FLIGHT

by Katie Cross

  “Allo?” called one, advancing like a bull. “What are you doing here?”

  He spoke rapidly—she’d startled him. Isadora held up a hand, but her eyes quickly adjusted. He stopped moments before plowing into her. His heavy brow drooped over his eyes. A deep accent from an unfamiliar region of the East colored his tone. Frantic, she parsed his words.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he barked.

  “I-I’ve come to replace the linens and uniforms. I just forgot my torch.”

  “Who gave you permission?” he barked.

  “F-Fiona.”

  “She would never,” said the second, coming up behind him. He had long hair tied in a neat ponytail. The dim torchlight cast menacing shadows across both their faces.

  “She did,” Isadora said, forcing strength into her voice. “It’s Vittoria Day. Do you think she wanted to run the laundry around tonight or tomorrow?”

  A flicker of hesitation, for just a moment, lingered in the first one’s gaze. He glanced at her and the pile of clothes, and jerked his head down.

  “Leave them on the floor.”

  “On the floor?” she cried, scuffing the ground with her toe. “I spent the whole day cleaning them!”

  “No one cares about the poor lavanda maid.”

  “I care.”

  “I don’t.”

  Her nostrils flared. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. Something foul lingered in the stuffy air. “I’d like to take them to the closet, if you don’t mind.”

  “No.”

  “Besides, I have more to bring in. If I don’t, Fiona will have my head.”

  “Don’t care,” he snarled. “Get out of my prison.”

  “Your prison?”

  “Out!” he shouted. The noise rippled behind him. Isadora stepped back, feigning terror. Behind the Guardians waited more darkness—and a distant torch. So the hall continued. Half-moons of disorienting, pitch-black space hovered to the left and right as well, meaning more halls. Egads, Carcere really was a complicated maze. Not even the wide walls of La Torra could accommodate this kind of cavernous space. Somehow, Carcere suppressed magic yet also actively used it.

  Isadora drew herself up. She underestimated this place.

  “I will go as soon as I’ve completed my errand. Won’t lose my job because of you. Besides, the lavanda is hot, and I’m letting it cool down.”

  The other Guard snorted. “Hot as troita up here, and you don’t hear us complaining.”

  “You just did.”

  “Did not.”

  The first, a burly witch built like a wall, stared at her with glittering eyes.

  “Go.”

  No translation needed there. Isadora put her hands on her hips. “Might I at least instruct you on the proper way to hang these so all my hours with the iron aren’t wasted?”

  “No.”

  She paused, as if annoyed. “But—”

  “Get out of here already!”

  “Sorry,” she stammered, ignoring the other Guard’s silent chortle. She reached into her pocket and pulled the key out, holding it in her palm. “If you would have been friendlier, I would have helped you out. I suppose you ungrateful wretches don’t want to keep your heads.”

  The first Guard rolled his eyes, but the second took the bait. “What are you talking about, chit?”

  Ignoring the implied insult—a chit was a hysterical chicken in the Ilese language—Isadora stepped back, using one hand to smooth down one of the uniforms. “Oh, nothing. By chance, you aren’t missing a key, are you?”

  The first Guard reached out and snatched her arm, jerking her close. Isadora screamed. “By Drago!” she shouted. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Her words echoed down the halls, rippling one at a time.

  Drago. Drago. Drago.

  “Where’s the key?” he growled.

  “You should be nicer, and I’d tell you!” she shouted back. An unnatural stillness echoed after. She strained to hear.

  C’mon, Lucey.

  A flush colored his cheeks. “Give me the key, or I’ll throw you in a prison cell.”

  Isadora’s heart thrilled. Now there was an idea. She shoved that off and met his gaze. Fortunately, no witch was more terrifying than Maximillion.

  “No wonder you’re edgy,” she said. “You lost a key, possibly to something—or someone—important in here, and now you want it back?”

  He tightened his grip on her arm. Isadora screamed again, injecting a shrill note of terror in it that was sure to carry.

  “Give it to me now, and save your own life.”

