A Dream of Fire

The Dragon Queen — Book 1

J.R. Rasmussen

Copyright © 2019 by J.R. Rasmussen

Cover Design © 2019 by Wicked Good Book Covers

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

Map of Cairdarin

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Dear Reader

.

Maps also available at http://cairdarin.com/maps/

1

A pen moving over paper makes a particular sound, but a pen moving over flesh makes nearly no sound at all. Perhaps that was why Griffin did not immediately notice, among the proper and expected scratching of pens scribbling out sums, the one pen that was not behaving as it should.

That pen was hovering in the air in the third row, partially blocked from view by the meaty shoulder of a student in the second, scrawling what was no doubt a very rude word across Nack’s rapidly reddening cheek. The pen danced with flair, a swishing blur of ebony and bronze, as if it quite enjoyed the task.

His flushed skin was the only indication that Nack was aware of it. He didn’t swat at it, or lean aside to avoid it. He didn’t speak or sniff. Yet Griffin could tell the boy was dangerously close to crying. An unforgivable sin among eleven-year-olds.

Griffin clenched a fist at his side and suppressed, with some difficulty, the urge to take a switch to the hide of the only student in the room who could have obtained that pen. Suppressed it, not only because it would be no kindness to Nack to call more attention to the situation than it was already getting—the snickers were spreading quickly—but because he didn’t think Corin was entirely irredeemable.

And also, he supposed, because striking Corin would be treason.

“That’s your time up.” Griffin strolled down the row between the weathered oaken tables and plucked the pen from the air without looking at it. “Leave your sums where they are, and you can go and have your lunch. Except you.” He stopped behind Corin’s chair and leaned over the tall boy’s shoulder to tap his paper. “I’ll need correct answers to these three, please.”

Though he did nothing to acknowledge the order, Corin stiffened and stayed in his seat. Griffin gave Nack no more than an encouraging nod as the boy fled the room, so as not to embarrass him further. Better to speak with him later.

When the other students were gone, Corin quietly asked for his pen back.

“Your pen, is it?” Griffin made a rough noise in his throat. “The archmagister’s pen, I would think.”

Archmagister Arun was a fine enchanter, and among the many objects he’d spelled was a pen that would float above the paper on its own, and write its wielder’s thoughts. But he hadn’t always been quite so fine as he was now. There had been a few failures on the way to making that pen.

Griffin had seen this one before. Rather than writing Arun’s current thoughts, it wrote only what he’d been thinking at the time he enchanted it. An event that had apparently occurred at the end of a frustrating day that left the archmagister in a very bad—and profane—mood.

Corin coughed softly. He still hadn’t turned to face Griffin, or even looked up from his paper. “He lent it to me.”

“Did he, now.” It wasn’t a question. Griffin turned to lean back against the table, arms crossed, forcing Corin to meet his eye. “You do yourself a disservice, troubling Nack. I don’t think you’ll want to be the man that boys who behave this way tend to become.”

“He’ll never be my subject. His parents are Dords, and he lives in Tarnarven now, when he isn’t at school.”

“And you think the only people you need trouble yourself to be courteous and respectful to are your own future subjects?” Griffin asked with a laugh.

Corin gave his magister a moderately saucy look, but it was tempered by the fear behind it. Griffin was sure the boy was terrified that this transgression would be reported to the archmagister, who had little patience with Corin abusing his position, either as a prince or as Arun’s own nephew.

When he spoke, Corin’s tone was hearty with false courage. “Perhaps it’s my future subjects who ought to take care to show courtesy and respect to me. You’re an Eyrd.”

“I am, which makes me your father’s subject, for the moment. And your magister. And I’m telling you I will not tolerate this sort of cruelty. For your sake as much as Nack’s.”

“I don’t believe it is cruel to make him feel uncomfortable here. Wouldn’t it be kinder all around if Nack just left of his own accord? He can’t stay much longer. Everyone knows it.” Corin shrugged. “Except him, apparently.”

Griffin’s jaw tightened. “That is hardly for you to say.”

“But it’s obvious. If he can’t do magic by now, he never will. This is a magistery. What place could someone with no magic have here?” The prince raised a brow. “Unless you intend on retiring when Nack comes of age?”

That was well past the boundary. Griffin opened his mouth, but the mighty, earsplitting roar that followed didn’t come from him. Perhaps the earth itself had lost its temper with the boy.

An impression that was supported by the sudden trembling of the entire battlemage hall.

Griffin hurried to the single window at the back of the classroom, but it showed him only people running toward whatever the source of the disturbance was. He grabbed Corin by the collar and guided (or perhaps propelled would have been a more accurate word) him out of the room, through the already crowded corridor, and out the front door. He intended to deliver the heir to the throne to the keep, where he would be safe if this was some sort of attack.

Magisters and students alike rushed to and fro across the lawn, boots squelching, shouts lost to the wind and rain that had been sweeping through the valley all morning. Griffin took a quick moment to reassure himself that the keep, and the sprawling, many-turreted manor beyond, stood as solid and stately as ever. The commotion seemed to be coming from the other side of the magistery, past the affinity halls.

Turning to look in that direction, Griffin unconsciously loosened his grip on Corin. The boy twisted away and ran off with the others. With a muttered curse, Griffin followed.

He passed several people—mostly magisters dragging students—running away from whatever it was rather than toward it. “The dragon hall’s collapsed!” Magister Duncan shouted as he scurried by, pushing three students in front of him.

Griffin frowned and quickened his pace, wondering what that could possibly mean. The dragon hall had, after all, already collapsed more than a decade ago. It wasn’t a hall at all, but the ruins of the ancient building that once sat above a cavern where a dragon slept.

Nobody had known about the dragon, until he burst through the old hall and destroyed it. The pile of rubble that remained became known instead as the dragon hall.

As he approached the northwest corner of the valley, Griffin saw that Duncan was right: the dragon hall had collapsed, well, more. Had in fact fallen entirely into a gaping hole that must have been the dragon’s cavern. Several smaller chasms flared outward from it, like rays from the sun. Water gushed over the grass, churning and pooling as if a great underground river had been let loose.

Perhaps one had, in a way. Griffin knew there were tunnels, old and flooded, that ran beneath some parts of the grounds, though he never knew they came this far north. Some shift in the earth must have brought down the unstable ruins of the hall, and the resulting tremor had perhaps spread to the tunnels, collapsing them as well. It had been an extremely rainy autumn. Perhaps the flooding had been too much, softening the tunnel walls and leaving them vulnerable.

Was that the sort of thing that happened? Would it explain this much water? Despite being the magistery’s Mundane Matters instructor and official expert in nonmagical subjects, Griffin’s grasp of geology was loose, at best.

How this had happened was a question for another time. Of far greater concern than the fissures or the water was the angry abundance of small, rather ridiculous creatures, long-snouted, bug-eyed, and finned. Not to mention fanged.

Vividrakes. Until now, Griffin had never seen one, nor had he been entirely certain they were more than just a colorful magistery legend. The story went that they’d been created when a rebellious magister broke the law against attempting to enchant animals. Though what animal they’d started out as was unclear. Some sort of lizard, perhaps.

Most of the frightened drakes were scattering, running up into the hills or diving back underground. A small but determined minority were reacting to their rude ejection from their home by attacking anything and everything that moved. They were no bigger than large rabbits, but appeared to be excellent jumpers. And difficult to throw off if they attached themselves to a leg or an arm.

“Fire!” The archmagister sprinted (and sometimes slid) across the grass, dark hair blowing around his face. Judging by the number of torches he was carrying awkwardly under his wooden arm, the shouted word was an instruction rather than an announcement. “They’ll run from fire! Get some cages out here and start rounding them up!”

Griffin turned to help follow this order, and nearly collided with Magister Calys, who let out an abbreviated cry of surprise as a vividrake landed on her back at the same moment. Griffin lunged to yank it off, grasping it by a clammy and surprisingly sturdy tail. The foul thing smelled like rotten apples.

The drake whipped around, fangs snapping, flaps on either side of its head spread wide. Griffin swung it hard and tossed it before it could bite him. If the vividrakes were real, likely the rumors about their venom, and its horrible effects, were as well. He certainly had no desire to find out.

The headmagister of battlemagic—and Griffin’s direct superior—did not look especially grateful for the intervention. As usual, Calys’s pretty but cold face showed only disapproval. “Mind how you handle that thing! We want to recapture them, not hurt them. They’re the only creatures of their kind in existence.”

“And what a pity it would be for the world to be deprived of them,” Griffin muttered, eyeing another of the scurrying beasts. Thankfully, it ran past his foot rather than trying to latch on. He glared around the chaotic lawn, searching for the wayward Prince of Eyrdon. “Have you seen Corin? He was with me when—”

Just then, he spotted the boy, only a few strides away—and under attack by no less than three drakes, while his young cousin Eleri, the archmagister’s own daughter, cowered half behind, half beneath him.

Griffin rushed to their aid, throwing one of the vividrakes off easily before it could bite anyone. It thudded to the ground and remained there, dazed for the moment. He supposed Calys would not approve of such rough handling, but the children were more important.

Corin kicked a second drake, sending it skidding along after the first. That left only the third, much smaller than the others. Before either magister or student could get to it, it leapt past them, straight into Eleri’s mass of wild, unbound curls.

Trying to extract that one by brute force would be a risky business. Griffin instead opted for distracting the beast to keep its fangs lashing at him, while Corin untangled its short legs from Eleri’s hair.

The whole thing was a mess, and would likely have been messier still, had Calys not been right behind Griffin. “Out of my way!” she snapped.

Corin ducked, and Griffin moved aside, trying not to look ashamed while this petite magician stepped in to do what a hulking, strong, and utterly nonmagical man could not. Within seconds, she’d cast a spell to paralyze the drake, then plucked it out of Eleri’s hair as easily as a stray leaf.

“I suggest you get yourself a torch or two, if you’re going to try to help!” Calys called to Griffin as she trotted off, still holding the vividrake.

Ignoring the heat spreading across his face, Griffin bent to examine Corin’s arms. “Were you bitten?”

Corin shook his head. “I only got here a second before you did. I was just trying to keep them off her.” He sounded shaken, and didn’t meet Griffin’s eye. “I should have cast a shield spell around her. I don’t know why I didn’t think to.”

“You were brave to step between her and the little monsters at all,” Griffin assured him, and because it seemed a bad moment for teaching, did not add that a good deed done now didn’t negate a bad one done half an hour before.

He turned his attention instead to Eleri, who must have been outside when the ground erupted; she was wearing a thick cloak. A fortunate thing for her. The hood had fallen down, tempting the vividrake with her hair, but protecting her neck and back from its fangs. Though she was nearly hysterical with tears, she hadn’t been bitten either.

Griffin hadn’t been so lucky. One of his hands was in an agony of burning pain. He hid that one away and took Eleri’s arm with the other.

“All right, let’s get you inside,” he said, before giving Corin a somewhat less gentle look. “You too, and no running off this time.”

Pushing Corin in front of him, Griffin moved in the direction of the keep. Once the children were tucked away in the magistery’s most defensible building, he would collect some torches and come back.

They didn’t get very far before their path was blocked by the archmagister lurching toward them, looking outraged and panicked. “What is she doing out here?”

Handing off a lit torch to Griffin as he passed, Arun knelt before his daughter. She immediately stopped crying (though her sniffing was audible even above the confusion around them) and submitted to her father’s inspection.

When Arun was satisfied that she’d suffered no harm beyond some scratches, he gave his nephew an equally thorough examination before rounding on Griffin, his mouth a thin slash across his narrow face. “Why are they out here?”

“I was just taking them inside,” Griffin said. “I found them surrounded by a few drakes. Corin was defending Eleri, but one of them got caught in her hair.”

Arun grunted. “Eyrdri knows the monsters can jump.” He glared down at his daughter. “But why were you outside? Either of you?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a torch from a passing magister, and thrust it into Corin’s hand. “Get to your dormitories!”

Corin put his arm around Eleri as she shrank against her cousin for support. The archmagister’s face hardened another degree. “Your dormitories,” he repeated. “Now.”

Eleri sniffed again and said, “Yes, sir,” through hitching breaths.

With a sigh, Arun pulled her into an awkward, one-armed hug. Eleri had arrived at the magistery just two months ago, after seeing her father only sporadically since she was two or three years old. Arun was no longer married to her mother. “On second thought, Corin, take her to the keep for some honey cakes and tea.”

When the children had gone, the archmagister looked at Griffin. “What about you? Were you hurt? I assume you helped get the beasts off them.”

“I did what I could. Calys captured one of them.” Griffin held up his injured hand, already swollen to nearly double its normal size from the wrist downward. The skin around the bite was an ugly shade of purple. “The one in Eleri’s hair got to me before I got to it. It was a very small one, though.”

“A baby? That’s unfortunate for you.” Arun peered at Griffin’s bite, then, with a weary shake of his head, looked back over the scene they stood at the edge of.

Water had pooled everywhere around the new cavity in the earth, leaving the ground a muddy swamp. Most of the children, and many of the magisters, had run inside. But more of the latter had remained behind, brandishing torches and casting spells to paralyze or toss the drakes, blow them into cages with conjured wind, or even lure them there with illusions. Thanks to these efforts, the creatures were mostly contained, or scattered. The worst of the danger seemed to have passed.

“Do you have any idea what caused the collapse?” Griffin asked.

Arun shook his head again. “I have no idea what happened, much less why. Presumably the water level will go down, and we’ll be able to have a look. Meanwhile I’ve got to send some people up into the hills to hunt the vividrakes. I’d like to catch as many as I can. All of them, if possible. We don’t want them breeding in the wild.”

“Will the king want you to destroy them now?”

“The king is not especially fond of them,” the archmagister said with a snort. “But no. As for you, you’d best get to the sage hall. They can heal those of you who’ve been bitten. Somewhat. It’ll help with the physical pain.”

He nodded back down at Griffin’s hand. “But you’re in for a horrible night, I’m afraid. There’s no real antidote for the poison, and bites from the young ones are much, much worse. No control, you see. You’ll have the strangest dreams of your life, and probably the worst. Almost certainly before you even go to sleep.”

“I’m a big man.” Griffin ducked his head and smiled. “As you might have spotted.”

The archmagister chuckled. “Yes, I’m observant like that.”

“Perhaps that will help.”

“It will be easier on you than it would have been on my daughter, that’s for certain.” Arun clasped his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Of course. When the healers are finished with me, I’ll help hunt for the drakes.”

Arun looked like he would argue, then shrugged. “We can use as many as we can get for that job, but I’ll be asking the healers whether you’re fit for it first. And even if they say you are, you need to be careful. I’ve … had some experience with these bites.”

He pointed at Griffin. “If you start seeing things, or hearing things, or anything-at-all-ing things that aren’t normal things, you’re to come back. Immediately.”

Griffin nodded, and tried not to look worried about the mysterious, magical effects the venom of these mysterious, magical beasts might have. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

It was getting dark. Well, truth be told, there wasn’t much getting about it. Night was all but upon Griffin as he clambered up yet another hill.

This one would have to be his last. Hill, that was, not night. He hoped this wouldn’t be his last night. But definitely his last hill. Not only because of the dark and the dangers of the terrain, when one had only torches to see by, but because of the cliff that lay beyond it.

At least, he thought there was a cliff there. Or was it the sea? He was certain he heard rushing water. Nearly certain. Perhaps it was just the wind. Or it might be waves.

Was that a mermaid singing, or just a bird? A mermaid, surely, because what kind of bird would be singing on such a nasty night? The rain had stopped, but it was as likely to come again as not, and it was cold in any case. Birds were too smart for that.

Were birds smart? Were mermaids?

Had he ever seen the sea?

Of course I have. I lived near enough to it, when I was little. The sea is purple, and stars swim there.

He’d been out too long. Years, perhaps. Armed with torches, a bag of dead mice and beetles laced with sleeping powder, and a sack in which to bring home any vividrakes he caught with these tools.

The bag was full, the sack empty. He hadn’t come across a single drake. And so he’d stayed out, hating the idea of going back empty-handed, despite the archmagister’s warning that Griffin should return immediately if his head began to feel fuzzy.

Fuzzy? Of course it was fuzzy. He had plenty of hair. What an odd reason to insist upon his turning back. He had, after all, had the hair when he set out, and it hadn’t bothered the archmagister then.

No doubt it had been easier for the rest of them. Calys had probably brought back dozens within the first hour, then gone back out again. Everything was easier when you had magic.

Griffin had been instructed, in fact, to stay close to the magicians, and not wander too far on his own. Strange. It seemed he’d disregarded that order.

The wind was rising, and yes, that was definitely a promise of more rain he smelled. He longed to return to his little room in the battlemage hall, with its warm stove in the corner, and a hot water bottle at the foot of his bed. Dinner would be long over by now, but the kitchen staff all liked him. They would make him a basket to bring back. Some soup to warm by that fire. Perhaps even a flagon of hot spiced mead.

Griffin was finally accepting that he must admit defeat and head back to these pleasant consolations, when he heard a low, gruff moan from somewhere ahead. That was odd. Who else would have come out this far, and without them running into one another?

“Hello?” he called.

A few strides ahead, a flicker of fire reared up against the darkness. Griffin hurried toward it and found a pile of branches and autumn leaves, newly set aflame, burning in front of what might have been the mouth of a small cave. Or perhaps that was a trick of the shadows. Perhaps it was a large cave, or perhaps there was no cave at all. The sound of rushing water—or wind—was louder now.

He couldn’t see anyone beyond the fire, though he heard heavy breathing above its crackling. A man’s breathing? The moan had sounded like a man’s. Or a monster? Perhaps he was both.

The cave is its lair, and the monster wants to eat me. This thought was accompanied by no particular fear or concern. Griffin did, after all, have a dagger, not to mention all these mice. If he could get the monster to eat one of the mice, it would sleep, and he would be able to bring it back to the magistery in the sack. Calys and the archmagister would be far more impressed with a monster than with a dozen vividrakes.

Or perhaps not. The vividrakes were monsters. But could they moan, or light fires? Surely this was a better monster.

“Are you all right?” Griffin asked the dark.

“Don’t come any closer!”

The voice was low, gravelly, and decidedly ornery. Almost certainly an old (monster) man. Griffin remained still, holding up his torch, but its light couldn’t penetrate the blackness beyond the fire. “You started that fire awfully fast. I suppose you’re a sage?”

“You might say that.”

“I did say it.”

“So you did. Think you’re clever, I suppose. Stay where you are.”

Griffin frowned, more curious than alarmed by this strange request. “Why? Are you very ugly?” He cleared his throat. “Not that your looks speak to your character, of course. But I wondered a moment ago whether you might be a monster, as well as a man. So perhaps you want to keep me at a distance because you think I’ll find you scary to look at?”

The old man huffed like a horse. Perhaps he was a centaur, rather than a merman. “I’m indisposed. Let’s leave it there, shall we?”

He was trying to sound haughty, but Griffin didn’t miss the strain in his voice. “You sound like you’re in pain.”

“A vividrake, I believe you call them. Extraordinary, venomous little dragons, aren’t they? I had no idea the blasted little bastard would be so potent. It’s given me a terrible … ache.”

“I don’t think they’re much like dragons, but yes, they are highly poisonous.” Griffin’s own bite was tightly bandaged over now, and a strong healing tonic had eased the raging pain somewhat. But he felt clammy and feverish, nonetheless. And, truth be told, a bit odd. Like he might not be quite himself.

In any case, he still couldn’t hold a torch in that hand. Nor could he easily grip his dagger, if this encounter should go badly.

But there were still the mice. And the beetles. All monsters ate bugs. Though sages, as far as Griffin knew, did not. He wasn’t sure about centaurs. They probably preferred oats.

Why was this strange magician out here suffering alone, in a cave, no less? That was no candle he’d lit. He had to be a sage to have conjured such a fire so quickly, so he ought to have some skill with healing. Most sages studied the art at least a little. But perhaps this one was different. He wasn’t from the magistery; Griffin would have recognized his voice if he were a fellow magister.

How, then, had he been bitten?

“Were you on your way to visit Pendralyn? Did you get lost up here?” Griffin perked up a bit. “Is the vividrake that bit you still around here someplace?”

“It’s … gone. And yes, I was coming to … visit.”

“Well then, you ought to have come through Avadare. That’s where the entrance is, you know. Guests are usually received at The Dark Dragon Inn.” Griffin squinted into the darkness. It seemed to grow thicker the harder he looked. Perhaps the old man wasn’t a sage after all, but a contriver, spinning an illusion to cloak himself from Griffin’s sight. But he could hear the man well enough, the panting, the long pauses between his words. He needed help. Griffin should really—

Idiot. He’d forgotten: the healers had given him some more of that tonic, in case he needed another dose. “I can help you,” he said, reaching for the pouch at his belt. “I’ve got something that will ease your pain. You’ll have to stop being so vain, though, and let me near enough to give it to you. Did it bite you in the face, or something? Or perhaps you’re a merman, and you don’t want me to know that cave leads to the sea.”

The old man didn’t answer. Glancing around, Griffin found a nearby puddle in which to douse his torch. He didn’t need it, with the fire so close, and it would be easier to find the tonic with his good hand free.

While he looked for it, the silence stretched out, broken only by the occasional snap of the fire. The smell of damp leaves burning mingled with the scent of rain. And something else, like a blackhound who’d been napping in the sun. Perhaps this monster wasn’t a merman or a centaur, but some sort of dogman.

Finally, Griffin retrieved the tonic and held it up. When the latter gesture was met with yet more silence, he bent slowly, like there was a weapon pointed at him—for all he knew, there was—and rolled the bottle past the fire. “Here. You can keep it. I can get more back at the magistery.”

“Turn around. I don’t want you to see me take it.”

“Oh, for Eyrdri’s sake.” Griffin wasn’t about to present this stranger with his back, but he turned his face away. The man must be someone who wasn’t supposed to be here, someone who wouldn’t want his presence reported to the archmagister or the others.

An enemy, or an outlaw of some kind. Or at least, an unsavory (dogman) (centaur) (monster) person. Perhaps he’d even had something to do with the tremor. Sages could cause such things, if they were powerful enough, couldn’t they?

Griffin ought to take the man back. With or without a dagger, wounded hand and all, there weren’t many people he couldn’t overpower.

Still, it would be easier if he took him by surprise. Better to gain his trust. And Griffin had no desire to leave him in pain, in any case. Let him take the tonic, and they could proceed from there.

There was a sharp sound of breaking glass. Had the man stepped on it? Griffin sighed. “I hope you got some, before you broke it.”

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. My thanks, and whatnot. Can I expect it to help quickly?”

“It did for me.”

“Then wait with me and help me pass the time, why don’t you? You live at Pendralyn?”

“Yes, I’m a magister. Well, a teacher, anyway. Not a magician.” This man was a stranger, and probably some kind of criminal besides, yet still Griffin felt a guilty need to qualify his status. “I teach Mundane Matters.”

“Mundane Matters? What matters would those be? And why would one want to learn them, if they’re so boring?”

“Not boring so much as nonmagical. Mathematics, astronomy, that sort of thing. Even reading and writing, for the younger ones who need it.”

“I didn’t realize they taught such things, at the magistery.”

“Even magicians need to know the basics. But mostly I focus on the sorts of things the battlemages need to keep their balance. Magic has to be balanced, you know, each kind by its mundane opposite. Physical magic with mental work, and so on. If you don’t keep your balance, you can get a bit off. Even go mad, if you let it go too far.”

“Yes, I’m aware of how magic works.” The old man sounded almost amused now—in a crusty sort of way—which must mean his condition was improving.

“Of course you are. My apologies. I was bitten by a vividrake myself today, and I suppose I’m babbling.” In truth, it had been a test. A sage or contriver would know all about the types of magic and keeping balance, but a merman or centaur might not.

“How fortunate for these battlemages, then, to have a mundane man to shepherd them along.”

“Indeed. A rare skill. I’m much appreciated.” Griffin cleared the laugh from his throat. Though it had always been necessary to teach mundane subjects, Pendralyn had never had a magister dedicated solely to them. Arun had created the position especially for him, under the pretext that it freed up time for the magicians.

The archmagister had been extraordinarily kind through the years, finding excuse after excuse for Griffin to stay at Pendralyn long after it became clear, by the time he was Nack and Corin’s age, that he hadn’t the smallest scrap of magical potential. He was put to work first in the kitchen, then the kennels, then as a tutor, and finally as a full teacher.

They called him a magister. But they laughed at him, too.

“Well, Magister,” the man said. “I begin to recover already, I think. I suppose we ought to settle up.”

“Settle what?”

“It seems I owe you a favor.”

“Your thanks will do fine.” Griffin shuffled his feet, and said in as breezy a tone as he could muster, “Since you were going there anyway, why don’t you walk with me, back down to the magistery? The sages can tend to you better there.”

The old man’s laugh was raspy and thick, like his voice. “I think not. But I do have my honor to think of. I can’t let your assistance go unreturned. In exchange for it, I will offer you a warning.”

Griffin blinked. “That doesn’t sound like a very good reward.”

Another laugh, and there was something in it this time, some tone running beneath it, that sent a chill all through Griffin. A vision flitted across his mind, a monstrous mouth opening to show rows and rows of sharp, bright teeth.

“Of course it is,” the man said. “Depending on how you use it, I suppose.”

“A warning against what?”

“What happened at your magistery today was not a natural occurrence. It was deliberate.”

“I suspected as much.” Griffin crossed his arms. “Why did you do it?”

“Did I say it was me?”

“Why did whoever did it do it, then?” A loud pop from the fire made Griffin jump, though he did his best to hide it. “Do you suppose?”

“Why else do you take the top off something, except to get to what lies beneath?”

Griffin frowned. The rain had started again, and he felt queasy. It was difficult to concentrate on what the man was saying. Perhaps he’d caught a cold, wandering around in this weather. “The cavern? The tunnels? There are entrances to those tunnels. If they led to the old hall, wouldn’t it have been simpler to use the door than to rip the top off them?”

“Tunnels are usually made to lead to things. Were you not aware?”

“Er. Yes. Isn’t that what I just said?”

“You’re a bit slow, for a magister, if you don’t mind my saying so.” The old man went on without pausing to find out whether Griffin minded or not. “These tunnels once led to several things. Some long closed off, never to be rediscovered. Some long forgotten, even by those who knew the secret in the first place.”

“What secret?”

“An Eyrdish secret, I would imagine. That is a thing in itself, you know, apart from the rest.”

“What do you mean?” When the man didn’t answer, Griffin heaved a sigh. “I don’t want to sound unappreciative of this favor, but your warning isn’t terribly useful, if it’s to be this cryptic.”

“Don’t be greedy. It’s kind of me to tell you this much. There is danger at Pendralyn. You really ought to leave the place. It won’t be a place much longer.”

“Won’t be a place?” Griffin shook his head. How could any place become not a place? “I don’t understand. What sort of danger?”

“The sort that will leave little behind it, save ashes and a bit of rubble.”

No. The single word shot through Griffin’s thoughts like an arrow. Immediate, intense. Drawing blood.

Ashes and rubble. An exaggeration, surely. Pendralyn was indestructible.

Still, there’d been power in the old man’s voice. And darkness. Too much of both. “You can’t be more specific?” Griffin asked.

The man made a noise in his throat. Not the disapproving cluck of an old curmudgeon. Nor the song of sea folk, for that matter. It sounded more like a growl.

So he is a monster, after all. I don’t suppose he intends to eat me, though, if he went to the trouble of warning me about whatever it is he’s warning me about. Griffin stepped forward.

The man—monster—hissed. “Greedy,” he said again. “Like your whole lot, really. Not one of you has ever been born who’s learned when to stop asking for more.”

There was a strange noise, like the snapping of a length of canvas being shaken out. And then a shape rose up behind the fire, silhouetted against the night sky.

A winged shape.

At first Griffin thought it was a flying horse, but as it stretched out, then lifted into the air, he saw that he was wrong.

His new acquaintance was a dragon.

2

Beneath his icy skin, liquid fire was running through his veins.

Skittering fire.

Griffin yanked off the glove he’d pulled tightly over his wounded hand when the cold had begun to outweigh the discomfort. He scratched at the bite hard enough to fray the bandage, then reached beneath his sodden cloak and clawed at his arms, his neck. A tawny owl called somewhere close by, laughing at him, perhaps.

Why was he so itchy? Couldn’t the healers have done something about that? They’d cured most of the other superficial effects of the vividrake bite.

Perhaps they would have cured this too, if it had anything to do with the bite. Perhaps it didn’t. There might be fire beetles beneath his skin, running along the roads his veins made, on their way to lay eggs in his heart, his eyes, his brain.

The dragon might have put them there. Somehow. Who could say what dragons were capable of?

Griffin cried out as he felt something crawling over his forearm. Had one of the beetles escaped? Dug its way out of his skin?

Slapping wildly at himself, he slipped in the mud and slid down the hillside, until he was stopped by a boulder that had, apparently, been waiting for its chance to leap out of the night and break a wayward traveler. Pain blazed through his shoulder, and something in his ankle made a popping sound that could not be the herald of anything good.

None of that mattered. What mattered was catching that firebug. Perhaps if he brought it back to the magistery, the others could study it. They might learn how to kill the eggs before they hatched. He needed it as evidence, anyway. They would never believe that a dragon had magically implanted fire beetles in his veins without some evidence.

Where was his torch? Lost in the fall, and gone out. That would prove unlucky, should a vividrake finally wander by. But as Griffin had not seen a single one in all the hours (How many hours? Was it still the same day?) he’d been out here, he wasn’t terribly concerned on that account. There was nobody but him, and the owl, and the dragon. And the beetles.

He held his forearm, still crawling, upright and pushed back the sleeve with a flourish, the way he might have pulled back a curtain to reveal some surprise to a child. While the owl kept laughing, Griffin peered through the rain and waited, his face taut with triumph and disgust, for the beetle to reveal itself in what little light there was to see it by.

There was no beetle. It was blood he’d felt trickling along his arm, not tiny legs. Though it was too dark to see the damage, judging by the way the skin felt beneath his questing fingers, Griffin had scratched himself raw.

Or perhaps that was only what the bugs, what the dragon, wanted him to think. Perhaps the beetle had dug its way out after all, and the blood was the result of that. Eaten its way out, having fulfilled its egg-laying duties. It might be in the folds of Griffin’s cloak at that very moment.

Determined to shake the little beast loose, Griffin wiggled his arms and shoulders, shook his head. He got to his feet and started jumping up and down.

Until his ankle gave way and he landed, once more, nearly face down in the mud.

Oh. Right. I hit that rock a little while ago, didn’t I?

With a few muttered words that would have shocked even the archmagister’s rude pen, Griffin struggled to a sitting position, leaning against the boulder that had bashed him, and pulled up the leg of his trousers. He couldn’t see his ankle any better than he’d been able to see his arm, but he could feel it well enough to know it was swollen already. He turned it gently, side to side, then up and down. Injured, but not broken, he thought. That much was good.

He really ought to be getting back. He had to tell them all about the dragon. And the beetles.

The beetles?

What had he been thinking of? Fire beetles? In his veins?

He’d never much liked bugs. He supposed this was one of the waking nightmares he’d been warned about. A trick of the vividrake venom, no more.

Perhaps. Or perhaps they really were there. How would he know?

The sages would have to find out for him. He had to get back. Which way was it?

Looking stupidly around, Griffin realized he could see no light anywhere. And the clouds had blotted out most of the stars he would have used for guidance. He had no idea in which direction the magistery lay. Or which direction he was facing.

“Well, it’s surrounded by mountains, you big idiot,” he muttered. “The only direction that matters is down.”

He moved around the boulder, gingerly, and refused to consider that it might be impossible to walk down a rocky hillside with his ankle in its current condition. Staring intently into the darkness until he gave himself a headache, he spotted it at last: a speck of light, off to his left. There was the magistery.

But no. Not unless the magistery was moving. This light was coming toward him. Was the dragon back for more, then? Come to finish him off?

“You needn’t bother!” Griffin called. “Your beetles are doing their job. Their hatchlings will be feasting on my heart in a moment!”

The light stopped moving. Perhaps the dragon would leave him to crawl down the mountainside in peace. How close to the magistery could Griffin get, before the firebugs ate his insides? It would be a shame to nearly, but not quite, make it. The children might see his entrails, and that would hardly be a nice way for them to remember their teacher.

Or would the fire beetles ignite, once they’d finished their meal, and burn his carcass where it lay? An interesting question. Which would benefit the dragon more, the discovery of Griffin’s entrails, or the discovery of his burned corpse?

Neither seemed all that useful, to be honest, but who was Griffin to question the motives of dragons? The creature must have planted those beetles for some reason. If he merely wanted to kill Griffin, he no doubt could have done that easily enough on his own.

The owl showed itself, flapping over Griffin’s head and toward the light.

The light. Blast it. It had started moving again while Griffin was contemplating his sad demise, and he hadn’t even noticed. It had gotten awfully close, awfully quickly. Or perhaps Griffin had dozed off for a bit, without realizing it. No, no need for that. Dragons could fly, of course he would be quick.

“Griffin, stay where you are,” a feminine voice called. “I’m coming.”

That was definitely not the dragon’s voice. Still, it might be a trick of his, to slow Griffin down. Or perhaps it was the beetles. Could fire beetles talk?

The new arrival lowered her torch, and a slight, pale, and most definitely human woman came into view, a blackhound nearly half her height padding silently beside her. “Griffin? Are you all right?”

“Deryn?”

Of course. Griffin should have known that owl wasn’t up to ordinary owl business. It flew by once more, veering low as it passed Deryn, who waved to it and murmured her thanks before turning back to Griffin. “Yes. The archmagister sent us out to look for you.”

“I thought you might be a dragon.”

If Deryn was surprised by this declaration, she didn’t show it. “I’m afraid not. That would be interesting though, wouldn’t it?”

Griffin tilted his hand back and forth. “It’s not as fun as you might think, meeting a dragon.”

“I’ve met one before, as it happens.” Deryn’s voice, always a bit dreamy, became even more so than usual. “And I’m sorry to say I agree. It wasn’t fun. Are you hurt, by the way?”

“My ankle, mainly. I fell and twisted it. But there also might be fire beetles crawling through my veins, trying to lay eggs in my eyeballs.”

“I see.” Deryn gave him a solemn nod, as if she really did see. Perhaps the dragon she’d met also used fire beetles. “Let’s deal with the ankle first, then, so I can take you back to the magistery. Ash and I can’t very well carry you.”

The blackhound whined and pawed at Griffin, as if confirming his inability to bear such a weight.

“You’ll take me back even if there are fire beetles?” A disturbing thought had just occurred to Griffin. “What if they’re contagious? That wouldn’t be very responsible.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It’s a lucky thing I’m the one who found you, isn’t it? I can check for them before we go.”

“Will they talk to you? Magical animals?”

“The vividrakes wouldn’t, but I could still tell they were there. I imagine fire beetles would be much the same.”

“Oh. That is lucky, then,” Griffin agreed. Deryn was unique in her ability to communicate with animals, the way some other sages could communicate with one another, through thought alone. At least, it was unique as far as Griffin knew. He wasn’t aware of any other humans who could do it, but he wasn’t sure about mermen or centaurs.

Thus assured, he sat with his back against the boulder and tugged up his trousers once more, to reveal his ankle and shin. Deryn handed him her torch, then knelt to examine the injury, her hair making a dark veil over her face.

“Not broken, thank Eyrdri.” She sat back, but kept her hands on Griffin. “Ash.” The blackhound sat beside her and rested his head on her shoulder, licking her ear once. Then they both went still, eyes closed. Deryn’s fingers warmed on Griffin’s skin, and the pain eased.

Moments later, Griffin clambered to his feet, and found that the ankle could take his weight with ease. He thanked Deryn with a mixture of wonder and a familiar, prickling envy. “The bugs might not be so easy to deal with, though,” he said. “What if they take so much magic, you lose your balance?”

“I’ve got enough physical work to do, climbing back down. You’ve strayed pretty far from home.” Deryn stood and wiped her muddy hands on her cloak. “We’ll have to walk fast, though, where we can. You’ll have noticed I needed Ash to give me a bit of a boost there, with your leg. I’m not used to healing. It seems to hit my balance harder than other things. Have you got any vividrakes in that sack?”

“No. Just the beetles.”

“In the sack?”

Griffin huffed. “No. I’ve already told you, they’re in my veins. I wonder if I could have fed them to the vividrakes. Would have served them right.”

“Served the beetles right, or the drakes?”

“Both.”

Deryn put her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes. “And how did these beetles come to be in your veins?”

“The dragon put them there.”

“Right, of course it did.”

“He.”

“The dragon was a he?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” She opened her eyes again and stepped back. “The dragon that was imprisoned here at Pendralyn was male. Was the one you saw black?”

“I couldn’t say what color he was,” Griffin said. “It was dark, and there was a fire in front of him. It was more the shape of him that I saw. But it’s difficult to mistake the shape of a dragon for the shape of anything else.”

“Yes, I imagine so. You can keep that torch, I’ve got another.” After a moment’s rummaging through her pack, Deryn produced the torch, and without a sound or so much as a flick of her fingers, lit it nearly instantly. “Well, I’ve examined you thoroughly, and I can tell you for certain there are no fire beetles nearby, either inside of you or out. Perhaps you killed them.”

Griffin narrowed his eyes at her. “Or imagined them. That’s what you’re really thinking.”

“Vividrake venom can cause hallucinations. I understand it was a baby that bit you. Were you very itchy?”

“I scratched myself bloody,” he admitted, feeling suddenly foolish and ashamed. Had he really asked this magician to check for beetles in his veins? And Deryn had humored him, like she would a young child.

“Like as not your mind supplied a reason for the itch,” she said with a shrug.

“I suppose so. But I didn’t imagine the dragon.”

“We ought to get moving.” Deryn turned away, as if she hadn’t just heard Griffin say there was a dragon lurking in the hills above the magistery. “Like I said, I need to exert myself. Just be careful where you step, so you don’t go hurting any more ankles. Or any more rocks. The torches won’t go out no matter how hard it rains.”

With the pain in his ankle gone, Griffin easily matched the small woman’s rapid strides. Ash trotted along beside them, surefooted as a goat. “Listen, I realize how this sounds, after that thing with the beetles. But I mean it. The dragon was real.”

“I’m sure it seemed real.”

“He,” Griffin corrected again. “Not it. He warned me.”

“About what?”

“That what happened today wasn’t some natural quake. That someone—him, I suppose—collapsed the dragon hall on purpose. Probably to get to the cavern beneath. That’s where the dragon was trapped all those years, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but you could already get to the cavern,” Deryn said. “Or some of it, at least, through the tunnels. We found a branch that led to the old hall years ago. The north side of the area where the dragon slept was caved in, or blocked off by a cave-in, but we explored what we could. There was nothing there.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t use the tunnels. Perhaps they weren’t big enough for a dragon to pass through.”

Deryn slowed down, breathing heavily, to scramble down a muddy slope. “Why would he want to go back into the cavern where he was imprisoned for centuries? Do you suppose he left his favorite hat behind?” The latter question was posed with no outward hint of mockery.

“He wouldn’t tell me, but there must be something he wants down there. Perhaps it was buried on that north side you mentioned, and that was why he had to move the earth around to get to it.”

Deryn glanced at him, then shook her head. Griffin guessed he was lucky she wasn’t laughing at him outright. Any of the other magisters certainly would have been. But Deryn didn’t laugh often. “I think we would have noticed a dragon on the grounds, don’t you?”

Griffin could only offer a lame shrug. “They have magic, don’t they? Perhaps he cloaked himself. Or perhaps he had help.”

Deryn didn’t answer. It was plain she didn’t believe any of it, and why should she? Mere moments ago, Griffin had been swearing there were beetles crawling around inside him. He did sound a bit ridiculous.

He persisted anyway. “Can’t you just check? Dragons are animals, right? Won’t you be able to reach him, if he’s out here?”

With a sigh, Deryn stopped and gestured at Ash, who moved closer to her. She rested her palm on the hound’s big, blocky head and closed her eyes.

After several seconds of silence, she opened them again and said gently, “There’s no dragon, Griffin. I don’t sense anyone or anything out of the ordinary, not within my range.”

Perhaps she was right. Griffin had to admit, the most reasonable and likely explanation for his encounter with the dragon was that it had been a hallucination. Vividrakes were a bit dragonish, and it had been the dragon hall that collapsed. Perhaps he’d simply had dragons on his mind, without realizing it.

Or perhaps not.

He was real. I know it.

* * *

The following morning dawned clear, but much colder, with a hard frost dimming the greens of the lawns and transforming the buildings into elaborate iced cakes. Exactly the sort of morning best spent reading in a cozy common room chair, with a jug of cider keeping warm in the hearth. Griffin had hours before his first class, and just yesterday he’d received a thick treatise on astronomy from a Harthian adept of his acquaintance.

Wouldn’t it have been lovely to look forward to that, rather than the apparently imminent reduction of all he held dear to ashes and rubble?

Griffin’s stomach twisted. He remembered only bits of the night before—nearly all of the time he’d spent wandering was lost to him—but his encounter with the dragon was mostly clear. He was certain it had been real. And he was prepared to defend that fact without backing down, no matter how much like an idiot Deryn, or Arun, or anyone else might make him feel.

It seemed he would not have to wait long. He was still fresh out of bed, standing at the window contemplating both the scene below and the day ahead, when he was interrupted by thumping and scratching at his door. He opened it to an enormous blackhound, her silver collar announcing her as the archmagister’s own. Not that Griffin required the collar to recognize her; he’d known her from the day she was born.

“Morning, Holly. I take it he wants to see me, then?”

Holly sat, staring at him with implacable amber eyes.

“All right, let me get dressed. I’ll only be a moment.

The dog waited while Griffin went to the basin in the alcove at the far side of the room for a hasty wash, then changed into a fresh tunic and trousers. There was nothing to be done about his shaggy face or wild auburn hair, but he supposed the archmagister hadn’t called him to admire his looks.

Griffin was glad, glancing into the mirror above the basin, to find his eyes looking bright and alert. His head didn’t hurt. Neither, for that matter, did his veins. He would need a fresh bandage, and perhaps some more tonic for the pain. But apart from that, he hoped there would be no lingering effects from the bite.

Had he really thought there were beetles—fire beetles no less, a creature that did not, as far as he knew, exist—running through his veins? Planted there by a dragon?

He half groaned, half chuckled as he followed Holly out of the battlemage hall and toward the manor. This part of the grounds hadn’t been damaged, and everything looked as it should. Early risers, more magisters than students, hurried across the cold-stiffened grass toward the keep for breakfast. Smoke rose from the multitude of chimneys in the affinity halls and the main manor. The excited barks of blackhounds, anticipating their own morning meal, drifted on the breeze from the direction of the kennels.

To look around, one would never know that the dragon hall and the earth around it had been torn up by mysterious means, for mysterious reasons.

The smell of freshly baked rolls wafted toward him as he passed the keep, and Griffin very much wished he were going there instead. Mouth watering, he kept walking, over the bridge and on to the manor. He followed Holly inside.

Though he lived in the battlemage hall, most of his students being of that affinity, this had always been Griffin’s favorite part of the magistery. Apprehensive as he was about the meeting to come, he still appreciated the scents of leather, cedar, and honey that always clung to the place, and the bookshelves lining every corridor, dampening sound, offering warmth and (somehow) safety. Holly padded in front of him, up the polished stone staircase to the third floor, then on to the archmagister’s chambers. Griffin had to duck slightly to pass through the open door.

A wall ran three-quarters of the length of the vast space, separating the archmagister’s private quarters from the larger front area that served as study, sitting room, and dining room. The archmagister himself stood in front of his desk, staring out the window while a hovering pen scribbled furiously over a piece of paper.

As he returned Arun’s greeting, Griffin was momentarily distracted by a light flapping sound and a movement in the corner; a pumpkin-colored cloak hung on the wall, apparently dancing. He supposed it would cause him to dance as well, if he put it on.

Other objects, whole and broken, no doubt in various states of enchantment, littered the desk and floor: three more cloaks and at least a half dozen more pens, a large mug, an assortment of jars and boxes, a tunic that looked half burned, and several dog collars. Some of these things had been lying in the same places for months. One or two for as long as Griffin could remember.

There was also a pile of long, narrow chunks of wood, along with some smaller bits that might have been finger shaped. These were new. Griffin wondered whether the archmagister might be trying to enchant himself a new arm, one that would be more functional than the one that hung so stiffly and uselessly at his side now.

The table in the center of the room was crowded with boiled eggs, sausages, bread puddings both savory and sweet, rolls, cheese, butter, honey, one steaming pot of cider, and another of tea. All, apparently, for Arun and Griffin alone. There was no one else there, save three blackhounds sleeping by the fire. (Officially, Holly was the archmagister’s only personal hound, but there were almost always a few more in attendance wherever he went.) Holly flopped down to join them, though she kept her eyes open and focused on the plate of sausages.

After distributing a few morsels to the hounds, Arun murmured something to the pen, and it stilled. (The cloak, however, kept dancing.) “That’s not the same pen Corin took, if you were wondering. It was actually transcribing something useful.”

Griffin had nearly forgotten the prince teasing poor Nack. It seemed like days ago. “You heard about that, then?”

“Corin came to see me last night and confessed to the whole thing. Seemed to think I’d treat him more gently if he got to me before you did.”

“And did you treat him gently? If I may ask?”

“Certainly not.” Arun slid the pen into a velvet pouch on the desk, before turning to the table. “I’m happy to tolerate mischief, but never meanness. I didn’t tell him he couldn’t come with me to Narinore to visit his parents, though, which was what he was really afraid of. My sister is expecting yet another baby, if you can believe it, any moment now.”

“I’d heard. Please offer the king and queen my congratulations.”

“I will. In the meanwhile, sit, will you?” Arun took his own chair. “A hearty meal will do you good. I imagine you missed more than one yesterday.”

Griffin did as he was told. “Thank you, sir.”

“When do you suppose you’ll stop insisting on calling me sir? The students call me that. The other magisters don’t. Honestly, most of us don’t even call the king Majesty.”

“Apologies.”

“If you’re apologizing, I believe you’re missing the point. In any case, I asked you here in part because I wanted to apologize. It was stupid of me to let you go out on your own last night.”

“I wanted to go. I had no idea it would get that bad.”

“Nor did I. You are, as you pointed out, a big man. That must have been a great deal of venom. Or perhaps some people are more sensitive to it than others.” Arun studied Griffin as he spread soft cheese over a roll. “I wanted to have a look at you this morning, see if the worst of it had passed.”

“I believe so, s— yes. I feel much better.”

“Good.”

“And much more clear,” Griffin added, for emphasis. “I realize some of the things I said to Deryn last night were, er, odd.”

“She informs me you had an encounter with some fire beetles,” Arun said with a laugh. “I forget, was that before or after you had a conversation with a dragon?”

Griffin coughed, and refrained from speaking aloud any of the several jokes at his own expense that came to mind. He needed the archmagister to take him seriously now. “The fire beetles were ridiculous, of course. But as I said, I’m clear this morning. I know they were hallucinations.” He leaned forward, resting one hand flat on the table. “And I know the dragon was not.”

Had Arun’s eyes widened a bit, before he so carefully shuttered them? He had no love of dragons, Griffin knew. It was a dragon who’d taken his arm, in the war twelve years ago.

The same war that had left Griffin orphaned and destitute. He didn’t know what would have become of him, had the archmagister not taken him in at Pendralyn.

“Griffin, you must realize that a dragon could not have flown all the way across Eyrdon from …” Arun waved his hand vaguely, spattering a bit of cheese on his deep blue tunic. “Wherever it is they’ve gone. Someone would have seen it in the sky. Many someones, I would think.”

Griffin took a deep breath, and braced himself to contradict a man far wiser and more learned than he would ever be. Not to mention his superior. “But he was here, nonetheless,” he said, adopting his sanest and most reasonable tone. “He was—”

“He?”

“Yes. Perhaps he’s the same one who was imprisoned here. He must be one of the nine, anyway. But I couldn’t tell what color he was.”

Dragons had gone all but extinct at least a thousand years before, apart from a few who’d been trapped in a magical slumber instead. Twelve years ago, nine of those had been awakened, then corrupted and enthralled by the demon Graddoc, who used them as weapons.

Eyrdon’s king—the archmagister’s brother-in-law, and Corin’s father—defeated that demon and freed the nine, but nobody knew where the dragons were now. Nor did they know for sure whether there were others, still sleeping in secret places beneath mountains and under seas, though they thought not. Presumably if there were, the nine would have roused them by now.

“Why would he come back here, after all this time?” Arun asked. “I watched the nine depart myself, the day we freed them. Not one of them has been seen since. I’ve always considered it an unspoken agreement that we’ll leave each other alone. And been grateful for it.”

“I don’t know. Something to do with the cavern. I—” Griffin cleared his throat and started again, from the beginning. “He was sick, from vividrake venom.”

Arun smiled at that. “You suppose a vividrake’s fangs could penetrate a dragon’s hide?”

“No, I suppose he ate one of them, and it caused him a bit of stomach upset. In any case, I gave him some of the tonic. He gave me a warning in return. So I would leave, I suppose, and be spared.”

“Spared from what?”

“He told me that he—or actually, he didn’t say it was him, not outright—that someone collapsed the dragon hall deliberately. And that more danger was coming.”

“That’s it? He didn’t happen to say what this danger was, specifically?”

“Only that it would leave Pendralyn in ruins. Ashes and a bit of rubble, to be exact.”

“You remember his exact words? That’s impressive, considering the condition you were in.”

“They were memorable words.” Griffin spread his hands. “It’s obvious there’s something in that cavern he wants. He took the dragon hall off it like a person takes a lid off a pot. He said himself the only reason to do that is to get to what lies beneath. And what with the ashes and rubble, I think we can assume that whatever that is, it’s bad for us.”

“And he did this,” Arun asked mildly, “without anyone noticing him? A dragon? What happened yesterday happened in broad daylight. The grounds have been muddy from the rains. Yet there are no witnesses, no tracks, no sign of him on land or sky. Nobody has seen or in any way sensed this dragon but you, in the dark, under the influence of vividrake venom.”

“Can’t they cloak themselves? I thought he was casting some sort of spell last night.”

Arun shook his head. “Dragons are magical creatures, of course, but as far as I’m aware, they don’t cast spells the way we do. And if they could make themselves invisible, they would have used that skill in the war, surely.”

Griffin opened his mouth to argue on, as he’d come fully prepared to do. Or so he’d thought. But he saw now that there was no way to be prepared; he had nothing to prepare. No proof of any kind. What was he to do, keep saying over and over that he was sure? Why would the archmagister be any likelier to believe him the seventh time than the first? He closed his mouth again, and took another roll.

“I can offer this,” Arun said. “I’m of the opinion that this dragon was another hallucination. But on the minuscule chance that I’m wrong, dragons aren’t to be taken lightly. I don’t suppose you can remember the exact location where this happened?”

Griffin squinted into the fire, trying to cull the bits of reality from the many tricks his mind had played. “I remember I thought I heard water. Perhaps a waterfall?”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much. There are dozens of waterfalls in these mountains. But I promise you I’ll send out some contrivers, the best ones we have for tracking. And some blackhounds with them, and even Deryn again, to check with the local animals. If there’s any sign of a dragon, or any other creature that shouldn’t be there, they’ll find it.”

Arun paused to refill his cider, awkwardly holding the mug steady with the rim of the pitcher and pouring at the same time. Griffin made no move to help him, knowing how he detested being treated like an invalid. “Meanwhile,” the archmagister went on, “the tunnels aren’t safe for us to use anymore. The tremor collapsed some parts of them, and left others unstable. But the pit it created also opened some parts of the cavern from above that we couldn’t get to before.”

“The north side,” Griffin said, remembering what Deryn had told him.

With a nod, Arun pushed some crumbs together on the table, then swept them with his finger, making a ridge at one side. “Not so much lifting a lid as pushing it away. The cavern’s not even very flooded; the cave-in seems to have created a convenient dam that’s keeping out the tunnel water. You can rest assured, I intend to explore it fully.”

“I’d like to be part of the group—”

“Thank you, but no.” Arun cut him off before Griffin could even finish the sentence, his voice not unkind but definitely firm. “I’m only going to allow a limited number of magisters with particular skills near it, for now. That cavern is ancient. If there’s anything down there, it’s likely to be delicate. We don’t want the place trampled and pawed over by dozens of people before we’ve had a chance to really examine it.”

Griffin’s face heated. He hesitated for the barest moment, until he was certain he could force some good cheer into his voice. “Of course. I do have especially large paws, as it were.”

Arun chuckled. “Here, put them to work on this plate of puddings, and tell me how Eleri is doing with her history.”

“She’s improving. I’ve assigned her an essay on Lional the Great, in hopes that his feats will make a lasting impression. She always confuses him with Lional the Last.” Griffin bit into a fist-sized bread pudding bursting with currants and cheese, so delicious it almost improved his mood.

“I suppose that’s not surprising.” Arun’s sigh sounded more like a growl. “You would think Harth was the only kingdom in Cairdarin, to listen to their adepts.”

Finding his mouth too full to answer, Griffin only nodded. Eleri had thus far been raised and educated mainly in Eyrdon’s neighboring kingdom to the north. Arun had been married to a Harthian baroness who gave up her position and power to live at the magistery with him—only to realize, a handful of years later, that she preferred position and power after all. The archmagister refused to leave Pendralyn in favor of becoming a baron consort, and so the King of Eyrdon and the Queen of Harth jointly dissolved the union. Quite scandalously, as annulments were rare, and generally given only to royals and nobles whose spouses proved infertile.

Griffin swallowed his bite of pudding. “I’m sure her grasp of Eyrdish history will improve quickly, what with her aunt and uncle on the throne, and a cousin she loves dearly set to sit there one day.”

Arun snorted. “I’m not sure that particular cousin is the best of influences. But Corin’s sister will be coming here next year. She’ll be a better companion for Eleri.”

They went on discussing the children, then an elaborate astronomy project Griffin was planning, then some remedial work for one of the battlemagic students who was having difficulty with her balance, until neither of them could eat any more. But Griffin understood, as he took his leave at last, that his true dismissal had come nearly an hour before.

Perhaps some part of Arun believed him, the tiniest bit. There had been that look in his eye, when Griffin first declared that the dragon was real. But it didn’t matter. Griffin was neither wanted nor needed to help investigate the matter.

The archmagister would never say it directly, but the truth was obvious enough. It always was.

Nobody had any use for a magister with no magic.

3

Cleanliness was considered a virtue at the magistery, but it was generally agreed that Magister Griffin took it a bit too far. While most of the residents bathed a few times a week, he was known to do so at least daily. Sometimes both morning and evening.

So Griffin knew the sight of him walking down the bathing corridor with an armful of towels, well after dark, would be unremarkable and entirely forgettable to anyone who happened by. He clomped along with heavy strides, making no attempt to be quiet, and no move that might be considered furtive.

Once the bathroom door was barred behind him, he squeezed around the enormous copper tub that dominated the space, deposited the towels on a bench, then unwound them from the small lantern they’d been hiding.

The proper functioning of Pendralyn’s bathrooms and lavatories depended on them being at ground level, and in particular areas of proximity to the drainage and sanitation systems. In the case of the battlemage hall, water was heated over a large outdoor fire pit, rather than on individual stoves or fires inside. As a result, each bathroom had an access door to the outside. One that opened to a back corner of the building, on the southwestern side, where people rarely had any reason to go.

And where one could walk northward with relatively little risk of being seen. Humming softly, Griffin left the bathroom and did just that.

Though there was little rubble left aboveground since the collapse of the dragon hall, there were still some boulders and chunks of granite, mixed with a charred mass of long dead and mostly uprooted pines, at the northwest edge of the grounds. Why they’d left the place littered with such evidence of the dragon’s destruction for the past twelve years, Griffin couldn’t say. He was sure a team of sages could have moved it easily enough. Perhaps they worried that the ground was too unstable, that moving the rocks might cause the very kind of collapse they’d seen three weeks ago. Or perhaps they’d left it as a sort of war monument.

Whatever its purpose, Griffin was thankful for it. It was through this wreckage that he picked his way, keeping his lantern unlit and himself under as much cover as possible. The moon was full, and the few wispy clouds were being irritatingly uncooperative.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who thought so. Or the only one with reason to want to pass unseen.

A soft sound alerted him to someone approaching—quietly, and without a light—from the direction of the great pit ahead. Griffin crouched behind a chest-high slab of stone and watched as a most unwelcome sight emerged from the darkness, stepping carefully around the rocks.

Duncan. Griffin silently mouthed a curse, and fervently wished he could do a cloaking spell.

For a moment, it seemed the other magister would pass him by. Then Duncan’s head swiveled around, a sharp, jerky movement that brought to mind a bird of prey. He stopped with what almost sounded like a gasp.

A whispered command, then a lantern in Duncan’s hand flared with light. He tilted it toward Griffin, disdain heavy in both his face and his voice. “What are you doing skulking around out here?”

Had the question also been a bit breathless, a bit anxious?

“I am not skulking.” Griffin lit his own lantern—not quite so instantly—and hoped he didn’t sound like a guilty child. He had been skulking, of course. Although he preferred to think of it as investigating.

To maintain the purity of the newly excavated north side of the cavern, only a select few magisters were allowed access. After the contrivers had scoured the hills and found no evidence that anyone (or anything) unusual had been in the vicinity of Pendralyn, the archmagister had been more adamant than ever that Griffin not be one of those few.

But Arun had, at last, gone to visit the king and queen, and welcome their new daughter. A perfect opportunity for Griffin to do some visiting of his own.

“And as for what I’m doing out here, I might ask you the same,” he said to Duncan.

“You might, if you had the authority.”

“No less than you have.”

Duncan’s soft mouth twisted. “You are hardly my equal.”

No. Nor had he ever been. The comparisons had been natural from the time they were boys: two war orphans, barely nine years old, coming to Pendralyn at the same time. But their stories had diverged quickly from there. While Griffin got further and further behind in his studies, Duncan excelled at both sage magic and contrivance, one of the rare magicians who was able to master more than one affinity.

They’d hated each other almost on sight. Their mutual dislike only grew as it became clear that Griffin wasn’t worthy of his place at the magistery—and as Duncan made his life miserable for it.

Much like Corin would make Nack’s life miserable, for the same reason, if someone didn’t take the young prince in hand. Arun had, as promised, taken his nephew with him to Narinore. Griffin hoped the time spent with his family would do Corin some good.

He was quite certain that Duncan, on the other hand, was entirely beyond redemption. The other magister’s eyes shifted in the flickering light of both their lanterns, and he was toying with the clasp of his cloak. What was he doing, out in the dark, looking so fidgety? He’d clearly been coming from the cavern; there was nothing else of interest on this part of the grounds.

“Well, then. It doesn’t seem that either of us will be answering the other’s questions.” Griffin raised a brow. “But I’m sure we both have equally good intentions.”

“Good intentions, is it?” Duncan stepped closer. “What good could an oaf like you possibly do down there? You’re far more likely to squash something important, lumbering around with those ridiculous feet.”

Griffin took a step forward in kind—then stilled, mouth open but retort forgotten.

Something was wrong with Duncan’s eyes.

“There you are.” Deryn emerged from a nearby copse of pines and gave Duncan a mild nod before turning to Griffin. “Did you find some? I’ve got a whole pouch full.”

“Er …” Griffin stared at her for a moment before trying—and failing—to blink away his confusion. When he looked back at Duncan, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. “I …”

“You needn’t concern yourself with his lumbering feet,” Deryn assured Duncan. “We’re only out here picking nightclusters.” She flicked at a pouch on her belt, though if she were pressed to open it, Griffin very much doubted they would find it full of nightclusters.

“I found a few.” Collecting himself as best he could, Griffin nodded at the block of granite to their left. The little mushrooms grew best at the feet of rocks and stone buildings, on moonlit evenings such as this. If he were to actually shine his light over there, he would not be surprised to find some. “But I was interrupted by Duncan here.”

“Please.” Duncan narrowed his heavy-lidded eyes at Deryn. “You really expect me to believe he was out here picking mushrooms for you? Since when is he your assistant?”

“Picking mushrooms would be a very odd thing to lie about, wouldn’t it?” Deryn sounded genuinely curious, but she shrugged before Duncan had a chance to answer. “In any case, he isn’t picking them for me, he’s picking them with me. We’re working on a joint lesson, for the second years.”

A clever fabrication, since Deryn was a sage and Griffin’s job officially fell under battlemagic. Before the younger students chose their affinity (or before their affinity chose them), they studied under magisters from all three.

But Duncan clearly remained unconvinced. “I can imagine no intersection between sagacity and the fripperies he teaches.”

“Can’t you?” Deryn asked in that same curious voice. “I’m surprised, if that’s true. You ought to know that nightclusters are useful in both healing potions and in mundane healing, for salves and such. It’s a good example for the students, of how something mundane can be elevated by magic.”

