FLIGHT

by Katie Cross

  She spoke to them with serene calm that radiated from the midst of her chest, where a little voice darted in circles, saying, This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream.

  Sanna stared at the darkness that night. She’d have thought Daid’s death would have taken her voice. Her mind. Her personality. She imagined it whisking her away to the darkest place imaginable, a place of burning torment and bitter regret. But it felt strangely hollow. Distant. As if she were staring at herself from afar, wondering why she looked so confused.

  Sanna wrote a letter for Isadora, putting it in the old fairy house as they’d agreed.

  Then she wrote another.

  Where was Isadora? Why hadn’t she come back? How couldn’t she know? The powers would show her soon … wouldn’t they? The entire world spun on a different axis now.

  Surely, Isadora would come soon.

  Soon.

  “You did it wrong.”

  Isadora ground her teeth and fought the urge to throw something at Maximillion.

  She stood in the middle of Maximillion’s office, half her hair purple, the other a rainbow of yellow, blue, and green. One look in the mirror floating between them made her want to vomit. Maximillion stared at her in unrestrained disgust, his lip and nostrils twitching.

  “Yes,” she muttered. “I see that it’s wrong. But why?”

  “You have no conviction at all.” He turned his back on her, surlier than ever.

  A darkening winter sky unfurled outside. She longed to step into the cool air, or at least open one of the stuffy windows. But she didn’t dare suggest it—Maximillion had been on a rampage all day after meeting with Charles that morning and receiving no updates on Lucey. They suspected Lucey was in Carcere, but until it was confirmed, they clung to hope that they could intercept or find her.

  Her magic flared with unusual agitation this evening—no doubt because she’d been ignoring it to practice more accurate transformation skills. She tucked it away.

  Later, she promised. I cannot right now.

  “What am I doing wro—”

  A rap sounded on his door. “Ambassador Sinclair,” said one of his three Assistants. “You have a visitor.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Miss Cecelia Bianchi. Ambassador—”

  “I know who she is,” he snapped, but he paled slightly. Isadora met his gaze, a bolt of fear curling in her stomach. Cecelia coming here?

  This wouldn’t be pretty.

  He pointed to the wall where his bookcase hid the seamless crack in the stone. Isadora backed up, pressed her hand to the second shelf, and murmured an incantation. The stones swung into the dank, empty landing of the hidden passage.

  Isadora ducked into the damp hall.

  “Let her in,” Maximillion said, voice fading as the bookshelf swung toward Isadora. The door slid shut, encasing her in utter darkness.

  Isadora closed every connection to her Watcher magic she could possibly find, imagining herself tucking away hot, white ropes. The magic responded after a momentary struggle.

  The air in the secret passage lay thick and cold, muggy with death. Without the warmth of the magic in her body, chill emptiness flooded her. A thousand questions rolled through her mind, but she couldn’t shake the most important of them: just how much did Cecelia know about Maximillion?

  Unable to bear the silence, Isadora cast a simple spell to amplify sounds, one that Cecelia could detect—if she were randomly looking for functional magic that no one cared about. Isadora pressed her ear closer to the chilly stone, detecting a quiet, melodic voice.

  “Always right to the point. Maximillion, you never change.”

  “I’m as reassuring as the tide.”

  A long pause. Isadora almost recast the spell, but Cecelia spoke again. “I come on official business.”

  “We had no parlay scheduled.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “It’s preferred. Some witches have schedules to keep.”

  “Speaking of witches, one of yours is in Carcere.”

  Isadora sucked in a sharp breath, and a creature in the depths scurried past with a screech. She shuddered. Carcere was located on the famed La Torra island, where the Defenders trained. The captured Watchers all died there, often burned on a star-like structure meant to represent fate.

  Isadora’s stomach twisted. Lucey had only managed to free one witch from La Torra, and it had been almost accidental. She’d dressed as an East Guard sailor, then intercepted the witch when he walked off the boat and onto the island.

  But she’d never been able to get inside Carcere.

  “There are likely many witches in your horrific prison,” Maximillion said with unrivaled calm. “I hardly think they warrant a special trip from someone as busy as you.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I never flatter anyone.”

  Isn’t that the truth, Isadora thought.

  “Even after … extensive persuasion, I haven’t been able to get a name out of her. Her own, or that of your ridiculous Advocacy. She’s quite powerful that way, even without the ability to use magic. Impressive lot you’ve recruited to your little tribe.”

  “You say that like it’s mine,” he murmured.

  “Isn’t it?”

  A long stretch of silence passed between them. Cecelia broke it first, as unbothered as Maximillion.

  “Don’t you want her back?”

  “How do you know she’s from the Central Network?”

  “She was fleeing into Letum Wood. What other witch in their right mind would go into that awful place?”

  He scoffed, voice crisp. Cool. Flawlessly uncaring. “Hardly proof. Let’s not act like we’re friends, Cecelia. You cannot harm me here, and you’ve never found me anywhere else. What do you want?”

  Isadora pressed the shell of her ear so hard against the stone it ached from the cold. Cecelia continued as if Maximillion hadn’t asked, her voice as unyielding as ever.

