by Katie Cross
The little girl changed, growing into the defiant, impoverished teenager. Cecelia’s terror hardened into a grim, flinty expression. She straightened, shoulders pulled back.
“When he died, I was fifteen. My own power awakened then, too late, almost like a cruel joke. Freedom,” she whispered, reaching for the wisp. “Not only had I been given freedom, but the chance to make sure that no Watcher ever had power over me—or others—again.”
“You went too far.”
Cecelia’s fingers dropped from the gossamer wisp. “I did what I had to do to protect others.” Tears filled her eyes. “From what I endured.”
Silence swelled between them. Isadora quietly commanded the magic to recede. Cecelia’s form disappeared, dropping to the forest floor in prisms of light. Cecelia stared at the spot where it had been.
“I will not let you continue this,” Isadora said. “You cannot persist in your relentless pursuit of murder. We are not your brother.”
Cecelia straightened to her feet, eyes flashing.
“You cannot stop me.”
Letum Wood began to fade. Stone replaced the earth. Sky replaced the canopy. Instead of light, darkness. The howl of a tempest filled Isadora’s ears. When she gave into the closing magic, she collapsed.
Someone had freed her from the stake.
Chaos reigned. Maximillion stood in front of her, bellowing. Defenders advanced. The wind screamed by. A familiar burly body and dark head of hair—Ernesto—fought next to Maximillion, using a heavy frying pan. Lucey lay on the ground in a crumpled heap. Prickles raced up and down Isadora’s legs and arms as she attempted to stand. East Guards amassed from below, heading toward the stairs.
“Kill them all!” Cecelia screamed, only a few paces away.
Flimsy little Sera appeared on Ernesto’s other side, waving two torches. Defenders skittered back, out of reach of the bright flames. Overhead, an aquila with burnt-orange and red feathers swooped out of the air, plucked a Defender off the top of Carcere, and carried him away. Another aquila came.
Then another.
Cecelia inched back.
“You may have so much power over me!” she called. “But you have yet to meet your match. Your match will be as powerful as you, strong in all the ways you are not. Do not underestimate us. We hold the power of the past. We know you better than you know yourself. The uncertainty of fate is no match for the certainty of the past. Your match will find you, and if they care anything about the Defenders, they will kill you.”
Behind Cecelia, a shadow shifted. Seeing it, Isadora drew her shoulders back.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Cecelia turned to flee into the staircase, but stopped. A witch stood there. A thin, beaten, pale witch with fire burning in his eyes. Cecelia skidded to a halt, a scream stuck in her throat.
“Eighteen years, four months, five days, thirteen hours,” he ground out, advancing one halting, weak step at a time. “That’s how long I endured without sunlight. Without fresh air. Without the comfort of my Lissa. Without my son. Without anything.”
Cecelia shrank away. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t.”
“You imprisoned me,” he cried. “You took away my life. For what? Because my power equalled yours? So you could prevent me from harming you?”
Cecelia stumbled back, tripping over her elaborate skirts. The witch tilted his head back, staring down at her.
“For the first time in nineteen years, I can feel it. My power returns. It fills me so deeply I almost … I almost cannot endure it. And now, because you feared it, it will be the final thing you know.”
Isadora stepped back. Light cut from him in a dazzling arc, swooping through the air. Cecelia soared back, tossed away. Several Defenders fell over the side of La Torra, plunging to the sand below. Those not thrown clear scrambled to their feet and ran.
Cecelia dropped to her knees with a scream. The muscles in her neck became rigid. Her fingers curled. Magic flowed from her match in unrestrained lines of power. It infused the stones. Illuminated the top of Carcere. Only the lightning flashing in the distance competed with the brilliance of his light. Isadora turned away, momentarily blinded, to see an astonishing sight.
Beyond Carcere, along the shore, were ten small boats. Witches moved back and forth, carrying limp bodies with pale faces and gaunt expressions.
The Advocacy had come.
