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ESSA

M other’s dragon lay sprawled out on the water, floating, still, and wreathed in wisps of dissolving blood. I knelt on his back, holding Mother in my arms.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered, brushing her hair back from her face.

But it was a lie. Her face was white as bone. Her eyes stared into the sky, glassy and unfocused. I’d seen the ragged hole in her belly.

Othura sat hunched behind me, but there wasn’t even time to get Mother onto her back. There was only time to say goodbye. Only I didn’t have the words.

Mother was trying to speak, muttering through blood-soaked lips.

“What?” I leaned closer.

“It was… my fault,” she said.

“No,” I said, not understanding but trying to console her anyway. “It wasn’t your fault. It’s the Prelate. And the nobles—Lord Natath—and—and Kit. We’ll get revenge. I swear it. We’ll?—”

The deep rattle of a machine gun came again from overhead and I saw a trail of splashes in the water, coming this way. I looked up to see the Silver Wraith strafing toward us. Kit. Charlie. How could he—? A well of hatred for him rose up in me, so potent that I could hardly keep from screaming. The gunfire came toward us, a trail of white splashes, inexorable death.

I wanted to cower, to hide. But there was nowhere to go. I looked up at the silver plane defiantly, as if Kit—Charlie—could see me. As if I could make eye contact with my traitorous poet, make him look me in the face as he killed me.

Closer, the bullets came.

Then seemingly from nowhere, another plane appeared, rising, it seemed, from the surface of the water and colliding with the Silver Wraith, sheering off one of its lower wings. Out of control, the Wraith tilted sideways and veered off to our right, looking as if it would crash somewhere on Dorhane. The second plane jittered off in the opposite direction, smoking losing altitude as it went, leaving the twilit sky above us empty.

For the moment, the danger had passed.

Mother’s hand found my shoulder, drawing my attention. Her fingers traced down to rest on the stump of my arm. It was the first time she’d ever touched it.

My eyes met hers. With effort, she seemed to focus on me.

“It was my fault,” she said again. “I should never have let you fall.”

I opened my mouth to reply but found no words—only tears. So many tears. My chest heaved as I tried to keep from sobbing, to keep my eyes open, to memorize her face, words, this moment.

Then she shivered, sighed, and went still.

“Mother. Mother? ”

I waited for her eyes to flutter open, held my breath waiting for her to breathe.

It couldn’t be over. There was so much more to say. I wasn’t ready. I dug my fingers into the folds of her cloak, as if clinging on to her could slow down time, pull it back from the brink. I wasn’t ready.

Water washed over her Mother’s face like a shroud. I felt water, too, suddenly, its cold climbing up my waist, up to my chest, and still rising.

We’re sinking. Othura warned.

Mother’s mighty dragon fell away beneath us.

Mother fell, too, her cloak slipping through my fingers, her beautiful hair drifting like a banner in the wind, her royal crown glinting as she fell forever into the blackness of the deep.