CHAPTER 58
Bristol ran with her cloak and sword in one hand and a pack with food and water in the other.
The potion was secure in her pocket, and she repeated the spell, aira mathemis, over and over in her head so she wouldn’t forget it.
She glanced over her shoulder as she ran, afraid Kasta might change her mind and come after her.
But there were no footsteps, no surprises, even when she made it to Judge’s Walk.
She ran up the steps, her chest burning, and took in the two long rows of columns.
Terror struck her. Which one? The column was somewhere in the middle on the right side, but now she wasn’t sure which one.
They all looked alike. The wine bottle, she remembered.
It was near the wine bottle. She hurried to the middle section, searching for it and found the bottle on its side—it had rolled to the edge of the walkway.
She must have knocked it over in the shock of finding her father there.
“Daddy?” she whispered, hoping for a response, but there was nothing.
That one, she thought, staring at one of the pillars, a vein in the marble familiar, the white line that ran across her father’s face when he pressed forward. “That’s it.”
She dropped her gear to the ground and pulled the potion from her vest pocket.
Her hand shook as she pulled the dropper from the bottle, and then she was uncertain where to put the drops.
Every step was overwhelming. Her father’s life was at stake.
She squeezed the dropper, and one glistening bead slid onto the pillar.
She put three more drops near it and said, “Aira mathemis.”
The drops began smoking and spreading, and she let out a shaky breath. It’s working. The marble undulated, like it was alive, and then it rumbled, the low groaning sound of someone waking. She stepped back, uncertain what would happen next, wondering if the whole pillar would collapse.
She saw a marbled elbow, a hand, a back, all trying to emerge like a moth from a cocoon.
“You can do it,” she said. “Press harder.”
And he did. Then a knee. A shoulder. Finally, a man broke free and tumbled out. A tall man like her father.
But it wasn’t him.
She had freed the wrong person.
The man got his bearings, straightening, standing tall, and studied her. He was a striking figure and wore a long black velvet coat that matched his coal-black hair. “Ah, Miss Keats, the king’s paramour.” His arm swept to his middle, and he bowed. “Pengary, in your debt, my lady.”
Bristol stared at him, horrified and speechless. What had she done? “First, I am not the king’s paramour, and second, how do you know my name?”
“On the first point, I’m pleased to learn I was wrong, and on the second point, here I have nothing but time to listen, and your name comes up in passing conversations frequently.” He smiled. “Besides, I knew you’d come back. There are so few of us, and our kind always stick together.”
Her horror turned to fury. “Me? I am not one of your kind! I am nothing like you. I don’t burn queens and children to death and then eat them.”
Pengary sighed, shaking his head. “The stories . . . how they grow. The centuries have their ways of embellishing them. Be wary of the legends you hear. Who knows, one day you may be a legend yourself.” He took her hand before she could pull away and kissed it.
“Until then, I am indebted to you, Miss Keats. And our kind never forget their debts.”
With that, he turned, like he was throwing on a cape, and his body transformed, golden scales surfacing where skin had once been, claws sprouting from his fingers, his head growing sharp teeth, horns, and an enormous snout.
Finally, thick leathery wings stretched from his shoulders until they spanned over thirty feet across.
A dragon. If he was only the “fair-size” one that Cully described, how large were the wild dragons of the north seas?
Bristol found herself stepping farther back, until the twelve-foot-tall creature gave her one last knowing glance, lifted his wings, and launched into the air, the strong draft blowing her hair behind her.
He flew away, gliding over the spires of the palace, and disappeared into the clouds.
Bristol stared at the sky where he had once been. “I am not one of your kind,” she murmured to herself again.
The bottle of potion was still tight in her grip. Her father. She had to get him out. She ran to the next pillar.