by Lisa McMann
“Hello, everybody,” said Claire. “It’s so good to see you all again, though I’m sad about the circumstances. And I’m surprised and troubled by the way people have been acting around here. That doesn’t seem quite like us, does it?”
A few of the dissenters looked down sheepishly. Others’ faces hardened slightly, as if they didn’t really need or want a lecture.
“I’ve banished the Revinir,” said Frieda. “Did you hear?”
“I heard she retreated,” said Claire. “That’s wonderful news for our island.”
“She must have learned of my takeover,” said Frieda.
The protesters who supported Aaron’s return murmured angrily.
Claire tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Really? You think that’s what did it?”
Frieda’s smile didn’t crack. “I’m certain of it,” she said coolly.
Florence stepped in. “I’m sure you are all delighted to see our wonderful Claire Morning back in Artimé. And we have some exciting news. Remember when you all wanted Claire to take over as head mage?”
Several people from both groups gasped excitedly in anticipation.
“Well,” Florence continued, “Claire has agreed to step in and take over. Isn’t that wonderful?”
More than half the people gathered outside cheered. Others talked excitedly. And others seemed hesitant but positive. Claire grinned and nodded. “It’s true,” she said.
Frieda’s expression was far from positive.
“Is this what you all would like?” asked Florence in her most encouraging voice.
“Yes!” shouted a large contingent. “Claire Morning! Head mage!” shouted one, and then others chimed in. The two opposing groups began to merge, unifying over what seemed like the perfect fit. The ones who loved Aaron were just as happy with Claire, and the ones who supported Frieda had been desperate to have Claire lead them from the time she was trying to restore the world after Alex’s death. It was a perfect solution.
Claire put her hands in the air, laughing and trying to quiet them so she could speak. “Okay, okay,” she said. “What has to happen here to make it official?”
Florence turned to Frieda, who still wasn’t smiling or speaking. “It’s a simple procedure,” said Florence. “Frieda, just hand over the robe to Claire and declare her the new head mage, and the magic will transfer. And all will be good in the world again.”
Frieda stood in stony silence. She surveyed the people gathered there. There were many who had been praising her just minutes ago. Only a few close friends had joined her in her silent protest. She looked from face to face in the crowd, and then came around to Claire again. “You said a few months ago that you didn’t want to be head mage. That’s why you gave it to that terrible person, Aaron Stowe.”
Claire’s warm smile stiffened. “I changed my mind,” she said.
The crowd quieted and looked at one another uneasily. A few of them in the back started chanting, “We want Claire! We want Claire!”
Florence hushed them with a look, then turned back to Frieda. “Just hand her the robe,” Florence said again. “And say something that implies she’s the head mage now.”
Frieda crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t trust people who change their minds,” she said. “Besides, I’m the one who ended the threat from the Revinir, not her. I think it’s pretty clear who the natural leader is here.”
The crowd shifted uneasily. A few of the dissenters weighed their leader’s words and came back to Frieda’s side, now that they knew she wanted to stay.
“Frieda,” said Claire, trying a new tactic, “we’re all so grateful for the work you’ve done during this transition. Thank you. You definitely . . . played a part in . . . well, everything. But it’s best if the head mage is someone with leadership experience. And has an understanding of the inner workings of Artimé. And . . . is an expert at our magic. I think . . . I think we are all glad that the Revinir retreated, whatever her reason for doing so, and your part in that. But now that things have calmed down, it’s best to go forward with someone more . . . suited . . . for the job.” She stretched out her hand authoritatively, waiting for Frieda to give her Aaron’s robe.
Frieda Stubbs stared back at Claire. Then she snorted and turned in the doorway. “No,” she said, looking back at the crowd. “I won’t do it. I’m the best suited. Artimé is mine now.” She took a step inside, then shouted in a most annoying voice, “Simber!” She turned and retreated up the staircase to her room.
A few people followed her. The rest stood in stunned silence, staring after her through the open door. Seconds later the place erupted into bedlam again. Simber gave Florence a nasty look, then followed the head mage.
