The Iron Flower

by Laurie Forest

  REVELATIONS

  The next two days are a murky haze.

  I spend them mostly in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, half aware of Yvan trying to get me to eat and drink, of Tierney arriving at one point, bits and pieces of their hushed conversation piercing through my fog of grief.

  She looks so different now. Her blue hair in twisted, knotty coils, her back a graceful, flowing curve, a sack slung over her shoulder.

  “I’m setting off for Noi lands tonight,” Tierney tells him. “The Gardnerians are spiking more of the waterways with iron. My Kelpies and I have an ever-narrowing corridor to travel through, and we have to get through the Eastern Pass now, before the Gardnerians completely choke it off.”

  Tierney pads over to me, her hand cool on my arm, and I feel a gentle pull on my slim water lines. She leans in close. “I’ll see you in the Noi lands, Elloren. I know you’ll find your way to us someday.”

  I stare up at her, hopeless. “Nothing can stop the Gardnerians. They’re going to win.”

  A spark of defiance wells in Tierney’s deep blue eyes. “Then I’ll go down fighting in the waters of the Eastern Realm. And you’ll be there to fight with me.”

  I turn away from her and shake my head listlessly. “No, Tierney. It’s all lost. Everything.”

  I can sense the defiance rippling through her. “Goodbye, Elloren,” she says as she rises. “You’ve been a good friend to me.” Her voice breaks and she’s silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her tone is full of sharp, implacable resolve. “I will see you in the Noi lands.”

  * * *

  On the third day, I wake and hold up my hands and wait for the fierce wave of grief to wash over me at the sight of the spidery lines, but I’m not overcome this time. My despair is muted, beaten back by the feel of Yvan’s arms tight around me. My eyes are sticky and swollen from crying, and I can’t breathe out my nose. I haven’t bathed in days, and imagine I must smell like sweat, but still, he holds on to me.

  I turn to look at him. His eyes are open, his gaze level and kind. He reaches up to stroke my head, my dirty tangled hair, and leans in to kiss my forehead. “Good morning,” he says gently.

  Later, when he offers me food, I eat it.

  * * *

  I awaken on the fourth day to the sight of warm spring sunlight streaming in through the window. Yvan is standing by the window, looking out toward the wilds. “I’ll be back later,” he promises, and I watch him leave.

  I get up and go to the window, spotting him as he makes his way across the green field, into the wilds.

  I remember how he used to disappear all the time to visit Naga. How curious I was about where he was going. I glance up at the sky, the sun high, and realize I’ve slept most of the morning away. I look back down at the spot where Yvan entered the trees and give a start.

  A white bird.

  Sitting on a tree limb among the delicate new leaves and looking at me with expectant eyes. Like the first time I saw one of the Watchers, the day Sage gave me the White Wand.

  My heart picks up speed.

  I spring out of bed, throw on my boots, press my Wand into the side of one of them and run through the hall, down the spiraling staircase and out the door, the leafy spring air filling my lungs.

  There it is—the Watcher. Still sitting on the branch as golden-green leaves dance in the gentle breeze around it.

  I rush across the grassy field, the bird winking out of sight when I reach it and reappearing inside the forest on a sun-dappled tree limb.

  Spring is everywhere, golden-green flashing.

  And when I step into the wilds, the forest’s usual flare of hatred doesn’t come. It’s as if the hostility has been thrown off to the edges, as if the bird is clearing a path for me. My heart fills with an amorphous sense of anticipation as I take in the sight of greenery everywhere, bursting up from the forest floor, climbing up through the rotted soil.

  The bird plays hide-and-seek with me for over an hour as I follow it blindly, sunlight spearing through the shadows, falling down in shimmering rays like cascading water. I watch the bird disappear, only to reappear in another tree far ahead, then disappearing again. Over and over, until I can finally make out a clearing in the distance, the light shining stronger through the trees. Glimpses of water sparkling in the sunlight appear through the branches, just past the trees’ broad trunks.

