FLIGHT

by Katie Cross

  A detail she hadn’t forgotten.

  Sanna scowled, and the movement hurt her scabbed face. She fought a wince. Was there another option left? The difficulties of their position weren’t lost on her. She met his gaze.

  “I know.”

  “So?” he asked. “What are you going to do? We have fewer than ten healthy adult forest dragons, only two of which can fly well. A few others have attempted unsuccessfully, and given up too soon. We have six hatchlings that we must protect at all costs or risk losing the entire race. It’s … it’s the massacre all over again, only this time strung out. It’s like …”

  He trailed off, but she could have finished his thought.

  It’s like we brought this upon ourselves again.

  As if they’d feared something so much, they’d actually made it happen. Sanna groped around for something—anything—to say in response. Finding her resolve only took a moment.

  “They killed my daid, and now they’ve slaughtered Finn’s family. If we don’t do something, it will be all of us.”

  “Agreed. But what are you going to do?”

  “Train the dragons!”

  “The mountain dragons could attack tonight! Training will take ages.”

  “We should have a few days, at least. They have to find us, and they don’t like the trees. They found Finn faster because he was close to the North and in an area that’s more sparse than here. Here, they’ll have to hunt, transport in and out.”

  “So we have a week?”

  “Maybe more. We … we teach the dragons to do as much as we can while we have the chance. Fortify our living space, somehow. Move to the Ancients. We have options, Elliot.”

  Elliot’s brow puckered. “Tell me what to do, Sanna, and I’ll do it. But if you can’t make this happen within a week, I’m leaving. I’m taking the dragons and getting out of here.”

  Memories of Daid’s last breaths whipped through her mind, along with a vision of Talis’s gnashing teeth. His horrific anger. Did it matter who took charge now? Yes. It absolutely did.

  Perhaps it always had.

  Sanna drew courage from the ferocity of her memories.

  “I accept that,” she said, then turned her thoughts to Luteis.

  Tomorrow, she said to him, we train with the dragons. This time, they don’t have the option to say no.

  “We could always protect ourselves with fire.”

  Distant shrieks rang through the back of Sanna’s mind at Jesse’s suggestion. The trees didn’t appreciate the idea, but Luteis seemed to be considering it.

  Sanna, Elliot, Jesse, and Luteis stood at the base of an oak tree, glancing out over Elliot’s makeshift camp. Trey had constructed a hasty tent out of tree branches and young vines for himself and Hans. Jesse and two of his younger brothers shared a similar dwelling next to them. All the girls slept inside with Babs and Mam. New growth had started seeping down from the canopy—the forest floor always bloomed last. Spring meant more privacy.

  And less visibility.

  “No fire if we can avoid it,” Sanna said. “That will only make the trees angry, and we’ll need them to help.”

  “Can’t you ask your goddess?” Elliot asked. “Seems like she should have some defensive ideas.”

  “I never said anything about her. I spoke of the trees.”

  “Aren’t they one and the same?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  In some sense, Luteis said. They are.

  Every now and then, the trees spoke to her in hushed whispers. She heard their fears, their naive imaginings of a stirring wind or warm breath of sunshine. Like children, really. Few thoughts, simplistic at best, happy just to sing.

  In much the same way as Deasylva is to her dragons, Luteis said. The two cannot be parted. I believe this is true of all goddesses and their creations.

  Sanna remained silent, pondering over what that meant for Selsay.

  “Fine,” Elliot said. “No fire unless we have to. You think the mountain dragons will come from the sky? Fly in? Or do that … appearing thing you spoke about?”

  “We’re not entirely sure, to be honest, but that seems to make the most sense. They had a habit of just … appearing … in the West. Isadora spoke about it before—it’s how she travels home. Called it transportation.”

  “Magic?”

  “Would have to be.”

  His frown deepened. He growled in the back of his throat. “Huh. Dragons doing magic. Odd.”

  “Perhaps we should move,” Sanna said. “The Ancients would provide at least a little more protection. I think.”

  “They’d be able to track our scent,” Jesse said. “And we’d have to set up defenses. Makes sense to stay and fortify, if you ask me.”