  She scowled, then shoved away from him. He released her. Isadora fished in her right pocket, then her left. She patted them, frowning.

  “Where is that key?” she murmured.

  Both Guards glowered.

  Silence from Carcere.

  “Come on!” the Guard shouted, meaty hand outstretched. “How many pockets could you have?”

  Isadora reached into her dress pocket and extracted the key. She held it out to him. “I found it while doing the laundry. I’m assuming it’s the key to the linen closet, eh?”

  The Guards exchanged glances before the burly one snatched it from her palm. “Erm, yes. That’s what it’s for.”

  “The linen closet,” said the other.

  Liars, she thought. Good. That meant the key opened an important door.

  “Is this gold?” she called, reaching out to touch the veins of color that ran through the wall, sparkling in the torchlight. The first Guard grimaced and rubbed his ear. The smaller of the two snorted.

  “It’s oro,” he said. “Fool’s gold.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t know?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not from here.”

  “Obviously,” he muttered.

  The burly Guardian tilted his head back, chin jutting into the air. “Suppresses all magic. No spell needed.”

  “That shouldn’t be possible.”

  He shrugged. “It is. It’s one of the things that makes Carcere special.”

  Special was one word for it.

  Isadora held out a palm. With a silent spell, she attempted to create a flame. Sparks sputtered in her hands, crackling just above the skin without forming a real flame. Both Guards advanced on her. She closed her fist just as the burly one slapped her across the wrist.

  “You fool!”

  “Sorry!” she cried. Her skin smarted. “Just wanted to see.”

  “You’ll call the wrath of The Great One!”

  “How would she know?” Isadora asked. “Wouldn’t the oro suppress her ability to sense it?”

  Both Guards stared at her quizzically, buying her precious seconds to listen. No sound followed. Drat! Lucey must have heard her—or else Carcere was bigger than she thought.

  The larger Guardian narrowed his eyes, as if he sensed her thoughts.

  She forced a smile.

  “Oro. Good for a prison, no?” she asked, loudly. Her voice rang down the hall with a slight echo. In the lull, she strained to hear. A drip. A cough. The squeak of a mouse. Nothing but a reverberating silence stretched through the hall.

  “What do you know about prisons?” barked the first Guard. “You’re done here; now go!”

  “Not very kind,” she muttered, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, “to someone who just saved your head.”

  His scowl deepened.

  “You’re wasting our time. Leave!”

  She splayed her hands in front of her. “I will, I promise. But … are there any, ah …” She snapped her fingers. “Ah, what do you call it? Ghosts? Sprutto?”

  The smaller Guard laughed.

  “Spettros?”

  “Yes! Do you have spettros up here?”

  The startled expression on the larger Guard told her she’d hit her mark. “What?” he asked.

  “Spettros. Do they live here? I-I’ve always loved to see spirits and—”

  “No spettros. Go away. You
annoy us.”

  “Ask your prisoner!” she cried, just a touch too loud. “She’ll tell you about the ghosts. You know, the spettro the whole staff talks about.”

  Isadora paused, listening again. Nothing. The smaller Guard paused, eyes darting to his superior.

  “Tell us what?” he asked.

  “Silence! Don’t fall for her stupid questions.”

  “The spettro of the old Watcher.” Isadora turned to the smaller Guard. “An old man, I hear, who was tortured to death many years ago and haunts those who persecute his kind. You haven’t heard of him? Even I have, and I’m from the Central Network.”

  Both Guards frowned.

  “He lived in Carcere for sixty years.” She straightened, pulling her shoulders back, and letting her voice roll through the tunnel. “He’s particularly fond of birds. Forests. He loved to go on long walks and tell tales about dragons.”

  The smaller Guard gulped.

  C’mon, Lucey, Isadora silently pleaded. Make a noise.

  “Now you are annoying,” the Guard said, advancing with a scowl. “Leave, lavanda wench.”

  She held up her hands, backing up before he could touch her. “Fine! Fine. Don’t believe in spettros. Let them haunt you for being here and interrupting their mortal journey. It’s the risk you take.”