Duncan continued to look doubtful, but perhaps he thought better of arguing the point, lest the conversation turn once again to his own reasons for being out here. With a huff, he wished them luck with their lesson, bid them goodnight, and stalked off.

“Now then,” Deryn said softly, when Duncan was out of earshot. “Suppose you tell me what you were really doing? Though I think I can probably guess.”

After a moment’s deliberation, Griffin settled on repeating what he’d said to Duncan. “I might ask you the same.”

“I’ve been following you,” Deryn said, without hesitation or any trace of chagrin. “I’d have brought Ash, but he was sound asleep by the stove and refused to budge.”

Griffin stiffened and raised his chin, although the latter was hardly necessary; he was already easily two heads taller than Deryn. “May I ask why?”

“Because he’s lazy, like most blackhounds. Though I also can’t deny that a warm fire is the more pleasant option, what with the dark and the cold. Their laziness does seem to show itself most clearly when the weather is bad, doesn’t it? Which I suppose makes them more wise than lazy, now that I think about it.”

Griffin tried not to sound like his teeth were clenched. “May I ask why you’re following me, I meant.”

“Oh, that. You may, but you probably won’t like it. Arun asked me to keep an eye on you while he’s gone. Said you’d been asking about the cavern an awful lot.”

“But surely he wants my help down there? A scholar of my caliber, with all the useless magicians he’s got trampling the place?”

Deryn’s mouth went momentarily slack. “Well … I believe he’s looking for certain particular specialties, you know, I don’t think … that is, I’m not sure—”

Griffin snorted and took pity on her. “No need to trip over yourself, I was being funny. Though perhaps not very funny. Why you? To watch me, I mean. Why not a contriver?”

“I suppose because I said I didn’t mind. There aren’t many people who know about your dragon, and he saw no point in spreading the tale. I think he’s afraid you’re becoming obsessed.” Deryn sighed. “And it seems he’s right, because here you are.”

“‘My’ dragon is not a tale. He was real, and so was the threat he made. I’m certainly not going to stand by and ignore it. I will not see Pendralyn in ruins.” Griffin ducked his head and gave her a sheepish smile. “You can doubt me all you like. I’ll save you just the same.”

“How very kind of you.” There was no trace of derision in Deryn’s voice. She tipped her chin toward the great pit up ahead, surrounded by rope railings now. “What do you hope to find down there?”

Griffin followed her gaze and shook his head. “What did Duncan find down there, is a better question.”

“Oh?”

“He …” Was he really going to say this out loud? Griffin shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. It seemed they already thought him half mad. Obsessed, even. Deryn would never believe him.

Still, shouldn’t he tell someone? He didn’t know enough about magic to understand what he’d seen, but Deryn might.

“There was something wrong with his eyes,” he mumbled. “It was only for a moment, but I know what I saw. It … I haven’t been bitten by any vividrakes lately, you know.”

“No, I didn’t think you had.” As usual, Deryn’s voice was even, if a bit misty, and her face inscrutable. “What sort of something?”

“There was …” Griffin took a deep breath, then let the rest out in a rush. “There was fire. Flames. In his pupils. I don’t know, as if it was coming from behind them. Only for a moment. Then you showed up, and I blinked, and it was gone.”

“Sounds like a reflection from your lantern.”

“It wasn’t,” Griffin said firmly. “Not that I expect you to believe me. But anyway, it’s not just that. I startled him, and he didn’t seem very comfortable with being seen out here. It’s all a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I do, a bit. I don’t know about the fire, but the rest. He was nervous, and trying to hide it.” Deryn tilted her head. “He’s allowed in the cavern, unlike some people I could name. There’s no reason for him to sneak down there at night. And did you notice the shape of his back?”

“His back?” Griffin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He was wearing a pack. Under his coat. As if he didn’t want anyone to know he had it.”

Griffin made a noise in his throat and, without looking back, started walking toward the hole.

Deryn followed him to the edge, where rope ladders led downward. A long way downward, it seemed; the light of Griffin’s lantern didn’t reach the bottom.

“Properly speaking, it’s my duty to stop you from going down there,” Deryn said. “You’ve been specifically ordered to stay away, and I was tasked with watching you.”

“I don’t need a nursery maid,” Griffin snapped. “I’m a magister, same as you. You have no authority over me. And I’m going down there. If you want to tell Arun when he comes back, you can go right ahead. Or …”

He paused to consider this new and unchosen companion. She was smart. And skilled in ways he wasn’t. “Or you could come with me.”

Though she’d been two years ahead of them in school, Griffin knew Deryn had felt the sting of Duncan’s spite many times over the years. She’d always been small and odd, and easy enough to tease. She was also far too talented a magician for Duncan not to see her as a rival. The fact that she could do something nobody else could infuriated him.

No, Deryn didn’t love Duncan any more than Griffin did. He smiled at her. “You can’t tell me you aren’t the least bit curious about what Duncan is up to.”

Deryn was silent for several moments, looking not at Griffin but down into the pit. “Packs are for carrying things,” she said at last, the words striking Griffin with a sharp, sudden reminder of the dragon. Hadn’t he said something similarly strange and obvious? “He was either bringing something in, or he took something out. Or both.”

“Then I’m sure what you really meant to say is that properly speaking, it’s our duty to have a look. While his tracks are still fresh.”

Deryn shrugged. Of course it was nothing to her. She’d probably been down in that cavern dozens of times. “I suppose you’re going to sneak down there at some point anyway. I might as well keep an eye on you, like the archmagister asked.”

Griffin shot her a triumphant grin, his pulse quickening as he turned to the nearest ladder. Since Deryn had no lantern, he descended first, holding his own carefully.

The bottom did indeed seem like a very long way away. When he reached it at last—a rough, gray stone floor in the ring of his light—he found it icy cold. He held the lantern up for Deryn while she finished coming down behind him.

“We had to move some rocks that fell in from above, but the tremor was kind enough to push most of them to the south.” Deryn took the lantern and held it toward that side of the cavern, where what was clearly a recent cave-in had created a solid wall of rocks. “It’s a lucky thing, really. Not only did it expose this part of the cavern, but it cut off the tunnels, and the worst of the water with them. We were able to dry up what was left without much trouble.”

“So the archmagister said, but I don’t know that there was much luck about it,” Griffin said. “I’ll admit I don’t know a great deal about quakes, but that all seems a bit convenient, doesn’t it? I’m not sure that’s how nature works.”

Deryn didn’t answer. Instead she turned around and gestured for Griffin to follow. “So here is the rest of the cavern, such as it is.”

To Griffin’s disappointment, there wasn’t much to see. Certainly nothing either Duncan or a dragon would want, unless they were oddly fond of rocks or centipedes. According to Deryn, there weren’t even rats or bats for her to talk to. No animal more advanced than an insect seemed willing to venture here.

The open sky and moonlight remained above them for several strides, before the cave narrowed and burrowed its way under the mountain on the north side. Griffin couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous under the jagged roof of stone, wondering whether it, too, might be unstable and prone to collapse.

“This is really the only thing of interest we’ve found.” Deryn cast the light on the far northern wall, illuminating a series of runes carved into the stone.

“What do they mean?” Griffin asked.

“We don’t know yet. It’s no alphabet or set of symbols any of us have ever seen. But Nott and I sent some samples to Wulfric. Do you remember Wulfric? He was a magister here when we were younger. He’s the archmagister in Dordrin now. He replied to Nott, you know, the way we sages do, and said he’s sending us something that might help.”

Griffin nodded, remembering the lanky, friendly magister, and looked back at the strange symbols. “You think the language is Dordrine? Why would that be?”

Dordrin was on friendly terms with all three of Cairdarin’s kingdoms, and Eyrdon in particular, but that hadn’t always been the case. Griffin couldn’t imagine how ancient Dordrine runes had found their way onto the walls of an Eyrdish cave. Nor could he think of any connection the Dords could possibly have to this dragon business. As far as he knew, the kingdom across the sea was known only for its honey and harsh winters.

“Not necessarily,” Deryn said, “but they have a great deal of dragon lore there. And Wulfric’s got journals and other writings confiscated from some of the people who helped raise the nine. I’m hoping whatever it is he’s sending came from one of them. We assume the runes have something to do with the ritual that kept Fendrath imprisoned here, and that this section of the cavern is where he slept.”

“Fendrath,” Griffin repeated, slowly, testing the word. “That’s his name?”

“Yes. The only male of the three blackwings. I spoke to him once. During the war.”

Griffin stared at the woman who’d just declared she’d once had a conversation with a dragon—likely the same one he himself had met—in the same placid tone in which she said most things. “You told me that, the night you found me in the hills, didn’t you? I was too … well, mad, I guess, to think anything of it then. You were what, ten during the war? Eleven?”

“Too young to be able to fully grasp or control my abilities. I didn’t learn how to speak with animals really properly until I came here, and Nott helped me. You know he can do things with thought communication that nobody else can.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say I’ve had occasion to know, once or twice,” Griffin said. Among Magister Nott’s many talents was the ability to send messages directly into the minds of others, even if they weren’t sages, and couldn’t communicate that way themselves. “It’s blasted disconcerting, if you want to know.”

“I don’t think so,” said Deryn. “I think he’s a wonder. Even back then, when we were in school, most of the magisters couldn’t even understand his power.”

Griffin covered a smile behind one hand, chuckling inwardly at the way her wide-set, umber eyes went soft when she spoke—on and on, as usual—of Nott. Everyone knew she’d been hopelessly smitten with the sage since they were children. Or at least, everyone except Nott, who seemed oblivious to the matter. He was even more odd than she was.

“But he can’t speak with animals the way you can,” Griffin said.

“No, although he once spoke to Fendrath as well. At the king’s behest, you know, he’s close with the king and queen. But he can’t speak with ordinary animals. I don’t know why I can do it. I’ve always just sort of understood them, and they understand me.” Deryn swallowed, and went still. “Some of the dragons came, with Graddoc. To my village.”

Griffin tensed. “Did they … your family …”

“No. It was only my mother and me, and we came away all right. It was our neighbors they took. For Graddoc’s fighting arena. I don’t know why, or how they chose. But I was hiding behind some barrels we had outside. I’ve never forgotten, one of them wasn’t sealed properly, and I could smell the darnsweed. I still can’t bear that smell. Awful stuff. I watched the whole thing, my neighbors being dragged off. Fendrath was so close to me. Just standing there. I heard him breathing. Huffing, you know, like a horse. Ready to kill anyone who interfered, I suppose.”

“And you spoke with him.”

Deryn nodded. “Like I said, I didn’t have much control over it back then. I’m not sure I even did it consciously. I was confused, and terrified, and I just … reached for him. To ask him to stop, perhaps, or perhaps just to ask why.”

“Did he answer you?”

“In a way. Remember, they were mordrakes then. Corrupted and so forth. I suppose it would be different if I spoke with him now. But it was strange. Much different from any other communication I’ve had, with any living creature.”

“How so?”

“It was cold.”

That seemed a peculiar description, but Deryn didn’t say any more. Instead she moved the light over the walls, gesturing with her other hand. “I don’t see anything different from the last time I was here. I’m not sure what Duncan could have been—”

“There.” Griffin snatched his lantern back, tilting it a bit dangerously in the process. The light had caught something on the wall to their left.

His heart knocked against his ribs as he found it again. “What is that?”

“What?” Deryn squinted in the direction Griffin was pointing.

“That lump on the wall.”

“Geology is more your area of expertise than mine, but I’d say it’s a lump on the wall.”

Something that had been nagging at the edge of Griffin’s mind since they’d begun their climb down suddenly came into focus. “Tunnels!”

“The tunnels are to the south. And there are lots of lumps on the walls.”

“Not like that.” Griffin walked over to the lump in question and pushed it, then pressed its sides. Nothing happened.

But he felt sure something should have. “It’s smoother than the rest of the wall here, by far. Like it’s been worn by frequent touching. Have you had contrivers down here, looking for traps and hidden things and whatnot?”

“Yes, the first day. They didn’t find anything.”

“Then perhaps it isn’t magical. Perhaps I just need to find … the right …” Griffin handed the lantern back to Deryn and continued to prod his way around what he was certain was a handle of some sort.

“You think there are more tunnels.” It wasn’t a question. Deryn was looking curiously at the lump-handle herself now.

“You reminded me when you said packs are for carrying things. The dragon said something to me that night, about tunnels being made to lead to things.” Griffin stood back and bit his lip, trying to remember his (Fendrath’s?) exact words. “That the tunnels down here led to lots of things, some of which we forgot a long time ago, if we ever knew at all. Something about a secret.”

“What kind of secret?”

The question hit Griffin like a splash of cold water, and his conversation with the dragon was suddenly as clear as if he’d had it yesterday. “I asked him that very thing. And he said, an Eyrdish secret. That is a thing in itself, apart from the rest.”

“I suppose we’ve learned not to talk to dragons, if it’s sense we’re looking for.”

Griffin quirked a brow. “Careful, you almost sound as if you’re acknowledging I talked to a dragon at all.”

“Well, we’re down here, aren’t we? Looking so intently at this lump. I might as well embrace the possibilities.” Deryn reached out to touch the stone. “You know, this isn’t so greatly different from the rest. A bit rounder, a bit smoother.”

Griffin swallowed back a sigh, and prepared himself for a lecture on obsession. “Only a bit, yes, but it is different.”

To his surprise, Deryn nodded. “I’m not arguing that. I’m simply saying most people would have missed it, especially in the dark. We did miss it. You’re very observant.”

“Er. Thank you.”

“But then, you were looking for something to be odd, weren’t you?” She poked at the lump, much as Griffin had done moments before. “Looking without magic.”

Now Griffin did sigh.

Deryn shot him an apologetic glance. “I just mean, most magicians wouldn’t notice something so small; they wouldn’t have to. They would cast spells to reveal anything hidden, and then be satisfied that there was nothing.”

“Ah.” Griffin bowed with a flourish. “So once again, as ever, my not having magic to rely on has been a boon to us all.”

“Perhaps it has.” Ignoring his antics, Deryn gave the wall a stern look. “But I can’t find any sort of trigger, either. Perhaps it is magical, and part of the enchantment is protection from detection.”

“Then it’s like our other enchanted doors. This smooth spot is just where the people who had access put their hands.” Griffin couldn’t help but groan. There was only one way into Pendralyn (assuming one wasn’t a dragon, and couldn’t fly over the mountains), and that was through a hidden door in the village inn. When closed, it could be revealed only by an authorized person pressing his or her palm to it. The doors to the keep and the manor worked similarly, when they were locked.

If this door worked the same way, there would be no way for them to get in.

“And we are not those people,” he finished.

“I wouldn’t assume that,” said Deryn. “That it works that way, I mean, not that we’re not the right people. With our doors, your hand doesn’t work the first time, before you’ve been admitted as a student or a magister. You have to have someone with you. And then you have to be accepted.”

“Yes, I know how they work. So?”

“So, that isn’t always practical, and it’s a lot of steps, and it might be a frustration, in certain circumstances. You might not want your door to work that way. What if someone has to come to it alone, for whatever reason?” Deryn shrugged. “There aren’t a lot of enchanted doors in the world anymore, but from what I’ve read in books, most of them simply open to anyone who speaks the proper word or phrase.”

“How are we to come up with the password, then?” Griffin asked. “They wouldn’t have wanted it to be anything easily guessed.”

Deryn chewed at her thumbnail. “An Eyrdish secret. Not an Eyrd’s secret, but an Eyrdish one?”

“That’s what Fendrath said. Does it mean something to you?”

“I don’t know. In ancient times there was an Eyrdish language, separate from the common Caird, that was only spoken here in the mountains. It was never widely used, even at the time. That would make it useful for secret passwords, wouldn’t it?”

“A thing in itself, apart from the rest,” Griffin murmured. He gestured behind them. “And those runes don’t have anything to do with this language?”

“No, like I said, we’ve never seen those before. But we have seen Ancient Eyrdish. We have books.” Deryn gave Griffin a meaningful look. “Duncan almost certainly knows some of it.” Then she smiled. “And so do I.”

Griffin held up the lantern and waited patiently while Deryn, palm against the lump on the wall, spoke what must have been a hundred words in Ancient Eyrdish. And then waited less patiently, while she spoke a hundred or so more.

Finally, there was a groaning noise from behind the wall.

And then it wasn’t a wall anymore. The outline of a door appeared, just for a moment, before it swung open.

4

Griffin and Deryn went through the door without hesitation, although Griffin set a heavy rock across the threshold to hold it open, should it attempt to shut them in of its own accord.

“Give me that lantern for a moment,” said Deryn. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t run out.”

While she spelled it to consume the oil at a fraction of the normal rate, Griffin looked around. Unlike the rough walls of the dragon’s cavern, these were straight and smooth, as was the ceiling above their heads. His stomach fluttered. “This isn’t a tunnel. It’s a corridor.”

“Well then, it leads to something.”

“You sound like the dragon again,” Griffin said. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, added, “The dragon I assume you now believe in. How else could I have known the password would be in some obscure, nearly lost language?”

“Would you like me to apologize?”

“Not especially.” Griffin laughed softly, a bit embarrassed to admit the truth. “Perhaps I just want to hear that someone believes me.”

“I do believe you. And I’m very sorry I doubted you. Even though you sounded mad, and had been bitten by a baby vividrake.” Deryn crouched down and ran her finger through a thick layer of dust and fine bits of rock on the floor. “No footprints. Either Duncan wasn’t back here, or he used magic to cover his tracks.”

“He is a good contriver,” Griffin pointed out.

“He is,” Deryn agreed. “But as we just discussed, a number of good contrivers failed to find that door.”

“Perhaps Duncan only wanted you to think he failed. Perhaps he did find it, and kept it to himself until he could come back alone.” Griffin reclaimed his lantern and swung it back and forth as he started down the corridor, illuminating the bare walls, straining to see as far ahead as he could. It was wide enough for him and Deryn to walk side by side, though a larger companion might have made it more difficult.

Apparently this portion of Pendralyn’s underground had never been flooded; the air felt as dry and parched as the dust that muffled their footfalls, and there was no evidence of vividrakes or any other creature. Within moments, Griffin was cursing himself for not bringing a waterskin.

“What was the word, by the way?” he asked.

“To open the doors? It was two words, actually, I was trying phrases by then. Dryd dyne. Dragon fire.” Deryn gestured vaguely around. “I thought, given our surroundings, it was worth a try. Fire dragon didn’t work, incidentally, so it has to be exact.”

“You tried fire dragon before dragon fire?”

“It seemed a bit less obvious.”

“I would say so, since I’ve never heard anyone say fire dragon in my life. That’s like calling Ash a slobber hound.” Griffin stopped as a doorless gap appeared to his left. The lantern illuminated only a stretch of bare floor beyond. He entered the little room, Deryn close behind him.

There was no need to stay long. It was the size of a large closet, and entirely empty. The walls were just as plain and smooth as those of the corridor outside.

Five more rooms, two on the left and three on the right, proved identical. The seventh room was larger, but housed nothing more than a pile of chains, rusted and brittle with age. Runes were scrawled all over the walls. Some seemed to be written in blood.

Deryn knelt beside the chains and touched them lightly. “These are enchanted.”

“To do what?” Griffin asked.

“I can’t say. We ought to take them back with us, when we’re done.” Deryn stood and looked around. “Could a dragon fit in here, do you think?”

Griffin looked up at the ceiling, trying to measure the space in the weak light. “I think so, though the corridor would be tight. I don’t recall the dragon I saw being much bigger than a very large horse.”

“No,” Deryn agreed. “I remember thinking, when I saw them as a girl, that I expected a dragon to be bigger. Not that I told Fendrath that, of course.”

“You only communicated with him the one time?” Griffin asked. “You were never tempted to try again?” He remembered the dragon’s surly voice, the dangerous edge it had taken on toward the end, and wondered if he would ever speak to Fendrath again. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to.

Deryn’s eyes darted away. “Don’t ever repeat this, but I did try to reach him, or any of the nine, after the war was over and they were gone. I tried a lot. I got so much better at communication, you know, once I came here and studied, and Nott was tutoring me. It seemed like it should be easier. And I was a bit obsessed with dragons for a while, to tell you the truth. But I could never do it.” She pointed at Griffin. “I mean it, never tell Arun, or Nott, or anyone.”

“Why would anyone mind?”

“Because dragons are dangerous. Hand me the lantern, will you?” Deryn took it, then walked over to the wall to study some of the runes more closely. “Everyone thought it best that we have nothing to do with one another. The red ones are the most dangerous of all, and they despise us. Humans, I mean, all of us. I can’t imagine the others like us much better.”

“Why should they hate us?” Griffin asked. “The king freed them.”

Deryn glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, a thousand years after we helped imprison them. They say it was the deities who ordered it done, and I believe that. I can’t imagine humans could have hunted dragons almost to extinction, and then captured the last few who were left, all on our own. But we know that each of the nine was raised with the help—willing or not—of someone whose ancestor helped put that dragon down in the first place.”

Griffin tipped his chin at the chains. “Do you think Fendrath was held here first?” He looked around again, then shook his head. “If the chains and runes were enough to hold him, why not just leave him here? Why move him to the cavern?”

“I don’t know. But these runes are the same type as the others. I’m sure we’ll get some answers once we’ve translated them.”

“Perhaps you won’t have to wait that long. Perhaps we’ll find some answers down here.”

The corridor ended shortly after the chain room, at the entrance to one final room, also doorless, and the largest by far. For a few moments, Griffin and Deryn simply stood at the threshold, staring.

They might have been teleported out of this strange underground lair and into one of the affinity halls. Though it smelled like a tomb, the chamber was otherwise like any other magician’s laboratory. It seemed that for more than a thousand years (nobody knew precisely when Fendrath had been imprisoned, and the cavern sealed) it had remained just as its occupant had left it. Indeed, the open book on the worktable that dominated the center of the room, the pair of thick leather work gloves beside it, the wooden cup on a small desk in the corner, all gave the impression that he or she might be back at any moment.

Despite the fact that this room had far less color and cheer about it, Griffin was strongly reminded of the archmagister’s chambers. Something about it gave him the same feeling of wonder he got every time he walked through Arun’s door. As if the air itself were humming, promising infinite possibilities.

The book on the table appeared to be in perfect condition. Its pages weren’t even yellowed. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other books rested on the stone shelves set into the walls, alongside an assortment of other objects: jars, chests, small statues and figures, pendants and rings. All intact, if dusty.

“No footprints in here, either. If Duncan did find this place, he hid it well.” Deryn stepped into the room. After a few moments of examining the shelves she said, “Everything in here seems to be about dragons.”

She set the lantern on the table and bent over the book. “Funny, we’ve always been short on credible historical references to them. We’ve learned nearly everything we know about them from folktales and children’s stories. Perhaps that’s because the true knowledge was all collected here.”

“Should you be touching that?” Griffin hissed, as Deryn flipped the book closed to look at its dull blue cover. A pen had been tucked beneath it, though there was no inkwell in sight. “What if it falls apart?”

“If it were capable of falling apart, surely it would have by now. Judging by the force of magic I feel in here, either the whole room is enchanted, or everything in it is. Perhaps both. Enchantment seems to have been a great deal more common back then.” Deryn gently turned one of the book’s pages. “This is written in Ancient Caird.”

“Do you know that, too?”

“Better than Ancient Eyrdish. I can’t understand every word, but I can tell you that this is the journal of someone named Mithrin.”

Griffin blinked, unsure whether he ought to laugh, or take the pang of fear that shot through his belly seriously. “The Mithrin?”

“I don’t know the name. It sounds Eyrdish.”

“He’s one of those children’s stories you mentioned. Mad Mithrin the Mutilator, to be thorough about it.” The memory of his mother’s voice, reciting the old rhyme to her wide-eyed, riveted little boy, put a lump in Griffin’s throat. Mad Mithrin the Mutilator, come to take your heart. Blood and bones, tongues and toes, food for his dark art. He’d always loved the scary stories best.

He swallowed hard, and kept his voice level. “Fond of fueling his dark magic by eating organs and drinking blood. How can you never have heard of him? Were you never a child?”

Deryn shrugged. “My father died when I was a baby, and my mother wasn’t one to tell bedtime tales. Not even violent ones.” She bent farther over the book, slowly flipping through it. “There are blank pages at the end. Between that and the pen, I think we can assume this was a journal in progress, making this your Mad Mithrin’s laboratory.”

She paused to read for a few moments before continuing on. “He was very preoccupied with fighting dragons. Most especially the red ones.”

“Because they hated us, even back then?”

“Because they’re evil, if Mithrin is to be believed. He goes on about it at length.” Deryn’s voice took on the sing-song tone of someone reading aloud. “Ruthless, pitiless, compelled by their cruel and arrogant nature to seek dominion over all things, and all creatures.”

“Sounds like some humans I know.”

“He seems to have dedicated a great deal of time to searching for ways to kill them. Dragons in general, I mean, not only the red. He tells us there are three such ways.”

Griffin huffed. “That might have been handy knowledge to have, twelve years ago.”

“They were enslaved to a demon twelve years ago,” Deryn reminded him, for the second time that night. “They couldn’t help what they did to anyone.”

“From what you just told me, they were probably more than happy to have the chance to kill some humans..” Griffin tightened a fist against his cloak. He’d been told that his parents were killed by the demon Graddoc himself. But the dragons had slaughtered, even eaten, plenty of other people’s parents that day. And plenty of limbs, including the archmagister’s, had been lost to them.

“I very much doubt that,” Deryn said. “They’re proud creatures. They were outraged at being controlled by Graddoc.”

After what Deryn had told him about trying to reach Fendrath after the war, and becoming obsessed with dragons, it wasn’t particularly surprising to hear her making excuses for them now. But Griffin couldn’t set aside just how much of a threat they might pose, if they were so inclined. “Still. I wouldn’t mind hearing these three ways. Just in case we should ever happen to need them.”

Deryn returned to the book. “A deity can kill a dragon, just as a dragon can kill a deity. We already knew that one. And dragon fire, but it looks like there are restrictions. He says: black dragons will be consumed by the breath of the red, while only green flame will burn a redwing, and blue flame a green. That’s not an exact translation, but it’s close.”

“Are you sure you got the part about blue flame right?” Griffin asked. “Unless I’ve missed something, which I’ll admit isn’t entirely unlikely, there aren’t any blue dragons.”

“I’ve heard the fire of black dragons is blue. Deep blue. Nott told me, and he heard it from the queen herself. This is a bit like a game of knife-paper-stone, isn’t it?” Deryn nodded in answer to her own question. “Exactly like, really. Each nearly indestructible creature vulnerable to one other. So they can keep themselves in check, I suppose, since hardly anyone else can.”

“Nature does love balance,” said Griffin. “So that’s two ways. What’s the third?”

“He mentions a … harp, I think, but it might be a lute … that can turn any creature into stone.” Deryn clucked in disapproval. “That couldn’t work. How could you play it, without being turned into stone yourself? In any case, Mithrin seems fairly certain it’s a myth.”

“If the harp doesn’t exist, and the dragons outnumbered the deities to start with, how did the dragons end up losing?” Griffin rubbed his chin. “Perhaps the deities found some way to use the dragons’ own fire against them, too.”

“Perhaps some of the dragons turned traitor and joined the deities’ side,” Deryn suggested. “Perhaps the nine themselves, and that’s why they were spared. Why put them to sleep, when all the rest were killed?”

Griffin gestured at the book on the table, then at the shelves. “One of these will tell us, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. We’ll have to get some people down here to pack all this up, and bring it up to study. Although …” Deryn turned in a slow circle, surveying the room. “We probably ought to wait until we know more about the enchantments. Suppose everything is only preserved while it’s in here, and the second we take something out, it crumbles away to nothing?”

“That’s a good point.” Griffin turned to the nearest shelf and peered at a neat row of dragon figurines, each no bigger than his palm. They, like everything else in the room, were shrouded in dust. Either Duncan hadn’t disturbed them—if, as Deryn said, he’d been in here at all—or he’d magically covered his fingerprints as easily as his footprints. “We should test it first, on something less likely to be destroyed by aging a thousand years in an instant. Something made of metal or stone, like one of these.”

He leaned forward and gently wiped off one of the figures. It was hard and cold beneath his fingers, fashioned out of some metal he didn’t recognize. He’d never seen anything so purely black. Two chips of citrine, dull with age and cloudy with dust, served as the dragon’s eyes.

“This may confirm that the dragon I met was a blackwing, as you called them.” Griffin picked up the small statue, testing its weight in his hand. It was lighter than he’d expected. “His horns were exactly like—”

At the same time, Deryn, who was standing in front of a bookshelf a stride or two away, said, “Look at this, there’s a book—”

Neither of them got to finish.

Griffin was the first to realize what the groaning, scraping sound above them meant. He didn’t need to spare the entryway more than a quick glance to know that a slab of stone was descending from above, ready to trap them inside the chamber. And that it was moving too quickly for comfort.

He grabbed Deryn by the shoulders and shoved her with less than gentlemanly force, knocking her down and propelling her toward the doorway at the same time. Griffin followed, throwing himself on his belly and scrambling through the rapidly narrowing gap.

The stone door slammed closed, shaking the ground around them and plunging them into darkness. The lantern was back in the chamber, on the table where Deryn had left it.

Judging by the reverberating crashes all around them, the other chambers off the long corridor were being likewise sealed. Far more concerning were the knocking and cracking sounds coming from straight ahead.

“The rock you used to keep the door open,” Deryn breathed.

“It’ll break before long.” Griffin sprang to his feet and, after quickly reaching over to be sure Deryn was upright beside him, sprinted blindly toward the sound.

Thankfully, the corridor was straight. Even so, he banged his shoulders and hips several times against one side or the other, not realizing he’d veered left or right. The only thing that kept him from ramming into the wall at the end was his outstretched arms, much to the sorrow of his wrists.

The door was indeed pressing against the rock Griffin had used to prop it open. Another loud crack renewed his fear that it wouldn’t be long before the rock was splintered to bits. Finding the edge of the door, Griffin pushed back against it. He sensed immediately that it was stronger than he was.

“Can’t you magic us up a torch or something?” he called. Deryn’s footsteps slapped softly against the stone as she caught up.

“I can’t light stone. I need something that burns, a piece of wood, or … hold on.”

A moment later there was a hiss of flame, and Deryn’s cloak was on the floor, burning. “If we go through that, I suppose we can use my coat next.”

“If we go through that, we’ll have stayed too long.” Seeing the rock more or less clearly now, Griffin guessed it would last perhaps five more seconds—certainly no more than ten—before it was crushed to rubble.

With no other option at hand, he braced himself between the frame and the door, gripping whatever he could and thrusting outward with his legs, trying to force it open wide enough for Deryn to get through.

A smaller man than Griffin, which was most men, likely would have had no hope at all. He had little enough as it was. He strained and pushed, tendons rigid, sweat beading on his face.

The door wouldn’t give. But at least it didn’t slam and crush him.

Deryn seemed to be trying to help with a magical wind of some kind, but it did no good. She muttered something about a tremor, and Griffin groaned in protest.

“You’re right,” Deryn said. “It’s too unstable down here. I could bring the whole place down around us.” She fluttered her hands. “What should I do, then?”

“Go!” Griffin wheezed. At the same moment, he willed all the strength he had left into his legs and shoved, creating a narrow but passable shelter between them and the door frame.

Without bothering to argue, Deryn dropped to the floor and scrambled through. Thankfully she was small, and quick. She was nearly clear when, with a sickening crack, Griffin’s legs gave.

He let out a strangled cry and half jumped, half fell to the cavern side of the door, rolling Deryn with him. There was a whoosh as Deryn’s breath was expelled in a hard rush, presumably by Griffin’s shoulder slamming into her middle.

The door crashed closed, blotting out the burning cloak and leaving them in the dark once more.

After a few seconds, Griffin’s eyes adjusted to the thin moonlight coming down through the cavern’s entrance to the south. He tried to move, then groaned. His left knee was screaming, and he was fairly certain his right leg was broken. Possibly more than once.

Deryn’s shape, vague in the darkness, sat up and leaned against the wall. “Are you all right?”

Griffin shook his head, then realized Deryn probably couldn’t see him well enough to tell. “Not really.” His voice sounded feeble. He swallowed a mouthful of pooling saliva and hoped it wasn’t blood.

“Arms, or legs?”

“Both, but my right leg is the worst.”

Just as she had the night he met the dragon, Deryn touched Griffin’s leg. Unfortunately, the effect was not the same. He grunted and bit his lip as pain bloomed through his shin and thigh.

Deryn swore under her breath. “It’s broken. In two places, if I had to guess.”

“So I gathered.”

“I can heal the rest of your injuries, and save you some pain, but broken bones are notoriously troublesome. You’ll need a dedicated, experienced healer for that.”

“That’s going to make things difficult, considering the ladder I need to climb to get out of here.”

“One thing at a time.” Deryn healed as many of Griffin’s other sprains, tears, and bruises as she could, and brought the pain down to an almost bearable level, though Griffin was still weak and shaking.

“All right,” she said at last. “That’s the best I can do for now. Give me a bit of time to find a healer to come down to us.”

Deryn went still. The quiet stretched out for several minutes, during which Griffin grew increasingly self-conscious; he was panting like a hound. He concentrated on slowing his breathing until finally Deryn stirred again.

“I couldn’t reach any of the healers directly,” she said. “Likely they’re all asleep. But I got Ash, anyway. He’ll fetch someone.”

While they waited, she touched the lump on the wall—all that remained to tell them where the door was—and said, “Dryd dyne.”

There was no sound. The door didn’t move.

“Perhaps it’s your balance,” Griffin suggested. “You need to recover from all that healing and communicating first. Run around a bit, there’s room.”

“That shouldn’t matter. I’m not doing the magic, the door is.”

“Well then, try again. Perhaps you were mumbling.”

When dragon fire did no more good the second time, Deryn tried, once again, every other word and phrase she could think of in the all but forgotten tongue of the ancient Eyrds. None of them worked.

The door was closed to them. Perhaps for good this time.

5

“Of all the stupid, irresponsible, idiotic …” Calys stopped pacing across her chamber long enough to face Griffin and Deryn, arms crossed, her normally attractive face twisted. (Though truth be told, Griffin thought her hazel eyes looked as well as ever, even crackling with outrage.)

Deryn cocked her head to one side, apparently not the least bit cowed by the acting archmagister’s tirade. “Aren’t stupid and idiotic the same thing, really?”

“It’s worth mentioning twice!” Calys jabbed a finger at her. “You should have come back the moment you opened that door. Or if you didn’t have the sense for that, at least the moment you realized how many enchantments there were on the place. The proper thing would have been to send a team down there, with representatives from all three affinities, and the appropriate tools and precautions. Instead two people”—she flung an arm toward Griffin—“one of them not even a magician, and very much not supposed to be down there at all, decided they could handle it themselves and locked us all out!”

Griffin covered his wince with a smile. “Now hold on a moment, I’ll have you know my not being a magician made the whole discovery possible. Deryn herself admitted that it takes a nonmagical magister to find a lump on a wall.”

The joke earned him a derisive snort from Calys. He’d failed to take into account, when choosing this night to sneak into the cavern, that the headmagister of battlemagic would be serving in Arun’s stead while the archmagister was gone. And that should he, Griffin, be caught, there were few people in this world he would be less eager to face.

But he had been caught, and face her he must. He straightened his shoulders, and resolved not to be intimidated by someone a fraction his size. He only hoped he wouldn’t anger her even further by yawning—or falling asleep where he stood—in the middle of her admonishment, which showed no sign of ending any time soon.

He and Deryn had already spent two hours with three of the magistery’s best healers, none of them especially happy to have been gotten out of bed. The first did her work in the cavern, until Griffin was able to climb out without help. Since one of the breaks was a complicated fracture, she then insisted they all go to the sage hall to consult with the other two.

Meanwhile, Calys herself had gone into the cavern, armed with an extensive knowledge of languages, and a pickaxe. The latter was broken when she came back out again. The wall seemed to be warded with some sort of shield, and physical blows only glanced off it. It was as they’d feared: the hidden corridor was locked and sealed beyond their reach.

Griffin’s leg was now, according to Magister Lawfric, “mostly” mended. (As headmagister of sagacity, and therefore Deryn’s boss, Lawfric had also said a great many other things, most of them in the same vein as Calys’s remarks.) Griffin would be limping for a week or so, but the pain was nearly gone. It had left profound exhaustion in its place.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “I told Deryn I was going down there whether she came with me or not.”

“You’re a magician!” Calys rounded on Deryn, without sparing Griffin more than a single disgusted glance. “You don’t suppose you could have come up with a way to stop him?”

“Oh, I’m sure I could have,” Deryn said. “And I did consider it. But I have to admit, I was curious about what Duncan—”

“I already spoke with Duncan, while you were still with the healers. He fully acknowledges that he was in the cavern earlier tonight. He had an idea about a rune translation, and he didn’t want to wait for morning to test his theory. He told me the idea, by the way, and although I didn’t think much of it in the academic sense, I’m certain it wasn’t some sort of excuse he dreamed up on the spot. He—”

“With a pack?” Deryn interrupted. “Under his coat?”

Calys tossed her hands. “You want to hang the man based on where he chooses to wear his pack? It’s hardly surprising that he would bring one, to go study runes in a dark cavern. He’d want a lantern, a journal, a pen and ink. It’s a lot to carry in your pockets, wouldn’t you say?”

“But Griffin saw—” Deryn glanced at Griffin, who shook his head slightly. He guessed she wanted to tell Calys about the fire in Duncan’s eyes, but Deryn herself hadn’t believed that. There was no chance Calys would. It would only make them sound mad. Or perhaps like they were fabricating things to cast Duncan in a dark light.

“ —it too,” Deryn finished, a bit lamely. “That is, we both saw it. We both agreed, Duncan was acting very sneaky.”

“Tell me this,” said Calys. “Did you actually see any tangible evidence, in the corridor or the laboratory, that he’d been in there?”

“No,” Deryn admitted, and Griffin shook his head.

“Then enough about Duncan. You, I believe, are the ones who cut off all access to knowledge we can never get anywhere else? Useful, perhaps even one day necessary knowledge?”

Calys resumed pacing in front of the battered wooden divider that hid her bed and washing alcove from view. The chipped blue roses painted along the divider’s edges were the only nod to decoration in the bare-walled, sparsely furnished sitting area, a marked contrast to the archmagister’s bright and thoroughly magical chambers. This might have been a soldier’s room.

“You are aware that nine dragons who hate us are at this moment roaming the world, and that you may have closed us off from our only means of defending ourselves?” She rounded on Griffin. “This dragon you saw—”

“He was real,” said Griffin. Calys always made him feel even more like an oaf than usual, but on this point, at least, he would not give ground.

“I don’t doubt it.” Calys waved a hand. “Oh, I can see how the archmagister would have doubted it. How a dragon could have flown to and across Eyrdon without a single person witnessing it, apart from you, is quite a mystery.”

“I told you before, he was cloaking himself somehow.”

“Be that as it may. This dragon instructed you on how to find and enter this chamber?”

“I wouldn’t say instructed,” Griffin protested. “He was awfully cryptic about it, really. I thought it was very clever of Deryn to work out the password.”

Calys put her hands on her hips. “But she did work it out, using a hint the dragon gave you. You almost certainly would not have gotten into the corridor, if not for him. Wouldn’t even have been looking for it, if not for him.”

“All true,” Griffin agreed.

“A corridor that leads to what is likely the most comprehensive library of dragon lore in the world. Including information about how to stop and kill them.”

“Yes.”

“Which you have now barred from human eyes.”

Griffin stiffened and said nothing, his stomach sinking as he realized the direction her thoughts were taking. So it was him, and not Duncan, she was going to be suspicious of. When she listed it all out like that, he supposed it did make him look a bit more questionable than another magister whose only provable fault, thus far, was being someplace he had permission to be.

“What are you suggesting, headmagister?” Deryn asked quietly.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Calys, and Griffin thought, Yet. “I simply want to be sure of all the facts. Did either of you take anything out of this chamber?”

“No,” said Deryn. “We discussed it, but we never got the chance.”

“I intended to take a dragon figurine,” Griffin added. “In fact, that was almost certainly what set off the trap. The doors started to close just as I picked it up. I’m afraid I—”

“Dropped it in favor of tossing me out of the room,” Deryn interrupted. “Before what looked like a very heavy stone door could either seal me in or crush me.” She offered Calys a bland shrug. “Perhaps you’ll disagree, but I consider that a favorable trade.”

Easy for her, to remain unperturbed by Calys’s fury for so long. She knew it would pass—eventually, one hoped—without any real consequence. Deryn was an extremely talented sage, with unique skills. She was indispensable. Calys had little authority over her, and Arun would have no choice but to forgive her, when he returned.

Not so for Griffin.

Calys’s snort suggested that she might, indeed, disagree with Deryn’s assessment. “Is there anything else you can tell me about what you saw, anything else you learned?”

“I’m fairly certain now that the dragon I met was black.” Griffin’s throbbing leg told him he was beyond the point of politely waiting for an invitation to sit. He eased himself into one of the two chairs near the fireplace. “The figurine I picked up was black—some metal I’ve never seen before—and it had these horns, curled ones, almost like a ram’s. Some of the other figures had much smaller horns, or even none at all.”

“And the dragon you saw had the same ram’s horns.” Calys irritably gestured for Deryn to take the other chair, before perching herself on the edge of her desk.

“I believe he did,” said Griffin. “It was dark, and I only saw his silhouette by the firelight. But I remember his head being an odd shape. Deryn tells me Fendrath is the only male blackwing. It had to have been him.”

Calys sighed and bent her head, rubbing her brows with one thumb and forefinger. “What does he want, I wonder?”

“Revenge, I suppose,” said Deryn.

“That can’t be all,” Calys said. “If he simply hated this place because he was imprisoned here, he could’ve wreaked plenty of havoc on his own, or with his sisters, at any time in the past twelve years. Instead he tore up the earth to get to that chamber. Something is in there.” She straightened and glared first at Deryn, then at Griffin. “A shame we can’t find out what.”

“If it is still in there, our locking the corridor isn’t entirely awful news, if you look at it the right way,” said Deryn. “Whatever it is, it’s certainly well protected now. We might not be able to get to it, but Fendrath can’t either. That chamber is far better buried than the cavern was. He’d have to rip a whole mountain apart to get to it.”

“And how would we stop him, if he decided to do just that?” Scowling, Calys stood again and ran a hand through her unbound hair. She’d taken the time to exchange her nightrobe for a tunic and trousers before going down to the cavern, but as Griffin understood it, braiding was a lengthier process. “But he knows we can’t stop him.”

She glanced back at Deryn. “Why the hiding and the secrecy, why the tremor? Why not just fly down and take what he wants? We can’t fight him. Not, according to you, without a deity, or a harp that’s most likely not real, or dragon fire of the proper color.”

Griffin crossed his arms, irritated that she was addressing only Deryn and ignoring him. He was the one who’d met the dragon, and he was thoroughly tired of being left out of everything. “Any number of reasons. It’s an enchanted chamber at the end of an enchanted corridor. Perhaps ripping a whole mountain apart is too much to ask. Perhaps he knew the password would be in Ancient Eyrdish, but he doesn’t speak the language himself. Or perhaps he couldn’t get through the door, even if he did know the password. Perhaps a dragon’s voice wouldn’t have worked.”

“Then what was his purpose in exposing the north side of the cavern at all?” Deryn raised one of her thick eyebrows. “Perhaps he intended to fly down and walk into that corridor himself, but I think it far more likely that he had someone else to go in for him. We need to ask Duncan—”

“Do not,” Calys warned, “start down that path again. I’ll concede that Duncan isn’t the most pleasant man to have around, but he is a respected magister and scholar here. You have no reason to believe he was anything less than honest about his whereabouts tonight. At least, no logical one that I’ve heard.”

Deryn began to argue, but Calys abruptly cut her off. “Enough. If I go to bed now, I can sleep for two, perhaps three hours before I have to get up and deal with the mess you’ve made of things. I intend to do just that. I suggest you do the same.”

But sleep did not come easily to Griffin that night. There seemed to be no end to his tossing and pillow punching, as his anxieties ran round and round his head. And there was something else adding to his restlessness, almost an exhilaration, that for some time he could not identify.

Finally he realized what it was: though he’d been lectured and disciplined by various magisters many times, both as a boy and in more recent years, this was the first time he’d ever had a partner in his misconduct.

* * *

Each of the hefty oak tables arranged in the keep, end to end in row upon row, could seat at least six. Yet the following morning, Griffin found himself surrounded by empty chairs. He slouched back, chewing his bacon slowly, trying to look relaxed and not at all embarrassed at being so avoided. He wasn’t close with any of his colleagues, but he didn’t count any of them as enemies either (apart from Duncan, anyway), and he wasn’t such an outcast that he made a habit of eating alone.

Perhaps rumors of what he’d done were spreading already. Although it didn’t seem that Duncan could be charged with telling tales; he sat two tables over, concentrating on his breakfast and ignoring his companions. Perhaps the other magisters simply saw the disapproving glares being shot in Griffin’s direction by Calys and Lawfric, and decided this was not a good morning to be associated with him.

His awkward solitude was finally broken when Deryn, her blackhound at her side, took the chair next to him. Without so much as a good morning, she went about filling a mug with cider, and piling her plate with flaky morning rolls and winter berries. (But not sausages, though she did pass one to Ash. It was well known that Deryn refused to eat flesh.)

When she at last settled in to eat, Griffin cleared his throat and did what, he imagined, a person was supposed to do with friends: confided the worry that had plagued him from the first of Calys’s harsh words the night before.

“Do you suppose the archmagister will dismiss me, when he finds out?”

“What?” Deryn sounded genuinely surprised by the idea. “No, of course not.”

“I know I seem terribly useful and necessary, but the truth is, he only keeps me here to be kind. If he decides I’ve caused more trouble than I’m worth …”

“That’s not true. You’re a fine teacher. And this was one misstep. One he would, I might add, absolutely have made himself, in our position. You can’t tell me Arun wouldn’t have run headlong down that corridor to see what was there. I doubt it would ever have crossed his mind to wait for anyone else.”

With a sigh, Griffin tossed the end of the roll in his hand to Ash, then pushed his plate away. Everything seemed to taste like dust and metal this morning. But Deryn’s complete dismissal of his fear made him a bit more optimistic. “Perhaps you’re right. Calys is my direct superior, after all. She could have thrown me out herself last night, but she didn’t.”

“I’m sure nobody is going to throw anyone anywhere. Least of all you. You look very heavy.” Deryn lowered her voice, though the closest person to them was Magister Felton, whose hearing was not what it had once been. “I want to talk to you about Duncan.”

Griffin’s eyes returned automatically to their mutual enemy. “Honestly, I expected him to look smug this morning. I can’t imagine he doesn’t know how much trouble we got in. But he only looks tired.” Indeed, Duncan almost looked ill. His skin was the color of raw dough, and even at a distance Griffin could see the bags under his eyes. “Do you think he was really in there?”

“I know he was.”

“What do you mean?”

Deryn refilled her mug, and murmured from behind the pitcher, “I was just telling you last night, when the trap went off. One of the shelves. A book was missing.”

“So? There was a book on the table.”

“That one was much thicker than the empty space on the shelf. The missing book was something else.”

Griffin shrugged. “That doesn’t mean it was taken recently.”

“No, it doesn’t. As Calys was so quick to point out, I have no evidence, no proof.” Deryn half turned in her chair to give Griffin a somber look. “But I’d wager a great deal that Duncan was in there. And that he brought a book back out with him.”

6

There was a rigid chair in the sage hall’s narrow entryway, just inside the front door. A scarred, ancient relic of what must have been a more uncomfortable time, it creaked and wobbled if its occupant leaned too far to the left or right, and was used almost exclusively by visitors waiting for someone to come and fetch them. Anyone else would be a fool to sit there, particularly on a winter day, when it would be blasted by frigid wind every time anyone went in or out. Which was quite often.

Griffin was somewhat gratified by the confused and curious looks of passing students and magisters; at least they were surprised to find him being that very fool, on just such a day.

His main purpose was to watch for Duncan’s return from the cavern, this being the only entrance regularly used by magisters, or by anyone at midday. If necessary, he was also to distract their suspect, as Deryn was presently in Duncan’s chamber, rummaging through his possessions.

As a means of passing the time in the meanwhile, Griffin had gathered several books, now precariously stacked on his lap, through which to search for any reference to Mad Mithrin. Given the complex enchantments they’d found in his chamber, Deryn had reasoned that Mithrin had likely been a sage. If they could find out more about him—and what he might have created in that laboratory of his—they might be able to figure out what the dragon was after.

“Magister Griffin.”

Griffin looked up from the whimsically titled Pages of Sages through the Ages to find Eleri’s wide, sad eyes looking back at him. They’d been sad ever since Arun left for Narinore, taking his nephew with him but not his own daughter. Griffin happened to agree with the archmagister that it was too soon after her arrival at Pendralyn to interrupt Eleri’s studies for a weeks-long trip away; settling into magistery life, and constant, consistent practice, were very important for the first years. But it was hard on the girl to be left out.

“Eleri. I believe I passed at least three games of capture the flag on my way over here from the manor. Why aren’t you outside with your friends, on your day off?”

Eleri’s eyes drifted back toward the door. “I don’t have very many friends. Only Nettie, really, and she’s got a cold today. And a fever. I’m to bring her some stew and honey cakes later. It’s not considered a good thing, you know, being the archmagister’s daughter.”

Griffin offered her a sympathetic smile and leaned forward, as if imparting a great secret. “It’s considered an even worse thing to be a student of magic who can’t cast a single spell. Most of my friends were characters in books.”

“Books,” Eleri said with a solemn nod, “are exactly why I’m here. Magister Dora says we’re allowed to read books from the affinity halls, even if we don’t have an affinity yet. Nettie’s older brother Simon already lent her three, about elemental magic. But then he got in trouble.”

Griffin frowned. “Simon got in trouble for lending his sister books?”

“No, he got in trouble for conjuring sage fire in his dormitory, when they’re only supposed to do that on the practice yard. Then he went off his balance, and the fire went out of control. Simon burned himself awfully, but Nettie says that was actually a lucky thing, because his screams brought the magisters running, and they were able to put out the fire before the whole hall burned down.”

“I see,” Griffin said, pitying the unfortunate Simon. In trouble was almost certainly an understatement on Eleri’s part. Losing one’s balance was dangerous and irresponsible, a great transgression for an older student who ought to know better. The boy’s punishment would no doubt be a burden to him, but Griffin hoped that would be the only burden, and that his face, at least, had been spared any injury. Burns could be healed, more or less, but any scars would likely remain as lifelong admonishments.

“Now Simon has to clean the kennels every day for a whole month,” Eleri went on. “So I don’t know if he’ll have time to find any books for me, too. I wanted some about healing.” She shivered as the door swung open and two older students came in, covered in blotches of snow. “Why do you suppose healing is always left to the sages? If battlemages can hurt people, shouldn’t they be the ones to mend them, too?”

“That’s an interesting question.” Griffin drummed his fingers against the book on his lap, considering. “You would think healing would be physical magic. But perhaps it’s more complex than that. Perhaps strength of body requires strength of mind.”

Eleri looked unconvinced. (As well she should, considering Griffin had merely said the first thing that sounded good in his head, in an attempt to seem not entirely hopeless when it came to understanding magic.) “My Aunt Erietta says affinity is more about the caster than the spell,” she said. “Because it’s mostly a matter of which kind of magical energy you can draw from. That’s why a sage’s confusion spell and a contriver’s trick can have the same result, even though sagacity is based in intellect and contrivance in imagination.”

“I’m sure the queen is right. She’s one of the best magicians Eyrdon’s ever seen.” Griffin cleared his throat and said gently, “As is your father, you know. These would be good questions for him.”

Eleri’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Perhaps when he comes back.”

“Or perhaps I can help you now.” Duncan swept into the entryway—from the main corridor rather than the front door. Without cloak or coat, nor a single melting snowflake on his shoulders or in his hair.

Griffin’s heart flipped, then sank. Had the blasted sage gotten past him, without his noticing? Or slipped in through a back door, after all? But surely Duncan wouldn’t be smiling at Eleri if he’d just caught Deryn in his chamber.

“Would you?” Eleri looked hopefully up at Duncan. “I’d like to borrow some basic books about healing.”

“Certainly.” Duncan’s smile deepened another degree—always the politician, he never failed to simper at Arun’s daughter—as he gestured for Eleri to follow him. But that smile never reached his eyes. They looked decidedly weary, the flesh around them sunken and gray.

At least there weren’t flames in his pupils.

“I’ll go with you.” Griffin’s injured leg made him clumsy as he rose, and he dropped two of his books. While Duncan clucked impatiently, Eleri bent to help retrieve them. Griffin took one of them from her and held it up as evidence of his need to go upstairs. “I want to return these.”

“Do as you like.” Making just enough room for Eleri to walk at his side, Duncan turned and led the girl away. Griffin limped along behind them. That the leg was still stiff and sore, nearly a week after he’d broken it, was a testament to how bad it had been. He’d wondered more than once whether he would have lost it, if he’d broken it somewhere other than Pendralyn, with only mundane healers to rely on.

The common room Duncan brought them to was full of students and a few magisters, studying, reading, or simply chatting by the fire. Someone called to Griffin, a familiar voice booming, as usual, too loudly.

Parkin. Griffin moved to answer the boy’s apparently urgent summons, but declined a chair at his already crowded table, in favor of standing against the wall, where he could keep an eye on Duncan and Eleri. Parkin was in his fifth year at the magistery, and at fourteen his voice was already deeper than Griffin’s. Truth be told, he was a much more powerful singer than he was a magician. So it was little surprise that the topic he was so eager to discuss was the Midwinter entertainment.

A bard had been engaged for both Midwinter’s Eve and Midwinter’s Night, but the holiday generally involved a whole week of celebrations, during which groups of students would transform into mummers, dressing in lively costumes and masks, performing various dramas and songs. Since music and storytelling were not magical arts, it fell to Griffin to support their plans and preparations as needed.

“I thought we might do a reenactment of Taslin rescuing Eyrdri.” Parkin’s gesture encompassed the four boys sitting with him. “Assuming we can find someone to play Eyrdri, of course. Morgan’s scrawny enough to pass for a girl, but he’s much too ugly.”

Morgan elbowed Parkin in the ribs. “And I thought we might as well just pass around sleeping powder and be done with it. Everyone does Taslin and Eyrdri.”

“So we wondered whether you had any better ideas, from your history books or something,” one of the other boys said.

“Well, let me think …” Griffin’s eyes fell on one of the books he still carried, and he grinned. “What about Mad Mithrin the Mutilator? You could expand the old children’s rhyme into a drama. Perhaps add a song or two. If you find out as much as you can about him first, your sagacity magisters might even give you some credit for it.”

He felt a bit guilty, manipulating them into helping him with his research. But only a bit. Scary stories were always favored among students, and the more gruesome the better. The tale of a violently insane magician dismembering his victims, acted out by a warm fire while winter wind howled outside the windows, would win the boys all the admiration they could hope for.

“What do you mean, find out as much as we can about him?” Parkin asked with a laugh. “Mad Mithrin isn’t real. There’s nothing but the rhyme.”

Griffin arched a brow. “Are you certain about that?”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” said Morgan. “I’d make an excellent Mithrin. Perhaps we could find a contriver to help with some illusions, you know, beheadings and such.”

Parkin scoffed. “Some mutilator you’d make. I would obviously play Mithrin. I’ve got the scariest voice by far.”

While doing his best to moderate the argument that broke out over which of them most resembled a madman, Griffin watched Duncan pull books from the shelves for Eleri, until she chose not just one but two thick volumes. She happily took her leave shortly thereafter.

Griffin excused himself from the still-bickering students, and intercepted Duncan before the other magister could make his own exit. “Where were you coming from, when we met you downstairs? I thought you were at the cavern this afternoon, puzzling over runes.”

“I was meant to be, but I seem to have caught that cold that’s been going around.” Duncan sniffed loudly to punctuate his point. “I thought it best I stay indoors. In any case, it seems Calys would prefer for most of us to stay away, until the archmagister comes back and looks into what happened down there.”

“Good,” Griffin said, before he could think better of it. So she had listened to them, after all. At least in part. At least enough to be cautious.

“Not that that’s stopped her from going down there, trying every known word in Ancient Eyrdish, in every combination imaginable, to reopen this door you found.” Duncan narrowed his eyes. “I’m aware, you know, that you and Deryn tried to deflect the blame for your foolishness onto me. And when the truth about what you were doing—whatever that may be—comes to light, I’ll see that you’re reprimanded for involving me.”

“Will you, now?” Griffin leaned one shoulder against the edge of a bookshelf, and forced a chuckle. There were too many people around for a real confrontation, especially with Calys already angry with him. He’d better stick to his purpose, and leave the rest alone. “I only asked where you were coming from because I knocked on your door a little while ago, and you weren’t in your room.”

“Perhaps I was there. Perhaps I just heard your stomping giant’s feet in the corridor and knew it was you, and decided not to answer.”

Deryn strolled into the room at that same moment, and offered Griffin a subtle nod to indicate that she’d completed her task. Apart from a perfunctory greeting, the two of them didn’t speak, nor look at one another again. Instead she joined three other magisters at a table in the corner, and was soon deep in conversation.

“Not so friendly with you now, I see,” Duncan said with a snort. “Perhaps she’s realized you’re not worth getting into trouble for. Or perhaps she just doesn’t want anyone else to know she’s taken pity on you.”

Childish insults, and a poor attempt at distraction. If Deryn had only just come from his chamber, Duncan could not have been in there. Where had he been instead? Griffin leaned toward the other man and murmured, “You may have Calys fooled, and most of the other magisters here. But I know you’re up to something. I know where you were that night.”

Duncan’s lip curled, and he made no effort to soften his own voice. “Speaking of that night, tell me, did you find enough mushrooms?”

Griffin straightened, a quick glance around the room telling him they were drawing curious looks. Best cut the conversation short. With a warning, perhaps. “No, actually. I didn’t get enough of what I was looking for. But I’ll keep searching, you can be sure of that.”

* * *

The kingdom of Eyrdon had the happy fortune of being home to more than twenty sages—twenty-three, to be precise—skilled at replication, a spell that provided a supply of plants and raw metals limited only by its caster’s balance and time. It was an esoteric art, as difficult as it was valuable, and as was often the case with highly advanced magic, most of the magicians who practiced it had been trained at Pendralyn.

Four of them lived there still. As a result, meals in the keep were always lavish, particularly if one enjoyed breads and pastries. (Wheat, as Griffin understood it, was among the easiest materials to duplicate, with silver being the most challenging.) Some might have said that dinner especially took this abundance to the point of absurdity; there were usually no less than three courses dedicated to dessert alone.

Though Griffin himself was wholly in favor of this, it did make for a long evening. Made even longer if a person happened to be waiting for someone.

And longer still if the waiting turned out to be in vain.

He’d been fidgeting for an hour already, impatient for Deryn to arrive and tell him what she’d found in Duncan’s chamber. As students and magisters first flooded, then trickled, into the keep, there’d been no sign of his accomplice. Finally he was left to finish his lamb stew and rosemary fritters alone, and wonder.

As he helped himself to a feathery light cake dripping with dolberry sauce, he scanned the magisters’ tables again. Calys, Lawfric, and Timult—the headmagisters of each affinity—were missing, as well. Griffin’s eyes drifted to Duncan, who was bent low over his mug of mead. He seemed to be eating very little, and talking to nobody. Or … no, that wasn’t quite true. He was talking to himself, it seemed. Though he wasn’t looking at anyone, and no one was looking at him, his lips were moving.

Magister Dora elbowed him in the ribs and said something, and Duncan seemed to snap out of whatever stupor had befallen him. He laughed at Dora, then produced a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly, no doubt to reinforce his excuse of having a cold.

Griffin was certain there was more to it than that. If he hadn’t known it was a highly skilled and experienced magician he was looking at, he would have said the man had gone off his balance.

But how could Duncan have allowed such a thing to happen, outside of battle or extraordinary circumstances? He would have to have been practicing some terribly complex magic. Terribly dangerous, too, perhaps.

Terribly dark?

It would be a good question for Deryn, but Deryn never arrived. When the cakes were gone and platters of fluffy, flaky cheese pies set out in their place, the customary hour of songs and tales began with Dora taking up her flute. As she rose from her chair, so did Duncan. He sidled toward the doors, clearly intending to sneak out quietly.

Between his size and his rare red hair, Griffin wasn’t much of a sneaker. The best he could do was get up and stride with purpose, a man with somewhere important to be and no particular desire to hide it. He exited the keep directly behind Duncan, into the falling snow.

But there was no wind, and Griffin could hear the other magister’s muttering clearly enough.

“… find him and tell him, that’s all. Just going to have to tell him that I need—” Duncan cut himself off abruptly at the sound of the closing door. He swung around to snarl at Griffin. “What are you following me for? I saw you staring at me at dinner, you know. You want to gloat, I suppose, about Deryn’s big discovery.”

