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“Icebags,” Shakes muttered as the kids shuffled past.

“All right, stop messing around,” Wes said.

“What are you talking about?” Shakes looked anxious.

“You said you found Eliza. So where is she?” Wes asked, the light catching his face, illuminating a stubbled chin and chestnut bangs. “Come on, man.”

“Might not be anything.” Shakes scratched his goatee. “Can't be sure.” He shrugged.

“Try me,” Wes said, taking the drink out of Shakes's hand.

He sighed. “I mean, the guy who gave me the intel makes you look like a rocket scientist and me look like a, a—you know . . .” Shakes couldn't even think of the right word.

“An honest person?”

Finally, and probably only to get back his drink, Shakes gave it up: One of his contacts, a friend who knew Wes and Shakes were searching for Eliza, had found her name on a list of prisoners being held in a facility in El Dorado, a domed city floating on what was once the Great Salt Lake.

“El Kiss-My-Golden Dorado.” Shakes finally spat it out. “That's all I got.”

Wes exhaled. Thank god. His sister was alive, and they finally knew where she was. El Dorado was a haul, but he could get there in a day; he just had to find some wheels.

“You boys want anything?” a waitress asked, stopping by their table, cocking an eyebrow and pursing her lips. She wore long golden blond extensions, a look they were calling “sylph-style.”

Shakes was about to demur when Wes nodded to his friend. “Yeah. But not here.”

The waitress rolled her eyes, moving on.

Wes stood up. “Come on, let's get something to eat. I got paid today.” He'd waste his entire paycheck if they had more rounds of Nutri at Ice, and even Nela couldn't front them that much. “We gotta celebrate.”

But Shakes didn't move and his frown deepened.

Wes slapped his friend on the shoulder. In happier times the two often sparred, trading punches as easily as they exchanged quips, but when he slugged Shakes, the boy didn't move, he didn't even respond. “What is it?” he asked.

“About Eliza,” Shakes said, not quite meeting Wes's eyes again.

“What's with all the drama?” Wes said. “El Dorado, I got it. We covered this already.”

Shakes bowed his head. “The list she was on that my friend got. It was part of a job.” When he saw the dark look on Wes's face, he continued hurriedly. “You know the type—high paying, off the books, like the stuff we used to get. He didn't take the gig, but someone else will . . .” He trailed off.

“A job?” Wes stared at him in disbelief.

Shakes shrugged.

“A
job
job? Like, one of our old ones?” Wes could feel the adrenaline race through his body. They had been mercenaries once, but they never took those gigs anymore. It was why Shakes was working as a snow janitor and Wes was racing cars to lose. Which basically made him a professional loser, a thought that wasn't lost on him. Still, it was worth it, to get out of the work they used to do.

“You're sure?”

“Looks that way.”

“Go on,” Wes said, his voice flat and toneless.

“Eliza's on a transfer list. They're moving her out to the Red City. Which can only mean they're done with her and her next stop's the flesh markets where she'll most likely be sold to the temple of the white priests. And you know what they do there: the bone charms, the unguents made from the essence of the marked, the wigs woven from sylph hair. We don't have much time. The brass are eager to keep their hands clean on this one, so they're looking for an outside contractor. Pretty sure they would've found someone to take it by now. I mean, with that kind of payout.”

Shakes sounded as miserable as Wes felt, but he kept going. “Not everyone's a hero.”

Chapter 5

H
ER HEART HEAVY AND
HER ARMOR
still smoking from the battle, Nat left her buried drakon and stomped through the mud toward the archway of trees that marked the gate. Pilgrims called it the Blue, but its true name was Vallonis. As Nat slipped through the gate of Afal, she entered a world where the breeze was sweet as honey, the air ripe with the scent of blossoms. Just like the first time, she was overwhelmed by the brightness of everything around her. The sun was so strong that she had to shield her eyes from the glare. Here, the sky was an eternal, endless cerulean, nothing like the perpetual gray and fog of New Vegas. Vallonis glowed with color in every soft and velvety leaf, every glorious flower, every mossy rock and pebble. It looked like pictures from the net archives, of the times before the Big Freeze.

It was paradise, and today, for the very first time, it meant nothing.
How could it? Paradise bought with the blood of my own.
Her drakon was gone; it could be dying.
And I am alone.

The words repeated themselves on an endless loop as she walked. She hadn't gone far when a shadow fell across the forest floor.

