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  Maolmuire straightened from his crouch, bigger and bigger—or maybe I was shrinking, smaller and smaller. Even if Shamino had ripped off his shirt in that moment, I wouldn’t have been able to tear my eyes from Maolmuire. The dragon was huge, almost twice Raul’s size. He locked a topaz eye on me as he slunk into the cave. Muscles rippled with each step, reminding me how easily he could crush me. He stopped an arm’s-length from us, peering down as if we were bugs. A yawn. Teeth as long as my hands glinted in the sunlight.

  My insides turned to water and my vision darkened as I caught sight of the lake past the platform. Calm. Breathe. Maolmuire won’t hurt you, he’s just a bad-tempered goat.

  I met that topaz eye.

  I smiled.

  A tight, half-terrified and half-angry smile. But it was a smile. The dragon wanted me to scream, but I wasn’t going to. Nor would I give Shamino the chance to turn me out of the Quarters. I could vomit later, in the privacy of my rooms.

  “Hello, Maolmuire,” I said, feeling proud relief at the steadiness of my voice. “I’m Adara. Pleased to meet you.”

  An eyeridge raised. The dragon softly snorted.

  Shamino let out a slow breath. I turned my smile to him, and my mouth involuntarily softened into a real smile. Shamino almost returned it, then scowled.

  “Oiling.” He snatched one of the sticks from my bundle, a large one with a curved hook. “Leg, please?”

  Maolmuire thrust a leg at us.

  Shamino showed me how to pry the dirt from between the scales and check for abrasions. He cleared away loose dirt with a brush. Oiling itself was simple: coat the scales with a pungent, oil-soaked cloth, then rub it dry with a clean one.

  I was going to be sore in the morning.

  “Have fun,” Shamino said. He moved as if to pat my shoulder, then jerked his hand to his side. “I’ll be dredging. Shake the Summoning Globe if you need me.”

  I suspected that if I needed him, he’d write to Merram within five minutes.

  Shamino left me with the crabby dragon. Maolmuire blinked. I blinked back.

  If I survive today, I can survive everything. I’m sure Shamino has given me the worst task.

  I hefted the stick.

  Maolmuire spun faster than anything his size should have allowed. His tail crashed upon the floor inches from me. I yelped. My magic boiled up—I doused it with the image of the lake.

  “Fine,” I said, still shaking. “Tail first. Thanks for asking.”

  Maolmuire let out a low rumble. A chuckle? Then, to my surprise, he closed his eyes and settled into a light snooze that didn’t let up even as I resumed cleaning.

  This isn’t so bad, I thought as I finished his tail. Pigshit. That took longer than a Sphere. I’ll never finish.

  Maolmuire raised a hand and began to grate two claws together. A sound like rasping boards echoed in the bare cave.

  I ignored him.

  He began to grate them at irregular intervals.

  I am calm. I am at the lake. The sun shines, and Shamino… Why is Shamino here? I tried to work faster, but my shoulders ached too much. I moved to a hind leg and still Maolmuire didn’t stop, so I began to hum. Poorly. Maolmuire grated louder. I hummed louder.

  Maolmuire twisted with a menacing growl and two nostrils blew hot dragon breath in my face. The vision began to form.

  The red dragon roars a battle cry as he flies to his target...

  I locked my knees so I wouldn’t fall over. Maolmuire—just Maolmuire—stood in front of me again.

  “Listen. Dragon.” My voice almost broke with terrified anger. “You don’t like this? I’m not having fun, either. So maybe we can make each other crazy, and this will take all night, or you can be nice and I’ll go as fast as I can.”

  And I’m never going to forgive Shamino for starting me with you.

  The nostrils lowered. Maolmuire looked… amused? There was a definite crinkle near the eye.

  “Deal?” If he didn’t agree, what then? I didn’t see how anyone could make a dragon do anything.

  Maolmuire hissed. Once more, hot breath scented with charred meat washed over me; this time, no vision. He thrust the rear leg at me, splayed his claws, and grumbled to himself.

  Thank you, First One. I needed to find an altar. Today. And bathe it with my tears of gratitude.

