by Katie Cross
Maximillion frowned. “Have you seen any of the Defenders by themselves?”
“Ah, no? They don’t really come to the first floor.”
“Are they on a schedule?”
“Not that I can tell.” Isadora bit her bottom lip. “I haven’t really left the lavanda for very long and—”
“You mentioned something about the cooks. Tell me about them. Do you know their names?”
“Er, not really. Ernesto despises me and—”
“Where are their loyalties?”
“Loyalties?”
“Cecelia or the East?” he snapped. “These are not hard questions.”
“I couldn’t be sure. I—”
“How many East Guards here?”
“Ah …”
“Sailors?”
“Only on delivery days, I believe.”
“When are those?”
“I-I guess I’m not sure.”
Maximillion’s nostrils flared. The sparks in the grate flared with bright streaks of green. “What, precisely, are you doing here if not gathering information?”
“How is any of that pertinent?” she snapped.
He advanced, looming, dark, and snapping with rage. “If the Defenders are never alone, that means Cecelia is aware something is amiss. It means they are on alert, or in training, or any number of things. If they have a schedule, we can know when they’re gone on a raid. If they’re new, we can exploit their inexperience or find an ally who is uncomfortable with the way Cecelia runs her force. If the cooks are loyal to the Eastern Network, they could be persuaded to help us. If they’re loyal to Cecelia …”
He trailed off. She waited, but he didn’t finish the thought. The desire to hide under the table nearly swallowed her. Her powers flared, tightening like a vise around her head.
“Aren’t the East and Cecelia one and the same?” she asked, putting a weary hand to her face. The threads of this situation spun into a complicated tapestry. How did he track so many things at once?
“No, they aren’t one and the same. Do you see my point?”
“Yes.”
“Stop feeling incompetent and sorry for yourself, and observe. If you want to help Lucey, you’ll find the answer in the details. That is how we will get Lucey back and conquer Cecelia. That is why you are here. I may understand large moving pieces, but I cannot see the details and nuance of La Torra. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“How are your powers?”
She grimaced, feeling a fresh surge of a headache. “Restless.”
He studied her, eyes slitted, and a quiet understanding passed between them. She had to do better. His jaw tightened like an overwrought string, as if he’d snap at any moment.
She tilted her head to one side, grateful for an excuse to turn the conversation away from herself. “Are you all right, Maximillion?”
He looked away. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
He hesitated. “I would be better if I hadn’t just returned from a meeting in the Southern Network.”
“Oh?”
“Dante, High Priest of the Eastern Network, is calling for a delegation. A meeting of the Networks.” He waved a hand. “They’re saying it’s a truce, but I don’t believe it. This would be a third attempt at peace. Last time, the South overthrew a table, the West promised eternal revenge, and Greta smashed a wine glass. This time, Dante has been muttering something about a pact.”
“Think they’d use it as a chance to attack?”
“I don’t know.”
Maximillion plunged deeper into thought. When he shook his head, some of the vagueness vanished from his eyes, replaced with his usual steely disapproval.
“The West hasn’t even responded. Charles, of course, is all for it.” Maximillion rolled his eyes. “He naively believes we must foster any chance of peace.”
Isadora thought of the young High Priest with a pang of fondness—and fear. The floppy-haired witch without much common sense but a great deal of heart was no leader. The former High Priestess, Greta, had instituted Charles as little more than a puppet. A voice that would never challenge her whims. A witch who, by all accounts, would be best left tending a garden. Now he’d inherited the many messes she’d left behind.
“I take it you don’t agree.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Maximillion muttered. “The East hasn’t the resources to keep fighting. Except for the West, I don’t believe any of us do. Which is why Vasily is erecting that stupid wall around the Southern Network.”
Maximillion muttered something about incompetent Guardians and a militant High Priest as he stopped at the door, looking out on the ocean.
“Have you received any letters from my sister?” she asked before he could leave unexpectedly, as he often did. His shoulders tightened.
“None.”
