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15

Rhea

T he next day, my arm is slightly sore. A Tide and a Dune medic worked on it and healed it almost completely. They are trained to use their water and earth skills on the body. The Dune can shape the minerals in the bone while the Tide can increase blood flow to promote healing. They said it’s fully healed, and I’m ready for Sky’s Edge intensive training before we’re sent to Fort Ashmire in Cinderhold.

Today, we have a free day and are back in Emberton. The sky is dreary, a dark gray bruised by darker clouds. Cold wind blows across the street of my neighborhood, stirring the fallen leaves in my path. They hiss as they tumble. I wrap my black coat more tightly around my body. Underneath, I wear my formal uniform, black trousers and jacket, gold-embroidered scales in the cuffs. Father will be shocked when he sees it. I don’t expect him to be glad my dream came true, but shocked? Perhaps.

He never believed I would get this far, and when he hears I’ll be bonded, a Wind Blast will blow his mind.

Bonded to a dragon that can speak inside your mind, Rhea , an ominous voice whispers in my ear. I still haven’t allowed myself to process what this could mean. I have enough to worry about as it is, and denial about my Weaver powers has never been in short supply.

The further I go, the more decrepit the houses get. By the time I turn the corner onto Usher Road, my mood feels as worn as the crumbling facades I pass. This was once a nice neighborhood with trimmed lawns and freshly painted doors. My mother cared for the flowering bushes out front, singing sweet tunes while I played nearby.

I stop in front of my home’s fence, once threaded with bright green ivy.

Suddenly, my mother is there, her back to me, kneeling on the fertile ground, wearing a flowing dress that looks entirely too big for her.

My body goes cold. My ears ring.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

She climbs to her feet with difficulty. Once standing, she places her hands on her waist, and bends backward to stretch her lower back. She starts to turn, pushing a black strand of hair behind her ear.

My heart pounds. She’s turning to face me, I can’t look. I can’t! My head jerks to the side, eyes snapping shut. I’m frozen for several minutes, counting each breath, telling myself she isn’t really there. When I look again, I’m relieved to find her ghost is gone. I see her sometimes. I see things I don’t want to see. This house is haunted, and it always makes things worse.

The small gate groans as I open it, one corner scraping the bricked path that leads to the front door. A raven lands on a scraggly tree in the corner of the yard and caws. He looks down at me with one beady eye, appearing distrustful. Perhaps it’s a new resident in these parts and thinks I don’t belong. I haven’t visited my father in many weeks. I’m here now only because my next leave won’t be for another six months. That’s if I don’t perish on the front lines.

I pull the key from my coat pocket and unlock the door. The hinges whine as I enter. The place is drafty and gloomy, not one oil lamp or candle lit to push away the shadows. I take off my coat and hang it on the rickety rack.

On a Saturday morning, my father will be in the kitchen. I pass his office, frown at the piles of documents on his desk and floor. The last time I was here, the mess hadn’t yet traveled to the threadbare carpet. How can he find anything?

I press forward, the click of my boots announcing my presence. At the threshold, I stop and look into the small kitchen. As I expected, he’s huddled near the wood stove, nursing a cup of tea.

“Good morning, Father,” I say.

He hums in greeting, barely sparing a glance my way. He doesn’t even notice my uniform. “Want some tea?”

“That would be nice.”

“Sit.”

I take my normal spot at the table. He retrieves a cup and saucer from the cupboard, throws tea leaves in a strainer, then pours water in from the rusty kettle on the stove. He sets it in front of me along with a container of sugar cubes.

“Thank you.” I pick up the spoon, look at it as if it’s the most impressive relic.

He stands across the table, looking down at me. I finally meet his gaze. He blinks a few times, taking in my clothes.

“You’re… a Skyrider?” he asks.

What? Do you think I stole this uniform to show it off? I want to ask back, but I simply nod.

He sits across from me and grabs his tea. His liver-spotted hands wrap around the cup, making it look tiny. He’s a tall man with wide shoulders and a physique contrary to his profession. He grew up on a farm, working on his family’s wheat fields. As the eldest, his parents wanted him to continue the tradition, but my father had no interest in that. Instead, he wanted to come to Emberton and go to university. He enjoyed reading and learning more than he did playing in the dirt as he calls it. He has no elemental powers to speak of and considers himself lucky for that. He thinks they only encourage young fools to risk it all for the stupid dream of riding a dragon.

