by Katie Cross
A flash caught her gaze. Sanna whipped around to find the remaining mountain dragons grabbing a dead forest dragon. Marbled streaks of mauve ran through the scales. Stellis. The stodgy old sire who had fathered Elis. One mountain dragon wrapped its talons around Stellis’s limp neck. The other gripped the tail and a thigh.
They rose into the trees.
Luteis! She stumbled toward Stellis, her eyes watering from the acid, lungs still seizing. Fire flared in her chest again. They can’t have Stellis!
Luteis snorted, and the acid ignited, burning off his scales. The other mountain dragons had already disappeared. Sanna hauled herself onto his back, and they took off. He struggled through the canopy, the acid on his wings causing boils to rise. Glimpses of the mountain dragons, burdened by the deadweight, appeared every now and then through the branches. Vines, boughs, and leaves moved out of Luteis’s way as he climbed higher.
Once they broke free of the canopy, Luteis’s mighty wings pumped after the mountain dragons, who flew with surprising dexterity despite their burden. Stellis hung limp between them. Better to be dead, no doubt, than alive and suffering intense pain.
Or was it?
Luteis roared, shooting a plume of fire so hot the flames crackled. The mountain dragons glanced back, shrieked, and flew faster. Luteis gained momentum with every stroke of his wings. He bore down on them in seconds. They swerved to the right, dodging his back foreleg, but he swiped, raking his front talons down the wings of the leader. The sound of a tear rent the sky. The dragon shrieked and released Stellis, then plummeted to the ground with one wing beating frantically. The other dragon jerked down, pulled by the unexpected weight, and released Stellis. It whirled around, spraying acid. Boiling liquid lashed Sanna’s face.
She screamed.
Their acid got me!
Sanna wiped frantically at it with her sleeves. The liquid ate into her cloth, burning like coals. She kept her eyes wrenched shut, but it tore through her skin like the hellfires of Hatha. For a moment, her entire being was consumed by pain.
Luteis!
We must go back to the forest, Luteis said. And heal you.
The initial pain receded slightly, leaving a burning on top of her skin.
Get Stellis first. She swallowed hard. I’m … fine.
I leave no one behind.
Can you carry him? Sanna asked.
Back to Finn’s? Yes. Do not open your eyes.
Luteis dove. Sanna wrenched one eye open. A tangle of vines suspended between two branches cradled Stellis—no doubt Letum Wood had lent aid. With a quick grab of his back talons, Luteis plucked Stellis free. Sanna quickly shut her eye again. Flying on Luteis’s back without sight was disorienting, but the wild pain that filled her face felt worse.
Hold on.
His voice was strained. They stayed above the canopy, even if just barely. Daid’s death. Luteis carrying Rubeis back. The blood-pumping sense of panic. It replayed back through Sanna’s mind, sending dizzying whirls through her body.
What felt like an eternity later, the feeling of sunlight on her skin faded. The burn of the acid calmed in the shade of the forest as they plunged down. Luteis landed, nearly collapsing on top of Stellis.
Sanna slid off his back. “Water!” she croaked. “I need water!”
No, Luteis said. Deasylva forbids it.
“It burns! I—”
Something landed on the ground next to Sanna with a splat.
Pick it up, Luteis said. Smear it on your face.
She dropped to her knees and reached blindly. Her hands thrust into something wet, and she recognized the sweet, saccharine scent of a broken falla melon. The fleshy insides felt cool on her tingling hands. When she pressed it to her forehead, eyes, and cheeks, the burn instantly cooled. She thought she heard a light sizzle as it died away. An awful, sulfuric smell filled her nostrils.
The sound of approaching feet followed. Sanna shoved more falla melon onto her skin.
“Sanna?”
She paused, recognizing Trey’s voice. He was Finn’s eldest son, six years older than her.
“Trey?”
“What are you doing here?”
“We came to find you,” she said. “We’ve been looking for hours.”
Silence. Sanna rubbed the rest of the squishy melon into her skin, relishing the cooling effect.
Now? she asked Luteis.
