The Lost Continent (Wings of Fire, Book 11)

by Tui T. Sutherland

  But if I’m going to rescue Luna … or, at least, get Swordtail to rescue Luna … then this won’t be the last rule I break either.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said, looking genuinely startled. “No one has ever said that to me!”

  “Then the dragons you know haven’t been listening to you very well,” he said. “I bet you’re right about almost everything.”

  “Oooo, the perfect title for my memoir,” she said, grinning. “Right about Almost Everything, by Cricket.”

  He laughed, letting her smile chase away his nerves. She carefully selected six vials from the back rows, rolled them in a thick black cloth, and tucked them into a bag she tied sideways across her chest.

  “One more stop,” she said. They hurried through the school again. Blue unfurled his antennae at each corner, but he couldn’t sense any other dragons anywhere in the building. The hunt for him had moved on … or maybe paused for the night, he hoped without much optimism.

  The next room Cricket took him into was huge and abutted the side of the Hive, because there was an enormous glass window all along one side of it. Outside it was very dark, with only fragments of the savanna grass shifting silver in bits of moonlight; the three moons and most of the stars were hidden by thick clouds.

  After a few moments of blinking around, Blue realized this was the art room he had glimpsed briefly through the cracks in the tunnels. Here was the easel with its perfectly perpendicular lines of blue and black; in fact, there was an entire row of easels with exactly the same painting on each one. Blue wasn’t sure it was a painting; it seemed more like a plan for a gardening plot. In another corner of the room, a long table was lined with large sheets of paper, each one with a nearly exact replica of an orange painted in the center. The orange that had merited all this attention was still posed nonchalantly on a stool in front of the table.

  Blue looked around, but none of the artwork looked like Cricket’s glorious terrarium. “Where’s yours?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m not allowed to take art classes anymore,” Cricket said with a kind of carelessness he was pretty sure she was faking. “You can proooooobably guess why.”

  “Good heavens, Cricket,” he said, putting on the voice she’d used several times already. “No one has ever used that many colors on one piece of paper before. Look at this mess. Why can’t you just draw a normal blue blueberry like every other dragon?”

  She laughed so much he had to catch her before she fell into one of the easels.

  “Were you there?” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s exactly what Principal Lubber sounded like!”

  “I bet your art was beautiful,” he said.

  “A beautiful pile of shredded scraps when she was done with it,” she said with a half shrug. “I had dreams for a while that bee eaters and weaver birds found the pieces and tucked them into their nests all across the grasslands.” She wrestled another cabinet open, this time revealing rows of color-coded paint pots and drawers of the cleanest paintbrushes Blue had ever seen, most of them as thin as his antennae.

  “Um,” he said as she started selecting brushes and paint. “Do I want to know what’s happening?”

  “We’re going to disguise you!” she said with delight. “What color have you always wanted to be? I mean, I think your scales are perfect, but like you said, you can’t wander the Hive looking like yourself, can you? That’s a purple anyone would spot from the next Hive over. For a moment I thought it would be so cool to disguise you as a HiveWing, but then I was like, silly Cricket, that won’t work, there are no wingless HiveWings. So what do you think — orange? Our cook is mostly orange.”

  “You’re going to paint me?” Blue said.

  “Or you could paint yourself, but I think I’d better do it, unless you’re good at it — are you?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “I’ve never painted a dragon before.”

  “Me neither,” she confessed, “but I think it’ll work if we use the right paint. Do you mind? Can I try?”

  “You think,” he echoed nervously.

  “Maybe a darker color, to be sure it’ll cover yours,” she said. “Are there any sort of darkish SilkWings?”

  “Swordtail has mostly dark blue scales,” Blue said. “I’ve seen dark greens and reds and all shades of brown … ”

  Cricket pulled out a range of chocolate, maroon, and navy paints. “All right,” she said, herding him onto a drop cloth that covered part of the floor. “Stay really still.”

  Blue closed his eyes and froze. I’m putting myself in her talons, he thought. I really, really hope she knows what she’s doing.