“I told you it was more than a stupid dream,” I say, then sip my tea, forgoing the sugar. The familiar scent of bergamot fills my nostrils.

He grunts in response. Disappointment washes over me. I don’t know why I expected more.

“He’s dead,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

His hazel eyes, so much like my own, rise from the teacup to meet mine. A few unkempt hairs sprout from his eyebrows, shooting in different directions.

“Mortimer Cindergrasp,” I clarify, watching his reaction closely. I expect a little more than usual, but his emotionless expression persists. It’s as if he’s unable to feel anything anymore.

I wonder if that would change if I told him I killed the Neutro. No. It would only deepen his disappointment in me. Maybe he never blamed Mother’s death on Cindergrasp. Maybe he only ever blamed me.

Abandoning the cup on the saucer with a clink, I stand abruptly. “I came home to pick up a few things. I’m going into training for four weeks, then I’ll be deployed to Fort Ashmire.”

I walk away. When I reach the threshold, he clears his throat.

“How did he die?” he asks.

My knife plunges in through the Neutro’s ribs. Blood washes down the drain. A crimson smudge mars my hand.

“Someone stabbed him,” I say, then head up the narrow staircase.

My bedchamber is the first on the right. The door is closed, and it whines when I open it. All the hinges in this house need a thorough oiling, but I’m not here to take care of things anymore. Inside, everything is just as I left it, except for the layer of dust that covers every surface.

I meander, gaze bobbing from my bed with its baby blue embroidered duvet to the child-sized rocking chair in one corner to the dark-wood dresser in the other. I approach the latter, floorboards creaking underfoot. Four books sit atop the dresser, held in place by the wall on one side and a dragon-shaped bookend on the other. The titles describe my perpetual interests: The Great Wyrm’s Journey, Extraordinary Dragons from the Isles, Whispers of the Wind: A Skysinger’s Journey, and Heratrix’s Vow. I read each book countless times. Father refused to buy me more. I think he would have rather bought me romance novels if I’d asked—anything but this useless illusion.

It’s not an illusion anymore, Father. It’s a reality.

I suppose he would have me rot alongside him and this house for the rest of my life rather than make something of myself. Perhaps, he thinks I don’t deserve to live. Not after what I did. He has never openly blamed me. He has always said it was the Neutro’s fault. I only wish his actions backed his words because the way he treats me has always made me feel guilty.

Sighing, I open the dresser’s top drawer. Something makes a sound inside. I look in to find a silver baby rattle. Frowning, I pick it up. Where did this come from? It feels as if I’ve seen it before, but… I’m not sure. No, I don’t think I have. I cock my head. Father must have put it in here. It must have been mine, and he thought I should have it.

I jerk the lower drawer open, throw the rattle on top of a moth-eaten blanket, and shut the drawer close. For some reason, it bothers me.

Panic strikes me. If Father was in my room and accessing my dresser, he might have…

Quickly, I open the compact jewelry box I keep there and inspect its contents. Relief washes over me. My mother’s ring is still here. The oval of a black onyx sits like a dark unblinking eye in a silver cradle of intricate swirling patterns. It’s a simple piece, a symbol of my broken heart, and the only thing of my mother’s I can take with me. I retrieve it and hold it tightly in my closed fist.

“It’s done, Mama,” I whisper.

My fingers shake as I slip it onto my forefinger. When I was ten—misery already the inseparable companion of my shadowed heart—I made a promise to my mother. Two years without her were all I needed to grow up and grow bitter, so bitter that, at that tender age, I vowed never to wear the ring until Neutro Mortimer Cindergrasp lay dead at my hand.

Now, I will never take it off again.

After retrieving all the coin I’ve saved since I made my plan, I hurry downstairs and tell my father goodbye. I can’t bear to stay here any longer. I can already feel my thoughts morphing, turning dark and twisted. Father’s gloom along with the old dusty memories that float around this creaky house like ghosts with unfinished business are like a plague, able to seep into my veins and turn me feverish. No wonder the idea of murder was the best I could come up with. That and escape—escape into the blue sky atop a dragon.

Though I did dream of something else.

Power.

It’s at my fingertips now, and in two days, I’ll seize it fully and never let it go.

I wish they didn’t make us wait. I wish I was with Zephyros now—bonded until death—soaring through the sky, master of my fate.

No one will ever hurt me again.