  I look up at the Watcher and wait for it to take flight again, but the iridescent bird simply wraps its wings around itself and vanishes.

  I set my gaze ahead and start toward the clearing, moving quietly. Returning geese are flying high above, honking in formation in the vivid azure sky. I reach the edge of the wilds and look out over a beautiful blue, shimmering lake.

  Yvan is there, right at the water’s edge.

  I watch as he unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off and throws it over a log near his boots.

  I hold my breath to keep from gasping at the sight of him in the brilliant sunlight. His lean, sculpted chest. His broad shoulders and strong arms.

  Then he reaches down to remove his belt.

  Oh, sweet Ancient One. He’s going for a swim, perhaps, or to bathe in the lake. And he’s going to undress completely.

  Heat suffuses my face, my neck. I know I should go, but I’m so curious to see him. Spring’s restless energy wells up inside me, feeding a warm spark of desire.

  He’s so beautiful...

  Some geese fly down toward the lake, their wings spread wide as they maneuver to the water with a loud splash. Yvan pauses his undressing to turn and look at them.

  I draw back in surprise. He has an elaborate tattoo on his back, like someone has inked giant, black wings over its entire surface. Incredibly detailed wings, every feather carefully wrought.

  Yvan stands up straight, his hands on his hips. He looks out over the lake, his head tipped up to the sun, as if drinking it in. Then, unexpectedly, his hair brightens to a dazzling red, his ears elongate to lithe points and the tattoo on his back comes to life, like a fan slowly opening.

  Shock blasts through me as the wings grow and unfurl, spreading out magestically. Like he’s a giant hawk in its prime, his wings flexing, strong and sure.

  They’re nothing like Ariel’s ragged, half-healed wings.

  Nothing like Wynter’s dark, thin ones.

  They’re stunningly beautiful, the feathers glittering like opals, a rainbow of colors rippling and shining off their edges.

  I gasp and fall back and a branch snaps under my foot.

  Yvan’s head whips around, his eyes instantly fierce, searching the woods for the source of the sound. He starts for the forest, slightly crouched, his eyes feral as his wings fan out impressively behind him.

  He falls back with a start when he spots me. “Elloren,” he says, his angular face constricting.

  My eyes are wide as I stare at him. “You’re an Icaral,” I breathe out.

  His face clouds over with fierce anguish.

  Suddenly, everything falls into place. All of it.

  My world rocks alarmingly.

  “Yvan...how did your father die?” I ask, my voice strangled, knowing what the answer will be even before he says it.

  His black wings flex. “He was the Icaral killed by your grandmother, Elloren.”

  I wince and grab onto a nearby tree to steady myself.

  It all makes sense now. The horror in his mother’s face when she saw me. It wasn’t only because she’s yet another Kelt who hates the Gardnerians, who hated my grandmother. It’s because I look exactly like the woman who killed her husband—the Icaral shown in the statue in front of the Valgard Cathedral.

  Yvan’s father.

  I cling to the tree as my knees start to buckle.

  “Elloren,” Yvan says as he quickly strides toward me, his hand coming to rest on my arm.

>   I glance down at his hand, the ground beneath me feeling unstable. Has he been able to read my mind all this time? I look up at him. “Are you an empath, too? Like Wynter?”

  “Only partially,” he says, his brow tensing. “I can read emotions, but not memories or specific thoughts. And I can only mentally communicate with other dragons.”

  “Other dragons?”

  “That’s what being an Icaral is, Elloren. You know that. I’m part dragon.”

  A light-headed rush sweeps over me. “If the Gardnerians find out about you...”

  “I know.”

  We hold each other’s gaze, the full ramifications bearing down on us both. “Naga knows, doesn’t she?” I realize. “And Wynter, too. She’s touched you. She must know.”

  He swallows and nods stiffly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my voice unsteady. “You know you can be honest with me.”