  “We could probably find something that would hide us better,” Sanna countered. “Caves for the witches who won’t be fighting alongside the dragons.” She shot Elliot a knowing glance. He still had young children, not to mention Babs, Mam, and Greata.

  Jesse chewed on his bottom lip. “But that takes away from practice time for the dragons. Getting the adults to fly is the most important priority.”

  “We just need to stop the mountain dragons,” Elliot said. “Not defeat them. If we can stop them, we’ll buy time.”

  “For what?” Sanna growled. “For the rest of them to swoop in and finish us off?”

  Calm yourself, Luteis said.

  Something fell, nearly striking her in the face. She leapt back just before it crushed her nose. “What is that?” she cried.

  A giant melon dangled in front of her face, suspended from a thick vine. Lines of purple and pink decorated the outside of the fruit in bulbous swirls.

  “Odd.” Jesse’s brow furrowed. “It looks like a falla melon.”

  Sanna tilted her head. “But … it’s …”

  “Swollen.”

  The melon seemed as if it were about to burst. The rind was tight and three times its usual size, the entire thing far bigger than her head. Luteis lowered his snout, sniffing without touching, then recoiled.

  It smells rotten.

  Elliot grimaced at the wave of heat that came with Luteis’s movement. Jesse straightened, then reached out to touch the melon. Luteis nudged his hand away. Jesse recoiled with a hiss, shaking his hand at Luteis’s intense heat.

  “Ouch!”

  Deasylva says not to touch.

  Before Sanna could get the words out, the vine spasmed and tossed the fruit against a nearby tree. The hard, cylindrical pieces exploded. Smoke rose from the inside of the fruit, which slowly ate away at the bark with a long hiss.

  “Nice,” Sanna murmured.

  A tinny, high-pitched shriek sounded in the back of Sanna’s head, accompanied by a rush of panic. Sanna grabbed the flake of bark above the decimated fruit and peeled it down. The tree quieted.

  “Rotten fruit?” Elliot asked, eyes wide.

  “Must be,” Sanna said. Whatever remained behind wasn’t magical and stank like a belua. The piece of bark in her hand slowly wore away, disintegrating into pulp. Sanna tossed it away and turned to Luteis.

  “Is there enough that we could use it, you think?” she asked.

  More vines dropped, halting just above the ground, bearing more degraded fruit. Deasylva speaks, Luteis said. She would not offer something she could not provide. The fruit should be thrown by the vines in order to avoid jostling it.

  “The forest speaks,” Sanna said to Elliot. Luteis whacked her in the back of the legs with his tail, but she ignored him.

  The forest. Deasylva. All the same.

  “That decides it, then, doesn’t it? We stay,” Jesse said. “We need to mount a defense.”

  He met her gaze with a firm stare of his own. In truth, Sanna didn’t know if it would be best to stay or go, and she didn’t want to bear the burden of being wrong. They stared at each other, at an awkward impasse, as if no one wanted to make the final decision.

  “We stay,” she said, motioning to the foul falla melo
ns. “We’ll stand our ground until the adults can fly. Then we’ll go west and speak with Aki, the Western Network High Dragonmaster.”

  Not Yushi? Luteis asked.

  Jesse glanced at her, brow furrowed, as if he had the same question.

  I’d rather avoid Yushi, she said. Something isn’t right there.

  “Sounds like as good of a plan as we can expect in these circumstances,” Elliot said. “Does your goddess have any advice?”

  “No.”

  Luteis nearly knocked her over with his snout. Sanna stumbled at his not-so-gentle nudge. Admit you haven’t spoken with her.

  Not now.

  Deasylva speaks to all her dragons and witches, if they listen. If you refuse to acknowledge her, she’ll find a witch who will listen.

  Will she?

  He didn’t respond.

  I’m busy saving the dragons. I’ve attempted to give her the message three times. Instead of chasing her, I think I’ll try to save our lives.

  “Sharpened spears are another good idea,” Jesse said. “We can hide them in the undergrowth to skewer anything that comes on foot. Or dragons that fall. If they’re the right size, they could snap beneath the weight of the forest dragons without injuring them but still pose an issue for the mountain dragons.”

