Page 45 of Court of Embers (Dragonesse #2)

The tower itself was rough, glittering granite, with the tiniest gap between each brick.

I took a deep breath, rolling my numbed shoulder to loosen it, and dug my claws into the mortar.

The finger- and toe-holds were small, the gaps tight. I wedged my claws in as deep as they would go, both hands and feet, clinging to the wall like a spider.

It was slow going. I didn’t dare look down; I had to trust the Horde to keep the dead dragons of Undying Light distracted.

I focused only on the wall before me, less than an inch from my nose.

On the burning in my shoulders and thighs, the muscles in my back pulled to taut, straining lengths, the ache of the breath in my lungs.

I pulled myself up another few inches, digging my fingers in above my head.

Sweat dripped down my face, coating my scales uncomfortably, soaking my braided hair. The wind grasped at me, tugging my braid into open air, and I tried not to think about the drop.

Think about nothing but making it to that window .

My arms shook, fingers locked into claws, and I dragged myself up another foot, toes scrambling for another hold. Chunks of mortar rained down onto my face, sticking to the sweat to make a gluey dust that threatened to drip into my eyes.

I paused, wiping my face on my shoulder, my entire body trembling with the effort.

And kept going.

I almost gasped with relief when I raised my hand for another fingerhold, and met open air—the window sill, just above me.

Too narrow to admit a dragon, or even a wyvern, but for one desperate draga, it was enough.

I dug my toes in, pushing myself up, and hooked both hands around the sill to haul myself over. I landed in a crumpled, undignified heap, gasping for breath, limbs quivering like jelly.

I allowed myself a single minute to luxuriate in the feeling of a solid floor beneath me, to wipe away the sweat and dust grimed onto my face and stinging my eyes, to allow sensation and blood to return to my bloodless, tingling limbs.

When I got to my feet, I was still trembling, but it was lessened. I drew a dagger, looking at the room before me with unease.

It was a grand bedroom, with a canopied bed large enough to fit several dragonbloods if one chose. Everything was white: marble, ash wood, bleached linen, and everything white was layered with gilt in ornate designs.

I crept across the gold-inlaid floor, approaching the dark lump on the expanse of fluffy white bed.

And found myself looking down at Pyrae, my aunt. What was left of her.

She laid on her stomach, her back a canvas of open, blistered wounds. The same circular scars carved into Rhylan and Tidas, but hers had…erupted.

There was nothing left in them, no strange, eerie tendrils of inky darkness, only raw, decaying flesh.

I listened to the silence around me, my skin crawling.

What if…she’d had tendrils inside her? Parasites living in her body?

And what if they…like the Primoris…had hatched ?

Finding new hosts, infesting their bodies…driving them into death and madness.

No sounds met my ear, though I wasn’t sure what I was listening for. Envisioning those terrible things curled inside Rhylan, I had the vague sense that I’d hear something creeping, squelching along the floor as it blindly searched for a warm body to nestle in…

And I quickly shut that thought away, along with the terrible fear that Rhylan might be undergoing this metamorphosis right now, that all of Jhazra was a hotbed of infection for whatever Yura had found and unleashed.

I had to find Mykah amid all this death.

The door was locked, but I ripped the lock out entirely and shoved it open, nearly stumbling on the body of a Bloodless woman in the hall.

She’d died clean, at least—with a blade through the throat. No signs that teeth had been at her.

I knelt and touched the puddled blood. It was cool to the touch, congealed and thick. This had happened yesterday, perhaps, or the day before at most.

Breathlessly, I looked at the stairs. Which way? Where would Pyrae and Tashan keep a prisoner, one they had treated like dirt before?

Near the cellars, I thought. Well underfoot, where they thought she belonged.

But my aunt and uncle were not the architects of this plan. Where would Yura keep a prisoner, one she intended me to come for?

In the throne room. In the perfect place to lay a trap.

I went up, legs screaming against the uncomfortably high steps after the terrible climb.

I passed more bedrooms, training rooms and parlors, most of them abattoirs, until I found another set of grand doors, smaller ones. They were unlocked; I pushed one open a crack, slow and quiet, and peered in.

The throne room of Everael was even more sickeningly ornate than the rest of the eyrie, the far wall a marble fresco of feathers, dotted with drops of gold. The thrones themselves were the same stone, designed like abstract swans.

The white and gold was offset by the blood. Blood everywhere, floors and walls and ceiling. Splattered and splashed and drawn in with fingers.

Emei sat in the blood. The Ascendant of Everael, thin-limbed, narrow-bodied, as delicate as glass and once covered all over in gold-tipped ivory feathers, was curled in the mess of it.

She had made a nest of the bodies and her own ripped-out feathers. They were piled haphazardly, naked limbs ashen and stiff, the scent of rot filling the room, and the raw-skinned Ascendant nestled atop their piled corpses.

She rustled, and I backed away silently, not daring to touch the door again. I held my breath, creeping up the stairs as Emei circled her nest of corpses, tongue flicking out to taste the air, her face a constellation of eyes above her razor-sharp beak.

When she was out of sight, I bolted upwards to the next floor.

The storage rooms. The scent of beeswax and leather polish was a welcome relief from the stench of rot, but the open dragon terrace was just on the other side of the wooden doors.

They were bolted and barred. Someone had been here before me, someone willing to risk discovery to lock the dead dragons out of their eyrie.

I moved silently, passing the Eyrie-Master’s desk, where his corpse had been savaged.

His logbook lay scattered, shredded pages mercifully covering his face.

The next room was full of saddle racks, ceremonial dragon armor polished to a sun-bright shine, the leather ones freshly treated, never to be worn again.

The last room held provisions. I sent a prayer to Sunya, and slipped inside.

Barrels and boxes, casks of wine and tea had been carefully organized on the wall of shelves. Some were shattered; the scent of wine filled the air.

There were racks of garments, gloves and reins and cloaks, and there, in the dark crawlspace under stacked crates, something shifted—a blur of mulberry, hidden swiftly under an oilcloth.

“Mykah?” I breathed, hardly daring to hope. “Is that you?”

The cloth rustled and went still. A moment later, a little heart-shaped face peered out from the crawlspace—a face I knew well, doe eyes squinted with tension, brown skin ashen with bloodlessness and terror.

Tears spilled over Mykah’s cheeks, and she scrambled out of the crawlspace, throwing herself into my arms with a sob.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered, and I put a hand over her mouth, holding her close and shaking my head, even as I rocked her like a baby.

I didn’t dare to hush her, to make any more sounds, though my hand tightened on her mouth.

I’d heard something on the stairs.