  “I want to know how many paths she sees.”

  “Paths?”

  “I already know your secret, Maximillion. You cannot fool a Defender as powerful as me. How many paths does your henchwoman see?”

  “It’s so hard to keep track of all the Watchers …”

  “Fine. What of you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Your own paths? The fate of the entire Network, perhaps? Give me an idea of just how powerful you are, oh-mighty-Ambassador.”

  Silence reigned.

  Cecelia broke it first. “I see. Not powerful at all. This witch is quite plain, with no great beauty to speak of, and she’s been a thorn in my side for some time now. I recognize her paths, you know. No disguise can hide those—not from me. She’s had many, many run-ins with Defenders. In fact, I’ve seen her with you often enough. Do you love her? I’d always imagined you lonely for the rest of your life. Well, with this witch in the mix, perhaps not. Does she also love you? It may be that—”

  “Don’t waste my time, Cecelia.”

  “Of course, you’re not a romantic.”

  “Neither are you.”

  At that, she laughed, a low, rolling sound. “Tell me more, Maximillion, about your powers. Or her powers. Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

  “Why did you come here to tell me all this? A letter would have sufficed and wasted less of my time.”

  Cecelia didn’t waver. “Dante wants to speak with her. It’s the only reason she’s still alive.”

  Isadora’s heart thumped. Dante, the High Priest of the Eastern Network. Why would he want to speak with Lucey?

  A known Defender sympathizer, Dante had put Cecelia in power as Ambassador years ago, inaugurating the bloodiest regime against Watchers of any High Priest in known history. He’d turned La Torra island over to her as a stronghold, furthering its reputation as one of the most powerful and unconventional castles in Antebellum.

  “I couldn’t care less about your ridiculous High Priest,�
� Maximillion said, voice cold. “Your time here is done. You may leave.”

  “Nervous, are you? You’ve never kicked me out before.”

  “Not as nervous as you should be,” he murmured silkily. “I’m not afraid of you or your misguided notions about Watchers. Shall I mention that your Defender dogs must have been in the Central Network if you were near Letum Wood? A clear violation of edict number—”

  “Quick, as always. I’m not afraid, Maximillion,” she hissed. “Of a Watcher? Never.”

  “No one ever said you were afraid. Are we finished?”

  “Your shameful prisoner will remain on La Torra until Dante comes to interrogate her himself. You know he gets what he wants under stressful circumstances. No reason to make her passing too easy.”

  “I’ve never known you to pass up an opportunity to torture anyone. Even those within your circle of influence. Such as the beloved High Priest you torture frequently, I hear, by reminding him of a specific evening six years ago.”

  Another tight silence. Isadora plastered her body to the wall in an attempt to hear better.

  “You know not of what you speak,” Cecelia said, a hint of sorrow in her tone. “Farewell, Maximillion. I always have enjoyed when Watchers and their sympathizers burn at the stake. Her death is scheduled for three months from now, the day after Dante interrogates her. If she survives. Perhaps you could come watch? Or invite the witch hiding in your secret spot in the wall. No doubt she must be some kind of Watcher as well, running from the nasty Defender.”

  Isadora sucked in a sharp breath but resisted the urge to drop the spell. Maximillion’s voice didn’t break stride. “Will you be burning next to the witch?” he asked. “I would like to watch that.”

  “One day, Maximillion, you and I shall face off. I very much look forward to it.”

  Isadora’s heart squeezed. Lucey. Sweet Lucey caught in Carcere, slated for death by fire after an interrogation by the powerful High Priest, Dante. Cecelia may have already subjected her to horrible torture already.

  “Get out of my office,” he said with resounding finality. “I have work to do.”

  The air seemed to swallow Isadora.

  Her thoughts knitted into a tangle of disbelief, questions, and fear while she waited in the darkness. Lucey was alive, at least, but in what condition? Cecelia’s lack of fear, her chilling tone, turned Isadora’s stomach into a fist.

  What felt like an eternity later, the door opened.

  She stepped back, wincing at the bright flash of light. Inside, Maximillion paced, nostrils flared, brow heavy. Isadora slipped inside and folded her hands in front of her. The door closed.

  A full minute passed before she spoke. “How … ah … interesting.”

  “Interesting,” he spat. “Not interesting. A game. Definitely a game. She wants me on La Torra. They’re waiting three months to bait me.”

  Isadora paused in the middle of the room, still blinking. “She sounded surprised that you didn’t care.”

  “Cecelia is rarely surprised.”

  Another full minute passed while he paced.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  Maximillion drew himself up, shoulders back. The flickering firelight threw his cheeks into sharp contrast. He stared hard at her with a distant expression—and not the one that indicated he was using his powers. A flush of cold rushed through Isadora.

  “Oh, no,” she murmured. “That’s your planning face.”

  “You must know what I’m thinking.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

  His eyes gleamed. His lips twitched as if he’d considered, for a half a second, a smile. The look disappeared, fading into the flinty lines of his usual sour expression.

  Isadora fought back a groan and ran a hand over her face. “You want to put someone on La Torra and break Lucey out.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, lost in the strangeness of knowing his mind so well. Of agreeing with him on something so fundamentally risky that she could hardly reconcile herself to it. In the six months she’d been working directly with Maximillion, she’d never heard of a mission planned without Lucey.

