by Angie Sage
Lysander knew he was in a Bad Place, but that did not bother him nearly as much as the knowledge that his Lock was in an Even Worse Place. He tried sending comforting thoughts to Joss, but he and Joss had never communicated without being next to each other and Lysander could feel nothing coming back from Joss at all. But Lysander would not give up. He lay disconsolately on the soft rugs, placed his head on the herb pillow filled with dragonbalm, and kept on trying to make contact with Joss. Which was why, when Edward and D’Mara Lennix walked quietly and respectfully into Lysander’s chamber, pushing before them a stocky boy with floppy blond hair and a bad-tempered mouth that looked like a sharp little knife, Lysander paid them no attention. His thoughts were with Joss and Joss alone.
D’Mara gave her youngest son an irritable shove. “Go on, Kaan. Say hello to your new Lock.”
At the word Lock, Lysander raised his head. He watched the boy approach him sideways, like a crab unsure of his reception by a particularly large lobster.
“It’s a Silver, Kaan,” Edward called out. “So remember your manners.”
But Kaan had never possessed any manners to remember. He stretched out his hand, grabbed the delicate crest on top of Lysander’s head, and pulled. Lysander was outraged—and in pain too. He reared up and his automatic fire response kicked in. There was no fire, but to Lysander’s great satisfaction, a blast of scorching air enveloped the boy, who turned and scooted back to his mother.
“Mamma,” Kaan whined. “It’s a nasty one. I don’t want to Lock with it. You know I wanted to Lock with a red one. You know I do. So why can’t I have a—”
“Quiet!” barked Edward. “You will have what you’re given and be grateful. You and the Silver will be doing a trial flight this afternoon and you had better make it work, Kaan. You’re lucky to have any Lock at all after you treated your last one so abominably. And to have a Silver—well, you should be thrilled.”
“But I wanted a Red,” Kaan muttered sulkily, taking care that his father did not hear.
Lysander watched his visitors leave, the boy looking over his shoulder, glowering. Lysander returned the stare and then settled back down to think of Joss and ponder how very different human boys could be.
That afternoon a girl with short, spiky red hair came into his chamber carrying a halter. She stepped through the wicket gate, closed it behind her, and then stopped dead and stared at him. Lysander watched her—and particularly the halter—warily.
Lysander’s visitor was Carli. The guards had noticed that she and Allie got along well and had taken Carli away from Bone Grind and put her back on dragon duties. Carli loathed dragons—as the guards knew well. Kidnapped on a Raptor raid and carried to Fortress Lennix in the talons of Valkea, Carli had experienced the very worst of Raptor cruelty and now hated every moment she spent near them. Carli eyed Lysander just as warily as he was eyeing her. He was, she had to admit, stunningly beautiful, but Carli knew that beauty often hid cruelty. However, she was determined not to let Lysander see her fear. Steadily, she met the dragon’s gaze, and as she looked into his sorrowful green eyes, Carli began to feel confused. It seemed to her that here was a dragon who was just as vulnerable, sad, and lost as she was.
Wondering what Carli was going to do next, Lysander quizzically tilted his head to one side. Carli did the same. “Hello,” she murmured.
Lysander dipped his head in greeting and then returned to eyeing the halter with suspicion. Carli understood his fear. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “But they told me to come and get you. With this.”
Lysander began to back away, fear in his eyes. Carli was shocked. She had never seen a fearful dragon before. “Hey,” she murmured. “Don’t be afraid.” She put the halter down on a nearby cushion and walked slowly across the chamber, and then stopped at a respectful distance from Lysander. Lysander regarded her mournfully with his big green eyes, and for the very first time Carli understood that the relationship between human and dragon did not have to be one of fear. This silver dragon was a beautiful, gentle creature. He was someone, Carli thought, who could be a true friend.
“I’m really sorry about the halter,” Carli said. “It’s a nasty thing. But they ordered me to come and fetch you with it. And if I don’t follow orders, I’ll be in big trouble.”
Lysander did not want to cause Carli any extra trouble. It seemed like she had enough of that already. So he got to his feet and walked over to the halter, flipped it up onto his snout, and waited for Carli to fix it. “Thank you so much,” she whispered as she slipped the halter over Lysander’s head. “And I am truly sorry.”
