Chapter 24 #3
The longer Leita talked, the larger the blue wisps grew. He swore one was nearly as tall as him just to his right, winking in and out of temporality.
Attalus held his breath when Leita’s gaze flicked quickly from him to his right and back again. Her eyes widened in exhilaration, and he bit his cheek harder, nearly drawing blood, to keep from roaring with pride.
Little by little, she made small hand gestures and dared to take glances at the wisps. Before long, it almost seemed as though she carried on a conversation with the magic, his presence here merely incidental.
Gods, he was so damn proud of her. If Eilean could just see her—
A particularly fuzzy bit of miasma snuck up his nose, and Attalus couldn’t contain it—a mighty sneeze erupted from his nostrils. Not just miasma but motes and snot came shooting out, as did a bright burst of flame.
The blue wisps winked out immediately, leaving the grotto dark.
“Attalus…”
He groaned, turning to apologize, when he realized she stared in wonder at the ground to his side. Attalus looked too and saw the strangest sight—the last of his flames eating away at the miasma, creating a larger and larger ring of glowing orange.
Eventually the fire gave out, leaving behind a spot of clean rock.
“It’s not coming back,” Leita murmured.
Attalus was at a loss for words. It can’t be…
They stared at the spot his fire had burned away, breathlessly waiting for the miasma to return.
They were left waiting.
Leita stumbled over to him, her shaking hand coming to grip his arm tightly.
“Can you burn over there?” She pointed at the pool on the far side.
“Stand behind me.” He didn’t want her to be burned.
With Leita behind him but poking her head around his arm to see, Attalus drew in a big breath—and blew it out with flames across the grotto.
Fire licked and snapped across the enclosed space, the air heating. The smell of burning hair filled the grotto as the mats of miasma began to blaze. They burned like spiderwebs, every thread and tendril leading to another until the whole mass of it was eaten away.
A single breath of fire was enough to reveal the whole of the pool, glowing blue in the center of a ring of flame.
Without more heat, the fires eventually ran out of energy, fed by so much miasma. But the pool remained clear.
Leita hurried over to it, staring down at her own reflection. “It’s so deep,” she marveled. “And there’s something…”
Attalus joined her, peering down into waters that weren’t quite…
right. Ghostly forms drifted through the turquoise water, pale faces without features but long flowing hair gliding along as though borne by a tide.
There were layers upon layers of the translucent forms, as though each swirled at a different height in the water column.
He couldn’t help a shudder. But it was when Leita bent toward the water, her eyes glowing blue, that he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled them both backwards.
“What’s wrong with that water?”
“I think they’re memories.” Leita stared up at him with unseeing eyes, and for a moment, Attalus began to panic. Then, with another blink, her senses seemed to return, and she lifted her chin in that stubborn way he loved. “Burn it all, azore.”
Attalus looked around the grotto. “Are you sure?” He didn’t wish to harm the faelands.
Leita nodded. “Sometimes fire is cleansing. Even the forest needs it.”
He knew that dragonfire wasn’t like ordinary flame. The same magic that allowed the shift also imbued a dragon’s internal fires. It was a gift, the elders said, to carry flames in one’s belly. A magical gift that lingered from a time before they’d forgotten how to wield magic itself.
If his dragonfire could help, if it really was so simple…
Attalus would do anything for his Queen.
But they did this on his terms.
He scooped her up under the knees and back, holding her close to his chest and beneath the shelter of his wings. They would offer protection from the heat of the flames. She peered up at him from the crook of his shoulder, her determination glowing brighter than the pool.
“Do it,” she beseeched.
Attalus let loose his flame.
Fire erupted across the whole grotto, the miasma crackling and snapping as it burned. The jewelry on his body warmed, the metal glowing in the heat as he added more and more flames to the fire. With careful backward steps, he made for the staircase on the other side, leaving fire in their wake.
The grotto burned.
Acrid smoke filled the cavern before Attalus had reached the first step.
Before he could tell Leita to hold on and make a run for fresher air, she peeked over the top of his wing and stuck out a finger from her shelter. She circled it through the air, and the smoke gathered in a great twister, all of it falling into a neat pile of soot and ash on the ground.
