Heir of Fire (69 page)

Manon raised her brows at her Second. “You've been practicing, it seems,” she called.

Asterin grinned. “I didn't claw my way to Second by sitting on my ass.”

Th
en Asterin was swooping low again, but still within formation, a wing-­beat away. Abraxos roared, and the
Th
irteen fell into formation around Manon, four covens
fl
anking them behind.
Th
ey just had to capture the Yellowlegs egg and bring it back to the Blackbeak nest, and it would be done.

Th
ey dodged and soared over
fi
ghting covens, and when they reached the Yellowlegs line, the
Th
irteen pulled up—­and back, sending the other four covens behind them shooting in like an arrow, punching a line through the barrier that the
Th
irteen then swept through.

Closest to the Northern Fang, the Yellowlegs nest was circled by not three but four covens, a good chunk of the host to keep behind the lines.
Th
ey ­rose up from the nest—­not individual units, but as one—­and Manon smiled to herself.

Th
ey raced for them, and the Yellowlegs held, held . . .

Manon whistled. She and Sorrel went up and down respectively, and her coven split in three, exactly as they'd practiced. Like the limbs of one creature, they struck the Yellowlegs lines—­lines where every coven had mixed, now next to strangers and wyverns with whom they had never ridden closely before.
Th
e confusion got worse as the
Th
irteen scattered them and pushed them about. Orders ­were shouted, names ­were screamed, but the chaos was complete.

Th
ey ­were closing in on the nest when four Blueblood covens swept in out of nowhere, led by Petrah herself on her mount, Keelie. She was nearly free-­falling for the nest, which had been le
ft
wide open while the Blackbeaks and the Yellowlegs fought. She'd been waiting for this, like a fox in its hole.

She swept in, and Manon dove a
ft
er her, swearing viciously. A
fl
ash of yellow and a shriek of fury, and Manon and Abraxos ­were back-­
fl
apping, veering away as Iskra
fl
ashed past the nest—­and slammed right into Petrah.

Th
e two heirs and their wyverns locked talons and went sprawling, crashing through the air, clawing and biting. Shouts ­rose from the mountain and from the airborne witches.

Manon panted, righting her spinning head as Abraxos leveled out above the nest, swooping back in to seal their victory. She was about to nudge him to dive when Petrah screamed. Not in fury, but pain.

Agonizing, soul-­shredding pain, the likes of which Manon had never heard, as Iskra's wyvern clamped its jaws on Keelie's neck.

Iskra let out a howl of triumph, and her bull shook Keelie—­Petrah clinging to the saddle.

Now. Now was the time to grab the egg. She nudged Abraxos. “
Go
,” she hissed, leaning in, bracing for the dive.

Abraxos did not move, but hovered, watching Keelie
fi
ght to no avail, wings barely
fl
apping as Petrah screamed again. Begging—­begging Iskra to stop.

“
Now,
Abraxos!” She kicked him with her spurs. He again refused to dive.

Th
en Iskra barked a command to her wyvern . . . and the beast let go of Keelie.

•

Th
ere was a second scream then, from the mountain. From the Blueblood Matron, screaming for her daughter as she plummeted down to the rocks below.
Th
e other Bluebloods whirled, but they ­were too far away, their wyverns too slow to stop that fatal plunge.

But Abraxos was not.

And Manon didn't know if she gave the command or thought it, but that scream, that mother's scream she'd never heard before, made her lean in. Abraxos dove, a shooting star with his glistening wings.

Th
ey dove and dove, for the broken wyvern and the still-­living witch upon it.

Keelie was still breathing, Manon realized as they neared, the wind tearing at her face and clothes. Keelie was still breathing, and
fi
ghting like hell to keep steady. Not to survive. Keelie knew she would be dead any moment. She was
fi
ghting for the witch on her back.

Petrah had passed out, twisted in her saddle, from the plunge or the loss of air. She dangled precariously, even as Keelie fought with her last heartbeats to keep the fall smooth and slow.
Th
e wyvern's wings buckled and she yelped in pain.

