FLIGHT

by Katie Cross

“I start to slide around.” Jesse wiggled in place. “It feels like I’ll fall off.”

  “Have you?”

  “On every landing.”

  Sanna frowned. That couldn’t be right. She’d never once even felt like she’d fall. Luteis? Any ideas on helping Jesse and Elis have a stronger bond?

  His reply came from the back of her mind.

  None.

  You’re no help.

  Agreed.

  “I’m not sure,” Sanna said to Jesse. “It’s never happened to me.”

  Elis’s wings drooped, and Jesse’s hopeful expression deflated. She chewed on her bottom lip. What could it mean? Thanks to Talis, the legacy the Dragonmasters had passed down was long gone. She had no idea what normal was.

  Unable to bear their disappointment, she asked, “How much time do you spend together outside of flying?”

  “A few minutes here and there.”

  Escaping Talis meant that Sanna had been with Luteis nonstop. Maybe that had contributed to the strength of their connection. “Try being together more often? It may strengthen the bond.”

  I have returned, Luteis said. The low, baritone purr of his voice filled Sanna with relief. Her tight fists relaxed. A shadow passed overhead, drawing her gaze. Luteis circled. These days, he had to fly farther than ever to find food. Two days before, he’d gone as far as the ruins before he caught something. She didn’t like him being that far away, alone.

  Luteis alighted in front of her. The ground trembled when his massive, muscular body landed. She reached out a hand, receiving a gentle nudge from his muzzle in return.

  Sanna frowned at Luteis.

  “You were gone a long time.”

  I had a taste for boars.

  “Even after the cohereo tree incident?”

  He snorted. I didn’t chase them far. Is Jesse going to fly with Elis tonight?

  Luteis peered past her to where Jesse and Elis stood not far away. Jesse held out his hand, keeping it on Elis’s flank, facilitating communication. Their merging, like Daid and Rubeis’s, was tentative. Sanna and Luteis had merged like a dropping boulder. Everyone else seemed to be easing into it.

  Do you think it’s common for witches to look like their dragons? she asked. Luteis followed her gaze. His head tilted to the side.

  Perhaps. Does your hair gleam as bright as my scales?

  I was thinking more along the lines of powerful and occasionally grumpy.

  You are definitely one of those things. Luteis’s head whipped around, searching the area. Is there no one else to fly?

  “No.”

  No other witch has come forward with interest today?

  Her back stiffened. “No. Or dragon, either.”

  Curious.

  “Is it?” She scowled. Luteis nudged her with a wingtip.

  Indeed. You are ready to change and improve. The rest want to hide. Very curious.

  Frightening, Sanna wanted to say, but didn’t. Elis remained one step ahead of Jesse as Luteis joined them on the forest floor. Luteis ignored his distrust. Elis extended a wing, allowing Jesse to step up and slide onto his thick shoulders. Sanna tilted her head back to watch.

  They are fully merged, Luteis said. I can sense it.

  Then why isn’t it working? Sanna asked.

  Luteis blinked. That is the mystery. You are the witch. The use of magic belongs to you.

  Sanna pushed aside a wave of concern. She didn’t know what to tell them—she’d only just figured this out with Luteis herself, and she felt lucky at that. Clearly, she didn’t lead the brood.

  Sanna turned to Elis.

  “Do you trust Jesse, Elis?”

  He says he does, Luteis replied.

  Elis wants to know if you know how to help them, Luteis asked. He’s doubtful that you know enough.

  He inquired so dispassionately that Sanna couldn’t even feel annoyed; she really didn’t know what their problem could be. She had no way to find out. The more Jesse worked with Elis, the more she began to suspect that it had less to do with Jesse, and more to do with the dragon.

  Or, more precisely, her dragon.

  Luteis seemed to be the exception to everything she’d observed in the others. He was faster. Stronger. More agile. His intelligent mind worked as quick as a whip, leaving the rest scrambling to keep up.

