Page 30 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

Arach

Realization came to Anya like a blow. It was the smell of her grandfather’s death.

This, then, was how the great dragons had been slaughtered. “It’s poison,” she breathed.

“But it can’t be,” said Christopher. “Jacques said there are no poisons in the Archipelago that will kill a dragon.”

She ran to the next dragon: the same scent, faint as a breeze, but she was certain of it. And now that she was attuned to it, she could smell it in the cave, even under the fire and smoke of the blind dragon’s attack.

Christopher was crouched over the lake. “Anya,” he called. “Come here.”

She knelt next to him. He bent low and sniffed the surface. He was about to scoop some water to raise it to his mouth—

“Don’t!” Anya slapped his hand away. “Don’t even touch it! I know that scent. It’s my uncle’s poison.”

“What?” said Christopher.

“It is the same poison he used to kill my grandfather.”

“But… why ?”

The rage was rising, rising in Anya’s body.

“Gold.” She could barely speak. “We’ve been much richer this last year.

The castle was always cold before. And then suddenly Claude took over as treasurer, and there were fires in every room, balls, new clothes, golden goblets, centaur musicians.

And soldiers—soldiers, everywhere.” She could feel the horror of it settling over them.

“He poisoned the dragons and bought an army.”

“Mercenaries!” cawed Gallia. “On Dousha! An army of men who will kill for money, on my island.” She flapped her wings in a great flurry of loathing.

“I should have known. He wants war. People don’t clamor for freedoms in wartime as they do in times of peace.

” She sounded more furious than Anya had ever heard. “It is a coward’s crime, poison.”

A voice at the back of Anya’s mind said: Evidence. Swiftly, carefully, Anya tore a scrap of cloth off her dress and dipped it in the lake, taking care not to touch the water. She rolled the wet cloth in another scrap and pushed it deep into her pocket.

Christopher moved from dragon to dragon, pressing his face against theirs.

He asked the blind dragon, “When did this happen?”

“Many weeks ago,” said the dragon. “The poison was put in the stream, high up in the mountain, that runs into the heart of our cave. They did not have to come close: if they had, we would have killed them instantly. They merely turned our water into a weapon and waited for my clan to die. When my family was still and silent, men came and took our gold. There was gold here in ziggurats, cascades, mountains. Sarkany had such riches as you have never seen: thousands of gold coins, golden armor, diamonds large enough to stop the mouth of a manticore.”

The dragon drew in a long, rasping breath. “Do you know why dragons hoard gold?”

They waited, unspeaking. The dragon’s face convulsed, and then he spoke again.

“It is not merely that we love gold, though we do love it, yes—its shine, its cold weight. It is that dragons are old enough to have seen the world, and seen mankind. Mankind is not to be trusted with hoards of gold. It poisons him. No creature is safe in a world in which any one of mankind has limitless gold. That way lies only chaos. Dragons keep that chaos at bay.”

“And you?” said Christopher. “What happened to you?”

“I drank very little water; not enough to kill me instantly. I was lying, benumbed and paralyzed, unable to unleash my flames. Later, I rose, blind, and found my family dead. But I can feel the poison in my veins. I shall not survive many days.”

“What is your name?” asked Anya.

The dragon heaved in breath. “Dragons do not readily share their names with humans. But I am dying, and my kin will not be here to pass my name onward, and I would have it remembered. Arach. And know the others: Sarkany, Lohik??rme, Drache, Drek, Gota.”

Christopher moved back toward the dragons. At each, he closed the dead dragon’s sightless eyes and said their name. Arach turned to the sound, and a low rough noise came from his throat: a thunder of grief.

“I know who did this,” said Anya. “I’ll kill him.” She wanted to apologize, but sorry would sound too pathetically small. “I’ll kill him. I’ll avenge you.”

The blind dragon angled his sightless head toward her. “Come. Girl human. Come.”

Anya stared.

“Come closer to me! I will not burn you. Unless you disobey me and do not come. You have something in your hand. I smell it. What is it?”

“It’s just…a necklace. A silver circle. My mother left it to me.”

“It is not a necklace. Bring it closer to my mouth. I must taste it.”

Anya moved closer. She held out her necklace.

A pointed tongue flicked out, rough and hot against Anya’s hand, and touched the metal. The dragon gave a low snarl that shook the very ground.

“You humans! Your ignorance astounds me! You never know what you have in your own hands! That is not silver. It is dragon obsidian,” said Arach. “It is a loquillan.”

“A lock-what?” said Christopher.

“A loquillan. They are very rare. It shows you the future that you desire and how to achieve it.”

Anya held up her beloved, familiar necklace to a shard of light.

A loquillan? All this time? She had grown up hearing stories of them: of how, hundreds of years ago, a queen of the island of Dousha had used a loquillan to see how she might win the heart of her lover, and married him, and had seven children.

How loquillans had been used to solve impossibly complex mathematics, to seek out cures for disease, to win battles.

The burning ache in Anya’s throat rose, fiercer and harsher, as she held it in her hand.

“Use it,” said the dragon. Arach pushed his head close to hers. She could see the gleam of his teeth. “Use it to revenge.”