ESSA
Iclosed my eyes as Othura and I cut through the sky, enjoying the feeling of freedom.
It was a cool morning, the fresh autumn wind sharp against my cheeks, the sun pale and bright and fragile against a backdrop of pallid blue.
Gods, how right it felt to have Othura beneath me, feeling her sides move between my legs with each breath, listening to the distinctive low thump of her wings as they beat against the wind.
She wore this cursed Gray Brother-fashioned collar—an enchanted abomination of black onyx Kortoi had warned us would kill her if we tried to fly too far. But even with that ominous adornment about her neck, I couldn’t help but feel a little hopeful, being on Othura’s back again.
I’d only been without her for a few days, but it felt like an eternity.
I missed you too, Dear Heart, she said in my mind. I smiled.
But despite the beautiful morning, and being reunited with Othura, I still felt terrible.
It had been tempting to skip my doses of scorper tea and scorper lotion this morning—but the bydrune was coming.
No day had been appointed yet, but arrangements were being made, and I knew it would happen soon, within two weeks at the latest. It was precious little time to acclimate myself to the poison.
Missing today’s dose would have been ill-advised.
So, although beauty abounded—the smoke-blue slopes and snow-laden tips of the distant Yrdam Mountains, the broken opal spires of Charcain, the glistening sea—I saw it all with the glassy eyes of a corpse. In truth, the only thing that kept me in the saddle was the clip Charlie had fashioned for me.
Charlie.
The thought of his name felt like an arrow in my chest, but I pushed the feeling away. There was no time for feelings. For love. For mourning. Not for me. Not ever again…
To succeed on the path before me, I would have to be as dead as the stone of the Yrdams, and twice as cold.
My eyelids fluttered shut, my thoughts scattering. Gods, I felt so sick. I needed to rest my eyes, just for a second, just…
Essa? Othura prodded me in my mind, jerking me awake.
Hmm?
They’re coming.
Romia, Cronin and Kramat had been on the ground, fussing with their saddles, picking their lances, and probably conspiring about how best to kill me.
Now, they took flight, their dragons pumping their wings to reach our elevation.
At the thought of fighting them, or any further exertion, my stomach turned.
I imagined myself vomiting on them, and a weak smile rose to my lips.
But even as the amusement came, it ebbed again, and I felt my eyelids drifting shut once more as the scorper venom did its terrible work inside me.
You can’t fight like this, Dear Heart, Othura said. Whatever sport Romia and the others have in mind, we have to get out of it.
I can’t. I have to act normal until the bydrune.
There’ll be no bydrune if you die over the Cauldron, she reminded me.
But we had no time to debate. Kramat swooped close and tossed me a blunted lance. Despite how dazed I was, muscle memory took over and I snatched it from the air.
We thought we’d start with lances, Romia said via simnal.
Sure. I know how much you two enjoy a nice, friendly poke, I said, causing Romia and Kramat to share an awkward glance.
But as those two had distracted me with banter, Cronin had circled behind me.
He came at me now, swooping down from above, lance leveled.
Lucky for me, Othura felt him coming. We jogged left at the last second, allowing his lance to pass harmlessly behind my head—though still closer than I would have liked.
This was supposed to be a melee-style exercise—everyone against everyone. So he continued, winging toward Romia, and the two clacked lances—a gentle hit that I could tell was purely for show. Then Romia and Kramat were both wheeling toward me again.
Facing two of the most powerful Skrathan and their dragons at once would have been dangerous at any time.
Feeling as bad as I did now, it was the height of foolishness.
But they were closing on me fast, and retreat wasn’t an option.
So, I aimed us toward them, steering Othura with my knees, then leaning forward to speed up.
The lances swept toward me, their twin points steady, heading for each of my eye sockets.
At the last second, I cast my weight right, throwing Othura into a barrel roll.
Before working with Charlie and getting the clip for my arm, I’d been afraid to go upside down.
Now, I executed the maneuver aggressively, and as we went upright again, Othura snapped her wings open.
Her right one knocked into Kramat, sending him tumbling from the saddle to splash into the water below.
Romia turned for another pass. I couldn’t see her face beneath the visor of her helmet, but I could feel the sizzle of her irritation via simnal.
Not bad, she said in my mind.
Her loop brought her back to Cronin, and they clacked lances again, then banked toward me.
Okay, we taught them a lesson, Othura said. Now let’s go back before you get hurt.
No, I said. They know I would never back down. Leave now, and they’ll be suspicious.
Cronin and Romia split up so that Romia was coming at me from my right and Cronin from my left. They’d converge on me like a pair of pincers.
I weighed my options for avoiding them. Climbing would be too slow.
Diving might allow me to avoid their first pass, but it would give them the advantage of height when they came around again.
Diving was also the textbook response; it was what they’d expect me to do.
Instead, I decided to do something unexpected.
I turned toward Cronin and leaned forward, speeding Othura ahead.
