Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

In this room, there’s a pressure point on the bed frame that causes the headboard to slide over, revealing a small door halfway up the wall, a simple square cut into the plaster, on the same level as the mattress. It hasn’t been used in ages, and I break three nails digging my fingers into the plaster, trying to pry it open. The quiet scrape of the headboard didn’t alert the guards, and they don’t enter at my low cry of pain, either. They think I’m trapped in here, with no way to escape.

When I finally manage to claw the secret door open, I crawl across the mattress into the dark space beyond and hop down onto the floor of the narrow corridor between the walls. There’s a lever in here, intended to reset the door and the headboard, so I press it down. The plaster door is pushed shut as the headboard slides back into place, and I’m left in the dark.

At least there aren’t any multilegged spider-mice skittering in this passage.

In the pitch blackness, I fumble along until I encounter a grate leaking thin threads of light—a listening post at the end of a hallway. Setting my eye to the grate, I peer at the carpeted corridor beyond and gain my bearings by the paintings on the walls.

I’m not sure how long I shuffle through the dusty gaps between the walls of my mother’s palace. I used to stride these halls proudly, and now I crawl through dark cracks like a spider dressed in cobwebs, spinning schemes for my freedom.

The head housekeeper had the back passages cleaned once every month or two, so I’ve navigated this maze before, but always with a servant to guide me. We swept, dusted, and disposed of any pests that had crept into the corners. I don’t encounter a soul this time—no servants or spies, and when I finally locate the door I’ve been looking for, I have to work up the courage to open it.

If I’m correct, this door leads into the servants’ pantry, right near the palace kitchens. I might find allies here. Or I might find people who are too frightened of their new ruler to help me.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please, please.”

With my fingers on the door handle and my cheek pressed to the rough wood, I picture Kyreagan. It’s his dragon face, so defined and vivid that I can see the orange mist of his breath and the gleam along the edges of each scale. I can see the sleek horns, the fiery golden eyes, the long jaws lined with razor teeth. This is the Kyreagan I need right now—the powerful dragon who claimed me as his, in every way one being can claim another.

“I can do this,” I whisper to him, and in my mind he gives me that familiar dip of his great head, a nod of trust, of reassurance.

Clutching the handle, I push the door open.

The door is actually the back panel of a shelving unit stocked with spices, which swings aside heavily as I emerge. I push the spice rack back into place until it clicks, then move toward the outline of light I can see around the pantry door.

Footsteps pass outside, purposeful and quick. A servant moving from one task to another.

Barefoot and silent, I slip out of the pantry and look both ways along the hallway.

To my right, the receding back of a maid. To my left, a few doors, and then the archway leading into the enormous palace kitchens.

A door opens, and one of the kitchen maids, Ondette, steps out. She must sense a presence, because she looks toward me immediately. And freezes.

“Princess?” Her olive skin turns a shade paler.

“Ondette,” I whisper. “I’m running away.”

Her astonishment transforms instantly into fierce purpose. “Of course you are. Come with me.”

I could sob with relief. I could throw myself into her arms and weep with gratitude, but there’s no time. I hurry after her, up a narrow flight of stairs, along a hallway, into her room. She shuts the door behind us, yanks open her wardrobe, and pulls out a simple brown dress and a hooded cloak. “Put these on, quickly.”

When I’m dressed, she takes my blond hair in both her hands and bundles it into a knot at the back of my head. She hands me her spare pair of shoes, the soft leather slippers she uses for night duty.

“But these are your only—” I start to whisper. She shakes her head sharply, one finger pressed to her lips, and gestures for me to put the shoes on. I obey, and then she pulls me out of the room and leads me back downstairs. “We’ll go out the side door, where the pump is,” she says under her breath. “You can wait there while I speak with Callim. He’ll sneak you out by the offal gate.”

The offal gate is a narrow exit from the palace grounds, through which the stable-boys transport not only the soiled straw from the stables, but also the refuse from the palace. It’s the least carefully guarded of all the gates—though I’m sure a king as smart as Rahzien has someone posted there.

Ondette guides me past two scullery maids who are too involved in giggly gossip to notice us. When we emerge outside, into a small courtyard, she tucks me into a shadowed corner near the old water pump. “Wait here.”

I grip her arm urgently. “Thank you.”

Pain flickers on her face, and she presses her palm to my cheek for a moment. “Sweet girl. Of course.”

Her kindness breaks my heart. I watch her hurrying across the yard, ducking through the archway that leads past the gardens to the stables.

I know she lost her sister in the war. Why doesn’t she resent me? How can she agree to help me without pause, without question?

With my back pressed to the stone wall, I tilt my face up to the sunset sky. It’s deep purple and pale blue, streaked with bright orange like Kyreagan’s flames.

Whether my dragon is dead or alive, I will never stop thinking about him. He changed the very chemistry of my brain, altered the composition of my body. He was the spell that transformed me into something new, and I can’t shift back into the person I was before.