  The smaller Guard shifted in place, casting a glance back into the encompassing darkness. Isadora shuffled back a step, her mouth opened for one last attempt, when a distant note, like the trill of a bird, so faint it could have been a whisper of wind, sounded through the hall to the right.

  Her heart thrilled. She knew that bird. A ribbon lark. Found only near Anguis. One of Lucey’s very favorites.

  Only one thing left to do.

  Isadora smiled and backed up, pulling her shoe with the untied lace closer. The uniforms lay in a pile on the ground, abandoned. She wagged a finger. “Have a good day! Don’t you dare mess up my hard work on those uniforms!”

  When she spun around to head toward the stairs, she tripped on her shoelace and flew into the wall with a cry of alarm. Her head struck the stone. She closed her eyes and flopped onto her back, her body slack.

  She slipped into the magic.

  It was sluggish, bringing her into the paths slowly. A muted forest met her gaze. Darkness instead of trees. Shadows instead of detailed leaves. Tepid light sliced through the darkness, then faded.

  Is this what Maximillion sees in the paths?

  Still, a few faint paths sprang to life at her feet, the edges blurred. Seven paths—or was it six? Three for her and the Guards. That left three or four Watchers close by.

  “Show only Lucey’s path!”

  Slowly, the darkness gave way. She remained in the black for what felt like an eternity before four faint, glimmering whisps leapt to life off to the left. That meant something. At the least, Lucey was here. A stinging sensation spread across her face. Isadora closed the magic, satisfied at the confirmation, and returned to the dungeon.

  The smaller of the two Guardians hovered over her, tapping her on the cheek with the back of his hand. Isadora tucked the magic farther into herself than she’d ever locked it before. It disappeared without a fight, no doubt ushered there by the suppressive effects of the oro.

  She slowly opened her eyes, as if groggy.

  “Miss!” he shouted. “Awake!”

  She pressed a hand to her forehead, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t …”

  “You are in pain?”

  “A headache. Did I … did I fall?”

  He motioned to her shoe with a wave of his hand. “Your shoelace.”

  She straightened, breathless, then added a theatrical grimace. “How silly. I’m so sorry. I’m … quite well, thank you. Please don’t bother.”

  “I will walk you to the door.”

  “No! No, really.”

  “You struck your head.”

  “I’m fine.”

  The Guard looked back. Isadora fluttered her eyes, feigning lightheadedness. With a growl, the burly Guard nodded toward the fathomless cavern behind her and muttered, “Get her out of here.” Before she could form another protest, the other Guardian hauled her into the pitch-black stairwell.

  Isadora let him take her, weak with relief.

  Lucey was still alive.

  Luteis faced a semicircle of reluctant dragons that kept peering up in the canopy, then back at him.

  One must strengthen the wings, he said. That can only be done by flying, even if you drop almost immediately to the forest floor.

  Sanna sat on a root, hands braced behind her, watching the first flight lesson begin. Six hatchlings and six adults filled the space, which wasn’t expansive. Cara slipped in and out of the trees, nudging hatchlings that grew bored, growling at those that tried to slip away.

  A body settled onto the root next to Sanna.

  “How’s your face?”

  Jesse tossed his hair out of his eyes as he made himself comfortable on the mossy pillow beneath them. Sanna sighed, gently probing the skin of her forehead.

  “It hurts.”

  “The skin?”

  “My head. The light hurts my eyes. Yes, the skin too. It pulses.”

  He glanced over at her. “It’s scabbing. That’s a good sign, Mam says.”

  “Think I’ll get a scar?”

  Jesse grinned. “Probably. Can you still see?”

  “Thanks to Luteis and that falla melon.”

  Luteis had spaced the dragons out by several wingspans, which wasn’t easy in such a small clearing. Two of the adults had to peer around tree trunks. Luteis’s instructions rang through Sanna’s mind.

  Your wings are weak. Your focus must be on strengthening them before we can truly teach you the dynamics of flying and being one with the wind.

  “What is he saying?” Jesse asked.

  “He’s explaining that their wings are weak. They have to strengthen them first. Is Elis doing all right?”

