FLIGHT

by Katie Cross

  Something cold crawled up Sanna’s back. Mounting my defense?

  “Don’t you mean preparing for world domination?”

  Ah. You also are subject to the lines Prana feeds.

  Three mountain dragons tangled in a knot in the air not far away, teeth gnashing. Blood arced into the air as one bit into the neck of another. It fell. Both uninjured dragons darted after it, snapping for the first bite.

  Madness filled their eyes.

  Or was it?

  Sanna frowned.

  “You want to murder all of the forest dragons so your crazy dragons can keep breeding to make your army?”

  You mistake my intention. I never spoke of murder.

  Despite her keen intelligence, Selsay’s voice had a soothing quality to it. Almost like a purr. Or a gentle landslide. Sanna peered around again, but like with Deasylva, no physical form appeared.

  “Murder is the right word. Your dragon murdered my father, my dragons, and some of my fellow Dragonmasters. There was no need to kill them.”

  It would serve my purpose to have all the blood of the forest dragons, yes. The mountain dragons are many in number—they must be. But until they can be healed, it will mean little. Your daid’s dragon was supposed to be an experiment to prove that the properties of forest-dragon blood can heal my dragons. You have gotten in my way. Twice.

  “But it wouldn’t serve my purposes,” Sanna snapped. “And I don’t really care what you want.”

  Spoken like a true forest witch and servant of Deasylva.

  “I never said anything about Deasylva.”

  As if the forest were the only part of the world that mattered, and forest dragons the only creatures with powerful abilities. You know so little of the world you inhabit. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t so vile, so bent toward the precipice of extinction. All things considered, I fight for you as well as my darlings.

  “I don’t serve Deasylva. I serve dragons and witches and trees.”

  Spoken like a leader.

  Sanna growled. “Leave us alone, and we won’t kill you and all the dragons you send against us.”

  Brave words for one so scared. You have no allegiance to the goddess who gives you life, magic, and power? And yet you think you can win against the forces that are coming? What army shall Deasylva marshal that could possibly defeat—or even harm—my dragons?

  “Wouldn’t be that hard,” Sanna said as two other mountain dragons collided into each other in mid-air. “All things considered.”

  All is not as it seems, arrogant witch. There is more at work than what you see. The power of my dragon armies will be the only thing that saves this world.

  “From what?”

  Prana.

  Sanna rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

  The rocks shuddered beneath her. Pemba glanced up with a narrow-eyed glare that Sanna ignored. Your disrespect is astounding, Selsay said with a voice of thunder.

  “I could say the same. So far, I have no reason to believe goddesses are anything more than catty teenagers.”

  Assume what you will. I brought you here for answers. What is Deasylva doing to prepare for battle against Prana.

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Who says I haven’t?

  “She doesn’t respond to you either?”

  A long pause followed. Do you plan to fight me with Deasylva’s magic?

  “She can keep her magic. All I want is peace.”

  Impossible. I have existed for all the ages and have yet to find peace.

  “Sounds like you should stop murdering innocent dragons, then.”

  A deep rumble rolled beneath Sanna. She pitched to the side, striking the wall with her shoulder. Her ankle slipped off the ledge, but she scrambled back to safety. Several boulders loosened along the cliff, pounding down the mountain in heavy chunks. She coughed in the billowing dust, palms pressed into the rocks to stay stable. The movement stopped.

  Do not test me.

  “Then we do understand one another.”

  There was another long, unbearable pause, just like when she spoke to Deasylva. Luteis had once posited the idea that goddesses, in their power, existed differently than witches and dragons. Moved slower. Lived longer. Selsay seemed to prove the idea.

  Around and around twirled the dragons overhead, wheeling with wings outstretched in a circular dance that nearly took her breath away. Their agitation seemed to have burgeoned since Selsay started to speak, and they’d moved closer. Perhaps her voice drew them in. Sanna braced herself when the mountain shifted yet again, sending a spray of rocks over the side. A wave of vertigo passed through her with another burst of chilly wind.