  The next few hours… passed. Not quickly. Maolmuire did absolutely nothing to help. I ripped my breeches in two places and collected hundreds of tiny cuts as I climbed all over him.

  As Shamino had promised, I ran out of oil; it took two trips to get the drums. Wrestling them wore me out even more. My arms shook, my back hurt, I had half a dragon to go… I gritted my teeth and pried off the lids.

  Maolmuire let out a snore. Lazy, mule-assed dung heap. I resisted the urge to kick him and climbed onto his back.

  After I’d used up half a bucket of oil, Maolmuire yawned and stretched.

  “Pigshit!” I flailed, barely grabbing the spine on his back before I tumbled off. Pain flared up my arm as the spine sliced into my palm. He continued to stretch, his tail arced—

  It swept through both open drums.

  Oil flooded the floor like liquid gold.

  Maolmuire shuddered and I fell. Mostly I fell on my ass, but it hurt, almost as much as my palm. Maolmuire cocked his head and blinked as if to say, Why Adara, whatever happened?

  I shoved myself to my feet. “You—you—mule-loving, inbred, pigshitting, weasel-snout!”

  Maolmuire chuckled and tiptoed to the non-oily side of his home.

  I tried to storm out of the cave. Instead, I slipped in oil, bruising my ass again and soaking my clothes. Maolmuire’s chuckle changed to a boulder-clattering laugh. I took my time to the door and slammed it. Of course, I slammed it with my cut hand. I cursed again, tears stinging my eyes from the pain, and I went to the supply room to bandage the wound as best I could. Then, as I stepped into the hallway, I realized something.

  I didn’t know the rain-forsaken waypoints.

  It took me over half a Sphere to reach Shamino’s study. My anger grew with every sore, squelching step. I grabbed the sparkly green ball with my good hand and shook it like a crazed dog.

  The study door opened.

  “You’re still here,” Shamino said, surprised. He noticed my oil-soaked clothing. “What happened?”

  He himself was mud streaked and reeking of sulfur, but he had chosen to be filthy. Stupid, pigshitting dragon. Calm. Lake. Through clenched teeth, I asked, “How do I clean oil off the floor?”

  “How much?” he asked as he stared at my plastered breeches and shirt. I told him, and he burst, “Two entire… Do you have any idea how much those cost? What were you doing? Juggling them with Telekinesis?”

  “I didn’t spill it! Your stupid dragon knocked them over.”

  “Maolmuire knocked... Did you put them beside him? Never mind. I should have told you to…” For a moment, I thought he honestly felt bad. Then he began to close the door. “We can’t save it, so just burn it with your Gift.”

  My anger deflated. “I can’t.”

  The door paused. “You set Raul’s cushion on fire. Surely it’s not a difficult spell for you?”

  Zoland had told me that not all mages could cast all spells. I could answer that, when not freaked out of my mind, Fire was one of those difficult spells for me. But hiding the truth was like lying, and Shamino had been serious when he mentioned that he hated lies. Not that my entire life isn’t a lie. Still. I took a deep breath. “I can’t cast anything. On purpose, anyway.”

  The door flew open. “At all?”

  I bit my lip.

  “No Gift, yet Merram thinks… Fine. I’ll clean it up.” Shamino slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the hallway.

  “No! I can do it, just not with magic. With a mop, or I can ask—” No. Asking Maolmuire to use his fire-breath would only invite more trouble. “I’ll have to deal with it when you’re not around.”

  “You’re joking.” Shamino
strode down the hallway and I struggled to keep up. “You’re not staying.”

  “I told you, it’s not my fault! And you’re the one who gave me the worst job with the nastiest dragon in the Kyer! On my first day!”

  He missed a step. “Yes, well, you needed to know what you’re getting into. It’s not like home, all nice and clean with mommy and daddy fixing your slightest problem. We work here. I can’t believe your parents convinced Merram to saddle you on me.”

  I halted. Cool, white anger seeped into my heart.

  It only took Shamino a few steps—or maybe my silence—to realize I wasn’t following. He turned. Raised his hands. “What? Please don’t tell me you’re going to cry.”

