Page 14 of Heart’s Rescue

Arryn

The Dragon’s Curse

Ared-tailed hawk screeches high above me, and I shiver like the rabbit he’s hunting. Far, far above me, castles of clouds are glowing orange in the soft light of the setting sun, but in the bottom of this narrow canyon, it feels like it’s already midnight. I shiver again, wishing I’d brought a cloak. I had no idea it would be so cold down here.

There’s a hiss of wind through the branches. I pause, holding my breath. This place makes my skin crawl. The whole canyon feels like magic, but not in the familiar, warm way. No, this feels like old magic. Magic that’s gone stagnant, like water in a dead well.

It’s not a good time to remember that the magical barrier separating the Worlds Above from the Lands Below was built by Rensivar the Wicked, the dragon who then turned on his own kind, but I can’t keep that thought from battering the inside of my skull like a bird trapped in a cage. I swallow hard and tighten my grip on my dagger.

Because I know I’m in the right place. I found Prince Folwynn’s saddle. I’d turned off the main road leading over the Dragon Pass hours ago, just as the heat of midday was sliding into the lazy haze of a golden afternoon. I led my horse along the little creek as long as I could before the path got too muddy and clogged with brush oak. Then I found a clearing, and I cut my dress off at my ankles.

Destroying the elegant blue dress wasn’t nearly as satisfying in reality as it had been in my imagination. Instead, staring down at the ruined, mud-splattered velvet that I’d just hacked to pieces made me feel like I’d eaten something that had disagreed with me. I’d pulled off Crabapple’s bridle and saddle and covered it with the skirts I’d just destroyed when a winking flash of light in the underbrush caught my eye.

It was Folwynn’s saddle, tooled leather inlaid with silver and gems. And it was a wreck, full of mud and branches, as though his stallion had crashed through a swamp while wearing it. The stars only knew how it had come off; the girth was still fastened.

Fear tightened my chest, and my hands had shaken as I’d brushed mud off the saddle. Mud. Not blood. If Folwynn’s stallion, Midnight, had somehow freed himself of his saddle, then he would have headed back to the palace.

I didn’t want to think about how else the saddle could have come off Midnight. I also didn’t want to think about what else those dark, black flecks coating the saddle could have been.

I’d turned from the saddle to look through the underbrush. In the thick afternoon light, I could almost see the path Midnight must have taken, a little game trail cutting through the brush oak that chokes this narrow canyon. Whatever had happened, whether Folwynn had dismounted and left Midnight like I’d just left Crabapple or if he’d somehow lost control and been thrown from his mount, the answer must lie further down that path.

And now here I am, farther down that path than I’d imagined the little canyon could stretch. The going has been painfully slow as I’ve shoved myself through brambles and tugged the remains of my dress free of their thorns. My hands and arms are covered with unladylike scratches, my feet throb, and I don’t even want to think about how much colder it’s about to get when the light fades from the sky.

“Stars,” I whisper, rubbing my hands together.

The red-tailed hawk calls again, and his voice is much further away this time. I feel almost like I’m falling down into something. The piles of clouds are a delicate, rosy pink above me, so beautiful and so painfully far away.

I bite my lip as I stare into the shadows pooling around the base of the brush oak and thorn bushes surrounding me. Would it be better to stop for the night? That’s probably what Folwynn has done, found a cozy place to hole up and wait for rescue. That’s what he does when he gets lost in the castle gardens, at least.

But he’s been gone for two days. I suck in a breath. Two full days in this canyon. Two days without food, without warmth. I try to imagine my poor prince huddled against the base of a tree, trying to keep warm, perhaps entertaining himself with his illusions. But, instead of picturing my beloved’s handsome face and sparkling eyes, some part of my mind that sounds suspiciously like my brother Petya notes that the prince is going to be especially desperate after two days. Desperate, and willing to agree to anything. Especially in the dark.

I huff. I don’t like that voice. I’m not only rescuing my beloved as a negotiation tactic; I’m rescuing him because I’m supposed to take care of him. And, of course, because I don’t want my future husband to be alone in the dark. But another sour memory rises on the heels of that voice, hissing through the gathering darkness like an ill omen. The night my beloved took my innocence in the palace guest quarters, the night of the Feast of Turning Leaves. The act of lovemaking wasn't at all what I’d expected; it was quick, painful, and felt almost like fighting. Afterward, as what turned out to be quite a lot of blood stained the sheets between my thighs, I’d asked my prince to stay with me, to spend the night.

He’d laughed, my handsome beloved. I remembered the way the candlelight softened the angles of his face and danced around his full lips.

“What?” he’d said. “You’re afraid of the dark?”

He’d made it sound like a joke, but it wasn’t at all funny.

“Of course not,” I’d said, and he’d left, and we’d never spoken of it again.

In a relationship, Mother explained, you have to let things go. A wife of the Royal Family is to be always gracious, always giving, always letting go. After all, you are your beloved’s.

Yes. Well. That settles it, then. I’m pushing on tonight and finding Prince Folwynn. I glance up at the clouds, which are now turning a deep sort of midnight blue as the wind rips them apart. There’s a dead tree just ahead, a pine of some sort, and the naked spire of its trunk looks like a sword pointed at heaven itself. I give the dead tree a grin. I’ll look for Folwynn through the night, of course, as any woman would. But why not give myself a bit of help?

The tree’s limbs snap easily, and I pull a few away before settling on a thick, heavy branch that’s almost a club. By now the light has faded from the tattered remains of the clouds, and the evening star and her sisters dance in the narrow sliver of sky above the canyon. I turn the branch over in my hand, finding a comfortable grip. The wood is dry and light, and I can almost feel fire hissing inside it, waiting to come forth.

Mother says I should be ashamed of my magic. And I am ashamed of my magic, which Mother calls the manifestation of my disobedience and obstinance. Most high-born ladies are blessed with illusions, or the ability to move objects, or to help flowers grow.

But me? I got the dragon’s curse. Fire. It’s the only kind of magic that doesn’t hurt me when I use it. It’s the only kind of magic I never, ever perform.

Even now, before I summon my magic, I glance around the dark forest and tighten my grip on the branch. As though I wasn’t totally alone out here. As though someone might see what I’m about to do and then go report back to Mother.

Another gust of wind shakes the dead branches on the pine tree, and I shiver. There’s no one here. Besides, it’s just this once. Just to find Folwynn, my prince, to bring him comfort in the darkness.

“For you, my beloved,” I whisper.

I sigh as I release my magic. It feels like silk across my skin, like a kiss against my neck, like easing my naked body into warm water at the end of a long day. My magic snakes through the dry wood, gently, lovingly, awakening the spirit of fire that sleeps inside all things. Sparks drift out of the wood, slowly at first and then faster and faster, spiraling upward like fireflies. Then the end of the branch bursts into flame, and warmth bathes my face. I smile at the fire, forgetting for a moment to feel ashamed.

But the shame comes, of course, and it uses my mother’s voice. I turn away from the flaming branch, embarrassed by my stupid, vain pride. It’s just fire, after all. Any idiot with flint and tinder can light a fire. I lower my makeshift torch and use the light to search the area for anything that resembles a path. Folwynn would have looked for the easiest route, the safest way back to the road. I see something that almost looks like a gap in the undergrowth and step forward—

My ankle hits something. Hard. I’m falling forward before I can catch myself, my hands splayed out, wind rushing at my face.

Falling.

And falling.

And falling.