Claire dropped her arm to her side and looked at Florence. “What just happened?”
Florence stared back. “I’m not sure,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I think . . . I think we’ve just experienced a coup d’état.”
A Touch and a Whisper
The Revinir and her grand party of mind-controlled dragons and slaves made it back to Grimere, arriving to much fanfare from those on the ground. Dragons of all species lined the road that led up the hill to the castle. They bowed to the Revinir as she and her group soared between them.
Hundreds of the former king’s green-uniformed soldiers were hard at work on the castle and surrounding grounds, building a new drawbridge and repairing the entry and turrets, which had been partially destroyed by fire and dragons fighting. Thisbe resisted the urge to gawk at the ridiculousness of it all and instead played her part, acting like the others. The Revinir soared into the charred grand entrance to the castle, while the other dragons landed outside and let their passengers off to walk in. Thisbe didn’t dare look back at Drock. She could only pray that he would behave according to their plan and manage to continue resisting the Revinir’s call. She wasn’t sure when she’d see him again.
As the Revinir landed in the huge entry room, Thisbe noticed that the gilded tigers, which had once belonged to Princess Shanti, were gone. In their place were a few soldiers in blue uniforms. Thisbe recognized them from the catacombs. She saw them point at her. Her cheeks burned at the pleased looks on their faces.
But Thisbe stayed seated like the others. She didn’t move, though her body ached from the journey. She longed to get off the Revinir’s back and look at Rohan. To talk to him. To try to wake him up and make him recognize her. But she knew she had to wait, especially now. She struggled not to give the soldiers nasty looks as they informed others nearby that the Revinir had captured her.
“It didn’t take long to capture that one,” said one soldier.
“My powers have grown,” boasted the Revinir. “She and Drock came right to me once we grew close enough.” She chuckled, though it sounded more like a deep rattle in her chest.
“What about the twin?”
“Have you seen her around?” asked the Revinir. “Apparently she’s somewhere in our land, planning to attack me.”
“No sign of her,” said the soldier, looking alarmed.
“No doubt hiding in the forest as usual,” said the Revinir. “I’ll have Thisbe working up some broth again in no time so that when Fifer emerges, we’ll be able to get her. Surely she’ll accept anything Thisbe cooks for her.” She turned her head slightly. “Everyone, disembark.”
Thisbe’s stomach churned, and she fought to keep her expression steady as she got down off the Revinir’s back. As much as she and Fifer had been at odds lately, there was no way Thisbe would have any part in feeding her sister the dragon-bone broth. And the thought of being put back to work in the Revinir’s kitchen made Thisbe want to run away screaming. She hadn’t expected to continue that line of work now that the Revinir had taken over the castle! But clearly not everything had changed with the Revinir’s operations. Thisbe realized the dragon-woman would still be in need of broth to feed her own personal greed, as well as to control the people who reported to her.
That
number appeared to be growing, too. Thisbe thought back to when she was first making the dragon-bone broth, and how Dev had spent a day selling it in Dragonsmarche. With a start, Thisbe realized that anyone who’d drunk it would also be affected by the Revinir’s roar—it wasn’t like the ancestor broth, which only affected the black-eyed people. The dragon-bone broth’s magical properties worked on anyone. Was that why so many people seemed to be calmly working in the castle without anyone forcing them or overseeing their work? Had the Revinir made the king’s green army drink the broth too?
“Go to your rooms, children,” the Revinir said. “Back to work tomorrow.”
Thisbe wasn’t sure where to go. Did the black-eyed slave soldiers have rooms in the castle now? To her great dismay, Rohan and Prindi and the others turned obediently toward the ramp that led to the dungeon and filed down it. Were they being held down there now? How horrible! Thisbe went with them, uncertain if it would be unusual for her to ask the dragon-woman what she was supposed to be doing.