Abraxos hurtled in, wings spread as he made one pass and then a second, the canyon appearing too fast below. By the time he
fi
nished the second glide, almost close enough to touch that bloodstained leathery hide, Manon understood.

He ­couldn't stop Keelie—­she was too heavy and he too small. Yet they could save Petrah. He'd seen Asterin make that jump, too. She had to get the unconscious witch out of the saddle.

Abraxos roared at Keelie, and Manon could have sworn that he was speaking some alien language, bellowing some command, as Keelie made one
fi
nal stand for her rider and leveled out
fl
at. A landing platform.

My Keelie
, Petrah had said. Had smiled as she said it.

Manon told herself it was for an alliance. Told herself it was for show.

But all she could see was the unconditional love in that dying wyvern's eyes as she unbuckled her harness, stood from the saddle, and leapt o
ff
Abraxos.

62

Manon hit Keelie and the beast screamed, but held on as Manon hauled herself against the wind and into the saddle where Petrah dangled. Her hands ­were sti
ff
, her gloves making her even clumsier as she sliced with a blade through the leathers, one a
ft
er another. Abraxos roared his warning.
Th
e canyon mouth loomed closer.

Darkness have mercy on her.

Th
en Manon had Petrah free, the Blueblood heir a dead weight in her arms, her hair whipping Manon's face like a thousand small knives. She lashed a length of leather around herself and Petrah. Once. Twice. She tied it, lacing her arms through Petrah's. Keelie kept steady.
Th
e canyon lips closed around them, shadow everywhere. Manon bellowed at the weight as she hauled the witch up out of the stirrups and the saddle.

Rock rushed past, but a shadow blotted out the sun, and there was Abraxos, diving for her, plummeting, small and sleek. He was the only wyvern she'd seen bank at that speed in this canyon.

“
Th
ank you,” she said to Keelie as she
fl
ung herself and Petrah into the air.

Th
ey fell for a heartbeat, twisting and dropping too fast, but then Abraxos was there, his claws outstretched. He swept them up, banking along the side of the canyon and over the lip, rising into the safety of the air.

Keelie hit the
fl
oor of the canyon with a crash that could be heard across the mountains.

She did not rise again.

•

Th
e Blackbeaks won the War Games, and Manon was crowned Wing Leader in front of all those frilly, sweating men from Adarlan.
Th
ey called her a hero, and a true warrior, and more nonsense like that. But Manon had seen her grandmother's face when she had set Petrah down on the viewing platform. Seen the disgust.

Manon ignored the Blueblood Matron, who had gotten on her knees to thank her. She did not even see Petrah as she was carried o
ff
.

Th
e next day, rumor had it, Petrah would not rise from bed.
Th
ey said she had been broken in her soul when Keelie died.

An unfortunate accident brought on by uncontrollable wyverns, the Yellowlegs Matron had claimed, and Iskra had echoed. But Manon had heard Iskra's command to kill.

She might have called Iskra out, might have challenged her, if Petrah hadn't heard that command, too.
Th
e vengeance was Petrah's to claim.

She should have let the witch die, her grandmother screamed at her that night as she struck Manon again and again for her lack of obedience. Lack of brutality. Lack of discipline.

Manon did not apologize. She could not stop hearing the sound made as Keelie hit the earth. And some part of her, perhaps a weak and undisciplined part, did not regret ensuring the animal's sacri
fi
ce had not been in vain.

From everyone ­else, Manon endured the praise heaped on her and accepted the bows from every gods-­damned coven no matter their bloodline.

Wing Leader. She said it to herself, silently, as she and Asterin, half of the
Th
irteen trailing behind them, approached the mess hall where the celebration was to be held.

Th
e other half ­were already there, scouting ahead for any possible threat or trap. Now that she was Wing Leader, now that she had humiliated Iskra, others would be even more vicious—­to put her down and claim her position.

Th
e crowd was merry, iron teeth glinting all around and ale—­real, fresh ale brought in by those awful men from Adarlan—­sloshing in mugs. Manon had one shoved into her hand, and Asterin yanked it away, drank a mouthful, and waited a moment before she gave it back.

