’s walls, lit by lamps and cressets, gleamed at the end of the tunnel. Inside the tunnel, however, only fantastically shaped shadows flickered. Iolanthe called forth globes of fire to float before her, shining their light on the path.

  Her heartbeat was at an almost painful velocity—naturally brave she was not. She took a couple of deep breaths and tried to distract herself. “Why do you put the most brutal dragons here, rather than in a different story?” she asked him.

  He blinked, as if the question had startled him. “It is convenient.”

  As far as she knew, every story was equally convenient to access in the Crucible. “Is it because you get to kiss Sleeping Beauty afterward?”

  She was only joking. Or at least half joking. But he opened his mouth—and said nothing.

  She stopped, flabbergasted by his implicit admission. “So . . . you want me to fall in love with you, while you play kissing games with another girl?”

  It was the first time she had ever mentioned this particular scheme of his in the open.

  He swallowed. “I have never done anything of the sort.”

  Since he hadn’t doubled over in pain, she had to accept his answer as truthful. All the same, what wasn’t he telling her?

  An unearthly shriek split the night, nearly tearing her eardrums.

  “They have smelled us,” said the prince, his voice tight.

  Overhead, flame roared, a comet of fire that shed pinpricks of orange through the thick tangle of thorns above. The heat of the flame had her turn her face away and shield it with her arms.

  “What are they, exactly?” she asked, forgetting Sleeping Beauty for the moment.

  “A pair of colossus cockatrices.”

  She’d seen dragons at the Delamer Zoo quite a few times. She’d seen dragons at the circus. And once she’d gone on a safari with Master Haywood to the Melusine Archipelago, to see wild dragons in their native habitats. Still her jaw slackened as she emerged from the tunnel. Standing before the castle’s gates were two dragons with roosterlike heads, whose dimension dwarfed those of the castle’s walls. “Are they a mated pair?”

  Colossus cockatrices, wingless, were ground nesters. To protect their eggs, the combined fire of a mated pair, thanks to a process that was still not clearly understood, became one of the hottest substances known to magekind.

  The prince didn’t need to answer. The cockatrices before the castle entwined their long necks—exactly what a mated pair did—and screeched again.

  An explosion of fire sped at them, its mass greater and hotter than anything she’d ever known. Instinctively she pushed back.

  Her shriek nearly rivaled that of the cockatrices. The agony in her palms, as if she’d plunged her hands into boiling oil.

  “Esto praesidium maximum!” the prince shouted. “Are you hurt?”

  The fire stopped abruptly, barricaded a hundred feet away. She looked down at her hands, expecting to see blisters the size of saucers. But her palms were not even reddened from the heat. “I’m fine!”

  “This shield can take two more hits. Should I set up another shield?”

  “No, I want to see what I can do.”

  The dragons took a fifteen-second rest, then attacked again. She tried to stop the fire from reaching the shield, but failed miserably. The shield cracked, distorting her view of everything behind it.

  Fifteen seconds. Attack. The shield blocked the fire, but dissipated in the wake of it.

  She reminded herself that she was dealing with illusions. But the stink of the cockatrices, the crackle of the brambles burning behind her, the torch flames that leaped back from the dragon fire, as if in fear—they were all too real.

  She threw up a wall of water as the cockatrices screamed again. The water evaporated before the fire had even touched it.

  Ice. She needed ice. She was not adept at ice, but to her surprise, a substantial iceberg materialized at her command.

  The ice melted immediately.

  Changing tactics, she used air to try to divert the fire. But all she did was split the fire mass in two, both halves hurtling straight toward them.

  Now she had no choice but to pit herself directly against the dragons.

  Ordinary fire was as pliant as clay. But this fire was made of knives and nails. She shrieked again with pain. But was she doing anything to the fire? Was she slowing it? Or did it merely seem to arrive at a more leisurely pace because the agony in her hands distorted her perception of time?

  Slow or swift, it swooped down toward them.

  “Run!” she yelled at the prince.

  For the first time in her life, she fled before fire.

  She opened her eyes to find herself back in the prince’s room, seated before his desk, her hand on the Crucible. The odor of charred flesh lingered in her nostrils. The skin on her back and her neck felt uncomfortably hot, as if she’d been out in the sun too long.

  The prince knelt before her, one hand clamped on her shoulder, the other on her chin, his eyes dark and anxious. “Are you all right?”

  “I—think so.”

  He set two fingers against the pulse at the side of her throat. “Are you sure?”

  Not at all. “I’m going back in.”

  She might not have been born with natural courage, but she did loathe failure.

