She shakes her head. “No one can come or go through the gate wards without the High King’s permission.”
I set my teeth in a grim smile. “I will have to find myself a pair of wings.”
33
Rosie
Though I know it cannot be so, the vents feel much narrower, much darker, and much more terrifically echoing than they did two nights ago. I feel as though every breath I take is magnified tenfold, until I might as well be shouting for all the guards in the passages beneath me to look up and catch a glimpse of my shadow passing over a grate.
Is it just me, or are there more guards than usual patrolling these halls? It takes a good three turns before I finally come to a passage that feels empty below me, and even then I don’t dare risk exiting the vents. The minute I do, I’ll turn a corner and run smack into Captain Norlan or one of his crew.
I inch along, pulling myself forward with my elbows, scrabbling with my toes. It’s very dark, but I’m not exactly blind, or at least, blindness doesn’t deter me. Now that theholabellais mostly worn off, I can feel the mind of the last surviving dragon, deep down underneath me, in the lower levels of the palace. His fear and grief are a constant thread of sharp pain just in the back of my mind…but if I am very careful, I can take hold of thatthread and use it as a guiding line. Presumably these air vents lead through every layer of the palace, right? Even prisoners in the dungeon need to breathe.
So I clamber on, following that thread, following that voice in my head. Because there’s no way I’m getting out of here without that boy. And I don’t mean that with any particular sisterly devotion…it’s purely practical. Because while I may not be able to manifest my dragon form, sprout wings, and fly out of here, who’s to say he can’t?
Now if only I can find him. And convince him not to roast me alive on the spot.
I wish I knew how to control this strange mind link we seem to share. I suppose it is the first true sign of my dragonhood. After all, Valtar was the first person I sensed in this way. Not as clearly, perhaps, because he is not a dragon. But if he is truly dracori, then he has dragon blood in his veins, making him perceptible to my budding dragon senses.
My brothers, though, are true dragon spawn. Their arrival in Stromin Palace must have burst something open in my awareness, far more intense than anything I’d felt with Valtar. And how far do these mind-link powers go? With practice, will I be able to read more than impressions of feelings? Will I be able to read those thoughts?
Will I be able to control those thoughts?
A shudder ripples down my spine. Everyone knows Mhoryga controls both the dracori and the dragon spawn via the blood she shares with them. But in all my time here, learning about what’s expected of me as a potential dragon princess, I’d not considered the possibility that I might share this particular power. The idea is terrifying…and intriguing.
I won’t think about that for now, however. I don’t know howlong I’ve got before Philippa is inevitably discovered, passed out on my bed with only a wedding gown–dressed dummy for company. Then the alarm will be raised, and if I haven’t somehow found my brother and gotten him out of the dungeons, all chance of escape will be done for. It’s not much of a chance as it is, being scarcely more than an idea, not an actual plan. But it’s what I’ve got, so I’m going for it.
I stop. My reaching hand stretches out before me and finds that empty nothing I’d encountered two nights ago. I draw a deep breath, steadying my racing heart. I’d known I was coming to it. And this is good, this is what I need. After all, that mind-link thread leads firmlydown. So down is where I must go.
But the idea of plunging into that dark void with no guess how deep or how bone crushing the landing may be is not exactly palatable.
I swallow, trying to wet my dry throat. After all, the dwarves who built these shafts must have planned access for repairs, right? They wouldn’t build a plunging drop without some means to climb it. Though my shrinking heart begs me to pull back from the edge, I reach into that void opening, feeling around until I find the wall on one side. And there, a little lower than I like, my fingertips just brush a metal rung. A handhold. And are there more, lower still?
It takes every ounce of courage I possess to get my legs swung out over that edge, while my hands fumble for the grips and my toes stretch for the lower rungs. It’s all built on a scale for dwarves, at least, so there are no great gaps between them. But even my dragon eyes struggle in this near-perfect dark. Only that incessant tugging from my brother’s mind, growing stronger as theholabellawears from my system, sharpens my focus. I need to get to him. So I need to descend this gods-damned ladder. It’s as simple as that.
I scramble into the shaft and begin a painstaking descent. I want to go so much faster. Every second brings me that much closer to the moment when the alarm is sure to sound. But it won’t help either me or the destiny of the world if I miss a step in the dark and fall to my doom. I force myself to go carefully, feeling out each foothold before I trust my weight to it. Every few rungs, I’m obliged to stop and simply hang in place as the sense of walls closing in threatens to overcome me. I let the feeling wash through my senses, then expel it with a few firm breaths. Then I continue, down, down, down into the depths of stone.
I reach the bottom of the shaft rather abruptly, my foot searching for another rung but instead finding a flat surface. I feel my way into a tunnel which seems to lead in the same general direction as the tugging mind link of the dragon. That pull has only strengthened as my senses throw off the last of theholabellahaze. By now, it’s a loud clamor in my head, and I can only hope I will learn to control it sooner rather than later.
Following that clamor, I come at last to another grate. A red glow casts a lattice pattern on the shaft wall. My stomach tightens. That is notscintillight, but actual fire burning in the chamber below. Moving stealthily, I ease myself over the grate and peer into the space below.
A circle of torches stands below me, burning bright. Not hellfire—just the regular hot flame of this world, but unexpected down here under the mountain. The only other place I’ve seen living fire is the king’s own chambers; otherwise, all is lit withscintils.
Here, the flames seem to act as a sort of barrier, encircling the hunched little figure seated in their center. I recognize him at once, the dragon-spawn boy from the arena. He is bent over in obvious pain, mostly naked save for a torn pair of trousers cut offat the knees. His hands are shackled inmeorisechains and wrapped over his head, his arms covering his face. A low, agonized moan touches my ears, an audible sound distinct from the humming of his fear in my head.
Pain darts through my heart. But now that I see him, now that I am so close to him, the clamor in my head somehow seems to resolve into a little knot of awareness, much easier to ignore. Perhaps this is the first step toward gaining control of this new ability. I have no time to dwell on that now, however.
I peer around the chamber, taking in as much as I can from this angle. It would be altogether too lucky if he is unguarded, but…I can’t sense anyone else in that chamber. Just him and those torches.
Why does this feel too easy? Is it possible this whole scenario has somehow been orchestrated for me? That even Philippa agreeing to help me, agreeing to boost me into the air shaft and take that dose ofholabella, was all part of some prearranged plan? I struggle to believe Alderin would leave the dragon boy unwatched. My lips are dry, cracked. I bite them hard, considering. I can’t very well just go back to my rooms, can I? What would I do then? Put on that gods-awful wedding gown and let them march me off to some secret stone chapel, there to exchange wedding vows with Taigan?
No. I have a plan. Or a notion, at any rate. It may prove to be all part of some devilish trick, but until I know for certain, I’ve got to keep going.
My fingers slot into the grooves of the grate. It takes some doing to pull it free and push it aside, not a task I can accomplish in silence. And yet, despite my grunting and groaning, despite the scrape of stone on stone, the boy remains crouched there, rocking a little back and forth, shivering despite the near heat ofthose torches. Finally, I ease myself through the opening. The dungeon’s ceilings are much lower than the passage overhead, and it’s a simple enough matter to drop to the floor.
At the sound of my “Oof!” the boy finally looks up. Red light illuminates a face so young, so childlike, and so racked with fear. I don’t think he’s more than thirteen years old, if even that.
“It’s all right,” I say softly, taking a step nearer to him, into the light of the torches. “It’s all right, I’m…I’m a friend. I’m here to help you.”