  A shadow crossed Jesse’s face momentarily. Sanna thought back to Stellis, when the mountain dragons attempted to bear him away.

  “He’s all right. More shocked than mournful, I think. Dragons don’t seem to grieve like witches. Elis seems to fear more for the future than in losing his sire. They weren’t close, anyway.”

  Alis, the hatchling that came from Finn’s, leapt onto a trunk and scrambled up the nearest branch, which was parallel with Luteis’s head.

  You may proceed, he said.

  The hatchling hesitated, her eyes focused on the ground.

  Don’t look at where you’ll fall, he said. Look at where you want to go. Where your eyes go, so does your body.

  Alis quivered, then stretched her wings and sprang from the branch, wings spread. She flailed, flapping awkwardly as she dropped like a stone. She crashed into the forest floor with a screech. Instantly, three other hatchlings surrounded her, Rosy included. Junis watched from a distance, then snorted fire, as if bored.

  Amusement laced Luteis’s tone. A promising start for a hatchling. Next.

  Jesse gave a low whistle. “If she crashed that hard, can you imagine what it’s going to be like for the adults?”

  “They have greater wingspans,” Sanna said.

  “And heavier bodies.”

  Another silence fell when a second and third hatchling ascended the tree. One of the adults shifted his weight from one leg to another. The once-plump dragons, fat from feasting on the carcasses obtained by the witches, had grown gaunt, almost ghastly, in their thinness. Their scales lacked luster. Luteis’s edict that they must attempt flight had met with little resistance—Alis and her tales of the mountain dragon attack, no doubt, had convinced them of the necessity of them working.

  A hopeful sign.

  The two hatchlings, together, plummeted to the ground. Their wings tangled halfway down in their desperate thrashing. Their heads knocked together as they fell to the earth. Sanna winced. Jesse sucked in a sharp breath as Luteis commanded them to try
again. He turned to the adults and motioned to a much-higher branch.

  “Is this hopeless?” Jesse asked, frowning.

  Sanna hesitated.

  Of course it seemed hopeless on some level, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Adult dragons that had never attempted to fly in their life could hardly learn in time to fight a force like Selsay. Forest dragons might have size on their side, but without flight they lost a great deal of their advantage.

  She’d been thinking about it constantly. Were they wasting their time? Or was there some advantage in taking action? She hadn’t decided. In light of a firm answer, she kept going with their current plan. Doing something seemed far better than nothing.

  “No,” she said. “It’s not hopeless.”

  He studied her face, then nodded.

  Sanna tilted her head at the sound of crackling leaves. Elliot strode toward the dragons. He stopped thirty paces away, hands clenched at his sides, and pulled in a deep breath.

  “No way,” Jesse murmured.

  Sanna straightened, one arm lifted. “Ell—”

  Jesse grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Wait.”

  Elliot stepped into the circle near Luteis. Luteis glanced at Sanna in question. Before she could open her mouth, Elliot turned to Luteis and said, “I want to learn to fly.”

  He must merge with a dragon first, Luteis said, glancing back at the dragons. They all shuffled.

  Dragons, Luteis called. A Dragonmaster awaits a merge. This will strengthen you for flight and give us much more advantage in any conflict. Together, you are stronger.

  Alis stepped closer, nostrils flaring as she sniffed Elliot’s direction. Sanna’s brow furrowed. Can a hatchling merge? she asked Luteis, eyeing Alis. Though she was small for a dragon, a hatchling of ten years could easily bear the weight of a witch like Elliot, particularly while he was so gaunt. But it did seem odd.

  It is not recommended.

  She lifted one eyebrow. How do you know?

  Luteis’s gaze tapered. He’d grown up in isolation—raised by the forest after his mam was killed by the tyrant Talis. Until he’d saved Sanna, he’d never met another dragon.

  It is not recommended by me, he hissed. They aren’t prepared for the responsibility or the power.

  Sanna fought off a smile when his tail twitched dangerously close to her right cheek, whistling past her in warning. When she turned, Jesse was staring at her with a strange expression.