FLIGHT

by Katie Cross

  “If she didn’t, she likely does now.”

  “Not again!” Babs said, jerking her head back and forth. Her voice thickened. “We cannot go through this again! First Talis. Then Anguis. Then Finn. This is … this is unbearable.”

  Elliot caught her by the arm.

  “Calm yourself, amo. We’ll figure it out.”

  “There is time to get away!” she cried, voice high. “We can escape. Find a way out. What if we—”

  “Babs may be right,” Elliot said, glancing at Sanna. “If we leave now, we have a chance of outrunning them. Hiding, at least. If they hate the forest so much … “

  He trailed away. Sanna clenched her teeth, forcing patience into her tone. “We couldn’t flee far enough. Those dragons can fly and transport, and we cannot. Besides, Selsay has strength to spare. She’ll swarm us with her mad dragons and let them kill us to get to the mams.”

  “We can’t just stay!” Babs cried.

  “We must. We’ve already prepared for this.”

  “Yes, but now it’s upon us!”

  We can’t hide from them forever, Luteis said. It would be foolish to stall.

  “We fight, Mam,” Jesse said. “There is no alternative. They’re probably already on their way.”

  Trey stood. Greata and Hans sat on a log next to him, clutching each other, staring into the crackling fire. Strength born from adversity and pain filled Trey’s entire body. He trembled from the force of it.

  “I won’t run again.”

  “With what army will we fight?” Elliot said. “It was fine to plan for a fight before we had all this information, but now we know we cannot win. It isn’t possible! Our dragons can’t fly! We can’t do magic. The dragons won’t even let us ride on them if they could fly. This will be another massacre.”

  A clamor arose all at once. Greata shot to her feet, standing next to Trey with fire in her eyes. Hans started to wail. Jesse pulled two of his younger brothers away from them. Babs tried to silence everyone. Off by herself, Mam remained silent, as if she hadn’t noticed the rise of voices. In the distance, dragons roared.

  Something in the chaos, the screaming voices, sent Sanna reeling. Back to the trees of Letum Wood. To the sound of screaming. The smell of blood on the air. Daid draped across Luteis, dead, blood flowing from his body.

  The chaos had split them apart and led to this.

  Perhaps they had no chance. Maybe there was no way to win. But they couldn’t run again. Running wouldn’t preserve their lives—they couldn’t work on flying lessons or construct shelter or weapons while fleeing. It was just another way to die.

  Without honor.

  In standing, they had a chance, however small. But not if they were divided.

  The voices behind her turned piercing. Shouts broke out between Elliot’s family and what remained of Finn’s. Sanna gazed between them, thoughts churning. If they continued like this, they’d fracture. Break like the thin sheets of rock in the North. They’d never recover.

  You can stop this, Luteis whispered. Indeed, it is your place.

  I know.

  Sanna shot to her feet.

  “Silence!”

  The cacophony of voices abated. Sanna grabbed a vine and scrambled upward, dangling over them. Silence flooded the forest. Not even the distant call of a bird rang from the trees. Sanna felt heat building in her body, tingling in her fingertips, the way it had in the West when they’d first faced Pemba, or when Finn died, or Pemba took her.

  “We will not panic,” she snapped. “We will not run. Running won’t buy us an advantage. If we run, we weaken our chances of protecting the mams. It’s exactly what Selsay wants. We’re going to stay, and we’re going to fight. Right now.”

  Sanna turned to Jesse.

  “You and Elis are in charge of the adult dragons. They may not be able to fly, but they can fight from the ground or use their secundum. I want everyone fed, positioned where they can hide, and readied for battle.”

  Jesse nodded.

  Sanna spun. “Mam, you’re in charge of protecting the children. I suggest all of you head to the hollowed-out shelter underground now. Luteis will burn the ground behind you to erase your smell, just in case. Take the two eggs with you. Babs, if you’re willing, I want you helping out here. Mam can keep the children safe.” Sanna met Mam’s gaze. “I know you can.”