  Give me the means to conquer this illness, and I shall fight your battles. Just the way Deasylva expects, no doubt.

  Something cold tingled through Sanna, followed by the flash of heat she still didn’t understand. She looked at her burning hands.

  “I’m not giving you my dragons,” she said.

  I don’t want all of them.

  “You’re not very persuasive.”

  It is owed to me, although Deasylva will not recognize the debt. Perhaps you will, as her High Dragonmaster. If any High Dragonmaster still has honor, of course.

  “Don’t you have a High Dragonmaster? Isn’t that a rule, or something?”

  No.

  “What debt are you talking about?”

  Our past goes far deeper than you could imagine, into things you know nothing of. If Deasylva would not explain it to you, then I shall not either. Perhaps she has grown out of her strange love for you weak creatures and realized how unreliable witches are. If you do not give me what I require to fight Prana, I will take it by force. Our time runs short. The powers of the ocean are agitated, and Prana will not stay her hand for long. Once she attacks, all will be lost.

  Sanna’s mind sped back to Yushi, the ocean, and the Western Network. Who was right? Yushi claimed Selsay to be the dangerous one, yet Selsay said the same of Prana.

  There is a war brewing between goddesses, daughter of the forest, Yushi had said. And you are the only one who can stop it.

  Sanna pulled her shoulders back. “No. You can’t have my dragons.”

  Give them to me!

  The wild reverberations struck her like a slap. Sanna braced herself again as the mountain moved beneath her, but she managed to stay on her feet. Selsay’s voice whipped through her like a torrential wind. She was not unlike her dragons, Sanna concluded.

  A bit mad.

  “Why do you ask my permission?” Sanna snapped. “Why don’t you just take what you want? If you’re such a powerful goddess, anyway.”

  Do you not understand the power that Prana wields? We have no time. You have subverted my dragons twice now. Your dragons will listen to you if you command them here.

  Sanna laughed. “Mori, but you’re going to be disappointed.”

  You’re either very brave or very foolish.

  “The two aren’t far apart, are they?”

  I tire of your attitude. Give me your strongest sire, all but one of your mams, and no fewer than three hatchlings.

  Terror struck Sanna, nearly robbing her breath. Give up the mams? Of course Selsay wanted the mams. She would try to dilute the madness of her lines, or even worse, have the mams breed hatchlings for bloodletting. History had seen such atrocities before.

  “Or what?” Sanna snarled.

  I take them myself, leaving none behind. I am willing to leave you one mam to rebuild the race.

  Sanna grabbbed a rock and hurled it at the mountain. “You can try to take them!”

  Pemba snarled from behind her. She ignored him. Something shifted slightly to her left. Sanna paused, watching an oddly smooth rock from the corner of her eye.

  Like all witches, Selsay said, you are a fool.

  The rock twitched again—but it wasn’t a rock. It was too round, almost uniform, with a few sweeps of dust curling off it in the gusty wind. Beneath a layer of stone dust,
it … glowed. Sanna shifted to the left a step, as if to regain her balance when Selsay rumbled again.

  “I will never give you my dragons.”

  Then you shall die with them.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Continue in your arrogance if you must, weak High Dragonmaster. Without Deasylva, without magic, and without a leader, you have no hope of defeating me or my innumerable dragons.

  “You don’t even care about your dragons, do you?” Sanna asked, motioning to the wild things flailing around her, some of them kept away from Sanna only by Pemba’s snarling presence. How odd that Pemba should be protecting her. She stumbled to the left again—only an arm’s length from the faintly glowing oval orb. “You just want to beat Prana.”

  If life will continue in Antebellum, yes. Her madness infects the land—even the witches can feel it. I must defeat Prana to save all you ungrateful fools, and you stand in my way.

  I am coming, Luteis said. Something else stirs in the North. I hear unfamiliar cries. You are not safe.

  I have a plan, she said, edging toward the ledge.

  My astonishment is almost exceeded by my fear. I am almost there.

  “You’ll never get my dragons,” Sanna hissed. “Not even if you should kill me.”