  “We could dig down, too.” Sanna burrowed her toes into the wet earth. “Find an old tunnel system used by the screaming gnomes. It could serve as a trench, or be hidden so it collapses.”

  “They wouldn’t be large enough to really stop dragons,” Jesse said.

  “No, but they’d buy time. Maybe injure some, if we put in sharp stakes.”

  “True.”

  “You’re the one who can communicate with all the dragons,” Elliot said. “Can we leverage their help? They could dig tunnels far faster than us.”

  Agreed, Luteis said.

  “Possibly,” Sanna said, “if I could speak with them. Their voices haven’t been in my head since right after Talis died.”

  Elliot frowned. “Have you tried?”

  Her mouth bobbed open and closed. Outside of her attempt at Finn’s, she’d largely ignored the issue. “I’ll try tonight,” she grumbled. “Once I figure out what they can do.”

  Luteis growled. You don’t ask. The High Dragonmaster decides and commands.

  Sanna glared at him, a hard stone in her stomach. Memories of Talis whipped through her mind. His border. His fire. Burning, burning, burning. The scent of death and char. How could one lead without pain and fire and tyranny? Talis commanded and decided, and look at where that got them.

  “Tonight,” she said. “For now, let’s see if there is a gnome tunnel beneath here and start finding fallen trees that can serve as stakes.”

  Wild stories of Carcere spun through Isadora’s mind as she wound up the slippery, slanted path in La Torra. The cart rattled like an old bag of bones, warning her to retreat to the safety of the lavanda. So far, no signs of other servants.

  Strange magic rules Carcere, Fiona had said one day. Some Watchers spend their whole lives up there. Rumor says there’s no end to the number of cells. Even the Guards who work there don’t know how many.

  Isadora seriously doubted that.

  More likely that tales were exaggerated to keep witches afraid.

  Once Isadora arrived at the third floor, she paused. The sound of revelry rang from the courtyard. Torchlight flickered along the curved corridor despite its emptiness. An expensive use of fuel.

  Unlike on the fifth floor, gaudy decorations filled this hall. Elegant paintings cluttered the wall space, leaving no stone visible. On the rare empty spot, elaborate paper, flecked with primroses and curling grass, hid the ugly walls. Tables with claw feet and velvet-cushioned divans littered the floor. Several porcelain statues stood along the inner wall next to mosaic vases housing exotic plants. Here, the hallway was as wide as the trees in Letum Wood, as if it doubled as a ballroom. Despite the open space, the suffocation of stuff made Isadora’s throat thicken.

  She pressed on.

  No rooms became visible. She frowned. Nothing but hallway.

  The second floor, which she’d glimpsed only briefly, was rumored to have twenty bedrooms. Its hallway was a quarter this size to accommodate the guest quarters. Despite hundreds of paintings ranging from the size of her fist to larger than her whole body, the third floor seemed … empty.

  Her nerves felt as taut as a violin string as she walked, trolley ahead of her, waiting for a maid to call her out. Her teeth ground together painfully. The hallway narrowed ahead of her, giving way to what must have been several rooms—or one large apartment. Then she saw a door on the right and the left.

  Isadora slowed.

  The distant sound of laughter still rang from the courtyard. To her left, ornate double doors covered with stained glass glinted in the flickering torchlight. She studied the glass—a tree with sprawling branches stretching over both doors, winding paths twisting out from its base. Several panes of darkness surrounded the tree, interspersed with beams of light.

  Next to the door stood a table with a piece of parchment and a vase of flowers as tall as Isadora. She peeked at the scroll. Names. She frowned. Fiona. Giorgia. Serafina. Times were scrawled off to the side. A visitors’ log?

  Definitely Cecelia’s quarters.

  Abandoning the laundry cart, Isadora slipped further down the hall. A few more stained-glass doors here and there—no doubt extensions of Cecelia’s apartment. Her quarters took up nearly half of the third floor, eventually tapering back into the wide, ballroom-like area.

