Shelly Thomas - The Burning Sky

“You do not know the half of it,” said the prince. “At least you seem better now.”

She felt more or less normal. “So if I survive the convulsions, dying in the Crucible has no other effect?”

“What do you think about wyverns?”

The moment he said the word, her hands shook. She braced them against the edge of the desk, but the shaking only transferred to her arms.

“That is the effect of dying in the Crucible. I have never gone back to Black Bastion. The mere thought of Helgira still makes me”—he took a deep breath—“well, incoherent, to say the least.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’m going back in.”

“What?”

“I can’t be afraid of wyverns. I can’t go into hysteria in front of the Commander’s Palace.”

“At least wait until tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to be less afraid tomorrow.” She touched his hand. “Will you come and help me?”

I can’t be weak when the time comes. I can’t let you fall.

“Of course.” He sighed. “Of course I will help you.”

She stood with her hand on the ominously heavy doors of the great hall, the prince by her side. Behind them the colossal cockatrices bellowed impotently. Inside awaited the wyverns that had slaughtered her only minutes ago.

He laid his hand over hers. “They would have already smelled us. Wyverns are fast and crafty. They do not need to wait between breaths of fire. And as you already know, the ones in there are not chained.”

She nodded.

“We go in on the count of three.”

She nodded again, scarcely able to breathe.

“One, two, three.”

He blasted open the doors. She shot a starburst of flames that illuminated every corner of the great hall, depriving the wyverns of shadows in which to hide.

They fought back to back. She paid only remote attention to what he did, her mind bent on controlling the dragons’ fire. The wyverns spewed without cease, but their fires were less hot. The corporeal shield in which the prince had encased her further reduced the heat.

It still hurt. But the sensation was more like the abrasion of rough stones than the stab of red-hot knives. She welcomed the pain—if she hurt, then she was still alive.

At last she managed to direct one wyvern’s flame to attack the other. The scorched wyvern screeched and returned the favor. As the dragons became bogged down in their own feud, the prince grabbed her hand. They ran up the grand staircase, throwing shields behind their shoulders, and pushed shut the blessedly fortified doors that led to the gallery.

She panted with her hands on her knees. It was not an unqualified victory, but at least she’d no longer be irrationally terrified of wyverns—only rationally afraid.

“Are there any more dangers in the castle?”

“No, that is it.” He reached for her. “Now we can go back.”

She backed away. “Since I’m already here, I might as well take a look at Sleeping Beauty.”

Even the elation of victory could not quite dispel the acidness of jealousy.

“No!”

For a boy who had so much self-control, he was practically shouting.

“Why not?”

Did he flush? It was hard to tell. They were both hot from the heat of the battle. “My castle, my rules,” he declared flatly.

She flattened her lips. “Fine.”

Tension drained from his shoulders. She exploited his moment of inattention and ran, throwing up a wall of fire behind her.

“Stop!”

He swore. She dashed halfway down the long portrait gallery and up the next flight of stairs, three marble steps at a time.

She was being stupid, of course. But she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to see the girl he used to kiss before she came along. And did he stop at kissing? Or did he do a great deal more to that pretty, grateful, pliant girl?

The stairs led to a gilded landing—the gold barely visible under the dust—which opened into a ballroom with moth-eaten velvet curtains. A row of maids, polishing cloths still in hand, dreamed peacefully.

This was where the fancy dress ball to celebrate Sleeping Beauty’s coming-of-age would have taken place.

Past a room in which a wig master snored gently on a great pile of hair, and another room that contained dozens of dressmaker’s dummies, each sporting a different costume, she sprinted up the stairs.

The castle was endlessly vertical. Cobwebbed corridors, windows falling off their hinges, paintings grimy with age. She ran past them all, headed ever higher.

A door burst open. Before she could recoil in alarm, the prince barreled out and tackled her. They fell onto a thick rug, sending up a cloud of dust. She shoved at him.

“No,” he said, his eyes adamant.

She meant to heave him out of her way. For having another girl—however fictional—before her. For not living forever. And for taking away her freedom in making her fall in love after all.

Except, somehow, her fingers spread over his face. Her thumb traced the rise of his dirt-smeared cheekbone, smudged a drop of sweat trickling past his temple, then down to press into the corner of his lips, chapped from the heat of dragon flame.

So little time. They had so little time left.

Pulling him toward her, she kissed him. He turned stone still with shock. She pushed her hands into his hair and kissed him more fervently.

Suddenly he was kissing her back, with a hunger that both thrilled and frightened her.

And just as suddenly they were back in his room, sitting on two sides of his desk, touching nowhere.

“We cannot,” he said quietly. “I had thought love would bind us together in one purpose. I was wrong. The situation is more complicated than that. You must leave me behind at some point, when I am of no more use. And that is not a decision to be made or unmade under the influence of unnecessary emotions.”

Unnecessary emotions.

Heat prickled her cheeks and the shells of her ears. Her windpipe burned, if someone had shoved a torch down her throat.

The utter humiliation of it, to be rejected like this, all in the name of the Mission . . .

But even worse was the absolute certainty in his voice. He lived his life counting down toward its end. She might as well have fallen in love with someone on his deathbed.

“Please,” she heard herself speak past the lump in her throat, “don’t be so melodramatic. Don’t confuse a simple kiss with eternal adoration. I am surrounded by handsome boys—have you not noticed how gorgeous Kashkari is?—but you are the only one I can kiss without getting into trouble.

“Besides, have you forgotten that you are my captor? I can never love you when I’m not free. That you think I could only shows how little understanding you have of love.” She rose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to be in my room before lights-out.”

The colossus cockatrices roared uselessly outside. The wyverns had been contained in a corner of the great hall. Titus made the long, long climb to the garret of the castle, his footsteps heavy with fatigue and dejection.

Sleeping Beauty was deep in her slumber. He sank onto one knee and cupped her cheeks with his hands.

Very gently, he bent his head and kissed her.

She opened her eyes; they were the color of midnight. Her hair, too, was pure shadow.

He knew the texture of her hair, because he had once cut it himself. He knew the taste of her lips because he had kissed her—and as of today, been kissed by her.

“Iolanthe,” he murmured.

She smiled. “You know my name.”

“Yes, I know your name.” And here, inside the Crucible, was the only place where he dared to call her—to even think of her—by that name.

“I have missed you,” she whispered, her arms rising to entwine around his shoulders. “Kiss me again.”