Lysander rested his soft snout on Carli’s arm for a moment, and then she pushed open the main door to the chamber and they walked out into the wide corridor, at the far end of which was the Raptor nursery. As they headed past the nursery’s double doors, from which raucous squeaks and squeals echoed, Lysander suddenly had the feeling that Joss was near. Joss, Joss are you there? Lysander sent. But unfortunately, at that very moment, a hatchling was screaming at Joss for food and the tiny Raptor’s high-pitched, ear-drilling shriek drowned out Lysander’s call. Downcast, Lysander followed Carli up a long, winding ramp, wondering what lay in store at the top.
Waiting for them in the landing yard was a daunting group of people: Edward and D’Mara Lennix, their elder son, Declan, and an apprehensive Kaan wearing a new silver sash around his waist. D’Mara had threatened Kaan with a night in the dungeons if he did not Lock with the Silver, and Kaan knew his mother was serious. Declan, who had a happy and close Lock with a sensitive Yellow named Timoleon, was there to help Kaan understand how to Lock with Lysander. He was not happy about it. “Kaan hasn’t a hope,” Declan had told D’Mara. “I reckon that Silver’s already Locked with the kid you brought with you.”
D’Mara had disagreed. “The Silver’s too young to know the difference. After a few days it won’t remember the other kid at all.”
“Of course it will remember,” Declan had objected. “A Lock is for life. And even if the Silver’s still free, you can be sure that Kaan will hurt it like he did his last Lock. It’s wasted on him.”
“Nonsense, Declan,” his mother had told him. “You’ve always been jealous of your little brother and it’s high time you grew out of it.”
And now Declan stood with his family, watching a girl with spiky red hair lead the most beautiful dragon he had ever seen toward them. He felt a pang of envy. It was so unfair that Kaan should have a chance to Lock with such a beautiful creature. The redheaded girl stopped respectfully in front of them and his mother grabbed the halter and handed it to Kaan. Lysander snorted and jerked his head upward, giving Kaan’s arm a painful tug. Declan and the girl exchanged amused glances and then hurriedly the girl dropped her gaze. It was forbidden for a prisoner to make eye contact with a Lennix.
Edward now addressed Lysander. “Fair Silver, we pray you look well upon your young Lock. We wish you a long and fruitful partnership together.”
Lysander gave a disdainful snort and spat a gob of dragon spit onto the ground. The spit hardened upon contact with the ground and the underside of it stuck to the cobbles. Edward Lennix wrinkled his thin, beaky nose. He loathed dragon spit on his precious landing yard; it was a sign of bad dragon management, and notoriously difficult to remove. “You, girl,” he snapped at Carli, “get rid of that stuff.”
While Carli knelt and began scraping at the rubbery spit with her fingernails, Declan stroked Lysander’s nose and murmured the soft, calming words of a dragon whisperer: “Oosh-ma-roo, sali-lamu, tara-mee, tara-tru.” Even though Lysander did not yet know the meaning of the words, they made him feel warm and happy deep inside. He relaxed and leaned his head against Declan’s shoulder.
“You can get on now, Kaan,” D’Mara said impatiently.
Kaan went to clamber on and Declan noticed his brother’s boots: metal-tipped heels with tiny daggers sticking out at the back. “Wait,” snapped Declan. “You take those disgusting boots off.”
Ka
an scowled. “But they’re my dragon spurs, dumbo.”
“Kaan, do as Declan says and take them off,” Edward said. “You will never Lock wearing things like that.” Scowling, Kaan obeyed, and then, helped by his mother, he climbed barefoot onto Lysander and settled into the place where Joss had sat only two days earlier.
Lysander did not like the feel of Kaan at all. The boy was lumpy and heavy like a lead weight, his sharp nails found the soft skin under his scales and jabbed into him, and he squeezed Lysander’s lower neck crests, which were already shaped for Joss’s smaller hands.
“Now,” Edward said, “send the Silver a thought message. Ask him what his name is.”
Kaan screwed up his face with concentration. “He won’t tell me,” he said. “I expect because it’s something stupid, like Binkie.”
Declan sighed. “I just don’t understand you, Kaan. You’ve been given the chance to Lock with the kind of dragon people dream of and you’re behaving like a total dingbat.”