For now, yes, Luteis said. You may open your eyes.
Juice dripped off her face as she wiped it away, opening her eyes. Everything was fuzzy at first. Then she blinked, cleared the rest of the melon off her face, and gently dabbed it with the back of her hand. Her vision cleared.
Trey stared at her.
Tear streaks ran down his face. Blood covered his hands and neck and clothes. Behind him stood his sister, Greata, and their youngest sibling, Hans. She blinked, more juice sluicing into her eyes. With a flash, she recalled seeing Finn on the ground, face slack and body bloody. Cold rushed through her body.
“Your parents?” she whispered.
Trey’s lip quivered. “Gone,” he said, looking away. “They’re gone. We …” He paused, blinking again, then seemed to rally some strength. “We are the only ones left.”
I can smell their blood, Luteis said.
Sanna put out a quiet call to the dragons, speaking in her mind, but feeling foolish at the same time. None responded. Of course they didn’t—she wasn’t their Dragonmaster. Or was she? But she heard a shuffle in the brush not far away. She tried again. Luteis sniffed, then slowly moved toward it.
Trey’s eyes darted to Stellis, then to Luteis, then back to Sanna.
“What were they?” he asked, lips trembling. He held onto Hans’s wrist with white knuckles. Hans, less than five years old, peered at Sanna through wide eyes. Memories of Daid, of the young boy in the West, flooded her mind.
“Mountain dragons,” she said in a hoarse voice. “There’ll be more where they came from because they didn’t get what they wanted. A lot more. Start packing what you can, all right? We need to leave. Now.”
“Leave?” Trey cried. “To where?”
“Back to Elliot.”
“But—”
“We’ll burn your family on a makeshift pyre before we go.” She paused at the stricken terror in his eyes. How well she understood how quickly everything could be lost. Sanna softened her expression. “I’m sorry, Trey. But if we stay much longer, they may come back with reinforcements, and all of us will die.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, but shut it. His sister tugged on his sleeve, tear streaks staining her cheeks. Then they turned away. Trey froze when he saw his father’s body on the ground, as if he didn’t know what to do.
Sanna called after them. “I’ll prepare your family. You get what you need.”
Luteis reappeared at her side with a low growl in his throat. This will only get worse, he said. Selsay is acting more quickly than I expected. She’s taking advantage of our weakness.
“I know.”
Her gaze dropped to the mangled bodies on the forest floor. Finn. His children. Behind them, several dragons in the trees. They were all dead. Vines had already started to crawl over them. The ground shifted as the tree roots reclaimed the fallen dragon bodies. Luteis was right. It was only going to get worse.
What is your plan? he asked.
Sanna gripped her bloody, slippery knife a little tighter. Her entire face ached, as if the skin had been peeled away and then replaced. Her vision blurred again. She closed her eyes, shaking her head. The powerful heat that had filled her body ebbed now, leaving her feelling like an empty shell.
“Go back to Elliot,” she said, firm with a conviction that felt surprisingly good. “Then figure it out from there.”
I shall use my secundum for Finn and his family.
Sanna sank her teeth into her bottom lip, filled with dread and bitter memories. She pushed the darkest thoughts away—she’d deal with those later.
“I’ll ga
ther their bodies.”
When Isadora stepped into the servants’ dining room the next morning, the scent of bacon filled the air. She breathed the crackling, crisp scent of pork and missed home.
Fervor infused the room. Isadora sat next to Lorenzo, who smiled as he sipped his morning wine. The accents of the staff were less difficult to work through now—excluding Ernesto, who ensured his words rolled off his tongue as fast as flames when she was near.
“Of course,” Lorenzo said to one of the cooks. “I would not miss it.”
Ernesto glared at her over a plate of eggs. Next to him, one of the younger chefs leaned forward.
“Sergio is fixing his famous raspberry plias,” he said to Lorenzo.
“Then you’ll roll me back to my quarters.”
The table dissolved into laughter. Isadora managed a smile but wondered what plias were. As if on reflex, Lorenzo’s speech slowed as soon as he addressed her. “Isadora, what will you wear?”
