The Iron Flower

by Laurie Forest

  “I will not, you can be sure,” she replies, flustered and sweating from the effort. She gives up again for a moment, stands and smooths her skirts as the little girl shrieks and pulls desperately at her chain. “I’m finding it particularly difficult to sedate this one.”

  “Well, tie it down if need be,” he counters with cool efficiency, stepping into the cell and handing the apothecary a coil of twine from a nearby table. He looks to me apologetically. “I’m sorry that you have to witness this, Mage Damon. You can see that dealing with these creatures is no easy task.”

  “Quite,” I reply, bile rising in my throat.

  “We are of your same mind, Mage Damon,” he cloyingly simpers. “It’s a wonder that the Mage Council has insisted on keeping them alive for so long.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “That will soon change, with blessed Vogel at the helm of our great Magedom, and with your courageous intervention. The Council needs to realize that killing Icarals is an act of kindness. There are those who have become squeamish about the idea of putting them out of their misery, full of romantic notions that their souls can yet be saved if their wings are removed. If they could labor but one day with these creatures, they would not hesitate to take a much harder line.”

  “No doubt.” My heart beats high in my chest.

  He smiles obsequiously. “You came here with a task at hand, and I digress into politics. My apologies.”

  The little girl is screaming even louder as the woman goes about tying her up with the heavy twine, having to practically sit on her to do it.

  “Where is Ariel Haven?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice icy calm.

  He motions across the hallway. “There.”

  I turn, and my heart leaps in my chest.

  Ariel. Right in the cell behind me all this time.

  Ariel is slumped down in the shadows of her cell, sitting listlessly on a hard wooden bed, her head resting against the stone wall.

  It’s only been a few days, but she’s shockingly emaciated, her half-closed eyes recessed into hollowed-out sockets. Her gaze is unfocused, her mouth curled up at the edges into a numb, blissful grin.

  A bowl half full of nilantyr berries is cradled under her arm.

  Grief rocks through me. Ariel had won. She had broken free of the nightmare bonds of the drug.

  And now they’ve destroyed her all over again.

  An overpowering, volcanic rage flashes through me.

  “I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty bringing it to the Council,” the surgeon idly comments. “Unlike the Icaral child, this one is more than happy to consume as much nilantyr as we’re willing to give it. In fact, I believe this one would kill itself if we simply gave it enough of the drug, thus saving the Council the trouble of having to execute it.”

  My chest constricts, the rage mounting.

  Ariel isn’t just sedated. She’s practically comatose. And, by the looks of things, the soldiers here had one hell of a time getting her to this point. She’s covered in bruises and lacerations, and one of her wings appears to be hanging at an odd angle, as if it’s been partially torn off, a trail of dark blood seeping from it. She’s wearing the same Elfin clothes she was dressed in when the Marfoir seized her, and they’re filthy and torn.

  A crash sounds behind me, and the woman shrieks.

  I wheel around. Yvan is standing over the surgeon and the apothecary, who are now cowering on the floor, their arms held up protectively in front of themselves. Yvan is grasping their wands in one fist, his other hand pointing his broadsword at them, his teeth bared.

  “What are you doing?” I cry, frozen to the spot.

  Yvan ignores me, keeping his eyes pinned on the surgeon and the apothecary. The little girl continues to scream her lungs out as she lies tied up on the floor, rolling back and forth in desperation.

  “Eat the nilantyr!” Yvan orders the surgeon and the apothecary, gesturing sharply toward the bowl.

  They nod compliantly, all color drained from their faces. The surgeon reaches for the bowl with a shaking hand. He grabs a handful of the berries and stuffs them into his mouth, then offers the bowl to the apothecary who fearfully does the same.

  “Keep eating!” Yvan snarls at them. “Eat until you pass out, or I will kill you both!” He glances over his shoulder at me, a rigid set to his jaw. “We’re taking the child with us.”

  I look to the terrified little girl who’s tied up and rolling around on the floor, screaming. Of course we’re getting her out of here. We can’t leave her here with these monsters.