  Because if she doesn’t, and someone recognizes me, and we get caught … we’re both going to be in worse trouble than I can imagine.

  “I don’t see how this could work,” Blue protested as Cricket dipped a brush into paint the color of the sea during a storm. “Won’t I just look like a SilkWing with paint all over me?”

  “Not unless they look closely, and no one looks closely at SilkWings.” She started dabbing paint lightly across the purple scales on his back. It felt like salamanders prowling over him, tiny wet toes sliding along each individual scale. It felt like purrs and whispers and ferns full of dewdrops trailing along his nerves.

  Cricket switched to a sponge to smooth out the paint, then to another brush for a different color. She hesitated, lightly touching his shoulder. “I’m going to paint around your wingbuds, but I won’t touch them, all right?”

  He nodded. It was hypnotizing, the gentle brushing touch sweeping over him. He felt half-bewitched, as though the toxin from his wristband might still be running through his veins.

  “Cricket, why are you helping me?” he asked.

  Her talons stilled for a moment, then kept going. “I don’t know … maybe because I know what it’s like to hide while everyone is mind-controlled. And because I’ve never met a flamesilk and I’d love to know more about you. And because you’re …” She paused, struggling for a word.

  “Pathetic?” he offered. “Desperate? A tragic story?”

  “No!” she said. “Not that at all. You’re … ” She trailed off again.

  “Aha,” he said. “Devastatingly handsome.”

  She laughed and poked his neck with the other end of the paintbrush. “Stop it! You mustn’t make me laugh while I’m wielding paint at you.” He smelled cinnamon as she leaned in to paint around his ears. After a moment, she said, “I mean, you’re not not … but what I was trying to say is interesting. You’re interesting, and I usually spend all day with dragons like Bombardier and Earthworm, who are definitely not interesting.”

  “Huh,” he said. She wants to study me, he caught himself thinking. I’m one of the forbidden library books come to life, that’s all. A chance for her to learn more about my tribe and flamesilk. It’s not really about me.

  Which is better. Safer. For both of us.

  He sighed and closed his eyes. He imagined a thousand moths weaving a web of silk around him, shrouding him in a second skin. The paint felt like tiny beetle shells as it dried, glossy and thin and hard.

  After a while, Cricket said, “Hmmm. What do you think?”

  Blue half expected to see something like her terrarium when he opened his eyes. He was a little afraid he’d look like a rose garden on fire. But the dragon looking back at him from the cabinet mirror was a nondescript SilkWing in dark blues and the browns of dead leaves, with touches of deep red barely visible along his spine and snout. There were a few blobby spots around his claws, and his brighter blue peeked through here and there, but for the most part the paint was even. He looked like a dragon no one would glance at twice.

  He blinked. “Wow. Thank you, Cricket.”

  “It’s not perfect, but hopefully it’ll at least get you out of the Hive,” she said apologetically. “Especially if everyone is still looking for you.”

  Out of the Hive, he thought with a shiver. He’d
never gone any farther than the webs around Cicada Hive. Unlike Luna, he’d never even wanted to.

  “I guess I’m ready to go find Swordtail,” he said uncertainly. He’d never walked the streets of the Hive alone at night before. He always went home to the webs before dark. Burnet and Silverspot must be so worried about him.

  Which made him think … “Cricket, don’t you have to go home?”

  She glanced out at the dark savanna and the twinkling lights of other Hives in the distance. “I doubt my father will notice one way or another. Katydid will, but … she knows I sometimes hide for a while after Queen Wasp takes over everyone. I get nervous that it’ll happen again right away. And it’s … hard to be around dragons, even Katydid, after seeing that.” She started cleaning away the paints and brushes. Blue moved to help her, but she stopped him. “No, stay still until you’re completely dry. Anyway, she’s the only one who cares where I am, and she’ll cover for me.”

  For how long? he wondered. How far would Cricket’s curiosity take her before she decided to leave him to his fate? All the way to Wasp Hive? To Luna? Did he dare hope for that much?