“Oh, go boil your stupid fat head,” Kaan said. “We’re off, aren’t we, Binkie?” And with that, he kicked Lysander’s sides sharply with his heels.
Lysander had had enough. He raised his wings and, with a neat vertical takeoff, he rose straight up into the air to the sound of applause from Kaan’s admiring parents.
“You see, Declan,” D’Mara said. “The Silver is flying with him. Kaan will be fine.”
Frowning, Declan watched the dragon shoot rapidly upward; then he turned on his heel and walked away. He stopped briefly beside Carli, who had already broken two nails trying to scrape away the ball of dragon spit. “Here, have this,” he murmured, surreptitiously handing her his small pocketknife. “It works on this stuff, I’ve tried it.”
Carli took the knife, a look of astonishment on her face. She nodded her thanks and went back to her job.
D’Mara hurried after Declan. “Take Timoleon and go after them,” she said. “Just to make sure they’re … you know, all right.”
Declan went to find Timoleon. Sometimes, he thought, he wished he weren’t a Lennix. One day he would fly away from this nasty, cruel dump and never come back. One day.
Lysander soared up and away from his prison, vowing just the same as Declan—he was never going back. But as he circled high above the compound, looking down at the grim, gray granite of the fortress that squatted dark upon the mountain plateau, he at last heard from Joss: Lysander. Where are you? I miss you so much.
Lysander felt a stab in his heart. Joss was here after all. Joss, Joss! It’s you! I miss you too. He sent the words winging down through the air, hoping that somehow they would penetrate those thick, grim walls and find their target. He looked down at the heavy mass of stone and knew that now he would have to return. He could never leave Joss alone in this terrible place.
As if jealous of Lysander’s thoughts being elsewhere, Kaan gave Lysander two hard kicks to his flanks. Shocked, Lysander reared backward, and Kaan shrieked so loud that the balance organs in Lysander’s delicate ears seized up and he no longer knew which way was up. His head spinning with confusion, Lysander shot upward. The higher he went, the louder Kaan screamed and the dizzier Lysander became. Joss, he sent as loud as he could, Joss!
Down in the Raptor nursery among all the biting, snapping hatchlings, mopping a pool of hatchling poop, Joss heard Lysander’s send. He threw down his mop and yelled, “Lysander! Lysander! Where are you?” The other nursery prisoners looked at Joss and then turned to one another and exchanged glances—it wasn’t unusual for kids to go crazy, but it usually took longer than this.
Joss saw the covert glances and hurriedly went back to cleaning up the pale yellow, sticky sludge. He didn’t care how foul the poop smelled; he was just so happy to have heard Lysander. As he squeezed the poop into a bucket, he concentrated on silently sending a message: Lysander! Lysander! Where are you?
But there was no reply—Lysander was gone. He was spinning through a whirling maelstrom of blinding white light, heading fast for another world. And on his back was Kaan Lennix, shrieking like a banshee.
“Sirin,” a voice said gently. “Sirin, it’s time to go now.”
Sirin did not move. She stayed staring out of the grubby window, thirty floors up, into the emptiness beyond. The thick clouds hung low in the sky, and their gloomy grayness mirrored Sirin’s feelings exactly—right then all she wanted to do was lose herself in the soft clouds and never have to feel anything again. But the voice behind her was becoming more insistent. “Sirin. Come on now. Your mum wouldn’t want you to—”
Sirin wheeled around angrily. “Don’t bring Mum into this,” she said. “You have no idea what Mum would want. No idea at all.” Sirin glared at the woman, who was a new social worker standing in for Anna, who had the weekend off. Sirin was learning fast that when she really needed someone, they went away.
The social worker gave her a sad smile. “You’re right, Sirin; I don’t know your mum, but I do know that all mums want their children to be safe. And you’ll be much nearer to your mum too. We’ve found you a placement just a few blocks from the hospital. They’re a lovely family and they’re looking forward to meeting you.” The social worker picked up a large bag. “I’ve put all you need in here for now,” she said.
“Except for Sammi,” Sirin said.
“I’m sorry, Sirin,” the woman said patiently, “but as I explained before, your foster family’s little boy is allergic to cats.”
“So me and Sammi will stay here, then,” Sirin said, stubbornly.