  There was no fire burning in the bramble tangle and no tunnel going through: the Crucible always returned to its original state. The moons had risen, twin crescents, one pale, one paler.

  “Does your shield spell have a countersign?” she asked the prince.

  He hesitated, as if he wanted to tell her again to save the dragons for another day. I he gave her the countersign. She practiced the spell. When she thought her shield sturdy enough, she blasted a path through the brambles.

  Walking through the tunnel, they discussed tactics and agreed that in order to eventually counter dragon fire, she must first achieve safety.

  “Let’s both put up shields, mine on the outside of yours,” she said. That way, if her shield proved less than stalwart, they’d still have his for protection.

  “Good idea.”

  “But if my shield is good enough, then I’ll keep going.”

  He nodded.
“I will stay on this side and distract the cockatrices—if they alternate their fire between the two of us, it will give you more time to figure out what to do. But for this time, do not go beyond the front steps of the castle.”

  “Why?” But then she remembered. “Is it because you don’t want me to see Sleeping Beauty?”

  “That is not—”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “She does not exist.”

  “In here she does. Is she pretty?” She disliked herself for the pestering questions, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  “Pretty enough.” He sounded strained.

  “Do you enjoy kissing her?”

  Better than you enjoy kissing me?

  “I have not kissed her since I met you.” Suddenly it was the Master of the Domain speaking, his tone hard, his eyes harder.

  Misery and thrill collided in her. Had he declared that he’d given up other girls for her? Or was she being a complete fool?

  “Now will you concentrate on the task at hand?” he went on impatiently.

  She took a deep breath and counted to five. “Let’s fight some dragons.”

  The colossus cockatrices, maddened by the scent of intruders, streamed their fire.

  Iolanthe and the prince each called for a shield. Hers held. She summoned more shields, marching toward the cockatrices. They were chained to the castle gate and could neither come at her nor give chase. As soon as she moved past their fire range, she’d be safe.

  The castle gate beckoned. She started running. Cockatrices had poor eyesight. With their fire blocked, they’d try to assault her with claws and tails, but not being predators, they’d be clumsy at it.

  The ground shook as the colossus cockatrices thrashed and stomped, but she dashed past them. From somewhere behind, the prince shouted at her to be careful. She sprinted across the wide courtyard and up the steps. But she did not stop there, as he’d requested. Instead, she pushed open the huge, thickly reinforced doors of the castle and stepped into the great hall.

  The interior of the castle was gloomy. A few guttering torches threw out faint circles of light, leaving large swaths of the great hall darkened and forbidding.

  Could shadows move against shadows? She squinted, her fingers tightening on the prince’s spare wand. Behind her came a soft sound like drapes fluttering before an open window.

  Before she could spin around, something heavy and spiked slammed into the side of her skull, one particularly sharp spur burying itself deep into her temple. Her face contorted. Her muscles convulsed. Her scream lodged in her throat.

  She fell with a resounding thud. A black, reptilian creature landed beside her, folding its wings with barely a swish. A sharp claw reached out and slashed her throat.

  But she was already dead.

  Titus shouted the first three words of the exit password before he realized that she had been the one to take them into the Crucible. For him to take her out now, he must be in physical contact.

  He threw a battery of spells at the wyvern, driving it off her body. A second wyvern swooped down. He dove toward her, grabbing her hand just as the creature’s spiked tail crashed toward him.

  They were back in his room. Her eyes flew open, but they were the eyes of the possessed. She shook, the kind of frenetic convulsion that would cause her to stop breathing before he could get to the laboratory and find a proper remedy.

  He slapped their hands on the Crucible and prayed frantically.

  Iolanthe stared dumbly at the dark, star-sprinkled sky with its two moons. Who was she? Where was she?

  Of their own accord, her hands clutched her throat. She was—she’d been—

  Terror rose in her, a dark, drowning tide. She screamed.

  And was instantly thrown into the coldest water she’d ever known, the shock of it like knives upon her skin. She gasped, her erstwhile horror forgotten. So cold, the burn of ice frozen to her body.

  Someone yanked her out of the water and held her tight. She began to shiver. Her teeth chattered. She would never be warm again.

  He rubbed his hand along her back, the friction needle points of heat. “Sorry, I had to do that. You were going into convulsions.”

  “What—what happened?”

  His kneaded her arm. “You died in the Crucible. There are two wyverns in the great hall—I tried to warn you, but you did not hear me. I am sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

  The fault was not his; she’d been an idiot who’d turned the topic to Sleeping Beauty and wouldn’t let go. “Where am I now?” she asked, still trembling.

  “Next to Ice Lake.”

  “Isn’t that where the kraken lives?”