  “I want to save all of them,” Yvan says fiercely, “but we can’t. But we can save her.”

  I nod, my body breaking out into a cold sweat.

  The surgeon and the apothecary have grown limp, their bodies slumping down against the stone wall and eventually falling over onto the floor, their limbs awkwardly draped over each other.

  Yvan sheathes his sword, breaks their wands in his fist and throws the pieces off to the side. He kneels to check inside their mouths. Confident they’ve swallowed the nilantyr, Yvan grabs the twine the apothecary trussed the little girl up with and ties both the surgeon and the apothecary up in a similar way. Then he retrieves the surgeon’s ring of keys, takes hold of the little girl’s foot and unlocks her shackle. He tosses the brass keys to me and turns his attention back to the the child.

  She’s screaming at an even louder volume, her green eyes huge in her face.

  “Give me your cloak,” Yvan orders, his tone relentless and stiff.

  I unfasten and shrug off my cloak, then toss it to Yvan, and he immediately begins tearing long strips from it.

  Yvan tries to gently coax the child to calm down, but she’s completely hysterical.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs to her as he uses one strip to blindfold the girl and ties another around her mouth, cinching it tight behind her head, her cries now low and muffled. He wraps her whole body in a larger swath of fabric until she’s completely immobilized. Then he grabs the twine, picks the child up, stands and turns to me.

  Every muscle in his body is tense and ready for a fight, his eyes blazing, as if he’s ready to take on an army to deliver all of us to safety.

  “Tie her to my back.” He tosses me the twine and holds the little girl firmly against his back. I wrap the twine around his chest and shoulders and over the child again and again until the little girl, who is violently straining against her bonds, seems relatively secure.

  “Now get Ariel,” Yvan orders.

  Key ring in hand, I go to Ariel’s cell and unlock the door. It swings open with a rusty creak.

  “Ariel,” I croon as I enter the cell. I place a hand on her thin shoulder, despairing for her. “You need to come with me, love.”

  Her barely conscious head lazily turns to face me, her blackened smile widening. I wrap an arm around her frail body and help her rise from the bed.

  Ariel looks over at the surgeon and the apothecary and starts to laugh, high and manic, as if she finds the sight of them funny. She turns back to me and gives me another wide, twisted grin.

  “Elloren,” Yvan says, his voice harsh. “I’m going to pretend to take you hostage. I’m a traitorous guard you thought you could trust, but I’m really in league with the Evil Ones, hell-bent on rescuing Icarals. I’m going to be rough with you. If they don’t believe this, they’ll kill us.”

  I struggle to calm my breathing, my emotions reeling but my mind grasping the details of his new plan.

  “Hold tight to Ariel,” Yvan orders. “We’re getting out of here.”

  * * *

  “I order every one of you to stand down!” Yvan bellows as we burst out the front doors of the prison.

  Yvan’s arms are rough around me as he holds his knife to my throat. I grasp Ariel’s bony arm while she giggles dazedly.

  Initi
ally, the guards do exactly the opposite of standing down. The archers in the towers nock arrows, and the sentries on the ground draw their broadswords—until it dawns on them who I am, and their weapons fall away.

  “Make one move,” Yvan threatens, tightening his hold on me, “and I will kill her.”

  The guards remain motionless, and Yvan wastes no time deliberating.

  We hurry toward the exit gate, one guard yelling for it to be opened immediately.

  “Stop!” a deep voice commands just as we reach the gate, the man’s voice so thick with authority that everyone freezes and turns.

  A burly man in a lieutenant’s uniform with Level Four Mage stripes strides toward us, pointing accusingly. “They are not who they appear to be!”

  Oh, sweet Ancient One, help us.

  The other guards seem bewildered, their eyes flicking back and forth from us to the lieutenant, as if unsure what to do.

  “Stay back!” Yvan yells, yanking my head back, his fist knotted in my hair, the sharp edge of his knife pressed to the skin of my throat.

  “You are an impostor!” the lieutenant bellows at Yvan. He halts a few feet away from us and draws his wand. “I just received a missive from Mage Vyvian Damon. She’s on her way here as we speak to bring the Icaral, Ariel Haven, before the Mage Council for immediate execution.”