“That seems odd.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small scroll. His voice was flippant as he studied it. “She’s busy right now.”
She gripped the chair. “Is something wrong? Has something happened?”
“Many things.”
“Like?”
“Nothing you need be concerned over.”
“But—”
He sent her a scathing glare. “You trust me, don’t you?”
The words swelled between them. Isadora’s jaw bobbed for a moment. Did she trust him? Could she just … answer that question without weeks of forethought? She finally said, “Yes.”
“She’s fine. You need to focus on staying alive and ingratiating yourself here at La Torra. Things at home will sort themselves out.”
Isadora pulled a letter out of her pocket and extended it to him. Sanna was scrawled across the front. Maximillion glanced briefly at it. Without touching her, he grabbed it and slipped it into his pocket. He stepped back outside with a scowl, supposedly transporting away.
The world had grown dark. Weary from the day, Isadora sank to her bed and stared at the spot where he’d stood until the sound of the sea rolled into the room, lulling her to sleep.
Sanna bolted upright out of a dead sleep.
Luteis stood in the cave entrance, blocking the dusty light. A scream came from outside, followed by muffled laughter and a tinny, high-pitched sound. Bells? The scent of charred meat drifted into the cave, making her stomach grumble. She pushed to her feet, rubbed her eyes, and fought off a yawn.
“What’s going on?”
It appears to be a celebration.
In the camp, several tents had been cleared away, leaving an open spot in the middle packed with witches. At the very center, an elevated platform was littered with dead carcasses. Blood saturated the sand beneath. Four bright torches danced at every corner of the platform, casting light on a dragon egg laying in the middle. Yellowed boulders at least as tall as Sanna’s shoulders suspended the platform off the ground.
“A hatching?”
It would appear so.
“Where is Jesse?”
Down there, I believe. Luteis nodded to the right.
Sanna scowled, her eyes landing on a familiar broad, short figure off to the side, speaking with a female witch with bright brown eyes and wavy hair. Sanna reached up and felt the greasy strands of her own braids, then shook her head. Tashi appeared, bells tinkling from bracelets around her left ankle.
“Halloa.”
“Avay,” Sanna said.
“A dragon egg is about to hatch.” Tashi lifted a hand and crooked her fingers. “Come. You must try our sentara bread. We grind our yellow beans into a paste for it. Delicious.”
Despite her longing for home, a sliver of curiosity pulsed through her. Sanna glanced at Luteis.
“Are you going to come?”
His eyes narrowed on the teeming space. The desert dragons remained on the outside, snapping at each other—an oddly friendly gesture for such wild beasts—and screaming back and forth. He lowered his head. Luteis’s body would occupy too much spa
ce.
No. His tail twitched behind him. I’ll remain here. I prefer to observe. Being in the open that way feels … wrong. I will be your eyes. Enjoy the other witches.
She couldn’t fault him.
“All right.”
Tashi waited a few steps away, a hand shielding her eyes, and motioned to the platform as they headed that way. Outside the tents, meat cooked on spits above individual fires, tended by witches who sat on the ground on dusty, makeshift pillows. Fat sizzled as it dripped into the flames, releasing a sweet, smoky smell. Sanna’s stomach growled.
They passed a witch carrying a basket of what appeared to be loaves of round, fluffy bread. The kind that was mostly air when bitten into. All around them, high-pitched shrieks tore through the camp. They set Sanna’s hair on edge until she realized they were a form of music. When she listened hard, she could hear the faint chime of bell-like instruments accompanying a repetitive tune.
Tashi drew closer to the egg just as a hushed whisper tore through the festivities. The sounds of revelry ceased. Young children darted through the crowd, working around the adults, until they made it to the platform. Twenty children thronged the egg, which trembled.
“The sand beneath the egg and the rocks supporting it represents its Western heritage. It’s about to hatch,” Tashi said, drawing Sanna to the side. “See the crack forming at the top?”