  I stared at him until he mussed his hair. When he opened his mouth, I cut him off. “You sheep-brained, arrogant asshole. I didn’t ask the Dragonmaster for the honor of working with you. As for meddling parents, I don’t have any. My mother is dead and my father—” Warning shot through my mind, barely slicing through the angry haze. “Give my thanks to Maolmuire for being kinder than his Seneschal, and don’t bother writing the Dragonmaster. I’ll write him myself.”

  I took in Shamino’s slapped expression with satisfaction before walking away.

  Chapter Ten

  I was an idiot to think I’d find a place in this rain-forsaken, dark hole of a Kyer.

  I’d cleaned up—the cuts burning like dragon flame—and I’d devoured some bread. My mood didn’t improve, and in my living room I paced with fury. Fury at myself. For thinking I could do anything a noble could do without a Gift. I can’t lift oil drums, I can’t burn oil, I can’t—

  Shamino in dreamy disdain flashed in my mind. At least the disdain took the dreaminess down a notch. Two notches.

  I’d told him I’d write Merram myself. But what would I say? Oh, hello. Failure here. Seneschal hates me. Am I your daughter?

  But I had to write something.

  I went to begin it, then froze. In the center of my desk sat a white box tied with a silver bow. Someone had been in my rooms.

  A chill went down my spine. Had the present been there at noon while I’d changed my clothes for the Quarters? Had a person been in my rooms this evening while I bathed?

  I did a quick check of my other room—nothing. Just the box. Which… maybe it wasn’t creepy? But surely a messenger wouldn’t have entered my rooms if I hadn’t answered the door. He would have returned later.

  And who? Who would give me a gift? Merram could have handed me the box during our meeting. Orrik? Not Shamino.

  Seriously, Adara. Enough about Shamino.

  “Merram,” I decided without confidence. Though saying the name aloud made me recall our conversation. He wanted to know if anyone contacted me.

  Stomach in my throat, I took the box to my sofa. A quick tug and the ribbon fell away. I lifted the stiff paper lid. Inside, I found a letter. As I unfolded it, a slim vial of liquid tumbled into my lap.

  My palm throbbing, I smoothed the paper. Unfamiliar writing, severe and slanted, covered the sheet. Ink blobbed in the peaks of the letters, as if the writer had pressed down too hard as he or she wrote. A small splatter of ink may have been where a quill had broken.

  I eyed the vial of amber liquid. Poison? Medicine? I read the letter:

  Dear Adara,

  The Dragonmaster lies. Instead of honoring you as he should, instead of giving you the truth so you can rise, he blankets you in obscurity. You are but a tool to him, a blue mage and nothing more.

  Come to me and I will give you your heritage. Adara, you are more than the dirt you grew up plowing. You are more than the pitiful house to which the Dragonmaster has assigned you. Come to me and I will give you the truth. I will give you power to change the world.

  There was no signature. On the back of the sheet, it said: Meet my liaison in three days at the following location, and he will bring you to me. A rough map showed a crossroads perhaps a day’s travel from the Kyer.

  My hands shook as I lowered the note. Thorkel—it had to be Thorkel. Merram had warned me that he still sought me, and Thorkel knew where inside the Kyer I lived.

  Nausea welled up in my throat. Tonight, I needed to go tonight and tell the Dragonmaster. I needed to—

  As I shot to my feet, a flash of amber distracted me. The vial tumbled to the faded blue rug.

  I picked it up. Held it between the thumb and forefinger of my bad hand. Uncorked it.

  A scent wafted out of the vial, and my heart sobbed, Mommy.

  Memories slammed into me, clear as today—Mother cuddling me under endless stars, all nights of the year, whispering stories of Daranathon the Father Dragon and how the First One sent him to save us. In most of the memories I had been four or five, warm and loved. I felt her arms, the way her long, straight hair tickled my cheek, and oh, the way she smelled, the sweetest flower grown far away, mingling with spice.

  It’s perfume, she had laughed one night as we got our things for stargazing. She showed me the mostly empty bottle she’d hidden in the wall. There’s not much left, so it’s just for our special times.

  Special times, long gone, brought to the present.

  I don’t know how long I sat, enveloped in perfume, but finally I came to my senses and shoved the cork back into the vial. My entire soul felt wrung dry. Trails of salt lingered on my cheeks. I read the note again, this time with a twisted sense of hope.