Griffin tensed, thinking that Deryn had found something in Duncan’s chamber, after all, and just hadn’t bothered to tell him. “What discovery?”

“What, you didn’t hear? You two have had a falling out, haven’t you? A pity, just when you’d finally made a friend.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about, or not?” Griffin snapped. “It’s cold.”

“Well, it wasn’t Deryn’s discovery at all, really, not that that’ll stop her from taking credit for it. But what did she do? Talk to a Dord, nothing more. And she couldn’t even do that much without Nott’s help.”

“A Dord?” Griffin frowned. “Do you mean Wulfric?”

“A courier arrived today with a gift from him. Not just a letter. A whole bundle of papers.” Duncan waved a hand. “Apparently there’s an old song, or a saga of some sort. Translated several times through several languages, some of them ancient. But the original seems to have been written with the same runes we found on the walls. Last I heard, Deryn was closeted away with Nott and the headmagisters, talking about it. They didn’t invite me.”

Griffin laughed. “So now they’re going to decipher the runes without you, and you’re angry because you didn’t figure them out first. A shame for you, I’m sure.”

Duncan wasn’t listening. His eyes had gone distant, suddenly, his arms slack at his sides. And his lips were moving again.

“What?” Griffin stepped closer. “Did you say something?”

Duncan whispered something inaudible.

“Duncan!”

“Fire,” he whispered. “I dream of fire. I always dream of fire.”

“Duncan, what …”

Duncan’s eyes snapped back to Griffin’s, clear and arrogant once again. “What? Go away and leave me in peace, will you?”

Griffin pressed his lips together. “Believe me, I’d lose no sleep walking off and leaving you here to do something stupid, if I could be sure you’d only hurt yourself. But as you also might be a danger to others, that would be contrary to my duty.”

“What in Eyrdri’s name are you talking about?”

“You’re clearly unbalanced. So what was it? Sage magic, or contrivance? We need to get you doing some sums, or some cleaning, or whatever it is you need to do to set yourself right again.”

“As if I’d let myself get off balance!” Duncan scoffed. “And as if you would know anything about it. I’ve already told you, I’m ill. And standing out here in the snow talking to you is hardly helping. If you’re so insistent on being my shadow, you’re welcome to follow me back to the sage hall. Perhaps you can do something useful, stoke my stove or get me a hot water bottle. We all know you can’t make me a healing tonic.”

Griffin narrowed his eyes as he studied the other magister. Duncan’s mouth was twisted in a sneer (of course), but he was flushed, and his hands were trembling now, though he was trying to hide them against his cloak.

“As a matter of fact, I will walk to the sage hall with you,” Griffin said. If nothing else, he needed to see Duncan safely back to his chamber, where perhaps the man would tend to his problem in private. “I want to see if Deryn’s back. Hear her good news firsthand.”

Duncan muttered a curse and turned away, stomping through the snow at a pace he clearly hoped would leave Griffin behind. But Griffin was by far the more athletic of the two, even on the best of days, much less when Duncan was … whatever Duncan was. He easily matched the soft sage’s strides.

“Who did you mean when you said him?” Griffin asked.

“What?” Duncan scowled at him.

“When I first came outside, you were saying you would have to tell him you need something. Who is him, and what is it that you need?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” Griffin moved ahead, then stopped in front of Duncan, arms crossed, bringing the other man to a halt again. “I think you mean the dragon. Are you working for him, for some reason? Did you take whatever he wanted from the chamber?”

Duncan laughed. “Dragon. Indeed. I heard you had some ridiculous vividrake-fueled notion of a dragon. A bid for attention, if I had to guess.”

He refused to speak to Griffin again, all the way into the sage hall and up to the third floor. When they reached Duncan’s chamber, they parted ways with mutually disdainful farewells. Griffin waited in the corridor for several minutes afterward, to be sure the almost certainly unbalanced sage wouldn’t come back out again.

When Deryn failed to answer her door, Griffin returned to the entryway, where he settled once more into Pendralyn’s most uncomfortable chair, and his search for Mad Mithrin. Deryn, huddled inside her cloak and looking weary, found him there half an hour later.

“Oh good, you’re here.” Deryn stamped snow off her boots and gestured for Griffin to follow her. “Apologies for missing dinner. I’ve been shut away in the archmagister’s chambers. And then I had an argument with Ash on my way out. He didn’t want to leave either the fire or Holly, certainly not to come out into the cold. I suppose he’s spending the night.”

“I heard about your breakthrough. Congratulations.” Griffin frowned as Deryn passed the stairs and continued down the first floor corridor. “Where are we going?”

“The hidden chamber. We won’t be overheard there.”

“The what?”

Deryn glanced back over her shoulder, her fingers on the handle of a narrow door. “What, you didn’t think we had one, too?”

The door opened to a meandering, clearly little-used corridor. There were no bookshelves here, only sconces and the occasional painting, tapestry, or standing vase. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls, and Griffin was not surprised to see his breath come out in a cold cloud when he exhaled. “What do you mean, too? The battlemage hall has a hidden chamber?”

“All the affinities do. You know, for the things the students aren’t allowed to touch without permission. Or the magisters, for that matter.” Deryn stopped in front of a painting that was nearly as tall as the wall: a beautiful woman in a flowing gown, a dragon looking over her shoulder and a blackhound at her feet. Eyrdri, patron deity of Eyrdon.

Griffin studied the dragon—black with curled horns—and wondered whether he’d met him before.

“Luckily for us,” Deryn went on, “I’m the sagacity librarian. It’s the librarian’s job to oversee who goes in and out, and make sure they don’t take anything. Old Felton does it for battlemagic. Anyway, there won’t be anyone up there now.” She bent and pressed the blackhound’s paw. The painting swung open to reveal a winding stone staircase.

Griffin tried not to stomp like an angry child as he followed Deryn up to a round tower room generously appointed with yew bookcases and plush striped armchairs, resting on a fine imported carpet of matching blue. Three merrily burning braziers supplied warmth and light, and though there were no windows, a large circle had been cut from the roof and replaced with glass.

He took it all in with a glare. “Interesting that Felton never bothered to tell me any of this.”

“I suppose he assumed you already knew, but then you probably never encountered it, as a student.” Deryn had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. “Assuming it’s like ours, it’s mostly rare and advanced magic, and such.”

“Ah.” Griffin forced a chuckle and reflexively reached for a self-deprecating joke, but found he had none. “I see.”

Deryn busied herself with lighting a few standing candles. “Anyway, I’m not supposed to allow anyone who’s not a sage in here, but I thought perhaps we might look for something about Mithrin.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps.” Griffin slouched into a chair and rested his head against its soft back, suddenly tired. “Were you able to make anything of the runes yet?”

Deryn made a disgusted sound. “I won’t be given the chance. Calys took everything Wulfric sent, in the end.”

“Calys?” Griffin straightened up. “Why Calys?”

“She has an aptitude for languages, and is apparently a bit of a cryptographer. Nothing to do with battlemagic, or any kind of magic. Just a sort of hobby. She thought she’d be the best person for the job, and of course, she’s making the decisions at the moment.” Deryn sighed and sat opposite Griffin. “We’re scholars, aren’t we? Of course everyone wants to be the first to translate those runes.”

“I suppose. I don’t get included in many of the scholarly discussions. Or rivalries. I didn’t realize you were all as competitive as Duncan.”

Deryn’s lips curved into one of her rare smiles. “We aren’t all quite as obvious about it. Or as nasty.”

“Speaking of Duncan, it’s about time you told me what you found in his chamber. I suppose if you’d found Mithrin’s missing book, I’d know about it already.”

“I didn’t find the book. But I found a book. Well, I found several books, but none of them were out of the ordinary, except this particular one. It was in his stove. Duncan burned his diary.”

“Are you sure it was his, and not one of Mithrin’s?”

“Quite sure. I found bits that I could still read, some at the edges of the ashes and some on the floor. He must have torn it up before he burned it. It was all in Caird—the regular kind, not the ancient kind. And it wasn’t a journal of the sort magicians leave behind for other magicians. This seemed to be for him alone. There were references to Pendralyn, and to other magisters. Mostly rude ones. The references, that is, not the magisters. You were referred to as an oaf, by the way.”

“Sounds like Duncan, all right. So he knows we’re suspicious of him, and he doesn’t want to leave evidence of what he’s doing. Which I can confirm is nothing good.” Griffin summarized Duncan’s odd behavior at dinner.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about his balance,” Deryn said when she’d heard it all. “Even if it’s off, he’s experienced enough to set it right. I doubt he’ll be setting fire to any of the dormitories. One of the students did that two or three days ago, did you hear?”

“I did, actually. Eleri told me this afternoon. Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. His burns were bad, but there’s nothing left of them that he won’t be able to hide under his tunic, if he wears one with a high enough collar. My point is, it’s not so remarkable for a student to have an accident, even one as bad as that, but magisters don’t do that sort of thing. If Duncan did go too far with something, I’m far more concerned about what that something was than about how it affected him.” Deryn clenched a fist against the arm of her chair. “He obviously means the dragon. Duncan really is helping him.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am, to be honest. I’m no fonder of Duncan than you are, but I can’t see why he’d want to help someone who’s declared an intention to leave Pendralyn in ruins.”

“I can’t either,” Griffin admitted. “Perhaps Fendrath’s forcing him. That fire in his eyes must have been the effect of a spell, don’t you think?”

“A spell that would force him to do Fendrath’s bidding, day in and day out? Even when they’re nowhere near one another?” Deryn shook her head. “Nothing I know of can do that. Apart from irreversible physical effects, like death or dismemberment, spells have a finite duration.”

“A potion? A curse? Or …” Griffin trailed off as he mentally sifted through every scary story he’d ever heard as a child. “Perhaps the dragon actually took control of him, somehow? Perhaps it was really Fendrath I was speaking with tonight. Although it didn’t sound much like him, from what I remember.”

Deryn chewed at her thumbnail. “Possession isn’t real. And neither are curses. At least, I’ve never heard of either, outside of a tale. Perhaps a potion, in conjunction with a spell, but how would a dragon even make a potion? And then keep Duncan under the effect of it all the time? I imagine he’d have to be drinking it daily, at least.”

“Perhaps he’s really helping him of his own free will, then.” Griffin spread his hands. “Either way, it all fits. Not ten minutes ago we were talking about how competitive Duncan is. If he’d found that hidden door for any honest reason, he’d have been crowing about it instead of denying it. He sneaked in there to get whatever it is the dragon wants. That’s why nobody has seen Fendrath: he’s not ready to show himself yet, so he’s having Duncan do everything for him. Duncan might have caused the tremor himself, for all we know.”

“I don’t think so. I highly doubt even Duncan is powerful enough to have done that alone.”

Griffin shrugged. “Well, whatever he was looking for can’t have been the book, because it doesn’t seem like he’s gotten it yet.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Deryn, “since Pendralyn is still standing, and I haven’t noticed any more rubble than usual.”

“It sounds like he needs something first, something he’s afraid to tell Fendrath about. Probably to get back in? He couldn’t have foreseen us locking him out.”

Deryn bit her lip as she reached into her coat pocket. “I think I can tell you what he needs. Although I can’t tell you why.” She handed Griffin a charred scrap of paper, no longer than his forefinger.

Griffin stared from the paper to Deryn and back again, both confused and horrified by the cramped script that read:

ng to need more blood. It’s the only thi

7

The morning fog was so thick, Griffin didn’t see the three blackhounds until he nearly tripped over them. Thankfully, these particular guards weren’t cause for worry. He wasn’t doing anything that would earn him a reprimand today, only approaching the front gate.

Not that they were doing much guarding, in any case. The hounds lay in the snow in such a tight pile, it was impossible to tell whose legs belonged to whom. One of them was snoring. Another opened one eye as Griffin walked around them, and met his gaze with a slow, shrill yawn.

He squatted to scratch her behind the ear. “No need to get up. I’m only going to Avadare.”

She yawned again, and promptly resumed her nap while Griffin continued through the gate. The tunnel beyond had undergone a great many improvements over the past few years, including paving stones on the floor, and wall sconces to light his way. But it still smelled of damp earth and greymoss. They were the first smells he’d come to associate with the magistery, as a boy.

At the other end, warm light cascaded down over the sturdy wooden steps, a recent upgrade from the old rope ladder. For generations, Pendralyn had been a secret known only to Eyrdon’s elite magicians and most noble families. But the reign of King Wardin had brought an end to those days. Now the hatchway that served as the magistery’s sole entrance stood open most of the time. Griffin passed through the cozy waiting room above (another change for the better, as it had once been a storage room), and went on to the common room.

Despite being thrice the size of the average village inn, The Dark Dragon still gave the impression of intimacy, with its dark woods and widely spaced tables, situated with privacy in mind. Mari, who managed things more and more now that her Aunt Polly was getting on in years, sat near the bar with a ledger open in front of her, and a steaming mug beside it. The Dragon’s current guests must have been either particularly early risers, or particularly late ones, because the inviting room was otherwise empty.

“Magister.” Mari rose and tied her frizzy hair back with a strip of cloth, nodding at the basket in Griffin’s hand at the same time. “Don’t tell me you’ve brought your own breakfast?”

“Good morning. And no, I’ve already had my breakfast. I’m just coming through to the village.”

“Honey cakes for Tessa?”

“Right in one guess.”

She snorted. “As if it’s such a baffling mystery that I’d need two.”

“But there will be no need to mention it to Polly, surely.”

“You don’t think she already knows that Tessa likes Pendralyn’s honey cakes better than ours?”

Griffin gave her a somber look that may have been slightly spoiled by his twitching lips. “Everyone likes Pendralyn’s honey cakes better.”

“That’s because they’re better.” Mari sighed. “It’s an entirely unfair contest. Those replicators of yours are usually too busy being sure the kingdom won’t go hungry or destitute to make oranges for us. Yet somehow the magistery always seems to have plenty. If I didn’t know better, I’d say your cooks are being competitive on purpose.”

Griffin spent several minutes defending the honor of Pendralyn’s cooks (almost certainly falsely, as Mari knew perfectly well) before taking his leave. He found the village’s main street far less foggy than the magistery had been, but every bit as cold. Hunching against the wind, he hurried the short distance to a small shop. A plaque nailed to the door showed a white boot on a black background.

A village the size of Avadare should not have been able to support a shoemaker of its own, but the rapidly growing feet of Pendralyn’s students were enough to keep Tam busy for long hours. He offered Griffin only a quick good morning before waving him back, and resuming his work.

The tantalizing smells of baked apples, sage, and cinnamon struck Griffin the moment he entered the cramped living quarters. Two small children rushed at him, while Tessa stood at the table near the hearth, waving a towel over a round iron pan to cool the ring of plump apple cakes within.

She greeted him with her toothy smile. “A happy birthday to you, young man! It’s good you’re on time. I might not have been able to keep the little ones out of these for long.”

“Surely you’re making some for them, too. And thank you. I brought your payment.” Griffin set his own basket of cakes on the table, then held out his arm and kept it stiff while Tessa’s little boy grasped it as tightly as he could—not an easy task, when his hands couldn’t fit around it—and began to climb up Griffin’s side, his earnest face tight with concentration.

Tessa patted Griffin’s cheek. “No need for payment on your birthday, you know that.” She pulled the cloth away from the honey cakes and took an appreciative sniff. “Not that I’ll be refusing them, mind you. You can’t beat Pendralyn’s honey cakes.”

“Don’t let Polly hear you say so. I’ve already nearly come to blows with Mari over it.”

“Oh, stop it,” Tessa said with a laugh. “They both know the same. Give me a moment to unpack these, and you can take the apple ones back in your own basket.”

Griffin played with the children while she tended to the cakes, then set out again with his now warm basket wrapped in an extra cloth, one that had been brushed with wax to help keep water out. It was likely to snow before his errand was done, and he didn’t want his treasure ruined.

The cakes were a treat particular to the northeast corner of Eyrdon, near the Tarnarven border, where Tessa had lived as a girl. It was also where Griffin had spent his first eight years. Though the sights and smells and tastes of Pendralyn had long since become the ones he connected with the word home, a few things from before remained entrenched in his memory.

His mother had baked apple cakes every week; they were his father’s favorite.

Griffin left the village by the north road, then walked up one hill and down another, to a relatively flat (which was to say, only gently sloping) field a short distance away. In the spring, it would be bursting with wildflowers; in the summer, heather. Now it was an expanse of white snow, unbroken but for a single standing stone, a jagged granite finger pointing at the gray sky above.

On the other side of the kingdom, a journey of several days to the east, lay the site of the final battle against Graddoc. It was a cemetery now, the resting place of the hundreds of magicians who’d died there. Griffin had been there only twice: when his mother and father were buried, and on the tenth anniversary of the battle, which the king and queen had declared a special day of remembrance.

But as so many of those lost had come from, or been affiliated with, Pendralyn, the archmagister and the king himself had dedicated this monument to them several years before. It was here that Griffin came to remember his parents, a handful of days each year—his birthday, theirs, the anniversary of the battle—without fail. Even when he was burdened by threatening dragons and faithless magisters.

Or at least, to struggle against time in the attempt to remember them. His mother’s eyes were a colorless blotch in her soft face now, and he’d lost his father’s voice entirely.

He owed it to them to do all he could to keep from losing any more. They’d died heroes, after all, fighting to protect their son and every other Eyrd. And truth be told, he felt like a traitor when he thought of them, for having embraced his life at Pendralyn so fully. Surely it was wrong of him to love the magistery as he did, when he would never have come—certainly never have stayed—if his parents had lived.

The memorial wasn’t frequented in the wintertime, and Griffin had the field to himself. He uncovered his basket and carefully placed a pair of apple cakes in the snow at the base of the stone. Then he helped himself to one of his own, and bent his head as he ate, calling silently on his memories.

Sitting at the foot of the loom, listening to his father’s jokes, watching his fingers work impossibly fast. The jokes were truly awful, but Griffin laughed anyway, knowing it pleased Father to think he was funny. Mother, whispering advice the first time she’d taken him hunting. Teaching him to track, though he would never match her extraordinary skill at it. Both of them, delighting Griffin with bits of magic: tricks and illusions from his mother, fire and light and levitating bits of apple cake, swishing across the room and straight to Griffin’s mouth, from his father.

They’d often argued, playfully, over whether their son would be a contriver or a sage. It had never crossed their minds that he would be nothing at all.

“From the look of those slumped shoulders, I can’t say I’m sorry to interrupt you. Can’t be having much fun.”

Griffin nearly jumped out of his skin, not only because the gruff voice startled him, but because he recognized it.

He turned around and found the dragon, his dragon—he was indeed black, with glossy scales and curling horns—standing a few strides away. He shouldn’t have been able to get so close, by land or air, without Griffin noticing.

Fendrath wasn’t the truly massive creature legend seemed to suggest, it was true, but he was more than intimidating enough. His talons might have made Griffin nervous, had his fangs—a surprising shade of deep blue—not looked even more lethal.

Griffin’s pulse beat so wildly in his ears, he could barely hear himself speak. “You.”

“So it is.”

“Fendrath.”

The dragon inclined his head. A puff of breath—or perhaps it was smoke—curled out of his nostrils. “That name will do. Now quiet yourself, will you? This isn’t a very convenient place to talk.”

“Er … you came to me.”

“Only to tell you to walk north, then turn east and go down the ridge. There’s a little cave, behind a waterfall. The waterfall is longer than the last one you met me by, but narrow. I can avoid being seen here, by most, but we can both avoid being heard there. I’ll be waiting. And I’ll thank you not to waste half my day, if you don’t mind.”

Fendrath unfolded his leathery wings with a snap, then rose into a sky that seemed to swallow him. In a blink, he was simply gone. Though Griffin thought he heard, faintly, the slow flap of wings retreating into the distance.

Griffin’s departure was somewhat less elegant. After several moments of standing there, gaping like a fool at the spot where Fendrath had been, debating whether he ought to comply with the dragon’s demand, he finally picked up his basket of apple cakes and stomped north through the field.

Calys would have reprimanded him for it, no doubt, and harshly. She would have insisted he go for help. She wouldn’t have bothered trying to politely veil the implication that Griffin was not nearly competent enough to handle such a meeting on his own.

But his ability, or lack of it, was not the point. He was the one who’d been invited, and Fendrath wouldn’t wait forever. The opportunity might not present itself again.

It was possible, Griffin supposed, that Fendrath was merely trying to lure him to an even more isolated spot, where his body was less likely to be found. But he could think of no reason for the dragon to bother either harming someone so insignificant, or being secretive about it.

The snow had the double disadvantage of making the rocky ground dangerous, and making it all look much the same. Fendrath’s directions weren’t as helpful as Griffin would have liked, considering ridges and waterfalls were hardly unusual in the mountains. The comparison to the last waterfall did little good when he didn’t know the exact spot where he’d met Fendrath before.

But few of the waterfalls had caves, and Griffin found the right one with what he considered impressive speed, under the circumstances. Although he had a feeling Fendrath would disagree, and not especially politely.

He wasn’t wrong. After several anxious minutes of navigating the last few strides over slick and sometimes ice-crusted rock—he was obliged to leave his basket of apple cakes behind to make it—Griffin slipped through the gap in the rock and into the cave, to be greeted by a heavy sigh.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the weak winter light filtering in. The first thing he saw clearly was Fendrath stepping forward, muscles flexing and bunching beneath his hide, to narrow his golden eyes at his guest. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t waste half my day.”

“It’s a bit difficult to get back here, you know, when you haven’t got wings.”

“Difficult if you have got them, as a matter of fact, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

Though he doubted amusement was the emotion most appropriate to his circumstances, Griffin found himself laughing. Perhaps he was in shock. “I believe I do hear you complaining.” He cocked his head, studying the dark creature. “So you can cloak yourself, after all. That explains why nobody’s seen you.”

“That, and the way so many men insist on being idiots. A blackwing can go about his business unseen, mostly and most of the time. But unseen does not always mean unheard or unfelt, and there are limitations. Other dragons can always see him, for one. And he can only cloak himself, which doesn’t help me much when I’m carrying off somebody’s sheep, or some other prey.”

“Yet nobody’s reported any levitating sheep, seemingly floating off on their own,” Griffin said. “At least not that I’ve heard about.”

“I’m careful enough,” said Fendrath. “And I’ve had the sense to hunt far from here, at least a day’s journey for your legs. But in the end, if it’s only a glimpse, none of you ever quite believes he really saw a dragon.”

“I believed it.” Griffin couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride, on this point. “And I told the archmagister you were using magic to go undetected. But he didn’t think so. Said if you had a power like that, you’d have used it during the war.”

“We weren’t the ones who needed to hide, during the war, were we? Anyway, we were mordrakes then. Corrupted. Our breath was different, our powers were different.”

Visions of his parents’ faces once more floated through Griffin’s mind. At least he knew they’d been killed by Graddoc. How much more difficult would it have been, to speak to this dragon, knowing he might have killed them? “And your morals? Were they different, too?”

“My what?” Fendrath blinked his reptilian eyes. “How do you mean?”

“You killed a lot of people.”

“Graddoc killed a lot of people. We were merely one of the weapons he used to do it.”

“You ate a lot of people,” Griffin clarified. “You spoke of hunting. What sort of prey, exactly?”

Fendrath chuckled, a low rumbling sound, and even at a few strides away Griffin felt the heat in the air. “The idiocy of men doesn’t extend quite that far. I’m fairly certain they’d see me then, if I were eating their children. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Then you’re avoiding eating their children only because you don’t wish to be seen.”

“I’m avoiding it because I happen to like mutton best of all, and there’s plenty of it to be had.” Fendrath flicked his wings, up and then down, a distinctly shrug-like gesture. “Entertaining as this discussion may or may not be, it is not why I asked you here. I want to know what you found in Mithrin’s laboratory.”

Griffin crossed his arms, and tried to look more firm than he felt. He wasn’t afraid, exactly. Standing in a cave talking to a dragon was such an outlandish thing to be doing, it still didn’t feel quite real enough for fear. (The idiocy of men, he supposed.) But he wasn’t entirely insensible to the fact that displeasing said dragon could result in his hasty and unceremonious death, either. “And I want to know what you’re hoping I found in there. And what dark magic Duncan is doing with blood.”

“Blood, you say?” Fendrath stretched his neck toward Griffin. “What sort of blood?”

“Dragon, if I had to guess. Perhaps you might tell me.”

“Perhaps I might, though I don’t see why I should.” Fendrath’s wings fluttered again. “Then again, perhaps I can’t. What makes you so certain I would know? I haven’t been to the magistery since the night I met you there. And as far as I can learn, Duncan hasn’t left it.”

“But he must have reported to you somehow. How else would you know I’ve been in the laboratory?”

“Your friend—Deryn, is it?—isn’t the only one who can speak with animals, you know. Birds and mice and such, the little ones. They see and hear quite a lot, although they don’t always understand it. Unfortunately for me, they don’t much like that cavern. They only venture so far inside, and that is not far enough to tell me any more than that you went through the door.”

Griffin raised a brow. “Perhaps they know more than they’re saying, and they’re just not telling you. Why should they be loyal to you?”

“I never eat them, and they appreciate it.”

“Kind of you.”

“I am not especially kind. As you will discover to your sorrow, if you continue being so impertinent. Perhaps you ought to take a lesson from the mice, and appreciate that I’m not eating you.” Fendrath released a long, slow breath, tinged with blue smoke. “What did you find in the laboratory?”

The threat in his voice was clear, even if it hadn’t been for the smoke. And the smoke definitely felt real enough for fear.

Griffin swallowed. He was happy to risk his life in defense of the magistery, but there was no need to toss it away for no good reason, either. There could be no harm in telling Fendrath what they’d found, since that amounted to nothing.

“There were a lot of books, but we didn’t get time to examine them. I picked up a figurine—a black dragon, like you—and it set off a trap. We barely got out, and now we can’t get back in.” Griffin scratched the back of his neck, wondering whether he might bring the conversation back to what he wanted to know. “But Duncan’s been acting awfully strange, since he was in there. I assume that has to do with this blood business.”

“It might have a lot to do with many things, or nothing at all.”

Griffin sighed. “Dragons don’t make a lot of sense, do they?”

“Not to those who can’t understand us. Or much of anything. Strange in what way?”

“He’s acting almost like he’s unbalanced. Do you know what that means?”

Fendrath snorted. “I told you the night we met, I know how human magic works.”

“Er, yes, so you did. Apologies. He’s muttering a lot. And he looks terrible, like he hasn’t slept in ages.” Griffin paused, remembering something Duncan had said to him. “Perhaps he hasn’t, except for the nightmares.”

Fendrath turned his head, and one amber eye snapped to Griffin’s, the narrow pupil widening the tiniest bit. “What nightmares?”

“I’m not sure. He says he dreams of fire.”

For several moments the little cave was silent. Then Griffin was obliged to jump back as he got his first look at dragon fire. Not because Fendrath was angry, but because the dragon burst out laughing. A fog of deep blue flame escaped his lips, and his roar shook the rock around them.

“Books, did you say?” Fendrath said at last. “And did you happen to take any of these books away with you?”

“No.” Griffin swallowed again. There was a nasty taste in his mouth, bitter as charred bacon and coppery like blood. “But what if we had?”

“Did Duncan take one?”

“I … I don’t know.”

“No?” Fendrath laughed again. “Well, don’t fret over your ignorance. I believe you’ll find it remedied soon enough.”

8

Griffin’s mind was reeling when he returned to the battlemage hall at midday, though it felt like he’d been gone a great deal longer. He barely noticed his surroundings as he climbed the stairs, intending to swap his cloak for a dry one, and perhaps warm his hands and feet by the stove for a few minutes before venturing back out into the cold. At least this time it would only be to cross the lawn.

Ordinarily he would have spent what was left of his birthday eating the rest of his apple cakes and thumbing through the dog-eared and jam-stained storybook that was his sole remaining childhood possession, another way to honor his parents. But he’d left the cakes behind outside the cave, and he was fairly certain his time would be better spent in the sage hall, looking for an altogether different book.

If Duncan hadn’t hidden Mithrin’s book in his room, perhaps he’d hidden it somewhere else nearby. Or had he perhaps given it to someone? If so, who?

Not Fendrath. The dragon wouldn’t have mentioned the book to Griffin, surely, if he wanted it for himself. Nor laughed about it, in a way that gave the distinct impression that this book could somehow bring doom down on Pendralyn. Lost in unpleasant visions of ashes and rubble, Griffin didn’t see the boy in the upstairs corridor until they collided.

“Corin.” Griffin reached out to steady the young prince, and tried not to look disappointed by the sight of him. His presence was yet more bad news: if he was back from Narinore, that meant the archmagister was, too. And that Griffin’s reckoning was therefore at hand. “What are you doing up here? It must be time for lunch.”

Corin brushed away the melting snow that Griffin’s cloak had deposited on his coat. “Yes sir, it is. But I was just knocking on your door.”

Sir? Griffin almost laughed. Perhaps the boy’s parents had set him right, after all. “And why is that?”

“Two reasons. The first is, my uncle asked me to find you and tell you he wants to see you right away.”

Griffin’s heart dropped. “Walk with me, then, while you tell me the second reason.” He turned around and started back down the stairs again, all hope of a dry cloak forgotten.

“I wanted to show you something.” Corin reached into his pocket and produced a silver compass. “My father gave it to me while I was home.”

Griffin glanced at it. “It looks very fine. Eyrdish silver?”

“Yes.”

“I take it you had a good visit, then. I trust your new sister is well?”

Corin grinned. He had his father’s fair hair and his mother’s long nose, but his smile was entirely his own, wide, crooked, and disarming. In Griffin’s opinion, it got the boy out of far too much trouble. “She is, and I had a mostly good visit. Do you know the captain of the royal guard? Quinn?”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“He took me out riding. Well, he said it was to go riding. We hadn’t even cleared the city walls before I realized it was just an excuse to give me a lecture. About how Eyrdon was built and maintained on the labors of the nonmagical, like him. And how those same people die, without question and whenever they’re called upon, to defend my kingdom for me. So the least I can do is show kindness and respect and gratitude to everybody, and especially the mundane people we magicians depend on.”

“Serves you right,” Griffin said with a snort. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re fortunate a lecture’s all you got.”

“He said that, too. Several times.” Corin cleared his throat and made a point of holding the door open for his magister as they exited the hall. “Anyway, I wondered if you could teach some of us about navigation. Annet and Darson and I are all interested in it, and Nack’s parents own a shipyard. You never know if it might be useful for him, one day.”

Griffin tucked his chin into his collar as the wind rose up around them, and gave Corin a sidelong glance. It was as close to making amends, he supposed, as the boy knew how to come. After a moment he nodded. “I’ll put some lessons together. Meanwhile, go and have your lunch.”

He left Corin behind at the keep, only to be waylaid by another petitioner. Parkin half ran, half slid over the bridge that crossed the stream, waving frantically. “The archmagister is back,” he said, when he caught up to Griffin at last.

“So I’ve heard.”

“I wondered if you might ask him something for me. For us. For our Midwinter drama. We want Mad Mithrin to light someone on fire, but of course none of us actually wants to be lit on fire.”

“Sounds like you need a contriver, not the archmagister,” Griffin suggested. “Someone who can cast a trick for you.”

“Perhaps,” said Parkin, in the tone of a person who thought he had a better idea. “But I’ve heard the archmagister has a cloak that makes its wearer impervious to water. We hoped he could make us one that’s impervious to fire instead.”

Griffin laughed. “A pity, then, that the archmagister doesn’t spend his time enchanting things according to his students’ whims. Enchanted objects are the result of years of study and very serious effort, you know. Though I’ll allow that such a cloak would be useful.”

Particularly, he thought but did not say, now that we’ve got dragons to contend with.

“Exactly why we need you,” Parkin said.

Griffin didn’t return the boy’s smile. Truth be told, he was barely listening. Up ahead, Deryn was approaching the manor, flanked by Ash and Holly. He swallowed.

“If you spoke to him,” Parkin went on, “and explained how it would benefit the magistery as a whole, perhaps he’d consider taking it on.”

Griffin clapped him on the back. “I’m not sure I’ll be in a position to ask for favors, but if the opportunity should present itself, I’ll do my best.” Without giving Parkin a chance to ask what he meant, he waved farewell and strode ahead, calling out to Deryn.

“Well,” Deryn said as she took in Griffin’s tense face. “I suppose there’s no need to wonder what Arun’s called me for, then.”

They went inside and walked upstairs together, and though it was selfish, Griffin couldn’t deny that he felt better having someone to share his suffering with.

A girlish laugh drifted into the corridor from the open door of the archmagister’s chambers. They followed the blackhounds inside to find Eleri sitting cross-legged on the soft velvet rug, watching a rag doll cavort on its own in front of her. Arun crouched nearby, smiling. At least he was in a good mood.

The doll twirled and curtsied before jumping into the girl’s hand. Eleri grinned, then seemed to hesitate before throwing her arms around her father’s neck. She whispered something—presumably her thanks—before scurrying from the room, smiling at the newcomers as she passed.

Arun closed the door behind her and stood for a moment, head bent, hand resting on the doorknob. “Eyrdri knows what the girl’s mother told her, to make her so nervous around me,” he said softly. Then he turned and gestured expansively at Griffin and Deryn. “Now then. Here’s a much less pleasant meeting for me.”

Deryn nodded gravely. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought back any dolls for us.”

“I most certainly did not. It seems you don’t deserve any, even if it is Griffin’s birthday.”

“Is it?” Deryn gave Griffin a curious look. Magisters’ birthdays weren’t much celebrated at Pendralyn, though the archmagister always seemed to remember. “Happy birthday, then. I hope you’ll like whatever we’re having for dinner.”

“I don’t believe we’ve ever had a dinner I don’t like,” Griffin said. “And thank you.”

“I’ll tell you what I will give you, though, and that's the apology you’re owed.” Arun met Griffin’s eye, his own earnest. “I think it very unlikely that an imaginary dragon would have given you the hint that got you into that corridor.”

Griffin smiled. “No, sir.”

“Apologies, then, for my skepticism. I’m sure it was frustrating.” Without waiting for Griffin to quantify just how frustrating it had been, he waved his arm again, this time at the table. “Now sit. I spoke to Calys this morning. At length.”

“I don’t doubt the length of it,” Griffin muttered as he took off his cloak and coat. He sat beside Deryn, and glanced around at the extraordinary sights that were taken for granted here: the magical objects, the plate of the best honey cakes in the kingdom sitting on the desk. A blackhound lay in a chair by the fire, contorted on her back with her head flung over one of its arms. The chair was covered in silk, the blue and yellow stripes faded with age, and as Griffin recalled, had a very stiff back. It was there that he’d sat one spring day nearly a decade past, wiping clammy palms against his trousers while the archmagister told him, against all hope, that he might stay on at Pendralyn despite not being able to continue as a student. That they would make a place for him here.

Surely Griffin had no reason to fear that that place was about to be revoked. Surely such an extreme consequence as dismissal was a worry for dark nights, and bad dreams beyond rational thought. The archmagister had just apologized to him, after all. And wished him a happy birthday. Nobody would dismiss a man on his birthday.

“I heard some of the story from Lawfric, while I was away.” Arun sat across from them. “But let’s be sure I’ve got it all, shall we? Tell me your version.”

Deryn told most of it, with frequent interjections from Griffin. When they finished, as expected, Arun admonished them for bungling things so badly with the laboratory. But it was fairly mild, as admonishments went.

At least, thus far. Perhaps Arun would feel differently when he heard the rest of the story. Griffin cleared his throat. “Archmagister, there’s something else. Something that happened just today.”

He looked down at the table and recounted his meeting with Fendrath. For several moments afterward, the silence was interrupted only by the blackhounds’ snores and the soft flutter of Arun’s dancing cloak.

“Well.” Arun sounded a bit choked. “I hope you at least got your basket of cakes back.”

“Er.” Griffin blinked at him. “I didn’t, actually.”

“A pity. I happen to like apple cakes.” Arun sat back in his chair and ran his intact hand over his face. “Fendrath.” The word came out like a curse. “He’s the one who took my arm, you know. Yet my misguided sister seems to consider him a friend. They … spent some time together, during the war.”

“He’s not as bad as the red ones, at least, if the tales are to be believed,” Deryn offered.

“No, nobody’s as bad as the red ones.” Arun looked back at Griffin. “And when you left, he was still in the cave?”

Griffin nodded. “He told me to go, so I went. Apologies if I did wrong by going to meet him. But I thought it a good rule that if a dragon asks to talk to you, you agree.”

Arun waved away the apology. “I would have done the same. I’ll want you to show Deryn and a team of trackers how to find this cave. I doubt he’ll use it again, but it can’t hurt to look for him. Deryn, if you can contact him, perhaps we can …” He trailed off and shrugged. “I don’t know, negotiate with him. At least find out what he wants. My sister will be visiting soon. Perhaps she could exercise diplomacy of some sort.”

“The queen is coming here, less than a month after having a baby?” asked Deryn. “That’s stout of her. But she can’t mean to bring the new princess with her?”

Arun snorted. “Just try to separate her from any of her children, if there’s the slightest hint of danger in the air. The whole family is coming for Midwinter. I’ve heard nothing from their sage today, but they may be on their way already.”

“But surely … is that safe?” Deryn looked aghast.

“She doesn’t believe Fendrath would really do us any great harm,” Arun said. “But they wouldn’t wager their family on that alone. More to the point, Erietta and Wardin have seen firsthand both the depth and the width of a dragon’s destruction.”

He tapped his forefinger against the table. “As have I, which is why my own daughter remains here. You can’t just hide and hope. If the threat is real, and Pendralyn truly isn’t safe, you can be sure nowhere else in Eyrdon is, either. In which case, the best place to be is as close as possible to the kingdom’s greatest magicians. Magic was our only salvation when we faced dragons before, and it will be our only salvation now.”

“I see,” said Deryn, though judging from her face she didn’t. Griffin said nothing, but privately he agreed with the archmagister. He knew Pendralyn had survived a dragon strike during the war, and by all accounts the casualties were far lower here than anywhere else Graddoc attacked. They had magic to thank for that, and the magisters who wielded it.

“Well, perhaps it won’t come to all that,” Deryn went on. “Fendrath didn’t threaten Pendralyn again today. That’s something.”

“Oh, but he did.” Griffin’s chair groaned in protest as he leaned forward. “Or at least, he foretold a threat.”

Arun nodded at him. “The book.”

“I don’t know much about such things,” said Griffin, “but it sounds to me like there was an enchanted book in that chamber, and it can harm us somehow.”

Deryn fidgeted absently with the sleeve of her tunic. “I can’t imagine how a book could destroy an entire magistery. Enchanted books tend to be self-preserving in some way. You know, they can’t be torn, or stained, or copied. I’ve never heard of one that can light buildings on fire, or knock them down.”

“Might there be a spell in it, that does some sort of harm when read?” Griffin asked.

“I know of no magic that works that way,” said Arun. “You’ve got to cast a spell, you can’t just read it.” He tossed his hand before resting it on the table again. “But who knows? I’m hearing a lot of things that are new to me, these days. In any case, it only matters if a book was actually removed from the chamber. Once again, you’ll swear you removed nothing?”

“We didn’t,” Griffin said, then looked at Deryn, who nodded. They hadn’t wanted to go to Calys with what they found in Duncan’s chamber, thereby admitting their own guilt in trespassing there. But they’d agreed that the archmagister must be told, whatever the consequences.

“Judging by that exchange of gloomy looks, I’ll wager you want to talk to me about Duncan.” Arun sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Or more accurately, you want to accuse him. Calys warned me you would. She informs me that you saw a sneaky look in his eye, or some such, and decided it must mean he got into the laboratory before you did. And he told me himself, earlier today, that he had an unpleasant confrontation with Griffin last week. He confessed that he’d badly lost his balance after a long day working on a new spell.”

Deryn’s eyes narrowed. “What new spell?”

“What does it matter?” Arun shot her an impatient look. “That is part of his job, as you well know. Furthering magical knowledge is a large part of a magistery’s purpose. You can’t—”

“It wasn’t just a sneaky look in his eyes,” Griffin interrupted, though he spoke softly. He did not relish telling another tale that made him look mad. But he ought to at least mention it. “It was fire.”

Arun blinked at him. “Fire?”

“In his eyes.” Griffin gestured at his own eyes, though he wasn’t sure what he hoped to demonstrate. Likely the archmagister knew where the eyes were located. He lowered his hand and coughed into it. “I saw it. Flames, right in his pupils.”

“When was this?” Arun asked.

“The night we opened the chamber. Outside. I thought it might be some sort of spell taking hold.”

Arun shook his head. “I know of no magic that works that way, either. More likely a reflection from a lantern.”

“Deryn thought the same,” Griffin admitted. “But whether you want to believe me about the fire or not, we found something else.” He steeled himself for the admonishment to come. “Something you can see for yourself.”

“I found it, if you want to be strictly accurate with the blame.” Deryn reached into her pocket as she spoke. “In Duncan’s chamber, which I entered without his permission. I did not find any suspicious books in there, by the way, so I can’t say absolutely that he took one from the laboratory. But I think it’s clear from this that he’s doing something untoward.”

She handed the burned scrap of paper to Arun and crossed her arms. “I know it’s nearly unforgivable to intrude on another magister’s privacy that way, but I’m worried about the security of Pendralyn, and the safety of the students. I’m not the least bit sorry.”

Arun looked at the paper for a long while, his expression unreadable, before saying, “Duncan is a sage.”

“And a contriver,” Griffin pointed out.

Arun arched a brow. “My sister—your queen—is also a contriver. You aren’t going to win any contrivers-are-evil arguments with me.”

Griffin’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. “No, of course not, sir. That wasn’t what I meant.”

“What I meant is that sages study healing, among other things. There are uses for blood in legitimate research, without assuming he’s dabbling in dark magic.” Arun rubbed his beard for a moment, squinting at the fire (or perhaps at the blackhound lounging in front of it), before pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. “All right. You’ve brought your suspicions to me. You can leave them with me.”

Griffin started to say more, but Arun held up his hand. “Enough. When I have a conversation with you, I don’t discuss the details with Duncan. The reverse is also true. That doesn’t mean conversations aren’t had. I am neither blind nor stupid, and you can be sure that if there is more to Duncan’s behavior than he’s admitting, I’ll find out.”

“Of course.” Griffin rose with a nod. “Thank you, Archmagister.”

Deryn followed Griffin out of the archmagister’s chambers, then promptly grabbed his elbow and pulled him into an alcove near the main staircase. It was barely large enough for Griffin, much less both of them. He bumped into the marble bust of George of Heathbire as he tried to jam himself against the wall, and nearly toppled it over.

“You don’t really intend to just abandon all of this, and leave it to Arun to handle?” Deryn whispered, when the statue had been set right again.

Griffin snorted. “There was no need to pull me in here for that. Such an obvious question doesn’t require a meeting to answer.”

“No, then?”

“Certainly not.”

* * *

“Funny, we used to have these meetings in the old hall.” Arun’s roving eyes paused at Griffin, then Deryn, before moving on to the rest of the three dozen magisters sitting at the keep’s front tables. The archmagister stood in front of the massive fireplace—nearly tall enough for even Griffin to stand in, and wide enough to hold four of him—with no less than seven blackhounds settled around, gnawing bones or napping.

“My sister presided over them back then, before she took another position.” He waited for the polite chuckles to subside. “Then the old hall became the dragon hall. Then the dragon hall became a gaping pit, which is exactly why I’ve called you to the keep. It seems that pit has presented several problems. I’d say the largest is that there is a dragon apparently threatening to destroy us all.”

A toneless hum of murmurs and whispers rose up around Griffin. He kept his eyes on the polished wood beneath his hands, and inhaled deeply. The air in here had always been endlessly, reliably comforting, as if the scents of cloves and gravy and yeast were permanently infused into the tables and the tapestries.

Would he still find it a place of comfort, he wondered, when this afternoon was over, and his colleagues knew the truth? Rumors had spread in the two weeks since he and Deryn had found—and then closed—the hidden corridor. But few knew the whole story. Some didn’t know any of it.

He sat in silence while Arun confirmed that Magister Griffin had met a dragon in the hills the night of the tremor; that the dragon had threatened, or at the least foretold a threat to, Pendralyn; that he’d said the north side of the cavern had been exposed for the purpose of revealing something; and that Griffin and Deryn had, in fact, found what was likely to be that something.

This earned Griffin several curious and even appreciative stares. Right up to the point where Arun also informed them that the laboratory they’d discovered was now apparently irrevocably sealed, with none of its contents having been catalogued, studied, or retrieved, and no future prospect of cataloguing, study, or retrieval. A handful of magisters, including the archmagister himself, had been trying to discover a new password, or some other means of opening the door, to no avail.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Griffin thought the whispers took on a decidedly nasty tone when it was revealed that he had then met the dragon a second time, just yesterday.

“You should also be aware,” Arun said, as he neared the end of the tale, “that whatever this dragon has in mind for us may involve the use of an enchanted book. I haven’t the slightest guess as to how. As a precaution, you should bring any book you don’t recognize to my attention.”

There was a ripple of muted laughter. “Apologies, Archmagister, but Pendralyn is built out of more books than bricks,” said Magister Sam. “We can’t possibly be expected to recognize them all.”

“Any book that seems strange or out of place, then,” Arun said. “For that matter, anything at all that seems strange or out of place. The royal family is coming to celebrate Midwinter with us. They’ll be bringing soldiers to patrol the area. We’ll also—”

“What good are soldiers against a dragon?” Magister Felton interrupted. “Does Wardin wish to show his support by having them roasted alongside us?”

Arun gave him a flat look that displayed none of his customary good humor. “Perhaps they can’t do much against the dragon himself. Certainly no more than magicians could. But I don’t think even Fendrath’s apparent ability to cloak himself accounts for his flying into the magistery, causing the tremor all on his own, then flying back out again unnoticed. Nor has he, as far as we know, personally tried to get into the chamber he worked so hard to clear a path to. He may well have help of some kind.”

“Indeed!” Duncan slapped his hand on the table for emphasis. Griffin glanced over at him, wondering why he would call extra attention to a crime he himself was guilty of.

The intended glance turned into a stare. Duncan looked decidedly better. His cheeks had color again. His posture was straight, his chin high … Wait. What is that on his neck?

It was difficult to tell, with his high-collared tunic (no doubt intentionally) covering most of it. But Griffin thought he saw faint red lines drawn across Duncan’s pale flesh. Scrapes, perhaps? How had he gotten them? And why hadn’t he healed them?

“If there are humans involved, you can be sure we will find them out,” Arun said. “I’ve already asked Wardin to bring his inkwell, and I expect him here in less than a week.”

Griffin’s attention snapped back to the archmagister, and he couldn’t suppress a grin. This was wonderful news. King Wardin had an enchanted inkwell that prevented any falsehood from being written with ink drawn from it. They would only need to ask Duncan whether he was serving Fendrath, and he’d be forced to tell the truth.

“Meanwhile,” Arun went on, “we’ll be writing to the students’ parents to inform them of the situation. Both Eleri and Corin are staying with us, at least for the moment, but it’s not for me to choose the best course for others. They can decide for themselves whether to leave their children here or fetch them home. I’ll be expecting all of you to take up your share of the letters.”

“Is that really necessary?” Magister Dora asked. “We haven’t actually seen any evidence of violence, or of any threat at all, have we? We have only this … dragon’s … word that there’s any danger?”

Arun’s voice was hard when he answered. “I take the word of a dragon seriously, particularly on the matter of danger. I suggest you do the same.”

Dora’s cheeks bloomed scarlet, her eyes darting to Arun’s wooden arm. “Of course, Archmagister.”

“Archmagister, if I may.” Duncan rose to his feet, one hand pressed pompously to his chest.

Griffin suppressed a groan. He was fairly certain he had no desire to hear whatever speech the man was about to give. He leaned sideways to whisper in Deryn’s ear. “Are those cuts on his neck?”

Deryn squinted at Duncan before whispering back, “Burn marks, I would say.”

“Burn marks?”

“Shh! What’s he talking about?”

“… to be discussing it with parents,” Duncan was saying, “I want to be sure I have the facts correct. Griffin is the only one who spoke with this dragon, and heard his threat?”

Arun frowned. “Yes, but I no longer doubt that the dragon is real, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“No, no, I’m sure you’re right. And it was Griffin who found this hidden door, based on the dragon’s hint.”

“Griffin and I, yes,” interjected Deryn. Griffin gave her a grateful look, understanding that she wasn’t trying to take credit so much as share blame.

“And that door leads to a room that contains something we believe the dragon wants,” Duncan went on. “Perhaps something he can use against us. As well as valuable information on how we might fight back against him.” He raised his hand from his chest long enough to point his forefinger at nothing in particular. “A room that is now sealed. Or so Griffin tells us.”

“Duncan,” Arun said. The word held a note of caution that would no doubt go ignored. “Get to your point, please. Or better yet, don’t, and sit down instead.”

Griffin did not like the smug look on Duncan’s face. Or the suspicious one on Calys’s. He felt her eyes questioning him again, distrusting him, as sure as they had the night she found out what they’d done. He got to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, and glared at Duncan. “What is your point, exactly?”

“What indeed,” Magister Nott, sitting on the other side of Deryn, said mildly. “It’s easy enough to verify that you can’t get in. Try it yourself.”

“He’ll do no such thing,” Arun said. “Until the soldiers arrive, I’ve got blackhounds patrolling the cavern day and night. Nobody is to go near there without permission, and if anyone does, you can be sure I will know it.”

“I can’t get in,” Duncan agreed, his tone deceptively benign. He returned Griffin’s stare. “So, to summarize, the dragon told Griffin how to find the room, at which point Griffin immediately opened it. And then just as quickly closed it off, making sure that nobody but him could or would get to whatever is in there. And when he finished all of this, he reported back to—er, forgive me, met with—the dragon again.”

“Oh, come now!” Griffin took an almost certainly inadvisable step toward Duncan. “If I were having illicit meetings, I would hardly be telling the archmagister about them afterward, would I?”

Duncan sniffed. “You’ve never been what a person might call clever.”

“Enough!” Arun’s voice was not overly loud, but it was sharp enough to draw whines from two of the blackhounds at his feet. “Thinly veiled or plainly spoken, I will not stand for unsubstantiated accusations against any magister.” His scowl included Griffin and Deryn as well as Duncan in this warning. “I want to make it clear to everyone in this room that Griffin has my complete confidence. As do you all. I can’t believe any one of you would knowingly or willingly aid an enemy of the magistery. I hope my investigation will not force me to conclude otherwise, but if it does, you can be sure it will be on the basis of nothing less than incontrovertible proof.”

Griffin’s heart swelled at this declaration of support from the archmagister. And just as quickly dropped as he looked around the room. Felton, his worn face confused and angry. Lawfric, giving Griffin an appraising stare from beneath his wiry white brows. There was Magister Wade, from contrivance, mouth slightly open, blinking at Griffin as if really seeing him for the first time.

And beside him, Calys, her nut-brown hair tied in a severe knot that made her face even harsher, her gaze biting into Griffin like a winter wind.

“Of course, Archmagister. As you say.” With a deferential nod, Duncan sat, and spoke no more.

But it didn’t matter. It was plain in the faces of Griffin’s colleagues that the damage had already been done.

9

“I found him!” Griffin backed away from the bookshelf he’d been standing at and dropped into one of the hidden chamber’s sumptuous chairs. Ash immediately trotted over to take advantage of a warm lap to rest his head on, and an available hand to scratch his neck. “Well, I found a paragraph, anyway. This is about magical orders and societies and the like.”

He cleared his throat and read aloud from the musty-smelling book: “… an ancient order of elite magicians who directly served the deities and their causes, in the time when the deities walked the world. The closest translation from the Ancient Caird is Hallowed Brethren, although that name is misleading, as there were by most accounts females among their number.”

“And Mithrin was one of this order?” Deryn crossed the room to look over Griffin’s shoulder.

“So was Taslin,” said Griffin, referring to the legendary bard whose name all Eyrds—all Cairds, really—knew well. He absently stroked Ash’s ear between his fingers. “I guess that makes sense, since he married a deity in the end. Anyway, look at this.”

He tapped the stiff page and read some more. “Though the subject is often debated, Mithrin is sometimes named as the first human enchanter. Unfortunately, his fanatical devotion to furthering magical knowledge at any cost drove him to forbidden and often cruel experiments. He ran afoul of the order, and eventually took his place in folklore as Mad Mithrin.”

“Forbidden and often cruel experiments.” Deryn took the book from Griffin and found her own chair, which seemed to swallow her small frame. Her feet dangled just above the carpet. “Cruel experiments.”

“Mad Mithrin the Mutilator,” Griffin murmured. “Come to take your heart.”

Deryn glanced up at him. “What?”

“It’s a children’s rhyme. Are you thinking of those chains in the chamber near his laboratory? The ones you said were enchanted? Because I’m thinking of those chains.”

Deryn nodded, staring intently down at the page as if she could make it tell her more than what was there. “He must have been trying to enchant animals. Or even people. You can’t very well be cruel to a cloak or a pen. At least, I’ve never known those things to have feelings.”

Griffin stared at her as a thought struck him. “We’ve wondered why the nine were kept alive, when all the other dragons were killed. What if Mithrin kept them alive to use them? Blood and bones, tongues and toes.”

“Tongues and toes?” Deryn scrunched up her face. “Is that part of your rhyme, too?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know that dragons have toes, do they?”

“It’s for children. My mother would grab my toes and shake them as she said that part.” Griffin closed his eyes and welcomed a stab of bittersweet nostalgia. “It always made me laugh, even though the rest was so gruesome.”

“Hm.” Deryn looked back down at the book. “If my mother grabbed any part of me, it was generally to deliver a nice sharp slap to it.”

“Ah. Er—” Griffin jumped, his awkward reply forgotten, as the door swung open and gently bumped the wall behind it. Magister Nott stood at the threshold and regarded them levelly from his pear-green eyes, dramatically bright in contrast to his bronze skin.

“Oh.” Nott bent to receive Ash’s enthusiastic greeting. “I didn’t realize there was anyone in here.”

Griffin made a show of wiping the blackhound’s considerable drool from his trousers, while giving Deryn a surreptitious look. He was prepared to follow her lead and agree with whatever she said. She could get into trouble, he knew, for admitting someone who wasn’t a sage into this room.

But Deryn’s only concern seemed to be for her hair, which had fallen out of its knot. “We’re doing some research,” she said as she restored it to order. “Or trying to. I’m sorry to say our subject is being frustratingly elusive. We’ve only just come across our first mention of him. Do you know anything about Mad Mithrin?”

Then again, perhaps Griffin wouldn’t agree with anything she said. He certainly didn’t agree with her telling Nott the truth, of all things. Just two days ago, the archmagister had specifically told them to leave the matter with him.

“Not a bit.” Nott closed the door and went to stand by Deryn’s chair, glancing down at the book she still held. “I’d never heard of him until you found his chamber. I understand there’s a children’s tale that’s popular with a lot of Eyrds, but I was born in Tarnarven.”

“We’ve been trying to figure out what he might have done, or made,” said Deryn. Griffin coughed harshly, but she didn’t seem to notice, and went on talking. “Anything a dragon might enjoy enough to want to take. Or any hint at all, really, about how everything connects together. Mithrin, the cavern, the dragon. Duncan.”

“Deryn!” Griffin snapped. Mentioning Duncan was definitely going too far. She would get the both of them reprimanded again. And despite her dismissal of his concerns, he was still quite certain that his position at Pendralyn was not nearly as secure as hers.

But of course she paid him no mind. For the next several minutes, Griffin glowered at the silver scrollwork spreading across the door and wished he were on the other side of it, while Deryn told Nott everything, down to the last wild guess they’d had about Duncan’s bizarre behavior.

It was almost eerie (and would certainly have been amusing, if he weren’t so angry) watching their equally solemn faces, listening to their equally placid voices. A dragon had threatened the very existence of Pendralyn. One of their own might well be—almost certainly was—helping him. But these two would have spoken in those same tones if they’d been discussing what they hoped would be served for the Midwinter feast.

No wonder she was smitten with Nott. He was every bit as odd as she was, and in almost exactly the same ways.

“You can’t think you’re the only ones who’ve thought to investigate what Mithrin might have had in that chamber,” Nott said when she finished. “The archmagister’s already got people trying to find out what the dragon wants with Pendralyn.”

Deryn sighed. “The archmagister has left me out of things, since I became associated with the chief suspect for the dragon’s accomplice.” Griffin shot her a fresh glare, which she ignored.

“Well, it’s exactly what I came here for, as it happens.” Nott nodded at the book. “So I ought to thank you for saving me some work, by finding that. There just isn’t much written about that time.”

“At least not by reliable sources.” Deryn handed him the book, then pulled her legs up into her chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. “The Hallowed Brethren served the deities, and it was the deities who put the dragons down.”

“But the Hallowed Brethren threw Mithrin out,” Griffin said.

“Still,” said Deryn. “If Mithrin was conducting cruel experiments on their enemies, the deities surely would have known about it. Perhaps some of them even condoned it. And you aren’t going to find any history that puts them on the wrong side of things.”

Nott tilted his head. “A shame we can’t just ask the dragon about it. No luck communicating with him, I assume?”

“None,” Deryn said with a wave. “The only one he seems to like talking to is Griffin. Not that it would be likely to help us much, if I could reach him. Why would he tell us anything, when he’s apparently here to destroy us?”

“He told me about the book,” Griffin pointed out. “Not much about it, and not anything useful about it, but still.”

“People who’ve been wronged mostly seem to love to talk about it,” Nott said. “You’ve just been saying that nobody’s told his side of things in a thousand years. He might want to tell it now.”

“If he does, it’s not to me,” said Deryn.

“Or me,” Griffin added.

“Nor have any of the animals in the hills had any contact with him, as far as I can learn,” Deryn went on. “I’ve been asking them to keep watch for anything strange.”

Griffin shook his head. “You needn’t bother, they won’t tell you anything. They’re loyal to him. Something about not eating them. Apparently he’s only taking sheep, miles away from here.”

Deryn lifted her chin, looking strangely offended, for someone so rarely ruffled. “Well, I don’t eat them, either. Most of the birds around Pendralyn trust me. They’d take my part over a strange dragon’s, I imagine.”

“We have no idea what sort of bond they might have with dragons,” Griffin said. “We haven’t lived in a world with dragons for more than a thousand years. And we’ve had next to nothing to do with them since they came back. We don’t know how they fit into the world.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Nott. “Whether the birds can’t help us, or they won’t, it comes to the same thing. We can’t ask the dragon what Mithrin did to him.”

Can’t we? Are we certain of that?

Griffin’s pulse quickened as he considered the question. But he didn’t voice it aloud.

* * *

Griffin glanced uneasily around as he walked into the keep, the anticipation aroused by the delicious smells of roasted meat, onions, and butter tempered by the wary stares of magisters and students alike. His notoriety had grown since they’d begun writing to the parents. Though a few, like Arun and Deryn, had kept Griffin’s name out of their letters, everyone had their share to write, and not all the magisters were so kind. Word was spreading quickly that a dragon had threatened Pendralyn—and that Magister Griffin was somehow involved.

Was, in fact, a known associate of this dragon.

Despite the gossip, few of the students had left the magistery. They were surrounded by the best magicians Eyrdon had to offer, and Pendralyn was widely considered the most defensible fortress in the kingdom. Most of the parents shared the archmagister’s (and the queen’s) belief that there was no safer place for their children.

A good number of the rest seemed to find a dragon attack too outlandish a fear to be taken seriously. (The idiocy of men.) It wasn’t as though anything had actually happened, after all. A month had gone by since the tremor, with nothing but a vague threat that the dragon, despite being within burning distance of Pendralyn on more than one occasion, had not delivered on.

Arun gestured to Griffin from the end of the farthest table from the doors. As Griffin made his way through the chattering crowd, easing his way behind chairs and around blackhounds, he saw that Deryn, Calys, and Lawfric sat with the archmagister.

“Griffin, a word.” Arun jerked his head at a chair.

The presence of both Griffin’s superior and Deryn’s suggested that it would be far more than one word, and none of them pleasant. But if Griffin needed further convincing, he had only to observe that they had not just this table to themselves, but the one beside it as well. As if the archmagister had specifically arranged for them not to be overheard.

Lovely.

Griffin had barely taken his seat before Lawfric set down his fork and glared, bringing to mind one of the dolls the first-year students were fond of making from dehydrated apples. “I must impress upon you in the strongest terms, Griffin, as I’ve already done with Deryn, that for a battlemage to even enter sagacity’s hidden chamber is both offensive and disrespectful.”

“And a serious breach of our rules,” Calys added. For her part, she was looking even more disgusted by Griffin than usual. He held her gaze, and for once, didn’t find those fine eyes especially pleasing. “How can we expect you to teach students to behave appropriately, when you can’t do it yourself?”

