Page 5

5

Rhea

W e exit the narrow passage and spill into a large circular chamber. There’s a fountain in the middle. It’s shallow, reflecting the light from the torches affixed to the wall. Chains hang from the ceiling, draping over the walls and fountain like curtains.

My hair continues to swirl, strands whipping my face. Small but sharp air currents jump between my fingers, and more thoughts spill into my mind.

— I don’t like this place .

— What the fuck are those chains for?

— Goddess, I don’t think I’m going to make it.

The torches dance, hissing in dark whispers that threaten pain. The water in the fountain begins moving, swirling and pushing against the edge of the pool. The chains rattle. Wind rustles everyone’s hair, and the stone beneath my feet seems to move, dizzying me.

— What the fuck is happening?

— Heratrix, don’t let me fail .

STOP!

The voices quiet down, but my brown robe whips around my body and my hair blows straight up, my wind power still out of control. Lucretia Shadowspark’s green eyes have turned white, light dancing inside them. She’s a Bolt, a lightning elemental. Her fists are tight as electricity crackles over her knuckles.

It’s this place. It has to be. Something here is making our elemental gifts come to the surface and run wild.

Focusing on my ability, I apply pressure and curb its intensity as much as I can. The wind whipping my robe and dancing between my fingers dies down, reduced to an occasional jet of air too unruly to tamp down. Phoebe’s features scrunch together as she does the same. Her red hair settles down. We exchange wary glances.

The torches on the other side of the pool whoosh , growing in size, a sign that some of the fire elementals aren’t able to control themselves. Heat fills the room, quickly turning it into an oven. A tentacle of water climbs out of the fountain and undulates ominously as if scenting the air, searching for someone to drown. More torches flare, and now I’m sure the floor is shaking.

I glance around, searching my mates’ faces. Many seem in command, but there are others whose expressions betray their panic. They’re unable to keep their powers in check.

Sweat trickles down my forehead. The groan and rattle of the chains—under the power of the Forges, metal elementals—grate on my nerves, threatening to unravel my flimsy control. Phoebe clamps her hands over her ears, hunching her shoulders.

“Make it stop,” Silas hisses in a barely audible breath.

Some of the chains twist and melt, molten metal dripping to the pool and hissing as it hits the water.

Justine Steelgaze, my fiercest competitor in tactics lessons, falls to her knees and claws at the stone floor. Percival Cloudshear clutches his head, keening as he slowly folds down to hug his knees. Roderick Oceanborn rushes into the fountain and slaps the water column, splashing the candidates who stand nearby. More people lose it, and soon pandemonium reigns.

I’m breathing hard, chest visibly rising and falling. I’m doing all I can not to lose it too, wondering about the purpose of the test. Does controlling our powers mean we’re strong? Or does it mean our gifts are weak?

Wyrm’s rot! Is it a trick? What do I do?

I glance over at the Commander and Primes, trying to figure it out, but they stand impassive, apparently willing to let us go insane.

My legs tremble. The floor shakes. I’m at the verge of falling to my knees when a group of Claws files in through the tunnel, and they begin removing candidates from the chamber. They take away those who scream or lie on the floor. Two and sometimes three Claws are needed to restrain them and drag them out.

My gaze follows Justine Steelgaze as the Claws haul her out, feet dragging behind her, head lulling. I watch the Claws closely, begging they don’t come for me. One by one, our numbers and the chaos dwindle. When it’s all said and done, of the original one hundred candidates, only about half remain. I check my competition and notice that Gilbert Drifttown is still here. I’ve never liked the bastard. He shouldn’t even be here.

My feet feel steadier on the floor, even if I still perceive slight tremors. The chains tingle softly. The water in the pool swirls passively. Everyone’s hair stands on end, but the static electricity that saturates the chamber is no more than a nuisance. All those left have a good handle on their abilities.

I’d like to breathe a sigh of relief, but I fear it would be premature. The one thing we know with certainty is that only eleven candidates will be chosen. There are two dragons per elemental gift available, except for Skybolts. There’s only one of those. There are still more than that left here. They need to weed more of us out. But how?