Sanna had never seen a forest dragon hatch. They hatched in the quiet, alone, with their mams. Only after the hatchling had eaten, slept, and found their legs did they meet other dragons. Witches might not meet them for weeks—even months. Unless there was an issue with the mam and a witch had to keep the egg warm with fire, which was also rare. The sires usually stepped in. To have it so openly regarded felt strange, like a sacred ritual she shouldn’t be invited to.
A hum of excitement rippled through the crowd when the first crack widened. The children ringing the stand were oddly still, expressions impassive. Tashi motioned to them with a jerk of her chin. “The children are here to be chosen.”
“Chosen?”
“The hatchling will have its choice of witch or food first. Whichever it chooses decides its fate. If they want food, they will be given it, then raised until they are four in a pen with other dragons, at which point they become independent. If they go to a witch, they are integrated with the child’s family immediately, and the bond begins.”
“But it’s so young.”
Tashi nodded. “The ritual has proven itself time and again. If the dragon is witch-inclined, it will be so from the beginning and will immediately choose its witch. If it is not witch-inclined, it will tear first into the food. A food-inclined desert dragon is dangerous to keep in a home.”
The egg cracked again. Subtle movements gleamed from inside the egg as fluid seeped out.
“How many choose a witch?”
“Perhaps one in every ten.”
“So few.”
“To us, it feels as if it’s many.”
Another crack appeared. Sanna thought of Tenzin. His distant gaze, a bit wild, as if he lacked intelligence inherent in forest dragons. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd when a chunk of egg fell to the ground. Two of the youngest children feinted toward it, but the older ones behind them grabbed them by the shoulder. Tashi grinned.
“The eggshells are said to be omens of good luck. All the youngest children try to grab them, but that could spook the hatchling.”
“We use our dragon eggshells.”
“Really?” Tashi asked.
Sanna nodded.
“What for?”
“To make dishes.”
Tashi made a perplexed humming sound under her breath. Another chunk had fallen away from the side of the egg. Except for the shifting of shadows, nothing was visible yet. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath.
“When will it come?”
“When it’s ready.”
All at once, the egg burst apart.
Shards of egg sprayed the children, who scampered away from the thick, gray goop that flew out with it. The older children held their ground. One boy, in particular, didn’t flinch, even though part of the egg lay on top of his head, and strands of a grayish substance oozed onto his shoulders.
Standing where the egg had once been was a miniature desert dragon, about half the size of a forest-dragon hatchling, which was usually the height of Sanna’s arm. This one would stand only as tall as her elbow to fingertip. It croaked and gazed around. Its sloping nostrils flared. A male, it appeared. With a cry, he spread his tiny wings, fanning them. He tilted his head back and sniffed, then lowered his head to the carcasses that littered his feet. A child made a peep. The dragon startled, then lifted his eyes to the ring of children.
Sanna’s hand twitched for her knife. Forest-dragon hatchlings were unpredictable so soon after birth, and hungry. Even such a small dragon could kill a witch with a well-placed bite to the neck.
For a long pause, the hatchling locked eyes with the boy with goop dropping off his head. Not a breath moved in the crowd. The hatchling stepped forward once. Then twice. A carcass lay just ahead of him, right between him and the boy.
“Nah,” Tashi murmured. “He’s going to go for the food.”
Something lurked in the dragon’s eyes. Something deep, almost … intelligent. Not as visceral as the wildness she saw in the rest of the desert dragons. The way the hatchling held his head straight—didn’t tilt it in surprise—meant something. She didn’t know what, but it meant something. There was a savage kind of beauty in the desert dragons, particularly one so small and perfect.
“No,” she whispered. “He’ll pick the boy.”
Right then, the hatchling let out a screech. He hopped over the carcass and plowed into the child, who staggered back. Cries of surprise littered the crowd. The rest of the children melted away without a word or a shriek of protest and left the boy and his dragon alone together. The dragon climbed up the boy’s arm—he winced when the talons sank a little too deep—and settled on his shoulder. The boy murmured something, ignoring the ripples that spread through the crowd, and reached for a dead animal. He held it up to the hatchling, speaking all the while, as if they had always known each other.