Faix.

You are alone,
he sent. Sylphs rarely bothered to communicate with spoken word.
Where is Mainas?

“In the ground,” she replied. Unlike the drakon's, Faix's voice in her head was very much an
other,
and she resisted his ability to speak directly into her consciousness.

The sylph raised a pale eyebrow. Faix was the first person she had met in Vallonis and was a member of its ruling council. He had welcomed her in the name of Queen Nineveh, the immortal mother of all the marked. Faix of the Green Island was the Queen's trusted adviser, an ageless sylph, the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. Like Liannan, he was unnaturally tall and thin, with iridescent eyes and hair the color of starlight that fell to his shoulders. Faix was the one who had gifted her with armor, who sent her on patrols, who told her which gate was under attack. He was also the one teaching her how to use her newfound power. She should really be used to him by now, but each time she met him was like the first—she was taken aback by his beauty, by the sound of his silky soft voice in her mind.
Usually.

Just not today.

Today the sylph's beauty meant nothing. All beauty was nothing. Today was a day of blood.

“Your blade,” he said aloud, a concession, since she had replied to him by conversing instead of through telepathy. During their initial meeting, Faix had explained that there was no need to speak, since he knew what she was going to say before she said it, but Nat insisted. His voice had a different timbre when spoken—deeper and less uncomfortably intimate.

She removed her sword from its sheath and handed it to him. He narrowed his almond eyes at her before taking in the sight of the sword.

He weighed it, examining the black corroded markings on its surface where the iron cloud had hit it.

“Can you fix it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

But can you fix what has wounded
you
?
The sylph sent the words almost as quietly as she ignored him.

“Mainas was hurt badly and told me to come back here.” Already she felt weaker, lesser, without her drakon. She was not complete, not without it, and when she thought of her great magnificent beast bleeding and dying in the ground, she felt the tears start to come, as if from the very center of her chest. As if her heart itself was weeping.

She said none of this to Faix, but he nodded, as impassive and implacable as ever. “A wise choice, to return. Do not weep. Vallonis will keep your drakon safe.”

“It wasn't just that. It was different this time. They attacked us with an iron bomb, a new weapon, a
magical
weapon,” Nat said.

“That is ill news indeed,” said Faix, his lips barely moving, his eyes trained on some distant horizon.

She nodded and a wave of exhaustion overtook her. It was too much, all of it. She wished she were already home so she could remove her armor.
Maybe that would help with this immense weight.
It was lighter than it looked but still heavier than the clothes she preferred to wear—her black jeans and boots from New Vegas, the homespun shirts she'd been given when she first came to the island. Faix had set her up in a little cottage near a river, where she had a bed and a table, a small kitchen, and a few books. “What if the enemy returns with more ships while Mainas is in the ground?” she asked.

She knew Faix had heard the real question:
What if I alone can't protect us? What if I am too weak without my drakon half? What happens then?

He held up his hand. “The threat from the gray lands is contained for now. It will take some time for them to return with a new battalion.” It was his way of acknowledging her victory on the seas today. Faix was not given to praise, only direct statement, and she tried not to let it bother her.

When she first met the sylph and was remanded to his care, Faix had cautioned her that the war was far from over, and that they should prepare for the next attack. As they sat by the fire that first night, Faix told her that the kingdom of Vallonis had many enemies throughout history, and the RSA was only its latest opponent. “Being a drakonrydder means that your life will be one of war, and your heart will forever be consumed with fire and rage.”

“I understand,” she had said, though she hadn't then, and wasn't sure she believed it now—even now that she had felt that rage deep within her own soul.

Faix had made her listen. He had said it again and again, until she could practically recite the words back to him: “The place of the drakonrydder is not inside Vallonis but outside its peaceful haven, guarding the door, part of it but apart from it at the same time.”

When she had only nodded, he had sighed.

“It is a terrible honor, and now it is yours.”

In so many ways, Faix had been right. It was a solitary life. Nat didn't need much, but she had hoped for more from the Blue, had hoped to find a community of the marked where she belonged. Liannan had spoken of the White Mountain tribes, and the villages filled with smallfolk. A basket of food was left at Nat's door every morning, but she never even caught a glimpse of her benefactors. She understood she had to live on the outskirts, since she was the land's first and best defense, but she hoped that one day she would be able to explore and enjoy her new world. Of late, she had begun to think Faix was right. Perhaps warriors like her could never rest.