Closing my eyes, I force my breaths to slow. Carefully, I reinforce the barriers I’ve placed against my heightened wind ability. It’s harder than normal to keep it in check, but nothing I can’t handle. Control over our elemental gifts is innate, something we know how to do by instinct. It wouldn’t bode well to have toddlers running around setting things on fire or blowing their father’s important documents off their desks. In fact, it’s this inherent ability which helped me suppress my Weaver gift completely after Neutro Cindergrasp failed to butcher me.

I hid those psychic gifts so deeply that all further tests by other Neutros were unable to detect them. Not only that, after the inevitable tragedy—as they dubbed it—they gave Cindergrasp a pat on the back for a job well done. Never mind the pain he caused my family.

In truth, I hid it all so deeply that I fancied myself cured.

Those gifts are the reason my mother died. They’re supposed to be locked away. Gone. Yet… they’re still here.

I open my eyes, refusing to examine my dual skill closer, even though this place awakened it with such ease. I hate that side of me and will not acknowledge it. Not today. Not ever again.

Besides, the voices are gone, the damn gift clamped shut, exactly where it needs to be.

“Primes,” the Commanders says—one word carrying an implicit order.

The Primes step forward. With practiced motions, their hands weave through the air, and in an instant, the chamber goes eerily still. More than that, the force exacerbating our powers goes away. We all take a collective sigh of relief.

“For the next stage,” the Commander says, “form lines based on your gifts. Notice the emblems on the floor and queue up accordingly.” She points toward the back of the chamber. “What are you waiting for?” she demands when no one moves.

We all jump to attention and shuffle toward the back. Phoebe’s ahead of me and peruses the markers on the floor, craning her neck around the other candidates until she spots the right one. She stands in front of a carved tile etched with a compass rose in the middle and gusts of winds whipping around it. I stand behind her, peering at the emblem that represents Skysingers. The legend underneath reads Our Songs Shape the Storm.

I glance at the tiles to our left and right. The candidates who queue behind them are fire and metal elementals. Their emblems have a flame and a sword, respectively. The first motto reads: Our Will Forges the Flame . And the second: Our Will Bends the Iron .

On the far left, I notice an indent in the floor, an empty space where I imagine the Weavers’ emblem used to lie before they were declared enemies of Embernia. My mouth goes dry at the thought. I wonder what their motto used to be. I shake my head.

My gift is wind. I have no other.

When I look up, I find Vaylen Stormsong looking at me, his blue gaze piercing, inquisitive. He noticed my reaction. I straighten my back and don my usual aloof armor, reassuring myself that all he saw was the natural nerves that any candidate would display. There’s no way he can fathom the real reason for my trepidation.

Once we’re all lined up behind our respective tiles, the Commander says, “Now, you will follow your Primes and may the best and true elementals be chosen.”

True elementals? What does that mean? New thoughts and nerves threaten to overwhelm me, but I prevail over them by digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands.

Behind High Prime Vaylen Stormsong, a section of wall retreats with the grinding sound of stone. Without a word, he turns and enters a narrow tunnel, which is illuminated by an ethereal glow from above. We follow, Phoebe leading the way with five other candidates behind me. After a five-minute walk, the High Prime stops.

“One at a time from this point on,” he says, then meets Phoebe’s gaze. “Follow me, Singer.”

They disappear down the long tunnel, leaving the rest of us standing there.

“Fuck, this is nerve-wracking,” Gilbert Drifttown says behind me.

“You aren’t kidding.” I press my back to the wall and slump against it, closing my eyes.

Several minutes pass without another word, only our agitated breaths fill the space. At last, High Prime Stormsong returns, his face cast in sharp angles by the dim light. Phoebe isn’t with him. Was she chosen? I find myself hoping she was. We could become friends during our final training.

“You’re next, Singer,” he tells me. “Follow me.”

I do as he says. Several paces ahead, he pushes a heavy metal door open and leads me into a third chamber, this one smaller than the previous two. He walks farther in and faces me, framed by two torches affixed to the wall behind him. As my eyes adjust, I try to discern what’s behind him. When I do, I gasp.

It’s The Cradle , yet another important symbol, one that graces Embernia’s flag. Except it’s not just a symbol. It’s really here.