  The writer sounds insane. But maybe he is just, I don’t know, excited? Or really offended. Because he thinks me…

  More than an ignorant peasant who couldn’t use her Gift?

  The vial rested innocent and still in my palm. More than a peasant. More than dirt. I rolled the vial around until I held it up between my thumb and forefinger. It was a clue, but not a key.

  I hold a slender shard of deep blue, deep as my eyes. A sapphire. A flick of my fingers and it tumbles downward, suspended on a silver chain...

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the vision, and when I opened them, I held a vial once more. I tucked it back into the box and less than elegantly shoved the note on top.

  Whatever my ‘heritage’ contains, it includes a bit of crazy.

  What next? I jumped to my feet and began to pace, ignoring how my abused muscles protested after the bliss of sitting still. I should hand the note over to the Dragonmaster. Thorkel—likely one of his followers—knew where I lived. Knew my past. Knew… my mother.

  I halted, right in front of the bookshelves. So many books, yet none had the information I wanted. My history book stopped about fifty years ago.

  I don’t know anything about Thorkel. Not really. Could he be Dragerian? His name sounds like it. The way Merram and Orrik talk about him—there’s something personal in this war. They knew Thorkel once. Face to face.

  I was staring at Introduction to Fire Magic. I’d read the entire thing, for nothing. Now I was to tell Merram of my epic failure with his rude Seneschal.

  “So the question is, if I can’t stay here… No.” I picked up Thorkel’s gift. “The question is, do I leave in three days and try to figure all this out, or do I wait until they throw me out and hope I can find answers later?”

  I was insane to even consider meeting with the enemy.

  But the war—it was so vague, so far away. Did we really fight? Or was it merely more raiders than usual? The Dragon Mages didn’t discuss it much, though they didn’t often talk to trainees, anyway.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  My fingers tightened around the box. I could not let anyone see the note. I ran deeper into my apartment as the knock changed to the ring of a bell. My wardrobe, in my dressing room, I opened the doors and—there. I shoved the box into the bottom of a travel boot.

  A quick check in the mirror—normal enough, hair down and dried curly. I ran to answer as the bell rang again.

  “I’m sorry! I was—”

  Shamino. It was Shamino in the hallway, his hair damp and clothing rumpled, as if he’d dressed in a hurry. The silly
part of me tingled at the sight of him; the sane part of me went angry-stiff. I should shut the door in his face. “You.”

  “Yes. The, uh,” he blushed, “sheep-brained asshole.”

  The way he went all adorable when embarrassed put a dent in my anger. I didn’t like that. I began to shut the door.

  “I came to apologize,” he blurted. He lifted a bag I hadn’t noticed. “May I?”

  Why not? If he turned back into his haughty, sheep-brained self, I could throw him out. Thorkel’s letter gave me options.

  But as Shamino stepped over the threshold, I regretted my decision. I’d forgotten about my shabby rooms. The furniture, I now knew to be mismatched and worn. And uncomfortable. The single tapestry I’d splurged on—a meadow scene—took up a blink in my endless gray wall. The stipend covered books and clothes, but it wasn’t enough to keep a servant; not that I’d be comfortable hiring one. My cleaning habits? Laughable.

  “Um, one moment.” I swept breeches off the sofa and grabbed a crust of bread and a glass from the side table. Half-open books on magic were still strewn across the room, along with half-formed essays and piles of crumpled paper. In fact… My entire room looks like Merram’s study.

  When I returned from the kitchen, I found Shamino fidgeting by the sofa. I told him to sit and pulled over the desk chair. I placed it a nice distance from him and managed not to wince when I settled my sore rump on it.

  Shamino took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Today shouldn’t have happened. I judged you without giving you a chance. I just assumed…”

  That I’m a young, stupid fluffhead.

  “I assumed,” he finished, and ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I’d like you to stay. At the Quarters.”

  I hadn’t expected that. “You do?”

  “Completely,” he said. “I never should have given you Maolmuire. Trainees learn how to oil with one of the sweet, small, elderly dragons. I was so furious with Merram. Anyway. You did a good job. No. A fantastic job.”