  “Precisely,” he said.

  “Without Lucey? That’s madness.”

  “Not as mad as leaving her in there to die. Not only is she the best witch for this job, but Dante will torture the information out of her. We must do it to protect ourselves, the Advocacy, and everyone else involved.”

  “I agree,” she said.

  “That was more than just a visit from Cecelia, you realize.” He wagged a finger, head shaking. “It was a threat. An invitation. She wants us to go after Lucey. She wants … something. She’s prize focused. She likes to be the winner. The most powerful. She hates a long-term game.” He shook his head, clucking under his breath. “There must be something else she wants.”

  “Insight into your powers.”

  His shoulders stiffened.

  Isadora moved toward him, warming to it now. “She wanted to know the number of paths you saw, right? That Lucey saw.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Yes.”

  “But why? What could she learn?”

  “No idea,” he muttered. “Perhaps to gauge the strength of my power against hers?”

  “Does it work that way?”

  He paused, staring at a map of the Southern and Eastern Networks unfurled on his desk. His brow furrowed.

  “I don’t know.”

  Like most Watchers, the nuance of the magic was lost on Maximillion—Isadora wondered if any of them really knew the details of the magic they wielded. The tip of his finger tapped a spot on the map near the far eastern border of the Eastern Network along the ocean. A spot lay underneath his fingernail. If not for a grouping of words that pointed to it, she would have mistaken it for dust.

  “La Torra,” he said.

  “That?”

  “Indeed. Almost invisible from the coast. Breaking Lucey free wouldn’t be so hard if it weren’t for Carcere’s ability to suppress magic, its sheer lack of windows, and an entrance none of my contacts have been able to find.”

  “It’s imbued?” she asked.

  “Not sure. It’s inherently magical in the way it operates, but it’s also a suppressor. Strangest castle I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Sounds like a lovely place,” Isadora muttered.

  Colors bled away from the painted map beneath his finger. Its lines faded, reshaping on a different part of the parchment. Several moments passed before she comprehended that he’d moved in on the map; now she stared only at La Torra.

  “Goodness.”

  “It’s a godless island. Small as can be. You could probably walk the entire perimeter in thirty minutes—without trying very hard. It used to be a royal prison for high-society witches. Plenty of High Priests’ mistresses have been banned to this island and then killed. Or died a long, lonely death in the endless halls of Carcere. Some have said it never ends—that it could house entire armies if it needed to.”

  The ragged edges of the island looked like teeth. In the middle, what appeared to be a circular castle occupied most of the space. A round courtyard broke up the middle of the castle, as if the whole structure had been designed around the circle. Green slashes indicated strange trees scattered throughout the island. Aside from a vague reference to a sea dragon with the end of its tail in the water, Isadora saw nothing else.

  “Bleak.”

  “Death traps often are,” he murmured.

  He rotated the map around so the castle faced her. Another section of the map gave a grounds-eye view of the structure. Even as a painting, the barren shore felt angry. The circular mainstay stood seven stories high. The first five floors were made of reddish stone imbued with yellow veins, but the top two were gray stone. In these upper floors, there were no windows. No doors. Like a giant trap sitting on top of something that would otherwise have been beautiful.

  “Carcere.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “This
will be the hardest extraction we’ve ever done.”

  “But you’re going to do it?”

  His head snapped up so fast it startled her. Isadora stepped back.

  “What kind of question is that?” He growled. “Of course, I’m going to send someone after her. If not go myself,” he added in a mumble.

  “Surely you can’t!”

  “I can.”

  “But you’re the Advoca—”

  “Just because I can doesn’t mean I shall. We cannot lose Lucey. Until she came along, nothing worked. Most of our missions failed. Her transformational skill and quick mind are irreplaceable. Something about her working with us made everything different. I’ll find our way in. Probably through the lavanda.”

  “What?”

  “No one wants to work in a lavanda. Don’t you know anything?” He tapped his chin. “Marguerite. She would be perfect. She moved to the Central Network from the East fifteen years ago. Not married. No children. Fifty years old. If the current lavanda maid were to become unexpectedly ill and need to leave … “

  “Is Marguerite a Watcher?”

  “Volunteer in the Advocacy. Her father was a Watcher, burned at the stake before Cecelia’s reign.”

  Isadora swallowed. Marguerite would walk right into the lion’s mouth. Such a dangerous mission. Such potential for failure. Isadora had only been under Lucey’s tutelage for a few months—nothing near what she’d need to undertake such a mammoth assignment. She shuddered, grateful the mission wasn’t hers.

  Maximillion lifted one eyebrow. “You thought I’d ask you to do it?”

  “It never crossed my mind.”

  “Good. See that pile of books? Read them. I want you to be rock-solid on the advanced conjugations of Ilese. Then we’ll start to work on the Yazika language of the Southern Network.”

  “Can I help in a different way? To study books while Lucey is in a prison cell seems so …”

  “Never question me,” he snapped. “Start reading.”

  The next morning, Sanna stood in the midst of the slight, open meadow.