“Still!” Michelle cried, gesturing to the auburn harpy, who held the astrolabe clutched in her withered forearms. “Look! They can’t really go back. They can’t really reclaim anything. Because we have the astrolabe! Right? As long as we have that, the island is virtually uninhabitable… right?”
Lethe shook his head. “It won’t work here,” he told her. “We are now in another dimension entirely, Michelle. While the astrolabe is here, it will not affect Everwinter… or The Hearthlands.”
“Shut your mouth,” Vulott spat.
But Lethe merely looked away from him and continued speaking. It was progress. “While the astrolabe is here, it will not affect the stars, nor will it affect the weather. Not in favor of any party. The natural patterns of the island will resume as if the astrolabe had never existed. It has probably already begun.” His eyes shifted to his father now. “You know it’s true,” he added.
“If the device is useless here,” the head harpy asked, “why did you bring it?”
“That is simple enough,” Vulott sneered. “So the fire dragons would not have it!”
“But…”
“Are you going to be okay?” Lethe whispered beside me. He was watching me with warm blue eyes, concerned. “It’s awfully cold here for a human.”
“It’s chilly,” I admitted, rubbing my own arms. “But it’s not nearly as bad as Everwinter.” I smiled up at him. “Trust me.”
He smiled back, and our brief moment of peace was interrupted by the sound of a crashing through the trees—and two large fire dragons, one black and gold, one orange and red, dove toward us out of the sky, aiming directly for the small beach on which we were clustered.
Michelle covered her head and shrilled like a banshee, ducking down onto her knees.
I stared into the sky, and I let the smile on my face soften and grow. I missed Theon so much, and now he was here; I had seen him following us… and now I saw him again, gleaming and raven black. I’d known he’d come for me. Now that the castle had been retaken—perhaps even before it had been fully secured—he had come for me. I’d known he would. I’d been waiting.
“I’d rather be damned to hell,” Vulott growled, silver scales coursing over his face and hands, body cracking and popping, lengthening and ballooning. His massive head swung to scrutinize his son icily. “This is an age-old feud, boy,” he snapped at Lethe. “You were born to die for it.”
Lethe frowned at his father, as if this statement brought to mind unanswered questions, but then he shifted anyway. My lips fell open slightly, and I almost wanted to call out to him, to say something to him, ask him why, why he kept letting his father run his life… his whole life… but the fire dragons were on top of them now, and I knew he wouldn’t listen to me. It was too late. Just like Michelle… he’d chosen his side.
Nell
Theon spewed a bright orange magma onto the beach, toward Vulott, but the silver beast took to the sky, where he had more maneuverability. I lunged to one side, even though I was never in any danger of being hit, and then shot a glance over my shoulder. The bright orange puddle seethed and sizzled like a geyser in the sand.
I wondered who this second dragon, orange and red, was. Lethe had taken to the sky and started battling with him or her; I hadn’t seen that coming, and I wished that Lethe had objected to the battle. I didn’t want to see either of them hurt. Lethe was not, at his core, a fighter. So why did he fight? When would he finally say no?
The black harpy and the white harpy swarmed overhead, their massive wingspans slashing over the beach.
The black harpy made one move to defend Theon from Vulott—she clawed at the silver dragon’s hide—and it was all that it took for the senile ice dragon to realize that the harpies had turned against them, or been against them from the beginning. He shot a spray of ice at the black harpy—enough to cause her wings to falter and for her to go splashing into the shallows below—and then, for good measure, shot another cloud of frost at the white harpy, in case she got any ideas. But it was obvious to me that harpies didn’t naturally fight for anyone but themselves, as the white harpy quickly recovered and withdrew, not even going to help the black harpy as she floundered out of the water. I bit my lip, watching her. Anyone in the waters of Beggar’s Lake needed to be careful. The undertow led into that bottomless whirlpool. Even a dragon, I suspected, would not survive.
The brown-and-red dappled harpy squawked and drew up slightly into the air, her stance protective. She still clutched the astrolabe, which had lost its mystical luster in this dimension.