  Let us fly, Luteis said. It will be easier to discuss this after we’ve expended some energy. Rubeis will meet us in the air.

  Sanna sighed and followed him a little farther into the trees. Elis joined them. Between the two dragons, the ground trembled under Sanna’s feet. The tree trunks here stood a little farther apart but were larger in size than those near Anguis. Moss, vines, and deadly flowers wound up their trunks, disappearing into the seemingly eternal heights of the canopy.

  “Fine,” she said as she climbed on top of Luteis. “But we will figure it out.”

  We will, Luteis agreed, voice eager. But first—flight.

  He shoved off the forest floor, his gigantic talons tearing into the dirt and leaving nothing but a whisper behind.

  Chapter Six

  Ten minutes after receiving his message, Isadora stood outside Maximillion’s office. The cold confines of the hidden passage hugged her, wrapping her in a dank smell. At his insistence, she never walked into Chatham Castle and asked to meet with him. Instead, she entered through various means of trickery and subterfuge, preventing anyone from knowing who she was or what she did.

  No one can know we work together, he said often. Not just for the sake of my reputation, but to protect the Advocacy.

  His barb for his reputation left her rolling her eyes, but she let it slide for the sheer challenge of it. Today’s entrance: the servants’ quarters.

  No one questioned her—or recognized her beneath a layer of freckles and a near-perfect replica of the maids’ outfits—or her hasty entrance. From there, she snuck down back halls, entered the hidden passages, and knocked at the back door disguised by a bookshelf in his office wall.

  Except he didn’t answer.

  Isadora rolled her eyes. She’d rather endure the bog again than a stressed-out Maximillion. She lifted her hand to knock a fourth time, but the door opened.

  Maximillion glared. His cravat hung loose around his neck. He wore a sharp sapphire vest over an impeccably pressed white shirt fitted to his wrists. His hair shone as if it were wet. His brow dropped over his eyes.

  “A servant?” He stepped back. “That’s new.”

  “Good to see you, too, Maximillion.”

  “Your magic is weak. I can hardly sense it.”

  “My recovery was fine; thanks for asking. I slept most of the day.”

  “You’re late.”

  “I’m not.”

  He pointed to a clock. “One minute past the hour.”

  “You didn’t summon me for a certain time. You just summoned me.”

  “It’s courtesy to show up on the hour. Some witches have schedules.”

  He whipped around, coattails flapping, and strode behind his desk. Isadora followed. The door wheezed shut behind her.

  Maximillion sat in his chair, jaw tight. Then he stood up and paced the space behind his desk, near a massive glass window that occupied the entire wall. Letters scattered his desk in a mad array of parchment.

  “Have you had anything to eat today?” she asked. “You’re in a surly mood.”

  “I’m not surly.”

  “No, you’re delightful.”

  Isadora crossed the room to a tray with a teapot, two boiled eggs, and two slices of bread. A rare treat to receive eggs these days. She felt the teapot with her hand. Cold, as expected. She warmed it with a spell and tipped the brew into a cup. She poured cream inside, then floated it to him with a spell.

  “Drink.”

  He scowled. “I don’t need a mother.”

  “Drink.”

  He shot her a scathing glare but obeyed. Once finished, he flicked it aside. The cup and saucer winged back to the tray, settling w
ith a gentle clink. Then the plate flew to Maximillion.

  She lifted one eyebrow and waited. He scowled, but grabbed a piece of bread and tore into it. Isadora leaned back against a shelf.

  “Better?” she asked when he swallowed the last bite.

  He scowled. Like most in the Central Network, Maximillion had grown leaner. His face was borderline gaunt.

  She motioned in front of her. “Go ahead.”

  “First, an update on your powers. Have you been successful yet?”

  “Well, yes. I helped the mission.”

  “But were you successful using the powers in the way I instructed?”

  “Ah … I did as you instructed.”

  His perpetual frown deepened. “You sought the paths, tried to feel which one was right, and waited?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  He frowned. “That’s not right.”