  “Where do you think Swordtail is?” Cricket asked, tucking the last pot of blue paint into place. Blue noticed that she’d put two of the pots in the wrong order — one was darker than the other, so it should come later in the line — and reached past her to switch them.

  “My only guess is Misbehaver’s Way,” Blue said. “He doesn’t like being told what to do, so he’s been there before. But I’m afraid — I mean, he’s never actually attacked a HiveWing like he did today.” He felt a fizzing twist of anxiety in his stomach. What would the HiveWings do with Swordtail if they decided he was really dangerous?

  “It’s still the first stop, even if he’ll be moved to prison after that,” Cricket said. “So that’s probably where he is. I’ve never been to Misbehaver’s Way.” She leaned forward and lightly tested the paint on his snout. “Although Father is always saying that’s what my teachers should do with me. Like, we all know it’s inevitable, just stick her there now. That kind of thing.”

  “You’ve never — haven’t you at least walked along it?” he asked. He was flummoxed when she shook her head. “But — really? It’s only a couple levels up from here. My school has two field trips there every year.”

  “Field trips?” Cricket echoed, fluttering her wings back. “What for? What can they possibly teach you there? Isn’t it kind of scary for little dragonets?” She glanced around, making sure all traces of their activity were gone, and started for the door.

  “Yes,” he said fervently. “I found it terrifying every time.” I still do. “That’s, um, kind of the point, I think.” His scales felt crackly and strange as he walked behind her, but kind of cool, too, like wearing a mask fitted exactly to his face.

  “Oh,” she said. “So it’s to teach you to follow the rules? Poor little SilkWing dragonets. Do all your schools do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do they spend a lot of time scaring you?” she asked. “Like, on purpose?”

  He shrugged. It was hard for him to concentrate on their conversation because they had reached the front door of the school. Through the narrow windows on either side, he could see slivers of the prehistoric shapes of the playground structures outside — the ones that he’d last seen swarming with dragons trying to attack him. Now it looked deserted, like the bones of a whale graveyard at the bottom of the sea.

  Cricket stopped and peered out, pressing her face to the window so she could see as far in each direction as possible.

  “I don’t see anyone,” she whispered. She hesitated, her tail flicking back and forth uncertainly as she stared out at the playground.

  Blue’s heart was beating like a trapped insect throwing itself at the glass walls of its prison. But he had a sudden bolt of understanding: She felt the same way. Cricket had never gone outside while the mind control was happening. She was as scared as he was.

  “I’ll go first,” he whispered.

  “Really?” She glanced at him, her eyes darting worriedly over his painted scales. “But —”

  “Don’t worry. I have my awesome disguise, remember?” he said. “If the HiveWings are still under Queen Wasp’s control, they’ll notice that you’re not right away — but with luck they won’t notice a random SilkWing wandering the park. I’ll signal once I know if it’s safe for you to come out or not.”

  She hesitated again before nodding. He took a deep breath, pushed open the heavy door, and slipped down the stairs.

  Blue walked cautiously through the park, glancing around for dragons but seeing no one. He made his way to the ledge and looked out at the cloud-covered moons and rustling savanna.

  What had happened to Io? Did she get away?

  But there were no signs, no clues. Nothing in the quiet around him indicated that a massive dragon hunt had started here earlier that evening.

  He ducked his head and started back toward the school. Halfway there, he saw a dragon hurrying out of a side street. Half in shadows, the stranger picked up a toy that had been left on one of the structures and paused, squinting at Blue.

  “You’d better get back where you belong,” he called in a sharp voice. “The hunting parties will be leaving at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Blue said, trying to walk like he had a destination and study the dragon at the same time. The stranger grumbled something and left, and in the glow of the streetlights Blue caught a glimpse of black stripes across his back.

  A HiveWing. One with his own eyes and his own mind. The queen had released her tribe, for now.