  “Yes. We have to go soon. It would already have felt the—”

  The lake sloshed behind her.

  “And they lived happily ever after!” they shouted together.

  The last thing she saw was an enormous, mottled tentacle, splashing toward her.

  Her heart was still pounding.

  She took her hand off the Crucible. “It’s a dangerous book.”

  “You do not know the half of it,” said the prince. “At least you seem better now.”

  She felt more or less normal. “So if I survive the convulsions, dying in the Crucible has no other effect?”

  “What do you think about wyverns?”

  The moment he said the word, her hands shook. She braced them against the edge of the desk, but the shaking only transferred to her arms.

  “That is the effect of dying in the Crucible. I have never gone back to Black Bastion. The mere thought of Helgira still makes me”—he took a deep breath—“well, incoherent, to say the least.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’m going back in.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t be afraid of wyverns. I can’t go into hysteria in front of the Commander’s Palace.”

  “At least wait until tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going to be less afraid tomorrow.” She touched his hand. “Will you come and help me?”

  I can’t be weak when the time comes. I can’t let you fall.

  “Of course.” He sighed. “Of course I will help you.”

  She stood with her hand on the ominously heavy doors of the great hall, the prince by her side. Behind them the colossal cockatrices bellowed impotently. Inside awaited the wyverns that had slaughtered her only minutes ago.

  He laid his hand over hers. “They would have already smelled us. Wyverns are fast and crafty. They do not need to wait between breaths of fire. And as you already know, the ones in there are not chained.”

  She nodded.

  “We go in on the count of three.”

  She nodded again, scarcely able to breathe.

  “One, two, three.”

  He blasted open the doors. She shot a starburst of flames that illuminated every corner of the great hall, depriving the wyverns of shadows in which to hide.

  They fought back to back. She paid only remote attention to what he did, her mind bent on controlling the dragons’ fire. The wyverns spewed without cease, but their fires were less hot. The corporeal shield in which the prince had encased her further reduced the heat.

  It still hurt. But the sensation was more like the abrasion of rough stones than the stab of red-hot knives. She welcomed the pain—if she hurt, then she was still alive.

  At last she managed to direct one wyvern’s flame to attack the other. The scorched wyvern screeched and returned the favor. As the dragons became bogged down in their own feud, the prince grabbed her hand. They ran up the grand staircase, throwing shields behind their shoulders, and pushed shut the blessedly fortified doors that led to the gallery.

  She panted with her hands on her knees. It was not an unqualified victory, but at least she’d no longer be irrationally terrified of wyverns—only rationally afraid.

  “Are there any more dangers in the castle?”

  “No, that is it.” He reached for her. “Now we can go back.”

&nbs
p; She backed away. “Since I’m already here, I might as well take a look at Sleeping Beauty.”

  Even the elation of victory could not quite dispel the acidness of jealousy.

  “No!”

  For a boy who had so much self-control, he was practically shouting.

  “Why not?”

  Did he flush? It was hard to tell. They were both hot from the heat of the battle. “My castle, my rules,” he declared flatly.

  She flattened her lips. “Fine.”

  Tension drained from his shoulders. She exploited his moment of inattention and ran, throwing up a wall of fire behind her.

  “Stop!”

  He swore. She dashed halfway down the long portrait gallery and up the next flight of stairs, three marble steps at a time.

  She was being stupid, of course. But she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to see the girl he used to kiss before she came along. And did he stop at kissing? Or did he do a great deal more to that pretty, grateful, pliant girl?

  The stairs led to a gilded landing—the gold barely visible under the dust—which opened into a ballroom with moth-eaten velvet curtains. A row of maids, polishing cloths still in hand, dreamed peacefully.

  This was where the fancy dress ball to celebrate Sleeping Beauty’s coming-of-age would have taken place.

  Past a room in which a wig master snored gently on a great pile of hair, and another room that contained dozens of dressmaker’s dummies, each sporting a different costume, she sprinted up the stairs.

  The castle was endlessly vertical. Cobwebbed corridors, windows falling off their hinges, paintings grimy with age. She ran past them all, headed ever higher.

  A door burst open. Before she could recoil in alarm, the prince barreled out and tackled her. They fell onto a thick rug, sending up a cloud of dust. She shoved at him.

  “No,” he said, his eyes adamant.

  She meant to heave him out of her way. For having another girl—however fictional—before her. For not living forever. And for taking away her freedom in making her fall in love after all.

  Except, somehow, her fingers spread over his face. Her thumb traced the rise of his dirt-smeared cheekbone, smudged a drop of sweat trickling past his temple, then down to press into the corner of his lips, chapped from the heat of dragon flame.