Dragon powers were not supposed to be used in a sparring melee—no fire, wind, venom, or lightning was allowed.
But they were already cheating by working together.
So, I goosed us with a little tailwind, just enough to keep Romia from catching us from behind, as I sped toward Cronin and leveled my lance.
Cronin wasn’t as muscly as Kramat. He was tall and lithe—but he was still a good foot and a half taller than I was, and strong.
He wouldn’t expect a wily fighter like me to go pound-for-pound with him.
He’d be expecting another slick maneuver, another trick.
So again, I did the unexpected. I sped straight toward him, ready to hit him head-on.
As his lance-point streaked toward me, I shifted at the last second, turning my shoulders, and it whiffed past me harmlessly.
At the same time, my lance hit him squarely in the chest. Our dragons also collided, and for a moment, I was weightless in my saddle, the crash of the impact replaced with the whisper of wind.
The jolt had knocked my lance from my hand.
I watched it fly from my grasp and spin downward.
Cronin and his dragon fell, too, both of them seemingly too stunned to move as they dropped straight down and hit the water in a massive explosion of white foam.
Somehow, Othura managed to right herself and keep flying.
But I was in no condition to celebrate. I’d held it together so far, keeping the effects of the poison at bay through sheer force of will.
But the effort of battle was wearing on me, and the poison sickness came rushing back, slapping into me like a wave.
My vision was blurry. I felt feverish. Achy.
Nauseated. Dizzy. My head pounded. And my head rang from the impact with Cronin.
But I still had Romia to deal with. And she’d be more determined than ever to take me down now that I’d bested her friends.
For one panicked moment, I didn’t see her. I sat up tall in the saddle, my head swiveling left, then right. At last, I caught sight of her, behind me, keeping a wary distance. I turned Othura and we circled one another.
We have an audience, Othura said, and I looked down to see a crowd of nobles had gathered at the Cauldron’s edge, watching.
And off to the left of them, a huge green dragon sat on a spire of rock.
It looked strange, lopsided, and for a second, I thought my vision had gone haywire.
Then, I realized what I was seeing. A two-headed dragon with only one head left.
Braimar’s dragon. And he sat in the saddle, watching.
Great…
Romia and I still circled.
It’s funny, Romia said in my mind. Every time I think about you becoming Irska, I think it was a fluke. And then I see something like this… she trailed off.
It’s fine. I’m used to being underestimated, I said, drawing my sword.
Even for someone as lucky as you, their luck is bound to run out eventually… Romia said.
I guess we’ll see, won’t we? I replied, still circling.
We will. It’s a pity Laynine won’t be here to see it, Romia said.
I could hear the pain and bitterness in her words. Her hatred for me was born of her love for Laynine, that was clear enough. But the why didn’t matter. In the skies over the Cauldron, it was always kill or be killed.
Don’t worry. You’ll be able to tell her about this day yourself soon enough, I said, and I urged Othura to charge.
Romia, to her credit, saw that my lance was gone and dropped hers as well, drawing her sword instead.
The lances were blunted. Our swords were not. If one of our blades found its mark moving at this speed, one of us was likely to lose a head. Still, we streaked toward one another through the howling wind.
But the poison sickness was flaring again at the worst time.
A wave of dizziness hit me like a punch, causing me to reel in the saddle.
I slumped, nearly passing out—and it probably saved my life, for I shifted to the side just as Romia’s blade passed through the space where my neck had been a second before.
Essa. Essa! Othura called, but her voice seemed far away.
My eyelids must have drifted shut, for I felt, rather than saw, my blade being dashed from my hand.
I felt Othura roaring and snarling as the two dragons locked up, wrestling one another in the sky.
I forced my eyes open in time to see Romia leaping onto Othura’s back, her sword blade flashing.
But I felt no pain. I blinked, confused, trying to comprehend what was happening through my dizziness and double vision.
And then I saw it. A loose leather strap, flapping.
I felt weight shifting on Othura’s back.
Romia had cut my saddle loose.
Goodbye, Irska, she said, and planted a kick in my gut.
My saddle fell from Othura’s back, and I fell with it.
I think I passed out for a second, for I awoke, as if from a dream, to a blast of frigid water.
Awareness hit me in a flash. The clip that replaced my missing hand remained attached to the heavy saddle—which was fast sinking toward the lake bottom.
I reached down, fumbling with the metal clip, but my fingers were already freezing from the cold water, too numb to function.
I fumbled with the straps that held the clip to my arm. Same problem.
Othura! I called, but I could feel her, still far above me, locked in battle with Sordim, unable to break free. Unable to save me.
I fought, fumbled, struggled, tried to swim upwards.
But the cold and poison had turned my limbs to lead and my thoughts to a useless jumble.
A memory blinked before me: my mother, swallowed up by the sea as she sank forever into the black depths.
And just like her, my saddle pulled me down now, down to the place where there was no more light.
No more pain. No more love. No more life.