  We shall see, Selsay said, her voice rippling with terrible majesty.

  The ground trembled. Sanna pitched to the left, grabbed the strangely oval rock, and wrapped her arms around it. It warmed beneath her touch, glowing with greater intensity. As she’d suspected—an egg. If Selsay were truly attempting to build an army, every egg would be precious. Pemba unleashed a roar of fury that made her bones quake. The mountain began to split, sliding down the ravine in sheets. Sanna threw herself off the ledge, turning in mid-air. Pemba followed, wings unfurled, fury in his eyes.

  Sanna pitched the egg toward him as she fell.

  A dark shadow appeared from above, dropping fast. Pemba’s descent faltered as he scrambled for the egg. Just as Pemba snatched the egg with his back talons, a familiar claw grabbed her out of the air. Bearing the egg back drew Pemba away, allowing Sanna and Luteis to glide free.

  Mountain dragons broiled overhead, darting toward them. Selsay’s voice no longer rang in her mind, but the slide of rocks and crash of mountains told her everything she needed to know.

  Luteis’s broad wings beat above her like a reassuring heart.

  Hold tight, he said, tossing her onto his shoulders. She slid into place just as a curtain of black covered the sun, descending toward them. They’re here to kill us.

  “Lucey isn’t here. Or, if she is, I can’t find her.”

  Isadora made the announcement in a whisper, only a pace away from Maximillion. The lone torch cast a weak light—which made the heavy darkness even more suffocating. He glanced up with sharp annoyance, even though he didn’t seem surprised.

  “It would be too simple otherwise,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. His lips formed a thin line, and his jaw tightened. Isadora gazed past him to the faces staring at them with rapt fascination and fear. How awful that they should bring any hope to this dark hell.

  “I looked in each cell.” She tore her gaze away. “There are thirty-four. None have seen any sign of Lucey.”

  “The question,” he murmured, “is where is she?”

  “And why not here?”

  He paced down the narrow hall, lending a frenetic energy to the already-tense air. He shook his head, muttering to himself. Every now and then, he winced, then growled. Instinctively attempting to access his powers, no doubt, and unable to. Isadora reached out for hers but found nothing there. It left a strange, ringing emptiness in her mind.

  “They haven’t accessed their powers—or been able to do magic—in upwards of ten years,” Maximillion said. “That’s something we need to consider.”

  “Can the magic build?”

  “Does yours?”

  Her torchlight waved, a little weaker now, but still lined his face with shadows. She didn’t answer—didn’t need to. The power, if strong before their imprisonment, could either be dead after so long an imprisonment or so blindingly powerful.

  “How are we supposed to save thirty-four Watchers who may not be able to use magic, on an island, in the ocean, and still get them and Lucey away from Cecelia?” he murmured.

  To her surprise, no malice hung in his tone. Nothing but a question, as if he were puzzling through the challenge without fear. Maximillion wouldn’t leave these witches to die, but the weight of the task before them piled up to dizzying heights. In truth, he couldn’t save all of them. Several seemed a day or two from death. Returning to life, to sunshine, to their powers, after such a duration could kill them.

  “There’s no going back,” he said. They couldn’t leave without the Watchers now. The bound-and-gagged East Guards wouldn’t be that way forever. Carcere’s magic alone prevented them from returning for the Watchers—Cecelia would change her defenses. La Torra would tighten down until it was impenetrable. Perhaps she would simply slay all these Watchers, even though she hadn’t yet.

  “We remove them one at a time?” she said.

  A flurry of hushed voices echoed around them in a wave again. Exclamations of joy. Talk of food. Family members. Children. None of the prisoners spoke very loudly, but even so, the stone walls seemed to echo every breath.

  Maximillion shook his head. “No time.”

  “We let them all go at once and flood La Torra. They outnumber the staff and the East Guards?”

  “And what?” he snapped. “Think this weak lot, who haven’t had sunlight or magic for years on end, would be able to rush any Defender and win?”

  Isadora opened her mouth, then closed it again. She met his gaze. “No. You’re right. It’s dark out now. That’s to our advantage and theirs. We activate the Advocate community. Have them come, help us take these away to safety.”