She gave him a puzzled stare.
“Wear?”
“For the party this evening! The long-awaited day has come.”
“Of what?”
“The day of Vittoria, of course.”
Fiona sat on his other side, studying a piece of toast. She set it aside and said, “Vittoria was the first High Priestess in our Network to come from outside the nobility. The tradition that the High Priest marries a bride from poverty began with her. Vittoria was the poorest of the poor. She was also a lavanda maid.”
Isadora’s spine prickled. She’d never heard of such a tradition—Maximillion hadn’t warned her about it.
“Ah,” she said, suppressing the urge to ask, Then why do you hate lavanda maids so much?
Fiona met her gaze. “You are the lavanda maid and cannot attend.”
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Everyone continued with their conversations, no doubt purposefully forgetting she hadn’t responded. Ernesto spoke with another chef while Lorenzo frowned.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up. I had forgotten.”
Isadora shrugged but felt relief. She was used to their strange social hierarchy by now and was glad she didn’t have to worry about running into Cecelia again. “How do you celebrate Vittoria Day?”
“Wine,” he said. “A lot of wine. And silk. You must wear silk.”
Her nose wrinkled. She hated the feeling of silk on her skin. Worse—she hated knowing that loads of it would pour into the lavanda after the party. She bit back a sigh and scooped a piece of bacon off a serving plate.
The entire staff drunk at a party, however, meant a different kind of party for her.
“Where is this party?” she asked.
“In the courtyard, of course. Where all the parties are. This is the only revelry Cecelia allows all year while she is here.”
“I hope you enjoy it.”
He grinned, but only for a moment. “Ah yes …” His mirth dropped. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps it won’t be any fun.”
With that, he picked up his wine glass, called across the room to someone else, and slipped away. The sound of his laughter rang through the air. Isadora crunched into her bacon with a giddy realization. A party for the servants meant one thing.
She would have the castle to herself.
A powder, like talc, puffed into Isadora’s face that afternoon.
She wrinkled her nose, assaulted by the dry, gritty scent of the soap, and dumped the rest of the spoonful into the steaming water. Hair clung to her neck in limp tendrils, sticky from the heat. Isadora reached for another Guardian uniform with a sigh.
No wonder Pearl hated laundry so much.
I could deliver laundry to the fifth floor again, she thought, then shook her head. No. No good. I already checked the fifth floor.
Thoughts of finding the elusive entrance to Carcere consumed her. Tonight would be an unparalleled opportunity to explore, but she had to approach it carefully.
Fourth floor, she thought. Haven’t been there yet. Or the second. That may be a better place to start.
The first floor would be crawling with witches exiting and entering the kitchens for food and wine, or just out of sheer drunkenness. Smells of a great feast already drifted down the hall. Shrimp dipped in fresh cocoanut milk and fried, for one. Ernesto had been bragging about it all morning.
Disguise myself again? She eyed the pile of laundry on the far side of the room. Cecelia’s maids had a few dirty dresses in there, but then she’d be restricted to the third floor. Risky to venture into Cecelia’s lair again, although she needed to confirm Cecelia didn’t keep the entrance close to her quarters.
Isadora sighed and grabbed another piece of clothing to soak.
A thunk sounded in the wooden tub when a pair of pants hit the side. Isadora felt the thick material, then reached inside a pocket. She withdrew a cool, oblong metal object. Her fingers unfurled, revealing a small, round key. Circular at the top, with jagged teeth on the far end, no bigger than her palm. Her brow furrowed. Cecelia’s maids constantly left oddities in their apron pockets. Guardians? Never.
It couldn’t belong to Cecelia’s maids, anyway—all those rooms were protected by complicated puzzle locks. Her gaze slid down the pants, then over to the pile where the pants had come from. These weren’t from the outside Guardians—sand always infused those clothes. Rusty-colored dirt streaked down the side. Neither was this from a Guardian working inside La Torra.
This was laundry from upstairs.