“
Th
ey're not above poisoning you,” her Second said, winking as they made their way to the front of the room where the three Matrons ­were waiting.
Th
ose men at the Games had held a small ceremony, but this was for the witches—­this was for Manon.

She hid her smile as the crowd parted, letting her through.

Th
e three High Witches ­were seated in makeshi
ft
thrones, little more than ornate chairs they'd found.
Th
e Blueblood Matron smiled as Manon pressed two
fi
ngers to her brow.
Th
e Yellowlegs Matron, on the other end, did nothing. But her grandmother, seated in the center, smiled faintly.

A snake's smile.

“Welcome, Wing Leader,” her grandmother said, and a cry went up from the witches, save for the
Th
irteen—­who stayed cool and quiet.
Th
ey did not need to cheer, for they ­were immortal and in
fi
nite and gloriously, wonderfully deadly.

“What gi
ft
can we give you, what crown can we bestow, to honor what you shall do for us?” her grandmother mused. “You have a
fi
ne blade, a fearsome coven”—­the
Th
irteen all allowed a hint of a smirk—“what ­else could we give you that you do not possess?”

Manon bowed her head. “
Th
ere is nothing I wish for, save the honor which you have already given me.”

Her grandmother laughed. “What about a new cloak?”

Manon straightened. She could not refuse, but . . . this was her cloak, it had always been.

“
Th
at one is looking rather shabby,” her grandmother went on, waving her hand to someone in the crowd. “So ­here is our gi
ft
to you, Wing Leader: a replacement.”

Th
ere ­were grunts and curses, but the crowd gasped—­in hunger, in anticipation—­as a brown-­haired, shackled witch was hauled forward by three Yellowlegs cronies and forced to her knees before Manon.

If her broken face, shattered
fi
ngers, lacerations, and burns did not give away what she was, then the bloodred cloak she wore did.

Th
e Crochan witch, her eyes the solid color of freshly tilled earth, looked up at Manon. How those eyes ­were so bright despite the horrors written on her body, how she didn't collapse right there or start begging, Manon didn't know.

“A gi
ft
,” said her grandmother, extending an iron-­tipped hand toward the Crochan. “Worthy of my granddaughter. End her life and take your new cloak.”

Manon recognized the challenge. Yet she drew her dagger, and Asterin stepped in close, eyes on the Crochan.

For a moment, Manon stared down at the witch, her mortal enemy.
Th
e Crochans had cursed them, made them eternal exiles.
Th
ey deserved to die, each and every one of them.

But it was not her voice that said those things in her head. No, for some reason, it was her grandmother's.

“At your leisure, Manon,” her grandmother cooed.

Choking, her lips cracked and bleeding, the Crochan witch looked up at Manon and chuckled. “Manon Blackbeak,” she whispered in what might have been a drawl had her teeth not been broken, her throat ringed with bruises. “I know you.”

“Kill the bitch!” a witch shouted from the back of the room.

Manon looked into her enemy's face and raised her brows.

“You know what we call you?” Blood welled as the Crochan's lips peeled into a smile. She closed her eyes as if savoring it. “We call you the White Demon. You're on our list—­the list of all you monsters to kill on sight if we ever run into you. And you . . .” She opened her eyes and grinned, de
fi
ant, furious. “You are at the
top
of that list. For all that you have done.”

“It's an honor,” Manon said to the Crochan, smiling enough to show her teeth.

“Cut out her tongue!” someone ­else called.

“End her,” Asterin hissed.

Manon
fl
ipped the dagger, angling it to sink into the Crochan's heart.

Th
e witch laughed, but it turned into a cough that had her heaving until blue blood splattered on the
fl
oor, until tears ­were leaking from her eyes and Manon caught a glimpse of the deep, infected wounds on her chest. When she li
ft
ed her head, blood staining the corners of her mouth, she smiled again. “Look all you want. Look at what they did to me, your sisters. How it must pain them to know they ­couldn't break me in the end.”