  He points his sword at me. “You are not Vyvian Damon.” His eyes track to Yvan. “And I’m willing to bet that you are not her chief guard, Isan Browen. Gardnerians, draw iron arrows!”

  The archers raise their bows and point iron-tipped arrows straight at us.

  “But, Lieutenant,” one of the men ventures, “I know Isan, and he looks—”

  “I don’t care how he looks!” the lieutenant snaps. “It’s an illusion! A glamour!” He turns back to face me. “You’re Sidhe Fae, aren’t you? Out to steal Icaral demons? What’s hiding under that glamour of yours?” He pokes me in the side with his sword.

  Quick as a blur, Yvan drops the knife and wrests the sword from the lieutenant in one smooth motion. The little girl on Yvan’s back screams, the sound muffled through the strip of fabric.

  “Easy, Fae,” the lieutenant says as he backs away from Yvan. He glances around at the growing number of archers surrounding us, a triumphant smile forming on his lips. “Planning on taking us all on? Making a run for it? You’re in the middle of Gardneria. How exactly are you going to get out?” He gestures toward the impossibly high stone walls. “There are iron spikes lining the top of these walls. And all our arrow tips are made of iron.”

  Yvan’s jaw flexes as he continues to point the sword at the lieutenant, his face tight, his body rigid.

  “Sidhe Fae rescuing two winged Icarals,” the lieutenant observes with a trace of sly amusement, shaking his head from side to side. “What could you be using them for? This is a puzzle.” He angles his head toward one soldier. “Malik, send word to High Mage Vogel that we’ve apprehended two Sidhe. In the meantime, we’ll just wait for Mage Damon to arrive.”

  Soldiers encircle us but keep a wary distance as the lieutenant discusses plans with three of his subordinates in tones too low to make out.

  The sun has newly set, the otherworldly light of the lumenstone casting everything around us in a greenish glow. I touch Yvan’s shoulder with a trembling hand, and he inclines his head toward me in response, his eyes darting from soldier to soldier.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask, panic mounting.

  He doesn’t answer, and I hear him swallow hard. “I don’t know,” he finally admits.

  Panic rushes over me and consumes me with debilitating fear.

  And that’s when I cave. Grasping Ariel tight, I bow my head and begin to pray. Repetitive, familiar prayers for mercy, for protection, for a miracle.

  “What are you doing?” Yvan snarls.

  “Praying,” I answer, tears streaming down my face.

  He makes a noise of disgust. “In the words of a religion that hates Ariel and me?” he asks in a seething whisper. “That hates the child strapped to my back?”

  “They’re the only words I know!” I cry, my body starting to shake. “We need a miracle, and that’s what I’m praying for!”

  I go back to desperately chanting the prayer for the Ancient One to bring about a miracle in the middle of the Realm of Death, the hope-filled words keeping me from completely falling apart.

  “There are no miracles,” Yvan hisses.

  A thunderous whoosh passes over us, high above.

  My head jerks up along with Yvan’s as flames burst into the sky and roar down, lighting the world orange. Yvan throws Ariel and me behind himself as he thrusts out one palm, holding the fire at bay. A punishing heat presses down on us, everything around us suddenly alight in a deafening explosion of fire.

  Incoherent yelling and screams sound from every direction. The gold and orange and bright white of the flames leap everywhere, sparks flying above like a million shooting stars, the heat searing. More long jets of fire blast down from the heavens as iron-tipped arrows whiz overhead.

  And then a large, ground-shaking crash directly behind us. As if the Ancient One himself has heard my prayer and descended from the heavens.

  Yvan loosens his hold on me, and we turn.

  Naga.

  The dragon jerks her head back as she catches sight of Ariel, fury blazing in her eyes. Her gaze slides to Yvan, her serpentine head flowing down until her firelit eyes are only inches away from his.

  “Oh, Naga,” Yvan tells her, his voice strangled with emotion, “you have very good timing.”