The Revinir offered no instruction and didn’t accompany them down. When they reached the bottom, the soldiers stationed there saw who they were. Instead of ushering them to the cells, they opened the door that led to the catacombs. With a sinking heart, Thisbe filed past the empty dragon stalls and through the doorway, and followed the others into the underground maze, knowing that unless something had changed, they had an extremely long walk to their crypts, which would give them little opportunity to rest before morning. Why would the Revinir be so awful, making them walk when she could have had a dragon take them to the elevator entrance in far less time? It was a power game. The Revinir had all of it, and the black-eyed slaves were at her mercy. Thisbe was sure the dragon-woman enjoyed every moment, knowing the slaves had no choice but to obey.
“You might want to walk fast so you can get to your crypts before the workday begins,” said one of the castle soldiers unhelpfully. Then he slammed the door shut behind them and turned the lock, leaving Thisbe and the six others seemingly alone in the catacombs.
They started jogging. There were no blue-uniformed soldiers in sight as far as Thisbe could see, which seemed strange compared to how it used to be. But if all the slaves were under the Revinir’s mind control, it made sense that she didn’t need as many soldiers controlling them. Thisbe’s pulse quickened. Last in line, she glanced behind her, seeing the backs of the adult soldiers’ heads through the small window in the door.
Now what? Thisbe wondered. Should she try to engage Rohan and the other slaves? Would they just stare blankly at her? Or would they report her for suspicious behavior? Thisbe didn’t know enough about how the spell affected them, and she didn’t dare risk blowing her cover until she had it figured out.
She had plenty of time to think about it on the long journey to their crypts. None of the others spoke. They jogged until they couldn’t keep up the pace, then slowed to a speed walk. Now and then they passed a few soldiers stationed at the intersections. They didn’t seem like they had anything to do now that the slaves were no longer an escape risk, and barely looked at them. That was the first encouraging sign Thisbe took from the experience. She’d be less scrutinized. That was never a bad thing.
Halfway through they took a break to rest. Thisbe was careful not to look at Rohan or any others too closely, even though she was dying to study them and ask a few questions. But she was deathly worried about the Revinir finding out—it would ruin everything if she were even the least bit suspicious. Thisbe had made it this far under scrutiny, and she still had her components. There were fewer soldiers down here than before, so that offered her some hope. She’d have to ride on those positives for a while until she had a better grasp on how to get information safely.
When they got up, Thisbe repositioned herself so she was behind Rohan. Seeing him offered her a slight bit of comfort. But along with it came an unidentifiable ache that was marginally akin to how she felt about Alex’s death—grief and loss, mixed with tremendous guilt. Obviously Rohan wasn’t dead, so that made the comparison weak. But if Rohan couldn’t recognize her after all they’d been through, didn’t that sort of make him dead to her, in a way? Could Thisbe have done something to prevent this? Was there anything she could do now to snap him and the others out of it? And she still wondered where Maiven was. Did she know Rohan was down here? Was she doing anything about it? Or had she been captured too and put back in her dungeon cell?
As they came upon the first hallway containing a slave crypt, one of their group peeled off from the others and went down it toward the open door. Not long after, Mangrel, the crypt keeper, rounded a corner and came upon them, apparently having received word of their arrival and preparing to lock them into their rooms until it was time to wake them up.
When Mangrel caught sight of Thisbe, his expression changed. “They got you, too,” he murmured, and shook his head slightly.
Thisbe’s eyes widened, but luckily Mangrel had turned and didn’t see it. Had he seemed disappointed about Thisbe’s recapture? As if he’d hoped Thisbe had actually escaped for good? It couldn’t be. Though Mangrel was not one of the Revinir’s soldiers, and perhaps had shown an ounce or two of kindness in the past, he’d always seemed to support the dragon-woman. Perhaps she’d finally gotten too horrible, and Mangrel had changed loyalties. Thisbe was determined to find out.