Aquilas continued to soar overhead in a circle, as if patrolling the castle. Defenders disappeared from the top of La Torra. Cecelia groaned. She rolled onto her side, hitting the wall. The male witch fell to his hands and knees. Agony etched Cecelia’s features as she looked at Isadora.
“I will suffer in fear no more,” Cecelia said. “No more.”
With one swift move, she hooked an arm around the wall, heaved herself over the top, and plunged to the courtyard below. A sickening thud followed. Isadora turned away with a cry.
The darkness abated, and the light retreated. Within seconds, only the flicker of the torches in the courtyard illuminated the night, plunging them back into the tempest-induced darkness.
The battle on top of Carcere ebbed. East Guards and Defenders disappeared. Maximillion stood a few paces away, panting, staring at Isadora with unease in his eyes. Isadora met his gaze.
“Lucey,” he whispered, eyes widening.
Unable to bear the terror she saw in his gaze, she turned away. Maximillion scrambled for his friend just as the male witch collapsed. Isadora hurried to his side, crouching next to him.
“She’s gone. You don’t have to suffer anymore.”
He breathed heavily, peering up at her. The rage had dissipated into a foggy in-between, as if he straddled this world and the world of magic. He reached up, touching her face.
“I can be at peace,” he whispered, staring past her at the smattering of stars overhead. “Ah, the stars. I see you again, my old friends. Fi-finally.”
“Your name?” she asked, grabbing his hand. “I will tell your sweet Lissa that you still loved her.”
A faint smile crossed his lips.
“Francesco Mal—”
The words faded off his lips. His head went slack as he turned his face away.
Wind soared past them. Isadora looked out at the final boat retreating into the stormy waters. Magic would protect them, these sea-faring witches getting the Watchers to safety. Maximillion would live. Hopefully Lucey.
Isadora felt like a husk. A burnt-out, empty shell, scorched by the power of the magic.
Her view of the stormy ocean blurred.
Isadora collapsed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sanna screamed.
“Rosy!”
Rosy and Junis disappeared in the flood of mountain dragons. Sanna couldn’t even see the ground anymore. Couldn’t direct their movements. Forest-dragon voices rang through her mind with sheer panic. Luteis and Pemba still fought in the air. Pemba’s quick transportation left Luteis in a perpetual scramble. Sanna’s nostrils flared. She tightened her fists.
There must be a way.
Luteis sent a spray of weak fire into the air. He, the strongest of all the forest dragons, was running out of energy as well. She could see it in his eyes. In his frantic, less-graceful movements. His wings beat the air as mountain dragons whirled all around, confusing him. Pemba controlled their movements from overhead, his white pendant flapping with every movement. There wasn’t even a Dragonmaster for her to fight, to speak with, to reason with. How could one face such a wild, untamed force mad with magical power they couldn’t use without their High Dragonmaster?
The fury built up inside Sanna, fueled by memories of Daid, Anguis, and all she had lost. The magic—whatever it was—tingled as it soared through her veins. The acid in the air was so thick she could barely breathe. Her throat felt raw. Her face burned. They couldn’t fight the mountain dragons by sheer numbers. The only thing the forest dragons had that mountain dragons didn’t was …
Her.
A
sinking feeling made her chest heavy. Suddenly, it was so clear. Why hadn’t she thought of it before. There was no choice. She didn’t know much about magic, or how to be the High Dragonmaster, but she at least knew one thing.
She wouldn’t give up.
Luteis, she said, eyeing Pemba across the way. I have a plan.
Yes, he said, voice strained, High Dragonmaster.
When I tell you, grab Pemba. Hold him however you can.
Luteis, still battling the sheer number of mountain dragons that surrounded him, grunted. He was three wingspans away from Pemba. I will try.
Elis? she called. Can you help?
I will try, High Dragonmaster.
“Pemba!” she shouted. “Your fight is with me.”
He turned, eyes glittering. You bring this upon yourself. You should have submitted.
Perhaps I am not the one who should submit.
Pemba snarled.
She drew in a deep breath.