The social worker suppressed a sigh. She didn’t understand how Sirin and her mother had managed to even have a cat—pets were banned in the tower block. “Sammi will be fine,” she said. “He’ll be rehomed.”
“Yeah. Rehomed just like me. Except Sammi won’t be fine and neither will I,” Sirin said in a rush. “And Sammi’s a she, not a he.”
“She’ll be fine,” the social worker corrected herself. “And so will you, Sirin. And when your mum’s better you can come home again,” she added, far too brightly.
She doesn’t think Mum will get better, Sirin thought. “There’s something in my bedroom I want to get,” she said. “A keepsake. It was Mum’s. I mean it is Mum’s.”
The social worker nodded, pleased that Sirin seemed to be accepting the situation. “Of course,” she said. “You take a few moments on your own.”
Sirin ran into her room, stuffed her arm underneath her mattress, and pulled out the small leather pouch with the dragonstone that she had put there for safety. Then she took a shoelace out of an old sneaker, threaded the dragonstone onto it, and tied it around her neck, making a promise to herself that she would not be parted from the dragonstone until Mum was back home again. Sirin kept her hand on the stone, and feeling its warmth spread through her, she walked over to the window and gazed out at the drizzle that drifted lazily down through the misty skies. She looked out over the lines of shiny black roofs to the boxlike shape of the hospital just visible by the river in the distance. Somewhere in that box was the place called Intensive Care where Mum lay trapped in a web of tubes like a fly in the lair of a spider. Sirin held the stone up to the window, hoping that somehow Mum would know she and the dragonstone were here together, thinking of her and wishing her better.
Suddenly a brilliant flash of silver came from a low cloud nearby. Sirin leapt backward with a gasp—she hated lightning—and squeezed her eyes tight shut. She waited for the thunder but none came, and so she slowly opened her eyes. A random shaft of the setting sun glanced off something silver and then it was gone, leaving Sirin staring at the darkening sky, wondering what it was she had seen—and why it made her feel oddly happy.
A gentle cough at her bedroom door brought Sirin back to reality. The social worker had mistaken Sirin’s gasp for a muffled sob. “Sirin, are you all right?” she asked.
Sirin nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am, thanks,” she said. And it was true, Sirin thought, she was all right—the flash of silver light was surely a sig
n that Mum would get better. Sirin tucked the dragonstone on its dirty white shoelace beneath her sweatshirt and cast a last glance out of the window toward the big box by the river. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready now.”
Lysander flipped in and out of strange, thick gray clouds, trying desperately to orient himself. Flying with a human who was not a Lock was not easy for any dragon, but flying with a screaming boy who was half throttling him—Kaan’s brawny arms were wrapped around Lysander’s delicate neck like a vise—was almost impossible. It was a vicious circle: The more terrified Kaan became, the tighter his grasp; the tighter Kaan’s grasp, the less air Lysander could take into his lungs and so the more dizzy he became—until at last, Lysander blacked out, his wings folded in like an umbrella, and he plummeted toward the ground.
As Lysander dropped like a stone through a cold, clutching mist, Kaan fell silent and became weak with terror—and that was what saved them both. Kaan’s grip loosened, allowing Lysander to take a shuddering breath. As the dragon’s senses kicked in once again, he spread his wings and his headlong dive morphed into an upward glide. Kaan, exhausted by fear, slumped over Lysander’s neck like a damp dishcloth.
With Kaan shocked into silence, Lysander flew slowly through a patchy, cold mist, taking in long, deep breaths and getting his strength back. Meanwhile, Kaan stared down through the gaps in the mist to the ground far below.
There were very few things Kaan Lennix had a talent for, but one thing he could do better than anyone else was to accurately see objects at a great distance. Kaan’s vision was keener than that of any hawk. And what he saw far beneath him took his breath away. It reminded him of the old maps of mythical cities that his mother used to show him that she said belonged to a place called the Lost Lands. Kaan had loved those stories, for it was the only time his mother paid him any attention, but what he now saw was even more exciting, because he could see things actually moving. Kaan enjoyed snooping on people so much that he had his own spyglass. Excited, he took the small brass tube from his pocket, pulled it open, and focused it on the scenes below as they drifted in and out of the mist.