His flame and her magic left the grotto clear.
Before them, the rocks glittered and almost seemed to sing. They watched as luminescing worms appeared from the rocks, and the pool glowed an eerie blue.
Clutching at his chest, Leita said, “All of it, Attalus. We have to burn all of it.”
Anything at all. “Hold on tight.”
He sucked in a great breath and unleashed it before turning to bound up the steps. His flames led the way, singing the miasma on the staircase and hanging in the air. Leita added her magic, fanning the flames behind them.
By the time they reached the upper threshold, leaping out into the main promenade of the palace, they jumped through flames as miasma burned around them.
Attalus skidded to a stop on the bright limestone. Daylight nearly blinded him as he stood panting, staring down at his mate in disbelief.
Leita let loose a single, wild laugh before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him hard. “All of it,” she said.
His own smile was just as wild, and adjusting her in his arms, Attalus took flight.
As he poured flames upon the miasma in the palace, Leita cupped her hands around her mouth and projected through every corridor and room, “Everyone out of the palace, gather in the front courtyard!”
She repeated her warning twice, and then they swooped into the nearest hall. He flew past great columns, their paint and friezes revealed as the miasma burned away. They swept past room after room, Leita knocking open every door to allow the cleansing flames to wash inside.
Miasma hissed in its dying throes, leaving behind fine black soot. The heat and flames ate that, too, the fires growing from red to orange in their conflagration.
In a great sweeping spiral, Attalus flew them through the tainted half of the palace.
Up and up they went, escorted by flames.
His fires greedily consumed the offending pollutant but, guided by her magic, didn’t touch wood nor fabric.
Carpets and curtains and chairs stood steaming on the other side of the inferno, cleansed of their corruption.
Up they went in the south tower, Attalus running as much as flying up the spiraling stairs. He leapt from a tall arched window, pushing off from the sill and into open air. Flames spilled out behind them, a blazing firestorm engulfing the palace.
Attalus banked overhead, bringing them round to inspect what they’d done.
The palace, like the grotto, burned. At least, half of it did.
Fire roared from every threshold and window, orange flames reaching for more. A tempest of fire had taken the palace, cleansing the rot from within.
They rounded the palace, spotting the front courtyard on the north side. A crowd had gathered there, everyone evacuated as Leita commanded. Cries of relief reached them once they were spotted, and Attalus swooped down to land at a trot.
Leita’s staff and council hurried round her, their faces drawn with worry. Questions battered her, but Attalus used his wings to leave her a little space.
“How is this possible?” asked Charis, her usual armful of papers clutched tightly to her chest.
“We already tried to burn it away,” said Tamerlan.
“Are you hurt, my Queen?” Marcades asked.
“It’s dragonfire,” Leita assured them. “It’s hot enough to burn away the miasma.”
The fae were stunned by her answer, more than a few shocked gazes turning toward Attalus.
“Will it take the whole palace?” worried Carenza.
“No.” Raising her arms, Leita began to move her hands in dramatic swirls, her fingers flexed and knuckles white. The fires retreated from the doors and windows, hissing along the corridors to collect into one great conflagration.
Throwing her hands into the air, the fire followed her command, rising up in a tornado of flame. The hot air sizzled, scalding their cheeks, the flames roaring higher and higher and higher until—Leita threw her hands down and back, snuffing out the fire in one stroke.
The air over the palace bent in waves of heat, only steam left behind.
And a resounding silence.
No one spoke, no one dared believe.
Leita staggered to the side, but Attalus was there to catch her by the elbow and draw her into his body. She held onto him for balance, and he could feel how she trembled.
“Leita…?”
Her shaking hand came to rest over her chest. “I-I can feel it.” Her face, gone slack with shock, turned up to stare at him. “Attalus, I can feel the faelands here.” She pushed a finger into her sternum, hard enough it was as though she meant to touch whatever she felt beneath her skin.
Attalus gripped her hand before ducking to pick her up. He whooped and cheered, spinning her about in wild celebration. She’d done it! His beautiful, clever, stubborn Leita had done it!