  Babs’s nostrils flared. She opened her mouth to protest, but Elliot put a hand on her shoulder. He shook his head. Babs swallowed hard, then nodded once. Mam gave no agreement until Babs touched her arm, then she nodded.

  “I will be in charge of the hatchlings,” Sanna said.

  Rosy snorted from nearby. Junis shuffled out of the trees. Even Alis advanced.

  “Rocks,” she said to Luteis. “Tell the dragons to find boulders you can carry that, when dropped from a great height, will break wings. Make piles in the tree limbs. Put them high, so you can grab and drop them.”

  Rosy, Junis, and Alis took flight and flapped away.

  “Luteis will be in charge of …” She trailed off for a breath. Luteis’s gaze never wavered. “Of … getting the exploding melons.”

  You mean working with Deasylva.

  Whatever.

  “Elliot, we need your oldest boys to check the perimeter,” she continued. “Make sure the spears are still standing and ready to go. Once they’re done, have them climb into the trees and hide near the pile of rocks the hatchlings are getting.” She pointed upward. “Give them knives. Your boys can cut the vines and let the melons fall on the mountain dragons.”

  Greata stepped forward. “I want to help.”

  “Good. You gather baskets or anything we can use. Then ride a hatchling and hide up in the branches to help throw rocks.”

  Another long stretch of quiet hovered amongst them. Sanna’s mind spun. She cast about to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. When a tingle swept through her scabbed face, her gaze hardened. There was nothing more they could do now.

  “They will have a leader,” she said. “You’ll know him by his size and attitude. He wears a white pendant on his neck. His name is Pemba. He’s mine. Now, go. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The ocean churned, overtaken by sable clouds on the horizon.

  The furious sky thickened the air as wind whipped past Isadora’s face, wakening her from her stupor. Pain surged in her wrists and then thudded from the back of her head all the way through her body. Someone moaned. It was her.

  She blinked, staring at the horizon, wondering why it seemed so close, yet so distant. Her blurry vision sharpened.

  Several moments passed before she understood that she was outside, on top of La Torra. The ocean spread around her like a sapphire skirt. Her shoulders were pulled taut. Something rubbed along her arms. The wet wind, tinged with sea spray, had woken her. In the distance, several aquilas released piercing screams.

  Another groan—this one not her own—came from next to her. She glanced over, neck still throbbing.

  Maximillion.

  And Lucey.

  They were both tied to a star-like structure, arms and legs bound. Lucey sagged, skin pale, eyes closed. She slumped downward, as if her legs couldn’t hold her. Maximillion blinked through a bleary daze, a purplish bruise on his forehead. Isadora squirmed. She was also tied to a star structure, arms extended straight out.

  Isadora sucked in a sharp breath, slapped by recollections. Carcere. Cecelia. Watchers. They’d been captured after all.

  Egads, but she hadn’t expected this.

  “Well,” Maximillion muttered with a wince. “This is what happens when you go and get caught, Lucey.”

  Lucey didn’t respond. Her hair drifted next to her in the wind, tossed by the growing tempest. Her eyes were closed, her head hanging low.

  Isadora swallowed hard. The sounds of shuffling movement and cruel voices came from below. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw dark Defender uniforms move in the courtyard. Prepari
ng for something.

  A celebration, she’d wager.

  “This is certainly not the way I imagined my own demise,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

  A dry chuckle came from Maximillion. “Then you didn’t search your paths far enough.”

  “Perhaps I have,” she murmured, gazing out on the rippling ocean, feeling as if she’d seen this before. Her questions about the paths twinged in her mind. Why this magic? Why her? If she could see possibilities for the future, but not the future itself, why even look?

  Despite her impending death, no panic infused her. No sense of terror at her own ending, no fear of the pain Cecelia would surely force them to endure. Would Isadora have to watch Maximillion die slowly?

  Her lips, the back of her neck where he’d grabbed her, burned.

  “Any last-minute escape plans?” she asked.

  “That,” he said, “isn’t up to me.”

  She frowned. What could that mean?

  “You could try transporting,” he said before she could ask. “But I doubt it would be safe, what with oro so close.”