  “I promised my mother I wouldn’t tell anyone,” he explains haltingly. “I wanted to tell you. But, Elloren...even just knowing this puts you in danger.”

  He’s right. The mere fact of his existence is extraordinarily dangerous information.

  I take his warm hand in mine, my fingers twining through his. “Yvan, this is much too big for you to deal with alone.”

  His eyes blaze, the line of his mouth hardening.

  More memories flood into my mind, the pieces of so many puzzles falling into place. “That night we spent together,” I say, “I tried to unbutton your shirt, and you stopped me. You didn’t want me to find the imprint of your wings.”

  A stricken look crosses his face. “That’s right.”

  “And later, when we...” I pause awkwardly. “I thought you stopped because you didn’t want to...put me in a difficult situation. But it was the wings all along.”

  “It was,” he admits. “But I meant what I said that night. I want to be with you in that way, more than anything, but I don’t want you hurt because of it.”

  I hold up my marked hand and consider it despairingly. “But now...that can never happen for us.” My despair rapidly starts a spiral down into panic. If the Gardnerians or the Alfsigr discover his existence, they’ll do everything in their power to find him. And they’ll be bent on killing him.

  “What abilities do you have?” I ask, desperately hoping he’s far more powerful than I can imagine.

  He takes a deep breath. “I can throw fire from my hands. A lot of fire. More than you’ve seen. I’m incredibly strong and fast. I can heal people, which you already know. And I’m impervious to fire.”

  “Could there be more?”

  “Yes. But my father died before he could teach me anything about myself.”

  The horrible truth rears its head—his father cut down by my own grandmother. “Does your mother know the extent of your power?” I ask, my thoughts careening.

  “I think so, but she won’t tell me anything. She wants me to stay in hiding so that history doesn’t repeat itself. She’s tired of everyone she loves dying. And she doesn’t want me used as a weapon.”

  I close my eyes and bring a hand to my face, my head starting to throb mercilessly, distress rising.

  Everyone I love will be slaughtered in the coming war, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My brothers and the Lupines, along with everyone else they’ve escaped with, will probably be hunted down by the Gardnerians and killed. The Kelts and the Urisk and the Smaragdalfar Elves will be enslaved by the Gardnerians and the Alfsigr. All the Fae in hiding, everyone who sheltered them, Tierney and her family—they’ll be discovered and murdered. Wynter, Fyn’ir, the little girl Pyrgo—they’ll all be cut down.

  And Yvan will suffer the same fate—maybe worse, because he doesn’t know the full extent of his powers or how to use them.

  And because I’m powerless, there will be absolutely nothing I can do to stop any of it. Because all I possess is a cursedly inaccessible echo of my grandmother’s abilities.

  “I wish I had power,” I bitterly rage. “I’m the granddaughter of the Black Witch, and I’m worthless when it comes to helping you or anyone else I love.”

  “You’re not worthless,” Yvan vehemently insists, his wings folding rigidly in.

  “You’re wrong.” I pick up a stick lying at my feet and rip the small diverging branches off it as I step into the clearing. “I’ll show you exactly what happened when they wandtested me.”

  “You don’t even have a real wand in your hand, Elloren,” he points out gently.

  I don’t care. I want him to see just how powerless I am—how I can’t even perform the simplest spell of all.

  I lift the makeshift wand, point it at some trees in the distance and focus on the image of a candle lighting, searching my mind for the words to the lighting spell.

  “Illumin...” I begin, the words of the spell coming together seamlessly from memory.

  Power rumbles against the balls of my feet, just like on the day of my wandtesting so many months ago. Power pulled straight from Erthia’s core.

  Power pulled from the trees.

  It works its way slowly up my legs, coiling like an enormous snake ready to strike as I sound out the words to the spell.

  The swirling, pulsating power catches on to my affinity lines like fire on dry brush. But this time, the power doesn’t meet with resistance, and the pain doesn’t come in its wake.