  Isadora rubbed her hand over her forehead. She rarely had headaches because of the magic now—but she had them whenever she worked with Maximillion.

  “We’ve been working on this for six months, and nothing has changed, Maximillion. I think it’s safe to say my powers don’t operate like yours. I can’t feel my way into a decision. I see them.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. “It’s how the power operates for every Watcher. You go in, wait in the darkness, observe the paths that appear, and then return.”

  Isadora hesitated. There was still much about her powers she didn’t know. “As we’ve discussed,” she said, “I do not see darkness.”

  “There’s no other way for it to work. Yes, I know!” he snapped, anticipating her corrective remark. “I know there’s no darkness for you. You’re in that blasted forest, or whatever.”

  “My powers work differently.”

  His face pinched. She paused, giving him a moment to work through it. No doubt he hated the idea of not being in control of something. “And there’s nothing to feel?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “What do you see?”

  She described the first two paths.

  His brow furrowed. “That much detail?”

  “Yes.”

  “The wisps are solid?”

  “They appear so, but are vapor when I touch them.”

  His eyes bugged out. “You can reach out and touch them?”

  “I always have been able to.”

  “You failed to mention that before.”

  “I didn’t know it was pertinent.”

  “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  Isadora fought the urge to squirm—countless facets of her magic were unknown to him, the greatest of which was the fact that the magic showed her witches. She didn’t know how else to describe it. She saw their strengths. Sometimes their weaknesses. But even that wasn’t predictable. She swallowed hard. “Why would I hide anything?”

  His gaze tapered, as if he suspected her half-truth. “Can you see yourself there?”

  “I am there, just as I am here.”

  His nostrils flared. “I see.”

  “Do you ever wonder why we have these powers?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “What’s the purpose of this magic? Why would I stand in a forest and … see what could happen, but doesn’t always? Seems a little … I don’t know … strange?”

  “To serve.”

  “Whom? Not us.”

  He scowled. “And why doesn’t it serve you?”

  “I lived happily without it for years,” she said. “It gives me access to future possibilities, but even those aren’t concrete. At best, it’s distracting and inconvenient. And where does it originate, anyway? All magic comes from somewhere. How are we chosen? Why does the magic come to us?”

  Spilling her questions gave her a sense of relief. She paused, waiting. His mouth opened, then closed. If possible, his scowl deepened. “You’re asking questions that have no answers.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t care,” he snapped. “We don’t have time for a philosophical discussion on the purpose of magic. It’s here; you have it; deal with it. On to more interesting news.”

  A beam of light sped across the room, slammed into the doorway, and zipped around the doorframe. A silencing spell to be sure their voices weren’t overheard. Isadora stumbled to keep up with the quick subject change, even as he started talking.

  “Lucey has been taken by the Defenders.”

  “So you said.”

  Several things had gone wrong at the beginning—before they’d taken a turn for the worst at the end. Isadora had been late to their original rendezvous point due to confusion on where to transport. Once there, she’d nearly forgotten the sign to give Lucey. Her transformative magic had worn off at the end—unforgivable in his book—which meant the bog had been her only saving grace. The sheer scope of what Maximillion had set up in the shadows to save these Watchers was overwhelming enough. Executing it perfectly was even more overwhelming.

  Still, he expected perfection.

  “I’m sure Lucey will return soon,” she said. “Hasn’t she escaped the Defenders before?”

  “Once. But the Defenders don’t have her now. Cecelia does.”

  Icicles slid through Isadora’s veins. Cecelia Bianchi, the Ambassador to the Eastern Network, was notoriously known as one of the most eccentric witches in history. And, to those who knew her well enough, the leader of the resistance against Watchers. Rumors circulated that Cecelia had attained her position as Ambassador in the Eastern Network solely by killing innocent Watchers—something the fearful witches of the East turned a blind eye to.

  “Where?” Isadora asked, voice raspy. “Is she already in Carcere?”

