An enemy dragon began to dive.
I didn’t have time to Fireproof. It took all my concentration to cast an air spell while falling to my death. Vaguely I realized it’d be a shame to be burned to ash after surviving this, but—
I broke through the first layer of air with a thud and nearly lost hold of the other spells. One by one, my body destroyed my hastily cast layers. I slowed, but not enough.
The approaching dragon inhaled to fill its fire chamber.
I can push off the ground, like kicking off Mettalise. I grabbed raw Gift, filled the sapphire, and shot a precise beam at the ground. It struck at an angle and flung me in the opposite direction. Dragonfire heated the air where I’d been.
The tree saved my life. Thin branches broke and slowed me before I knocked into the thick inner ones; I tumbled down the trunk with a yelp. The dragon roared in frustration as he shot past the platform.
Did I break anything? I thought as I surveyed my torn, dirty clothes. That may have been the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Actually, waiting for the next dragon—a nasty-looking green one—that was stupider. I limped to my feet, relieved I hadn’t broken anything, and ignored my bruises as I sped for the door. I shot into the mountain seconds before a plume of orange followed me.
“Good. I lived.” My legs wobbled. I told myself not to faint and checked the hall. Empty. The Dragonmaster’s door hung open, not far from the garden’s door. I rushed to it and halted as I stepped into the foyer.
Bodies.
Messenger children slumped against the wall, lined up and not moving. The old steward sprawled over his desk. Blood trickled down mahogany.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Thorkel burned children when he destroyed the camp. I knelt by the nearest body with little hope. A brown-haired girl, maybe eight years of age, her face peaceful as if in sleep. I checked her for wounds, and when I found none, I moved to the boy next to her. No wounds either, and—breathing.
A sob of relief escaped my throat. They weren’t dead. In fact—an empty bottle rested on the floor beside the boy. Thorkel must have killed the steward and huddled the children together before drugging them. A touch of mercy in the monster.
Not enough mercy.
I went to the waiting room.
Jerroth leaned against the doorway of Merram’s study.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“No,” I said. Jerroth’s figure blurred in front of me—a black mage stands against me, flinging chairs—the vision’s black mage and Jerroth focused into one disappointing reality.
There is a choice, I told myself. I may not need to fight him.
“I told him you’d come,” Jerroth said as he pushed himself off the wall. “Thorkel laughed at me. He underestimated his own daughter.”
“You joined him.” I struggled to keep my voice neutral, to make the sentence a fact and not an accusation. I wanted us to both walk away unharmed.
“I had no choice.” Jerroth took a step forward and spread his hands. “You didn’t grow up in our world, Adara. You don’t know how the Kyer has faded. Thorkel’s success exposed the Kyer’s weakness.”
“So you give your loyalty to the winner,” I said. “I thought you had more honor than that.”
Jerroth flinched as if slapped; he shook it off. “As if there is honor in following a liar. Thorkel told me how Merram allowed his ‘beloved’ to die and how he kept you from inheriting what was rightfully yours. During this war, Merram’s neglect has led to dragons’ deaths. I will not serve a man who doesn’t deserve loyalty.”
“Thorkel speaks half truths,” I said. I dared not let the conversation go on much longer, yet I had to try. I eased closer as I spoke, keeping furniture between us. “You were the one who spared the messenger children, weren’t you? Half a day’s flight from here, Merram created a camp for women and children he’d rescued from the war. Thorkel’s dragons burned them alive. Now who deserves loyalty?”
Doubt crept into his eyes.
“If you let me pass, Jerroth, I’ll talk to Merram. I’ll ask that you aren’t tried as a traitor.”
Jerroth swallowed. “War isn’t the best place to point fingers. Everyone is in the wrong. I’ve made my choice.”
The regretful acceptance moved my heart. Why was he doing this? I myself had nearly been persuaded by Thorkel—and then I knew. Thorkel had focused on what he thought I’d care about: the peasants I’d grown up with, Mother’s death. Thorkel had found a similarly persuasive topic for Jerroth: A month ago, when I’d delivered a potion to a heartbroken Jerroth, he’d muttered how Maolmuire was right, it was the only way.
“Thorkel promised you the Kyer when he becomes King of Drageria,” I whispered. “Tressa loves the idea, doesn’t she?”
Jerroth flushed. “When I’m Dragonmaster, Tressa and I can put things to rights. We can restore the Kyer to its place of glory.”
I took in the room. Four chairs and four tables. Portraits of the Dragonmasters, tapestries of dragons. Books and the decanter of water. Every single one, a weapon for a wielder of Telekinesis. But I had to tell him.
“Jerroth,” I said as gently as I could, “Tressa is a Jeweltongue. She’s manipulating you with magic.”
He frowned. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s rare. She uses her Talent through touch.” I pointed to his arm. “Think of every time you disagreed with her. She leaned against you, didn’t she? And when she did, you found her next words persuasive. Jeweltongues amplify your thoughts and emotions. You love her, Jerroth, that’s true—but the real Jerroth wouldn’t shame his father by joining the enemy.”
Jerroth began to tremble. He knew my words were true, he had to.
“Let me pass, Jerroth.”
“No.” The word shook, and the chair in front of him
