metal blade twirling expertly between two
fingers.
“Not even a challenge,” Zane
announced, dropping the picklock back into the pocket of his vest. “Still,
don’t do that again.” He stood, looking down at her with a particularly empty
expression. His hair was tied back; the buttons on his cuffs shone pewter in
the morning sun. “I don’t appreciate locked doors. And I won’t wait downstairs
longer than twenty minutes.”
Lia was ready in fifteen.
CHAPTER FOUR
A ges ago, fairy-tale years ago, it
was said that the Gifts of the drákon pulsed through the veins of every
single member of the tribe, male and female alike. As certain as the phases of
the moon, the children of the shire would grow into adults, would Turn into
hunters and warriors and splendid beasts. Back then, all were equally blessed.
But over time, the Gifts began to
fade. It began with the womenfolk first, those who were more naturally
earthbound in any case, caring for the young. Females who could complete the
Turn—human, smoke, dragon—became scarcer and scarcer over generations. They
grew more used to roaming the woods than the skies. With a lack of wings, they
transformed their ferocity and flight into fierce devotion to their children,
into a love of jewels and wedlock and long, wistful glances at the moon.
Darkfrith was rich with women who only ever dreamed of soaring.
Then the Gifts began to thin
through the men as well. The birth of a male child who could not Turn was still
rare enough, but the Turn itself was growing darker, more treacherous. That
initial, violent moment that usually began around a boy’s fourteenth year—that
wild and frightening instant when the self first dissolved into smoke, when
something new had to come in its place or nothing else ever would— became, for
some reason, harder and harder to complete.
Lives were lost. Young men,
promising, bright, vanished into screams and agony. And the women of the tribe
would secretly wonder if they were the better blessed, after all.
Yet
dragon or human, male or female, every member of the drákon still had an
animal side. The taste for the chase, the longing for the sky, the power to
hear the stones and metals of the earth singing ballads and chants and arias:
none of these things ever faded. There was a reason no other creatures dwelled
in Darkfrith. It was hard enough to keep sane horses for the stables. Even the
black-faced sheep ran wild.
So Lia was unsurprised when she
walked out of the King’s View—at the august and sophisticated edge of Óbuda;
far, far from the hills of home—and every steed downwind of her immediately
began to stomp and tremble.
At the bottom of the hotel’s
horseshoe steps, a foursome of grays hitched to a polished new carriage bucked
against their restraints. Zane, standing by the carriage door, glanced up at once.
His eyes found hers.
By and large she’d avoided the
typical beasts of burden on her journey here. She’d sailed, in fact, from
Edinburgh to Rotterdam, and that had been lovely. The clipper had been small
and cramped and very swift. Every day she’d stood at the prow to let the wind
tear at her. Her cheeks never burned. Her hair never tangled. But she’d never
felt salt in her tears like that, and she’d never felt her skin smart quite so
beautifully.
When she had closed her eyes and
stood very still, Lia imagined she was flying.
Darkfrith had succored sixteen
generations of her kind. Of the past five, only three females had managed the
Turn: Rue. Audrey. Joan.
Lia had grown used to the veiled,
speculative looks from her people as she’d aged. She’d grown used to the
gossip, the subtle heartbeat of excitement and expectation that throbbed
through the tribe whenever either of her sisters took to the air.
They were silver and gold and red
and green, magnificent. With Rue a white pearl in the sky beside them, they
were the best hope for the future of the drákon. Villagers would gather
outside to watch whenever
fingers.
“Not even a challenge,” Zane
announced, dropping the picklock back into the pocket of his vest. “Still,
don’t do that again.” He stood, looking down at her with a particularly empty
expression. His hair was tied back; the buttons on his cuffs shone pewter in
the morning sun. “I don’t appreciate locked doors. And I won’t wait downstairs
longer than twenty minutes.”
Lia was ready in fifteen.
CHAPTER FOUR
A ges ago, fairy-tale years ago, it
was said that the Gifts of the drákon pulsed through the veins of every
single member of the tribe, male and female alike. As certain as the phases of
the moon, the children of the shire would grow into adults, would Turn into
hunters and warriors and splendid beasts. Back then, all were equally blessed.
But over time, the Gifts began to
fade. It began with the womenfolk first, those who were more naturally
earthbound in any case, caring for the young. Females who could complete the
Turn—human, smoke, dragon—became scarcer and scarcer over generations. They
grew more used to roaming the woods than the skies. With a lack of wings, they
transformed their ferocity and flight into fierce devotion to their children,
into a love of jewels and wedlock and long, wistful glances at the moon.
Darkfrith was rich with women who only ever dreamed of soaring.
Then the Gifts began to thin
through the men as well. The birth of a male child who could not Turn was still
rare enough, but the Turn itself was growing darker, more treacherous. That
initial, violent moment that usually began around a boy’s fourteenth year—that
wild and frightening instant when the self first dissolved into smoke, when
something new had to come in its place or nothing else ever would— became, for
some reason, harder and harder to complete.
Lives were lost. Young men,
promising, bright, vanished into screams and agony. And the women of the tribe
would secretly wonder if they were the better blessed, after all.
Yet
dragon or human, male or female, every member of the drákon still had an
animal side. The taste for the chase, the longing for the sky, the power to
hear the stones and metals of the earth singing ballads and chants and arias:
none of these things ever faded. There was a reason no other creatures dwelled
in Darkfrith. It was hard enough to keep sane horses for the stables. Even the
black-faced sheep ran wild.
So Lia was unsurprised when she
walked out of the King’s View—at the august and sophisticated edge of Óbuda;
far, far from the hills of home—and every steed downwind of her immediately
began to stomp and tremble.
At the bottom of the hotel’s
horseshoe steps, a foursome of grays hitched to a polished new carriage bucked
against their restraints. Zane, standing by the carriage door, glanced up at once.
His eyes found hers.
By and large she’d avoided the
typical beasts of burden on her journey here. She’d sailed, in fact, from
Edinburgh to Rotterdam, and that had been lovely. The clipper had been small
and cramped and very swift. Every day she’d stood at the prow to let the wind
tear at her. Her cheeks never burned. Her hair never tangled. But she’d never
felt salt in her tears like that, and she’d never felt her skin smart quite so
beautifully.
When she had closed her eyes and
stood very still, Lia imagined she was flying.
Darkfrith had succored sixteen
generations of her kind. Of the past five, only three females had managed the
Turn: Rue. Audrey. Joan.
Lia had grown used to the veiled,
speculative looks from her people as she’d aged. She’d grown used to the
gossip, the subtle heartbeat of excitement and expectation that throbbed
through the tribe whenever either of her sisters took to the air.
They were silver and gold and red
and green, magnificent. With Rue a white pearl in the sky beside them, they
were the best hope for the future of the drákon. Villagers would gather
outside to watch whenever
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