  Isadora returned, then gently put her hand on the first doorknob.

  Locked.

  Her maids would be inside, no doubt. Was Cecelia? Isadora didn’t dare look into the courtyard for fear of being seen, even by a drunken servant. She rushed to the next door. Locked.

  All of them.

  Except for the servants’ staircase and the twisting ramp, no other access to the next floor appeared. She stood in the hallway, hands on her hips. It had to be here. Her gaze darted to the outer wall, then the inner wall. Whatever kept Carcere’s magic suppressed could be hiding the entrance, but more likely it was a matter of logic. The magic couldn’t both suppress and create at the same time, could it?

  And how did Cecelia manage to use spells to protect her quarters, anyway?

  Isadora shook the questions off.

  The inner walls of La Torra had no external protrusions—all staircases were on the outside of the castle. Which meant the entrance to Carcere must also be along the exterior wall. She might have missed the entrance on the fifth floor, but she didn’t think so.

  “You’re here,” she murmured, stepping back into the staircase, “aren’t you?”

  The spiral staircase stretched above and below. Bare, wet walls here. Suppressing the urge to step into the paths and see what was possible, she reached her fingers out to touch the chilly stone. She paused, waiting. More shouts from the courtyard. The distant roar of the waves.

  Then a gentle, subtle shift of the air.

  For a second, a breeze rushed past her, stirring her hair, as if a distant door had been opened. Her hair fell again, limp on her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed.

  Two cracks crawled up the wall, running along the edge of several stones. They widened, revealing a jagged outline. Isadora ran her fingers over the stone, tracing it high overhead, then followed it across with her eyes. A door. Short, jagged, and thin, but a door. Definitely.

  Hidden doors could require any number of things to open, from spells, to certain words, to amulets, to potions. But an ancient castle like Carcere, with a leader who wouldn’t tolerate magic and rotations of East Guards who had to come in and out? Likely it was a matter of pressure in the right place. Potions, magic, spells, and words were too volatile. Too messy. They could be forgotten from one witch to the next, then the prison would be lost to the world. Cecelia seemed to focus on killing Watchers, and the rest ran smoothly.

  Now, where
would the hinge be?

  Isadora pressed around the stones. Nothing. She patted on the left, felt along the subtly thicker openings along the edge of the door. No movement. She ran her entire palm along the edge without success. Frustrated, she slapped the right side of the door with a scowl and felt it give way, then swing open toward her with a grating sound.

  She leapt back, eyes wide, and stared into a thick, dark chasm.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The darkness of Carcere seeped through the cracks in the walls.

  It crawled down the staircase with cold fingers. Isadora’s hair shifted again. The door paused, open only a few paces wide. She hesitated only a moment, then bent down, untied one shoe, grabbed the Guardian uniforms off the trolley, and stepped inside.

  The door slid shut behind her.

  For one terrifying moment, Isadora couldn’t breathe. Pure, unrestrained darkness pressed on her, as if it would choke the life right out of her. No flicker of light interrupted the solid wall of black she’d stepped into.

  The good gods! she thought. Why didn’t I grab a torch?

  A distant sound—a cry?—caught her ear. With a heavy swallow, she held out one hand, felt the wall, and shuffled forward. Her toe collided with stone, and she rose up a first step.

  The air chilled as she moved, one step at a time, up into the pervasive darkness. No windows along the stairwell. The stuffy, oppressive air pressed on her lungs. She staved off the claustrophobia by sheer willpower, realizing only after minutes had passed that her powers had retreated. They stirred, limp and weak. Being without them afforded some relief.

  And anxiety.

  Another muffled sound caught her ear as she groped her way along the dark, narrow passage, clutching the uniforms to her chest. The darkness, so deep, awoke paranoia deep within her. Did she see a flicker of light? Was that just her eyes, seeking what they wanted but couldn’t find?

  Was Lucey stuck in such a suffocating space?

  What felt like an eternity later, the seemingly straight hallway curved beneath her groping hands. She followed, then reared back, blinded by a sudden burst of light. The uniforms dropped with a thud. Two Guardians stood there.