They served the dragon. And now the dragon served her.
Screams of terror and delight exploded from the crowd.
The shadowcasters staggered to their feet, fumbling to find their castings, shouting for help.
The Archon rose to stand at the edge of his box, empty-handed and defenseless.
Rielle ripped her hands back through the air.
The dragon froze, its teeth snapping before the Archon’s face. Its heavy wings flapped with loud, low booms like distant drums.
Rielle cocked her head. Flicked her fingers.
The dragon opened its jaws wide. Seven hooded snakes, shifting with each gust of wind, rose out of its mouth to taste the Archon’s papery skin with their tongues.
I could kill him, thought Rielle. Right now. I could do it.
You could, Corien agreed. But will you?
The ground shifted. The dragon’s weight pulled at her fingertips. The earth underfoot and the air above and the light glossing her skin waited, tense.
What would she ask of them?
Whatever the demand, they would obey.
It would obey.
The empirium. Rielle shuddered. Pleasure spilled down her front in tingling waves, raising every fine hair on her body. It waits for me.
Grasp it. Corien’s voice came urgent and hot at her ear. Take it for your own. No one else can do this but you. Do you know what you could accomplish, Rielle? The answers you could find, the worlds you could build—
Then, a flash of golden color, followed by green: Ludivine’s hair. Audric’s cloak. They were rushing down the set of stairs from the royal box. Rielle thought, in fact, that she heard them calling for her, even across the Flats and through the noise of the crowd.
She blinked, stepped back, lowered her arm. The dragon, waiting above, shifted.
Don’t listen to them, Corien hissed. They won’t be your friends for much longer. Don’t you see? They don’t understand, and they never will. Kill him. Make them understand.
Not like this, she thought at last with a regretful pang—and a swell of relief. Not now.
She lowered her aching arm and clenched her fist. With a gust of cold wind and a low, tired groan, the dragon snuffed out.
Rielle sank to her knees, braced herself against the ground with shaking hands.
A vision flashed across her sight, watery and unclear:
Corien. Near. And angry.
He stalked toward her, yanked her body up roughly against his own.
Is this really what you want? he murmured. She blinked, and he was gone, though she could still feel his tight grip. She blinked again; he returned, his furious gaze on her lips.
They are what you want? He jerked his head behind him, at the flood of figures rushing toward her across the Flats.
Corien made her look at him. He wound his fingers in her hair, pulled her head gently back so that her throat was bared. His lips ghosted across her skin.
They are nothing, he told her, his voice rich and low. And you are everything. What must I do to make you understand that?
For a moment, Rielle closed her eyes and gave herself up to his dream-grip, caught in the shifting soft place between the solid reality of the Flats and wherever in the world it was that Corien truly stood.
Then she turned her face away and closed her eyes.
Let go of me, she whispered.
He did, at once. The vision faded, and all that was left of him was an echo of his touch on her arms and a dark voice sneering in her mind:
I will not always be this patient, Rielle.
That made her bristle. She opened her eyes and watched the approaching crowd. You will do as I tell you, she replied—and then tried not to think too hard about the coy shiver that grazed its claws across her skin when Corien did not answer.
32
Eliana
“It was while passing through Rinthos from the eastern coast that my daughter disappeared. I’d heard of these vanishings. Even out in the wild, there are ripples. I thought, surely, that won’t happen to us. Haven’t we endured enough? But these girl-snatchers, they have no hearts, no pity. No souls. I’ve heard rumors of what is done to them, these missing girls, and I hope my daughter is safely dead.”
—Collection of stories written by refugees in occupied Ventera
Curated by Hob Cavaserra
Later that night, Eliana waited until she heard the slight knock from Camille on the door to her room, then slipped out from underneath Remy’s arm, snatched her daggers from the floor, and stepped into the hallway.
Camille waited, her face drawn and tense. “Are you ready?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Lead the way.”
They moved silently toward the front entrance. Eliana slid Arabeth into the holster at her hip, slipped Whistler into the one under her left sleeve and Nox into her left boot, then tucked Tuora and Tempest into the inner pockets of her jacket.