Well. At least Lawfric had referred to him as a battlemage, and Calys hadn’t made a point of correcting the inaccuracy. That was kind.

“Apologies.” Griffin cleared his throat. “Naturally there’s a great deal of curiosity spreading about Mithrin, as I’m sure you’re aware. I even have a group of students writing a drama about him, for Midwinter.”

“And are those students sages?” Lawfric asked.

“As a matter of fact, they are. Parkin and Morgan, a few others.”

“Then they can request access to the room themselves. From the librarian.” Lawfric narrowed his eyes at Deryn. “That would be Nott, by the way. I’ve informed him that he’ll be taking on the duty effective immediately. You, my dear, have proved yourself incapable of it.”

While Deryn whispered a protest, Arun fixed Griffin with a hard stare. “I hope you don’t intend to try to convince us you were in that chamber to help your students with their research. Surely you’ll give us more credit than that. You’ve refused to stay out of this business from the start.”

Griffin raised his chin. If the man wanted honesty, so be it. He’d had enough of being shoved aside. “And why should I stay out of it? I’m the one who met the dragon, and heard the warning. And the one he sought out a second time. I’m the one who found the laboratory.”

“And locked us out of it,” Calys muttered.

“And these are the exact reasons you can’t be involved,” said Lawfric. “It’s simply inappropriate.”

Though Griffin kept his clenched fist beneath the table, he was sure his anger must be plain on his face. No matter; he was suddenly feeling uncharacteristically indifferent to giving offense to his betters. “Go on and say what you mean. You suspect me of serving the dragon.”

“Griffin—” Arun began.

“As it happens, I do not,” Lawfric said, speaking right over the archmagister. “But my personal opinion is irrelevant. You must admit the circumstances are suspicious. Think of how it would look, if we were to allow you to investigate a crime of which you are, by some, suspected. We have a responsibility to the parents. Some are already calling for your dismissal. The inkwell will be here to clear things up soon enough, but in the meanwhile, it would be best for you to keep to yourself.”

“Griffin,” Arun said again, giving Lawfric a cold look. “I’ll go ahead and say what I mean, although you won’t like to hear it. Regardless of any suspicions surrounding you, which I’ll repeat I give no credence to, the simple fact is that there are others who are better suited, and more qualified, to address this situation than you are.”

“Magicians.” Griffin swallowed hard. His still-hidden fist was so tight now that his nails were likely to draw blood from his palms.

It always came back to magic. Those who could use it, and those who were useless.

Arun lifted his lone hand, fingers splayed, though whether the gesture was meant to placate or rebuke, Griffin couldn’t tell. “This is the defense of Pendralyn we’re talking about. You can expect me to be both smart and ruthless in its execution. I’m sorry, but I can’t step around your feelings. Particularly when you’re sneaking around, doing things on your own without asking or even telling anybody.”

“With respect, Archmagister, I’m not a mischievous child,” Griffin said, with all the dignity he could muster. “Pendralyn’s defense is as much my duty, as a magister, as anyone’s. I’m only sneaking around because nobody—”

“Because I gave a job you wanted to someone else,” Arun interrupted. “That’s the sum of it, however nicely you want to put it. And I won’t allow your resentment to compromise our search. Had you taken that book out of the sage hall, or damaged it in some way, Nott might never have seen it.”

Deryn huffed. “That’s ridiculous! I’m the librarian.”

“Were the librarian,” Lawfric corrected.

“We wouldn’t have done anything to the book,” Deryn went on. “And Nott did see it. Because we found it, and we showed it to him.”

Arun shook his head, his mouth tight. “I didn’t call you over here to argue with you. I’ll be blunt. I have assigned people to look into this matter. Those people do not include either of you. You are, of course, to tell us immediately if you have any further word of, or from, Fendrath. But apart from that, for the good of the magistery, I expect you to stop interfering and stay out of the way.”

Rather than continue looking at the archmagister—and possibly offer a retort he might regret—Griffin turned his face away, surveying the room. The firelight reflected off the frosty windows and silver serving bowls, and gave a cozy glow to the smiling faces of his colleagues and students, the glossy coats of wagging blackhounds begging for scraps.

But beneath the hum of good cheer, how many other magisters were watching, witnessing his humiliation, speculating as to its cause? Most of them seemed occupied by their dinners.

One was conspicuously absent.

“What about Duncan?” He turned back to Arun. “Is he one of your approved investigators?”

“Not that it’s your business,” Arun said mildly, “but if it will help you keep your peace, I don’t mind telling you that Duncan has had nothing to do with the cavern, much less the corridor, since you locked the latter. Now that is enough, from both of you. I have assured you the matter is being investigated.” He gave Griffin a meaningful look. “All of it. It’s just not being investigated by you.”

With that, the archmagister pulled his plate closer and picked up his fork. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Thus dismissed, both Griffin and Deryn rose, but Griffin refused to look at her. Instead he snatched up some rolls and cheese from the closest platters, folded his haphazard dinner into a napkin, and jammed it into his coat pocket. Then he stalked out of the keep, slamming both leaves of the broad double doors against the wall on his way out. Just in case, he supposed, his displeasure had not been clear.

A splotch of windblown dark hair appeared in the light of the closing doors, then faded into the darkness. Through the mist and spitting snow, Griffin saw a small figure in white crouched on the lawn. While he watched, she sprang up and ran a few strides, then stopped, head bent as if looking for something she’d lost. Almost instantly she darted away. She repeated this several more times before finally falling to her knees. It looked like she was digging.

“Are you all right?” Griffin asked as he approached her. “What are you doing?”

The girl didn’t look up, nor could he see her face. She wore only a nightrobe. Her fingers scratched at the snow, uncovering a few small twigs, which she added to a pile beside her.

“What are you doing?” Griffin repeated, and at the same time, bent to touch her shoulder.

As soon as he made contact, the girl jumped back, tripped, and landed on the ground. Her eyes looked wild, almost unseeing.

Griffin muttered a curse as he leaned closer, annoyed, as he so often was, that he couldn’t even do the simple magic required to quickly light a candle and get a better look at her. He had one somewhere in his coat, but by the time he lit it the mundane way, she might be gone. She was already tensing, making ready to spring—or run.

“Nettie?” So it was. Eleri’s young friend, she of the cold and the fever. But that had been days ago. More than a week, in fact. Could the girl still be sick? Griffin tried to remember when he’d last seen her in class.

Nettie lunged forward and began gathering up her sticks and twigs. When Griffin repeated her name, her head snapped up, and she bared her teeth. “Don’t bother me! I need wood! It’s hard to find enough in the wintertime.”

No, this was definitely more than a fever. She must be unbalanced. Although most first years weren’t yet capable of the kind of strenuous magic that would cause an imbalance this bad.

“Enough for what? What do you need it for?” Griffin bent to take her arm. His first order of business was to get her inside. “I can help you gather more, but we ought to get your boots first, don’t you think? And your gloves.”

“Fire!” She wrenched herself out of his grip with a shocking—and unnatural—amount of strength.

Fire? The word made Griffin uneasy. “And what do you need a fire for? It’s warm enough in the manor.”

“I dream of fire. Every night. Always fire.”

Griffin’s sharp intake of breath was lost to the wind, but the sound of Deryn’s voice, as one of the keep doors opened and closed again, carried clearly. “Griffin! Good, you’re still out here. We— Nettie?”

“Don’t just stand there gaping at her, help me get her inside!” Griffin took hold of Nettie’s arm again. She struggled against him, raking her muddy nails across his sleeve.

“No!” the girl wailed. “No! I can’t sleep until I’m burned!”

Burned. Nettie’s voice seemed to melt into the memory of Deryn’s. Burn marks, I would say.

Griffin’s skin began to crawl.

Eventually he got a firm enough hold to drag Nettie back toward the manor. Deryn hurried along on the other side. “Nettie? Look at me. What sort of magic were you practicing?”

But they could extract nothing coherent from Nettie. She continued to thrash until finally Griffin scooped her up and carried her (continually adjusting her position until she could no longer find a way to bite him) into the manor and up to the second floor. By then a fretting housemistress, tasked with the care and supervision of the younger students, had replaced Deryn, and the latter had run off to fetch some healers from the sage hall.

There were certain tonics, Griffin knew, that might help with balance problems. But he very much doubted they would help Nettie. This was no mere imbalance.

Thankfully, nearly everyone was at dinner, and they picked up no curious students along the way. Nettie’s dormitory was crammed with nine beds, each with a tall, narrow dresser on its right side and a leather-bound chest at its foot. There was barely enough space for Griffin to squeeze in sideways and deposit Nettie onto her bed, where she flailed about and continued to whimper about finding something.

But she was growing weaker. Griffin held her down while the housemistress—Ellen, Griffin belatedly remembered—efficiently grasped the girl’s chin and emptied a tiny vial of something down her throat. Nettie stilled in a matter of moments, staring at the ceiling with confused, glassy eyes.

Griffin examined the girl’s face and neck, and finding those clear, pushed up one of her sleeves, then the other. For a moment his heart swelled with relief.

Then he saw it, just above the inside of her right elbow.

“Where did she get that burn?” he rasped.

Ellen gave him a startled look, no doubt put off by his tone. “I don’t know. They get them in class, sometimes, learning to light candles and such. It doesn’t look like much to worry over.” She laid the back of her hand across her young charge’s cheek, then again across her forehead. “Fever’s back, though, and that is a bit worrisome. Poor girl just cannot shift this cold.”

“How long has she had it?” Griffin frowned, once again thinking back. Like Eleri, Nettie had grown up with an adept in her family’s service, and already had a basic grasp of reading, sums, and geography. First years with that sort of foundation in mundane skills only came to him twice a month. “Eleri mentioned her being sick, a week, perhaps a week and a half ago. But I’m almost certain I’ve had her in class since then, and I don’t recall her being ill.”

Ellen nodded. “It’s been coming and going. Worse, then better, and now, as you can see, back to worse again.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Not really. They pass it back and forth, you know, especially at this time of year. Her brother’s had it, too. Perhaps they keep giving it to one another.”

“Her brother …” Griffin’s heart stilled. Then raced.

He didn’t teach many of the older sagacity students. But he knew who Nettie’s brother was, just the same. He looked sharply at Ellen. “Simon? The one who set the fire?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Badly burned, I heard. Such a shame. I’m not a magician myself, but I wouldn’t be surprised if your balance is harder to keep, when you’re ill.” Ellen looked back down at Nettie, brow furrowed. “You don’t think Nettie got burned at the same time, do you? I never heard she was there.”

“No,” Griffin said faintly. “Neither did I.”

“Most likely got it in class, then, like I said. Odd coincidence, though.”

“Yes. Odd.” Griffin swallowed. Odd, certainly. But perhaps not a coincidence at all.

“As for the cold,” Ellen went on, “perhaps there’s some weakness to this particular illness, that runs in the family.”

Before Griffin could ask more questions, Deryn returned with two healers, who immediately ordered the other magisters out of the room. Griffin stood in the corridor for a few minutes, not speaking to Deryn, until Ellen poked her head out the door.

“They don’t think she’s unbalanced. It’s that cold back again, just as I thought. Fever can do funny things to a person, when it’s bad enough. She’s out for the night, I’d say, so you might as well go about your business.”

Griffin turned away, his thoughts churning, but he wasn’t to be left to them for long. He hadn’t gotten more than three steps down the main staircase before Deryn called his name.

“What are you angry with me for?” She fell into step beside him, hurrying to keep up with his strides. “I was lectured every bit as badly as you were, you know. Some of it was before you got there. But I lost my position as librarian, too, so I’d say I was punished even more.”

Griffin huffed at her. “And whose fault is that? You had to go telling your sweetheart everything, didn’t you? As if he wouldn’t just turn right around and tell the archmagister! Nott’s always been close to Arun.”

Deryn scrambled in front of him as they entered the first floor corridor, then turned to block his path. “We can trust Nott. And he isn’t my sweetheart.”

“The sweetheart part is your own problem, but it’s plain enough that we can’t trust him at all. I should have put a muzzle on you the second you started talking this afternoon.”

“You don’t know it was Nott who told the archmagister what we were doing. Any number of people could have seen us coming or going from that tower.”

“But only Nott knew about the book that Arun just reprimanded us for finding for them.” Griffin jabbed a finger at her. “And you are acting like a lovesick fourth year.”

Deryn crossed her arms, which for her was tantamount to flying into a rage. “I’d say we’re both acting like children, if I’m honest. A responsible magister wouldn’t want to hoard what he knows, just so he can be the one who knows it, when the security of Pendralyn is at stake. You’re worse than Calys, hiding herself away with those runes just so she can get the credit for translating them.”

“What? You’re not even making sense.” Griffin scowled and pushed past her.

Then, because he had no one else to tell, sighed and turned around again. “Nettie said she dreams of fire.”

Deryn frowned. “Isn’t that what—”

“Duncan said, yes. In almost the exact same words. And she has a burn on her arm. It’s small, but it’s definitely a burn.”

“But … what does that mean?” Deryn shook her head. “You aren’t suggesting that Nettie is helping Fendrath? A sweet nine-year-old girl?”

“No, of course not. I’m suggesting that Fendrath was right to ask about a book. I’m suggesting that Duncan came out of Mithrin’s chamber with something more than just paper and leather binding.”

Griffin crossed his own arms. “And I’m suggesting you were wrong, when you said there’s no such thing as a curse.”

10

Despite the ache of relentless shivering, some of the tension in Griffin’s neck and shoulders eased when he found another cave. He was relieved not because he hoped Fendrath might be in it—he knew it was time to give up on finding the dragon—but because he thought there was a genuine risk he would not make it back to the magistery. Taking shelter, even briefly, might at least give him the opportunity to thaw his feet.

His face was stiff and raw, and he was fairly certain his eyebrows were crusted with ice. It took several minutes for his numb fingers to light his small lantern, and even when he managed it, it was a tragically poor replacement for a stove. Deryn could have lit a much better fire, but as he’d come alone, he would have to make do.

Pendralyn’s students were enjoying several days off to celebrate the approaching Midwinter holiday and, for the industrious ones, prepare for their winter trials. Most of the magisters were using the time to further their own studies.

Griffin had other plans.

He’d left the magistery before dawn, starting first with the cave behind the waterfall, then expanding his search for miles around Avadare. Fendrath clearly kept a watchful eye on the magistery. (Or had grateful birds keep it for him.) If he knew Griffin was out here, alone, perhaps the dragon would show himself.

A slim chance, probably, when Fendrath had also spoken of spending time hunting a day’s journey away. The blizzard that had blown in midmorning only underscored the foolishness of the endeavor.

But Griffin would come out here every day if he had to, for as many days as he had to. Fendrath had proved willing to talk to him. About some things, at least. And as terrifying as the prospect of trying to manipulate a dragon might be, Griffin would use that tenuous connection to his advantage, if he could.

Particularly as it was the only resource he had left.

His home was being threatened. Children were ill and hurt. If the other magisters were going to keep him out of things, he would find another way in. A way past them all.

He was no longer convinced the book wasn’t what Fendrath had wanted brought out of Mithrin’s chamber all along. Obviously the dreadful thing was doing its work. But even if it wasn’t part of Fendrath’s scheme—or the entirety of it—the dragon knew more about it than they did. Perhaps Griffin could get him to let something slip. Like what it looked like.

Or how to stop it.

“That’s a bit pathetic, as fires go, wouldn’t you agree?”

Griffin swallowed a cry and kept his voice as casual as he could manage. “You enjoy sneaking up on me, don’t you?”

He turned to find Fendrath walking toward him with his slow, lizard-like gait, belly low to the ground. It had been foolish of Griffin, standing with his back to the mouth of the cave like that. But he supposed if Fendrath had wanted to cook him where he stood, seeing his death coming wouldn’t have made it any more pleasant.

“I do, as a matter of fact.” Fendrath sounded as much like an (ornery) old man as ever. “Though you didn’t jump halfway to the heavens this time, which was disappointing.” He inclined his head at the lantern. “A sage could have made a real fire. Or as close to it as men can come.”

“Funny, I was just thinking that myself. But there wouldn’t have been much point in bringing a sage with me.” Griffin spread his hands. “Isn’t that why you show yourself only to me? Because I’m not a magician?”

The knobby skin above Fendrath’s bright eyes shifted, though he had no eyebrows to raise. “That’s astonishingly insightful of you.”

It hadn’t been, particularly. The thought seemed to have been born on Griffin’s tongue rather than in his mind. But now that he’d said it, he realized it was the only explanation for Fendrath’s apparent preference for him, apart from the fact that he’d once helped the dragon cure an upset stomach. The only thing that was special about Griffin was that there was nothing special about him.

“I have no trust for magicians, it’s true,” Fendrath said. “Now go and fetch yourself some wood, please. Your shivering is distracting. And annoying, if you want to know.”

Griffin braved the blizzard once more, hurrying to the nearest pine thicket. At least it provided some shelter from the worst of the wind and snow. And though he could barely think, he was so cold, the prospect of a proper fire was motivating. He emerged a short while later with his arms full of dead branches.

Walking into the cave, he was immediately struck by the smell he now recognized as dragon, like a combination of lightning and hot hound. Fendrath was at the rear, sitting like a dog, his wings drooping sloppily behind him.

Griffin had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He’d never imagined a dragon in such a pose. It looked a bit ridiculous. Or perhaps more than a bit. “Wood’s soggy. Except where it’s frozen.” He piled the branches beside the lantern he’d left burning on the floor.

Fendrath twitched his wings. “It takes more than water to resist dragon fire.”

“I thought nothing could resist dragon fire.”

“You thought right, for a change. Or nearly so. Your flesh certainly can’t, and neither can your cloak, so I’d suggest getting behind me.”

Griffin picked up his lantern and did as he was told, though he stood a bit to the right rather than directly behind, so he could watch as Fendrath stretched his neck—it hadn’t seemed so long, before—and gently breathed a stream of deep blue flame over the wood.

The fire remained blue, and burned without smoke. It warmed the cave so quickly and thoroughly that Griffin’s cheeks, fingers, and toes were soon warring for the distinction of the most painful thaw.

“There,” Fendrath said. “Now we can have a proper conversation. It would be nice if it was also a fruitful one, for once. I can guess what you’d like to talk to me about.”

Griffin thought of how pale and frantic Nettie had been the night before, and clenched his jaw at the amusement in the dragon’s voice. “I thought dragons were supposed to have honor. Odd that you can laugh while you torture a nine-year-old girl.” He stepped away from the fire, toward Fendrath, and crossed his arms. “What did you do?”

“Not a thing. I didn’t even know that book still existed, much less that it was in his laboratory.”

Griffin narrowed his eyes, trying to take the dragon’s measure. He was fairly skilled at reading his students, but how could you tell when a dragon was lying? He had no idea what to think, anymore. Or what to believe.

Fendrath’s lips twitched, showing a flash of blue teeth. Was that a smile? “I don’t mind saying, it’s very entertaining, watching your face while you try to make that small mind of yours work.”

A smile, then.

“Blame your Duncan, if you want to blame someone,” Fendrath went on. “Presumably he is the one who removed it. And now that book is somewhere at your magistery, almost certainly passing from hand to hand.”

“It seems so,” said Griffin. “Apart from Duncan, it’s already cursed two students, that I know of. They’ve been ill, on and off, and they’re … they have burns.”

“A colorful word, cursed. Very dramatic.” Fendrath shifted his wings again. “You can call it that, if it makes the whole thing feel more grand to you. The book is spelled, certainly. A dragon made it, an age ago, as a means of infiltrating an enemy.”

“Spelled how?” Griffin asked. “I thought dragons couldn’t cast spells, in the traditional sense.”

“Greenwings can, although probably not in a way you would consider traditional. It’s not the same as your magic, but not all magic is, you know. Humans are always so convinced they’re the center and the standard of everything.”

Griffin waved away the criticism. “All right, then what does this spell do? They’re saying they dream of fire. One of them actually started a fire, and another was trying to.”

“Oh yes, they’ll dream of fire,” Fendrath said with a low laugh. “They’ll need fire. They’ll burn themselves, and that will ease their troubles. For a time. But eventually that need will consume them.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning they’ll go entirely mad, of course, and die in flames. What else would it mean?”

Griffin clenched his fists. “How do I stop it?”

Fendrath snorted, though whether in amusement or derision, Griffin couldn’t tell. “Why did you come looking for me?”

Because I’m an idiot. “I just told you. I want to know about the book. I want to know how to stop it.”

“Yes, yes, of course you want to know these things. But why did you suppose I would tell you them?”

“Perhaps I hoped to appeal to that sense of honor I mentioned.” Griffin couldn’t keep the censure out of his tone. “These are children I’m speaking of.”

“Then don’t!” Fendrath snapped. “Do not speak to me so righteously of children. Dragons had children too, once.”

There was a catch in his voice at the word children that tore at Griffin’s heart, but the dragon recovered quickly. When he went on, it was with nothing but contempt. “There was no honor among men, to save them. Nor mercy.”

Griffin swallowed past a sudden ache in his throat. He must have used the word revenge dozens of times, when discussing the dragon’s possible motives. Yet it had never truly sunk in, what that revenge was for. “I’m sorry.”

Fendrath stretched his neck toward him in a gesture alarmingly similar to what he’d done when he lit the fire. Hot smoke streamed from his nostrils, floating into Griffin’s face, smelling of storms and death. “What interest can you possibly imagine I have in either your apology or your pity? Surely you weren’t fool enough to come here without something better to offer me than that.”

Griffin tucked his hands into his pockets, so the blackwing wouldn’t see them tremble. “What is it that you want?”

“Information.” Fendrath sighed and sat back again. “I need to know what they know, at the magistery. Or what they think they know. What does that archmagister of yours say? The queen’s twin, I believe.”

“Yes, he is. What does he say about you, do you mean?”

“If you like. Though I’m more interested in what he knows about the chamber. Does he know what Mithrin did?”

Forbidden and often cruel experiments.

Only yesterday Nott had suggested simply asking the dragon about Mithrin. And Griffin had wondered whether he, and he alone, might be the one who could do that very thing. Now here he was, and he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know.

“Not specifically, no,” he said. “But we, that is to say, some of us, think perhaps he was doing experiments with dragons.”

“He was torturing dragons,” Fendrath said flatly. “Among other things. Exploring our uses, you might say.”

Griffin’s chest still ached with sympathy, but he knew better than to show it. “Is that why he kept you alive? To use you?”

“You can be sure I never asked the fat fool for the gift of a thousand year nap.”

“You speak of him with a particular sort of familiarity.” Griffin tilted his head, studying his unlikely companion. And comparing him against the painting that concealed the way to the sage hall’s hidden chamber. Eyrdri, with a black dragon beside her. She was nearly always depicted that way. “You said you have no trust for magicians. But that wasn’t always so, was it? They were your friends, once. The deities, too.”

“Friends.” Fendrath laughed, shooting out a spurt of flame that Griffin quickly ducked to dodge. “They betrayed us. And worse, they made traitors of us.”

“You sided with them, Eyrdri and the rest,” Griffin guessed. He and Deryn had theorized that some dragons might have. “Against the other dragons.”

Fendrath was silent for a moment, before shrugging his wings once more. “It wasn’t quite so simple as that. The redwings were—are—what you might call a confrontational lot. At first, we blackwings were merely defending ourselves. We thought we were uniting against a common enemy. Until our so-called allies decided all dragons were a threat, whatever color their wings. By the time they turned on us, it was too late to save ourselves.”

“I’m sorry,” Griffin said again. He knew the words meant little, perhaps less than little, but he couldn’t help them. There was nothing else to be said. From the night they’d met, this dragon had by turns confused, terrified, worried, and exasperated him. Now all he felt was a heaviness not his own.

Fendrath snarled. “Make no mistake, I’ve given you that bit of history for one reason only: so you will never confuse any exchange of information, or of anything else, between us for friendship. Now answer my question, if you please, before what little patience I have with you is lost to us both. What does your archmagister think he knows? What theories have you pieced together, since the tremor?”

Griffin bit his lip. Would he be betraying Pendralyn, if he answered?

Surely not. Nothing he knew or thought—and there was little enough of either—was dangerous knowledge. Particularly considering that the dragon undoubtedly already knew it all.

And if, in exchange, Fendrath told him something that would help Nettie and Simon …

“I can’t tell you what the archmagister thinks, as I’m not in his confidence,” he said, quite truthfully. “But I’m sure his theories are similar to mine. The evidence is clear enough.”

Fendrath stretched, then lay down, tail curved around him, wings draped over his back like a blanket. “And I’m comfortable enough, all things considered. I have the time. By all means, educate me.”

Griffin could not say he was quite so comfortable, himself. The once welcome warmth of the dragon’s fire was making him sweat now, and his shoulders and neck ached from the weight of his drenched cloak and coat.

But these inconveniences were nothing next to the decidedly uncomfortable feeling of being alone in a cave, having told nobody where he was going, with all hope of a quick exit dashed by rapidly piling snow. (It was up to his knees out there now, at least).

With a creature who meant the magistery harm.

With whom he was about to cooperate.

He took a deep breath. “You caused the tremor, in order to expose the chamber. Then you sent Duncan—and me, with that hint about Ancient Eyrdish—to open it. Naturally, we assumed all along that you wanted something in there. I went back and forth about whether it was the book, but after seeing Nettie last night, I thought it must have been. That you wanted one of us to find it and take it back to the magistery, to unleash this curse on us. But if you were being honest just now, about not knowing it was there—”

“I was,” Fendrath interrupted. “You were right about dragons having their honor. Which is more than I can say for most men. I may withhold information, tell you half truths, even deliberately mislead you, if it suits me. But nothing I say to you will be false.”

“Something else, then, that will help you take your revenge. I can’t imagine what weapon a dragon would need, being quite capable of destruction on his own, while all but indestructible himself. Whatever it is, I’m hardly looking forward to the ashes and rubble, but at the moment I—and I imagine the archmagister, and everyone else—am more concerned about finding the book, and lifting the curse.”

Fendrath considered him for several moments, the flickering blue light around them playing strange games with his amber eyes. Finally he said, “Do you really not see them?”

Griffin frowned. “See what?”

“All the glaring flaws and shocking, even for you, lapses of logic in your theory. I thought you might, hearing yourself say it all together like that. But it seems not.”

“Perhaps you could educate me, then.”

“For a start, whyever would I have needed you, and your apparently equally idiotic colleague, to help me? We’ve just established that you taking the book was an unintended consequence of the endeavor. Why wouldn’t I simply have walked into the laboratory myself, and taken what I wanted?”

“We wondered that ourselves. Perhaps you didn’t know the exact password to get into the corridor.”

“You’re right about that, as it happens. But I knew it would be in Ancient Eyrdish, a language I’ll wager I know more of than any of you. I could have found the word to open the door through trial and error, same as you did.”

“You didn’t want to be seen going in there, then.” Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. “Although the thing that’s confused me most all along is why you’re bothering to hide. What difference does it make if we see you, if we can’t resist you? Unless …”

Unless we can.

A deity … dragon fire … and a harp that can turn any creature to stone.

His eyes widened as he looked at Fendrath. “Unless we can resist you. Unless whatever is in that chamber is as dangerous to you as it is to us. But if it could harm you, why risk letting us find it?”

“Why, indeed,” Fendrath said softly.

“Perhaps you thought it would be easier to get from us than from the chamber, for some reason.” Griffin shook his head. “No, none of that makes any sense. Even if you didn’t want to be seen, you didn’t need someone else to go in for you. You can cloak yourself.”

“So I can.”

Was it Griffin’s imagination, or had Fendrath put a subtle emphasis on the word I?

His breath stopped short. “Greenwings can cast spells. Blackwings can cloak themselves. Other dragons can’t.”

Fendrath inclined his head, just slightly, a teacher acknowledging that his struggling and not-terribly-bright student had found the correct answer at last.

He could have gotten into the cavern unseen, but another dragon, of a different color, could not.

Griffin let his breath out slowly. “There’s another dragon. One who isn’t ready to show himself, for whatever reason, so he needed Duncan to do the footwork for him.” He shot Fendrath an accusing glare. “All this time, you’ve let me think Duncan was working for you.”

Fendrath snorted. “You can hardly hold me responsible for your thoughts. Or the lack of them, more like. I’ve been watching Duncan, same as I’ve been watching you, but I’ve yet to meet him. Though I would very much like to. I’d almost certainly find him to be of greater use than you are.”

“Watching,” Griffin repeated. “And waiting in the shadows. For what, I wonder?”

But that wasn’t quite true. Fendrath had done more than watch and wait. He’d participated, if only slightly. He’d given hints to Griffin. In essence allying himself with the humans—something he apparently detested doing—in the race to gain access to the laboratory.

“This other dragon is no friend to you. You want him to have whatever’s in that chamber even less than you want us to have it.” Griffin swallowed. “It’s not us you’re hiding from, it’s him.”

He stared at Fendrath. “You’re afraid of him.”

11

Griffin returned to his chamber that afternoon exhausted and confused. In the end, Fendrath had told him that the curse could be lifted from everyone affected by first burning the book, then soaking the ashes in a brew of greymoss and honey, steeped in salt water. But Griffin could feel no sense of triumph or optimism at having gained the information. Not now that he knew there was a foe even more terrible than either the curse or Fendrath at their gates.

So terrible, in fact, that Fendrath himself was afraid.

There’d been a great deal more, but Griffin wouldn’t have time to ponder it all. He found Calys sitting in his desk chair, facing the door, arms crossed. She appeared to be chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“What are you doing in my room?” Griffin closed the door behind him.

“Wondering how much longer it ought to be your room, if you really want to know. Where have you been?”

He hesitated only briefly. There was no point in hiding the truth from Calys, when he intended to tell the archmagister everything as soon as possible. With all that was at stake, he could hardly fear a reprimand. Or dismissal.

“Out looking for Fendrath.” He crossed to the stove, which Calys had helpfully lit for him, and set about the slow work of peeling off gloves, cloak, and coat with his frozen fingers. “And I found him. Or rather, he allowed himself to be found.”

The old chair creaked as Calys shifted to face him. “Why? Needed to beg for more blood, perhaps? And what did you give him in return, I wonder?”

“What?” Griffin laughed—freely, and at some length—while he hung his wet things on pegs behind the stove. No matter who she was, or how much power she held over him, it was difficult to take anything so preposterous seriously. “I’m meant to be the one using blood to cast dark spells? Tell me, how do you reconcile that suspicion with your extreme fondness for reminding me that I can’t do any magic?”

Calys stood, eyes snapping. “The two go hand in hand. As I fear you know.”

“I don’t know.” Griffin’s smile quickly twisted into a scowl. “I don’t see how I could know, when you’re as cryptic—and as irritating, if I’m honest—as the blasted dragon. And I’m tired, and I have a lot on my mind.”

He stepped toward her, for once welcoming his intimidating size. “And to tell you the entire, unpolished truth, I believe my patience with your determination to hate me has come to an end. So if you could hurry up and accuse me of whatever it is you’re so intent on accusing me of, in plain words, I’d be appreciative.”

Surprise, then offense, passed over Calys’s face. Both were understandable, Griffin supposed, but if she was waiting for remorse to cross his face, she was in for a lengthy wait. He’d just confronted a dragon. He could manage to keep his back straight and his head high in the face of one little magician.

After a moment she sniffed. “All right. I’ve just learned something we didn’t know before. At least, most of us didn’t know it.” Calys narrowed her hazel eyes, as if watching for his reaction. When he gave none—having no idea what she wanted to see—she went on. “It seems taking dragon blood can give a person extraordinary magical power. Far beyond even the most legendary of magicians.”

For a moment Griffin forgot all his exasperation and indignation, in favor of the revulsion that was, at present, turning his stomach. “What, you mean drinking it?”

She made an impatient noise in her throat. “Yes, of course drinking it. You can give up on the wide-eyed innocence, I would think.”

Griffin had imagined Duncan pouring the blood over something, or perhaps writing with it, as part of a spell. This was … worse. Though it did explain some things. Like how a lone magician could cause a tremor powerful enough to sweep the earth off the northern half of the cavern.

And why Duncan would have engaged in such a betrayal at all. That sort of power would be an almost irresistible draw, to a man like him.

“Griffin.”

Calys’s hard voice pulled Griffin away from his thoughts, and he looked back at her with a start. What was she waiting for him to say?

That I’m guilty, obviously.

The exasperation and indignation returned in full force. Griffin’s pulse thrummed in his ears. “You say you’ve just learned this. From where?”

“The ancient text.” Calys coughed, then glared at the stove, as if it were responsible. Perhaps she was cold. Then again, when wasn’t she? “The one from Dordrin, that I’ve been using to decipher the runes.”

“An old poem, isn’t it? Or a song, or something?”

“What difference does that make?”

Griffin tossed his hands. “It might not even be true! But now, because you’ve read some tale, you’re more convinced than ever that it’s been me helping the dragon. You think I want magic so badly that I would betray Pendralyn to get it.”

“Would you?”

“Of course not!” Griffin roared.

Calys remained still and silent. He opened his mouth again, intent on shouting a great deal more. Then realized he had no idea what to say.

“Griffin,” she said again, her voice as quiet as his had been loud.

In that moment, Calys looked truly sad. Griffin was almost touched. Apart from anger, it was the strongest emotion she’d ever shown toward him.

“I’m not a soft person, certainly,” she said. “But you’re wrong: I’ve never been determined to hate you. I have no desire to hate you now. I don’t want to believe this. Of anyone at Pendralyn. Certainly not of an orphan who despite having no magic was given a place here, against all tradition and …”

“Sense,” Griffin finished for her, all but spitting the word. “Against all tradition and sense. You wouldn’t have done it, and you’ve never approved of it.”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have,” Calys admitted with a shrug. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize you as one of our own. Or that the thought of you betraying us doesn’t bring me pain. If you can defend yourself against evidence that seems to mount daily, I’d be very glad to hear you do it.”

“No,” Griffin said firmly. “I won’t plead my case to you.”

“No?” Calys raised a brow. “I am your direct superior.”

“I won’t plead my case to anyone. I don’t have to. The king and queen will be here tomorrow, the day after at the latest. They’ll have the inkwell, the archmagister will use it to question me, and that will put an end to it.”

Griffin stalked across the room and opened his door. Perhaps a bit too hard; Calys flinched, just a little, as it banged against the wall. “With all respect, Headmagister, I see no sense in continuing to discuss it until we can resolve it. And I’d like you to leave my chamber.”

* * *

The archmagister wasn’t so easily dismissed. Arun came himself, through the knee-deep snow, and knocked on Griffin’s chamber door not an hour after Calys left.

“Do you know, Holly refused to go out in this wretched weather to fetch you?” Shaking snow from his dark hair, Arun walked directly to Griffin’s stove. “So I decided to come and see you, instead of the other way around.”

He clucked in disapproval at the small fire, then exhaled slowly toward it. The flames flared. Though they outwardly returned to their former modest state a scant moment later, the room began to feel warmer.

“I was going to come to you, as soon as my coat had a chance to dry a bit.” Trying not to make it too obvious that he was studying Arun’s face for any sign of the true mood beneath his cheerful greeting, Griffin pulled his only chair nearer to the stove and gestured for the archmagister to sit. “Please.”

Arun ignored the chair. His eyes were unreadable. “Well?”

Griffin crossed his arms. “I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re expecting.”

He nearly winced at his own words, which he knew might well be followed in short order by his banishment from the magistery. Into a storm, no less, with his coat and boots still soaked. But he was past letting any of them, even Arun, make him feel guilty for trying to defend his home.

To his very great shock, Arun burst out laughing.

When the archmagister at last caught his breath he said, “Well, I see we’ve moved on from your inability to stop calling me sir.”

“I suppose we have.” Griffin dropped his arms and thrust his hands into his pockets, trying not to show his relief. “I can’t … Nettie is sick. And Simon. Perhaps Duncan too, although I can’t say that would be enough for me to risk my position over. And who knows who might be next? I assume nobody’s seen this dreadful book, at least nobody who will admit to it.”

He paused, waiting for the archmagister to confirm or deny this. When Arun did neither, Griffin shrugged. “I can’t very well follow orders to stay out of it, with so much at stake, can I?”

“No,” Arun agreed. “Not when you’re apparently the only person Fendrath is willing to speak to. But what you could have done is be a bit more circumspect about it. Did you have to tell Calys? She rushed straight over to give me a headache, you know. Have you ever noticed how shrill her voice can get?”

“I …” Griffin blinked at him, struck by a realization that he supposed should have been obvious the moment Arun so blithely walked through his door. “You expected me to disobey you.”

“I can’t say I expected anything, if I’m honest. But I see the sense in disobeying me, certainly. When I was given the news last night, I was willing to believe Nettie had a mundane illness, or she’d gone off her balance. But this morning I saw her for myself. And then I called on Simon. I saw the burns. On both of them.”

Arun shook his head, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “It’s bad enough we have students at risk, but for one of them to be her. Eleri may never recover, if her friend …” He ran his hand through his hair. “And her mother certainly wouldn’t ever let her come back here.”

Griffin cleared his throat, and allowed a moment to pass before he spoke. “We need to find the book and destroy it. Fendrath told me that’s the only way to lift the spell.” He tugged at his ear. “Although, there has to be at least one other, that he doesn’t know about. Mithrin had the book, and obviously didn’t destroy it, so he must have found a way to either protect himself from the curse, or cure it.”

“Or it killed him,” Arun muttered.

“I suppose that’s also possible,” Griffin admitted. “Perhaps the book is what turned him into Mad Mithrin in the first place.”

“We’ll redouble our efforts to find it, of course,” said Arun. “Thanks to you and Eleri, we know Simon lent some books from the sage hall to Nettie, but neither of them is in a condition to give us any specifics that would help us trace the one we’re looking for. Contrivers are best for detecting traps, and sages for detecting enchantments. I’ll call for more of both, to work in pairs, and examine every last book in this magistery, if we need to.”

“That could take days, couldn’t it?”

“Weeks, even.” Arun rubbed his brows. “You know, my sister gave away a number of books to the Dords, when they founded their first magistery. I wasn’t very happy with her at the time. Now I wish she’d given them more.” His weary eyes returned to Griffin. “What else did Fendrath tell you?”

“Quite a bit, and most of it alarming.” Griffin summarized their conversation, including Fendrath’s eventual acknowledgement of the involvement of another dragon. A red one, no less.

“And we have nothing but his word for any of that,” Arun said, chewing at his lip. “Or for anything at all, really. We don’t even know for sure that it’s a book that’s released this …” He waved his arm. “Spell. Or whatever it is.”

It most certainly is a book. And we most certainly know who took it from the chamber.

But Griffin didn’t voice these thoughts aloud. He was lucky enough that the archmagister wasn’t accusing him. It was likely a bad time to bring up more suspicions about Duncan, without any more evidence to support them. Instead he said, mildly, “I believe Fendrath. For what it’s worth.”

“Yes, well.” Arun pulled up the collar of his cloak. “My sister agrees with you on the point of his character. And she seems convinced he wouldn’t harm us. As if a maimed brother isn’t enough evidence to contradict that.” He sighed. “I wish they’d sent the inkwell sooner, but it’ll be here soon enough, now. In the meanwhile, I’ve instructed Duncan that he isn’t to leave the magistery grounds for any reason, until he’s been questioned and cleared of wrongdoing. I must instruct you to do the same.”

Griffin nodded and suppressed a smile at this tacit admission of the archmagister’s own suspicions. Arun might not tolerate his magisters flinging accusations at one another, but he was no fool, either.

And for Griffin’s part, he didn’t mind waiting another day or two to prove his own innocence. Not when he could look forward to proving Duncan’s guilt at the same time.

Arun paused at the door with a pointed look back. “I know it can be difficult, at times, to differentiate between the orders I really mean and those I may change my mind about later. But see to it that you follow that one.”

* * *

The king and queen arrived the next day, with their three younger children in tow, including the newest. Griffin wondered at them bringing an infant on a winter journey across the kingdom, but he supposed magic kept her warm and dry enough. They spent the night of their arrival shut away with Corin, Arun, and Eleri, but Griffin didn’t have to wait long to see the royal family; Holly summoned him to the archmagister’s chambers the following morning.

Colder but calmer air had followed the blizzard into the valley, and sage fire had melted much of the snow, leaving the stream swollen. As Griffin followed Holly across the bridge, a flock of snowspurs passed low overhead, their calls mingling with the water’s burbling.

Both sounds were shortly replaced by whoops of laughter, and three cavorting students spilled out of the manor, heading for the keep. At least, Griffin thought they were students. It was impossible to be certain of their identities, behind their elaborate cloth-and-paper masks. Their cloaks were streaked with paint, and all three wore crowns of holly.

One of them danced up to Holly and attempted to place his crown on her head. “Look! Holly for Holly!” he cried, triumphantly, clearly thinking himself clever. His mask was like an owl’s head, but with prominent teeth and long ears that Griffin thought were supposed to be a donkey’s. Appropriate, as his laugh sounded decidedly donkey-like. “Holly wearing holly!”

Without breaking her stride, Holly snatched the crown from his hand, and pranced off with it between her powerful jaws. Blackhounds were known to enjoy carrying things around, though they generally preferred them to be edible.

Griffin laughed and took it from her. “I don’t think she wants the responsibilities of a crown,” he said as he tossed it back to its owner.

“Nobody has any responsibilities today.” The boy’s tone implied that Griffin had said something particularly stupid.

Nobody, indeed.

Best the students go on thinking that. Most of them didn’t know that Nettie was sick, or that yesterday her brother Simon had also been struck with a fever again. Those who did know did not know why. They’d chosen to remain at the magistery—or their parents had chosen to leave them there—and that decision couldn’t be reversed in an instant. Might as well let them enjoy their holiday.

It was the day before Midwinter’s Eve, called by most Midwinter’s Rise, for reasons Griffin had never heard. Probably because Midwinter’s Eve Eve sounded ridiculous. There would be formal feasts for both Midwinter’s Eve and Midwinter’s Night, including performances by real, trained bards, a rare treat. (The royal party had arrived with two, in addition to the one Arun had already engaged.) But Midwinter’s Rise was a far more relaxed, and somewhat wilder, affair.

A banquet would be set out in the keep from dawn until dusk. Magisters, students, and villagers from Avadare would come and go as they pleased, performing dramas and songs, dancing, or simply being entertained by the others. The revelries would frequently spill out into the rest of the magistery, with students—and sometimes adults—in colorful costumes playing pranks on one another.

It had always been Griffin’s favorite part of the holiday. Though he looked forward to being questioned and cleared of wrongdoing this morning, he hoped he wouldn’t miss too much of it. Or, at the least, that he would get to the keep in time to see Parkin and his friends perform what they’d proudly styled The Misdeeds of Mad Mithrin, Magician of Mayhem.

The manor was decorated with delicate yellow ice roses and garlands of bright holly, and the wall sconces burned with flames in an assortment of whimsical colors, courtesy of a team of sagacity magisters. The cascade of ivy hanging on the archmagister’s door was so large, there was barely room for Holly to scratch at the wood to announce their presence.

Griffin expected a more somber scene inside. He’d seen the king and queen only a handful of times in his life, and spoken to them only once, the previous spring, about Corin’s particular interest in cartography. He assumed they would not enjoy having their holiday intruded upon by a near stranger, a magister with no magic, and a suspect in the plot to destroy Pendralyn, all combined in the form of one very large and somewhat awkward man.

But nobody looked angry, or even tense. Wardin leaned against the wall, gently bouncing and patting a blanketed bundle Griffin could only assume was the new princess, and if the king’s golden hair and exceptional height made him look especially regal, the effect was somewhat diminished by his snorting laugh at whatever Arun had just said to him.

It was the queen who greeted Griffin, by waving off his bow. Erietta shared her twin brother’s long nose and round, dark eyes—both more attractive in her face than Arun’s, Griffin thought. A long scar ran from below her right eye to the left side of her chin, but it did nothing to toughen her easy expression. She gestured at the table. “Let’s not bother with the bowing and the Majesties and whatnot. I’m sure you’d like to get this business over with. As would we, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Of course.” There was no breakfast laid out this time, only a jug—cider, judging by the smell of the steam rising from it—and four heavy wooden mugs. And, at the other end of the table, a silver inkwell beside a pen and a stack of paper. Griffin hung his coat on a peg near the dancing cloak, tugged at the sleeves of the long formal tunic he wore in honor of the day, and took the chair closest to the inkwell. “Apologies for interrupting your holiday.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that.” Erietta sat across from him. “Arun tells me that some of the other magisters, and a few of the parents besides, have been insufferably suspicious of you.”

“And you aren’t?” Griffin’s face heated as she arched a brow, and both her husband and her brother snickered. “Er. Suspicious, I mean. Not insufferable, of course.”

The queen smiled. “You’re Corin’s favorite teacher.”

Griffin blinked at her, even more surprised by this declaration than by her kindness. “I am?”

“You are. And although I realize that lately my eldest son has been a bit of a—”

“Brat,” Arun interjected.

“—challenge, his high opinion is really all I need to know about your character. So let’s clear it up for everyone else, so we can all go and eat some cake.”

“Don’t worry.” Wardin laid the now sleeping baby in a bassinet that Holly seemed to be guarding closely, then sat beside his wife. “She has a lot of experience with this sort of interrogation. Imprisoned me after one of them, once.”

“Oh, honestly.” Erietta rolled her eyes. “That is not at all what happened.”

“It’s a little bit what happened.” Arun did not sit, but stood looking down over Griffin’s shoulder.

Griffin stared around at them all, almost dazzled by the ease of their conversation. He had no more wish for the responsibilities of a crown than Holly did, but he was envious of these three, nonetheless. As far as he could recall, he’d never had rapport with anyone.

“Now then.” Erietta straightened her spine and folded her hands in front of her, smile gone, ready to do business. “I’ll do the honors, shall I? Griffin, please dip the pen in the inkwell and write, My name is Wardin Rath, King of Eyrdon.”

“I …?” Griffin looked from her to the king, waiting for either of them to laugh. After a moment of silence during which neither of their faces changed, he cleared his throat and did as he was told.

“Now look,” Arun said from behind him.

Griffin looked down at the paper. The words he’d seen—or thought he’d seen—a moment ago weren’t there. Instead it said, in his own handwriting, My name is Griffin, Magister of Mundane Matters.

“There,” Erietta said. “As you can see, the inkwell will not allow you to lie. If you know the truth, you will write it.”

“If you know it at any level,” the king added. “In any part of yourself. Even if you think you’ve forgotten it.”

Griffin nodded. He’d heard, of course, about the inkwell. But it was still a bit of a shock to see it in action. He’d been so sure of what he wrote.

“First question,” said the queen. “Do you know what the dragons are looking for?”

No, Griffin wrote. Although I have theories.

“We’ll get to those. When did you first meet Fendrath?”

On the night of the tremor. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but I know it for certain now.

“And have you met any other dragon besides Fendrath, before or since?”

I haven’t, no. Griffin shot a glance back at the archmagister. Arun had seemed inclined to doubt him—and Fendrath—about the involvement of a second dragon. Assuming Duncan would be subjected to an identical interrogation, Griffin was glad they were at least asking the question.

“And have you conspired with Fendrath, at any time, to bring any harm to the magistery?” Erietta went on.

No. Griffin started to set the pen down, then changed his mind and added, for the sake of full disclosure, But I’ve met with him three times. And once was on purpose, against the archmagister’s orders that I stay out of this business.

The king chuckled. “He can hardly discipline you for that, when he’d have done the same. I’ve told him to stay out of lots of things. It never seems to take.”

“Quit joking around, will you?” Arun said. “I’m meant to be intimidating and authoritative.”

Wardin snorted, but kept his silence. Erietta sat back for a moment, smiling faintly. “What did you think of him? Fendrath, I mean?” She waved a hand when Griffin picked up the pen. “Just personal curiosity, no need to write your answer. I knew him once myself, is all, and I haven’t spoken with him since the war.”

“He’s a bit cryptic.”

“Only a bit?” the queen asked with a laugh. “He must like you.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Griffin. “He’s a great deal more than a bit cantankerous.”

“Is he? That’s not how I remember him. His sister Margarth, now there was a complainer.” Erietta sighed. “But we were different then. And he’s had a dozen years to brood over his predicament. That’s enough to put anyone in a bad mood.”

“What predicament?” Griffin asked. “Do you mean wanting revenge for the past?”

“It’s more than that,” said Wardin. “Fendrath, and all his kind, are doomed.”

Griffin frowned, confused. Then realized he was frowning at his king, and quickly ducked his head. “How so? If I may ask?”

“They preserved three of each kind, black, red, and green.” Wardin leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. “But each set of three are siblings. Ensuring they can never reproduce.”

“Er …” Griffin coughed into his fist. “Apologies for being indelicate, but do you mean it’s actually impossible? Or only … frowned upon?”

“As we understand it, it’s truly impossible, in their case,” the king said.

His wife shook her head, her eyes distant. “Even as they spared them, they made them extinct. It’s extraordinarily cruel.”

“It’s practical,” said Arun. “Do you really want dragons overrunning the world? In case you’ve forgotten, they don’t like us much, and they’re a bit on the powerful side. We’d be the ones going extinct then.”

“Then why spare them at all?” Erietta asked. “I’ve never understood it.”

“I think I can answer that, actually,” said Griffin. “We think Mithrin was using them for his magic. Their blood, perhaps.”

“Blood and bone, tongues and toes,” the queen murmured.

Griffin nodded. “Exactly. Fendrath all but confirmed it, when I talked to him two days ago.”

“So he wanted to keep a few endless barrels of dragon blood at hand. But he also wanted to be sure that if those barrels should ever wake, they couldn’t make an army of barrels to rise against him.” Erietta bit her lip. “That’s barbaric. No wonder Fendrath is angry.”

“Yes, yes, poor Fendrath. It’s all very sad.” Arun, not sounding especially despondent, waved at the paper on the table. “But if you’ll forgive me, at the moment I’m more interested in the predicament of some sick children. So perhaps we could get on with our investigation.”

The questioning continued until every conversation with Fendrath had been dissected, and every suspicion against Griffin, stated or implied over the past weeks, had been answered. He was gratified that the archmagister did not seem the least bit surprised by his innocence.

“Very well then, Griffin.” Erietta paused to accept a mug of hot spiced cider from her brother, who chucked her under the chin before taking the seat across from her, beside Griffin. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Thoughts on how to find this book? Anything else Fendrath might have said about the other dragon?”

“A redwing.” Griffin turned his own mug in his hands, running his thumbs over the dragon carved on the side. Eyrdon’s dragon, the same as the one on their flag. How many centuries had the symbol of their kingdom been a creature they’d apparently oppressed and destroyed? “Working for their queen. Adalant, I think her name is? But Fendrath doesn’t know which of her brothers it is.”

“Almost certainly lies.” Wardin waved away this phantom redwing. “Pointing at someone else, to throw us off trying to bring him to justice.”

Erietta burst out laughing. “Why should he fear your justice?” She took a deep breath, but she was still chuckling as she went on. “It’s not as though you can catch him. He’s been seen only when, and by whom, he wishes.”

“Yes, that invisibility trick of his is interesting.” The king gave his wife a pointed look. “Might have been a useful thing to know about before, don’t you think?”

“I had no idea,” Erietta said with a shrug. “As I said, and as you well know, we weren’t ourselves back then. But I can tell you this: Fendrath wouldn’t lie. If he says one of Adalant’s brothers is here, then you can believe he’s here. And if he says he didn’t know the book was in that chamber, then you can believe there’s something else in there he wants.”

“And more importantly, something else the redwing wants,” said Griffin. “He was the one who caused the tremor. Fendrath is being careful, staying hidden, watching and waiting. He doesn’t want us to find whatever it is. But he wants the other dragon to find it even less. So he helped me just enough to put me in the way, but not enough for me to have any real dangerous knowledge.”

“A delicate game to play.” Wardin rubbed his chin. “But I suppose it might be possible. There’s no love between the redwings and the blackwings, as I understand it.”

“It seems not. And according to Mithrin’s book, a red dragon’s fire is the only kind that can kill a blackwing.” Griffin set down his mug and leaned forward. “It’s obvious why he’s afraid of Adalant’s brother. But I think he’s also afraid of us getting and using this thing. I think perhaps it’s something that can kill a dragon.”

Arun raised a brow. “You think Mithrin kept a deity mummified somewhere in his chamber?”

“No,” said Griffin. “And I don’t think he could have kept dragon fire in a jar, either. Which leaves the harp of stone.”

“But according to you and Deryn, Mithrin wrote that the harp was likely a myth,” Arun pointed out. “Surely if he had it hidden somewhere in his laboratory, he’d have believed in its existence.”

“Perhaps he possessed some clue to its whereabouts, without even realizing what it was.” Griffin tapped the tabletop. “I know it sounds like a stretch, but the harp is perhaps the only thing that fits. No color dragon is all powerful, and none are wholly invulnerable, either. Both dragons have something to fear. Both want this thing, but neither is certain where it is, or whether it might even have been found already. And neither wants to show himself until he can be sure he can keep it from everyone else. Because it’s dangerous. That’s why the redwing used Duncan, instead of just tearing down the mountain and storming the chamber to look for it.”

“Griffin.” The archmagister’s voice held a warning, as it so often did when Griffin accused Duncan of any wrongdoing.

But this time Griffin was having none of it. “How much more proof do you need?” He gestured at the inkwell. “I’ve just told you that I didn’t take anything from the chamber, and neither did Deryn. I would have seen it if she did. We have no evidence of anyone else skulking around the cavern after dark, when they had no business being there. That only leaves Duncan.”

“Griffin,” the archmagister said again. “It’s time to put the bad blood between you two aside. It’s gone too far, and I don’t mind telling you it makes you sound like children. Duncan was down in the cavern that night studying the runes. He never went into the corridor, and he never found the laboratory. The other things you’ve mistaken for signs of his being cursed were exactly what he said they were: imbalance, and a bad cold.”

“That doesn’t explain the fire in his eyes, or the burns on his neck.” Griffin huffed impatiently, and collected himself with an effort. “But there’s no reason to argue about it, is there? Can’t you just question him, the same way you questioned me?”

“We already have,” Erietta said gently. “We called him here this morning, ahead of you.”

Griffin gaped, first at her, then at Arun. They couldn’t possibly mean to say that …

But they did mean to, and they did say it.

“He’s no more guilty than you are.” Arun nodded down at the inkwell. “Duncan passed the test.”

12

Parkin and his friends had been forced to give up on fire when the archmagister declined to enchant a cloak for their personal use, but what they lacked in elaborate magical effects, they more than made up for in commitment.

While Magister Dora and her flute accompanied them with a mournful tune, Parkin and Morgan, the former atop the latter’s shoulders, capered around in their grotesque Mithrin costume. A robe fashioned from blankets covered them both. Long, red-tipped fangs hung down from Parkin’s hideous mask, past its pointed chin. The entire affair was topped with what was certainly the largest and ugliest wig Griffin had ever seen, a wild mass of wiry strands in an unfortunate shade of brown that unavoidably brought vomit to mind.

The mostly standing crowd in the keep—the tables had been pushed against the walls or removed—cheered as a black dragon, made of cloth and thick, waxed paper, swooped over their heads. Two more young sages followed quietly behind it, levitating it.

Someone touched Griffin’s elbow, and he glanced down to find Deryn, with half a winterberry cake in her hand and the other half apparently in her mouth. Like most of the women present, she’d abandoned her usual tunic and trousers for a high-necked gown, red with intricately embroidered green leaves. She didn’t let the small matter of chewing keep her from talking. “The students know that Mithrin was experimenting on dragons?”

She nodded at Parkin and Morgan’s Mithrin, now engaged in a ferocious (but not too ferocious, lest they rip it) battle with the dragon. “I know gossip travels fast, but I wouldn’t have expected them to have time to write that in.”

Griffin and Deryn had barely spoken since their argument over Nott, but Griffin saw no point in continuing to hold a grudge. Particularly when his troubles outnumbered his friends. He pulled off a large piece of her remaining cake.

“That was the best part.” Her mournful brown eyes followed the bite as it disappeared into his mouth. “I always save the jammiest bit for last. There’s more than enough over there for you to get your own, you know.”

“Yes, but yours is right here.” Griffin licked winterberry jam from his fingers. “I’m sure they didn’t need to know the details. Mithrin’s laboratory was strides away from where the dragon slept. And dragons are all anyone’s thinking about, these days. Of course they wanted to use one.”

The flute music reached a crescendo. Moments later, the battle came to a dramatic—and unfortunately for the dragon, graphically decisive—conclusion that left the floor littered with bits of paper and wool. The victorious Mithrin danced so wildly, Griffin was certain Parkin would fall from his friend’s shoulders and crack his skull.

Of course they’d made the human magician the hero of their tale. But as he watched Morgan stomp on the remains of his vanquished foe, Griffin couldn’t help but think of the true Mithrin, and of the weariness in Fendrath’s voice.

He was torturing dragons.

Whatever Fendrath’s crimes back then, Griffin could not imagine they justified being tormented and preserved as, in the queen’s words, nothing but a barrel of blood.

Deryn jerked her head at Griffin and stepped away. He was slow to follow, seeing that she was heading directly for the pastry table, and assuming she only wanted more cakes. But once she’d gathered up several in a napkin, she pulled him into a corner, behind a far less popular table where little remained but a few liver-and-onion pies.

“I’ve just come from the archmagister’s chambers,” she said. “Ash is still there. He preferred bits of dried venison from the king’s pocket to coming here with me, even on a feast day. I suppose I can see why. The venison is a certainty, isn’t it? Whereas I might not have any meat to offer him, and there’s no guarantee that a cold walk to the keep would be sufficiently rewarded with cake, either. It wouldn’t be unlike me to eat into his share. In any case, I suppose he and the rest of them will be along soon. ”

She glanced back over her shoulder, where another group of students had begun performing a song about Eyrdri, Hart, and Tairn, the sibling deities of Cairdarin. All eyes seemed to be on them, and nobody was looking in the direction of the liver pies. “I think I was last in line for the inkwell. For the moment, at least.”

Griffin didn’t bother to ask whether she’d passed their tests. “Did they tell you about Duncan? That they’re satisfied of his innocence?”

“They did. You don’t suppose we’ve been wrong about him all this time? That someone else got into that chamber, who we don’t know about? I can’t imagine who. But then I suppose it could have been anyone, between the tremor and when we closed the door. I think Arun is considering questioning everyone at this point.”

“We’re not wrong. Duncan and Nettie both said they dream of fire, and then there’s the matter of the fire in Duncan’s eyes. And remember those marks on his neck? The curse makes them burn themselves.” Griffin quickly summarized his latest conversation with Fendrath.

“I’ll set aside my disappointment that you didn’t tell me you’d met him again.” Deryn winced as the girl singing Eyrdri’s part missed a high note. “But only because I suppose a curse haunting the magistery is a greater problem. All right, so Duncan is under the spell. That tells us he’s come in contact with the book, but not necessarily that he was the one to take it out of the chamber.”

“Of course he was. Duncan is … the way he’s been acting … and the way Fendrath talks about … and the blood.” Griffin huffed, unable to provide much in the way of factual arguments, but certain all the same. “We’re not wrong.”

“No,” Deryn agreed with a sigh. “I don’t think so, either. But how could the inkwell be wrong?”

“I’ll wager I know the answer to that. Did Calys tell you what she found out, about dragon blood?”

“What about it?”

“Apparently, drinking it can give a person some sort of impossible magical power. Of course she immediately thought of me. Couldn’t wait to come accusing me.” Griffin watched a splotch of crimson jam move slowly down Deryn’s chin, an unpleasant sight while his thoughts dwelled on dragon blood. “Perhaps with that kind of power, you could resist an enchantment like the inkwell’s.”

“Perhaps. It would be unheard of, but …” Deryn paused and, thankfully, wiped the jam away. “But if Duncan can overcome the inkwell’s magic, why not the book’s? He’s as—”

Whatever she intended to say was drowned out by a howl of wind and a chilling shriek, as the doors were flung open by what appeared to be a flying ghost. It streaked across the threshold and into the crowd.

At first, Griffin assumed it was a performance of some sort. It took him a moment to identify the slight, pale form as Nettie’s. That was one moment too long.

He sprang after her, pushing his way through the crowd without regard for who he shoved, or how hard. It was far too clear in which direction the girl was heading.

Two others near the great fireplace realized what was happening, and reached for her. Their hands came back empty. Griffin was a bit luckier. He managed to get a hold of her sleeve.

It tore away as the keep fell into stunned silence, and Nettie threw herself into the fire.

* * *

“She’ll live.”

The archmagister, flanked by the king and queen, looked somberly around the keep. Holly, Ash, and a few other blackhounds lay at his feet, nosing through the debris left behind by a half dozen student performances, including bits of Parkin’s dragon.