I exhale in awe.

“ Seven dragon eggs, the Scions, rest in The Cradle,” High Prime Stormsong says. “One for each elemental power granted to us by our Goddess Heratrix. Behold our hope, our legacy.” He steps aside with a sweeping gesture toward the large eggs ensconced in a cradle made of black marble, veined with shimmering gold.

Seven. Not six. Why?!

They rest in a concave depression that leaves the large eggs half exposed. Their surfaces are a tapestry of ivory-colored scales, intricately veined with gold and copper. The rough, textured shells hint at the creatures slumbering within, forever unhatched without Heratrix to tend to them. She is the mother of all Embernia’s dragons, a mate to all the males. With her gone—vanished from the land without a trace or hint as to what happened—no new dragons have been born in centuries. With her gone, their numbers, already dwindling, will only continue to decline.

I’ve often wondered about how she could be the mother to every male dragon as well as their mate. As a human, it’s a strange concept to wrap my head around, but we’re entirely different species, and it’s wrong to apply my prejudices to their way of life.

I stare solemnly at the Scions as two of them, sitting next to each other, begin to glow with a warm light. I frown. Why aren’t they all glowing? Why only two? The answer that comes to mind sends my heartbeat into another fit of nerves.

Dragon’s Breath! Why can’t things ever be easy? The seventh egg is here as a test, a final way to weed out any who slipped through the Neutros.

High Prime Stormsong says, “Singer, choose the Scion that speaks to you and lay your hand on it.” I wait for him to say more, but he stands at attention, staring straight ahead, acting as if I’m not there again.

I open my mouth to ask what he means, then shut it. An inquiry would only get me thrown out. If I were like my mates, only one egg would be glowing for me—the one belonging to the wind elemental dragon—and I would be able, without hesitation, to walk up to it, touch it, and move on to the next stage of this dragonforsaken trial.

High Prime Stormsong’s sharp blue eyes flick in my direction, impatient.

“Are they silent?” he asks, sounding disappointed—or maybe it’s my imagination.

“I guess you mean pick the one that’s glowing, right?” I say in a cheeky voice that’s entirely out of place with the austerity of the situation.

One of his thick eyebrows lifts in judgment. He clearly doesn’t approve of my nonchalant attitude, but at least he doesn’t seem ready to dismiss me or suspect me for hesitating. Besides, he now knows at least one egg is glowing for me. I take a deep breath.

Heratrix, guide me! Don’t let me pick the wrong one.

I take a step toward The Cradle, then another.

Which Scion do I pick? Left or right? One of them will make my dreams come true. The other one will doom me, send me to the gallows.

Please, Heratrix, give me a sign .

The egg on the right seems to glow a little brighter. Or did I just imagine that?

Dammit!

I stop in front of The Cradle and lift my hand. I’m about to touch the Scion on the right, but in the last instant, I change my mind. Fuck it! Fingers splayed, I press my hand to the one on the left.

Blue-white light bursts from it, nearly blinding me. I narrow my eyes and turn my face to the side.

“Well done, Singer,” High Prime Stormsong says. “Exit through the passage on your right and wait there.”

I do as he says, never glancing in his direction. I don’t want him to see the relief in my expression. In the far corner to the right, I find an easy-to-miss corridor and hurry down its length. When I come out on the other side, I find Phoebe sitting on a long wooden bench, looking both gratified and surprised.

When her gaze meets mine, she jumps to her feet and wraps me in a hug.

“Holy Heratrix, we made it!” she exclaims.

I’m not normally the hugging type—learning how to bestow and receive that type of affection stopped when my mother died—but I wrap my arms around her and sink into the comfort of the embrace.

“I had no doubt you would make it,” she says, “but I wasn’t so sure I would.”

“It’s not over though, is it?” I ask.

We pull apart, both avoiding eye contact. At the Academy, hugging wasn’t exactly commonplace. Formality, discipline, and hard work were the basic tenets, not affection. I imagine there’s no time for such nonsense in the front lines, either.

“I guess it isn’t.” She sits back down. “Unless the Scion doesn’t glow for the others.”