  “In the East?” he scoffed.

  “Do we have a choice?”

  Maximillion’s nostrils flared. His hand dove into his pocket, where the keys they’d taken from the East Guard rattled. Even as they spoke, their time waned.

  “No.”

  “This could be a trap, you know,” Isadora whispered. “Cecelia could be waiting for all of us to come out.”

  Maximillion sighed. “It’s most assuredly a trap, which is likely why she didn’t kill you. As we deduced before, she wants something of us.”

  Isadora bit her bottom lip. If the Watchers didn’t die trying to leave, they’d waste away in here. Eventually. A swift death at the hands of the Defenders seemed more merciful. She thought of Sanna, Mam, Daid and swallowed hard.

  No, she couldn’t think of them right now.

  “Then we walk into it,” she murmured. “We face Cecelia’s trap head-on. If we can’t do magic, she can’t either. It’ll be a battle of strength.”

  His eyes met hers. “Then we fight it.”

  Isadora snorted, surprised by the rush of warmth that slipped through her at his rueful tone. “I thought all you wanted was peace and quiet?”

  “I may only find it in my grave. Are you in, or are you not?”

  Isadora nodded once. “We walk into it.”

  For a moment, his eyes darkened, brewing into a storm. For half a breath, Isadora thought he’d kiss her again, but it passed. A grudging respect lingered in its wake.

  “Fine. We walk into it.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and pulled out the keys he’d taken from the Guards. “Start unlocking. I’ll group them in the hall and help them out. Move quickly. We need all the time we can get.”

  “What about the Advocate community?” she asked. “How will we get ahold of them without magic?”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  With that, Isadora spun on her heels, approached the first cell, and shoved the key into the rusty lock.

  The Watchers shuffled out of their cells, eyes delirious, bodies bent. Some of them were frantic. Desperate. Twitchy, even.
Others were slow. Wary. No quantity of Isadora’s murmured assurances could pierce their paranoia.

  One woman, likely in her thirties but who appeared to be sixty, wrung her hands together and mumbled under her breath. Another wouldn’t look at her. A third threw his arms around her with a muted sob.

  One by one, they spilled into the hallway as Isadora moved down the row, breathing through her mouth to fight off the piercing, horrid smell. Maximillion assisted the weakest in forming a line against the stone wall. Behind her shuffled the sound of the other witches embracing, sobbing.

  Isadora unlocked the cell of the male witch they’d spoken to first. He watched the door swing open, then blinked.

  “Gratsi,” he whispered.

  He didn’t move.

  Isadora let her hand fall back to her side. Her gaze flickered to the notch-covered wall. “You’ve been here the longest, haven’t you? Years. Maybe tens of them.”

  Something burned in his gaze. “Yes.”

  “How have you survived so long?”

  “Rage.”

  With that, he stepped out of the cell. Isadora watched him as he reached out to help lift a staggering witch. After a breath, he disappeared into the throng of bodies.

  Isadora turned to the last cell nearest the hall, on the left.

  A young girl had tucked herself into the back corner. The bars on the cage rattled when Isadora jimmied the lock open and swung the door out. Sable eyes peered at her through a curtain of dark hair, waist long, limp, and hopelessly tangled.

  “Allo,” Isadora murmured in Ilese. She extended a hand. “You’re safe. We’ve come to help.”

  The girl didn’t budge. Her cheeks were ruddy, eyes wide. Only a few seconds passed before Isadora realized that the girl trembled—possibly from fever.

  “You’re safe,” Isadora said in the common language.

  Maximillion appeared behind Isadora. “Are you ready? We must go now.”

  “I can’t get her to come out. I don’t want to scare her.”

  “Come,” he said in perfect Ilese, softening his naturally sharp tone. “We’re here to help.”

  He motioned to the others limping into a single line against the chilly stone wall. The girl, eyes wide, trembled. Her teeth chattered. A chill rushed through Isadora. Why did the girl stare so strangely? Why wouldn’t she move?