Griffin followed the archmagister’s gaze, taking in the stricken faces of the other magisters. Nearly, but not quite, all of them. Calys and Timult were missing; headmagister business, he supposed. And nobody seemed to have seen Duncan since he’d been with the archmagister that morning.

Well, he couldn’t hide forever.

Griffin clenched a fist at his side, pulse pounding in his ears as he thought of Nettie’s wild face, her anguished screams. All because Duncan had been so starved for power that he’d made a bargain with a dragon, and unleashed a curse.

He would pay for every one of those screams. Griffin would eagerly exact the price himself.

The air was thick with the smell of the feast that nobody had yet thought to clear away. It turned Griffin’s stomach. But he supposed it was better than the smell of burning nightrobe. Or hair. Or flesh.

“She owes her life to those who pulled her out so quickly.” Arun nodded at Griffin, Nott, and Wade in turn. “We can heal the burns, but not the eye she lost, and of course she’ll bear her scars for as long as she lives. The more serious concern is that we don’t know how long that will be.”

He paused and ran his hand down his face. Griffin couldn’t ever remember seeing him so shaken. “I’m afraid the girl is completely mad now. There is no calming her, no reasoning with her, and she seems to have an unnatural strength. She continues to insist she must burn, while today’s burns did nothing to relieve her symptoms. I believe she would reduce the whole magistery to ashes, if she knew how.”

“But this is a magical malady,” said Magister Sam. He looked from Arun to Lawfric, who presided over the healers. “Surely we will cure it.”

Lawfric gave him a grave nod. “We will certainly make every effort to. Nettie’s brother Simon is also ill, but for the moment at least, not as far gone as she is. Being older, I suppose he’s also stronger. He’s under watch, of course. I know of no one else afflicted, although it’s possible there are any number in the early stages, that we’re not aware of.”

“We know how to lift the spell, if we can find the book that did it,” Arun said. “That is obviously our first priority. Contrivers and sages who haven’t already volunteered to join the search, I’ll be conscripting you into service now. Meanwhile, we’ve another round of letters to write, and every sage who can do the communication spell, even among the students, is to help spread the word of what’s happened.”

“Those parents who wish to fetch their children home will take time to get here, or to arrange a suitable escort,” said Erietta. Unlike her brother, she did not look at all unnerved. But there was a fierceness to her calm, and Griffin remembered that Pendralyn had been her domain before it was Arun’s. “The safety of the students remains our responsibility. I’m sure it need not be said that we must keep a close watch on them.”

“And each other,” Wardin added. “If someone seems ill, or if you see anyone with burns, you must bring it to our attention immediately.”

Heads were turning while he spoke, quite improperly, considering who he was. With a scowl, the king stretched his neck—he was at least a head taller than nearly everyone else in the room—to look past the crowd. Griffin turned to do the same.

It was Duncan. He made his way to the front of the keep, snow falling from his boots as he walked, and bowed to the king and queen before turning to Arun. “Apologies, Archmagister. I was—”

Whatever his excuse, it was promptly lost to Griffin’s wordless roar.

Oblivious to the sharp commands of the archmagister and even his king, Griffin tackled Duncan and began, with a savage feeling shamefully akin to joy, to pummel the smaller, softer man with all his might.

Had he been anything less than deranged with fury, he would have known from the start that he was making a grave error.

As it was, he came to the realization within seconds. Painfully.

It was a lesson he ought to have retained from his boyhood. It didn’t matter how fast or how strong Griffin got, or that by his third year he dwarfed his fellows to an almost absurd degree. He could never fight back against Duncan, because Duncan grew apace—as a magician.

And now Duncan had dragon blood to make him even more powerful. Or so Griffin assumed.

A suspicion supported by an agony beyond imagining. He was on top of Duncan, pulling back his arm to land another punch, when his insides began to crawl. Then sear.

Then Griffin was writhing on the stone floor, unable to see Duncan anymore. Or anything at all, for that matter. But he could hear the sage, even above his own cries, whispering in his ear.

“I know you don’t know much about magic, so allow me to enlighten you. A sage can set a fire. An exceptional sage can light nearly anything.” Duncan’s laugh filled Griffin’s head. He could feel it, almost. A burning pain. “A very exceptional sage can practically boil blood.”

The laugh got louder. And then abruptly, along with everything else, stopped.

* * *

Pendralyn had no place, not even a single room, that served specifically as a prison or dungeon. There was no need for it. Students were typically punished for transgressions with labor, and magisters, of course, were expected to hold to far too high a standard of behavior to require incarceration. But on those rare occasions when someone did need to be subdued or isolated, they generally made use of the kennels.

Which was where Griffin found himself when he woke, head throbbing. Whole body throbbing, now that he took stock. He lay on a pallet of straw, in one of the birthing stalls where he’d spent long hours as a youth, helping puppies come into the world. Holly, who’d been one such puppy, was watching over him.

Though he ached all over, there was none of the raging, burning pain he’d felt during his fight with Duncan. (Fight, he admitted to himself, was a generous word for it. He certainly hadn’t put up any such thing.) They must have healed him while he was unconscious.

Healed him from what? What had Duncan done to him?

He’d said something about being an exceptional sage. But surely that was battlemagic, inflicting such pain. Was the man a battlemage now, too? Or perhaps it was contrivance, a trick that only made Griffin think his blood was boiling. Perhaps he hadn’t needed healing, because the pain was only ever in his mind.

Get a grip on your thoughts, will you? Griffin scolded himself. What does it matter what kind of magic it was? All that matters is that the archmagister saw it. They all saw it.

They must have. They must have seen, even felt, that unnatural power. They must realize it was the lingering effect of the blood Duncan had used, in all likelihood, to overcome the inkwell. That he was serving the red dragon in exchange for that blood.

Griffin lifted an arm that felt like it was made of lead to give Holly a weak scratch behind her ears. “They do realize it, right?” His voice was raw. He thought his throat might be bleeding. “But then, why am I in here, when Duncan is the one who committed a crime?”

“Oh, come now,” a feminine voice said. “I wouldn’t exactly put you among the innocent. You did start it, after all.”

Griffin’s mouth fell open. Had Duncan’s magic driven him a bit mad?

Then he saw Erietta’s face above the stall’s shoulder-high door.

“Majesty!” He tried to rise, stumbled under a wave of vertigo, then fell back against the straw. “Apologies, Majesty. I didn’t see you.”

She gestured for him to stay where he was. “Did you imagine Holly was talking to you?”

“I did, actually, for a moment.”

“Well, you can hardly be blamed for being out of sorts. That was quite a beating you took.”

“Which brings me back to my question.” Griffin’s neck and face heated. “Er. Not that I imagine you’re required to answer my questions, of course, Majesty. Apologies.”

The queen smiled faintly. “Arun told me you’re disposed to formality. Said you’d probably trip over your own tongue, once you saw I was here.”

“Why are you here? If I may ask.”

“I volunteered to watch you. Everyone is so busy.”

“I would think the queen would be among the busiest.”

“I am. Do you mind if I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, Erietta stepped inside the stall and sat on a bale of straw in the corner, spreading her skirts about her, as gracefully as if it were a throne. Holly rose, turned around a few times, then threw herself down on the hem of the queen’s gown. “I’m busy talking to you. Deryn was here. Is she your sweetheart? She was quite passionate in her defense of you.”

Griffin blinked, touched and a bit surprised at the thought of Deryn defending him. “Actually, I think she’s Nott’s sweetheart. She certainly would be, if wishes could make it so.”

Erietta looked delighted. “Oh, how nice for Nott. He’s a friend of mine, you know. I brought him here as a boy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Deryn seems kind. A good match for him.”

“A perfect match, I’d say. And she is kind. A talented magician, as well.”

“She insisted you were only doing what was right, to get justice for Nettie. And that Duncan fooled the inkwell.”

Griffin swallowed. It was intimidating enough arguing with the archmagister. Now he had to argue with a monarch who looked just like the man. “Duncan did fool the inkwell. I know you’re going to say that’s impossible. But I’d wager my life on it.”

“And so you have, haven’t you? At least, in every way that matters. I don’t know you well, of course, but I get the sense that banishing you from Pendralyn would be as good as executing you.” Seemingly blind to how Griffin blanched at the implication, Erietta tilted her head to one side and went on. “You know they’ll say that if the inkwell can be fooled, you might have fooled it just as easily as Duncan.”

Griffin couldn’t help but laugh, though his belly still writhed at the thought of banishment. “Nobody who knows me will say any such thing. I can’t so much as light a candle with magic, let alone come up with the power to resist an enchantment. The archmagister doesn’t even have that kind of power.”

“No, he doesn’t,” the queen agreed. “And he is the most powerful magician I know.”

“Which is why I think it has to be dragon blood. I suppose you’re right, that some might suspect I was the one to drink it. Though if they saw me get trounced by Duncan, they’ll know better.” Griffin sat up and leaned against the wall, then waited, breathing deeply, for his dizziness to subside before going on. “Duncan must have met with the redwing again, and gotten some more. Perhaps for the interrogation.”

An unpleasant thought struck him. As if his mind needed any more of those. “Perhaps to get back into the chamber, as well, and get whatever the red queen wants. Perhaps that was where he was, before he came into the keep.”

“If he was, he won’t be delivering his prize to anyone,” Erietta said. “And you can be sure we’ll get to the truth of it.” She bit her lip, possibly to hide a smile. “I suppose my brother’s been saying that to you for weeks, hasn’t he?”

Griffin’s own lips twitched. “He has.”

“Well, you have my word, this time.”

“Thank you, Majesty.”

Erietta was quiet for several moments. Her hand drifted to her face, and she ran her fingers slowly down her scar. It seemed like an unconscious gesture. Finally she said, “Do you know what happened to me, during the war?”

Griffin felt another blush spread over his cheeks. He’d only been a boy, of course. But he’d heard rumors. He didn’t want to say them aloud, to her. “I …”

He coughed. She was still looking at him. Apparently there would be nothing for it but to speak. “They say Graddoc corrupted you. The same way he corrupted the dragons. That you were forced to serve him, for a time.”

The queen’s eyes dropped to the blackhound at her feet, and she bent to stroke Holly’s massive head. “They say the truth,” she said softly. “Arun hates Fendrath for taking his arm. He finds it convenient to forget that I was on Fendrath’s back at the time.”

Griffin gaped at her. “You rode Fendrath?”

“I did.” Erietta chuckled, although there was no joy in it. “And don’t think he’ll ever forget it. It’s unforgivable to them, you know, to be forced to bear humans like simple beasts.”

“Does he hate you for it?”

“Me? Of course not, why should he? It was no more my idea than his. No, he killed the object of that particular resentment twelve years ago.” Erietta shook her head and sighed. “But that’s the point. We were united. First against our will in service of Graddoc, and then against Graddoc himself. Wardin freed us together. We were …” She waved one hand in a helpless gesture. “Bonded.”

Griffin began to see where this was going. “You don’t believe he would hurt you. Or your kingdom. The archmagister mentioned that you trust him.”

Erietta met his eye and nodded. “I do. And because you seem to be the only person he trusts at the moment, I trust you, too.” She cleared her throat. “Griffin, I remember Sera. And Danen, though not as well.”

Griffin froze at the mention of his parents. He didn’t know what to say. He swallowed and looked away.

“Your mother was a contriver, as am I,” Erietta went on. “We worked together on occasion. I want to reassure you that I had no part in her death. In either of your parents’ deaths.”

“Yes. I know.” A rapid procession of images of his parents, a reflexive ritual of comfort, passed through Griffin’s mind. “Graddoc killed them himself. I was told, afterward.”

“Anyway, I just wanted you to know. Because I thought we might be allies, in a way.”

Nettie burning, right in his arms. Duncan gone drunk on dragon blood and power. Deryn defending him. His parents. Now the queen—the actual Queen of Eyrdon—wanted to be his ally. Griffin was nearly breathless from the storm of emotions battering him. Not to mention the more literal battering. His voice sounded weak as he asked, “How so, Majesty?”

“You and I appear to be the only two people in the kingdom who believe that Fendrath’s warning was just that: a warning. Not a direct threat. He’s not the one who wants to reduce Pendralyn to ashes.” Erietta shrugged. “Which means perhaps we can convince him to help us against the one who does. He—”

She stopped and looked sharply down. “What’s wrong with Holly?”

“What? I don’t …” But the queen was right. Though silent, Holly was trembling.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Erietta knelt to cradle the hound’s face in her hands. Holly started panting. Hard.

A thunderous crash shook the kennel.

Erietta and Griffin were on their feet in an instant (though Griffin teetered a bit), rushing out of the stall and into the narrow corridor beyond. Holly did not follow. In the relative quiet after that first crash, Griffin heard her whine, low and long.

Then the noise started up again, joined by shouts now. (Or were those screams?) As he sped across the building, all Griffin could imagine was another tremor. How many more caverns and secret laboratories could there possibly be to uncover?

But it wasn’t a tremor. At least not exactly.

A large hole had been knocked in the wall of a storage room, spewing stones and wooden planks everywhere. Snow blew inside, already beginning to coat the debris on the floor.

Thankfully, Griffin saw no blood, no sign of a wounded person or dog. He followed the queen to the ragged gap, doing his best to shelter her from any bricks that might fall. She cleared the rubble and got outside first, then cried out, hand to her mouth as she stared at something above.

Hyde, the kennel master, stood shaking on the lawn. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes wild. “Duncan! He took him! He just … took him!”

Griffin came up beside Erietta, too stunned to pay Hyde much mind.

Evening was coming on, but it wasn’t dark yet. He could still see, very clearly, a black dragon in the sky. Carrying away a man.

13

Humans and hounds alike searched the kennels, the grounds, the skies. But there was no tracking a dragon through the air. Nor could any of the sages reach Duncan by communication spell. By midnight, they were no more sure of exactly what had happened than they’d been at dusk.

Had they witnessed an abduction? Or a rescue?

Duncan had been in the storage room, much as Griffin had been in the stall, each awaiting what would no doubt be an unpleasant conversation with the archmagister. According to Hyde, who was watching over Duncan at the time, there was no warning, no signal of any kind. The dragon simply came through the wall, snatched up his prize without a word, and flew off again.

Hyde was certain he’d heard Duncan scream, but as that was to be expected, it told them very little. Even if Fendrath was careful, a dragon’s talons could not be a comfortable means of travel.

Griffin was as mystified as anyone. Fendrath had said more than once that he wished he could speak with Duncan. But badly enough to come out into the open, something he’d been scrupulously avoiding all this time, and actually break a building? That seemed like an act of desperation, and Fendrath had no reason to be desperate. He wasn’t the one who was cursed.

Unless something had happened. Like perhaps that Duncan had found whatever object the dragons so fervently coveted.

As Arun saw it, the most likely reason to take Duncan before he could be questioned about the day’s events was that he knew something Fendrath didn’t want the rest of them to find out. After Duncan’s display of power earlier, Arun was willing to entertain the idea that the sage had betrayed the magistery after all, and that Fendrath had come to save his servant from not only interrogation, but possible punishment.

Either way, the archmagister was convinced that Fendrath’s motives were nothing but sinister, that the dragon had been lying at every turn, that there was no redwing, and that there might not even be a book.

“Then why?” Arun asked—again—as he stomped around his chambers, his face red and his hair ragged from running his hand through it. Not to mention yanking at it. “If you’re so certain your friend Fendrath has been telling the truth about everything, then why did he take Duncan?”

As Griffin had no answer, he gave none. Erietta went only slightly further, offering her brother a mild shrug. They’d been standing by the fire, enduring the archmagister’s bewildered wrath, for the past half hour. The king looked on from an armchair, Holly stretched across his feet, but Wardin didn’t seem much more comfortable than either his wife or her brother. The three of them had seen dragons over Pendralyn once before, and Griffin had the sense they were all remembering that occasion with some unease.

“You can’t have it both ways,” Arun went on. “If you were right about Duncan, you were wrong about Fendrath. If the man was serving a dragon, I think it’s safe to assume it was the same dragon who just rescued him.”

Griffin cleared his throat. “Respectfully, sir, that doesn’t make sense. I believe that if Duncan had needed rescuing, he could have seen to that himself.”

Erietta snorted. “I’ll say it without either the respect or the sir. We all saw what Duncan did today. We can debate the source of his power, but surely we can all agree that he had the wherewithal to overcome poor Hyde.”

“I’ll tell you what some will say.” Arun rounded on Griffin and jabbed a finger at him. “The dragon you’re rumored to be conspiring with swoops in and takes your sworn enemy away? Not two hours after you had, and lost, a violent altercation with the man?”

Griffin groaned inwardly. He’d been too dazed (from the violent altercation as much as the events that followed it) to think much about the personal implications of Duncan’s bizarre abduction. Of course they would blame him. Calys would no doubt lead the cry for blood.

“Arun.” Wardin rose, earning a doleful look from Holly for disturbing her. “We’re all tired, and your agitation is understandable. I happen to agree with you that destroying the kennels and flying off with somebody—particularly when considered alongside all this talk of rubble—is sufficient evidence that Fendrath is up to no good. And that my wife and your magister are almost certainly raving mad to even consider defending the beast.”

“War.” Erietta put her hands on her hips.

The king ignored her. “But I think we have plenty to look ahead at, without arguing over what’s behind. Yes, it would be helpful to know what Fendrath is doing. But I doubt we’re going to figure it out by scolding one another.”

“Plenty to look ahead at, indeed.” Arun flopped into the chair his friend had just vacated. “We’ve found five more bespelled students already.”

Griffin’s stomach rolled. “Who?”

The archmagister listed the names of three first-year students, and two third years. Four of them Griffin knew well. His fists clenched of their own accord, and his leg twitched, looking for something to kick. When nothing immediately presented itself, he settled for saying a few words he had no business saying in front of monarchs.

Apparently feeling much the same, Wardin thrust his hands—also fisted—into his pockets and stalked to the window, muttering under his breath.

“And you can be sure that won’t be the end of it,” Arun went on. “The healers have been doing discreet searches for burns since this afternoon. And I’ve been thinking about those flames you saw in Duncan’s eyes, Griffin. I’m assuming we’d be hearing about it, if that were running rampant. It was only for a moment?”

Griffin nodded, and refrained from voicing his wish that Arun had taken this a bit more seriously the first time they discussed it. “We were interrupted, and by the time I looked back at him, it was gone.”

“That was the same night you suspect Duncan of taking the book?” Erietta asked.

“It was.”

“If it flickers so quickly, just as or after they’re afflicted, I doubt we’ll get many more reports of it,” Arun said. “But it’s worth watching out for, just the same. As of now, we don’t know when anyone was struck, or in what order, because it doesn’t seem to affect everyone at the same rate. If it really is a book that’s spreading this, we’re fairly certain Simon would have had it before Nettie. But she’s worse off than any of them.”

Erietta pressed her lips together. “Even if it’s not a book—and I believe it is—it has to be something. As opposed to someone, I mean. You must agree that a magician casting and maintaining a spell like this on so many people, over so long a time, while surrounded by other magicians who don’t notice, is even more unlikely than an object cursed by a dragon.”

“I do,” Arun said. “Though the fact that we’re debating the likelihood of either is a good indication of how far beyond us this whole thing has gotten.”

“Investigating the classes these students were in together, their classmates, their magisters, none of that has helped trace this thing’s path?” Erietta asked.

Arun raised a brow at her. “Not so far, but in our defense, we’ve only known about the most recent five for a few hours. And perhaps you’ve noticed things have been a bit hectic.”

Though she said no more, Erietta’s face suggested she didn’t think her brother had been using that time especially well. Griffin couldn’t help but agree. It was odd, certainly, that Fendrath had taken Duncan. Of course they must find out why. But that was nothing next to the wellbeing of children.

Heaving a weary sigh, the king pressed his forehead and nose against the frost-crusted window. “No magisters yet?”

“None that we’ve found,” Arun said. “But I wouldn’t assume that means there aren’t any. They’re likely more cunning than the students, is all. Part of this curse seems to be a compulsion to protect and propagate it. None of the afflicted will admit to seeing, touching, or passing along any strange object.”

Griffin frowned. “Are you sure they even remember?”

The archmagister shrugged. “Perhaps they don’t. They all know they’re ill, they all speak of dreams, and they all insist they must burn. But they don’t seem to realize how mad any of that is. We’re using the inkwell on the ones who aren’t too ill to write.”

“Etta!” Wardin backed away from the window.

Arun laughed, blinking at the king. “What, you’re upset that I borrowed it without asking?”

Wardin paid him no mind. Without elaborating on that single word, he crossed the room in a flurry of long strides, flung open the door, and ran out.

After a quick, confused exchange of glances, the rest of them followed, their footsteps beating like hail down the corridor, then the stairs. On the first floor, Wardin nearly collided with a stocky, grizzled man wearing the silver cloak of an Eyrdish soldier.

“Majesty!” Breathing hard, the soldier glanced past the king and hastily corrected himself. “Majesties.”

“Quinn,” Wardin barked. “What’s wrong?”

Quinn. The one who’d lectured Corin so effectively? That would make him the captain of the king’s guard—and the man responsible for protecting the royal children. Griffin heard Erietta breathe a curse. Or perhaps it was a prayer.

With a scarred face and a nose that had obviously been broken more than once, Quinn had a distinctly seasoned look about him. He didn’t seem like a man who would quail easily. Yet he was wringing his hands. His mouth opened and closed without words, once, twice.

Erietta’s lips went white. “What happened?”

“I took all of the children straight to the sage hall, before coming to you,” Quinn said. “I thought it safest for them all to be examined by wiser eyes than mine. I didn’t know what else to do.” He gulped. “There were burns. Like you told us to be watchful for.”

Burns. Griffin’s heart slammed into his ribs. He had been afraid for Eleri since the night he found Nettie in the snow, gathering wood. With the girls so close, and their shared interest in expanding their knowledge of sagacity, it seemed inevitable that Eleri would have come in contact with the book.

But she’d been examined. More than once, he thought. They’d all commented on how lucky she’d been.

Arun stepped forward, as pale as his sister, shaking his head. “Eleri was fine. We … she was fine.”

Quinn swallowed twice more, his anxious eyes moving from the archmagister, to the queen, and finally to the king. “It’s not Eleri. It’s Corin.”

* * *

In the three days after Nettie threw herself into the Midwinter fire, they found three magisters and eleven students, including the heir to the throne, stricken with the curse. But they did not find the book that struck them.

How best to treat the victims was a knotty problem. Burning a person was generally considered a poor path to healing. Yet it was the only thing that could stave off the madness, even for a little while. Worse, in order to provide relief, it seemed the burns must be self-inflicted—and each worse than the last. Poor Simon had scars over nearly half his body.

His sister, disfigured, delirious, and utterly lost, had to be kept tied to a bed. Preferably asleep, since the restraints didn’t keep her from casting spells. But the prolonged employment of magically induced sleep held its own dangers, which had to be balanced against the weight of the curse.

As for Corin, the effects were still relatively mild—for the moment. Of primary concern was the boy’s mischievousness, manifesting now in a talent for escaping his minders and sneaking off to light a fire.

To further complicate matters, their only hope of a permanent solution was finding the book, and to do that they needed the ill ones to be lucid. Or at least capable of understanding questions and writing answers.

All they could do was keep the cursed as comfortable as possible, prevent them from harming themselves, and question them when they could. When all else failed, and one of them seemed to be teetering on a brink from which he or she might not return, a healer would allow supervised access to a fire, then heal the wounds shortly thereafter.

Thanks to the inkwell and the few hours of sanity following a burn, they confirmed that it was indeed a book they sought, and began tracing its path through the magistery. From the common room in the sage hall where Simon had found it, to Nettie, to more first years, to a magister. Then on to a few third years, to another magister, and another. On and on.

But there were great gaps in their knowledge. They didn’t know in whose hand the book had begun. Far more importantly, they didn’t know in whose it had been last. It was a frustratingly slow process.

Or so Griffin understood, from the overburdened archmagister, and the weary sages and contrivers conducting the search for the book.

Not that he wasn’t busy himself. Between guarding the safety of the students, writing letters, and responding to anxious parents, all of the battlemagic magisters and nonmagical staff had more than enough to contend with. Each morning and evening, at the least, Griffin also visited the infirmary that now spanned two classrooms in the sage hall, and helped however he could. He might not have magic, but he had strong hands for lifting. Or holding down.

It’s not enough, he thought as he walked back to the battlemage hall one clear night. Not nearly.

From the day of the tremor, the day of Fendrath’s first warning, he’d sworn to himself that he would defend Pendralyn.

He was doing an awful job of it.

“If only Duncan had left behind a bit of dragon blood,” he muttered to himself. “Perhaps I might make some use of myself then.”

He stopped outside the hall doors, and for several moments stood in the snow, and stared up at the stars. Then across the grounds at the keep, the stream, the manor. The mountains behind them.

Then he turned around, and walked back to the sage hall.

He’d never been in Deryn’s chamber before. He was beginning to question whether he’d even remembered the right door when she finally answered it, bleary eyed and slouching, wrapped in a long woolen nightrobe. She murmured a brief (especially for her) greeting before stepping aside to let him in.

Though similar in size and furnishings to Griffin’s, Deryn’s room was far more cluttered. Her desk was crowded with books, as was the floor around it. There were paintings and charcoal sketches everywhere: on top of the books and bedside table, hung like tapestries on the walls, clipped to a line of rope strung high across the room. Hounds, hawks, squirrels, deer. On paper, on canvas, on strips of wool.

Then there were the real animals. Griffin was not surprised to find Ash sprawled across the bed. The three enormous rats curled up with him, one with its head resting right on the hound’s sagging (and profusely drooling) jowl, were a bit more of a shock.

“Don’t be offended if they don’t get up to meet you,” Deryn said, following his gaze. “They’re exhausted, of course. They’ve been helping me—us—look for the book. The rats are wonderful at getting into small places. They can even spy on people, if the contrivers want them to. Lawfric was horrified when he saw that I’m letting them sleep in my bed, but I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I tossed them out into the cold after all their work, would I? The search tires them out. Tires us all out, if I’m honest.”

Griffin cocked his head at her, noting the creases around her mouth, the uncharacteristic dullness of her eyes. Her wispy hair, the color of strong tea, looked like it hadn’t been combed in quite a while, much less washed. “Yes, you look tired, meaning no offense. I take it the search isn’t going well?”

“Not well enough, obviously.”

“No.” He moved closer to the rope line, then walked slowly along it, examining the pictures. “You did all these, I assume? They’re very good.”

“Drawing soothes me. And sometimes it’s easier to connect with them, if I can see their faces.”

“Is that why you did this one?” Griffin stopped in front of a black dragon, impressively lifelike for something rendered in charcoal. Though its eye lacked Fendrath’s perpetually disappointed expression. “Because you’re still hoping to connect with him?”

Deryn came to stand behind him. “I suppose I did it because I’ve been thinking about him. Haven’t we all?”

They had, indeed. There’d been no sign of him, or of Duncan, since the night at the kennels. Though it wasn’t for lack of looking. Trackers and blackhounds had been searching as often as they could be spared, especially for Duncan. Whatever the circumstances of his mysterious departure, and whether he was in need of rescue or not (Griffin remained firmly on the side of not), the sage almost certainly knew something of value.

Griffin had spent a bitterly windy afternoon—precious time, with so much to be done—wandering alone through the hills, hoping that Fendrath would show himself once again. But the effort brought him only frustration and a sore throat.

With a nod, he turned to face Deryn. “Listen, speaking of the search not going well …” Seeing her stiffen, Griffin tugged at his ear, not quite sure how to approach the subject without being rude. Perhaps because it was rude. “Well, there are a great many books in this magistery, but there are a fair number of you, too. And you’ve been working constantly for days. You must have examined most of them by now. And you still haven’t found it.”

“We will.”

“What if you don’t?”

“We will. We have to.”

“But what if you can’t?” Griffin stepped over to the stove, more to avoid her glare than to warm himself. “Remember that lump on the wall in the cavern? You said part of the enchantment might be that it didn’t feel enchanted. That perhaps that was why the contrivers hadn’t found it. What if the book is the same way? What if it can cloak its magic somehow? You might never find it. You might have found it already, and not known it.”

“We would still know it, because whoever examined it would have been cursed. At least, I assume it works fairly quickly.”

“What if one of you is cursed, and hiding it? It isn’t always obvious, at least not right away. Perhaps one of you had fire in his eyes for an instant, and his partners didn’t see.”

“What do you want me to say?” Deryn tossed her hands. “I don’t know what we can do, beyond our best, which I might add is a great deal. And it’s—” She cut herself off, her eyes dropping to the floor.

Griffin finished the thought for her. “And it’s more than I’m doing. Though I can’t imagine why you’d suggest such a thing, when I’ve been making all sorts of crucial contributions. Carrying heavy things, and reaching high shelves, and whatnot.” He offered her a hopeful smile, which was not returned. “That was a joke, if you couldn’t tell. I happen to agree with you. I’m not doing anything. Which is why I’m here.”

“You’re here to insult me, and hear me insult you?” Deryn crossed her arms, then tightened them and ran her hands up to her shoulders. “Put another log in there, will you? I can’t spare the balance for magical fire. I won’t say releasing a bit of temper isn’t satisfying, at the moment, but how do you expect it to help?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Griffin added the requested wood to the stove and stoked the fire. “I know you aren’t the librarian anymore, but can you get me back into the hidden room?”

“What? What for?”

“Because what you’re doing isn’t working. But Mithrin avoided this curse once before somehow, without destroying the book. There’s another way.”

“And you’re hoping to find this other way? We barely found three paragraphs about Mithrin.”

“But we never got the chance to finish looking.” Griffin turned away from the stove and shrugged. “I know the odds are small, but don’t you think it’s worth trying? It’s not as though I’d be taking away from the regular search. The rest of you can carry on with that as you have. So what’s the harm?”

Deryn bit her lip. “I don’t know if I can. It’s just … they’re being very particular, right now. Enforcing restrictions, and making new ones. Limiting access to books. Certainly not allowing them to be shared, as I’m sure you can imagine. Or removed from where they belong. I know you’re a magister, but—”

“But there are still people who are suspicious of me.” There was no bitterness in the statement; this wasn’t news to Griffin. He’d seen the faces of some of his fellow magisters, read some of the parents’ messages. The inkwell’s evidence provided little comfort, whereas there was much to be found in indulging their need to blame someone.

“But I would have to get permission from Lawfric, was all I was going to say. I doubt Nott would be allowed to authorize a non-sage going in there. And Lawfric isn’t in the best of moods, if I’m honest.”

“You’ll ask, at least?”

“I’ll ask,” Deryn agreed. “Tomorrow. It would do no good tonight, I can promise you that. It’s been a long day for everyone. Tempers were running high earlier. Lawfric and Timult had a bit of an argument over which of their affinities is failing us the most, and I’m sorry to say it got loud.”

Griffin paced the short length of her chamber. It was perfectly reasonable to wait until tomorrow. It was getting late already. And the whole thing would probably prove futile anyway. A few hours couldn’t matter.

But the urge to do something now felt impossible to defy. Agitated, his eyes roved the room. He looked again at her drawing of the blackwing, those distinctive curled horns she’d reproduced so perfectly, despite not having seen them since she was a child.

Fendrath, whom she’d drawn because he’d been on her mind. As he’d been on all their minds. Fendrath and Duncan. The redwing queen, and the brother she’d sent to reduce Pendralyn to ashes.

Black and red. Yet it was the green who’d made the curse the magistery now suffered under.

Why was nobody thinking about that dragon?

Well, perhaps it wasn’t too late to start. Griffin was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep; he might as well put his restlessness to some use.

He turned to Deryn. “What about the Dordrine text, then? The one Calys was using?”

Deryn looked thoroughly confused. “What about it?”

“Can I look at that? It’s not exactly a book, is it? I had the impression it was more of a sheaf of papers. So perhaps the same rules don’t apply.”

“No, I don’t suppose I would call it a book, but what does it matter? How could it possibly help?”

“It tells us something about dragon magic.”

The furrows in Deryn’s forehead deepened another degree. “What?”

“Dragon magic. Fendrath told me it was a greenwing who made the book. Perhaps if we could get a better idea of how that magic works, we could figure out how Mithrin got around it.”

“What is a poem about a pair of lovers separated by war going to tell us about dragon magic? I believe a dragon was mentioned, at one point.” Deryn nibbled at the edge of her thumbnail. “No, now that I think of it, that might have just been a comparison to the heroine’s father. The writing is very dramatic.”

Griffin returned her frown. “Wait. You’ve read it?”

“Yes. Not the one written in runes, of course, but one of the translations. When it first arrived. Nott and I both did, and the other headmagisters. The archmagister’s probably seen it too, at some point.”

“Then how is it that Calys is the only one who knew about the dragon blood?”

“I assume she came across it in her translation of the runes on the walls. Perhaps the dragons’ blood was used in the spell that trapped them in sleep.”

“No.” Griffin spoke slowly, recalling his conversation with Calys. “She specifically said she’d read it in that text. I’m sure I didn’t misunderstand, we talked back and forth about it a bit. ”

Deryn gave him a blank look. “Well, she didn’t. It’s not in there. Why would she lie?”

Griffin’s breath seemed to freeze in his throat, burning as if he were outside in the cold again. “Perhaps because she read it in something else. Something that might well be an excellent source on dragon magic.” He stared at Deryn. “Something she didn’t want me to know she’d seen.”

For a moment there was no sound except the crackling of the stove and Ash’s heavy breathing. Then Deryn began to stammer. “You don’t think … she can’t have … but she hasn’t been ill. Has she? She hasn’t done anything strange, that I can think of.”

Griffin shook his head. He didn’t think so, either. But then, when was the last time he’d even seen Calys? He honestly couldn’t remember.

The queen had warned them to keep a watchful eye on one another, but most of that scrutiny was directed at the children, whose safety was quite rightly their first priority. It was difficult to monitor colleagues amid all the disruption and anxiety. Normal routines had been suspended; nobody was where they usually were. And everyone was so busy, and tense, and exhausted.

Really, who among them wasn’t acting a bit mad?

“Was she examined for burn marks?” he asked.

“I don’t know. The archmagister and the headmagisters, you know, they’re a bit above that, aren’t they? Perhaps she was, though.” Deryn ran a hand through her hair. “But her chamber was searched. That much I do know. If she ever came in contact with the book, she doesn’t have it now.”

Griffin scratched his chin. Were they certain of that? Most of the afflicted had passed the book on, put it in a classroom or a common room where someone else would find it. But it wasn’t in any of those places now; Eyrdri knew they’d looked. The archmagister had said the curse demanded both propagation and protection. What if a choice must be made between the two? Might someone hide the book instead, if they knew it was in danger?

“Where was she translating the runes?” he asked. “In her chamber, or is there a laboratory, or—”

Deryn’s eyes went wide. “The cavern. I don’t know that the search has covered that yet.”

Griffin needed to hear no more than that. He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

“What, you’re going down there now?” Deryn asked.

“Seems a good time. She’s not likely to be there to interfere at this hour, is she?”

“Wait for me to get dressed, then. I’m obviously coming with you, and they’ll think I’m cursed if I go cavorting around the grounds in this cold wearing nothing but a nightrobe.”

* * *

The cavern little resembled the dark place Griffin had once been disappointed to find so empty and uninteresting. Half a dozen scattered braziers, quickly lit by Deryn, illuminated a worktable covered in books, papers, charcoal rubbings of the walls, inkwells and pens, cups, and the stale edges of honey cakes. A set of shelves, filled with an array of books and instruments, had been pushed against a thick column of rock.

The clutter had grown in direct opposition to the number of regular visitors. Apart from the occasional magician still attempting to reopen the door to Mithrin’s corridor, Calys was left to work on her translations in silence and solitude—an amount of latitude Griffin wondered whether the archmagister might come to regret.

“I suppose we ought to start with the shelves,” Deryn said.

“You will do no such thing.”

Calys emerged from the shadows behind the column. Her hair was unbound and disheveled, her clothes rumpled and, though the light was forgiving, quite possibly dirty. Even her voice was odd. Raw. As if she had a sore throat.

Perhaps she’d burned it.

This was the woman who, not half an hour ago, they’d agreed (or at least thought) had been looking and behaving normally? This woman? Between her sinister entrance and gaunt, almost ragged appearance, she brought to mind nothing so much as a wraith.

“I know what you want,” Calys said dully. “You want to destroy it. You’ve been saying so. All of you. It’s all you ever talk about.” Her eyes flicked to the nearest brazier. “Well, I won’t allow it. A thing like that. Powerful. Ancient. Beautiful, really. It must be studied.”

Griffin eased himself sideways. Slowly. He hoped imperceptibly.

“Is that why you’ve been hiding it?” Deryn’s voice was even, her posture relaxed. But Griffin would have wagered she was preparing a spell as she spoke. “So you could study it all on your own? Like the runes?”

Griffin took another quiet step. Calys kept glancing at the braziers, plainly distracted by the fire as well as the conversation. And it would hardly be unusual for her to pay no attention to him. If he could sidle around her, perhaps he could catch her off guard.

“I’ve been hiding it to protect it, of course,” said Calys. “Just as I’m doing this to protect it.”

She’d been preparing a spell of her own. She unleashed it, not at Deryn, but at Griffin. His legs and arms locked. There was no struggle, no pain. He simply couldn’t move. It was as if his joints had fused together.

Outrage and panic boiled in his chest. There was nothing he could do. He’d been reduced to a spectator—or perhaps just a speck—in an instant.

She hadn’t even bothered to look at him when she did it. Not so much as a glance.

Deryn released her own spell. Confusion, Griffin thought. Calys stilled, brow furrowed, jaw slack. Then she sat down on the cavern floor.

But barely a moment passed before Deryn screamed, and Calys was on her feet again.

A magician didn’t need to move to do battle; a paralysis spell wouldn’t serve Calys against Deryn as it had against Griffin. But there were other kinds of physical magic that would interfere with casting.

Pain was an excellent way to break concentration.

While Griffin stood by like so much stone, powerless to do anything but grind his teeth and seethe, a long gash opened across Deryn’s brow. Blood poured into her eyes.

So it began, but Griffin doubted it would last long. A sage was rarely a match for a battlemage when it came to violence. Particularly not the best battlemage Pendralyn had. Deryn tried confusion again, then a gust of wind that was easily deflected by Calys’s shield spell. All the while, Calys inflicted small wounds, bent joints back, whatever she could to force Deryn to go on the defensive and heal herself.

At least, Griffin discovered, he still had his voice. “Fire!” he barked. “Light a fire!” Calys seemed barely able to resist the braziers. She might be overcome by a proper, large fire. It was a risky proposition; she would burn herself, and they might not be able to keep her in check. But perhaps that burn would make her sane enough to stop.

Pulling her arm back as if to fling a rock, Deryn thrust her hand forward. The worktable burst into popping, crackling flame. Griffin wondered whether the book was on it, then decided it didn’t matter. They needed the blasted thing in ashes anyway.

Moth-like, Calys darted to the fire. But she wouldn’t get the chance to jump into it. Deryn took advantage of her distracted opponent, and levitated a chunk of rock straight into the side of Calys’s head. Quickly, and hard.

Calys dropped.

Griffin was freed almost instantly. While Deryn put the fire out with a curtain of conjured water, he went to Calys, sinking to his knees and pushing her matted hair aside. There was no blood, and she was breathing as though she merely slept. But blows to the head could go bad quickly.

“Can you heal her?” he asked Deryn. “Wait, no.” He scratched the side of his own head. “Then we’d have to restrain her. I don’t think tying her up would do much good, do you? Perhaps if you contact some other sages to help, they can bring some sleeping powder?”

When Deryn answered none of these questions, he looked up to make sure she was all right. But she was no longer standing where she’d been a few moments before.

“Deryn?” Griffin blinked and glanced around.

She was sitting cross-legged on the ground near the shelves, breathing rapidly, mouth open.

Staring at a book in her hands.

14

Deryn didn’t move when Griffin said her name, once, twice, a third time. She didn’t move when he walked over and crouched beside her. Her hair spilled over her pale hands and the yellowed paper, hiding her face. She turned a page. She went on reading.

“Deryn,” he said again. When she didn’t answer, he reached out and touched her shoulder.

Her head jerked up. Griffin’s heart jumped into his throat.

Flames danced in her dark eyes.

The glimpse was brief, before she bent over the book again. It was unassuming, thin, its cover a blend of brown and a sickly green, perhaps damaged by mold. Finally she set it on the cavern’s stone floor, and plucked another from the shelf.

“That’s not it.” Her voice betrayed no distress. No madness, either. In fact, it sounded almost perky. As if he hadn’t found her so tired she could barely keep to her feet, no more than an hour ago. As if Deryn’s voice was ever perky, in any circumstance. “But it must be down here somewhere, don’t you think? I’ll go through all the books, while you carry Calys out of here.”

“You couldn’t get some help?” Griffin asked again. He craned his neck, trying to get another look at her eyes, but she turned her face away. “What about getting in touch with Ash, like you did when I was hurt down here?”

“Not this one, either.” Deryn tossed the second book aside and reached for another. “I’d rather not. My balance is strained, after that scuffle. I’ve been pushing it too hard lately, and too often.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing something a bit more strenuous then, to get it back?”

“Yes, I will.” She shot Griffin an irritated glance—from her usual brown eyes. But that didn’t mean anything. It had only lasted a moment with Duncan, too. “You needn’t worry that I can’t manage my balance, you know, I’m quite experienced. Anyway, I’m sure Calys won’t be such a burden for a man your size that you can’t manage to get up the ladder. Best to get her out of here and get her restrained. We don’t want to have to knock her out again, do we?”

“No,” Griffin agreed. He didn’t want to have to knock anyone out.

But he was terribly afraid that was just what this was coming to. While Deryn continued picking up and discarding books, a clammy, prickling feeling spread over Griffin’s neck, running downward, raising gooseflesh on his arms.

She was lying, that was certain. Lying, and using barely credible excuses to manipulate him into leaving her alone.

So she could do what? Hide the book? Read it again? Run off with it?

Or was she already thinking of starting a fire?

Also certain: he was no match for Deryn in a fight. For any magician. It was a lesson he’d just had all too painfully reinforced by Calys. True, the curse had already been working on Calys for days, at the least. Deryn couldn’t have gone mad yet.

Could she?

Griffin stood and glanced down at the book he felt sure was the cursed one. It wasn’t quite stacked with the others Deryn had set aside, but partly hidden behind them. Like she was building a little wall around it.

How fast could the blasted thing work?

There was no way of knowing, and the risk was too great. He couldn’t be fool enough to put himself into the exact same situation again, not ten minutes later.

He didn’t let his gaze linger. The moment had stretched out too long already, and Deryn’s eyes had begun to narrow as she watched him.

Griffin turned toward Calys, so Deryn wouldn’t be able to see his face. “You’re right. I’ll bring her up to the infirmary. And send some more people down to help you look.”

Deryn took another book from the shelf. “I’m not sure you need to bother. There aren’t very many places it could be. I’ll probably have found it by the time anyone gets here.”

While her attention was elsewhere, Griffin stole another glance at the book. He didn’t want her to catch him, didn’t want her to know that he knew. But he couldn’t keep himself from looking.

There it was. The thing that had been plaguing him—all of them—for weeks. It was within his grasp at last. He could save his magistery.

He cleared his throat. “I thought you were supposed to work in teams.”

“Pairs, at least,” Deryn agreed, without looking up. “But really, I’m already here. It seems foolish to just sit and wait for reinforcements.”

“All right. I’m sure you can handle it.” As Griffin bent to pick up Calys, his boot bumped into something, sending it skittering away. It was the rock Deryn had used to knock Calys out. He swallowed as he followed its progress across the floor.

He wouldn’t need a rock.

“Still.” Griffin gently slung Calys over his shoulder. “Best to send at least one or two people down.”

Deryn shrugged. “If you like. It can’t hurt.”

But this will. I’m sorry. Griffin swallowed again. His mouth was dry and bitter, and he wished he were anywhere else than where he was at that moment. I’m sorry.

And then, another voice in his head, sterner. Are you seriously considering doing this? Assaulting someone so much smaller than you? A woman? A friend?

A magician, he corrected. I can’t fight her.

He didn’t have to fight her, though, surely. He could go get help, just as he’d said he would do.

But she wouldn’t be here when he got back. She would take the book away, hide it like Calys had, or put it in a common room or a classroom for another helpless victim to find. Either way, she would deny she’d ever seen it. Just like Duncan. Calys. All of them.

People were sick, and getting sicker. Some of them might not have much longer. It might already be too late for Nettie. It had taken so long to find the book. It could be lost again in an instant.

He couldn’t let that happen. Griffin stopped as he shuffled past Deryn, and made a show of adjusting Calys in his arms.

Deryn scowled up at him, opening another book at the same time. “You’d better hurry. She’ll wake any moment.”

Yes, she probably will. And then I’ll have two of you to contend with.

Griffin’s eyes drifted once more to the book.

“Wait.” He set Calys down and leaned over the shelf, pretending to be distracted by one of the books there instead. “That’s interesting, this one is—”

He bent over a bit farther.

Then darted to his right and knocked his fist into the side of Deryn’s head, in the same spot where she’d hit Calys a few minutes before.

She crumpled without so much as a gasp. It seemed she hadn’t seen it coming, nor even guessed that it might.

Was that because she underestimated the oaf with no magic? Or merely because she trusted him?

I’m sorry, Griffin thought again.

And then, immediately, What if I was wrong?

His stomach went to ice. What if he’d only imagined those flames? What if she really hadn’t found the book yet, and really did want to search for it?

What if he’d just punched his only real friend for no reason at all?

No, he assured himself. He hadn’t imagined anything. The fire in her eyes had been real. And her attempts to get rid of him had been ridiculous.

He looked yet again at the green and brown book. As he’d been doing. As he must do. He could look as long as he liked now, with no magicians to interfere.

There was no doubt about it, that was the book. And now that he knew that, he could take it safely, without opening or reading it, without exposing himself to it. He’d left his gloves in Deryn’s chamber, but no matter. Perhaps he could find a pair of work gloves on the ruined table and put them on, as an extra precaution, to make sure the book never touched his skin.

Or perhaps one peek. Just one, to make sure he wasn’t wrong.

(Of course he wasn’t wrong.)

(But shouldn’t he be sure? Absolutely sure?)

Then he would destroy it, and free Pendralyn from the curse. And this would all be worth it.

Anyway, it was only a little bump on the head. Forget that he’d just been thinking about how misleading, how serious—even how deadly—such bumps could be. Deryn would be fine, and she would forgive him. Of course she would.

He reached for the book.

* * *

Fire.

The color of blood, of bile, of night. Washing over mountains, fields, seas.

A castle, ancient, proud, and wreathed in poisonous yellow-green flames. A bright woman, screaming in agony as crimson fire crawled over her white dress, and her blazing hair floated all around her. A well, spouting a great jet of fire, the many-colored flames reflected in a tower of shining black stone.

A secret fire that would consume the world.

It must ignite. It must spread. He must be the torch.

And his reward would be blood. Blood and power and fire. All his, as he was theirs.

He must burn.

* * *

Griffin blinked. Slowly. He was aware of an unpleasant chill, an uncomfortable wetness.

Oh. Perhaps that was because he was sitting in the snow.

He blinked again.

He was behind the battlemage hall, sitting on the ground in the dark, the book open in his bare hands. How long had he been here? Not long—the snow seemed to have recently begun seeping through his trousers, and though his hands were red with cold, he wasn’t shivering.

He had no recollection of climbing out of the cavern. Had he just left Deryn and Calys where they lay?

Yes, he thought he had. Because the book …

With the start and gasp of a man abruptly awakened, Griffin looked down at the book. He leaned closer, peering hard in the frail moonlight. It was open to the last pages. On the left side was a crude drawing of a tower, and a well in front of it, from which a column of fire appeared to have sprung. Though it was rendered in nothing but ink, Griffin knew (remembered) the shining stone of the tower, the way the light struck it, the colors in the flames. The right page was scrawled with words in a language he didn’t know.

Yet he’d understood it. He had no memory of reading it, but he knew exactly what it said, just the same.

It was mostly about fire.

A harsh laugh escaped Griffin’s throat. What in Eyrdri’s name had just happened? The book must have compelled him to read it. But then, shouldn’t he at this very moment be making plans to burn himself? To pass the book to someone else, or hide it from those who would destroy it, or whatever it wanted him to do next?

Shouldn’t his eyes feel hot? Dry, at the very least, surely.

It had affected Deryn quickly. Yet Griffin felt no urge to do any of those things. Nor to read it again, for that matter. Honestly, it had been a bit silly. Overly dramatic. Gratingly repetitive.

He flipped back through it. There were no other drawings. The writing was far neater at the beginning than at the end. Perhaps it had been finished in a hurry.

But how could a green dragon even write at all? Perhaps some human had been pressed into service to do the actual pen work. Or humans; that might explain the differences in the script.

Griffin stilled, cleared his mind, took stock of his thoughts. Could he bear to destroy this thing?

He could. He wanted to. Very much.

He wasn’t cursed. At least not yet.

There was no time to marvel over how this could be. In the still night air, a familiar feminine voice carried across the grounds. It was answered by another.

Calys and Deryn had come out of the cavern. And apparently they’d agreed to put their dispute behind them. Griffin couldn’t make out their words, but there was no belligerence there. They sounded like friends. Or conspirators.

It was possible they would pass the battlemage hall by, and go on to the sage hall for healing. But more likely they were looking for him.

If they caught him, they would try to preserve the book. (And almost certainly, it was worth mentioning, hurt him.) Unless he freed them from the curse first. Griffin sprang to his feet, shoving the book into the waist of his trousers as he ran.

He flung open the nearest door at the back of the battlemage hall, and rushed into the damp-smelling bathroom beyond. Greymoss. He needed greymoss and honey. The honey would have to be gotten elsewhere, but greymoss, highly valued for its restorative properties, was frequently sprinkled into the baths of those who needed a bit of extra help recovering their balance, or who were simply worn out for more mundane reasons.

There was none in the bathroom itself, but he found plenty in a supply chest in the corridor. How much would he need? He stuffed one of his coat pockets until it bulged with the fragrant, plush moss, just to be safe.

As Griffin started to lower the chest’s lid, a small jar, half hidden by a block of soap and a bunch of dried herbs, caught his eye. Salt. He needed that, too. He grabbed the whole jar and crammed it into another pocket.

The kitchen was the obvious place to look for honey. That also made it the obvious place for Calys and Deryn to look for him.

Griffin took a deep breath and forced his racing mind to slow down. Where else could he find honey?

Calys.

She liked it in her tea. And he knew she wasn’t in her chamber.

His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the dim, chilly corridors, with everyone else in bed. Griffin told himself he didn’t have time to wake anyone to help him, to spread the word that Deryn and Calys were under the influence of the curse, and needed to be stopped. He told himself that his task was far too urgent, that the book must be destroyed without delay, before it could do any more harm, or ensnare Griffin himself.

These things were even true. But he also knew nobody would take his word over theirs.

Many of the magisters’ chambers didn’t even have locks, and the ones that did rarely saw them used. He met no resistance at Calys’s door. But when he closed it behind him again, he was glad to feel a wooden bar, not long, but thick. With only the moonlight admitted by the single window to see by, he fumbled with the bar until he managed to slide it through the slot in the doorframe.

He went first to the fireplace and hurriedly lit a fire. Then he turned to a small, wobbly cabinet in the corner near the hearth. In the topmost drawer he found a tin of tea and another filled with hard, round discs of the coppernut shortbread he knew one of the cooks made for Calys specially.

There was a not-quite-clean spoon that stuck to his questing fingers. And beneath it, a tiny, half-full jar of honey. The lid made a scraping sound as he turned it, dislodging the old crystals that crusted the rim.

As if in answer, there was another scratching sound. This one on the door.

Was that a blackhound’s paw?

Of course it is, you idiot. Here you thought you were so clever, avoiding the kitchen. Have you forgotten who it is you’re facing? Did you really imagine that Deryn would simply walk around looking for you?

Of course she’d sent Ash to find him. The hound had probably been helped along by a few owls, while Griffin was still outside.

Griffin hurried behind Calys’s divider, past her bed and into her washing alcove, where he found a water pitcher beside the basin. He breathed his thanks to Eyrdri when he saw that it was full, and ran back to the fireplace as fast as he could without spilling it.

Outside the door, Ash barked.

As it was a poor fit for the hook hanging over the fire, Griffin set the pitcher directly against the burning logs instead. He emptied the contents of the salt jar into the water, then added several handfuls of greymoss, and the honey. He had no idea how much of any of them he needed. Perhaps the measurements weren’t important. He prayed not.

The sweetness of the honey mingled with the yeasty, spicy scent of greymoss. A voice rang out in the corridor. Ash barked again.

Griffin grabbed the book from his waistband, but stopped himself an instant before he flung it into the fire.

Fool, how will you gather the ashes to soak them, if you do it like that?

The door rattled. That bar wouldn’t hold two magicians for long.

“Where’s her pot?” Griffin yanked too hard on the cabinet’s bottom drawer, and ended up knocking the whole thing down. “There’s a hook for it. There’s tea for it. There must be a blasted pot.”

He swept the spilled contents of the cabinet across the floor with his arm, taking a hasty inventory. A cup, too small. A wooden plate that might burn as fast as the book. The shortbread tin? Probably too small as well.

Ah, there was the pot. It had been on the floor, tucked under the cabinet, the whole time. It wasn’t much bigger than the tin, but it would have to do.

Feeling no sense of resistance, from either within or without, Griffin held the book to the fire. Once he was certain it was lit and would not go out, he stuffed it into the pot. He burned his fingers in the process—badly, he thought—but he was far more concerned with the banging on the door than any pain.

Calys called his name.

Deryn spoke with magic instead. Griffin could tell it was her; only a sage could cause such a wind. He cradled the rapidly heating pot in his arms, sheltering it from the blast as the door crashed open and a small tornado blew through the room.

The desk turned over. Papers flew everywhere. The tea tin all but exploded, sending a shower of herbs over the floor. The chairs by the fireplace split apart, and shards of wood battered Griffin’s back and shoulders.

Still he protected the pot, watching the book curl and burn. It sent up an acrid, poisonous odor that could not have come from paper alone.

While Griffin gagged on the fumes, the fire shuddered against the onslaught of wind. The pitcher tipped and shattered against the floor, and the infused water he needed to break the curse pooled around his knees.

“Blast it!”

With faltering, trembling hands, Griffin turned the pot over into the puddle, then slammed it against the floor once, twice. When he was sure it was empty, he tossed it aside and pressed down on the ashes to soak them, turning the curse to mud beneath his palms.

Until he couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all. Calys, working her own magic. She certainly had a fondness for that paralysis spell.

Something smashed against the back of his head. Frozen, Griffin teetered forward, and the mess on the floor rose to meet him.

15

Griffin was surrounded.

It wasn’t only Deryn deigning to sit with him now. Calys was on his left, apparently by choice, and she was only the beginning. There wasn’t an empty chair within sight of where he sat, in an honored position near the keep’s great hearth.

He doubted even a crowd this size could consume the amount of food that had been laid out for them: lamb in a fragrant dolberry and mint gravy, partridge stewed in spiced mead, flaky coppernut pies, rosemary fritters, roasted root vegetables dripping with butter. Now that he thought of it, Griffin was hard pressed to find anything that wasn’t dripping with butter.

Some of the front tables had been cleared away to make room, and Parkin and his friends were once again regaling the crowd with Mad Mithrin’s triumph over the dragon. The bards had departed the valley days ago, when it became apparent that there were to be no Midwinter feasts. But many of the students had agreed to reprise their Midwinter’s Rise performances tonight, and as the mood of the celebration was leaning heavily toward silliness, the venerable masters were barely missed.

It seemed impossible that just three days before, Pendralyn had been dancing at the edge of calamity. But there were reminders, for anyone who cared to look for them. The Prince of Eyrdon sat at the next table, surrounded by his friends. Corin’s eyes were bright, his cheers for the performance enthusiastic. He did not seem the least bit self-conscious about the knotty lump that had once been his left ear, or the shining, hairless skin around it.

Always too willful and clever for his own good, the curse-mad boy had managed to escape the infirmary one last time—just as Griffin and Deryn were in the cavern, confronting Calys. The matter of an hour or two would have preserved what would no doubt be an otherwise handsome face.

Many such scars remained on many faces, many limbs. Fortunately, they were the only remaining traces of the curse. Its other effects, even Nettie’s seemingly irredeemable madness, had dissipated within minutes of Griffin breaking the spell.

He hadn’t been awake for that part. The next thing he remembered after soaking the book’s ashes that night was waking up in the sage hall, just before dawn, with Deryn at his bedside. She somewhat cheerfully explained that her whirlwind had all but buried him in rubble, and that in addition to some cuts and broken ribs, he’d taken no less than three severe blows to the head. After suggesting several other ways he might have manipulated or restrained her in the cavern, she then announced that it served him right. Griffin didn’t argue the point.

He looked over at Deryn now, but met only her shoulder and the back of her elaborately styled hair. She was deep in conversation with Nott, who was sitting on the other side of her. Sitting close. Griffin quickly took a bite of his fritter to hide a grin.

“Regretting her choices, do you think?”

“What?” Griffin was startled to find Calys speaking to him. She certainly seemed to have been doing so as little as possible, these past days. Even tonight, she’d taken the chair beside him with no more than a politely murmured greeting.

Not that he minded having her there. He thought she looked especially lovely when she was festively attired, and sane, and not accusing him of anything horrible. “You can’t mean … who are you talking about?”

Calys tipped her chin at the queen, sitting with the rest of her family not far from her eldest son. Erietta was staring at Corin’s scars with all the grief the prince himself did not display.

“I was wondering if she’s blaming herself.” Calys took a slow sip from her mug, eyes still locked on Erietta. “If she’d trusted that dragon less, if she’d sent her children home …”

Griffin scowled at her. Who was she, to judge the queen? Especially as she was hardly innocent herself. “He’d been burning himself for more than a week, you know, by the time they found the marks. He read the book not long after he got back from Narinore, before we even knew what it did. If she’d sent him home, he would already have been cursed. I’ve no doubt the castle has plenty of fires in it. Perhaps he would have ended up even worse off, and hundreds of miles away from Pendralyn’s healers.”

“We’ll never know.” Calys picked up her fork and poked half-heartedly at a pile of turnips strewn with herbs and glistening with honey (and, of course, butter), but did not take a bite. “I envy her that uncertainty.”

“You what?”

She didn’t look up from her plate. “Surely it’s easier to live with that, than knowing for sure that a great deal of suffering could have been avoided, if you’d been less of a fool.”

“If I’d been less of a fool?”

“Of course not, you idiot. If I’d been less of a fool.”

“Ah.” So it wasn’t Erietta’s regret she was thinking of at all, but her own. Griffin hesitated, then put his big hand over hers and squeezed. “You were cursed.”

Calys didn’t move her own hand, either to return the gesture or to remove it from his grip. “A curse you resisted.”

Parkin’s drama reached its finale, and his dragon exploded in a shower of paper. Griffin waited for the cheers to subside before saying quietly, “There’s nothing special in that. Quite the opposite. I resisted it because I don’t have magic.”

“What?”

“At least, that’s what the archmagister thinks, and the queen, and it makes sense to me. The book was able to compel me to read it, same as it did everyone else. But once I got that far, there was no more it could do. What was inside was a spell. A spell you cast on yourself, over and over, day after day.”

Calys shook her head, brow furrowed. “How is that possible?”

“The theory goes that the book put the spell in your mind, and probably forced you to cast it the first time,” Griffin said. “Except of course I couldn’t cast it, so for me, it ended with reading it. For you, the memory, the influence of it, was enough to do the rest. They were always asking how something could keep affecting all of you, apparently permanently, even long after the book had passed out of your hands. That’s how. You kept recasting it before it could ever wear off. You were cursing yourself.”

“I still don’t see how that could work. It would take a complex spell to make a person obsessed with burning, make her ill, make her keep it a secret, and make her pass it on, all at once. I couldn’t cast such a spell. I can’t even imagine what affinity it would belong to. Yet you’re telling me I did cast it? That Nettie did? A first-year student?”

“I suppose you’d have to ask the greenwing who created it about the particulars,” said Griffin. “But magic is always individual, right? A contriver can cast a trick, showing a man something he wishes to chase. A sage can cast a confusion spell, making him think he forgot something urgent. A battlemage can cast a fear spell. All different magic, from different affinities, but the end result is the same: the man runs away. Perhaps this is something similar. Perhaps the magic suggests a result, and the caster finds her own way there.”

“But then, if we were doing the magic, our balance … of course.” Always the scholar, Calys looked fascinated. “The madness of the curse resembled a loss of balance, didn’t it? And it seemed worse for the younger ones, like Nettie, who aren’t used to managing it properly.” Her eyes grew distant for a moment as she absorbed this new knowledge. Or perhaps began thinking of ways to apply it. “Well, that’s a clever scheme, isn’t it? I hadn’t heard all of that.”