  “No,” she murmured. “I shall stay with Lucey, as I assume you had already planned.”

  Shouting came from below, drawing her attention. Isadora craned her head far enough to the left to see a witch in an ornate dress, skirts so full they stuck out almost horizontally, disappear inside. The Defenders’ heads tipped back, staring up at them. A cold shiver graced her spine.

  “She’s coming,” Isadora whispered.

  Maximillion’s nostrils flared. “Then let her come.”

  “I’m going into the paths,” Isadora said, warmed by the stir of magic in her chest. It beckoned to her in a gentle whisper. An easy movement. A reassurance.

  “I would highly advise you not to,” he said drily.

  “I am. If I’m going to die, I want to say goodbye to the magic. Besides, they already know we’re Watchers. What more can they do?”

  Maximillion said nothing.

  Isadora closed her eyes, opened the magic, and slipped into Letum Wood.

  Light unfurled through the forest. The strange, new brightness, or the feeling of something being different, sent her reeling. A surge of strength didn’t overtake her or demand her attention this time. The magic purred, as if waiting.

  As if it knew something.

  Isadora stood at the base of the same ancient trees and watched countless paths expand outward. Her own. Sanna’s. Maximillion’s. Defenders’. Cecelia’s. Lucey’s. Their wisps blurred because of the sheer enormity of possibilities expanding through the forest in never-ending branches. Isadora paused, feeling the air.

  “I always tell you what to do,” she murmured, reaching out to touch a tree trunk. Light grew from her fingertips in wide circles. “Maybe it’s time for you to show me what you can do.”

  Several beats of silence passed. Nothing happened. She waited, finding peace in the solace. If she were going to die in moments, she’d at least carry the magic with her. It could not—would not—abandon her. A whistle caught her ear. Light. Airy. Almost gauzy.

  The chirp of a bird.

  She whirled around just as a black bird with burgundy feathers winged by, circling her. It settled on her shoulder in a familiar way. Isadora had seen this bird before. One of Maximillion’s messenger birds. Outside of the magic, the birds always appeared empty. Mere puffs of smoke. Here, the bird seemed to be a living thing.

  “Well.” She held out a finger. “What are you doing here?”

  The bird preened, peering at her with intelligent eyes.

  “You’re magic,” she said, reaching to touch its silky feathers and robust chest. “Is that why you can be here?”

  Its beak opened up, trilling a song that faded into a whisper. Then the bird flew away instead of disappearing into a puff of smoke. The wisps drew her gaze by shifting, fading into different, newer forms. New trails populated; others disappeared. The constant shifts of fate normally left her puzzled. Today, she studied them, filled with the uncertainty and desperation the last several months had gifted her.

  “Why?” she called, tilting her head back to look at the canopy. “Why does this magic even exist, and why in me?”

  Light bubbled up from the ground, banishing the trails. It showed her form as she had seen it before. Firm countenance. Shoulders back. Chin high. Determined gaze. Isadora stared at a courageous representation of herself. The wind whispered by.

  Powerful.

  Her figure disappeared. Another bubbled up to replace it. Sanna. Tears filled her eyes. How she longed for her sister! Just as she reached out to touch her, Sanna faded away. Light burst up in a fountain.

  Maximillion.

  He disappeared. Pearl replaced him, all spectral, flowing lines of light and magic. Isadora frowned. Pearl? She disappeared before Isadora could really get a look at her.

  Baylee came next. Then Charles.

  Then Mam.

  Daid.

  Fiona.

  They popped up one at a time, fading only to reveal another witch. Then another. Another. She stopped recognizing the witches. Didn’t have a clue who they were, just watched the endless parade of faces. Something tugged at her, as if to pull her back to reality. Isadora ignored it, remaining firmly rooted in the magic.

  Finally, Maximillion returned, first as a young boy. He grew into a troubled teenager. Then the merciful man full of fire and annoyance she knew so well.