  Blue waited until the HiveWing was out of sight, then beckoned to Cricket. She slipped out of the school and together they hurried down one of the deserted streets toward the outer spiral. Inside a few of the houses, Blue saw lights glowing or moving around. He wondered how long ago the queen had let them go. He wondered how long it had taken all the families to reunite and how they were all feeling. Were any of them resentful of the queen? Or did they blame him for disrupting their evening instead? Or perhaps they all felt as if they’d been useful and important helpers in the search for a dangerous criminal.

  Me, a dangerous criminal. When all I’ve ever wanted is to stay out of trouble.

  Wait …

  “That HiveWing,” Blue said softly. “He said something about hunting parties leaving at dawn.”

  “To look for you?” Cricket asked. “Uh-oh. That means we need to move fast if we want to get a head start on them.”

  There were guards slumped at the entrance to the spiral, but their eyes glanced over Blue’s muted colors, noted the haughty tilt to Cricket’s snout, and slanted away, uninterested. Cricket went first, and Blue followed, keeping his head low, acting the part of a humble servant following his mistress’s midnight whim for a stroll.

  She paused a few levels up and glanced back at him.

  He nodded. “Through there.” This was one of the only levels with a gate, although it wasn’t locked. There was no risk of anyone escaping, after all. Blue suspected the gate was there so HiveWings wouldn’t have to accidentally see the prisoners on their way between levels.

  Cricket pushed open the gate and they emerged onto a path that was roughly cobbled with chunks of sharp stones. She winced as one stabbed her feet, then looked up at the columns that lined the walkway.

  Normally, Blue came here in a crowd of other dragons, young SilkWings all wide-eyed and hushed with terror. He always tried to stay near the back so he wouldn’t have to look at the prisoners too closely. But they were impossible to miss, mounted on stone pedestals for all the world to stare at, looming over the heads of the visiting students.

  The stony path wound all around the level, in and out and over roughly shaped hills until it connected back with itself at the beginning again. In between the prisoner pedestals were engraved tablets listing the rules of the Hives, the consequences for breaking them, odes to the greatness of Queen Wasp, a
nd quotes from historical figures about obedience, safety, and community. Some of the quotes were from Clearsight herself. Blue had always liked that she sounded like she cared about the rules as much as he did.

  Above each prisoner hung a small spotlight, and on each pedestal there was always a list posted of that prisoner’s crimes, described in dramatic detail.

  Tonight, the first few pedestals on Misbehaver’s Way were empty, but as they walked the path, they saw figures on the ones up ahead. Cricket gave a start, jumping back to crash into Blue, when she noticed the first one a few paces away.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “Is that — is it real? A real dragon, I mean? Or is it a statue? But I can hear it breathing … can’t I?”

  “That’s a dragon,” Blue confirmed. “A SilkWing, but not Swordtail.” The colors were all wrong, mostly white and brown with flecks of green.

  She watched the immobile prisoner for a long, wary moment. “It’s not moving at all.”

  “She can’t,” Blue pointed out. “None of them can move.” They drew closer to the occupied pedestals and looked up at the trapped criminals.

  Misbehaver’s Way had no need for cages or chains. Instead, Queen Wasp used an elite unit of HiveWing soldiers, all recruited to the job because they had a nerve poison in their claws or tail stinger. Once the criminal — or “misbehaver” — was stabbed, that dragon wouldn’t be able to move for an entire day.

  “I read about this,” Cricket said, shifting her wings uncomfortably, “but … it’s not what I pictured.”

  Blue kept walking. He could see the colors of the prisoners with a glance, but it was hard to avoid getting caught by their expressions. So many of their faces were frozen in a rictus of rage or fear. Most of them had been paralyzed while trying to run or fight, so they were contorted in odd positions, stuck there until the toxin wore off.

  They passed a pale pink SilkWing with long rose-petal wings, his talons outstretched as though he’d been pleading for mercy, his snout still wet with tears. They passed a snarling scarlet HiveWing in a defensive crouch, teeth bared. Another SilkWing in shades of turquoise and tan looked as though she’d been trying to leap into flight when she was caught. Her neck strained hopelessly toward the ceiling; her wings were in an awkward, half-open position that would probably feel awfully sore when they could move again.