She cleared her throat and leaned closer, presumably to be heard over the rowdily singing students who’d displaced Parkin’s group. “I haven’t seen much of you. Since.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“We’ve all been busy. That isn’t the point.”

“What is the point?”

“I’ve been avoiding you.” Calys raised her mug to him with a short, humorless laugh. “I suppose I was waiting until I’d had enough mead to face you.”

Griffin coughed and looked at his plate, at the singers, at the magisters at the next table. His hand was still on top of hers. Should he move it? Leave it? “Yes, well. I can see how you’d be anxious about facing me, what with me being such an influential and intimidating figure.”

“I’m terrible at apologizing. And you don’t deserve to have it done poorly.” Calys turned her own hand over, and briefly laced her fingers through his. “You were right about everything, and I was awful to you. I’m sorry.”

Griffin’s face heated. He ought to make another joke. Or better yet, say something gracious and, preferably, charming. But he couldn’t think of a single thing.

How many times had he imagined a moment like this? When she—when all of them—would be sorry they’d underestimated, overlooked, or downright misjudged him? When he would, at last, be deemed worthy? Respected. Even admired. A hero, if he dared use the word.

And now here was his moment of triumph. They were all treating him exactly that way. And he was enjoying it. Immensely, at times.

But he also felt like a liar and an imposter for accepting it. He was no better, no different than he’d ever been. He hadn’t resisted the book by some strength of will. It was luck, and no more than that.

His stammering reply was, thankfully, drowned out by a fresh chorus of cheers as Nettie and Simon came into the keep. This was the first most people had seen of the siblings; they’d been largely keeping to themselves, behind closed doors. Tending to their scars, perhaps, and cutting what was left of Nettie’s singed hair.

They flanked their stout, hard-faced father, who had arrived from the eastern shore of Eyrdon only that morning. Griffin hadn’t yet had a chance to meet him, but it seemed that was shortly to be remedied. Simon whispered something to the older man and pointed, and the three of them made directly for Griffin’s table. Griffin rose to meet them.

Simon’s long neck was covered in scars and gnarled flesh, much of it hidden by the high collar of his tunic. But no garment could hide what had happened to his sister. Beneath her close cap of dark hair, a great deal of Nettie’s face was destroyed, including one closed, blind eye that had been so damaged the healers could do nothing for it.

The poor girl was very young, and children were often unkind. Griffin had assumed that fear of facing her fellow students was at least partially responsible for her being shut away. But whatever she and Simon had been doing to put the curse behind them and emerge undaunted and unhaunted, it seemed to have worked. Both of them were smiling.

As soon as he got within reach, Nettie’s father threw his arms around Griffin’s chest and pulled him into an embrace.

Griffin gave him an awkward pat in return.

“Er.” Simon looked as astonished as Griffin. “Magister, may I present my father, Jaron.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Griffin breathed. For a small man, Jaron had a very strong hold.

Jaron stepped back, grinning. “When I left home, I thought I was coming to fetch my children. That’s if I was lucky enough not to be coming to bury them. Instead I’m celebrating with them. I don’t have much by way of thanking you with, but …” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a lump of cloth. “I asked around a bit. I was told this might be an acceptable token.”

Griffin unwrapped the cloth to find a squashed apple cake. He laughed as he lowered his head to sniff it. “Now it’s you who has my gratitude.”

After Nettie, too, had given Griffin a hug, the three of them took their leave to enjoy the feast. Over Simon’s retreating head, Griffin saw the king, no longer in the company of his wife and brother-in-law, but standing against the wall, on his own and out of the way, watching. He gave the impression of a man standing guard over them all. Perhaps he was.

He gestured at Griffin. Surprised by the summons, Griffin weaved his way through the tables and the crowd to join him.

Wardin touched his fingers lightly to his heart in a salute. “How are you enjoying your turn as a hero?”

“I …” Griffin’s face grew hot yet again. He seemed to be spending more time blushing than doing nearly anything else, today.

The king laughed. “No need to answer. I recognize the look on your face well enough. I’ve worn it myself, a time or two. Might I have a word?”

“Of course, Majesty.”

“We’re going back to Narinore tomorrow. It can’t be helped. I’m told we have a kingdom to govern.”

“I gather Corin is staying?” Griffin nodded at the prince, who’d donned a ridiculous horned hat with a cascade of bright green braids attached, and was capering around, making the younger children laugh. “He looks well.”

“Yes,” Wardin said with a chuckle. “Corin has yet to encounter an ordeal he can’t laugh away. He takes after his Uncle Arun in that respect.” The king’s eyes darkened a bit as he watched his son. “I hope.”

An odd thing to say. “You hope?”

Wardin waved away the question and turned back to Griffin. “I assume all the magisters have heard that we’ve decided to keep the magistery open for students?”

“We have. Arun met with us this morning.”

“With the immediate danger eliminated, thanks to you, and no idea what or when the next threat might be, I suppose life must go on.” Wardin looked once more over the crowded room. The organized performances seemed to have fallen apart, and given way to a jumble of people playing various instruments in nothing like harmony. The king shook his head. “Still, all this celebrating makes me uneasy. It’s as though everyone thinks it’s over.”

“It isn’t,” Griffin said quickly. He’d been feeling much the same way.

“No. There are still dragons out there, and they still want something. I’m depending on you to defend Pendralyn. My wife insists you’re the very man for the job. I can’t say I disagree.”

Griffin’s jaw went slack. Not at the duty itself, but that he would be charged with it by his king and queen. “Oh?”

“Well, I don’t expect you to do it entirely on your own. There’s always Arun, and there will be soldiers and such. And of course you’re surrounded by magicians. But thus far you are the only one who’s made any real progress in this whole business. To say nothing of being the only one Fendrath will speak to. You know I doubted Etta before, about both him and you.”

“You didn’t trust us.”

“I didn’t trust him. I thought you were wrong.” Wardin spread his hands. “But then you lifted the curse in the exact way Fendrath told you to. You both protected the magistery.” He gave Griffin a sharp look. “Why do you think he took Duncan?”

“I’ve been preoccupied with that very question, as it happens.” Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. No progress had been made in the search for Duncan. In the absence of the blasted sage explaining himself—and telling them what he knew of both dragons’ motives—Griffin had only conjecture. “I’m as convinced as ever that Duncan was serving the redwing.”

“And that there is a redwing,” Wardin added.

“Yes, that too.”

“I’m still baffled by the inkwell’s exonerating Duncan, but let’s set that aside for now, and say I’ll concede that he was serving one dragon or another. ”

“Then therein lies his value,” Griffin said. “He knows things. Fendrath told me more than once that he’d like to question him.”

“A dramatic way to enter into a conversation.”

“I thought so, too. But there may be more to it than we realize.”

“Such as?”

“Perhaps Duncan found something, and Fendrath knew it.”

“You think Duncan might have completed his mission.” Wardin crossed his arms, his eyes back on the revelers, who had begun dancing between the tables. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Do you still think this harp of stone is what the dragons came for?”

“I think it’s highly possible,” said Griffin. “They can already kill us. The only other thing a hostile dragon might want, before openly opposing us, is to be sure we can’t kill him.”

“Meaning that there may now be nothing in that hostile dragon’s way.” The king sighed. “There’s a cheerful thought.”

“I suppose that depends on which dragon we’re talking about, and whether or not he’s truly hostile.”

“Well then, the circumstances are simple enough.” Wardin flashed Griffin a smile. “All we need to do is prepare a defense against an undisclosed enemy wielding an object we’ve yet to identify, without knowing whether that object is lost or found, or who is working for whom, or who is on what side. And by we I of course mean you.”

The king clapped Griffin’s shoulder. “You might want to start by finding that blasted blackwing. Particularly since he seems to be the only one with the slightest understanding of what’s going on.”

* * *

The night air smelled of snow, and was filled with the sniffling and shuffling of the eleven boys and girls gathered for Griffin’s navigation class. Eleven was too many by half for the cramped top of the manor’s highest tower, particularly when Griffin’s hulking mass was added in. The wooden floor groaned, apparently alarming some of the students.

“Don’t worry,” Griffin assured them on a cloud of cold breath. “This tower’s managed greater burdens than us.”

“My grandfather says mordrakes attacked Pendralyn, during the war,” Keri whispered. Just nine, she was the youngest in a group made up mainly of Corin’s third-year friends and a few contrivers.

“The keep took the brunt of that.” Griffin chucked her under the chin. “And you’ll notice that the dragons are gone, while Pendralyn still stands.”

The dragons are gone, all right. Gone silent. Whether that’s good news or bad remains to be seen.

Just yesterday, Griffin had taken this same group into the mountains, to practice using sticks and shadows to find their direction. He’d hoped for some sign of Fendrath outside the magistery, any small clue he might come back later to investigate. Although what that clue might be, he couldn’t have said; dragons left no footprints in the sky.

It didn’t matter, anyway. He’d been disappointed.

He looked heavenward now, not in hopes of seeing a dragon-shaped shadow cross over the moon, but merely waiting for a clear view. “There,” he said at last, when the passing wisps of cloud finally obliged. “Who can show me the Ravens?”

Corin pointed. “The three stars there, in a row, are Maithe’s tail. The bright one up and to the right of those is her eye, and then”—the boy’s outstretched arm drifted further to the right—“the tip of her beak. Once you find that, you can find the tip of Coathe’s beak, almost touching it, and then the rest of him from there.”

“Very good,” Griffin said. “Someone else, which way is north?”

He turned expectantly toward Nack, who was normally the best navigator in the class. But the boy had seemed out of sorts yesterday, pale and fidgety and constantly startled by small things. Tonight was no better. When he avoided Griffin’s eye, Griffin looked instead at Corin, studying him in the flickering lantern light.

The young prince’s face betrayed nothing untoward, but Griffin was suspicious, nonetheless. Corin had been walking close behind Nack for much of their hike the day before, sometimes whispering to him, though Griffin never heard the words.

Nack claimed there was no trouble between them, but then Nack would. The fact that Corin had appeared to correct his course for the benefit of the adults did not necessarily mean he was keeping to that path when there was nobody around to check on him.

It was Corin’s friend Annet who spoke up at last, pointing. “That’s north.”

Griffin pulled his attention away from the boys to smile at her. “And how do you know?”

“Because Maithe’s eye is true north.”

“Excellent.” He looked back over the group again. Nack was still staring at his own feet. Corin’s eyes were fixed on his magister. “Who can tell me some other names for Maithe’s eye?”

“The Watching Star,” said a boy named Darson, another of Corin’s friends. He wasn’t looking at Nack, either.

“Presumably because it’s an eye,” Griffin said with a nod. “What else?”

“The Standing Star,” Kerri offered.

“And why is that?”

“Because it doesn’t move,” said Corin. “It’s at a fixed point in the night sky, which is how you always know that’s north. The other stars move around.”

“Very good. So if you ever happen to find yourself lost at night without that fine compass of yours, always start by finding the Ravens.” Griffin spent a further half hour discussing celestial navigation, until all of them looked uncomfortably cold, and the younger ones had begun to yawn. Then he led them, single file, back down the narrow wooden stairs.

“We’ll come back again on the next clear night,” he said over his shoulder. “You can expect me to test you. Meanwhile, I’d like you to draw me a map of the sky, showing each of the constellations we studied tonight.”

He stopped on the first floor landing and ushered them past. “You’re dismissed, no need to return to the classroom.” But as Nack walked by, Griffin reached out to grip his shoulder. “Except you. Come back with me for a moment. I’ve got a book I think you might like.”

Nack mumbled something unintelligible and, looking miserable about it, followed his magister back to the now dark and silent classroom where they’d begun the lesson.

By the time Griffin relit the sconces and turned, leaning back against a table, to face his student, Nack was visibly shaking. His chubby face was white, apart from crimson blotches on each cheek.

“You don’t have a book,” the boy mumbled.

“No. I wanted to talk to you.”

“You know, don’t you?” Nack’s eyes darted to Griffin’s, then dropped again. “How? Did you get it from him?”

“I didn’t get it from anybody. I know what it’s like to be terrorized, well enough to recognize it when I see it.”

“I suppose you do.” Nack laughed, a knowing, mirthless sound that was too old for his eleven years. “I suppose you’re the only one who could understand this particular trouble, aren’t you?”

“We do have a few things in common, yes,” Griffin said with a smile. “So you see, I know how you feel. You don’t want me to ask. Except the part of you that does. You’re afraid of what will happen if you tell, and you’re afraid of what will happen if you don’t.”

Nack sniffed and looked away. “I want to do the right thing. I wanted to tell the archmagister. Or someone. I’ve known all along that I should. That I have to. But it’s …” He drifted off and swiped at his cheek. “I can’t.”

“You’re afraid he’ll retaliate.”

“He will.”

“Nack,” Griffin said gently, “you don’t have to be afraid of Corin.”

“Corin?” Nack’s wet eyes snapped back to Griffin’s. “Corin doesn’t know, does he?”

Griffin frowned. “Corin isn’t the one troubling you?”

“What? No!” Nack recoiled, looking thoroughly disgusted with his magister. “You think that’s … that I would be so …” He huffed. “I’m talking about Orovont.”

“Who?”

“Orovont. The red dragon.”

16

Nack had been hoping to impress a girl.

The week before, he’d gone into Avadare with a group of his fellow third years, then stolen away to seek out a particular hillside, not far from the village, where he’d heard ice roses flourished even in the worst of winters.

He didn’t find any roses. But something found him.

Or at least, they found each other. The redwing couldn’t cloak himself like Fendrath could, so he hid in a pine thicket and called to Nack until the boy went to him. (Foolishly, yes, but then Griffin knew something about the irresistibility of a dragon’s summons.)

According to Nack, Orovont had six small horns—three above each eye, like brows—and a wide snout with nostrils the size of apples. His teeth were the color of blood.

“His voice sounded like blood. If blood had a sound.” Nack ran his hands up and down his arms, still shaking. He’d refused to sit, or even take off his coat. Instead he’d placed himself against the wall, with a table between him and his magister.

“And what did he say?” Griffin asked.

“First he told me to look in the bag.”

“He had a bag?” For a moment, Griffin was struck by an almost comical image of a dragon flying through the sky with a pack strapped to his back.

“A sort of sack. I don’t know what it was made of.”

“All right. And you did as he asked?”

Nack nodded, his eyes fixed on his boots as if they’d asked the question. “There was a harp in it. A small one, that you could hold in your arms, not the kind that stands on the floor.”

Griffin’s heart leapt. Surely not the harp of stone. But how many harps connected to dragons could there be? He leaned forward, palms against the table. “A harp?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

“What did he tell you about it? Why did he show it to you?”

“He made me take it.” Nack swallowed. “I’m to take it down to the cavern, some time when I won’t be caught, and play it so I can find the hidden door. It will reveal anything hidden by magic.”

“Or so he says.” Griffin straightened and rubbed his chin, no longer looking at Nack. The question was, were they to believe it?

“Well, I played it—”

Griffin’s eyes snapped back to the boy’s. “You what?”

Nack flinched. “In my dormitory that night, while everyone else was at dinner.”

“That was dangerous. What if—” Griffin bit back the rest of the question. It didn’t matter now, and poor Nack hardly looked in need of admonishment. He softened his tone. “Did it do anything?”

“No, but I suppose that’s because there was nothing magically hidden around. I don’t see why Orovont would lie. He wants me to get into Mithrin’s laboratory.”

“And do what?”

“Take his journal. Mithrin’s, I mean. And bring it back to him.”

His journal? Griffin frowned. That obviously wasn’t what the dragons had been seeking all along; it was sitting in plain sight, in the middle of the table. Duncan could easily have taken it that first night.

But he’d taken the cursed book instead.

Had he perhaps made a mistake? Had all of this, all these scarred children, come about because that blasted fool Duncan had simply taken the wrong book?

No, a journal was far too easy a thing to identify. More likely, Orovont had only recently turned his attention to it. Absent the thing he really wanted, perhaps he hoped it would give him some clue as to that object’s whereabouts.

“Bring it back where?” Griffin asked. “When?”

“To the same place. He showed me a particular dolberry bush, at the side of the pines and near a boulder shaped a bit like a pig’s head. He said the bag would be hidden under that bush, and I should leave the journal and the harp inside it.”

Nack’s voice cracked. “I know I can’t do it. I know I’ve already betrayed Pendralyn, by not going straight to the archmagister. But he …” He trailed off with a sniff.

“He threatened you,” Griffin said gently.

“He told me he knows where my parents live. That he would fly to Tarnarven and roast them slowly, while they screamed. But it’s not just that. He also told me …”

Griffin waited in silence for several seconds, while Nack’s unfocused eyes stared at nothing. When the boy spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “He told me that if I gave him what he wanted, he’d give me something in return. For the trials.”

“Ah,” Griffin breathed. The winter trials had been delayed by the curse, but that reprieve was to end soon. They were particularly dreaded by the third years, whose results would determine the affinity they would begin specializing in.

Everyone who knew Nack knew those trials would almost certainly end his sojourn at Pendralyn. After nearly three full years of basic instruction, sampling the simplest spells from all three affinities, the boy could barely light a candle or throw a dart. It was more than Griffin had been able to do at that age, but not by much.

It was a simple, if cruel, fact that even children whose parents were magicians, or who the magisters thought showed potential at the age of eight or nine, sometimes turned out to have little (or no) aptitude for magic. There was nothing to be done about it.

Or there hadn’t been, before. “He offered you his blood,” Griffin said.

Nack nodded miserably, and said nothing.

One quick drink, and every trouble would disappear. He would be stronger than any of those who thought so little of him, who mocked him so relentlessly.

Griffin could hardly blame the boy for being tempted by such a prospect.

“Where is the harp now, Nack?”

“Hidden in my trunk, under my warm-weather clothes.” Nack drew a shuddering breath. “It’s been a week already. He must be expecting me, or he will be soon. I was hoping that if I didn’t leave the magistery, and kept out of sight as much as I could, he might just think I hadn’t gotten a chance yet. He did tell me he would burn me alive if I got caught, and then eat what was left of me. I would have to wait for just the right moment, to avoid that, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you would.” Griffin came around the table to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, and I hope you’re equally proud of yourself. Many an older and purportedly wiser man than you would not find the heart to speak up, under these circumstances. It says a great deal about your character that you did.”

Nack looked neither convinced nor comforted. “I didn’t. Not until you caught me out.”

“You might have made an excuse. But you wanted to tell me the truth. If I were to guess, I’d say you’ve been desperate to let go of this burden.”

“Did I let go of it, though? Or have I just made it worse?” Nack’s eyes filled with tears, and he gulped. “What’s going to happen now?”

Griffin could almost have teared up himself, so badly did his heart ache for the boy. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen. We’re going to speak with the archmagister right now, and he is going to have whichever sage is best at the communication spell get in touch with the best sage we know of at the magistery in Tridmere. Your father and mother own a shipyard in the city, I believe?”

Nack nodded.

“They’ll be fetched immediately, and taken into hiding for now, where Orovont won’t be able to find them. Contrivers will help conceal them. We’ll notify the King of Tarnarven, of course, and I’m quite certain our own king and queen will want to compensate your parents for any business lost while they’re away, in gratitude for the sacrifice you’ve made to protect our greatest magistery.” Griffin gave Nack’s shoulder another squeeze. “We’re not going to let anyone hurt them, Nack, or you. I promise.”

“I promise, too.”

The voice came from the corridor. Nack cried out and dove under the table. Griffin, whose stomach seemed to have taken up residence in his throat, could not fault the instinct.

The door swung open, and Corin hurried in.

Griffin stalked toward him. “What in Eyrdri’s name are you doing?”

“I learned a spell, to help me listen through walls.” Corin smiled, despite being met with a glare in return. “You know, I might end up a contriver instead of a battlemage. I suppose you’d miss me, in your classes.”

“Corin—”

“My apologies,” the prince said hastily. “I could tell there was something wrong with Nack. There has been for days. And of course I thought I would get blamed for it, once you caught on. You can’t deny you suspected me.”

“Of course I did.” Griffin crossed his arms. “You’ve given me reason to.”

“Yes, but I didn’t do anything this time.” Corin jerked his head at Nack, who emerged, red faced, from under the table. “I wanted to hear what he was saying, so I could prepare to defend myself, that’s all.”

“Well then, I’m sure it will be a relief to know this has nothing to do with you.” Griffin glowered at the little spy. Contriver, indeed. “Had you minded your own business and gone back to your dormitory, you’d never have heard another word about it. But you can certainly expect to hear a good bit now. Mostly about how you’ll be punished.”

Corin raised his chin and gave Griffin the cocky look for which he had already become famous. His new scars did nothing to mute it. “It has everything to do with me. I am the prince and the heir to the throne, and Nack is being threatened in my kingdom, while trying to defend it.”

He turned to Nack, back straight, jaw set, eyes grave but shining. “You have my word. The crown will protect you.” And that was all the solemnity he could manage, before his face split into a grin. “My father will probably give you a commendation, you know.”

* * *

They had no idea where Orovont might have obtained a harp capable of revealing that which was hidden, but the rest of the gaps in Nack’s story were easy enough to fill—at least, for those who believed in Duncan’s guilt. Deprived of his servant by his rival, the redwing was in need of someone to take Duncan’s place.

No need for a powerful magician this time, when the harp, not the human, would be doing the magic. The younger, weaker, and more pliable, the better. Particularly if the victim could also be lured with the promise of dragon blood, as Duncan had no doubt been.

It probably never crossed Orovont’s mind that such a boy could ever find the strength to betray him.

But betray him he had, and Nack must be protected for it. They didn’t know what creatures might be spying for Orovont. And Fendrath had proved that a dragon could get to someone inside the magistery with very little difficulty, if he was determined to do so.

It was Corin, of all people, who devised the plan for Nack’s escape. When he brought his idea to his uncle, Arun declared it to be better than anything he or any other magister had come up with, and immediately set it into motion.

Accordingly, half a dozen contrivers dressed as Eyrdish soldiers took shifts casting a trick, disguising Nack as the prince while they journeyed (accompanied by several real soldiers) east to Narinore. To help preserve the illusion, Corin spent days shut away in an underground room in the contriver hall, seeing nobody and taking his meals alone, until they finally received word that Nack had safely arrived and was hidden away in the castle.

Only then would the archmagister venture down to the cavern, to test the harp Nack had left behind.

The prospect of reopening the corridor was exciting on many levels, to many people. Arun wanted to examine the enchanted objects in the laboratory. Calys wanted to see the runes in the room with the chains. And every magician at Pendralyn wanted a look at Mithrin’s books.

But all that would have to wait. The fact that Nack was safe didn’t mean the rest of them were. Their first priority was to get the journal as quickly and quietly as possible, then take it out of Orovont’s reach. All without the redwing knowing they’d been in the chamber at all.

And then they would see what secrets that journal held, that Orovont wanted so badly.

Griffin distinctly remembered Fendrath saying that birds and mice disliked the cavern, a fact Deryn had repeatedly confirmed. (Then again, those same birds and mice also claimed they’d never seen any dragon, so nothing they told her could be entirely trusted.) If Orovont was doing his spying through similar means, it was possible that he would know only who went into the cavern, and when, and for how long—not what they’d done while they were down there.

Calys was still a fairly frequent visitor. There were others as well, on occasion, whenever someone found a new word in Ancient Eyrdish, or some other obscure, dead language they wanted to try. As long as they entered the cavern under what looked like normal circumstances, and didn’t stay overly long, there was no reason for Orovont to suspect them of using the harp, or going into the hidden corridor.

With all of that in mind, Arun chose only a small group to accompany him, and required each to swear an oath of secrecy. Griffin and Deryn were obvious choices, being the only two with experience of the place. He also asked Calys, who knew a spell that created a sort of force field, that they hoped might help keep doors from closing. And finally, Magister Sam, who was perhaps not the archmagister’s first choice, but had the advantage of being available, as Timult and Pendralyn’s other most skilled contrivers had gone to Narinore with Nack. Assuming they were able to get inside, they had no wish to risk being trapped.

Griffin ventured out straight from breakfast on the appointed morning. He stopped first at a storage shed behind the kennels, where he strapped on a leather bag full of tools and hoisted a thick board, roughly the length and width of a tabletop, over one shoulder before setting off across the grounds.

Holly was among the four blackhounds who lay in what sunshine there was to be found, in front of the rope railing at the edge of the pit. Griffin could have sworn the hound nodded to him as he approached. Regardless, they must all have understood his presence to be authorized, because none of them made any move to either challenge him, or walk off to report his doings. On the contrary, they barely moved at all.

“Lazy dogs.” Griffin set down the board and squatted to scratch Holly’s neck. “My apologies. I ought to have brought you some sausages from the keep. It didn’t cross my mind, to be honest.” The hound gave him a reproachful look, but she adjusted her position to give him access to her belly. Griffin obliged her with a few rubs before picking up his burden once more.

Getting the unwieldy (not to mention heavy) board down the ladder was an awkward enough business that he considered it a victory when he managed it without breaking the blasted thing. He left it leaning against the damp stone wall while he lit a lantern and moved to the back of the cavern. The smell of burned wood and smoke greeted him, courtesy of the worktable Deryn had burned the night she fought Calys, while Griffin so uselessly watched.

After lighting the braziers, he went back for the board, then tossed it and the bag of tools on the floor and went about splitting the charred table apart into manageable pieces. He took as many of these as he could carry back up out of the cavern, where he made a tidy pile of them in the snow for later disposal.

Then it was back to the shed for more (thankfully smaller) pieces of wood, and the whole process was repeated. Calys arrived just as Griffin was bringing up the last of the debris.

“Oh good, you’re here. When will I have a new work surface?” Her voice was cool, by prior arrangement, though Griffin doubted the performance required much effort. She’d been mostly back to her distant self since her apology. He didn’t hold it against her; he’d known her long enough to know what that brief moment of vulnerability must have cost her.

“Within the hour, I would guess,” he said.

“Good. I’ve got some work to do down there, so try not to make too much noise.”

Griffin followed her back down, then waited in awkward silence, leaning against the wall near the lump he’d so famously discovered. Calys stood facing away from him, hands clasped behind her back, staring at the rows of runes.

Finally lantern light came bobbing toward them, followed by Arun and Deryn. “You talked about making some sort of temporary table?” Arun asked.

“We did,” said Calys, and Griffin nodded.

Arun returned the nod. “Good. We talked about the complexities of Ancient Dordrine, and whether the word esnov means enter or nose. All the way here from the keep, and loudly enough for every bird and squirrel at Pendralyn to hear it, I imagine.”

“I still think it means nose.” Deryn knelt to rummage through the bag of tools. “Did you bring a planting pick?”

“I did,” said Griffin, “although I have no idea what you mean to do with it. Or with any of those. Are you going to dig us out of the mountain with a gardening tool, if we get trapped in there?”

“A bit of preparation can’t hurt,” Deryn said with a shrug.

“Hello, all!” Sam sidled in from the shadows, having been told to enter the cavern under a cloaking spell. A lanky man who seemed to be made chiefly of limbs and Adam’s apple, he looked more like a student than a magister. The enthusiasm with which he clapped his hands together only supported that impression. “This is exciting, isn’t it?”

“I certainly hope it will be,” said Deryn. “Although perhaps not in quite the same ways it was exciting the last time.”

“It doesn’t matter what esnov means, by the way,” Arun said. “We’ve tried it already. What we haven’t tried is this. Sam?”

Sam tossed his cloak on the floor, then shrugged off the harp that had been strapped beneath it. He unwrapped the instrument from the dark cloth that both protected and helped conceal it.

Narrow and delicate, its shape reminded Griffin of a shortbow. Its slender brass strings glimmered in the light of the braziers. All in all, it was a lovely piece of work. But there was nothing especially magical about its appearance.

They’d tested it already, though, in the archmagister’s chambers with Sam casting a cloaking spell. When Deryn played it, Sam was revealed to all present.

Of course, revealing the door was not necessarily the same as opening it. But it had opened on its own the last time, almost the moment it became visible. They could only hope the same thing would happen now. And that the other doors that had slammed closed the day Griffin triggered the trap would open along with it.

Griffin picked up the heavy board again, ready to help prop the door when it opened. Deryn stood and slung the bag of tools across her body. Calys went to stand beside the archmagister.

“Let’s see how well it sounds down here, shall we?” Sam beamed at everyone, and plucked at the harp strings with his long fingers.

The door appeared nearly instantly. A moment after that, it swung open.

* * *

How strange to be back. Strange, and wonderful.

Something fluttered in Griffin’s belly. The sense of familiarity, even nostalgia, that swept over him as he stood at the threshold of Mithrin’s laboratory was peculiar, considering he’d only been there once. It felt like many more times than that.

The books, the dust, the little cup on the desk. Even the tomb smell seemed to bring back memories, as if it belonged to this place alone. He felt almost possessive of the chamber, and he was glad to see it again.

Until his eyes fell on the dragon figurine on the floor, right where he’d dropped it the last time. Gazing upward in the lantern light that did not quite reach the ceiling, Griffin detected no sign of the slab of stone that had once descended on them without warning.

As they’d hoped, it had apparently risen again with the reopening of the corridor door. Deryn and her planting pick had also confirmed, with a tiny chip taken from the threshold of that same door, that the magical shield protecting the cavern walls was gone as well. The lock Griffin had slid into place with that tiny black dragon was once again unlatched.

Deryn accidentally jostled Griffin’s shoulder as she passed into the room, putting an abrupt end to his musing. He waved off her apology and walked in himself, moving immediately to the table where Mithrin’s journal sat, along with the lantern they’d left behind.

He frowned down at the book, as familiar as everything else in the chamber. Yet somehow not as welcoming. The flutter came back, less pleasant this time. “Deryn, is this the page it was on last?”

“Of course it is, how could it not be?” Deryn held her hair aside and bent over the book. “Yes, there’s the bit about dragon breath. Here, see?” She made room for Arun, who’d come to stand beside her.

The archmagister spent several minutes flipping through the journal, before he stopped near the end. “There! Look!” He glanced up at the others, mouth open and half stretched into a smile, as if it couldn’t quite decide whether to be surprised or delighted. “This very well might be what we’re looking for. Although the page is smudged. It looks like it got wet, then dried again. It starts with a lot of ranting about toiling away down here unappreciated.”

Calys, who’d been looking quietly around, stopped on the opposite side of the table, apparently reading upside down. “And a great deal of bragging. It seems he alone saved, as he puts it, Cairdarin and all within, human and divine alike. With … Mithrin’s Boon?

“Did he really name something that?” Deryn made a disapproving noise. “He did think highly of himself, didn’t he? That alone would make me dislike him, even if it weren’t for the mutilating and whatnot.”

“That puts my theory about the harp of stone to rest, then,” said Griffin. “He can hardly have invented something he called a myth. This is something else.”

“The point is, he hid it somewhere.” Arun tapped the page. “Those who are loyal to me … then I can’t make out the next few words … its hiding place. Once found, the blood of a dragon will unlock it.” He turned the page. “The text ends abruptly after that.”

“Whatever this boon is, it will have to keep until we’re above ground,” Calys said. “We don’t have time to read the whole journal here, much less puzzle over it. In quickly, out quickly, and no one’s any wiser. That was what we said.”

“When we were here before, we thought of removing something less delicate first, as a test,” said Griffin. “To be sure it wasn’t preserved by the chamber itself.”

Calys snorted softly. “Yes, and we know how well that turned out.” She nodded at the dragon figurines (and the empty space on their shelf, darker for lack of dust, where Griffin’s had been). “What if every one of those springs a trap?”

Sam alone hadn’t joined them at the table; he’d been kneeling on the floor by the discarded black dragon. At Calys’s words, he stood and shook his head. “I can’t even detect the trap on this one. Perhaps it’s been used up? Dispelled after the last time?”

“I think it more likely that Mithrin’s magic is too sophisticated for detection spells,” said Arun. “None of you contrivers can sense the hidden door. Nor did you sense the cursed book.”

With a sheepish bob of his head, Sam came over to the table and leaned past Griffin to lay his hand gently over the journal. “I don’t sense anything about this book, either. It feels enchanted, of course. But you already knew that.”

Arun nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “I think highly of you, Sam, so don’t be offended when I say I only brought you with us because it seemed smarter to have you than not. I didn’t expect you’d be able to tell us much.”

“Well, Duncan took the cursed book out of here, and it didn’t set off a trap,” said Deryn. “Nor did any harm come to it. Which in that case is a pity, of course, but it does suggest that things can be removed.”

“Hm.” Calys narrowed her eyes and gazed around the chamber, then back down at the table. Lips twitching in a slight smile, she pulled Mithrin’s discarded pen from under the book and with a smooth, practiced motion that suggested a person who often played darts, threw it over the heads of the others. They turned in unison to follow its progress as it sailed into the corridor and landed with a light tap.

Nothing more happened.

“All right, then,” Arun said. “I suppose we can start by taking the book as far as that.” He grinned—looking strikingly like Corin, for a moment—and bowed slightly to Griffin, then made a sweeping gesture at the journal. “I believe Magister Griffin’s earned the honor.”

Cheeks warming as four pairs of eyes focused on him, and not seeing it as all that much of an honor, Griffin gingerly closed the book and picked it up, in much the same way he’d have held a newborn blackhound pup. Deryn handed him a length of velvet from the tool bag.

While Griffin wrapped the book, Arun looked around again, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s try to be a bit faster at getting this dragon business done with, shall we? I cannot tell you how eager I am to explore this place properly.”

“Yes, but for the moment, we’d best not dawdle,” Calys reminded him. “We don’t want anyone—or anything—seeing that door propped wide open, do we? Or hearing us in here.”

Arun sighed. “You’re right. Let’s go, then.”

Deryn and Sam left the room first, then Arun. Calys stood in the wide entryway, preparing to cast her spell if the door should begin to descend again. When she was ready, Griffin stepped into the corridor, over the pen on the stone floor.

Then immediately cried out in surprise and pain, as Mithrin’s journal burst into flames in his hands.

17

Had Orovont known?

Would the dragon be just as outraged by the loss of Mithrin’s journal as they were? Or had he known what would happen if they took it out of the laboratory? Had he guessed that Nack would confess, that they would use the harp themselves?

Had the whole thing been an elaborate trick from the start?

The questions were relevant to more than Griffin’s curiosity over just how big a fool he’d been. If Orovont had manipulated them into destroying the journal, there’d been something in it he needed to make sure they would never see. Something more valuable than vague references to a boon, surely. Perhaps where to find this boon, beyond the revelation that it was somehow locked, and dragon blood was the key. Or perhaps some crucial bit of history, some weakness of the redwings that the magisters did not yet know.

It would also mean he’d deliberately allowed them access to the rest of Mithrin’s laboratory, and there would be no need to hide now. If, on the other hand, Orovont was still waiting for Nack, still didn’t know the journal was gone, there was no telling what form his wrath would take when he realized their deception.

That realization would inevitably come, but Arun was strongly in favor of putting it off for as long as possible. Very few of the valley’s residents—human or otherwise—knew they’d gotten back into the corridor at all. Though the spell protecting the journal hadn’t set off the same sort of trap as the dragon figurine, the archmagister had insisted they close the door themselves. Dryd dyne still didn’t open it again, but for the moment, they had the harp, should they wish to get back in.

He had other plans for the long term, now that the cavern walls were vulnerable once more. Digging their way into the corridor or the rooms beyond would no doubt be an arduous and dangerous undertaking. But not, perhaps, an impossible one.

As he no longer wished to risk bringing anything out of the laboratory, Arun’s intention was to eventually annex it as a working part of the magistery. He’d engaged three engineers from the minelands to the west, under the strictest conditions of secrecy, to draw up plans to expand the hidden corridor and, more importantly, carve out a door that wasn’t enchanted and could never lock them out again.

It was the arrival of these engineers that gave Griffin a new trail to follow, after days (or weeks, depending on where one started the counting) of floundering. Holly summoned him to the archmagister’s chambers shortly after Arun had welcomed the men and seen them settled at The Dark Dragon.

As soon as Griffin came through the door, Arun gestured proudly at a plush sofa facing the hearth, upholstered in velvet the color of iron. “What do you think? I had it made in the village. I only just brought it back with me. Or rather, I had the apprentice boys bring it back.”

“It looks comfortable.”

“It is, but more to the point, it’s long. Now both Holly and I can sit by the fire without fighting over the best chair. One of those apprentices I mentioned had the idea for the color—hides her hair better than the blue I asked for. Go on and try it.”

The part about sharing with Holly was certainly functioning as intended. As soon as Griffin sat, she jumped up beside him and settled down for a nap, half stretched over his lap. He didn’t find the whole arrangement quite so roomy as the archmagister had suggested.

Arun handed him a mug of mead, though it was a bit early in the day for it, before serving himself and taking a nearby armchair. “One of the engineers—Davin’s his name—comes from Karacspire. Do you know it?”

Griffin squinted at nothing in particular as he visualized the map of the mountains that hung in one of the battlemage hall’s classrooms. “Mining village, west of here?”

“About two days on foot almost due west, yes. According to Davin, two of the villagers are saying they saw a dragon a week or so ago.”

Griffin started to lean forward, then sat back again at an impatient grunt from Holly. “What color?”

“They can’t say for sure,” Arun said. “It was dark, but they believe black. They thought he was carrying a sheep, so if it was Fendrath, that might explain why he wasn’t cloaked.”

“Where was he?”

“Going into an old mine, quite a distance away from the working ones. A distance away from anything, as I understand it. It was abandoned thirty years ago, after an accident brought most of it down on two dozen men.”

“And nobody has gone in there since this dragon sighting, to investigate?” Griffin found that difficult to believe, but Arun waved the question away.

“It’s unstable and unsafe at the best of times. To say nothing of haunted, as rumor would have it. All of that can only be made worse by a dragon. Nobody’s gone near it.”

Griffin chuckled. “Strange times we’ve found ourselves in, when I consider the dragon more likely than the ghosts.” He ran his knuckles across his chin. “Hunting a day’s journey away from here, eating mutton. It all fits with what we know of Fendrath.”

“You’re the only one who’s been able to talk to him. And he’s never shown any desire to hurt you.” Arun sighed. “I won’t deceive you, it’s still plenty dangerous. But Fendrath took Duncan, and Duncan must be found. Now more than ever. If he’s still alive, he almost certainly knows more about this so-called boon. Whichever dragon he was serving must have given him some idea of what to look for.”

“What makes you think he’ll share that with us?” Griffin couldn’t keep the resentment from his voice. “When he watched children suffer for weeks, and claimed to know nothing all the while?”

Arun’s face hardened. “Because this time, I’ll use more unpleasant methods of questioning than an inkwell, if I have to. Meanwhile, the only thing we know about the boon is that we require dragon blood to unlock it. Which would suggest that we require a dragon. Perhaps you can arrange some sort of alliance with Fendrath.”

Griffin’s jaw went slack. “You’re proposing a partnership with Fendrath?”

“Yes, that surprised me too,” Arun said with a faint smile. “But better him than Orovont, and at the moment, those seem to be the only two choices. In any case, my sister’s been pressing for an alliance all along. And putting you forth as the Eyrdish ambassador to dragons.”

“She mentioned something of the sort, when she was here. As did the king.”

“I suppose I’ve come around to their way of thinking. If this thing of Mithrin’s was as instrumental in conquering the dragons as he claimed, and Adalant has sent her brother to find it now, then the redwings are arming themselves for war. We have to find some way to prepare ourselves. Whatever that might take.”

Griffin thought of the last time he’d seen Fendrath, how contemptuously the dragon had spoken of friendship. They would need more than a mutual enemy to bond them together. “We may need his blood, but what can we offer him in return?”

“He’s found uses for us so far. If he prefers to remain in the shadows and out of red fire until this boon is secured, then we’ll go and get it for him.” Arun drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “As I see it, the only thing less likely than getting dragon blood through cooperation is getting it through violence. Cooperation must at least be tried first.”

Griffin nodded. “When do you want me to leave?”

“As soon as possible. Tracks are best followed while they’re fresh. I’d suggest taking Deryn with you. She and Ash can help with searching and tracking, and she can communicate with us here. Perhaps a contriver, now that they’re all back from Narinore. Anyone else you’d like. I’d advise keeping the number small, though. Should you—”

The archmagister stopped speaking, brow creased. “Why do you still look surprised? Are you still stuck on that alliance bit?”

“No.” Griffin couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just sort of … astonishing, really, to be sitting here, being told to choose a team. To lead a team. You’ve made a pastime of threatening to dismiss me for not staying out of everyone’s way. Now you’re giving me permission to order those same people around.”

“I don’t believe I ever actually threatened to dismiss you. But if you want to hear me say that I’m sorry, and that you’ve proved yourself, I’m happy to do so. I’m sorry. You’ve proved yourself.”

The last part was delivered with such sincerity, Griffin felt a bit guilty. “I was only making a joke. You apologized already, after I burned the book.”

Arun fell silent, looking not at Griffin, but into the fire. After a moment he said, “Have you ever wondered why I was so determined to let you stay on, all these years? Why I made a magister of you?”

Griffin snorted before he could stop himself. “Daily, at the least, sir.”

“We had a kennel mistress here, before you came. She never made it past her third, perhaps fourth year of schooling, but she was the best kennel mistress Pendralyn’s ever seen.”

Griffin watched the shadows play across the archmagister’s face, and wondered whether she hadn’t been more than that. “What happened to her?”

“Lost. During the war.” Arun waved his hand past his eyes, as if he could push the sadness from them. “The point is, I’ve never believed that magical ability has the slightest relationship to either character or general usefulness. But perhaps I needed a reminder.” He met Griffin’s eye again. “I’m sorry. You’ve proved yourself.”

Griffin’s face heated, and he became very occupied with scratching Holly’s ears. “Of course, sir. No need.”

“Well, then. Now that that’s out of the way.” Arun grinned. “Go and tend to this dragon for me, will you?”

* * *

Griffin’s delight at being entrusted with a quest of great import lasted roughly three hours into the first day of the journey.

That was how long it took him to consider, in more detail than he previously had, some of the more practical elements of questing. The first being that he was almost certainly grossly unqualified for it. He was a big man, and strong, but the life of a scholar was a relatively soft one.

At least he was fairly skilled at bow hunting. But he was far from expert with the axe at his hip. The last time he’d trained with a weapon master was before he was rejected as a potential battlemage in his third-year trials. Any trouble they met was unlikely to get much of the same in return from him.

And though he’d wandered the slopes around the magistery many times through the years, he was no more a mountaineer than he was a soldier. Pendralyn had been a secret when most of the current roads were made; few of them passed it, and none of those led west. They would be obliged to make their slow way through wilderness for a good part of this first day, just to meet the road they needed. Even then, the walking might not become much easier. The land to the west only grew higher and rockier.

He could only imagine how conspicuously he would be huffing and puffing by this time tomorrow. Already he was beginning to tire, as they clambered over yet another rise, thick with stone and brush. And despite the cold, he was beginning to sweat beneath his coat.

The sweat brought about a final unpleasant realization: he was about to spend days largely unwashed, in the close company of others. Not to mention stealing away into the woods to attend to personal matters. He didn’t like to think of himself as fussy, but the fact must occasionally be faced that he was.

There were five in their (his) party, six if he counted Ash. There’d been no question that Deryn and her hound would come. And with Deryn, Nott, who had also once communicated with Fendrath, long ago as a boy. Magister Wade had volunteered, and since Griffin wanted a contriver along, he’d had no objection.

Then Calys had insisted that she should come as well, arguing that a battlemage was sure to be useful on any adventure. In her case, Griffin simply hadn’t known how to say no. It made him uneasy, being in command of a group that included his boss. He could only hope she wouldn’t fluster him.

Fluster you? Eyrdri’s teeth, you might attempt to grow the tiniest bit of spine in that hulking back.

Griffin immediately decided his inner voice was right to be irritated. It wasn’t as though they were crossing the sea. It was a two-day hike. If he was determined to be anxious, he ought to save it for what they might find when they reached their destination.

“Can we pause a moment?” Deryn sounded thoroughly winded. Without waiting for an answer, she climbed onto a wide, flat rock, already free of snow thanks to the sunshine, and sat with her legs dangling over the edge.

“All right, then.” Griffin glanced up at the sun, then whistled ahead for Wade. Their agreed-upon signal was meant to imitate a snowspur’s call, though he wasn’t very good at it. “It’s about time for lunch.”

“That wasn’t why I asked, but it’s a good idea.” Deryn pulled a bowl from her pack and filled it from her waterskin. “I wanted to take a moment to concentrate. See if I can find some birds to help Wade with the scouting. Here, Ash.” Ash jumped onto the rock and lapped enthusiastically at the bowl, spilling as much as he drank.

Calys, cheeks red with exertion, stopped and took a long drink from her own waterskin. “I certainly won’t object to a bit of food and rest.”

“Nor I.” Nott sat beside Deryn (unlike hers, his feet touched the ground), then set a glass jar that looked to be filled with candle wax on the rock between them. A moment later, a little fire was burning inside it—far hotter than a little fire had any right to be. Griffin could feel it from where he stood. It gave off no smoke.

“Thank Eyrdri for sages.” Calys took off her gloves and splayed her fingers over the jar.

“I thought the birds wouldn’t tell you anything,” Griffin said to Deryn. “At least, not about dragons.”

“The birds around Pendralyn won’t, no. And don’t think I haven’t been a bit hurt by that. I’ve been friendly with most of them since they were babies. But I suppose they’re scared, poor things. If Fendrath’s been hiding in Karacspire, I’m sure the birds there will be much the same.” Deryn shrugged as she handed Ash a bit of jerky, then found an apple for herself. “But out here, in the in-between, who knows? He can’t have every bird he happens to pass working for him, can he?”

“Resting already?” Laughing, Wade hopped down from a shelf of rock to the west. He’d been moving faster than the rest of them all day, scouting ahead, doubling back, looking for any tracks that might be of interest. Yet his angular, amiable face showed no signs of weariness. “Honestly, I’m ten years older than any of you, at least. You’re soft, is what you are.”

“Deryn wants to try to communicate with some of the local birds,” Calys said with a sniff.

“Though we are soft,” Nott added. He took a bundle out of his pack, and pulled back the cloth to reveal a mass of somewhat squashed honey cakes. “And we like our comforts. Shall I pass these around?”

“I’ve got some spiced cider to go with them.” Griffin withdrew a flask from his inside pocket, then gave it a small shake. “Though by the feel of it, I drank a good portion on the way up that last ridge.”

While they ate their cold meal of hard cheese, coppernuts, and apples (along with one honey cake each, washed down with a gulp or two of cider), Deryn occasionally placed a hand on Ash’s head and closed her eyes. But she volunteered nothing about her progress, and Griffin didn’t ask.

Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have been quite so startled by the sudden cacophony of whistles, shrieks, and sharp cries. Distant, but coming closer.

Ash whined. Griffin looked from the sky to the hound.

He’d seen a blackhound tremble like that once before.

Deryn jumped off the rock. “I’m afraid the dragon that’s coming is not the one we’re looking for!”

Griffin had only a second to decide what to do, but that was a second longer than he needed. He was in no way prepared to meet the redwing. Especially not out here, in the wilderness, with only four magicians. “Wade!” he called over the increasing din. “Can you cloak us?”

Nott extinguished his fire jar. Everyone huddled together on the ground, pressed against the rock, forming a tight knot to help Wade do his work.

The sky darkened. A screeching throng passed overhead. Goshawks, snowspurs, crossbills. Even crows and ravens, who were said to fear nothing. Griffin’s pulse thrummed in his ears, almost louder than the birds.

Ash whined again, his breath hot against Griffin’s neck.

Quiet! The word came unbidden into Griffin’s mind, in a voice not his own. Everyone be quiet. I believe hearing is a dragon’s best sense. Don’t even let your heart beat too loudly, if you can help it.

Nott. Griffin had nearly forgotten the sage’s uncanny ability to send his thoughts into even nonmagical people’s heads.

A moment later, another cry rang out, carrying clearly over the sound of the strange flock, which had mostly passed now. And Griffin understood what Nack had meant, when he said Orovont’s voice sounded like blood.

It was all Griffin could do to keep still, hoping that if he did, if they all did, Wade’s cloaking spell would hide them. And if not, that they might find some protection in the shield he assumed Calys was casting around them. Battlemage shields had fended off dragon breath during the war. But the dragons had been mordrakes then, corrupted and by all accounts less powerful.

Griffin’s throat burned; he couldn’t seem to get enough air. Someone was pressing up against his side. Deryn. She was shaking. A sharp odor rose up around them, and warmth seeped through the knees of Griffin’s trousers—Ash had lost control of his bladder.

Within seconds of the dragon’s call came an abundance of cracking and creaking, as the low-flying beast skimmed the tops of the trees. Griffin’s party held their breath as one. A shadow passed over them, and a warm breeze.

When it seemed the dragon would keep flying past, Griffin chanced one glance, moving his head as little as possible, then straining his eyes upward. He caught only a glimpse of swishing, horned tail, and leathery wings beyond it. Both bloodred, like wounds against the blue sky.

The travelers remained as they were for several minutes, until Deryn stood, wiping snow from her trousers, and breathed, “He’s gone.”

Wade snorted. “Not gone enough, for my taste.”

18

“The Bright Badger?” Wade laughed at the worn, chipped sign that depicted what must have been a badger, though it more closely resembled a lump of charcoal. “Now there’s a good joke.”

“Perhaps it’s not meant to be a joke,” said Griffin. “Perhaps the owner is simply mad.” Though the steady rain and leaden clouds no doubt skewed his impression, he thought Karacspire was the dreariest place he’d ever seen. And this dilapidated tavern—it looked far too small to qualify as an inn—was perhaps the dreariest part of it.

“You go on inside,” Deryn said. “I’m going to take Ash for a walk and see if he senses anything of Duncan. It’s easier to get him to seek out a magister than a dragon. He doesn’t much want to find the latter, I don’t think.”

“Now? In this?” Griffin wiped rain from his eyes. “Can’t be very good conditions for tracking, and it’s getting dark, besides. You can at least eat first, can’t you?”

Deryn shook her head. “You would think I’ve exerted myself plenty today, with all the walking we’ve done already, but I need more. I’ve been doing too much magic.”

Griffin didn’t doubt it. She’d been casting almost constantly since their near encounter with Orovont the day before. The birds weren’t as loyal to the redwing as they were to the black, possibly because the former did not refrain from eating them in exchange for their services. But they feared him, and were willing to tell Deryn very little. Only that he’d passed over this part of the mountains on more than one occasion, and more frequently in recent days.

But one thing Griffin’s party had seen with their own eyes: Orovont had been flying east. Toward Pendralyn.

They’d immediately sent a warning to the magistery, and Nott continued to communicate with Lawfric regularly, the last time not an hour ago. Thus far, all remained quiet back home. If Orovont was near Pendralyn, he hadn’t shown himself.

It was time to concern themselves instead with whether Fendrath had indeed shown himself here.

“Stay in town,” Griffin said to Deryn. “And if either of you senses a dragon—of any color—don’t try to chase him down on your own. Wait until we’re all together.” He waited for her nod before turning to follow the others into the tavern.

It was slightly less dismal inside, where the musty smell and clattering rain were somewhat balanced out by a large fire. A couple arguing across the table closest to the hearth were the only customers.

The proprietor, a man with little hair and even less manners, showed them to the sole room he had to offer, a miserable garret with a single straw mattress and an odor that suggested rodents in residence. He charged Griffin double what it was worth—in advance—and seemed to consider including an armful of moldy blankets in the price an act of generosity.

When the bargain had been struck, Wade pulled Griffin aside. “Deryn isn’t the only one who needs to tend to her balance. I’ll stay up here and make it as comfortable as I can, before I join you.”

That would mean making the bed and doing some cleaning, if a broom or rag might be found. A contriver’s magic was neither physical nor mental, but based in imagination. As a consequence, balancing it required mundane chores—the less fun the better. Griffin took one last look around the room, then clapped Wade on the shoulder. “I wager you’ll be the best-balanced magician in Eyrdon before long.”

The rest of them went back down to the common room, where they were served the thinnest, and easily the worst, rabbit soup Griffin had ever tasted. But it was the first hot meal they’d had since Pendralyn, and they ate eagerly. The brown bread, at least, was passably good.

“Name’s Cranstitch, if you’ll be needing anything else,” the tavern keeper said, his tone clearly conveying that needing anything else would be unwise.

His grudging welcome warmed considerably when Deryn and Ash came in. He followed them to the corner table where he’d installed the travelers. “Is that a blackhound, miss?”

“It is.” Deryn raised her brows at him as she took the chair beside Nott. Ash flopped down at her feet. “I trust you’ll make him welcome here.”

“I only ask because I’ve never seen one before. Heard tales, of course.” Cranstitch narrowed his close-set eyes, looking the others over. “I suppose that would make you lot magicians?”

“Yes,” Calys said, before Griffin could answer. “From Pendralyn. We were directed here by Davin, do you know him?”

“Course I know him. He said he was going to the magistery. Invited by the archmagister himself, he said. Only half believed him.”

“He is indeed helping the archmagister,” said Griffin. “Though I can’t tell you much about what he’s working on. He told us you have some witnesses in the village, who may have seen a dragon.”

Cranstitch made a noise that sounded a bit like he meant to spit. “Lotta and Byron. Waste of your time, coming to look for sense from those two. But seeing as you’re here now, I wonder if you’d show me a spell? It’ll be worth a nice spiced mead to go with that soup, free of charge. Never seen any magic, myself. Lived here in Karacspire all my life, and the only ones we ever had with magic never came back, after they went east for training.”

“I knew someone from Karacspire.” Wade came bounding down the stairs, smiling at Cranstitch. “During the war. He came to Pendralyn at the same time I did, to learn magic to fight the demon with. Neither of us was much older than twenty. Young for men, perhaps, but too old to be learning magic. He did very well, though.”

Cranstitch nodded. “That would be Auden, I suppose.”

“Yes. Biggest ears I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because you never saw his brother. And that would be Byron, who we were just speaking of.”

“I hope you’ll tell us more about him.” Wade offered Cranstitch a dimpled smile. “But first task first. I heard you say you’d like to see some magic.” A moment later, the room was filled with swirling dancers in fine clothes.

The little tavern was transformed, not by the trick itself, but by the reaction to it. Cranstitch whooped and cheered. The couple by the fireplace stopped their bickering, first to stare, then to rise and twirl along with the illusions, round and round the room. Cranstitch cheered even louder, clapping his hands in time with nonexistent music until the pair collapsed into their chairs once more. More from laughter than exertion, by the look of it.

As the dancers faded away, Cranstitch turned back to Wade. “Well, thank you for that. I don’t believe I heard your name?”

“Wade.”

“Wade. I’m obliged. We don’t get a lot of whimsy around here, as you can imagine.” Cranstitch sighed, and his sour expression returned. “As for your question, I’ll start by telling you it was one of the mordrakes that got Auden, on the field at Candere. Byron’s been looking for dragons behind every rock and down every hole ever since. Finding them too, when he’s had more than his fill of mead. Which is most nights.” He looked at Calys. “Can’t say I recommend putting your trust in what Byron says.”

Griffin cleared his throat, feeling he ought to be the one directing the conversation. Or at least participating in it. “And Lotta?”

“Worse than her husband, when it comes to drink.” Cranstitch shrugged. “You can talk to the both of them, of course. I don’t doubt they’ll be in here later. But if you get an intelligent word out of either one, I’ll be much surprised. I am surprised that Davin would have sent you all this way on their word.”

“He was being kind,” Wade said. “A colleague of ours was abducted by a black dragon, mad as that may sound, and I’m afraid the trail’s gone cold. We’ll take any information we can get, if I’m honest, and be grateful for it.”

Cranstitch stared at him, looking deeply disappointed. “I’d always heard magicians were smart, but you’re speaking like a fool. Acting like one, too, and I don’t mind telling you so, in case it sets your mind right again.” In one smooth motion, he slid a threadbare towel off his shoulder and snapped it against the tabletop. “If your friend was abducted by a dragon, he was killed by a dragon. There’s no in between. As I would think folks from the magistery would know.”

Griffin coughed again. “We appreciate the advice. You’re almost certainly right, of course. But we’re duty bound to discover this man’s fate, if we can.”

“Ah.” Cranstitch gave him a knowing nod. “Part of the magister code. Well then, I’ll bring you that mead while you wait for Byron and Lotta, and I suppose we’ll see who the biggest fools in the room are then.”

The tavern keeper left them to their dinner. Griffin chewed his bread slowly, watching the rain slide down the small, circular window at his shoulder, wondering whether they would find Fendrath tomorrow. And what would happen if they did. He was supposed to strike an alliance with the dragon, but would a truce need to be struck first? Were they at war with Fendrath already? He’d taken Duncan, after all. Griffin had his theories as to why, but in the absence of confirmation, he couldn’t truly deny that Fendrath had attacked Pendralyn. And he couldn’t predict just how hostile the dragon might be.

Never confuse any exchange of information, or of anything else, between us for friendship. Fendrath’s own words, and no doubt wise advice. Now they meant to propose an exchange in which Fendrath gave them his own blood, and they gave him very little.

Could Griffin really go to him, with such a bargain, and expect not to be set on fire?

Across the table, Deryn and Nott sank into a discussion of whether ravens dreamed, and if so, what about, while on Griffin’s right, Calys and Wade were embroiled in a debate over how Pendralyn might best take advantage of its archmagister being the first known enchanter in a century or more.

If Calys had her way, poor Arun might be forced to live out his days locked in a tower, endlessly journaling his spells (but never taking the time away to actually cast them), until he somehow found the right words that would impart his knowledge to others. Griffin kept his eyes on the window as he listened, and considered whether this might be the true reason Calys had never taken to him: she seemed to believe that anything could be taught, if only the proper method could be found, the proper effort made. Perhaps she thought him lazy.

They’d long since finished their meal—with the exception of Deryn, who was eating only bread and butter, and showed no signs of stopping—when Byron and Lotta came into The Bright Badger. There were perhaps a dozen other villagers there by then, and everyone, with the exception of Cranstitch, called out a greeting. Lotta executed a sloppy curtsy in reply, while Byron hollered a few good-natured insults and clapped a few backs. They didn’t seem to notice the strangers sitting at the table in the corner.

But then, perhaps noticing things was asking too much of them. They’d clearly already begun their evening elsewhere. Byron was a bit wobbly on his feet, and Lotta’s voice was overly loud as she approached the decidedly unpolished bar and called for mead.

“You have some people waiting to talk to you.” Cranstitch handed each of them a mug and jerked his head toward Griffin’s table. “Magicians.”

“Is that so?” Byron squinted in their direction before shuffling over. “Magicians. Assume that means Pendralyn. Davin told you what we saw, then?”

“He did,” Griffin agreed. “Perhaps we could buy you that mead, and you can tell us about it.”

Both agreed that this was a splendid idea. Griffin called for a pitcher for the table—Lotta had already finished most of her first mug in two swallows—while their new guests pulled two chairs over and squeezed in between Deryn and Nott.

Lotta and Byron weren’t old, but they seemed seasoned by hard wear. Both had more than their share of lines around the mouth and eyes, and Lotta’s face had the puffed, pink look of a person who’d been drinking too much for too many years. Byron had the crooked nose of a frequent brawler, and one of his enormous ears was missing a good chunk from the top. Perhaps he was an angry drunk.

“Now then,” said Griffin. “Perhaps you could tell us what happened.”

“We were having a bit of a picnic,” said Byron.

“As we like to, from time to time,” added Lotta. “We’re social enough, of an evening, but Cranstitch charges too much for his fare. Sometimes we have to get started along ourselves before we come in here, just to afford our fill.”

“You’ve never had your fill, as everyone well knows!” Cranstitch barked from behind the bar.

“Perhaps I would, if you didn’t water it down!” Lotta shouted back.

“You were having a picnic?” Nott blinked from one to the other. “At night, in the winter?”

Lotta raised her chin. “We’ve a right to enjoy the outdoors.”

“Bit stuffy in our cottage,” said Byron. “We like the air.”

One of the other villagers, a man who rivaled Griffin in size, let out a booming laugh and rose to approach the table. “Come now, Byron, the man can’t be expected to understand your peculiar expressions.” He slapped Byron’s shoulder and winked at Nott. “Picnicking is their polite way of saying they were smoking.”

Nott cocked his head. “Smoking?”

“Pipes,” the beefy man said. “Darnsweed. It … er … helps the mead along, if you catch my meaning.”

“You’re very misinformed on matters of herbs and healing, Bavol,” said Byron. “Darnsweed happens to be good for the heart.”

“And for my rheumatism,” added Lotta.

Deryn scoffed, most uncharacteristically, and got up to ask for more bread. She didn’t have to go far; everyone in the inn, Cranstitch included, had begun to gather round now. Most of them were smirking, though a few of the more well-mannered ones tried to hide it.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Griffin said to Lotta. “But the cold can’t be good for your rheumatism, can it? Why not smoke in your cottage?”