Now she thought of Wes, hunched over on the steering wheel of that car.
He didn't look like he got much rest, either.
She struggled to keep her mind focused on Faix.

“I will take you to Apis so we can report this new development to the Queen. The drakonslayer weapon is not our truth to conceal.” He spoke without expression, his voice flat, and his features unreadable. Faix's perfection—his calm demeanor, his rigid posture—often unnerved her. Nat felt as if she were facing a statue, not a man.

“No,” Nat said miserably. “It's not,” she murmured, the howl of the wind nearly swallowing her words. The forest was cold; she longed for the sky, for her drakon. She felt trapped without her loyal steed.

“Besides, it is high time you were introduced to Nineveh and saw more of the place you are sworn to protect,” Faix said slyly. “As well as the benefactors of your solitary life.”

Of course.

It was his way of reminding her that her mind was open to him, that they had no secrets between them. If so, did he see her think of Wes? Faix never asked about her old life, and never asked if she was happy in this new one. He was her guide to her new life as a drakonrydder, but he was far from a friend.

“You are wrong, Anastasia. I am your friend,” he said.
I am your friend and I feel the weight you carry with you now,
he sent.

She colored. “Do you?” It was one thing to be a telepath, but quite another to be rude about it.

Faix's eyes flickered in his impassive face. “I apologize,” he said. “It is difficult to shut out the thoughts that I hear. I will make more of an effort not to eavesdrop in the future.”

“Thank you, Faix,” she said. “And like I said before, please call me Nat. Everyone does.”

“I know what you are called by your intimates, but I find it is not enough for you. It is rather like the name of a small insect.”

She smiled inwardly, remembering what Wes had said to her when they first met.
Nat, like the insect?

Faix continued. “Names carry power, Anastasia Dekesthalias,” he said.

But I have no power. My power is bleeding out beneath the earth.
She thought the words before she could take them back. Mainas had been certain that Vallonis would cure what ailed it, but what if it was wrong? What if it succumbed to its wounds?

Faix only shook his head. If he was listening, he didn't let on. “You must learn that in Vallonis, you have no need to disguise your strength. Names carry one's history and identity.”

“Then what of yours?” Nat asked, wary of any more talk about herself or her drakon.

A hint of a smile appeared on Faix's handsome face. “I am Faix Lazaved, Messenger to the Queen. Faix was my father's name and his father's name and his father's name before him and so on until the beginning of time. We share a common name but we earn our surnames; they are titles that are determined by our talents, by the skills we have honed, the positions we have achieved.”

“Is that pride I hear in your voice, Faix?” It was a rare thing for a sylph to venture any sort of personal information about himself.

“Our names
are
a source of great pride. My father was Faix Lumeras, weaver of light, and long ago, his father before him was Faix Paean, healer of wounds, and our direct ancestor was Faix Drakaras, herder of drakons.”

“He was a rydder?”

“No.” Faix touched the necklace he wore, a slim chain holding a small ruby-colored charm. “He was a shepherd. During the first age of Vallonis, when the mighty clans of drakonborn kept the land and waters safe.”

Clans of drakonborn. She could see them for a moment, through his eyes. A blaze of drakons and their rydders, mighty and proud. People like her. But they were gone now, and she understood why his smile was sad. She was the last and the only, and right now her drakon, the last drakon, was buried in the ground, weakened by an unseen and dangerous enemy. She was all alone, and so was her drakon self.

Nat leaned against the trunk of a mighty oak, running a hand over its gnarled and knobby bark. Birds chirped in the distance, their calls echoing through the trees. The sun was rising, its first red rays casting long and elegantly dappled shadows on the forest floor, and the ache in her chest throbbed.

We are powerless now. Alone.

You didn't have to be a sylph to know that.

“Not alone, Nat,” said Faix with a hint of an apologetic smile.

“You're doing it again.” Nat sighed.

“And you may as well be shouting.” Faix raised an eyebrow. “But even so, you must understand, you are not alone. Not even when your drakon is apart from you.”

“Because I have you?” Nat said skeptically.

Faix stared at her with unblinking eyes. “Because you carry the hope of all Vallonis with you.”

With that, he turned and walked deeper into the forest, and Nat followed.

You realize you just called me Nat, right?

If the sylph was listening, he didn't say a word.