Forest dragons, she called, we are stronger together. We can win as a brood. Witches and dragons. The gap is not impossible. Fight with me, and I will fight for you. If you trust me, give me all your fire. Whatever you have left.
Weak flames flickered in the air in response. Luteis in the air. Cara on the ground. Was that Junis? Marelis? Elis? Sanna drew from their strength, then unleashed the building heat inside of her. The flames expanded. She sent more. More of herself. More of her heat.
More of her magical soul.
The flames strengthened. Heat flowed out of her, feeding the fire. Pockets of acid made the flames grow—Sanna coaxed them bigger. Faster. Hotter. The fire climbed through the air, racing like vines, all the way to Pemba. She felt as if all the blood had drained from her body. Sanna dropped to one knee.
A little more! she called, gasping for air.
The growing fire reached Pemba, nearly engulfing him. Pemba wheeled back just as Luteis approached. Elis, coming from the other side, grabbed Pemba in his talons, preventing him from using magic to get away. Pemba shrieked, attempting to correct with his wings. Sanna struggled back to her feet.
Hold him right there.
With shaking legs, she sprinted across the branch, leapt off the side, and launched onto Pemba’s back. She jumped through the wall of fire that held the other mountain dragons at bay and grabbed Pemba’s shoulder. He bellowed.
She slipped, grabbing hold of the ridge along his back at the last second. The ridge pierced her palms, wetting them with blood. With one hand on his wing and the other flailing free, Sanna flapped like a rag doll.
What is happening? Luteis asked. You will die!
Trust … me.
With her free hand, Sanna reached over, grabbed the white pendant around Pemba’s neck, and yanked it free. The fire wrapped around Pemba. Luteis swooped beneath them.
Sanna dropped onto his back.
Flames ensconced Pemba, wrapping him in tongues of fire. He shrieked. His wings burned. Acid flew out of his mouth, but the fire only pulsed hotter. Mountain dragons peeled away one at a time. One wild glance of Pemba’s eyes was all that remained before he fell to the forest floor, consumed.
Luteis landed on a branch, chest heaving. All the mountain dragons had scattered, flocking to the branches, eyes trained on her.
No, on the pendant.
Sanna opened her fingers one at a time. A chiseled piece of bone lay in her bloody, trembling hand. A snarling mountain dragon. Like the egg in the North, it glowed from within, opalescent. She stared at it.
Luteis’s quiet voice broke through the odd silence of her mind.
Do you see? he asked.
Sanna looked up, and her breath caught.
A spiral of mountain dragons surrounded her. They fanned in the air, on the trees, staring at her from the darkening forest. Their eyes were full of expectation.
One dragon advanced, broad wings flapping. He looked just like Pemba. A new voice hissed through her mind.
High Dragonmaster, he said, his tone strangely subdued. We are at your service.
Luteis’s head whipped over to face her.
“Luteis,” she whispered, clasping the pendant again. “Please forgive me.”
You have sacrificed much.
The words appeared on the old tree trunk, even though Sanna didn’t expect them, several days later.
Deasylva’s words were dimmer this time, as if even she felt weary. For a split second, Sanna thought of pretending she didn’t see the glowing writing or smell the honeysuckle in the breeze. She dismissed the temptation.
The time for ignoring their problems was over.
“Yes, well, you tend to ask much of those that … that trust you.”
As I give. Your heart has always been that of a leader. You have not seen it.
“Ah … thanks. What now?”
The great war of the goddesses is coming.
Sanna tried to conjure up surprise, even anger, but could muster neither. She had known since she met Yushi that this wouldn’t be simple. What other inevitable end could there be?
She let out a long, weary breath. The skin around her eyes prickled, and she rubbed it.
“I met Selsay.”
I know.
“Really?”
We have our ways. Selsay and I do not agree on much.
“Prana is the problem, isn’t she?”
As you say.
Weariness still rang through Sanna’s body, even four days after the great battle. Smoke from the pyres still lingered in the air. Babs’s body had been burned. The forest had already claimed Laris, Bellis, and Rosy back to itself. Her heart ached for her dragons—and the piles of mountain dragons yet to be burned.