“Not going to smoke pipes in front of our children, are we?” Lotta sniffed and straightened her spine. “Makes them cough. What kind of parents do you take us for?”

Griffin gave a noncommittal grunt in reply, and did his best not to grimace at the thought of them being any kind of parents.

“Don’t see what difference it makes, why we were out there, anyhow,” said Byron. “The point is, we were out there. Not ten strides from the entrance to the old mine.”

“Well, perhaps twenty,” Lotta interjected.

“Half a mile, at most,” Byron said. “And we saw it in the sky. A great big dragon, carrying a crying sheep. I know it was a sheep, because of that cry. It was awful.”

“Pitiful.” Lotta shook her head. “Don’t know why the cruel beast didn’t kill it first.”

“Did you see what color the dragon was?” Griffin asked.

“From half a mile away?” Byron looked put upon. “Asking a lot of a man with infirmities.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” said Lotta. “But it was dark outside. Black, would be my guess.”

“No chance it was red?” Calys asked.

“Always a chance,” said Byron.

“Can never be entirely sure, on a winter night,” Lotta agreed.

Griffin thought he was beginning to see Cranstitch’s point. “And what did the dragon do?”

“Circled us,” Byron said.

“Roared!” Lotta added.

“Swept down low over our heads,” Byron went on. “I thought it might roast us.”

“What did it look like?” Deryn asked, as she set a fresh loaf of bread on the table and resumed her seat.

“Horns,” said Byron, and his wife nodded. “Curled horns.”

Deryn arched a brow. “You could see its horns, but not what color it was?”

“Told you, it was too dark to tell,” said Lotta.

“But not too dark to see its horns,” Deryn pressed.

“It was black,” said Byron. “We already said it was black, didn’t we?”

“Could have been blue,” Lotta said.

Byron pursed his lips. “Never heard of a blue dragon.”

“Red, then.”

Griffin pinched the bridge of his nose. “What happened then?”

“Then it left,” said Lotta.

Deryn crossed her arms. “Why would it bother to roar at you, and then just fly away?”

“Because it makes a better story,” Bavol said with a snicker.

Lotta shot him a glare. “Perhaps it just wanted its dinner.”

“Who can understand the ways of dragons?” Byron asked with a shrug.

“Important thing is, it let us be,” said Lotta. “Flew through the mine entrance.”

“Those doors have been gone for years,” Byron added.

“Rotted off.”

“Taken down, I think.”

“It just went right inside, like the mine was its den.”

“All right,” said Griffin, making a concerted effort to relax his jaw. “Did anything happen after that?”

“The shout.”

“That poor child.”

“Child?” Griffin sat up straighter. “What child?”

“We were just staring at each other,” said Byron. “Asking one another if we’d really just seen a dragon.”

Lotta leaned forward and whispered, “Then the sheep stopped crying.”

“Abruptly.” Byron gave Griffin a meaningful nod.

“But then there was another cry,” said Lotta.

“A scream,” Byron corrected. “A child’s.”

“A what?” Scowling, Cranstitch set a fresh pitcher of mead just out of Lotta’s reach. “First I’ve heard of that. And I’ve heard this story near every night since it happened.”

“Gets more dramatic every time they tell it,” said Bavol.

“And longer,” someone else said.

“Excuse me.” Calys reached across the table for the pitcher. “This scream. You’re certain it was a child’s?”

“Well, a person’s, anyway,” said Byron.

“Definitely human,” Lotta agreed.

“Sounded like he was being eaten.”

“Or perhaps just scared.”

“Startled, even.”

“Could’ve been another sheep, I suppose.”

“Or a great many cats.”

Bavol snorted. “Did I mention that darnsweed can produce the occasional hallucination?”

“Addles the brain, more like,” Cranstitch muttered.

“And you didn’t go any closer?” Griffin asked. “To try to find out whether it was a person or not?”

Both looked scandalized by the suggestion.

“My rheumatism.”

“My heart isn’t good.”

“The ghosts.”

“Can’t breathe the air down there, with my lungs.”

“But we told Davin.”

“Told him you saw a dragon, you mean,” said Cranstitch. “Never mentioned anyone calling for help.”

“We don’t know that he was calling for help,” Byron protested.

“Only that he—or it—was calling,” said Lotta.

“But we told Davin the dragon went into the mine.”

“And that it had a sheep.”

“And the rest of us agreed that Davin should tell the Archmagister of Pendralyn,” Bavol said, with a wink at Griffin. “Matters of dragons are best left to magicians.”

Cranstitch scoffed. “And what about matters of fancy? Who are they best left to?”

“To these five, I suppose.” Bavol looked down at Ash and squatted to rub the hound’s belly. “Apologies. Six.”

An hour later, Griffin’s party crammed themselves into their room and played a round of knife-paper-stone for the mattress. (It went to Nott, who gave it to Deryn, meaning it went mostly to Ash.) The rest of them claimed spots on the floor, which thanks to Wade was at least slightly cleaner than the ground they’d slept on the night before.

Wade stretched and yawned with a bit more drama than was probably strictly necessary. “We’re really going to pursue this, I suppose, even after meeting those two? Swooping and roaring at them, indeed.”

“Of course we’re going to pursue it,” said Deryn. “We’ve come all this way.”

“Of course we are,” Griffin repeated. “But not because we’ve come all this way.”

“The dragon had horns,” said Nott. “Curled ones.”

Griffin pointed at him. “Exactly. And he was carrying a sheep. Fendrath’s favorite food.”

“And that scream …” said Calys.

“Cranstitch said this was the first time they mentioned that,” Deryn said. “Likely they made it up on the spot.”

“Perhaps,” Calys agreed. “But if there’s even a chance it was Duncan, we have to investigate.”

“And we will,” said Griffin. “I have no doubt that Byron and Lotta imagined half of what they saw, and embellished the rest. But there’s at least one shred of truth in their tale, and that’s enough.”

He blew out the lantern and settled back against his cloak, which he’d wadded up as a pillow. “Get some sleep. It’s entirely possible that I’ll be introducing you to a dragon in the morning.”

“Lovely,” Wade said. “Let’s just hope it’s the right one.”

19

Wade crouched and ran his fingers over the rubble that blocked the tunnel. They came back thick with dark dust, almost black. Few of the gaps in the tumbled rocks were big enough to even fit a hand through. “This is no illusion. And I don’t see how anyone could have gotten past it. I’d say we’ve reached a dead end.”

Calys sighed and looked around, though there wasn’t much to see. They’d come no more than a quarter mile into the mine, through a single sloping tunnel, before reaching the collapse. The path crossed no others, and there wasn’t so much as an abandoned cart or broken pickaxe to break the emptiness. “I wanted to pursue this as much as anyone, but I’m forced to agree with Cranstitch. Davin never should have sent us here on the word of witnesses like those two.”

“The witnesses were right.” Griffin inhaled deeply. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Can you smell it? A bit like a blackhound who’s been lounging in the sun.”

Deryn shifted the light of her lantern from the cave-in to Ash, who was looking decidedly morose. He’d been reluctant to come into the mine. “I can smell the blackhound, but I don’t know about the sun. We didn’t get much of that this morning.”

“Hot hound,” Griffin said, “mixed with the smell of a thunderstorm.”

“The storm, I believe,” said Nott. “The clouds didn’t look very kindly disposed toward us, did they? There’s definitely a bit of unpleasantness coming.”

Griffin huffed. “Enough about the weather. That’s the smell of dragon.”

“Well, I suppose you would know,” Wade said. “But I can’t imagine where he’d be keeping himself. No sign of the sheep he supposedly brought in here either, you’ll notice. Even if he only came once, looking for a dry spot to enjoy his dinner, surely there’d be blood or bones left behind.”

“Not necessarily. Perhaps he’s a thorough eater.” Griffin could not accept a dead end—literally or figuratively. A horrible night’s sleep, and possibly something a little off in Cranstitch’s soup, had already left him in a foul mood. He couldn’t bear to contemplate the possibility that his whole mission had been wasted time. “Deryn, you say you and Ash didn’t come this far last night?”

She shook her head. “We only walked around the center of town. You told me not to stray too far on my own, remember?”

“Then you weren’t on the other side of the hill, either.”

“Which hill?” Wade asked.

“The one we’re under.” Griffin gestured for everyone to follow him and started back toward the entrance. “Cranstitch tells me there are some abandoned cottages there. Belonging to the deceased miners, I suppose. He did warn me that they’re haunted.”

He walked slowly, examining the stone walls and wooden beams, but he saw nothing that would suggest the presence of either a cantankerous dragon or a treacherous sage who ought to be left to rot where he was. The tunnel grew lighter as they walked; there were no doors at the top, and nothing hindered their exit.

It was raining again, and hard. Griffin raised his face to the torrent and smiled at this one good thing. Let the others complain about it all they liked. He would recognize it for what it was: not snow.

They found the overgrown remnant of what might once have been a path leading around the hill, and trudged along the sodden slope with care. Before long it flattened into a small field, and four sagging cottages came into view.

Deryn put her hand on Ash’s head and said, “Find Duncan for me, if you would.”

Every other time he’d received that command, Ash had given her a doleful, almost offended look, as though she’d said something terribly unfair. This time he sniffed the air, briefly, then trotted off toward the ramshackle buildings. The others followed.

Occasionally Ash veered left or right, investigating the ground or a clump of bushes. But when they reached the cottages, his head snapped up, alert.

Looking around, Griffin could almost believe Cranstitch’s warnings of ghosts. The air felt heavy and unmistakably sad. One of the cottages had collapsed almost entirely, but the other three, all windowless, looked essentially intact. Vines twisted around their rotted boards, perhaps holding them together.

After a moment’s stillness, Ash let out the eerie cry peculiar to his breed, and darted at one of the doors. One thrust of his big paw, and it scraped inward.

“Good boy.” Deryn patted her hound’s head. “Duncan?” she called.

There was no answer but the hammering rain. Yet Ash seemed sure, and blackhounds were rarely wrong on such matters. Griffin’s stomach fluttered as he went in first, the others close behind him.

Ribbons of weak light cascaded down from several cracks and holes in the ceiling, bringing in the rain along with them. The single room looked more like a storage shed than a home, cluttered as it was with barrels and crates. It was dank, awful smelling—and occupied.

Duncan was slumped against the wall, half behind a stack of crates, gnawing at a bone that had long since lost its last vestiges of meat. Though he wasn’t bound or tied, he made no attempt to rise as his rescue party rushed at him. He picked up another bone from the floor and tossed it to Ash. “Hello, hound. Help yourself, if you like.”

Ash sniffed at the offering, whined, and shook himself instead, soaking his companions anew.

“Duncan, are you hurt?” Calys crouched beside him, offering water. “Nott’s with us, he can heal you.”

“No, not hurt.” Duncan’s voice was hoarse. “A bit ill. It’s the cold and damp, you know, and he only gives me raw meat to eat, which I’ve come to believe is decidedly unhealthy. But I have water, as you can see.” He gestured at one of the barrels. Griffin glanced inside and saw that it was half full of what he assumed was water, though it was difficult to see beyond the green film floating on top.

“You can’t be here, though,” Duncan went on. He started to shiver. Or perhaps tremble. “At least, not if you’re real. If I’m imagining you I suppose you can stay, though why I would imagine this particular mix of company is beyond me, I must say. Fevers are strange things. He comes every so often, to bring me food and such. He’s due today. Any moment.”

Calys glanced back at Griffin. “Help me get him up, will you?”

Griffin stepped forward, but not to do as she asked. Instead he leaned over and drew the sword from the sheath on her back, then rested the tip against Duncan’s throat. Duncan’s eyes shot wide. “I won’t, as a matter of fact. Not until he tells us what Mithrin’s boon is.”

Calys gasped, either in shock or outrage, and got to her feet. Duncan sputtered for a moment before any actual words came out. “You idiot! I realize you think Fendrath is your friend, but I don’t think these others will thank you for tarrying here! I’m telling you, he is coming!”

“So let him come,” Griffin said. “I’m here to speak with him, as it happens. Or did you think we only came for you?”

“You’re wrong about him,” Duncan hissed. “He’s cruel. You don’t want to find out just how cruel.”

“Perhaps I’m cruel, as well.” Griffin pressed the point of the sword against the soft flesh of Duncan’s neck. Far too gently to do any damage, but Duncan flattened himself against the wall as though he’d been stabbed in earnest.

“Griffin.” Wade moved as if to get between them.

Griffin shot him a quelling look. “Don’t.”

Duncan snorted, and for a moment his old imperiousness crept into his voice. “This is ridiculous. Calys? Wade? Surely you can tell your oaf to stand down. Which of you is in charge?”

“I’m afraid that task has fallen on the oaf,” Griffin said, and took great satisfaction in watching shock and loathing bloom over Duncan’s face like fungus.

“Not so you could take your revenge!” Calys snapped. “This is not the time for it. He’s clearly ill. He needs help. To be sure he can be of use, if for no other reason.”

“This has nothing to do with revenge.” Griffin looked from Calys and Wade’s disapproving faces, to Nott’s unreadable one. Deryn looked almost amused. He found her eyes easiest to meet as he went on. “At every possible opportunity, this man has lied to us. I will not let him rise from this floor until I hear the truth.”

“And how will you know whether he’s telling it?” Wade asked mildly. “The archmagister doesn’t seem to have had the foresight to send the inkwell with you. Don’t you think it best we take him home?”

“He fooled the inkwell,” Deryn pointed out.

“Yes, so he did.” Nott cocked his head at Duncan. “You did that with dragon blood, I suppose?”

Duncan nodded, and a small, wistful smile flashed across his face. “It multiplies a man’s power by a thousandfold. More. I was simply more powerful than the enchantment.”

Griffin tapped the flat of the sword against Duncan’s cheek. “Well, you haven’t got any power now. I assume it’s worn off in the weeks since, or you’d have started boiling my blood the moment I drew this sword. In fact, you appear to be too weak to defend yourself much at all. Certainly not against me and four magicians. So if you want your freedom, you’ll have to answer my questions. It’s that simple.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I want my freedom. Or whether you want my freedom, for that matter.” Duncan wiped his eyes, then his nose, on his ragged sleeve. “I’m never leaving this place.”

Wade narrowed his eyes. “Now that you mention it, why is that? That flimsy door was barely closed, much less locked. And I’m not certain it’s even wide enough for a dragon to fit through.”

“No, it isn’t,” Duncan agreed. “Fendrath leaves my food just outside. Dead, at least, which I suppose is courteous of him. Still, you’d think he’d cook it for me once in a while. It’s not as though it would take him long.”

“So you walk out to get it, and then what, just come right back in and sit down, like a good prisoner should?” Wade asked. “You aren’t restrained. And you’ve got some fair contrivance skills. Why haven’t you left?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Griffin eyed Duncan with disgust. He hadn’t wanted to believe that his fellow magister was serving Fendrath—more to preserve his opinion of Fendrath than of Duncan—but the evidence seemed overwhelming now. “He isn’t really a prisoner. He came here freely.”

Calys grasped Griffin’s arm. “You don’t know that. I hate what he’s done as much as you do, but we haven’t heard his side. He may have been serving someone else’s purpose unwillingly. Even unwittingly.” Her eyes dropped. “I was.”

Griffin pulled away with an impatient huff. “That’s not the same. You were cursed.”

Duncan’s mouth sagged. “I was too, you know. Though it seems someone lifted that, so I suppose I’m obliged.”

“Griffin lifted it,” said Deryn. “Although I’m surprised you had to wait for him to. Why weren’t you able to resist it on your own, the same as you did the inkwell?”

“Tell me, did any of the others who were cursed seem to realize it? To want to get better? To want anything other than to burn?” Duncan spread his hands. “I was no different. Perhaps Orovont could have cured me, but I’m sure it amused him to watch me suffer. He was very helpful in providing me with burns, though, presumably so the spell wouldn’t interfere with my duties. Dragon fire provided far more relief than any other kind. I’d be almost myself for days afterward.”

Wade crossed his arms. “So you were serving both dragons? Are they in league with one another, or were you playing them against each other?”

“I’ve never served Fendrath,” said Duncan. “I haven’t left here because he will burn Pendralyn to the ground if I do. Just before he kills me.”

“Is that what he told you?” Griffin scoffed. “He’ll do nothing of the sort. He still doesn’t know whether the thing he needs is at Pendralyn. He’s not going to be so overwrought at the loss of you that he’d risk destroying it.”

“I can’t assume that.” Duncan sniffed. “Whatever you might think of me, I wouldn’t let any harm come to the magistery.”

“You let all manner of harm come to the magistery!” Griffin’s shout seemed to shake the little cottage, and he was gratified when Duncan cringed. He supposed the sage was afraid the noise would draw the dragon. Good. Let him be scared. “You orchestrated that harm!”

“That wasn’t permanent harm.” Duncan waved one hand. “The magistery will survive.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Wade stared at Duncan, aghast. “About mutilating children?”

“I didn’t mutilate them!” Duncan protested. “They did that to themselves, didn’t they?”

Before Griffin quite knew what was happening, Deryn had crossed the space between her and Duncan, and slapped his face hard enough to jerk his head sideways.

Nott stepped up beside Deryn, his own fists clenched, though he made no move to strike. Ash, who was normally averse to conflict of any kind, took up position at his mistress’s other side, hackles raised.

Duncan straightened back up again with as much dignity as he could muster, and cast a mournful look down the line of them. “That Griffin would behave so savagely doesn’t surprise me, Deryn, but I thought you were better than that.”

“Did you?” Deryn lifted a brow. “Perhaps that’s because you haven’t seen the scars you left behind. But they’re quite clear in my mind.”

“And mine,” said Wade.

“Mine as well,” Calys said coldly, before turning to Griffin. “Perhaps it’s not quite so important that we hear his side, after all. Perhaps we should simply—”

She was interrupted by a sudden clatter outside, audible even above the constant drumming of the rain on the roof. Duncan squealed. Ash stiffened and growled. The rest of them stilled, staring at one another.

“Griffin,” Wade croaked. “Perhaps we—”

Griffin cut him off with a snort. “It’s not a dragon. Look at Ash.” He gestured at the blackhound, who was not cowering in the least.

“No, not a dragon.” Deryn closed her eyes and stood quietly, while the others waited. After a minute she said, “The snowspurs say the wind blew a branch against the side of the cottage next door, that’s all. More will come down, perhaps entire trees. The storm is kicking up. They’re off to find themselves some shelter, and they suggest we find a better one than we’ve got.”

Griffin clucked at Wade. “And anyway, in case you’ve forgotten, we want to see Fendrath.”

“Fools,” Duncan muttered. “He’ll kill you if he catches you here. And me along with you.”

“Well then, perhaps you ought to move the conversation along.” Griffin handed Calys back her sword, if for no other reason than to help him resist the temptation to use it. But he noted she didn’t sheathe it. “What can you tell us about Mithrin’s boon?”

After a few seconds of glowering that produced no results, Duncan heaved a resigned sigh. “Not very much, as it happens. I was told only the minimum required to execute my duties.”

“Which were what?” Griffin asked.

“To get into the laboratory, for a start. At first I was told to search for vials.”

“Really?” Nott’s brow creased. “Vials?”

“Or flasks, bottles, that sort of thing,” said Duncan. “A potion of some sort, I assume.”

“Mithrin’s boon is a potion?” Calys glanced around at the others before frowning back at Duncan. “How can a potion have defeated the dragons?”

Griffin was thinking much the same thing, but he remained silent, one hand fidgeting against his coat, waiting for Duncan to continue. He was surprised to find that his pulse had sped up. Not because he feared Fendrath’s return, but because finally, after all this time, perhaps they were about to get some answers.

“He wouldn’t tell me what he wanted specifically, of course.” Duncan tipped his head back against the wall. “I never did find any vials. There were several jars, but none of them held any liquids. So I started searching the journal, hoping there would be some reference in there to whatever Orovont wanted. Perhaps even instructions on how to make it, if it was indeed a potion.”

“That sounds like a lot of time spent searching.” Deryn gave Duncan a measuring look. “The night Griffin and I found the corridor. It wasn’t the same night you found it, was it?”

Duncan offered her a faint smile. “Did you think you were the only one with any command of Ancient Eyrdish? It didn’t take me more than a week after the tremor to work out the password.”

“But that was the night you found the book,” Griffin said. “I saw the fire in your eyes. Same as I saw it in Deryn’s, shortly after she was cursed.”

“Got to her, did it?” Duncan didn’t look the least bit sorry to hear that Deryn had been cursed. “Yes, that was indeed the night I found the book. It seems that was an unintended consequence. Or benefit, depending on your perspective. Orovont didn’t realize Mithrin had kept it, though he was quite amused when he found out.”

“Yes, all dragons seem to find the curse extremely funny,” Griffin muttered.

“But then the two of you had to botch everything,” Duncan went on. “You locked the door, and worse, you made people suspicious of me. The archmagister thought I didn’t know how closely he was watching me. He does think himself clever. But I knew. I had to bide my time, until I could put his suspicions to rest. Happily, the inkwell provided me with that opportunity. I went back into the cavern the very day I passed Arun’s test.”

“By then Orovont had the harp,” Griffin guessed. “He can’t have had it from the start, or you’d have used it the first time. But he acquired it somewhere along the way.”

“So you know about the harp, then,” said Duncan.

“We used it ourselves.” Griffin waved impatiently. “It’s a long tale.”

“Does it end with Mithrin’s journal burning in your hands?” Duncan laughed when he saw the confirmation in Griffin’s face. “I’m not surprised Orovont manipulated you into destroying it. I believe that was his intent from the moment I told him it was enchanted. We knew what would happen, if it was taken from the room.”

“How?” Wade demanded. “No contriver can penetrate Mithrin’s spells—”

“I’ll wager they can if they drink dragon blood,” Griffin interrupted, his chest swelling with resentment that everything had been so easy for Duncan. Dragon blood. Instant magic to solve every problem. “That’s his answer to most everything.”

“It’s not just my answer. It’s the answer.” Duncan’s eyes grew distant. Ecstatic. “I didn’t want to serve him, you know. Not at first. But once I felt it, once I knew …” He stopped abruptly and looked directly at Griffin. “You know,” he said softly, his voice nearly lost to the rain.

“Know what?” Griffin asked, though he doubted he’d have much patience for the answer.

“What it’s like.” Duncan tilted his head, a nasty smile playing at his lips. “To yearn for power, I mean.”

Griffin resisted—narrowly—the urge to kick him. “I wouldn’t hurt children for it.”

“No?” Duncan shrugged. “Perhaps not.”

“So you caused the tremor with dragon blood,” Griffin said, once he’d unclenched his teeth enough to speak. “You fooled the inkwell with it. And I’ve no doubt that it made you the best contriver that ever was, for the hour you needed to detect the trap on the journal.”

“And what a lovely hour it was,” Duncan said with a sigh. “I couldn’t overcome any of the traps in that room, but I could at least tell they were there. And yes, after you set one of them off, Orovont lent me the harp to get back in. I was to use it at my first opportunity. And this time, I was not to fail him.” He swallowed, looking a bit sick. “You asked for the truth? You can certainly believe that my life depended on finding something that would make him happy.”

“And did you?” Griffin asked.

“I don’t know that I’d say happy. I doubt he’s capable of happiness. But he seemed satisfied, anyway, when I brought him what I’d found. I suppose I’m fortunate he didn’t kill me the moment I did, so I couldn’t tell anyone else. But perhaps he thought I might still be of more use.”

Duncan reached for the waterskin Calys had left at his side, and took a long drink before going on. “Or perhaps he would have killed me, soon. Perhaps Fendrath actually saved me by taking me from the kennels that night. He keeps telling me he did, the whoreson.”

“Whoreson?” Nott scratched his chin. “Do you suppose dragons can be whores?”

“It was in the journal, I assume,” Griffin said, ignoring Nott. “The thing that made him happy. So happy he had to make sure we would never see it.”

“It was,” Duncan agreed. “Although it wasn’t easy to find. Orovont had theorized weeks before that there might be more written about the boon than we could see. The blank pages started immediately afterward, if you recall. Or supposedly blank.”

“Invisible writing?” Calys’s eyes grew bright at the possibility. “Revealed by what?”

“Let me guess,” Griffin grumbled. “More dragon blood.”

“Dragon spit, as it happens,” said Duncan. “It seems Mithrin used all sorts of dragon bits, in his various doings. The writing was visible only while the page remained wet with dragon spit. A small vial of which I was lent, along with the harp.”

“And what did this writing say?” Nott asked.

“I told you, he wouldn’t tell me. It was written in runes. The same as the ones on the walls.” Duncan sneered at Calys. “The ones you were so miserly about letting anyone else study.”

“Can you remember them?” she asked sharply. “Could you draw them?”

“Not all of them, certainly. But a few. I gave the only copy I made to Orovont, of course. I wasn’t fool enough to defy him by making another. He would have guessed.” Duncan shuddered. “He would have punished me. But since then I’ve been … encouraged to remember them. Inspired, you might say.”

“Fendrath,” said Griffin. “He made you draw them for him. That was why he took you. He knew you’d been to see Orovont, that you’d found something. He needed to know what.”

Pushing past Griffin to kneel before Duncan, Calys roughly folded the sage’s fingers around the hilt of a dagger, then dragged a broken crate lid in front of him. “Draw them for me.”

Duncan spent several minutes scraping runes into the soft wood. Calys spent several minutes after that peering at them. It took so long that Nott and Deryn sat on the floor to have a snack, and Ash fell sound asleep.

Finally Calys looked up at them, face pale. “I can’t translate all of it. I may be able to do more when we get back, when I have my notes.”

Griffin crouched beside her. “But judging by your face, you translated enough.”

“Dragon fire. Or at least, both dragon and fire.” Calys pointed at the board. “And this is drink, I’m quite sure of that, the tale Wulfric sent had a lot of drinking in halls.” She ran her finger down to another rune. “Tongue? Or perhaps tooth. And this is tower, though I don’t know how that fits in. I thought this was wind, but it could very well be breath.”

Griffin shook his head. “So what are you saying? Tower of dragon fire? Drink dragon fire? Breathe dragon fire?” His stomach clenched as he realized how the latter two might fit together. He gaped at Calys. “No.”

She nodded gravely in return. “I think Mithrin created a potion of dragon fire.”

20

Dragon fire.

Alone in the dingy room that had been Duncan’s prison, Griffin huddled inside his coat and paced back and forth across the rotted floor planks, the words rolling over and over in his mind. The rain had turned to sleet overnight, then snow, then finally stopped entirely, leaving the cottage silent and cold. The morning light breaking through the roof offered no warmth, and no illumination for his muddled thoughts.

A potion of dragon fire.

He could scarcely credit such a thing. Surely Calys had translated wrong.

But perhaps not. In a world where dragon spit could reveal hidden writing and dragon blood could give the power to resist enchantments and move the very earth, perhaps it was possible to make a potion that would give its imbiber the ability to breathe dragon fire.

What color fire? For how long?

At what cost?

Perhaps Mithrin’s journal would have answered those questions. But Mithrin’s journal, thanks in part to Griffin, was gone. Duncan could almost certainly be forced to remember more of the runes he’d seen; he would be susceptible to the inkwell now. But ultimately, the only ones who really knew anything about this weapon the dragons sought were the dragons themselves.

Though why they would seek such a potion, Griffin couldn’t imagine. Was there something special about the fire, that improved upon their own? Or was their goal merely to keep the humans from getting it, to be sure no men would ever again become their equals in a fight?

It couldn’t be the latter. If that were the case, Fendrath would have no reason to fear Orovont. They could unite in pursuit of a clear threat to both of them. Or, if their hatred ran too deep for that, at least not interfere with one another.

Yet Fendrath did fear the redwing. Griffin was certain he hadn’t misinterpreted that. The black dragon didn’t only want the potion for himself. He wanted to keep it from Orovont.

And that meant the core of the situation hadn’t changed: they had a common purpose, and a common enemy. Now all Griffin had to do was wait for Fendrath to come, so he could convince him of that.

It was proving to be a lengthy wait.

Griffin had sent Calys, Nott, and Wade back home with Duncan the day before, not an hour after they finished questioning the latter. Duncan, of course, had strong objections to leaving, but as it was three able magicians against one ill and weak one, he had little in the way of options.

Both Wade and Nott were concerned about what Fendrath would do when he discovered they’d taken his prisoner for themselves. But Griffin was adamant that the blackwing’s threats were empty, made purely for the purpose of ensuring Duncan’s cooperation. Fendrath wouldn’t burn Pendralyn while he still suspected it might hold something of value to him.

Mithrin had hidden something away, and sealed it with dragon blood, whether it was vials of the potion itself, or the formula for making it. It was possible that either or both of the dragons had translated the runes Calys could not, and discovered what and where that something was. But Griffin doubted it. Fendrath would have no need to keep questioning Duncan, in that case. And if Orovont had already secured his prize, he likely would have celebrated his victory with the promised ashes and rubble.

If the magisters were to have any hope of getting to the potion first, they must question Duncan with the inkwell, as soon as possible. They had to get him back to Pendralyn.

But not all of them. Griffin had been sent to find Fendrath, and propose an alliance. He would do just that. If Fendrath was angry when he found Griffin in the old cottage instead of Duncan, well, it wouldn’t be the first time Griffin had seen the dragon in a bad mood.

Deryn had stayed behind with him, for communication as well as her other talents, but sent Ash back with the others. There was no need to put the blackhound through a meeting with a dragon, and he could help keep Duncan in check, should the latter try to run.

They’d waited all through that day and night for Fendrath, searching the cottages to keep themselves occupied. Most of the crates in Duncan’s prison were empty, but the other two intact buildings appeared to be in use, mainly to store darnsweed. The crates that weren’t full of it, smelled of it.

Deryn suggested (rather caustically, as seemed to be her way when darnsweed was involved) that perhaps Lotta and Byron had been trafficking in stolen goods, and that was the real reason they’d been in the area to see the dragon that night. When Griffin pointed out that the pair would have known Duncan was there, if that were true, she replied that he ought to consider who he was talking about, and whether they could reasonably be relied upon to know so much as their own names.

Fendrath never came. Perhaps he knew that Duncan was gone, despite Wade’s best efforts to keep the returning party cloaked. Or perhaps Duncan had counted the days wrong. Or perhaps the dragon was merely late.

On the chance that it was none of those things, but rather Fendrath’s old reluctance to show himself when magicians were present, Griffin had sent Deryn back to Karacspire an hour or so ago, to get more supplies. While he waited. And paced. And jumped every time the wind rattled the cottage walls.

But the time for waiting was, at last, past. Without warning, the door jerked open, admitting a large head that was most definitely not Deryn’s.

“Ah,” Fendrath said, sounding only mildly surprised. As he couldn’t fit through the doorway, he stopped at the threshold, with only his long neck and one shoulder inside. “I thought something was amiss, when I heard you. Your Duncan isn’t much of a pacer. Certainly not with footfalls as heavy as yours.

“My Duncan?” Griffin stepped closer (though not too close) and forced a smile. “Your Duncan, it would seem.”

“Orovont’s Duncan. I suppose he told you all about him?”

“Not nearly enough. He’s gone now, by the way. Duncan, I mean. I take full responsibility for that. You needn’t vent your anger on anyone else.”

“Anger?” Fendrath snorted. “I’m just as likely to thank you.”

“Oh?” Griffin’s stomach turned with a mixture of relief and continued fear. “Presumably you were keeping him for a reason.”

There was a soft scraping sound against the wall outside. Fendrath’s wings, perhaps, moving in his dragon’s shrug. “Each time I questioned him, he might come up with another rune or two, or correct one he’d already given me, or remember something else. But he was becoming less and less valuable. And more and more sullen. I’d rather he hadn’t told you everything he’s already told me, but I suppose it’s too late to mourn that now, and on the whole I’d say I’m well rid of him. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how you can stomach the man.”

“I can’t, actually. As a matter of fact, we had a nasty fight the very day you took him.”

“Yes, I know. Over the little girl.”

“Nettie. So you knew what happened to her that day.”

“I made it my business to know,” said Fendrath. “It wasn’t a small thing, that at least one person under the book’s influence went entirely mad. And on the same day Duncan reported something important to Orovont, no less.”

“And that’s why it was urgent for you to take Duncan?” Griffin asked. “Because you thought he might go mad, as well?”

“I thought I ought to make use of him quickly, if I was ever going to. And now it seems I’ve reached the limits of his potential.” Fendrath turned his head to narrow one eye at Griffin. “So the question before me is, what use might I make of you? You appear to have been waiting for me. That’s excessively foolish, even for you, unless you have something to offer me.”

“I might, as it happens.” Griffin took a deep breath, and started into the speech he’d begun rehearsing back at Pendralyn. “We have a common enemy.”

A thin stream of smoke flowed out of Fendrath’s nostrils. “Do we, now?” His voice was soft. Ominous. Lethal. “That’s a thing I’ve heard a man say before. Brave of you, to say it again, knowing how little I’d enjoy the reminder.”

Griffin wet his dry lips and willed himself not to stammer. “But it’s true. You told me yourself that Orovont wants to destroy Pendralyn. If he only wanted the potion, there would be no need for that. What the redwings want is revenge.”

“Of course they want revenge!” Fendrath stretched his head forward, snarling. Griffin could feel the heat radiating off him. “They were hunted. Tortured. Brought to extinction. All by men and the blasted deities they served.”

At least he hadn’t denied the existence of the potion. That was something. Until now, Griffin hadn’t been entirely sure a potion was really what they were talking about.

“Not all by men and deities. That’s my point. You fought against the redwings, at first.” Griffin gulped, seeing rage ignite in Fendrath’s eye, and suspecting he was treading perilously close to a fiery death. But he forced himself to go on. “The redwings want revenge against you, too. And their breath can already kill you, with or without a potion. So whatever our differences may be, it’s worth setting them aside, given the threat the redwings pose to us both.”

“A threat you have precisely no power against.” Fendrath bared his blue teeth. “You’re useless to me.”

“I’m … that isn’t …”

Stop staring at his teeth, and remember why you’re here.

With an effort, Griffin collected himself. “Duncan isn’t the only one who got back into the laboratory, you know. I had Mithrin’s journal in my hands, myself.” That much was true. “Perhaps Duncan isn’t the only one with information to offer you.”

“You got back in? How?”

“We took the harp from Orovont.” True as well, more or less. At least, they had the harp, and Orovont did not.

“And where is the harp now?” An edge crept into Fendrath’s voice at the question. A curious one.

Use that. Keep him interested.

“It’s back at the magistery,” Griffin said, also truthfully. “You won’t find it without our cooperation, and if you bring any harm to Pendralyn, trying to take it by force, you could very well destroy it in the process.” He shrugged. “You said yourself I would be a fool to wait here for you, unless I was confident I had something to offer. There’s one thing. There are others.”

“What others?”

Griffin shook his head. “Not quite yet. I can’t be the only one answering questions. Surely you can tell me more about this potion’s specific properties than the journal did. It gives the power of dragon fire to whoever drinks it?”

Fendrath hesitated, then sighed and sat back in his hound’s sit, just outside the open door. “The elixir of dragon breath, as we named it. A bit more apt than boon or gift or whatever grand nonsense Mithrin was so fond of. Yes, it does just what the name says.”

“Then why do you want it?” Griffin moved into the doorway and leaned against the frame, despite the cold wind, hoping the position made him look relaxed. “Why should a dragon want a potion that allows him to do what he can already do? Unless it allows you to breathe a color other than blue.”

“Yes, and no. The fire is blue. And green. And red.”

Griffin blinked at him and then, against both propriety and all sense, burst out laughing. “What, like a rainbow of flame? That must be a bit … er …” He paused to bite back another laugh. “Silly, really, is the only word I can think of.” The image struck him as hilarious, but also somehow familiar. Before he could grasp why the latter should be true, Fendrath was speaking.

“There is nothing silly about dragon fire, as you will find out to your sorrow, and perhaps sooner than you think.” The dragon tossed his head. He sounded mortally offended, presumably by the comparison of anything dragonish to a rainbow. “The actual flame is more the color of dark smoke, if you want to know. But the properties of this fire are those of all three. And greater than any of them. You said a moment ago that red fire can kill a blackwing.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Fendrath agreed. “In much the same way a sword can kill you. That doesn’t mean it will, every time. Often, there will be a proper fight involved. Perhaps the victory will be easy, but perhaps it won’t. The elixir’s fire isn’t like that. It will destroy any dragon. Or anyone at all. Quickly, and without question.”

“Ah. So you and Orovont both want it for yourself. And you certainly want to be sure that none of your enemies can get it.”

“Indeed.” Fendrath rose and dipped his head toward Griffin, close enough for Griffin to smell his hot breath. Hot hound and thunder. “What you seem to fail to realize is that you are one of those enemies.”

“I’m not.” Griffin barely kept the words from coming out in a squeak. And a person his size did not squeak easily. He breathed deeply, though his knees felt weak, and repeated himself in what he hoped was a more manly fashion. “I’m not. We’re not. If you thought so, you wouldn’t have helped us already. You have no love for us. But you have even less for Orovont. And he’s certainly far more dangerous to you.”

“Perhaps.”

“There’s no perhaps about it. You need us. We need each other. As I’m sure Duncan has told you, dragon blood is required to unlock the elixir. You have that. We have the harp.”

“The harp.” Fendrath’s laugh rumbled low in his chest. “It might be useful. But then it might not. I hope you aren’t standing here, risking your skin, with nothing but the harp to offer.”

“It might be useful,” Griffin repeated. “You don’t know whether you’ll need it or not. Because you don’t know where the elixir is.” He tried not to sound like he was guessing. “The runes Duncan gave you didn’t tell you. But we can help you find it.”

“I’ve accepted the help of men before. Far better men than you, I could add. It’s not a lesson that needs learning again.”

Griffin’s stomach twisted. He remembered too clearly Fendrath’s mention of children, the last time they’d met. The way his gravelly voice had caught on the word. “Things are different now.”

Fendrath spluttered like an impatient horse. “The only thing that’s different now is that you don’t have the elixir. Nudging you into Orovont’s way here and there, as a distraction or an obstacle, was one thing. A delicate thing. But I’d no more help you get it for yourself than I’d help you cut off my head.”

But you have to.

It was all Griffin could think. They needed that elixir. If it truly did what Fendrath had just said it did, it was the only weapon men could wield against dragons. The only thing that could save them if—when—the redwings came for them.

They needed it, and they needed dragon blood to get it. They needed Fendrath.

And the archmagister had sent Griffin to get him.

“I’m not asking you to get it for us,” Griffin said. “I’m proposing we get it together. That is not at all the same thing. You once told me not to confuse any exchange between us for friendship. Very well then, let’s call it an alliance. A practical one.”

Fendrath turned away. “I think not. But I’ll refrain from killing you where you stand, how’s that for a token of good will? I don’t suppose your death would serve much purpose, anyway. You’ve no doubt told others what you know. And you magicians may come in useful yet. Should I find I need the harp after all, perhaps I’ll call on you then.”

“We’re useful now!” Griffin insisted, nearly shouting in his desperation. The dragon had already snapped open his wings. He would be gone in a moment. He was nearly lost.

Griffin couldn’t lose him. He couldn’t fail Arun, or Pendralyn.

Stop him. Say something. Say anything.

Fendrath glanced back. “Perhaps you are,” he said, sounding a bit bored now. “But I’m afraid not useful enough to tempt me.”

Griffin stepped out of the cottage, all but chasing Fendrath as the blackwing turned away once more. “That’s because you don’t know what I know.”

Blast it. What do I know?

In an instant, Griffin’s frantic mind raced through all the things he’d learned about Mithrin, seen in the laboratory, guessed about the boon. The few words Calys had given him burst through his thoughts, one after the other, like the fireworks the archmagister set off at Midsummer.

Breath. Tooth. Tower.

“The tower,” he blurted. “I know which tower Mithrin meant.”

He regretted the lie immediately. But immediately was too late.

Fendrath turned around, and closed his wings. “You know where the elixir is?”

Griffin instinctively retreated a step. The dragon’s words were soft. The mouth they came from was anything but. Those teeth. Those blue teeth. So many. So sharp.

And there was something else, far, far worse than the teeth: there was a spark in Fendrath’s eye. One Griffin had never seen there before, amid the endless irritation and contempt and suspicion. This was something hopeful.

Something almost … trusting.

Griffin’s chest seemed intent on closing in on itself. He couldn’t breathe. What had he just said? What had he just done? “I—”

His next words were abruptly drowned out. He might have thought it the perfect time for an interruption, and been grateful for the blessing, if not for the fact that it came in the form of a scream of pain.

And that the voice was unmistakably Deryn’s.

21

Orovont stood beyond the cluster of cottages, just where the sloping ground began to level. He looked much as Nack had described him: larger than Fendrath, with a thicker, scalier hide of crimson. The horns above his eyes gave the impression of a scowl. Of malice.

Or perhaps it wasn’t the horns that gave that impression, so much as the limp magician at his feet.

“Deryn!” Griffin started forward, still out of breath from sprinting toward the sound of her screams. Fendrath had let him pass, but Griffin hadn’t looked back to see where the blackwing went after that.

Orovont snarled, then lowered his head over Deryn, as if sniffing her. Or as if about to light her on fire. Griffin held up his hands, and took no more steps.

“Good afternoon,” the redwing said calmly. Politely. His voice showed none of the deep surliness of Fendrath’s. It was higher pitched than his blackwing cousin’s, smooth and aristocratic. And it did indeed sound like blood. “I understand this little magician is dear to you.”

He tapped Deryn with his clawed toe. She stirred, sniffed, then opened her eyes. She was streaked with mud, but no blood that Griffin could see. Yet her cries had left no doubt that she was hurt.

“Deryn?” Griffin asked again, without moving.

Her vague eyes settled on him. “Oh. Hello. I was just coming back.”

“What happened?”

“This dragon knocked me against some rocks, a bit. And then one of the cottages, I think. Or perhaps that was just another rock. It was … unsettling.”

Orovont chuckled down at her, before turning his head slightly to fix a yellow eye on Griffin, in a gesture very like Fendrath. “Would you like me to spare her?”

“Er. I would.” Griffin swallowed. “Please.”

“Excellent. Then we have some scope for discussion, don’t we? And for resolution, I would hope.”

“Scope for … what?” Griffin struggled for composure. His heart was battering his ribs, his mind all a jumble.

“I was going to ask you for the harp,” Orovont said. “But now I believe you can do better than that. Unless I’m much mistaken, I just heard you say you know where the elixir of dragon breath is.” He bobbed his head and bent one front leg in a sort of bow. It might have been comical, in other circumstances. “I propose a trade.”

Eyrdri’s teeth.

Griffin looked from the dragon to Deryn. Her eyes had closed again. She looked peaceful, as if she were just having a nap. He tried to swallow once more, but his throat was barely working. It was as if his mouth was filled with dust. Or ashes. “I …”

“No.” Fendrath alighted beside Griffin, though Griffin hadn’t heard him approach. Perhaps he’d been watching from one of the roofs. “He will do no such thing.”

“Fendrath.” Orovont spoke the name in greeting. There was no sign of a rebuke in it. “How nice to see you. At last. I seem to keep missing you, these past weeks.”

“Do you?” Fendrath matched the redwing’s easy tone. “Well, you are the slow one. Always were a bit behind everyone else, weren’t you?”

“And you are the childish one,” Orovont said, with a toss of his head.

Fendrath jerked his wings. “That’s to be expected. I am a great deal younger.”

“And a great deal less wise.”

“And a great deal more fit.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Orovont’s lips peeled back from deep red teeth. “I could incinerate you where you stand, and we both know it.”

“Much as we both know your queen would have your wings for it, if you did.”

Griffin shot Fendrath a curious look. What was this? If the red dragons and the black were mortal enemies, why should the red queen not rejoice at Fendrath’s death?

“Perhaps she would,” Orovont said, though he didn’t sound terribly concerned by the prospect. “But your sisters, now they would be another matter, wouldn’t they? Quite another matter. I do believe she’d reward me for their charred heads.” He cocked his own head to one side. “I don’t think the greenwings would help you. Or defy us at all anymore, for that matter, if they knew I could kill them as easily as you could. More easily, even, with the dark fire at my disposal.”

Fendrath growled low. “A pity for you, then, that my sisters are not here.”

“A pity they won’t be able to defend themselves, when I have the elixir, and they have nothing. Not even you to stand in front of them.”

Apparently the threat was too great a strain on Fendrath’s patience. Without warning, the blackwing sprang into the air, breathing fire, claws slashing.

Orovont responded in kind.

Griffin’s first thought was for Deryn. The dragons were in the air now, but she was almost directly below them. And sparks were already raining down into the muddy snow. He launched himself at her, grasped her limp body, and rolled.

He came to a stop a few strides away, half on top of her. Her eyes were still closed. “Deryn!” Griffin shook her by the shoulders.

“You’re awfully heavy, you know.” She blinked hazily at him, then over his shoulder at the sky. “What are they fighting about?”

“The elixir of dragon breath,” he said absently. “You’ve hit your head. Can you heal yourself?”

She sat up, but kept her eyes on the dragons. “That isn’t good. Does the winner get the elixir? Because the red one looks to be winning.”

Griffin turned to follow her gaze. She was right. The dragons slashed at each other, hurled fire, tumbled through the air and across the ground. Blue and orange flames collided. Scales smoldered. Blood (red in both cases) splattered over the ground.

Neither of them was going to come away from this unharmed, but already the victor seemed clear. Though Orovont might be avoiding killing Fendrath (Why?), he appeared to have no qualms about hurting or maiming his opponent. And he was obviously the stronger of the two.

While Griffin was busy watching them, Deryn got to her feet. Unsteadily. She stared at the struggling dragons for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then she unleashed a spell.

It would no doubt have been a wondrous thing. Had she been even remotely herself.

As best Griffin could tell, it was meant to be a storm. Or perhaps she was even trying to conjure an elemental; he’d never actually seen such a thing done, but there were tales. The wall of water that began to build and sail toward the dragons seemed to be taking on a shape, anyway. A beak, perhaps. And were those wings? Perhaps it was meant to be a great watery hawk.

Whatever it was, it was narrow, but nearly the height of the manor at Pendralyn, and moving with the force of a gale behind it. It couldn’t possibly hit one dragon and not the other. How Deryn thought to help Fendrath by drowning him was a mystery.

But before the hawk-wave reached anyone, Fendrath fell and spun across a patch of snow, wings splayed. He was heading straight for Deryn, who stood completely still, as if she didn’t even see him, concentrating on her spell.

Orovont dove, teeth and claws bared, ready to press his advantage.

Griffin lunged for Deryn a second time, tackling her to the ground. After that, everything happened in a breathless confusion of sensations he hardly had time to register. There was a tangle of dragon and human. The wind abruptly died. He never did see what happened to the wave. Deryn screamed.

Griffin grabbed for the closest limb to steady himself, and found it was one of Fendrath’s rough legs. The dragon moaned. Blood was flowing freely from several wounds across his body, and one of his curled horns was broken.

Deryn cried out again. Griffin jerked around, trying to stand and roll at the same time and not quite managing either. She’d somehow ended up several strides away.

She was kneeling, clutching at her chest. Blood soaked her coat and seeped between her fingers.

Griffin couldn’t get to her. Orovont was suddenly between them, lips pulled back, eyes fixed on Griffin.

“There’s nobody to defend you.” The dragon flicked a wing sideways, though Griffin was far too disoriented to know which direction the gesture was meant to indicate. “And a whole village of men to burn, once I finish with your friend.” His voice took on an echo of its former casual courtesy. “Or you could avoid all that, by simply telling me where the elixir is.”

Fortunately for Griffin, Deryn, and all of Karacspire, Fendrath was not quite defeated yet. The blackwing flew—a bit shakily—over Griffin’s head and hurled himself at Orovont.

The redwing skidded across the field, roaring in pain as blue flames sheathed his body. But Fendrath’s advantage would not last. Orovont was bigger, seemingly stronger. And if it came to it, his breath could seal his victory, whether or not his sister would approve.

Griffin knew he might only have moments to do something. One stroke—there was no time for two—that would turn the tide of the fight and save them all.

Like what, exactly?

His eyes focused an instant before his panicked mind could do the same. And saw blood in the snow.

Dragon blood.

Griffin smacked at his coat pockets until he found it: the empty flask he’d drained of cider on the journey from Pendralyn. He yanked it out, threw himself over to where the ground had gone dark, and stuffed handfuls of blood-soaked snow into the flask. It would be watered down, but it would be dragon blood, nonetheless.

In a moment that seemed suspended in time, he brought his ungloved hand, red now, to his lips. He licked his fingers, his palm. He licked it all. It tasted smoky and salty, bitter like the charred edges of some roasted meat.

Vaulting to his feet, heart racing, his whole body trembling, Griffin turned to face the dragons.

Now what?

Scrambling to think of something he could do with the great power he now possessed, he seized on the first image that came to his mind: Deryn’s water elemental. He was no sage. But then again, he was no anything. It would do as well as any other spell.

The dragons were locked together, claws digging into one another’s hides. Griffin’s first order of business must be to separate them. Then he could see to Orovont alone.

He remembered well enough the instructions he’d learned—but never been able to carry out—as a boy. Each magician’s magic was his own. Some might use words, or gestures. A dozen of them might visualize a dozen completely different images to produce the same result. They might draw on physical power, or mental, or imaginative. But the essentials of the process were always the same.

Clear his mind of all but his intent.

Water, breaking over Orovont, breaking him, knocking him from the sky. Knocking him across the mountains.

Focus on the image he must will into reality.

A great hawk, made of water. Flying. Diving. Crashing.

Gather his power.

(What power?)

Then channel it.

As the dragons roared and snarled and snapped at one another, Griffin raised his arms, and for good measure, let out a roar of his own.

Nothing happened.

He felt nothing.

Had he taken the wrong blood? Had it perhaps been Deryn’s, or his own, in the snow? Griffin glanced down, then around. No, that was Fendrath’s blood, he was sure of it. Perhaps he’d done it wrong. Perhaps if he tried again …

There would be no second chance. From Fendrath flying to Griffin’s defense, to Griffin gathering the blood, to the present moment, could only have been the span of a minute. But it was still too long.

“Griffin!” Deryn was crawling toward him, leaving a trail of blood in her wake.

At the same time, Fendrath shrieked, a harrowing sound unlike any Griffin had heard either dragon make yet. No more than a stride away, the blackwing fell with an earth-shaking thud, splattering snow and mud and blood everywhere, nearly throwing Griffin off his feet.

It might not have been Orovont’s intent to kill Fendrath, but he might very well have done it just the same. The blackwing was covered in burns, and enough blood to make him difficult to distinguish from his red opponent.

Yet he did not lie still. Fendrath thrashed, rolled, and rose again. “Griffin,” he rasped. “Go. I’ll hold him from you.”

“I think not.” Orovont plunged through the air, claws extended—heading not for Fendrath, but for Griffin. No doubt he meant to take him away, just as Fendrath had once taken Duncan.

Fendrath slammed into the redwing.

For the barest of moments, Griffin simply stood where he was, rooted to the snow, watching them struggle. Funny, he thought in some sluggish, disconnected part of his mind, I don’t recall Fendrath ever using my name before.

Deryn was bleeding. But not talking anymore, or crying. Or moving. Fendrath was bleeding. Everyone seemed to be bleeding.

What should Griffin do about it? What could he do? Who, what, could he save?

Then Fendrath shouted, with such ferocity that blue flame shot from his mouth along with the single word. “Go!”

Griffin picked up Deryn, slung her over his shoulder, and obeyed.

He stumbled away from the mining cottages, toward Karacspire, thankfully managing not to drop her. A dozen or more townsfolk were gathered a safe distance (or what they must have thought a safe distance) away, mouths agape, watching the dragons fight.

Perhaps they were even close enough to hear some of what Orovont had said, because Cranstitch quickly separated himself from the crowd, waving his hands at Griffin. “You can’t stay here!”

“No. I can’t.” Griffin stopped, panting, to scan the knot of onlookers, then lurched toward Bavol, the big man from The Bright Badger.

“But she must.” Griffin thrust Deryn into Bavol’s arms. “Take her. Hide her. Send a message to Pendralyn as fast as you can, and tell them what’s happened here. They’ll send healers for her, and contrivers to help bring her home. Do all of that for me, and I will draw the dragon—dragons, if both survive this—away from here. It’s me they want. They’ll chase me, and you’ll all be safe.”

Cranstitch looked like he might argue, but Bavol gave Griffin a single stern nod, and turned away. A few of the others—Lotta and Byron among them—gathered around the giant as he walked back toward town, offering advice on where to take Deryn, and how to care for her.

It would have to be enough. There was no time for more.

When Griffin turned back to Cranstitch, the tavern keeper sighed. “I’ll find a pigeon to send. You have my word. But you’d best leave plenty of tracks leading away from here.”

With a hasty word of thanks called over his shoulder, Griffin ran.

He did as Cranstitch asked, and left prodigious footprints on the western road. Away from Karacspire. Away from Pendralyn. Away from everything.

Toward what?

Another heartrending cry from Fendrath rang out over the mountain. And Griffin ran.

22

Never mistake any exchange between us for friendship.

No, it wasn’t for friendship that Fendrath had fought. Perhaps to the death, for all Griffin knew. It wasn’t to save Griffin.

It was to save the elixir. Because against his inclination and his better judgment, he’d trusted Griffin. He’d believed that if he facilitated his not-friend’s escape, Griffin could get the potion, and keep it away from Orovont. (And perhaps thereby save Fendrath’s sisters, though Griffin’s understanding of dragon politics was murky, to say the least.)

Fendrath had fought because he’d believed a liar.

In the dark of night, Griffin lay on his belly, partially tucked into the rot-hollowed trunk of a fallen tree, loathing himself. He by turns imagined what he would give for Nott’s warming jar, and reflected on the many reasons he didn’t deserve relief from the relentless cold seeping into his bones.

It wasn’t only Fendrath’s fate that was a mystery. Griffin had no idea whether Deryn was (or would be) all right. He’d known only that staying near her might well mean her death, and in his haste to get away, he never even saw exactly where her wounds were, or how bad. Now he had no way of knowing. No way of helping.

Instead he was here, cowering alone at the edge of a moonlit clearing, staring at a small flock of sheep and an even smaller roundhouse. The former were huddled together on the north side of the latter, taking shelter from the wind, though the weaker amongst them were no doubt inside with their master.

The hut itself was not an unusual sight in this part of the mountains. There were many such wattle-and-clay shelters, built and shared by wandering shepherds, belonging to nobody and everybody. Griffin, creeping northward under such cover as the forest and the night could provide, had rejoiced to see this one. He’d fled Karacspire with nothing but the contents of his pockets and pouch, and his axe. His pack, gloves, and cloak (though thankfully not his coat) were back in the cottage he’d spent the morning pacing across, waiting for Fendrath.

He didn’t have a plan. But he didn’t have to know where he was going to know he wouldn’t survive the journey without supplies.

With no magic to fight it, already the cold was proving more dangerous to him than a dozen dragons. His face was stiff. His chest burned when he breathed. And however much he might draw his hands back into his sleeves, or tuck them against his body, or blow on them, he was beginning to despair for the continued use of his fingers.

A soft noise caught Griffin’s attention. Heart jumping, he raised his head as far as he dared. There were animals who came out at night, even at this time of year. Any one of them might report his presence to Orovont.

But it was only the shepherd’s dog, walking amongst the flock. It threw itself down against the side of the roundhouse with a tired sigh. Griffin lowered his head again, hoping he was far enough downwind for the sheepdog to miss his presence.

This part of the mountainside was wooded, and there wasn’t much foraging for the sheep. The shepherd was likely only passing through. But perhaps the man would stay for another night or two, and leave some of his supplies in the hut while he went out during the day with his flock.

Griffin did not relish the idea of stealing, but he had little choice. Though he’d seen or heard nothing of a dragon (any dragon) since he’d run that morning, he must assume he was being hunted. And he was too large and too red-headed to be immediately forgettable. Were the shepherd questioned, he would almost certainly know who he’d seen.

That made asking for help too risky, whatever the outcome. If the shepherd told Orovont, it might mean death for Griffin. If the man instead offered aid to Griffin, and Orovont found out, it might well mean death for the shepherd.

Better for Griffin to take what he needed quietly, and leave behind some coins to compensate.

Take what he needed. Griffin nearly laughed aloud at the idea. What he needed, no simple shepherd could provide. He was alone, with no food, no protection from the harsh elements, and no magic. He could hope for no aid, or even advice, from his fellow magisters. Nott’s ability to communicate with a mind as thoroughly nonmagical as Griffin’s had a narrow range. Not that it mattered, when Griffin couldn’t reply anyway.

He didn’t know precisely where he was. Nor did he know where he was going. All he knew for sure was that at least one dragon was chasing him.

And for as long as that was the case, he couldn’t go back to Pendralyn. He couldn’t go anywhere, but home least of all, when Orovont would be watching it more closely than ever. He was poison to any place or person he touched.

Griffin’s belly knotted as he thought of Fendrath shouting for him to run. And of the dragon’s final cry, the pain in it. The desperation.

All that blood. Blood Griffin had stolen. Not that it did him, or any of them, any good. He supposed it didn’t affect him for the same reason the curse didn’t: both utilized the magician’s own power. For all the time he spent teaching sums, he ought to have remembered that none multiplied a thousandfold was still none.

None to save Fendrath, and none to save Deryn. Her blood was on Griffin’s hands, as well. She’d been taken hostage to force Griffin to reveal what he’d only pretended to know.

How could he have been such a fool? And how could he rectify it now? How could he make amends?

How could he ever go home again?

By finding the elixir for real, of course.

Griffin rolled his eyes at the inner voice that had been idiot enough to suggest such a thing. With an of course, no less. Oh yes, of course. It was a simple thing, of course, to figure out where the blasted thing was. To get there, on his own, in wintertime. Then to bring it to Pendralyn, still on his own, still with death watching from the skies, and through the eyes of birds and squirrels and perhaps even men.

But that’s exactly what must be done. So there’s really no point in complaining about it.

He was far too cold and exhausted to argue with himself. Instead Griffin focused on the silhouettes of the dog, the sheep, the roundhouse’s conical roof.

And the second dog?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Griffin knew the hulking shape in the trees, between him and the roundhouse (and also downwind from the sheepdog), was no dog. He could make out few of its features, beyond its size and an impression of shagginess. But that was enough.

A bitter taste crept up his throat and filled his mouth. He was afraid to swallow it back, for fear that even that small movement would be detected.

A crag wolf. No dog—no other wolf, for that matter—grew so large. Likely the poor light and Griffin’s fear exaggerated its size, but it seemed not much smaller than a pony. He’d never seen one personally, and he’d hoped not to encounter any of them now. They tended to be less active in the winter, and even in the warmer months avoided humans.

Yet here one was. Spying for Orovont? Or was it just bad luck? Was it the sheep that interested it, or Griffin?

Did it know he was there?

The sheepdog had caught its scent. The dog growled and slunk toward the trees, but stopped at the edge of the flock, guarding its charges. Even in the dark, Griffin could see its tense haunches, its heaving sides.

A crag wolf had nothing to fear from a sheepdog, and surely both of them knew it. Yet the wolf turned and retreated back into the woods, making no sound.

After it was gone, Griffin remained frozen in his hiding place, until his joints screamed in protest at holding the same position for so long. Eventually the sheepdog settled back down. Griffin did not. He kept imagining he felt hot breath on his cheek.

Nothing happened. For better or worse, whatever its purpose, the wolf seemed to have left.

Should Griffin leave, too? Had it seen him? It must have smelled him. Weren’t wolves good at that sort of thing?

Did it have anything to do with him at all?

After much internal debate (and even more shivering, a movement he could no longer suppress), he decided to stay where he was. If crag wolves were prowling the night, then hiding and not moving seemed safer than moving and not hiding. At least until sunrise sent them back to their den.

He kept his drowsy eyes on the sheep and their guardian, until the moon passed beyond the mountain and he could no longer see even their shapes, only hear their rustling and breathing as they slept.

At some point he slept, too. He woke to the sound of the animals rousing, and a deep male voice speaking softly to them. Griffin pressed as far into the fallen tree as he could, but he knew it would do a poor job of hiding him in the rising daylight, if the shepherd were to walk his way, or look directly at him.

He waited, breathing slowly and softly, if at all. Finally the sounds passed. When Griffin raised his head several minutes later, the shepherd, his dog, and his flock were all gone. Only the trampled snow and soft ground betrayed that they’d ever been there.

Surely one more set of tracks in that confusion would not be easily noticed. The morning birds were chattering away, though. They would see Griffin go into the roundhouse. Would Orovont pass this way? Had he sent spies to fly all over the western mountains already?

Was the crag wolf watching?

Griffin would have to risk it. If he didn’t get warm soon, he would pass beyond having an opinion as to whether he’d rather be killed by a dragon or a wolf. But he wouldn’t tarry here. He’d thaw his limbs and take what he could, then find somewhere else to pass the day, and resume his journey after dark.