The man locked up the first slave, then returned and led the tired group to each crypt, securing them inside. Finally only Rohan and Thisbe remained. Thisbe sped up slightly so she could walk side by side with Rohan. And despite his vacant stare, her skin tingled being near him. She wanted desperately to take his hand, to look into his eyes and wake him up. To talk to him like they’d done so many times before. But even when she dared to steal a glance his way, he stared glassy-eyed at Mangrel’s back. Thisbe knew that any sort of familiarity she expressed might only be met with confusion, so of course she didn’t do those things. It was so sad and strange to have her best friend not know her.
Just as they came to Rohan’s hallway, Thisbe stopped obediently like she and the others had done each time. As Mangrel and Rohan turned off to go to Rohan’s crypt, Rohan’s pinkie brushed Thisbe’s. And she thought she heard something. She froze and looked up. Had he done that on purpose? And had his lips twitched the slightest bit just now? Had his eyes focused on her for a split second? Had he . . . Had he whispered something to her?
But no. Rohan didn’t look back. Feeling delirious, Thisbe stayed still and waited as Mangrel locked Rohan inside. When Mangrel returned, she followed him to the next passageway to her crypt, which backed up to Rohan’s. With a surge of hope, she remembered the tunnel she’d created between their rooms.
But just as suddenly the hope faded, for she knew full well that the Revinir was aware of the tunnel. And she most certainly must have filled it in by now, unless she trusted the mind-controlled slaves so much that she didn’t think any harm could come of them intermingling—after all, wouldn’t they just go tell her everything truthfully? But Thisbe also knew that the Revinir didn’t trust anyone so blindly. Her shoulders slumped. Thisbe walked into her old familiar space with its old familiar smells and memories and felt a sense of dread come over her. Before she turned to watch Mangrel close the door in her face, she glanced up the huge pile of dragon bones that led all the way to the back wall. The tunnel to Rohan’s crypt, which she’d created by using her explosive magic, wasn’t visible anymore. In fact, the entire back wall was now covered with a thick plate of gold. That would surely keep Thisbe from getting to Rohan again.
“Get some sleep,” Mangrel said gruffly. He hesitated, then fished a piece of hard bread from his pocket and set it inside the door before closing it. It was almost endearing.
Thisbe picked up the bread and sat down, her feet aching. She stared at the new back wall and gnawed at the bread. A few minutes later she was surprised to hear her door opening again. Without a word, Mangrel’s wrinkled face and wispy hair appeared low to the ground as he slid a pit
cher of water inside. The door closed again.
Fighting sleep, Thisbe kept staring at the back wall, trying to remember exactly where the tunnel had been. Wondering if the hole was still there, behind the metal, or if it had been filled in.
As she contemplated, her eyes began to close. But her thirst was great. She moved heavily over to the pitcher and drank. Then she climbed up the bone mountain and grabbed a small bone at the top. She tapped lightly along the gold wall to see if she could hear a difference from one spot to another. Perhaps there would be a hollow sound if she found the spot she needed.
But everything sounded the same. After a few moments, Thisbe concluded that the tunnel must have been filled in, making her job even more impossible.
She set down the bone. As she prepared to slide down to her sleeping area, a familiar sound met her ears: three distinct knocks from the other side of the back wall.
Old Familiar
Thisbe turned with a start. It couldn’t be Rohan tapping the wall like old times, could it? But what else could it be? Three taps—that was their signal. Though she’d never mentioned it to Rohan, in her heart his three taps stood for words. “How are you?” Or even “I miss you.” She blushed furiously and picked up the dragon bone again. She tapped the gold wall four times in response. “Oh, Rohan,” she whispered. “I miss you, too. Please come back to me.”
Having her dearest friend so close yet unable to recognize her was already terribly difficult. Knowing who he’d been before he was under the Revinir’s spell made it all the harder to see him like this. Like a shell that the real Rohan had abandoned. Had their bond somehow brought him back? For a moment, at least?
Thisbe strained to listen. Then two taps came, and this time Thisbe was certain beyond a doubt that somehow Rohan was doing it. She tapped twice in response. “Good night.” And then she slumped, barely able to stand there. All sorts of emotions churned and poured out of her, leaving her body feeling utterly broken and exhausted.