I nod slowly, turning this information around in my brain. So, it would appear the Dragon Queen has another daughter after all. One she’s not already devoured. My sister. And she too possesses the ability to enter the minds of the dragon spawn. No doubt she discovered, like me, how simple it is to control those minds, to gain swift obedience to further her own needs. I’ve been doing this for less than an hour, and how many times already have I asserted my will over this boy’s? I don’t like to think of it.
What must it be like to live subjected to the will of another? Until today, I’d never questioned whether the dragons served Mhoryga willingly. But what if they don’t want to be the fire-breathing monsters and mindless slaves she’s created? I remember the shame I felt in this boy’s head—the shame of being made a beast, an animal. Of being ridden.
“Listen, Rhyo,” I say, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible despite my own fears, “I won’t send you back to Nyxia. Once we’re out of here, you’ll be free to do as you wish, to go where you want. But,” I add, and crouch beside him, bringing my face level with his, “neither of us is getting out of here alive unless you transform. Do you understand?”
He blinks at me, his eyes swimming with terror. Inarticulate fear claws at the back of my brain.
“You can transform into your dragon aspect, can’t you?”
He nods. Then, with a little shudder, he adds, “But the moreyou do it, the less likely you are to turn back again. Some of them…some of them never manage it at all.”
The horror he feels at that terrible prospect is almost enough to undo me. And can I blame him? The idea of being made into a creature so utterly different from what I know myself to be—whether princess or dragon—terrifies me as well.
“I understand,” I say. “But…Rhyo, we cannot escape this place without wings.”
His brow pinches, and he tilts his head to one side. “You’re like her,” he says thoughtfully. “You can’t transform.”
I frown, uncertain what he means. Then it comes to me: He’s talking about the other woman, the one who looks like me. Nyxia hasn’t manifested her dragon form yet either? Interesting. Not terribly pertinent to the needs of the moment, but interesting.
“I’m not sure about that,” I answer with a shrug. “So far, no. I can’t wield dragon flame, and I can’t take dragon form. A pretty poor dragon when all’s said and done.” I grip his shoulder. “Which is why I need you. I need you to become a dragon and fly us out of here. Can you do that?”
He nods slowly. “But not without hellfire. I’m still new at it. I need fire to transform.”
“Can’t you…breathe fire or something?”
He opens his mouth, and I flinch. But nothing more than a faintly noxious fume emerges. “They fed memeorisepellets,” he says, his lip curled with disgust. “When they captured me. To keep my fire subdued.”
“Well, damn.” I sit back on my heels, nonplussed. “We’ll just have to think of some—”
The box jolts to a stop. It’s so abrupt, both the boy and I tumble onto the floor. My heart plunges to my stomach, and the boy’sfear shoots up inside my brain. For a moment, I’m too disoriented to realize what is happening or why.
Then the box begins to descend.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
My head whirls—the descent is much faster than the rise, almost fast enough to feel like falling. The boy screams and plasters himself against one wall, terror quaking him from the inside out. It’s so much, and I’m too distraught myself to protect against it, which only adds to my own distress. “Damn it, Rhyo!” I cry, my hands plastered against the sides of my head. “Get a hold of yourself!”
He can’t. And unless I’m willing tomakehim, there’s nothing I can do about it. The box continues to descend, and who will be waiting below to greet us when the door slides open? Captain Norlan and a dozen of his guards? King Alderin himself?
I reach for my hip, find the knife strapped there, and draw it. Though the swift plummet of the lift makes me dizzy, I force myself to my feet and assume the defensive position Valtar taught me. I’ve come this far; I’m not about to be taken down easily. If I must sell my life for the sake of freedom, so be it.
Even at such a swift clip, the descent seems to last forever. Time enough for panic to swell, recede, and swell again. Time enough for the dragon boy to start whimpering something that sounds like prayers in a language I do not know. Some Khylmirian dialect, I suppose.
Finally, the box stops. It’s so abrupt, it makes me stagger and knocks the boy flat on his face. I brace myself, tossing hair out of my eyes. Reassuming position, I turn my body sideways to make a smaller target, angle my blade out, and draw a steadying breath.
The door slides open.
Taigan stands before me, his face illuminated in brilliantscintillight. For a moment, I see the vicious prince of earlier today, a man of action and blood and violence. Then his gaze fastens on me, startled. Like he wasn’t expecting to see me at all.
“Roselle?” he says, his brow puckering.
The boy shifts on the ground behind me. Taigan’s gaze snaps to him, and that flare of bloodlust ignites once more in his eyes. It’s like he comes alive at the sight of a dragon, alive with the singular consuming need of his existence—the need of the dragon slayer to spill dragon blood. It is his whole reason for being, like the instinct of the hunting wolf.
He draws back his sword arm, takes a lunging step toward the boy.
I move in a quick pattern of steps. Not quite as natural or instinctual as his, for I don’t have years of training to fall back on. But those hours of practice have given my muscles some confidence, and pure desperation does the rest of the work. I step sideways into Taigan’s path, between him and the boy. As his blow descends, I lash out with my knife, and neatly slice open his forearm, cutting the tendons.
Taigan screams.