Yes, but journey where?

He simply could not, he decided, be expected to think straight while he was this cold. Crouching low, he scurried across the clearing and into the roundhouse.

He rushed immediately to the fire pit at the center. Though the charred logs had been extinguished, they were still hot. And they were still large enough to provide at least an hour of fire, longer than Griffin intended to stay. He got down on all fours, frantically blowing at the trace of glowing orange at the bottom.

Feeling that hint of heat on his face, he no longer cared that the crag wolf might not have retired for the day, as a wolf might reasonably be expected to do. Or that the shepherd had only been gone a few minutes now, and might notice smoke seeping out of the thatch. Or that if the shepherd didn’t, the snowspurs probably would. All that mattered was the promise of warmth.

His fingers could barely open the pouch on his belt to search for something to use as kindling. It took several minutes, a handkerchief, the twigs he’d been carrying to clean his teeth, and every stray pine needle from his coat, but eventually Griffin managed to light a modest fire.

As he lay on the packed dirt floor, basking in it, thoughts of Deryn and Fendrath insinuated themselves again. He pushed them away, and tried to ignore the ache in his chest. It would do him no good now—and more importantly, do them no good—to dwell on his mistake.

Mistake? That’s a dainty word for ruining everything, and possibly killing people, with a lie. Crime, more like.

Griffin shook his head, hard. He owed them action, not remorse. And berating himself, no matter how richly he deserved it, would only distract him from preparing for what was to come.

Whatever that was.

He roused himself from his warm and guilty stupor to look around, and saw, leaning against one of the slender timbers that held up the roof, what he’d missed in his haste to get to the fire: a pack. The shepherd clearly intended to come back, and apparently had no fear of thieves in this remote place.

Griffin cursed himself, half laughing. All that trouble to light a fire, and there might be some tinder in there.

There wasn’t. Perhaps the shepherd kept that on his person. But there was a pair of colorful, thick woolen mittens. Griffin thought he might weep at the sight of them. They must be a spare pair; surely the shepherd wouldn’t have gone out with bare hands.

Griffin took the mittens, a scarf, and all the food he could stuff into his pouch and tuck into his coat, making sure to leave enough for the shepherd to get to the nearest village. Atop the depleted pack, where they could not possibly be missed, he left every silver coin he had in exchange. It was far more than the items he’d taken were worth. He hoped it would compensate the man for the no doubt considerable inconvenience of driving his flock days out of his way to replace his stolen supplies.

This task done, there was nothing for it but to face the one he’d been avoiding: deciding what to do. The crag wolf might already have spotted him and told Orovont, or be on its way to telling him. Griffin had to keep moving. But how would he avoid being spied by more wolves, or any other animal, when he left the roundhouse?

He saw no way he could, without magic. He would simply have to find hiding places during the day, relying on the few mundane means of camouflage at his disposal, and tread as secretly as he could through the night. Since that was all he had, there was nothing to be gained by ruminating on the fact that it might not be enough.

At least he had mittens now. But the food wouldn’t last long, and he wouldn’t be able to hunt very well with the axe. If he ran out, he would have to forage as best he could, or steal some more.

Perhaps he could steal some tinder as well. Though fire was risky, he couldn’t survive forever without it. Contemplating the likely need for further burglary, Griffin took some coins back from the pile he’d left the shepherd.

On to the far greater question: where would he go?

To the site of every ancient fortress he could think of, for a start. Via obscure and roundabout paths, while doing his best to avoid being caught. The only real clue he had about the elixir’s location was that it was likely hidden in, or near, a tower. Probably one within relatively short distance of Pendralyn; Mithrin would have wanted to keep the boon he was so proud of close, and accessible if need be.

There weren’t many towers in this part of Eyrdon. But the landscape would have been different a thousand years ago. Orovont would know better than Griffin where to find the remnants of whatever towers he’d known then.

And the redwing was no doubt searching those places now, or had already. If Griffin was to unearth the elixir first, he needed some advantage of his own. Something Orovont didn’t know or hadn’t thought of.

As if there could be such a thing. In all the magistery, the kingdom, the world, Griffin could not imagine anyone less qualified for this task.

A shame, then, that he’d volunteered for it with his lie. But since he had, he would just have to figure it out.

Where is the blasted thing? If I were Mithrin, where would I hide it?

He’d been in Mithrin’s laboratory twice, which was twice more than Orovont had, at least within the last thousand years. Perhaps Griffin had seen something without realizing its importance. He meticulously recreated the laboratory in his mind, recalling every detail he could muster. When he finished that, he did the same with the corridor and the other rooms. He remembered with great clarity the smell of the journal, the weight of the black dragon figurine, the exact shade of the rust on the chains in the chain room, when lantern light was cast on them.

None of it did him the least bit of good.

The chain room had runes on the walls. Perhaps if he were Calys, they would help.

Yes, well, you’re not. The inner voice wasn’t even bothering to hide its impatience anymore. You aren’t Calys, or Arun, or Deryn, or anyone else, and wishing you were is wasting time. What do you know?

“All right,” Griffin said aloud. He went back to the fire and stretched out in front of it. He knew he couldn’t afford to linger much longer, but he couldn’t quite yet bear the thought of getting cold again.

What do I know, apart from the tower?

Very little. He knew he needed dragon blood to unlock whatever was holding the secret. He knew the elixir was the sum of every dragon fire, which made it more powerful than any single one. He knew, he reflected with a bittersweet chuckle, that this did not mean its imbiber would spew out a rainbow of flame. Fendrath had been so insulted by the suggestion, it had really been quite funny—

Eyrdri’s teeth!

Griffin bolted upright, heart hammering. Something had struck him during that conversation with Fendrath, whispering at the corner of his thoughts, too soft to catch. But he realized now exactly what it was: that absurd rainbow of flames had not been purely the product of his imagination.

He’d seen that image before.

A geyser of multicolored flames bursting up from a well, in front of a black tower. It was the last page of the cursed book, the one with handwriting that was different from the rest.

Griffin whistled softly. “Mithrin didn’t just keep the book. He added to it.”

Mithrin alone had known how to make the one weapon they had against the dragons. And he’d had a falling out with the rest of the Hallowed Brethren. Griffin understood well enough, living at the magistery, the rivalries that sprang up between scholars. The mad wizard would have wanted to keep his secrets—and his power—for himself.

So he’d hidden his elixir away from his onetime fellows. But perhaps he left behind a key of sorts, that would reveal that hiding place in the event of his demise. Something that would make sense only to someone with the exact right knowledge. An apprentice, or an heir.

And what better place to put that key? No dragon would bother reading the book they themselves had sent to infiltrate and curse their enemy, even if it somehow came back to them. And no magician could read it without being cursed into madness and dying in flames. Only someone who knew how to break or resist the curse—like Mithrin himself—could ever unlock the secrets of that book.

Or someone like Griffin. But Mithrin might not even have realized that. The nonmagical would have been far beneath his notice. He probably never gave them a first thought, much less a second.

Most of the stone used for building in Eyrdon was pale gray or brown. If the book’s illustration was accurate, there were few structures in the kingdom that were that dark. Fewer still that had stood, in some form, for a thousand years.

And only one, that Griffin could think of, within easy distance of Pendralyn.

“I know where it is,” he breathed. “I know where to find the elixir.”

* * *

The crag wolves were stalking him.

Griffin crouched against the wall of yet another roundhouse, peering through the rough hole that served as a window at the scrubby hillside beyond. Waiting for dark. Waiting for them to come. Not daring to think he could possibly have lost them at last.

At first, he’d followed his plan of traveling at night. During the daylight hours, he stole what sleep he could in abandoned dens and hollow places, camouflaged, if he could manage it, with pine branches and other vegetation. At dusk, he walked, with all possible stealth, and never in a straight line. He circled around mountains, backtracked, went entirely too far north. All intentionally. He was a fair navigator, using the stars.

On the third day, he’d taken a tinderbox from a cottage on the outskirts of another mining village. (Though as he rarely had the nerve to light a fire, it didn’t help with the pervasive, interminable cold quite as much as he would have liked.) In that same cottage he found a length of rope, and a small bag of bruised, softening apples to add to what he’d taken from the shepherd.

But it had been a week now, since Griffin’s escape at Fendrath’s expense, and the food hadn’t lasted. The only constants were the cold, the fear—and the wolves.

He would catch only glimpses. But he caught enough of those to be sure. He’d reversed his traveling habits, and begun hiding at night instead. Yet he could never shake them off.

They never approached him. He hadn’t been brave (or foolish) enough to try approaching them.

The most obvious explanation for their watching him for so long, at such a distance, was that they were doing so in service of the red dragon. That Orovont was simply biding his time, waiting for the dunderheaded human to lead him directly to the elixir, before summarily cooking Griffin and taking the prize for himself.

But perhaps not. Perhaps the wolves were watching him for their own purposes, curious as to what he was doing in their domain. Or as a favor to Fendrath. Even to Deryn. In his more optimistic moments, Griffin liked to hope that one or the other of his erstwhile cohorts was well, and seeking to help him in his quest.

In his less optimistic moments, he considered such hope the height of idiocy.

Either way, Griffin was finally beginning to accept that there was little he could do about it. The true height of idiocy was thinking he could outrun crag wolves. They could track him anywhere. They could catch him any time they chose. He was at their mercy, and all this wandering was doing was prolonging the torture, and wearing him down for the tasks to come.

Perhaps even giving Orovont time to find the elixir himself. And that, Griffin could not allow.

So when a shaggy beast came prowling up the slope, just as the sun dipped below the mountain, Griffin decided there was only one thing left to do. Perhaps the most idiotic thing of all.

He walked out of the roundhouse, and made directly for the wolf. Waving.

The wave was particularly silly, but as was sometimes the case with the maddest possible course of action, it seemed to work. For once, the wolf didn’t turn away and disappear, but waited for him. Before long, another came into view and stopped beside the first. By the time Griffin reached them, they’d been joined by a third. The smallest of them, a female in the middle, came to roughly the height of his ribs.

Pitiless ice-blue eyes glowed out of the dusk, set in gray-white heads as big as his own. They stared at him without snarling, without moving, without making a sound.

If only Deryn were here.

But Griffin’s entire plan—his entire hope—was that he could make himself understood to them on his own. It was said that crag wolves had magical powers, similar to blackhounds. Although if they did, they never used them in service of men.

They were certainly behaving oddly, for mere beasts. Perhaps that was because they were more than that. Perhaps they were wise, and could grasp things ordinary animals could not.

And according to Deryn, even the simplest animals despised Orovont.

“You can’t like the red dragon!” Griffin’s voice was too frightened, too weak. He paused to clear his throat, meeting the eyes of the female. She’d been the first to approach. Perhaps she was the leader.

She remained still, muscles bunched beneath her fur, ready to attack. But waiting. Had she understood?

“You’re the lords—and ladies—of these mountains,” Griffin said. “For generations, hundreds of years, nobody and nothing has been able to match your strength, or challenge you. Until now.”

Now she snarled. Her companions followed. Three sets of teeth, gleaming in the waning light. Griffin swallowed hard.

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he said, making a ridiculous effort to sound witty and confident. Why behave sanely now, after all? This whole thing was madness. Perhaps the cold and hunger had gotten to him more than he’d realized. “Nobody can challenge a dragon, can they? The deities themselves could barely do it, in ancient times. And now here that redwing is, flying around, giving orders. You can’t like it.”

He leaned forward, though it cost him what little courage he had left. The she-wolf tipped her nose up in answer. Her breath was like ice and blood. “But suppose I told you that I know how to challenge him? You could even help me, if you like. If you don’t like, you could at least let me pass unharmed, without telling him you’ve seen me. Or if you’ve been spying for him all along, you could tell him you’ve lost me.”

The wolves offered no reaction. Griffin forced a shrug. “That wouldn’t cost you anything more than a bit of pride, and perhaps a large, red-headed dinner. But it might gain you a great deal, if I’m telling the truth, and if I manage to do all I intend.”

For a tense and seemingly eternal moment, all he could do was silently curse himself. Was he really standing here trying to negotiate with crag wolves? Without Deryn?

No matter how wise and magical the beasts might be, they were no friends to men. They couldn’t possibly understand his language. Nor could they possibly trust him to help them, even if they agreed that the dragon was a problem.

He could reach for his axe, he supposed. But he doubted it would ever leave his belt.

And then something extraordinary happened: the she-wolf nodded at him. Actually, unmistakably, nodded.

Then she turned away, making a gruff noise at her companions. As one, in almost perfect stride, they padded back down the hill.

It was a long time after that, before Griffin found the fortitude to move.

* * *

Griffin tried to recognize what a blessing it was, to know where he wanted to go. One might even call it miraculous, under the circumstances, to have what he considered a very sound theory as to the elixir’s hiding place.

But that didn’t make getting there any easier. Not even when the place was, at long last, in sight.

The ancient temple of Sarn Graddoc was less than a day’s journey from Pendralyn, although Griffin had approached it from the northwest, having gone nowhere near the magistery. The temple had been abandoned many centuries ago by the dark magicians who’d worshipped an even darker deity there. It had long since crumbled into ruin.

But in Mithrin’s time, it would have been a formidable sight: shaped like a crown, rising from the ground as one before dividing into three sections. Not a proper tower, perhaps, but close enough, particularly for one of Calys’s translations. The few drawings handed down over the centuries were fond of suggesting that its pointed central spire had touched the very clouds.

The spire was still there, somewhat, a jagged ruin jabbing into the sky. The rest was mostly bits of foundation and enormous, tumbled chunks of black rock, all choked with weeds and overgrown with vines.

All the cursed book had shown was the bottom of a round tower, with nothing to suggest the shape of the rest of Sarn Graddoc, but Griffin was still convinced this was the right place. In part because he simply needed to believe that it was. Getting here had been, to say the least, a trial.

Two days ago he’d resorted to eating … something …. that was growing along the side of the cave he’d taken shelter in. He still didn’t know what, but he knew never to do it again. The cramps that had followed made an already hard journey that much harder.

At least there was no shortage of water, thanks to melting snow and thawing streams. The grip of winter was starting, slowly, to break. But it was still plenty cold, for a man who wasn’t used to living outdoors. There was no relief from it, nor from the wind. If it hadn’t been for the shepherd’s mittens, Griffin more than likely would have lost several fingers by now.

It was the sort of cold that could steal all hope of ever again being warm or cheerful. A sort that Griffin had never known existed, in all his comfortable years at Pendralyn. If someone had tried to explain it to him, he wouldn’t have understood.

He was shivering now, as he lay in a narrow cleft in the jagged ground, watching Sarn Graddoc and waiting for dusk. His back was sore, owing to a fall two days past. Predictably, he’d caught a cold somewhere along the way, and his chest ached so much with it that climbing any sort of incline was a hardship. All in all, he wasn’t certain he’d ever been so miserable, not even that first night after he’d fled, watching the sheep and wallowing in his shame.

He’d arrived here the night before, only to hide himself away, unwilling to approach yet. The wolves had left him alone since their strange encounter. Or at least, if they were still watching him, they were being more circumspect about it. Nonetheless, Orovont might—presumably did—have other spies. Griffin couldn’t ignore the possibility that some owl or badger would reveal his whereabouts. (Although perhaps he wasn’t quite so easy to identify anymore; he was a good deal less heavy, and probably dirty enough to make the color of his hair questionable.)

But he’d been observing the area for hours now, and all was quiet and empty. It might be safe to sleep. Just for a little while. His exhaustion went as bone deep as the cold, and the pair of them occupied his mind almost constantly. The temple and the elixir, his quest and his troubles and his worries, were all becoming impossible to focus on for long.

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to think about those things, anyway. He wasn’t sure they mattered. He couldn’t help but fear he’d die of exposure before he had a chance to attend to any of them.

Just sleep. Just for a little while.

Griffin succumbed to the temptation, and closed his eyes.

He dreamed of ice. He was alone in the keep at Pendralyn. The roof had cracked and fallen in, crushing some of the tables, littering others with debris. Snow fell in over a soggy, ruined feast.

And then, with the sort of suddenness only a dream can manage, he was no longer alone. A dragon lay by the empty hearth. An icy blue one, the color of the crag wolves’ eyes, though in reality no such dragon existed.

“Liar,” the dragon growled, in Fendrath’s voice. He breathed over Griffin, and his breath was frost rather than fire. Griffin’s bones were made into ice. He felt his lungs freeze. His heart. He would be dead in a moment.

“Serves you right,” the dragon said.

Griffin tried to nod in agreement, but he couldn’t move.

Then it all changed. The roof was repaired. The dragon was gone. Griffin could smell the feast. Steam rose from the platters. He’d never seen so many cakes.

Calys was there, and Arun. And then Deryn. Their magic melted the ice, and wrapped a lovely warm blanket around Griffin.

He stopped shivering.

Griffin’s eyes snapped open. He really had stopped shivering. There really was a warm blanket. He couldn’t see it—it was full night now—but he felt it.

It wasn’t cake he smelled, though, but earth and bark, blood and ice. He turned his head and felt soft, thick fur slide across his face.

The wolves.

They’d come in the dark, to lie beside him. Around him. To protect him from the cold that might otherwise, at long last, have claimed his life.

They’d come to save him.

Because they, too, believed his promises? Believed that he could stop Orovont?

Cautiously, Griffin sat up. He was indeed surrounded by a trio of crag wolves, all three of them facing outward, guarding him and giving him the heat of their backs.

The she-wolf—he was certain it was the same one, though he didn’t know how he knew—stood and turned to face him. She didn’t nod this time. Only watched him with an unyielding, expectant expression that reminded him at once of the archmagister’s Holly. Watched him as if to say, Well, then? What are you lying around for?

Griffin would have liked to get to his own feet, but he wasn’t sure his trembling knees could take his weight. It was quite a thing, to wake up surrounded by giant wolves. “Thank you,” he said. “You might well have saved my life.”

An idea struck as he spoke. If they’d done that much, might they be willing to do a bit more to safeguard his quest? “I assume you helped me because you understood me, the last time we met. And because you want to help destroy Orovont.”

The wolf’s eyes narrowed. Her lips twitched in what was almost, but not quite, a snarl.

Griffin hastily shook his head. “Not by fighting him, or anything like that. I wouldn’t ask you to endanger yourselves. Just … if by chance you could travel to Pendralyn. Orovont will be watching it, but I doubt he’s looking for wolves.” Another twitch. “Not all the way into the magistery, you understand. Just into the mountains around it, close enough to reach a magician called Deryn. If she’s there. I hope she is. I don’t know how you would go about getting in touch with her, but perhaps the birds thereabouts could tell you. She can speak with you.”

He paused and cleared his throat. “Not like I am. Surely better. Or if you can’t speak with her, perhaps you can with blackhounds? Either way, if you could tell them at Pendralyn that I’m here, I’d be much obliged. I’ve had no way of getting a message to them before. But in case I don’t come home, I’d like them to be able to follow my trail, and perhaps finish this in my stead.”

For a solid minute, the wolf went on staring at him. She still didn’t nod. Griffin tried to breathe normally, tried not to blink too much. Or cry.

Finally, she made a low noise like a command, and her fellows rose. The three of them vanished into the night without another sound.

Griffin felt the loss of their warmth—and their protection—like a blow. He had no idea whether they would do as he asked. There was no doubt they had both power and understanding, but whether they had the will was another matter.

Still, they hadn’t killed him. He decided to count that as a victory.

Of sorts. But the time for small victories had passed. Perhaps he’d imagined the she-wolf’s impatience, or merely projected his own onto her. Whether it was real or not, it was most assuredly justified.

Griffin stood and looked up at the dark shape of Sarn Graddoc. He’d wasted too much time, trying to throw off pursuit, trying to be cautious. Trying to get warm, so he could think. Trying to make friends with crag wolves. Whether he did those things successfully or not, none of them could put the elixir in his hands. The only thing that could save him, or Pendralyn, lay hidden in the shadow of that tower.

He really ought to go and get it. Now, before the red dragon swooped in to do the same.

23

A lucky thing Griffin had found, and thought to take, some rope. Finding something to secure it to in this ruin was another matter. There was nothing nearby except rubble and weeds.

Perhaps he might do something with the vines that choked the crumbled opening of the well. They hid it almost perfectly, particularly after dark. It had taken him nearly an hour to find it, worrying all the while that the well might be enchanted, like the door to Mithrin’s corridor.

But in the end, there was nothing but mundane overgrowth protecting the wide hole. Griffin was grateful that he hadn’t discovered it by falling into it.

It was on the west side of Sarn Graddoc, in front of what must have been one of the shorter sections of the temple. He could well imagine it resembling the little drawing at the back of the cursed book. From that angle, if one were standing close, it probably would have looked like a single tower.

Might it be an obvious place to search, for someone who knew Sarn Graddoc as it was long ago? Perhaps Orovont was on his way. Or perhaps he’d already been here and found nothing. The well was difficult to spot.

Or perhaps Griffin was shortly to discover that he’d led the dragon here himself. A possibility that always loomed, but for which he could not prepare, when the only sure way to avoid it was to not come at all. If he sat back and did nothing out of fear of being followed, Orovont was bound to find the elixir on his own, eventually.

All Griffin could do was try to find it first. Which, at the moment, meant concentrating his energies on finding a way down. Searching, tying knots, and climbing were poor jobs for his pilfered mittens. With a regretful sigh, he took them off and put them in his pocket.

His fingers were numb by the time he finally found an iron ring, set into a thick slab of stone that would take a great deal more than Griffin’s weight to move. But the ring was rusted, and inconveniently distant from the well. By the time he ran his rope all the way, it might only extend a short way down.

It would have to do. Griffin tied the rope as securely as he could, one end to the ring, the other around his waist, then went back to the well, where he at last made use of his axe to cut himself an entrance.

There was no telling how big a drop he would have when the rope ran out. He had no torch or lantern to light his way, even if he’d dared to light it. Looking down from the top, he could scarcely see an arm’s length in front of his face, much less to the bottom.

“All right, then,” he muttered. “I suppose sitting here staring won’t make it any shorter.”

The air grew cooler as he rappelled down. When the rope went taut he stopped, stretching out one hand, then the other, searching the walls. On the positive side, they were ragged, offering what he hoped would be sufficient handholds and footholds. Less happily, they were slick with water and, in places, ice.

One hand clinging to a protruding stone and the other to his rope, Griffin kicked at the wall until he was able to break off a pebble. A splash followed before he could count a single second, but he guessed it was more than half a second. The drop might be the height of three men, perhaps more. He hoped there was plenty of water at the bottom. And no snakes or other creatures waiting in it.

He untied the rope from his waist with one hand, which took a while, considering how tightly he’d knotted it to begin with, then continued down as best he could on hands and feet alone.

He made it roughly three steps before he fell.

The frigid water was not at all pleasant to have in one’s nose. But when Griffin finally managed, with much spitting and sputtering, to get upright, he found that it only came to his chest. He waded slowly back and forth, three strides across at the widest point of the circle, until he’d covered the entire well. When no vial of elixir was cooperative enough to simply float into his hand, he took a deep breath, cursed the cold one more time, and dove.

There was an opening in the wall near the bottom, its even dimensions and relatively square corners suggesting it was there by design. It was perhaps just big enough to crawl into. At least, Griffin hoped it was, since he was going to have to do just that; inserting his arm up to his shoulder and feeling around revealed nothing. He came up for air, then dove again.

He fit, but only barely. Certainly no dragon would ever be able to make it, if one could even get down the well to begin with. Griffin squeezed himself forward, and tried not to panic as his lungs tightened.

Within a few seconds, the passage opened into a larger tunnel he could crawl through on all fours, keeping his face above the water. He was grateful for the air, but it was an awkward position, given that he was now entirely blind and leading with his head.

The tunnel gradually widened more, until he found he could crouch, and eventually, stand with his arms extended in front of him, and walk through the waist-high water. That worked well, if slowly, right up to the point where he stubbed most of his fingers against a wall.

Griffin cursed and shook the abused fingers, before warily reaching out to check the walls on either side of him. This wasn’t a turn in the tunnel; it was simply the end of it.

Lovely. And I’m shivering again. Isn’t that novel.

Feeling he’d had about all the adventure he could take, he got down on his hands and knees again, and felt around beneath the water. There was nothing.

He stood and ran his hands along the wall above the water line. Nothing again.

Unless …

His numb fingers explored the cold stone once more. It was all uneven, but still, he had the distinct impression of …

Alone and freezing in the utter dark, Griffin burst out laughing. “That’s a lump on the wall.”

If only he had the harp. Or was this where he was supposed to use the dragon blood?

No. At least, not yet. Suppose he poured it over the wall, only to find after he’d wasted it that this lump responded to a password, just as the last lump had? Better to try passwords first.

And what passwords would those be, exactly? Griffin had learned a bit of Ancient Eyrdish since that first night in the corridor, but his knowledge was by no means comprehensive.

Perhaps it didn’t need to be. Perhaps the password was the same. If Mithrin had left all this behind for some follower or apprentice, someone who knew him, he likely would have chosen something that had meaning to them. And that first password was—

“Dragon fire!” Griffin breathed, remembering the phrase Deryn had spoken that day. He laughed again. “But not fire dragon. She tried that first.” He could almost hear her voice.

Please let her be all right.

Please let me fix this.

Dragon fire. They’d thought it a reference to Fendrath, or the cavern, or the conflict with the dragons in general. But what if it had a greater significance than that? What if it was actually a reference to the elixir?

Griffin covered the smooth lump with his palm and said, “Dryd dyne.”

The words were immediately answered with a scraping sound. A hasty examination of the wall revealed a small cupboard, level with his chin. Open.

His heart slammed against his ribs, and as he reached inside, he found he was no longer quite so cold, or so exhausted, as he’d been a moment ago.

There was something in there, something square. A box, or a chest. It felt like wood. Griffin lifted it out of the cupboard, finding it unexpectedly light. It had no latch. And even if he could open it, the chances of him fumbling its contents in the dark were too great. He would have to bring it back up, or at least into the light.

A task more easily identified than executed. Though the box wasn’t large, it wasn’t small enough to tuck into his clothes, and there were several points where he needed his hands free to crawl or climb. He moved cautiously, usually trapping the box tightly under one arm, until he made it back to the bottom of the well.

There was a bit less cloud cover now, or perhaps it just looked brighter after the blackness of the tunnel. Either way, Griffin could see the bottom of his rope—and just how far away it was. The climb to it would be difficult, and most likely involve several attempts that ended with him falling back into the water. It would be impossible with the box.

Moving to the outer edge of the well, he lifted the box and braced it between his upper chest and the stone wall. Water lapped at the bottom of it. He couldn’t tell its color, but it was smooth like polished wood. He felt around the edge until he found the seam where top met bottom. It was the same thin line all the way around, and there was no catch or keyhole.

Though he knew his luck couldn’t possibly extend so far, Griffin tried dryd dyne one more time. Then exhausted the rest of his extremely limited Ancient Eyrdish vocabulary. The box remained closed.

While it was possible he just didn’t know the right password, there was no lump here. It wasn’t a door. Griffin’s instinct told him that this was what the dragon blood was for.

He was standing in high water, shaky and stiff with cold, and he could barely see. These were not ideal conditions under which to use his meager supply of blood. Even opening the flask, while holding the box at the same time, would be a possibly insurmountable challenge.

And assuming he got that far, where was he supposed to pour it? How could he tell which side of the box was the front? It was perfectly square, so there weren’t even two longer sides to choose from.

Splaying one hand across the bottom of the box to support it, Griffin reached into his coat and pulled out the flask. He worked it open with his teeth and then, having no fingers left with which to take the stopper, spit that into the water. There would be no need for it when he climbed out of here, anyway. He would either open the box now, or he wouldn’t.

Or he would drop it, while trying to turn it onto its side. Which was exactly what he did.

Gasping, he caught it with his knee and scooped it back up, lurching awkwardly to ensure his other hand—and the flask in it—stayed high above the water at the same time.

When he got the box braced against the wall again, Griffin stood still for a solid minute, perhaps two, doing nothing but breathing and trying to steady himself.

It was a bit too late to rethink his recklessness with the stopper. It was gone. If he had to dive for the box, he would lose the contents of the flask.

It would take only one dunderheaded mistake like that to crush all his hopes in a moment. Closing his eyes, he willed himself into stillness. He didn’t quite make it. But it was better, at least.

Gathering his nerve once more, Griffin turned the box—gently, slowly—onto its side, holding it at chin level with one hand, then poured some of the dragon blood over the seam. There was a light trickle, and then no sound. No movement from the box.

He pushed it harder against the slick wall, securing it as best he could, then used his chin (clumsily) to try to coax it open. Nothing. He would have to try again.

And another time after that. By the time he got to the fourth and final side, he was mostly convinced that it wouldn’t work, that the dragon blood was too diluted with melted snow, that the whole thing was hopeless. But he trickled the last of the blood over the seam anyway.

There was a hiss. Then a snap. The lid popped open the tiniest bit.

Griffin almost dropped the box in his shock at the sudden movement, and did drop the flask, so he could grip the box with both hands. He jerked it out of the water, in case there should be paper inside.

Of course it would be the last side he tried. Or perhaps all four sides had been required. In any case, it was open now. Gently, Griffin pushed the lid off.

For a sickening moment he thought the box was empty, that this whole thing had been Mithrin’s final cruel joke. Then his questing fingers found it: a vial.

A very small vial.

There was no recipe, then, nothing that would help them recreate this elixir. And judging by the size and weight of the glass in his hand, only a single dose remaining in all the world.

Still, perhaps that would be enough. Griffin would bring it back to Pendralyn, and the archmagister and every other clever magician there would study it, analyze it, figure out what was in it. Surely that would be a start, at least, to learning how to make it.

Always assuming it wasn’t spelled to explode the moment he took it out of the well. But he could hardly stay down here with it. And anyway, Mithrin could hardly have intended for it to be used inside a well. It must be meant to be taken out.

Griffin tucked the vial very carefully—and very deeply—into the pocket previously occupied by the flask, and began the arduous climb back to his rope. As he’d suspected, it took several tries. Each time he fell, he clutched at his breast pocket to be sure the vial was secure.

Eventually he made it high enough to grasp the end of the rope. It was easier after that. As he rose bit by grueling bit toward the starlight and moonlight above, he allowed himself one small moment of elation.

It had worked. He’d done it. He’d gotten what he came for.

The feeling only intensified when he climbed out of the well and found Sarn Graddoc just as he’d left it: quiet, and lonely.

Then he saw the shadowy—but still unmistakable—shape of a dragon descending from the sky.

24

For one breathless moment in the dark, he thought it might be Fendrath. Then the dragon landed, not three strides away, and Griffin saw the shape of his head—just as the beast stretched his neck, inhaling at the same time.

“Stop!” Griffin held up the tiny vial of elixir. “If you burn me, you’ll burn this, too!”

“Which would be foolish of me, wouldn’t it? And surely you don’t think me a fool.” Orovont sounded annoyed. Were all dragons so irritable? “Ease your mind, Magister, I only want a bit of light for us to have a civilized conversation by.”

The redwing inhaled once more, and breathed a stream of bright orange and red flames onto a chunk of fallen tower the size of a small cottage. The vines that covered it went up like a bonfire, illuminating Orovont—and the deep crimson fangs hanging from his mouth. He sat, like a dog, the same way Griffin had seen Fendrath sit on more than one occasion.

Fendrath.

Griffin flinched, and a lump rose in his throat as Fendrath’s last agonized scream echoed through his mind. The blackwing was fearsome in his own right, but if he was alive, it was only because Orovont had allowed it.

And here Griffin stood, not the least bit fearsome. What chance did he have against the same enemy?

None whatsoever, of course. Any attempt to fight would mean instant death. Griffin could only hope for some nonviolent way to extricate himself from the situation. Orovont had mentioned a conversation. Best to give him one, and for as long as possible.

“I suppose, being a friend of blackwings, you aren’t very familiar with sophisticated dragon fire,” Orovont said. “A redwing’s fire is precise. And it will burn for as long as I will it.”

“That sounds convenient.” Griffin clutched the vial closer to his chest, like a tiny shield. As seemed to be his pattern when meeting dragons, he had no idea what to say, and only wanted to sound anything less than completely terrified while he said it.

“It is, thank you for noticing.” Orovont looked Griffin up and down. “Although perhaps it isn’t quite precise enough to incinerate you and leave that vial untouched, more’s the pity. Even if you are a larger than usual man.”

Griffin backed away a few paces. Even if Orovont wouldn’t attack with fire, the dragon had plenty of claws. Claws that had raked Deryn bloody, not long ago. “If you move toward me at all, I’ll swallow this.”

“You’d be roasted before it reached your mouth.”

“And the elixir would be roasted with me.”

Orovont snorted. “Oh, come now, there’s no need for hysterics. I’m hardly positioned to spring at you, am I? You men are all so twitchy. Though I can’t entirely blame you, what with you being weak as well.”

“You knew I was here.” Obviously. But it was all Griffin could come up with, having no desire to expound on either his twitchiness or his weakness.

“Of course I did.”

“Did the crag wolves betray me, then?”

“The wolves.” Orovont scoffed, a sound like a blackhound choking. “They hardly needed to. I’ve had a flock of nightjars tracking you for a week.”

“Nightjars?” Griffin frowned. “They don’t stay in the mountains in the winter.”

“These ones are special. And they’re very discreet, which I appreciated. I don’t believe you noticed them a single time.”

“I didn’t.”

“A bit comical, really. You jumping and hiding at every hare and owl who had nothing at all to do with me, oblivious to your real undoing all the while.”

“Yes.” Griffin tightened his grip on the vial. The fire was warming him now, and his hands were beginning to sweat. He offered the dragon a thin laugh. “Comical.”

“It was necessary,” Orovont said. “Since you proved so unwilling to simply tell me where the elixir was, I thought it might be easier to have you lead me to it. And a fortunate thing I did, since it seems it was hidden in a location too small for me to access myself. Saves me the trouble of finding another of you hideous men to serve me.”

“That’s all very efficient of you.”

“Thank you. I do hate inefficiency. And that blackwing wasted enough of my time as it is.”

Griffin swallowed. “Is that blackwing dead?”

“He’s not coming to help you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not. I’m asking if he’s dead.”

“I doubt it. He went to see to his sisters. Assuming he made it, that is. His wing was a bit damaged.” Orovont inclined his head, which looked a bit like a gargoyle’s in the flickering light of his fire. “So you see, it is only you and I.”

“Having a civilized conversation.”

“You may call it a negotiation, if it makes you feel more powerful to do so.”

“That’s kind of you, but I don’t mind what we call it. I suppose we might say it’s an impasse, if we want to be honest.” Griffin raised the vial once more, just enough to show it in the light, then quickly lowered it to his chest. “This is all there was. And there was no recipe, or formula, or whatever it would be called for a potion.”

“I’ve always preferred recipe, myself.”

“Well, there wasn’t one. I’ve got the only elixir in existence,” Griffin said. Then added, because he thought it worth repeating, “You can’t destroy me without destroying it, too.”

“So you’ve said. And yet you must realize I won’t allow you to keep it.”

“Impasse was a good word then, wasn’t it?”

Orovont fluttered his wings, yet another reminder of Fendrath. Griffin felt a hot stab of anger. Was (his friend) the blackwing really alive? Had he really gone to find his sisters? Were the other redwings hurting them now?

“Perhaps,” Orovont said. “Or perhaps not so much of one as you suppose. After all, destroying the elixir would suit my purposes, would it not? Destroying you in the process might be an added perk, but truth be told, I’m indifferent to your fate.”

“It would suit some of your purposes,” Griffin corrected. “Most, even. It would ensure that men can’t use it. Or blackwings. But I heard what you said to Fendrath, about the greenwings. I know you need the elixir to bring them under your control.”

Orovont made a sound like a growl, but his voice was no more fierce when he spoke. He still sounded equal parts annoyed and bored. “I will allow that I’d like to have the elixir. But not quite so much as I would like for you to not have it. That is my priority. My mission, if you like. I will not overreach if it means disappointing my sister.”

The dragon rose, though he made no move toward Griffin. “You’d best hope I don’t conclude that I have no hope of taking it from you intact, Magister. If our negotiation should fail, I will settle for reducing that vial to ashes. While it still rests in your hand, which will suffer the same fate.”

“Speaking of my fate, I thought you said you were indifferent to it.” In truth, Griffin did not much care about Orovont’s feelings, on that or any other matter. But he cared very much about continuing this so-called negotiation. Mainly because he still didn’t have the slightest idea what to do.

Really? Not the slightest? Because it’s obvious enough, to anyone who isn’t a coward.

“I am indifferent,” said Orovont.

“But you aren’t. If I give you this, you’ll use it to take your revenge on mankind. Starting with Pendralyn. Do you deny it?”

“Not at all. Although it’s not only revenge. I would indeed enjoy the task of burning most of you. But it is a task, nonetheless, not empty entertainment.”

Take the elixir. Right now. Drink it and burn him.

Griffin tried to ignore the reckless thoughts. “You think it’s your job to destroy us?”

“I think it is the natural order for dragons to reign.” Orovont spread one wing in a gesture Griffin couldn’t interpret. “Red dragons, to be specific, but that is irrelevant to you. You humans think yourselves the supreme beings, despite all evidence to the contrary. You are nothing compared to us. And yet you presumed to fight us. You dared nearly destroy us.”

I can’t take it. We need it. It’s our only hope for fighting back against the dragons.

“Nearly, indeed.” Sweating again, Griffin took a shuffling step away from the fire, and forced himself to go on. He had no desire to enrage the dragon into hasty action, but neither could he afford to end the conversation. Not until the one he was having with himself was over and decided. “You have no heirs, and no hope of any, as I understand it. Your race dies with you. Who do you propose to do this reigning?”

“My sister, for the moment,” Orovont said. “And that’s really all you need to know.”

This dragon is the immediate threat. This is the one that needs fighting back against. And if he never goes home, the red queen will never know there was only one dose. She’ll think we have the elixir.

If he never goes home? I can’t kill one of nine dragons left in existence!

But if it’s either him or Pendralyn, is there truly any choice?

Griffin shook his head, at both himself and Orovont. “But you can see my dilemma. If you want to destroy mankind, I would hardly be sparing myself by giving you the elixir that might help you do it, would I?”

It might not even work on me. The dragon blood didn’t. I might swallow it and destroy it right here, for nothing. Other than to die myself.

Not for nothing. At least then the redwings wouldn’t get it.

“I didn’t say destroy all of mankind,” said Orovont. “You have your uses. We see no harm in subjugating some of you. Domesticating you, as it were. You might be one of them, if you’re fortunate, and you serve my purpose now.”

Besides, the elixir is more like the harp or the inkwell, surely. Dragon blood might enhance a magician’s powers, but an enchanted object works its own magic. Even the book forced me to read it.

“Oh? And what about other people, who might be dear to me?” Griffin asked. “Is serving your purpose worth their lives, too?”

And healing tonics, and sleeping powder. They work on nonmagical people all the time. The elixir is just a potion. A special, rare, complicated potion, but a potion nonetheless. It must work the same as any other.

This was not what Griffin might call a convenient time to find out.

Nor did he see how he could. Orovont had quite rightly pointed out that he could kill Griffin in an instant, if the latter should try to swallow the elixir. Griffin ran his thumb over the vial he clutched, and found no stopper, no cork, no cap of any kind. It was as if the glass had been formed around the liquid. It must have been magically sealed. Would it even break, if he tried?

“If you mean to bargain for your magistery,” Orovont said, “I’m afraid that’s entirely out of the question. That place is especially abhorrent to us. All of us, of every wing. No, I’m afraid Pendralyn will burn.”

Unless I burn you first.

But I can’t. It won’t work. I can’t.

Griffin was dizzy with fear and indecision. Until Orovont finished his thought with one final word.

“Presently,” the dragon said.

No.

The dizziness was gone at once, replaced with a strangling tightness in Griffin’s throat. Orovont must be stopped. If Griffin had any chance at all to stop him, it must be tried.

His fingers twitched on the vial, but his heart wavered. The dragon would see him the moment he raised it. He would be dead before he could break the glass.

Here was his chance to be the hero—Pendralyn’s hero—he’d always wished to be. He would take that chance. He would.

But perhaps just a few more questions, first.

Timing was important, after all. Perhaps he could prolong the conversation just a few minutes more. In case he thought of something that hadn’t yet occurred to him. In case he could distract Orovont, somehow. Or maneuver himself out of the firelight.

“Do you—” he began.

But there was to be no more opportunity to think, or hesitate. Or cower. Griffin’s words were swallowed by a chilling howl from the far side of the ruin. It was oddly reminiscent of a blackhound’s, but deeper, heavier, wilder. Infinitely more frightening.

It was answered by another, off in the rocky hillside.

Then another, much closer, behind the dragon. Possibly just behind him, though the flickering shadows cast by the fire revealed nothing.

Orovont turned his head toward the last cry.

Perhaps the crag wolves were willing to help, just a bit more, after all.

To Griffin’s perturbed mind, the dragon’s head seemed to move slowly, slowly. But it wasn’t slow. It was a fraction of a moment. That was all he had to decide. To act.

The elixir would work, or it wouldn’t. Either way, there was a fair chance he was about to die here.

So he might as well try. He shoved the vial into his mouth, and bit down hard.

He tasted blood as the glass broke and cut into his tongue and gums. And something much worse than blood. Like eating charred rot. It was the most vile thing he’d ever tasted.

Griffin hurriedly brought his hands back down to his chest, cupping them against his coat, hoping that he might hide what he’d done until he could determine whether it was the best decision of his life, or the worst.

But it was immediately obvious that Orovont had seen. With a roar that nearly made Griffin faint on the spot, the dragon reared.

And Griffin knew all was lost.

Even if the elixir worked, it would only allow him to breathe dragon fire. It wouldn’t shield him from it. He couldn’t hope to be faster than Orovont.

He acted almost entirely on instinct. As Orovont lunged, red jaws opening, Griffin opened his own mouth and inhaled deeply.

Orovont must have known what that meant. Even as the dragon exhaled fire, he flinched. It was enough to throw off the precision he was so proud of, and his breath went wide. Griffin dove to the side, narrowly avoiding being burned alive, and did the only thing he could think to do.

He thought of fire. He willed it into being.

Almost like magic.

And he expelled a deluge of flame, the color of dark smoke, just as Fendrath had described it.

Funny, Griffin thought as fire (Actual fire!) shot from his jaws, I don’t even feel hot.

Orovont’s breath came in answer. But the dragon was too busy trying to avoid the dark fire, and his aim was poor. Griffin dodged the blast, rolled, and got to his feet again.

Just in time to see the redwing descending from above. Orovont’s claws dug into Griffin’s shoulders and heaved him sideways. He slammed into a block of stone. Blood streamed down the front of his coat, and down the side of his face from a gash in his head.

Now that Orovont had his opponent off his feet and reeling, the dragon readied another assault. He circled, landed, and reared once more.

Slightly dazed from the blow to his head, Griffin tried to take cover behind the stone as a crucial question flew through his mind. How long does this potion last? How many breaths do I get?

One more, I hope.

Orovont was above him again. The vines in front of Griffin were on fire. His coat was on fire. And the dragon’s flames were hurtling toward his head.

And then, suddenly, they weren’t.

The fire was simply stopped, suspended in the air as if it had come up against an invisible wall. Water came from nowhere, washing over Griffin’s body, extinguishing his hem and sleeves, his smoldering boots.

Orovont was clearly just as surprised as Griffin. His flames sputtered out as he stared past Griffin at something—or someones, many of them, judging by the footfalls—emerging from the darkness beyond.

Griffin’s heart was leaping, but he didn’t turn around to look. He didn’t need to. There could be only one explanation for what had just happened: magicians.

Twelve years ago, magicians had held nine dragons off with magic, until the king could release the mordrakes from their bond to Graddoc. They could hold this lone dragon off with magic now.

But not indefinitely. Probably not even for long. Orovont was more powerful now, as was his fire. And no matter what, they couldn’t kill him.

Griffin would have to do that.

Without warning, a voice, not his own, spoke in his head. When I give you the signal, duck behind that rock for a moment.

Nott. Griffin almost grinned. He would have liked to be able to ask what the signal was, but he supposed it would be obvious enough.

Orovont seemed to have recovered from his shock, and to have decided that the one who’d taken the elixir remained the greatest threat. He charged at Griffin, roaring.

Now!

Griffin flattened himself to the ground and rolled behind the stone block. At the same time, dozens of Griffins materialized around him, some rolling too, in various directions, others standing and thrusting out their chests, as if making ready to return the dragon’s roar. Still more whirled around in a blur, running to and fro.

Whether Orovont could identify his true target didn’t seem to matter; he spewed flames over the lot of them. Fires sprang up everywhere, crawling over bushes and vines, and the air grew heavy with the smell of storms and ashes. The ground was burning. The rock Griffin hid behind started to melt.

But the magicians were with him now, beside him, around him. There was no time to look at all of them, to pick out particular faces. But Griffin felt their presence. There must have been a score of them, at least. While the contrivers continued to confuse Orovont with illusions, the sages fended off the dragon’s attacks with wind and water, and the battlemages did the same with shields.

Sheltered by their protection, Griffin jumped up to face Orovont, and inhaled once more. Three false Griffins jumped up beside him.

He must do it now, with this one more chance, while the magicians’ power held. And he’d best not fail.

Fire. That was what they’d all said, the people—the children—cursed because of this dragon. I dream of fire.

Griffin dreamed of fire.

And once again, the dark fire came. It seemed to tear its way out of him, carried by his wordless shout.

Orovont had been looking at the wrong Griffin. By the time he tried to rear back out of reach, it was too late. One of his wings caught fire, and both his front legs.

Griffin didn’t dare stop and inhale again. What if this was all the elixir could give him? Instead he kept shouting, kept pushing, until his chest was empty and his throat was hoarse with fire.

With an awful cry, Orovont fell. Half his body was burning now. He made one last attempt to shoot fire at his enemies, but it was weak, and more easily deflected than the last.

Griffin felt sick. He was killing something—someone. But he thought of his magistery, and everything else the redwings meant to destroy. He thought of Deryn bleeding, and Fendrath screaming. And though his eyes filled with tears, and his heart with regret, he kept going.

And then it was over.

25

Staring down at the dragon’s blackened carcass, Arun clapped Griffin’s shoulder. “I’ll get straight to work on that fire-resistant cloak then, shall I?”

“I can’t help but wish you’d started on it a bit sooner, if I’m honest.”

“I did, actually. Turns out it’s a bit tricky.”

Griffin laughed, although truth be told, he still felt ill over what he’d done. Not because he would grieve for Orovont himself—Eyrdri knew the world would be a better place without the redwing—but because it seemed a pity to kill any dragon, when they’d already been reduced to so few, and partly at human hands. He looked away, eyes scanning the ruins. The sages had the fires under control now, but the stormy smell of dragon breath lingered on.

Deryn approached, wiping ashes from her face, and tipped her chin at what remained of Orovont. “It’s a terrible shame, but there was nothing else for it,” she said, as if she’d read Griffin’s thoughts. “In any case, he lived up to the redwings’ reputation for cruelty, and nobody like that can survive long. Excessively cruel people are bound to make too many enemies, don’t you think? He punctured one of my lungs, you know. And there was really no need for it. I’d already fallen down.”

In the chaotic half hour since he’d killed Orovont, Griffin had caught only glimpses of his friend. His eyes stung now at the sight of her, so placid and so … Deryn. Wordlessly, he pulled her into a hug, squeezing until her muffled voice rose up to suggest that perhaps being crushed was not the best treatment for the four broken ribs that were still healing.

He cleared his throat as he released her. “I … you look whole and healthy now.”

“Oh, I am, for the most part, although I came uncomfortably close to being neither. It all worked out in the end. By the time I left Karacspire, it was on my own feet.”

Griffin ducked his head. “I’m sorry I left you there.”

Deryn waved the apology away. “It was all you could do.”

“I’m told I have you to thank for this rescue?”

“You have the crag wolves to thank, mainly.”

“But …” Griffin frowned and looked around again, though he knew the wolves had gone. They’d given him no chance to thank them. “I don’t understand how you got here so quickly. It was already dark when I asked them to find you.”

“Then they must have done it of their own accord, before you asked, because they contacted me this afternoon. Quite unexpectedly. I’d never met one before, but they’re very interesting creatures. I hope I’ll hear more from them, from time to time.”

“Before they came to warm me,” Griffin murmured. Another debt he owed them.

“Warnings before warmings.” Deryn gave him a solemn nod, as if acknowledging some familiar and accepted piece of wisdom.

“What is all this talk of us rescuing you?” Calys called. She stood with her group of battlemages in a ring of torches a few strides away. They were doing sums, firing questions and answers at one another, to restore their balance. How she’d heard Griffin above their noise was a mystery.

She moved closer and gifted him with a rare smile. “It’s the other way around, wouldn’t you say?”

“I certainly would,” said Arun. “We owe you a debt, Griffin. The elixir is out of the redwings’ reach, and there is no longer anything hidden beneath Pendralyn that would make it an attractive target for dragons.” He cocked his head. “As far as we know, anyway. Let’s hope we don’t find anything too valuable down in Mithrin’s lair.”

“All right, Griffin, let’s have a closer look at those cuts.” Lawfric pushed the others aside to step in front of Griffin, and called for some light. Another sage drew up beside him, holding up a lantern while Lawfric examined the gash above Griffin’s temple, then gestured for him to open his mouth. Griffin’s clawed shoulders had been tended to right away, but as his other wounds were far less serious, they’d been left until more urgent matters could be dealt with.

“Do you think you swallowed any glass?” Lawfric asked.

“Are his throat and guts burned, would be the better question,” Arun said. “I can’t imagine how you could come away from breathing fire with your insides intact.”

“Only cuts, I think,” said Griffin. He looked past Lawfric at the archmagister. “The elixir is out of our reach as well, I’m sorry to say.”

“That is a shame,” Arun agreed. “But it could hardly be helped. And now that Orovont won’t be reporting back to his queen, she has no reason to know that. Let her think Wardin has it, and is even as we speak having the replicators stockpile the ingredients for more.”

“That might gain us some time, but she’ll—” Griffin fell silent at an impatient cluck from Lawfric, and kept his mouth still for several seconds, while the sage healed his throbbing gums and tongue.

“But she’ll hate us more than ever now,” Griffin said when it was done. He nodded his thanks to Lawfric before turning back to Arun. “She’ll want to avenge her brother. I hate to say it, Archmagister, but I fear a war is brewing. With an enemy we now have no way to kill.”

“Let’s make that tomorrow’s problem, shall we?” Arun chuckled. “You’re not very good at accepting thanks.”

“I’m not sure I deserve any.” Griffin gestured at the chattering crowd around him, gathering in clusters among the ruins and the dying fires to tend to burns or their balance. “It took half the magistery to take that dragon down. I certainly couldn’t have done it without magic.”

“Well then.” Deryn squeezed his hand. “It’s a good thing you have magic, isn’t it?”

“What?” Griffin shook his head. “No I don’t. You were probably dealing with the fires when I tested it, but the elixir wore off a long time ago.”

“Did it? Well, that’s a shame, but I’m not surprised. Something that powerful can’t be expected to last very long, can it? Anyway, I don’t mean the potion.” Deryn swept her arm in an arc, mimicking his gesture from a moment before. “You have magicians.”

* * *

“Ah. There you are.” Griffin looked from the bedraggled navigation students filing into the memorial clearing, to the full moon above them, checking the latter’s progress across the sky. “I’d say that’s under an hour. Congratulations, you’ve all passed.”

There was much cheering, although it was tempered by quite a few yawns. They’d been out half the night. Griffin had led them to several remote places within walking distance of Avadare, then given them a secondary location to navigate to, using only the stars and a few small hints.

Though they didn’t know it, they were closely followed by three contrivers and twice as many blackhounds. There’d been no sign of dragons in the month since Orovont’s dramatic departure from this world, but the magisters were still wise enough not to allow children to wander the hills alone and unsupervised.

Of the original class, only Nack was missing. Despite being invited (and strongly encouraged, in Corin’s case) to return to Pendralyn, the boy had decided to go home to Tarnarven instead, and learn his parents’ trade. He was perhaps more enthusiastic about this chosen future than he might have been a month before. Not that Griffin blamed him. An encounter with Orovont was not an easy thing to get over.

Nor was an encounter with any dragon, as Griffin was perhaps shortly to be reminded. He was walking among his students, distributing cider and praise, when he saw it: a tiny glint through the trees.

A glint of blue flame.

“Magister!” Corin tugged at Griffin’s sleeve. “Now that we’ve gotten so good at this, Darson and I were thinking we might make a journey to one of the seaside villages this summer.”

Griffin forced a laugh, though he could think only of what he’d just seen. “What, alone? You’re excellent navigators, boys, but you’re twelve years old.” He pointed at Corin. “And I very much doubt your father is going to allow the heir to the throne to go traipsing around the kingdom without an appropriate entourage.”

“We’d take some guards,” Corin said with a wave. “We’re not idiots. But we would do the navigating, is all I mean. We …”

Griffin lost the thread of the boy’s words as he peered through the trees. All was dark. A few minutes later, the contrivers and blackhounds emerged from the shadows (both the literal ones, and those they’d created with magic) to greet the students, all of whom were deeply surprised to see them. Griffin could only envy their innocence, to imagine they could walk safely anywhere they liked. Eyrdon might not be safe again for quite some time.

Wade came up beside Griffin and clapped him on the shoulder. “They did well.”

“They did,” Griffin agreed. “Did you see anything unusual out there?”

The contriver gave him a sharp look. “No. Like what?”

“Nothing. I just … it’s nothing.” And perhaps it really was. The blackhounds were behaving perfectly normally, demanding jerky and yawning. If there were a dragon nearby, surely they would know it.

But that light was blue.

Griffin chatted for several more minutes, while the students finished their cider. But when it was time to return to the magistery, he sent them back with Wade and stayed behind, on the pretense that he wanted to spend a few minutes at the memorial, honoring his dead.

When all was silent again, he moved not toward the obelisk, but into the trees, where he’d seen (or thought he’d seen) the fire.

Don’t get your hopes up. It might have been a trick of the moonlight. It might have been anything.

He smelled no woodsmoke in the air, but as he approached a chattering stream, he did smell something else.

Lightning, and hot hound.

Griffin’s heart leapt. “I thought that was you.”

“Of course you thought it was me. That’s because I told you it was me. Who else would be lighting blue fires, I ask you?” Fendrath emerged from the shadows, moonlight glimmering in his golden eyes, giving them the look of flame. “Always trying to point out how clever you are, when you’ve been nothing of the sort.”

Griffin almost laughed with relief at the sight of him, after weeks of wondering (and worrying) whether the blackwing had survived his fight with Orovont or not. “I never point out how clever I am,” he protested. “Or almost never.”

“No. I meant men in general, but it’s true you’re one of the more modest of your lot. Perhaps you don’t claim to be clever as often because you aren’t clever as often. Have you thought of that?”

“I suppose I have, in my way.” Griffin stepped closer, studying the dragon. One of his horns was shorter than the other, but he looked otherwise much the same. “Are you well? Are your sisters?”

“What?” Fendrath sounded taken aback by the question.

“I’d heard the redwings were threatening your sisters. And that you were trying to get to them with an injured wing. ”

“Ah.” Fendrath raised his right wing as far as the crowding pines would allow, and fluttered it slightly. “They regenerate, unless they’re severed completely, at the joint. As will my horn, though that takes longer.” He tilted his head, displaying the shorter horn for Griffin’s inspection. It looked a bit jagged at the top, and wasn’t curled in quite as much as it ought to be.

“It’s almost grown in now,” Fendrath went on. “And my sisters are perfectly well. For the moment. It’s you I came to have a look at, to see how you came out of your last meeting with Orovont.”

“I came out of it better than he did, which I suppose is all that matters. You’ve heard he’s dead?”

“We’ve all heard.”

Griffin smiled. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Why, did you do it for me?”

“No. I lied to you. At first. About knowing where the elixir was.” Griffin rubbed the toe of his shoe in the dirt, not quite sure why he was saying this. He shrugged. “I suppose I just thought you should know. Considering all you did.”

“I do know. You ought to be grateful that my expectations of your miserable race are so low, or I might have bothered killing you for it. I also know that you swallowed the only elixir in existence. Botched that thoroughly, didn’t you?”

“You seem to know a great deal.”

“You didn’t take many precautions with the crag wolves. At least not successfully.”

“They’re your spies?”

Fendrath tossed his head. “We’re friends, as it happens. Just because they were willing to help you rid the world of Orovont, you shouldn’t assume they like you better than the rest of us dragons.”

“Oh?” Griffin crossed his arms, lips twitching. “So you’ll call them friends, but not the one who actually did rid the world of Orovont.”

“You’re going to be disappointed, you know, if you’re looking for thanks or praise for killing a dragon. You’ve made enemies.”

“The red queen.”

“Adalant. She’ll be sure you remember her name, one day soon. And the greenwings are none too happy with you, either.”

“The greenwings?” Griffin frowned. “Why? Orovont was their enemy, surely. It sounds to me as if the redwings are as much a threat to other dragons as they are to us.”

Fendrath snorted. “Think a bit, if you can manage it, will you? There were nine dragons left in existence. Now there are eight. Eight dragons, and nearly countless humans. Nobody’s going to approve of any of you having the temerity to kill any of us. Dragons are proud creatures, the green only slightly less so than the red. Not to mention, you stole their harp.”

“The harp belonged to the greenwings?” That was an odd—and interesting—revelation. The same dragons who’d made the cursed book had made the harp, as well. What else had they made? And were harps a particular specialty of theirs?

“Stolen from them by Orovont,” Fendrath said. “They’ll want it back.”

“Well it’s not as though I have it hidden beneath my coat. I’ll speak to the archmagister. I’m sure he’ll be happy to return it to them, as a gesture of peace.”

“Peace.” There was a rumble of Fendrath’s laughter. “I think you will not feel at peace for quite a while, yet.”

Griffin swallowed, still adjusting to the news that he’d angered a number of dragons he’d never met. “Do Adalant and her other brother know? That we don’t have any elixir?”

“You’re fortunate, on that score,” said Fendrath. “As far as I can learn, all they know right now is that you killed their brother with that elixir. Which leaves you safe, for the moment. She won’t risk an attack while she thinks you have it.”

“But she won’t think that forever.” Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. Almost feeling hot breath there. “You dragons are awfully fond of spies. Eventually the redwings will find out we can’t kill them.”

“Indeed.”

“Well,” Griffin said, with a lightness he did not feel, “perhaps we’ll just put by a store of vividrake venom, and fight them with bellyaches. It worked against you.”

“You won’t be fighting them with your sharp wit and humor, that’s certain.” Fendrath tilted his head to fix Griffin with a cutting stare. “An invulnerable Adalant, who knows she is invulnerable, is not a comfortable thing for you. Nor for my sisters.”

“Why only your sisters?” Griffin asked, returning to something he’d thought of often, since the fight in Karacspire. “Why doesn’t she want to kill you?”

Fendrath chuckled. “Always so greedy with the questions.”

“Always so miserly with the answers.”

“Yet you persist in thinking that will change.”

Griffin sighed. “Why are you here, then? It’s clearly not to tell me anything useful.”

“Perhaps it’s to remind you of something you said, when we last met.”

“What was that?”

“That we have a common enemy.”

Griffin’s brows shot up. “Are you suggesting we form an alliance against the remaining redwings? It doesn’t sound as though your greenwings would approve.”

“They’ll come to see the necessity for it, I think. In time. Your translator, I don’t recall her name. She’s still studying the runes in the cavern?”

“Calys? Yes. The runes, and Mithrin’s books. We used the harp to reopen the corridor, and the archmagister is building a permanent entrance, among other things.” Griffin narrowed his eyes. “Why? Do you think we’ll find any more hints about how to make the elixir? Some of the magisters are hoping we will.”

In fact, some of the magisters thought they’d been given a few such hints already. Duncan had been obliged to give up his position at the magistery in favor of more punitive work in Narinore, but not before he’d used the inkwell to faithfully (or so they hoped) recreate the runes he’d seen in Mithrin’s journal. Calys was convinced that some of them—tongue or tooth among them, suggesting more dragon parts—were elixir ingredients.

“I very much doubt that,” Fendrath said hastily. “But it’s possible that Mithrin had some information in his possession, the value of which he did not realize.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you should keep studying. I have some business of my own to attend to, while you do.” Fendrath moved through the trees with his sleek reptilian gait, heading for the open ground of the clearing. “You’ll hear from me again.”

“When?” Griffin followed, confused and a bit irritated. “Is that all you came to say?”

“Why, what were you hoping I would say?” Fendrath snapped open his wings and looked back at Griffin, amber eye gleaming with … amusement? “Oh, very well, then. I suppose I can say you’ve done well. Despite your many shortcomings.”

With that, the dragon rose into the sky, and was gone.

Dear Reader

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