  “A fantastic question,” he snapped. “One I’ve been pursuing all day, thank you very much, with no help from you.”

  “Max, I’m sorry. I—”

  He slammed a fist into his desk, eyes blazing. “Never! Never shall you call me Max.”

  “Sorry! I meant Maximillion.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair and turned his back to her. For a long time, he stared out the window without saying a word. Isadora, heart hammering, left him to his silence. He and Lucey had a strange friendship. Beneath all his hauteur, Isadora had always believed he cared deeply about Lucey. She seemed to share the distant affection. She was the only witch in the Advocacy unafraid of him.

  Maximillion turned around. He drew in a deep breath, shoulders lifting and falling. His eyes were hard as flint.

  “An inside witch close to Cecelia confirmed it just before you came. Lucey is in Carcere.”

  Isadora sank into a chair. “The good gods,” she murmured. Maximillion set both hands on his hips.

  “Apparently, the Defenders are all quite proud of themselves.” His nostrils flared. “Some of them believe Lucey is the Advocate.”

  “Does Cecelia know it’s you?”

  “Who said it was me?” he murmured. “I need you to search your paths. To see whatever you can.”

  “I can’t see her paths if she’s not with me.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “I … no. I suppose I haven’t.”

  “Time to try something new, then. Into the paths. Now. This is precisely the kind of thing for which I brought you into the Advocacy.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Lucey. Now that we have you, she’ll attempt to position herself in a way that will reveal where she’s been taken. She’ll make decisions to stir up the paths. To do … something that may get our attention.”

  “But—”

  “Try it!” he snapped.

  Isadora hesitated. When his scowl deepened, she closed her eyes and opened the magic. The ease with which she slipped into the paths was like turning from one thought to another.

  The twelve ancient, massive trees instantly surrounded her with their sprawling bodies and massi
ve limbs. Graceful, drooping vines inundated the soaring canopy. Emerald swaths of moss climbed the tree trunks, filled with patches of pink-and-white petals. The scent of honeysuckle drifted by.

  Isadora let out a long, easy breath. Letum Wood and this version of Letum Wood were very different places. While it was still thick and dark, no fear of trolls, beluas, or forest lions stalked Isadora’s heart here.

  Her trail, Sanna’s, and Maximillion’s populated in front of her. They shifted constantly, revealing new witches. One of Maximillion’s Assistants appeared. Another wisp showed Isadora talking with Maximillion. In brief moments, she saw Pearl, and in others, a man with auburn hair and a prominent Adam’s apple.

  “Remove Sanna’s path.”

  The wisps faded. Maximillion’s paths expanded to fill the extra space, nearly crowding out hers like a bristling porcupine.

  “Show only the paths that occur away from the castle.”

  Half of the options faded.

  “Oh,” she murmured. She’d never been so specific before. “Lovely. Show me only the paths that occur outside of the Central Network.”

  Now only several paths wound into the trees. She slipped past trails with strange backdrops in the wisps. Leaves the shape of diamonds. A sticky, tenacious mud on Maximillion’s shoes. One path showed the two of them standing together. Isadora’s eyes were wide, his grim and narrowed. He held onto something—or someone. An arm, perhaps? She couldn’t be sure. Isadora studied it, then moved on.

  The more she trailed away from the base of the great trees, the more the paths split. Wild wisps awaited, as if magic had an imagination it put to use through possibility. She paused in the midst of the gauzy, ethereal things, the circle of ancient trees far behind her now.

  “Show me Lucey.”

  Nothing happened.

  Isadora turned around to find all the wisps she’d passed still there. They shuffled in a gentle breeze, changing form entirely until Isadora didn’t know where she was. New trails snaked through the ground.

  “Lucey Chandler,” she called. “Can you show me her?”

  Nothing.

  She eased her shoulders back, slightly relieved. There had to be some end to her abilities. Isadora strolled down the middle of two divergent paths until they split too far to see both at the same time. She walked for what felt like days, taking the brightest paths while watching for clues about Lucey. None came.