  “What are you trying to say?” Isadora murmured, reaching out to touch his face. The magic shied away, then formed again. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

  Isadora’s mind stirred. The paths of future possibilities weren’t solid—not like the Defenders. If all magic had a perfect, equal, and opposite counter the way Lucey had told her last summer, that meant Watchers had to have a way to know something solid, the way the Defenders did.

  Isadora’s gaze narrowed.

  “That’s it,” she murmured. “The paths aren’t the most important part of the magic, are they? It’s not understanding the future that’s so important. It’s understanding witches.”

  The magic stalled, leaving an empty forest that stared back at her. Waiting. Expectant. There was something she wasn’t seeing. Some missing piece that …

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Cecelia,” she said. “Show me Cecelia as a child.”

  Cecelia’s form burst out of the light. A young girl, at first. She cowered, arm held up as if to protect her face, her teeth clenched in a grimace.

  Frightened, the magic whispered.

  Young Cecelia grew into a teenager. A girl hidden in grimy, ill-fitting clothes, with a bruised cheek. Beneath the layers of resentment in her eyes, Isadora saw a gleam of determination.

  Frightened, the magic whispered again.

  Finally, she grew into the woman Isadora knew now. Elegant clothes. Perfectly curled hair. Not a speck of dirt or poverty or filth to be found. Still, something burned in her eyes. Isadora recalled the moment in the dungeon. She’d fled, eyes wide. The Defenders fought for her. Had Cecelia ever been on a raid herself?

  Never.

  “You’re scared of us,” Isadora whispered. “What happened to you? Who is she so frightened of?”

  The wind rustled by, sweeping her hair off her shoulders. Something cold trickled through her. Light bubbled up from the ground again. The male witch from Carcere—the one who had survived for so long. Isadora stared hard at him.

  Why him?

  Memories whipped through her mind, sliding together like puzzle pieces. She saw herself as the magic saw her. Powerful.

  Cecelia as a child and adult. Frightened.

  When Cecelia visited Maximillion’s office, she’d asked how many paths Max could see. The day the Watcher died in the courtyard, Cecelia had spoken of connections and matches.

  Still, Isadora’s mind churned. Pulling Defenders into the paths by accident while venting her magic. The male witch in Carcere. We are the ones she fears the most, h
e’d said. Isadora’s eyes widened. Understanding flooded her.

  “Of course!”

  Mind spinning, Isadora whistled a three-note tune. The bird soared out of the trees, alighting on her shoulders again with a ruffle of feathers and a gentle squeak. Isadora reached a finger out, caressing its soft underbelly.

  “I need you to do me a little favor,” she whispered.

  The bird bowed its head. Isadora whispered a message. The bird winged away into the trees. Another tugging, more insistent this time, accompanied a burst of pain.

  She closed the magic.

  Sanna stood on a branch, facing one of the oldest trees in this section of the forest with a feeling of trepidation. Although she was alone, she hesitated before reaching out to touch the trunk. Moments passed before something stirred, as if the tree were responding to her skin. Her hand fell away when a telltale silvery glow illuminated a flowing script in the bark. A breeze stirred up, whispering.

  Sanna.

  The scent of honeysuckle followed. Sanna’s shoulders tensed.

  You have come, the words on the tree said. Sanna stared at them, unsure how to respond. She’d only half-expected Deasylva to speak. There had been plenty of failed attempts in the past.

  “You let Daid die.”

  Heat raced through her body once she let the words go. The tree quivered, leaves rustling. The old letters and words faded into the bark, replaced by a new response.

  You are angry.

  “No, I’m livid.”

  I can sense your fear.

  “Why did you let him die?” she snapped. “Why did you let Talis take over and destroy everything? Why do you let all these bad things happen? We are good witches!”

  Thirty seconds passed before the previous words bled away entirely, and another half minute before the new response appeared. Deasylva’s replies were as slow as sap.

  Do you want me to have utter control?

  Images flashed through Sanna’s mind of Talis’s reign. Fire. Restrictions. Anguis’s borders built as high as a dragon’s shoulder. Talis had maintained control. Now Daid, Finn, and others were dead. The dragon population had been cut in half, and the threat of extinction loomed too close for comfort.