  Ariel’s raven lights on Naga’s scaled head, the bird’s black eyes darting over us.

  You blessedly ingenious bird. You found Naga.

  Yvan places his hand on the dragon’s neck, and they stare at each other for a protracted moment. Then Yvan turns to me, new purpose to his movements. “Get Ariel on Naga’s back! You, too! We’ve got to go! Now!”

  It’s hard to hear Yvan over the roar of the fire, but his hand gestures make his meaning clear. Not wasting a second, Naga flattens herself to the ground.

  I climb on to her back and pull Ariel up in front of me, throwing my arms on either side of Ariel’s frail body and grasping onto the two horns that protrude from Naga’s shoulders. Yvan swings on behind us, his hands grasping the horns just above mine.

  Naga springs up, spreads her wings and leaps into the air. Her wings whoosh down, and we rise and rise in rhythmic jolts as I struggle to hold on. Yvan’s arms hold steady around both me and Ariel as men yell and arrows fly overhead and past our sides. One arrow nicks Naga’s remaining ear, and she gives a roar of outrage. She whips her head around and breathes out several more columns of fire, expeditiously taking out the remaining guard towers, then swoops up, racing away from the prison.

  I drape myself low over Ariel’s frail, semiconscious body, the dragon’s warm back cutting down on the chilling wind, the air growing colder and colder as we rise. Yvan presses his warm chest against my back, effectively cutting the chill behind me.

  Before I know it, the prison is a firelit, smoking nightmare fading into the distance behind us, the glittering center of Valgard just beyond it.

  Yvan reaches around me to clasp Ariel’s torn wing. I hold her wing steady as Yvan places his hand over the bloodied tear, his fire rippling through me toward Ariel.

  A few moments later, when he removes his hand, Ariel’s wing is reattached, hanging straight once more.

  “Can you help her regain consciousness?” I ask him anxiously.

  “No,” he says ruefully. “She’s taken too much of the nilantyr—purging it is beyond my abilities. She needs a healer with more training than I have.”

  Soon we’re flying over farmland, then black wilderness at a steady pace, the moon lighting our way, gray clouds drifting lazily across the starlit sky. I
let out a long, shuddering breath.

  For a long while, we fly on, Naga shooting through the sky like our own powerful arrow, Ariel’s raven winging just below us. We fly over broad expanses of forest, the white peaks of the Northern and Southern Spines growing closer up ahead. And then we’re flying over the gigantic spikes of the Northern Spine, the view breathtaking and familiar and terrifying all at once.

  “Your glamour’s fading,” Yvan tells me after a time, his breath warm on my neck. I glance down at my hands in the bright moonlight—my own hands, with chipped nails and shimmering skin blessedly free of fastmarks, and I’m surprised by the glamour’s imperceptible release. I turn to find Yvan looking like Yvan again, blessedly back in his own skin.

  It’s so quiet up here after all the chaos and noise of Valgard, the only sounds the heavy whooshing of Naga’s huge wings and the muffled whimpers of the little girl strapped to Yvan’s back.

  “Where’s Naga taking us?” I wonder as cold air rushes over us.

  “To the Amaz.” Yvan’s voice has turned grimly decisive.

  I whip my head toward him. “No. You can’t go there. They’ll kill you.”

  His gaze is resolute. “Ariel needs their care,” he says. “And it’s the only place we can bring the child. The only place she’ll be safe. They’ll shelter her, you know they will. They’ll protect her.”

  “Land near the border,” I insist. “You can’t land in the middle of Amaz territory.”

  “We have to!” he counters, suddenly fierce. “There’s no time to lose. They’ll have rune-healers, and Ariel needs immediate care. We don’t know how much nilantyr she took—she could die!”

  My hands tighten around Naga’s horns as my thoughts reel into panic. We can’t do this—it will be suicide for him. Maybe suicide for us all. You don’t just land what appears to be a Gardnerian military dragon in the middle of Amaz territory with a male on its back and live to tell the tale.

  But it’s too late to argue.

  We crest the Spine, and the rune-light of Cyme comes into view just as Naga begins her rapid descent.