  Instead, the power rushes out into every part of me, through every affinity line, flying straight toward the branch. As the power reaches my arm, it coalesces like lightning and explodes out from my wand hand and through the branch in a violent blast toward the trees.

  A loud explosion assaults my ears as the trees before me are engulfed in flames that rise as high as the Valgard Cathedral. I fall back, slamming into the ground, the branch flying from my hand as birds and animals flee from all sides, the roar of the fire deafening, the trees screaming in my head.

  I scuttle away from the flames as fear washes over me, my heart pounding against my chest. Yvan’s hand grabs my shoulder, and I jerk my head toward him.

  He’s staring at the inferno I’ve created, his mouth agape as he crouches protectively over me, his large, black wings arcing around us.

  “Holy Ancient One,” I cry, terrified.

  His eyes are fixated on the swirling flames, riveted.

  “But they tested me,” I stammer out. “Nothing happened. They told me I was powerless.”

  “Whose wand did you use?” he asks with dawning suspicion as he stares into the fire with great concentration, as if he’s struggling to put everything together.

  “Commander Vin’s.”

  Yvan turns to me, a look of fear on his face. “Are you sure?” His hand tightens on my shoulder. “Are you sure it wasn’t the Gardnerian military’s?”

  “Yes,” I insist as the flames in front of us engulf another tree, the sound of the destruction deafening.

  He turns back to the fire, eyes widening with deepening realization. “She gave you a rune-blocked wand.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, scared of what this could mean.

  “She didn’t want the Gardnerians to know,” he breathes, and I brace myself, knowing what he’s going to say before he says it.

  Yvan’s eyes meet mine, full of utter certainty. “Elloren, you’re the Black Witch.”

  * * *

  I sit, stunned, as we watch the trees crackle and burn, Yvan’s arms and wings tight around me.

  After a long while, the flames die down and the deafening roar calms to the crackle of a huge bonfire.

  “So,” I finally venture in a slow, horrified whisper, “you’re the Icaral who’s supposed to destroy Gardneria, and I’m the Black Witch who’s supposed to kill you. We’re the two points of the Prophecy.”

  Yvan swallows hard, studying the flames in front of
us. “I don’t believe in prophecies,” he says, his jaw going rigid.

  “Everyone else does.”

  He turns to me with a jaded look. “Yes, they do.”

  “And I wasn’t even using a real wand.”

  “I know.”

  “So, if I use a real wand...” I think back to Ni Vin’s stories about the fireballs my grandmother created, the ones she used to destroy entire villages, to terrorize entire countries.

  I have that terrible power. Like my grandmother, I’m something potentially horrific to behold.

  “Kam Vin knows,” Yvan says darkly.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  Yvan shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  His wing brushes against my cheek. It’s soft and silky against my skin. “Can you fly?” I ask abruptly, feeling like I’ve fallen into a surreal dream.

  He hesitates, then nods.

  I stare at him, stunned by this revelation. “Ariel and Wynter can’t fly.”

  “Ariel and Wynter were raised to believe that they’re foul and evil. Their wings are weak.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t completely, either. It’s just the way it works with Icarals.”

  I take a deep, shuddering breath. “I was raised to believe that you’re the most evil monster on all of Erthia.”

  “I was raised to believe the same thing about you.”

  An involuntary laugh escapes me. “At least we have that in common.” I pause, growing serious and remembering Uncle Edwin’s final words to me. “My uncle knew. I think he was hoping I’d live my entire life not knowing. And I probably would have, if I’d never come here.”

  “He wanted to protect you.”

  “Like your mother wants to protect you.”

  “Another thing we have in common.” He flashes me a small, kind smile, but his eyes remain grave.

  “So, we’re potentially the two most powerful beings on Erthia.”

  “Who have no clear idea of how to use our powers,” he adds.

  My head is throbbing mercilessly now. I let it fall into my hands and close my eyes tight.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, concerned.