“We’re going back to the Ancients,” Sanna said. She gazed past the old tree. No one had even questioned her when she’d made the declaration. Whether they were simply too stunned, too tired, or too scared to care, she didn’t know. Perhaps they also accepted her as leader now, and simply went as she commanded.
Perhaps it was trust.
“It’s safest there. At least there are homes and water and greater protection from the forest itself. We’ll ride the hatchlings. It’ll take a while, but I’m going to make all the dragons fly. Or attempt to. Even the older ones.” Despite herself, speaking her reasons out loud felt better. At least for the moment.
You have my trust.
Sanna let out a long breath and rubbed her aching eyes. The writing grew fuzzy. She needed sleep. The gentle wind, and scent of honeysuckle faded. Slowly, one letter at a time, the writing faded. The sound of a twig cracking snapped behind her. She glanced back. Was it Jesse? Only when he approached did she recognize his weary expression and drawn face.
“Avay,” Jesse said, trudging closer.
“Avay.”
The words disappeared entirely before he stepped too close. Sanna turned to face him, feeling a resurrection of the awkwardness that had been so strong before. He kicked a rock out of his path, cheeks burning.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry about trying to ki—”
“Don’t.”
He glanced up, as if startled, then managed a wry smile. “I expected you to make me grovel. I never thought … I guess I just needed to know.”
Sanna snorted in amusement. “Although it has a nice ring to it, you didn’t do anything grovel-worthy. If anyone should … I mean …”
This time, he stopped her.
“No. It’s fine. I just had to know. And now I know. I always thought that the dragons had your true allegiance, you know.”
Sanna stared at him for a long time, aware of the ages that seemed to pass. She longed again for Isadora, who would know the exact right thing to say right now. She felt as if she were back at Anguis, at a fork in the trails high above the ground. One seemed so obvious to take. One, so dim. She could reassure him. Tell him there was hope for the two of them in the future.
But that would be a lie.
Sanna knew that there would never be anyone, aside from Isador
a, more important than the dragons. It had to be that way. The forest had made it so—infected her very blood, and she had welcomed it.
Her shoulders relaxed back. “I’m sorry.”
He waved it off with a half-hearted smile. “I get it. You never really did fit in, did you?”
This time, she cracked a smile. “No.”
He drew in a deep breath. “So,” he said. “We’re going to the site of the Great Massacre.”
“Yes.”
“Odd, isn’t it, that we should go back there, now, of all times?”
Sanna said nothing but didn’t love his implication. There had almost been another massacre.
Almost.
Jesse peered into the distance, as if he hadn’t expected a response. Then he nodded.
“Well,” he said. “I think we’re almost ready if you are.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there in just a moment.”
A dark cloud passed overhead, casting a dim shadow on the ground. The undergrowth rustled as Jesse strode away, fading into the trees.
You are very still, Luteis said. He appeared at her side. She held out her hand, gazing at a beam of light that fell from the upper canopy onto her palm. Her hand blurred. The tips of her fingers. Sanna’s entire body turned to ice as she narrowed her gaze on the dimmed forest beyond her.
Dimmed.
Why dimmed?
Pain flared through her face. Her eyes swam. When she looked at Luteis, the tiny scales around his eyes blurred together. Beyond him, the canopy lacked clarity.
“Luteis,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. “My vision.”
What is wrong?
Sanna blinked, but the picture didn’t clear. Something cold rippled through her, ending in a knot in her belly. She locked eyes with him, mute at first.
“I think,” she whispered, swallowing hard, “I’m losing my vision.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Isadora stared over the vast ocean.
A tepid breeze blew over the churning whitecaps. La Torra lay silent beneath her, a puddle of stone and sand and horrible memories. Ever since Cecelia’s demise, the strange air of the place had receded, as if the wind had taken it away. La Torra seemed like a limp rag. Worn out. Gray. Lackluster.