I grunt, skeptical. “There are five more behind us. I’d say the odds are against us.”

“Yes, you’re probably right. If more come in, how do you think they’ll narrow us down further.”

“Maybe the High Prime will strike us with one of his famous Wind Spears and see who survives.”

Vaylen Stormsong bonded with Fragor—a dragon nearly as legendary as Heratrix. At the moment, they’re the only bonded pair in the Sky Order. Dragons rarely do that. Most only enter an agreement with a human, allowing them to become their rider. That consensus is enough for both to benefit and increase the strength of their elemental gift, but bonding… that’s an entirely different level of connection, one that not only creates a far more powerful pair but allows the dragon and the rider to communicate by transmitting emotions and moods through the bond. No one knows why dragons choose to create bonds with some riders and not others, but that’s the reason Vaylen Stormsong is the most powerful Skyrider alive.

She sputters a nervous laugh. “Wind Spears?! That would be sadistic.”

I sit next to her, resting elbows on knees and burying my face in my hands. “Better get used to it. Things won’t be better on the front lines.”

“True.”

Phoebe taps her foot nervously and picks at her robe’s fabric, making a scratching sound with her fingernail.

Fifteen minutes pass.

“Maybe it’ll only be us two.” Phoebe sounds hopeful.

She’s barely finished saying this when High Prime Stormsong walks in with Gilbert Drifttown.

Dammit! Now what?

Phoebe and I climb to our feet.

Gilbert comes to stand next to us, looking peeved. His gaze goes from Phoebe to me and back again. My Weaver powers are bottled up as they should be, but I can nearly hear his thoughts. He doesn’t think two women should be able to become dragon riders if he doesn’t. If he only knew I shouldn’t even be here.

“Congratulations for making it this far,” High Prime Stormsong says. “As you know, there are only two wind dragons available. So only two of you can be chosen. We will return to the main chamber to find out who will receive the honor.”

Following him, we retrace our steps to the first chamber with the tall, vaulted columns. Others are already there, though a lot fewer than in the beginning. I quickly scan the room and spot Silas. He stands next to Nate Torchfist, another Blaze, though I guess I should say Skyblaze since they’re the only two of their kind left, which means they’ve secured their dragons. No more fretting for them. Lucky bastards!

High Prime Stormsong walks to the Commander and confers with her. She glances in our direction, appraising our threesome. One more Prime goes up to her. She has a group of four Tides with her, candidates with power over the water element, including Adelaide Icesurge.

I interlace my fingers behind my back to stop myself from fidgeting.

“The Singer and Tide candidates, please remain,” the Commander says. “The rest… return to the changing rooms.”

Our lucky mates file out. Silas glances over his shoulder and gives me a thumbs up.

High Prime Stormsong walks toward the back of the large chamber and orders us to follow him. The Tides go in the opposite direction.

As we get going, Gilbert leans to whisper in Phoebe’s ear. “You don’t belong here.”

I barely catch the words, but I see they have their desired effect. Phoebe shrinks, while Gilbert grins with satisfaction.

Jabbing an elbow into his ribs, I insert myself between them and drive the asshole away from her. He wants to get under her skin, hoping nerves will cause her to fail whatever test awaits next. I offer her a reassuring glance, biting my tongue against the words of encouragement that rise within me. I would pick her over Gilbert anytime, but what if I’m the one who gets cut for building her up?

The High Prime glances back, seemingly annoyed at our slow pace. We hurry along. At the back wall, a large square containing six tiles identical to the ones in the second chamber is etched at eye level. In the middle, there’s an empty space where I assume the Weaver title used to be. I wonder what the emblem used to look like, and suddenly, a chilling thought creeps in: is there still a possibility my true nature might be revealed?

High Prime Stormsong sends a jet of air into the middle of the Skysinger tile, and an unseen door springs open to our right. He turns, his gaze alighting on me.

“You first,” he says, then heads for the door.

I almost protest, tell him Phoebe should go first. I don’t want to leave her out here with Gilbert, but I can’t do that. We are here to follow orders. I give Phoebe a quick nod to reassure her, then follow. My heart riots, assailed by fear.

Heratrix, please, please, please, help me pass this test.