Tashi glanced at Sanna out of the corner of her eye. “You knew?”
“A lucky guess,” Sanna said.
Tashi’s gaze narrowed. Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise? Sanna couldn’t tell. “Was it?” Tashi asked. “You have witnessed what we call a molina. A miracle, in your language.”
“What happens now?”
“They will grow together,” Tashi said. “Learn to fly. Learn to fight. Learn to defend their own lives and the lives of others. Desert dragons are cursed with simple minds—but raised right, they are loyal and can be trained.”
Sanna stared at the hatchling, enraptured by the way it nuzzled the boy just behind the ear. Was it purring? Could it really bond so quickly? Was such a thing possible with forest dragons? Probably not. To try to force something like that would only rile up already-strained relationships.
But … maybe …
She made a mental note to ask Luteis why most forest dragons hated witches. It seemed to be an inclination they were born with, but perhaps it was just another gift left over from Talis. Perhaps a better relationship could be fostered with the right kind of leader.
Sanna swallowed hard.
The crowd dispersed, breaking into patches here and there. Sanna stepped back, ready to be away from the crowd. Not only was her skin a different color, but her hair was, too. She stood out like a belua in a stream. The crowd parted to let her and Tashi through. Fires continued to dot the landscape, and the air smelled like sizzling meat and cinnamon.
“Thank you, Tashi.”
Tashi nodded.
“It is important that we all see such things. When Selsay broke her promise and began to covet and cherish her dragons, all things fell out of balance. Then the massacre of the forest dragons occu
rred, and all seemed to crumble.”
“Selsay. You’ve mentioned that name before.”
Tashi stopped. “Selsay. The goddess.”
“What?”
“The goddesses. Surely you know of them?”
Sanna grabbed Tashi’s arm, then immediately released it when Tashi glared at her. “Do you really think I’d ask you questions I already knew the answer to?”
“No.”
“Who is Selsay?”
“The goddess of the mountains.” Tashi gestured north with a hand.
Sanna’s stomach hardened into a rock when she gazed on the distant, craggy peaks. They seemed closer tonight, somehow, as if they had moved since she’d arrived. Shock rendered her speechless. More goddesses?
“I … I haven’t …”
“Deasylva hasn’t told you?”
“No.”
Tashi started to walk again. “I’m not surprised. Goddesses, by nature, are protective of the creatures within their care. It is part of their maternal instinct—the powers that give them strength. Perhaps she thought it would protect you to keep you so isolated.”
Sanna scrambled to keep up with Tashi as she slipped out of the tent area and back toward the rocks. Glimmers of Luteis appeared overhead, where he flew in a broad circle.
“You said something about the massacre of the forest dragons.” Sanna jogged to keep up.
“Yes.”
“You knew about it?”
“Of course. The forest dragons withdrew and were never heard of again. Selsay grew greater in her mistrust and jealousy, particularly of Prana. It’s why you will see Yushi.”
“Prana?” Sanna cried, exasperated. “Don’t tell me. Another goddess?”
“Of the sea.”
Sanna gritted her teeth. It seemed inconceivable that there should be three goddesses, but no doubt appeared in Tashi’s face.
Tashi stopped just outside Sanna’s cave. A basket of food lay on the ground, thick with the same sweet, charred scents of the gathering below.
“Get your rest, daughter of the forest.” Tashi’s eyes gleamed. “Tomorrow, you meet Yushi.”
Chapter Fourteen
You seem troubled.
Sanna sat at the mouth of the cave, knees pulled to her chest, brow furrowed. Below them, the party still continued, dotting the landscape with fires and the occasional flare of a nearby drum. Night had settled, throwing a thousand stars across the sky like discarded grains of sand. Luteis kept his bright gaze on the horizon. Jesse and Elis were off somewhere, no doubt, drinking in more of the festivities. Even back in Anguis, Jesse had always been more excited about events.