Shelly Thomas - The Burning Sky

Fifteen seconds. Attack. The shield blocked the fire, but dissipated in the wake of it.

She reminded herself that she was dealing with illusions. But the stink of the cockatrices, the crackle of the brambles burning behind her, the torch flames that leaped back from the dragon fire, as if in fear—they were all too real.

She threw up a wall of water as the cockatrices screamed again. The water evaporated before the fire had even touched it.

Ice. She needed ice. She was not adept at ice, but to her surprise, a substantial iceberg materialized at her command.

The ice melted immediately.

Changing tactics, she used air to try to divert the fire. But all she did was split the fire mass in two, both halves hurtling straight toward them.

Now she had no choice but to pit herself directly against the dragons.

Ordinary fire was as pliant as clay. But this fire was made of knives and nails. She shrieked again with pain. But was she doing anything to the fire? Was she slowing it? Or did it merely seem to arrive at a more leisurely pace because the agony in her hands distorted her perception of time?

Slow or swift, it swooped down toward them.

“Run!” she yelled at the prince.

For the first time in her life, she fled before fire.

She opened her eyes to find herself back in the prince’s room, seated before his desk, her hand on the Crucible. The odor of charred flesh lingered in her nostrils. The skin on her back and her neck felt uncomfortably hot, as if she’d been out in the sun too long.

The prince knelt before her, one hand clamped on her shoulder, the other on her chin, his eyes dark and anxious. “Are you all right?”

“I—think so.”

He set two fingers against the pulse at the side of her throat. “Are you sure?”

Not at all. “I’m going back in.”

She might not have been born with natural courage, but she did loathe failure.

There was no fire burning in the bramble tangle and no tunnel going through: the Crucible always returned to its original state. The moons had risen, twin crescents, one pale, one paler.

“Does your shield spell have a countersign?” she asked the prince.

He hesitated, as if he wanted to tell her again to save the dragons for another day. I he gave her the countersign. She practiced the spell. When she thought her shield sturdy enough, she blasted a path through the brambles.

Walking through the tunnel, they discussed tactics and agreed that in order to eventually counter dragon fire, she must first achieve safety.

“Let’s both put up shields, mine on the outside of yours,” she said. That way, if her shield proved less than stalwart, they’d still have his for protection.

“Good idea.”

“But if my shield is good enough, then I’ll keep going.”

He nodded. “I will stay on this side and distract the cockatrices—if they alternate their fire between the two of us, it will give you more time to figure out what to do. But for this time, do not go beyond the front steps of the castle.”

“Why?” But then she remembered. “Is it because you don’t want me to see Sleeping Beauty?”

“That is not—”

“Is she pretty?”

“She does not exist.”

“In here she does. Is she pretty?” She disliked herself for the pestering questions, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

“Pretty enough.” He sounded strained.

“Do you enjoy kissing her?”

Better than you enjoy kissing me?

“I have not kissed her since I met you.” Suddenly it was the Master of the Domain speaking, his tone hard, his eyes harder.

Misery and thrill collided in her. Had he declared that he’d given up other girls for her? Or was she being a complete fool?

“Now will you concentrate on the task at hand?” he went on impatiently.

She took a deep breath and counted to five. “Let’s fight some dragons.”

The colossus cockatrices, maddened by the scent of intruders, streamed their fire.

Iolanthe and the prince each called for a shield. Hers held. She summoned more shields, marching toward the cockatrices. They were chained to the castle gate and could neither come at her nor give chase. As soon as she moved past their fire range, she’d be safe.

The castle gate beckoned. She started running. Cockatrices had poor eyesight. With their fire blocked, they’d try to assault her with claws and tails, but not being predators, they’d be clumsy at it.

The ground shook as the colossus cockatrices thrashed and stomped, but she dashed past them. From somewhere behind, the prince shouted at her to be careful. She sprinted across the wide courtyard and up the steps. But she did not stop there, as he’d requested. Instead, she pushed open the huge, thickly reinforced doors of the castle and stepped into the great hall.

The interior of the castle was gloomy. A few guttering torches threw out faint circles of light, leaving large swaths of the great hall darkened and forbidding.

Could shadows move against shadows? She squinted, her fingers tightening on the prince’s spare wand. Behind her came a soft sound like drapes fluttering before an open window.

Before she could spin around, something heavy and spiked slammed into the side of her skull, one particularly sharp spur burying itself deep into her temple. Her face contorted. Her muscles convulsed. Her scream lodged in her throat.

She fell with a resounding thud. A black, reptilian creature landed beside her, folding its wings with barely a swish. A sharp claw reached out and slashed her throat.

But she was already dead.

Titus shouted the first three words of the exit password before he realized that she had been the one to take them into the Crucible. For him to take her out now, he must be in physical contact.

He threw a battery of spells at the wyvern, driving it off her body. A second wyvern swooped down. He dove toward her, grabbing her hand just as the creature’s spiked tail crashed toward him.

They were back in his room. Her eyes flew open, but they were the eyes of the possessed. She shook, the kind of frenetic convulsion that would cause her to stop breathing before he could get to the laboratory and find a proper remedy.

He slapped their hands on the Crucible and prayed frantically.

Iolanthe stared dumbly at the dark, star-sprinkled sky with its two moons. Who was she? Where was she?

Of their own accord, her hands clutched her throat. She was—she’d been—

Terror rose in her, a dark, drowning tide. She screamed.

And was instantly thrown into the coldest water she’d ever known, the shock of it like knives upon her skin. She gasped, her erstwhile horror forgotten. So cold, the burn of ice frozen to her body.

Someone yanked her out of the water and held her tight. She began to shiver. Her teeth chattered. She would never be warm again.

He rubbed his hand along her back, the friction needle points of heat. “Sorry, I had to do that. You were going into convulsions.”

“What—what happened?”

His kneaded her arm. “You died in the Crucible. There are two wyverns in the great hall—I tried to warn you, but you did not hear me. I am sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

The fault was not his; she’d been an idiot who’d turned the topic to Sleeping Beauty and wouldn’t let go. “Where am I now?” she asked, still trembling.

“Next to Ice Lake.”

“Isn’t that where the kraken lives?”

“Yes. We have to go soon. It would already have felt the—”

The lake sloshed behind her.

“And they lived happily ever after!” they shouted together.

The last thing she saw was an enormous, mottled tentacle, splashing toward her.

Her heart was still pounding.

She took her hand off the Crucible. “It’s a dangerous book.”