Her eyes narrowed. A few select closets aside, that meant this key could belong to Carcere, or something within Carcere.
She closed the key in her hand, then stuffed it into her pocket. With a splash, she plunged the uniform deeper into the sudsy water and began to scrub. Dirt floated to the top of the tub. Her mind spun. She suppressed the urge to slip into the paths. What if she took the key? What would happen—or not happen—if she returned it? The paths would show her possibilities, but sometimes that worked against her. Seeing it all unfurl often provoked anxiety. And likely, going into the paths would open up a trove of other problems.
Like Cecelia.
No, her magic wasn’t an option to help her decide this time.
For the rest of the afternoon, Isadora’s mind spun. The key weighed heavy in her pocket. By the time she finished scrubbing, wringing, hanging, and ironing the Guardian uniforms—and a few towels and sheets that smelled rotten—the entire afternoon had passed.
Plans continued to populate in her mind. She knew where the entrance to Carcere wasn’t. Out of sheer luck, she’d seen all the doors in the servants’ hall open, and none led upward.
That left one likely place.
The third floor.
Preparations for the party in the courtyard still rang through the hall. Based on a few jovial shouts and the scent of fresh-baked cake, celebrations had already begun.
Isadora finished folding the uniforms and linens and checked her reflection in a glass window. Night had fallen. Only two Guardians strode by outside, doing their last round for several hours before heading to the courtyard, no doubt. If there was any time to sneak to the ramp, it was now.
“Now or never,” she murmured. As usual, she thought she heard Maximillion in the back of her mind.
A bloody fool!
Isadora spun on her heels, grabbed a cart of linens, and headed toward the third floor.
Chapter Twenty
Once they returned to Elliot’s, Sanna sank down at the makeshift wooden table, and Jesse sat on a log next to Trey. Descriptions of what happened were brief—the shock on Greata and Trey’s face, not to mention Hans’ occasional bursts of sobs—did most of the explanation.
After Sanna finished, none of them spoke. They just stared at the long, crackling tongues of fire. A blanket woven out of thick, fuzzy leaves draped Trey’s shoulders. He held a chipped mug in his hand but stared at the fire without drinking. Hans slept on the floor at his feet now, his breathing sha
llow. Greata sobbed quietly in Babs’s arms in the far corner. Her soft, hiccuping breaths deepened the ache in Sanna’s chest. Mam had retreated, unable to bear such an outpouring of grief. Sanna didn’t blame her.
Luteis and Elis had left as soon as Luteis returned with all four witches on his back. One hatchling had been tucked into the underbrush, trembling but still alive. Although Sanna had attempted to communicate with any surviving adults, nothing had happened. Luteis believed at least three or four adults were still alive, likely scattered and frightened, and he hoped to wrangle them together.
Sanna leaned over the table, voice low. “Listen, Elliot, I know you’re shocked, but we have to act. Now.”
He blinked, eyes glazed, and met her stare. “How?” He looked at his open palms. “How can we ever fight such a force?”
“Now isn’t the time to dwell on what happened. We just … we have to act.”
“And do what?” His voice rose.
Trey glanced up from his spot by the fire. Babs shot them a quick glare. Hans stirred. Elliot’s shoulders expanded as he sucked in a deep breath. Several seconds passed.
“How can we possibly fight when it’s clear they outnumber us?” he whispered. “Outnumber us with deadly force. You want these dragons to fight? They can’t even hunt.” Elliot studied her face. “If those dragons can do that amount of damage to your face, what could they do to Babs? To your mam?”
Sanna’s nostrils flared. Her face still throbbed. Pinpricks of pain stabbed through her every now and then. Babs had smeared a foul-smelling salve all over the skin, which had soothed it to a tingling numbness. She couldn’t imagine how grisly and horrific it looked—particularly because Jesse grimaced every time he looked at her.
“I’ll think of something,” she said.
Elliot stared at her from beneath bushy brows.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even believe you’re High Dragonmaster. Jesse said you haven’t even delivered a message to Deasylva from that mountain dragon.”
