“Maybe,” Pheasant said. “I hope so.”
“I do, too,” Reed said. He looked up at the stars. Before the war takes anyone else I care about. Before our village is destroyed; before I have to choose between loyalty to my tribe and the safety of my brothers and sisters. Before we have to kill anyone else. “I hope so, too.”
Where is she?
Starflight suspected that he might be dead, except that everything hurt so much. Darkness pressed against his eyes whenever he tried to open them. His nose and throat ached in a fierce, raw way, as if they’d been scraped out with a crocodile tail.
Is she all right?
He couldn’t remember what he’d dreamed and what was real.
Perhaps he was still under the mountain. Perhaps his friends had never tried to escape their guardians. Maybe this was one long nightmare that had started with the threat of Morrowseer’s visit.
But Starflight was sure he could remember the large NightWing taking him aside. There was a lecture about how “NightWings have a reputation to uphold” and “NightWings are natural leaders” and “you must make the others respect you, fear you, and follow you, or you’ll be the greatest disappointment our tribe has ever produced” … Starflight couldn’t have conjured that from his own brain. That was all real.
He curled onto his side and felt jagged rocks press into his scales.
Was the SkyWing palace real? The dragonets captured before even tasting sunlight. The prison on the tower of rock. The baking-hot arena sands that smelled of blood and terror. Queen Scarlet’s delight at capturing him, a real NightWing out in the world, and her plans to make him fight, and her excitement about the prospect of watching him die.
No, that had to be real, because Starflight remembered being “rescued” by the NightWings. He remembered watching his friends turn into small dots below him, blue and brown and bright, and he knew it was real because it felt so much like this felt: as if he were a scroll ripped in half down the middle so none of the words made any sense anymore.
Will I ever see her again?
I hope she’s not here. I hope she’s safe somewhere.
“I think there’s something wrong with him.”
Was that a voice?
He tried to listen, but his dreams dragged him back down.
There had been another stern lecture from Morrowseer. It was essential for Starflight to be the leader of the dragonets; everything depended on him. And a new order: he must convince the others to choose Blister as the next SandWing queen.
“Maybe they killed him by accident. That’d be all right. Maybe I’ll get to be in the prophecy instead.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works, Fierceteeth.”
And then there was the Kingdom of the Sea. No one would listen to him. He couldn’t lead anyone. His friends practically laughed at him when he tried to support Blister.
Another prison; another escape where Starflight did just about nothing to help. And then the rainforest and the strange unnatural tunnels: one to the Kingdom of Sand and one, apparently, to the secret home of the NightWings.
That Starflight remembered.
He remembered staring up at it — the dark hole in the tree that led to a home he’d never seen.
“I bet he’d wake up if I bit him.”
“I bet Morrowseer would throw you in the volcano if he found tooth marks on his prophecy pet.”
“I bet my mom would have him for lunch if he tried!”
He was definitely hearing voices — unfamiliar voices, very close by.
The memory of the rainforest was blurring. Starflight tried to fix his mind on it — on those last moments, guarding the tunnel so the NightWings wouldn’t come through and attack the RainWings. What had happened?
“Well, he’d better wake up and be interesting soon, or Morrowseer will take him away again before we get to ask him anything.”
“Ooh, I have an idea.”
Claws scrabbled on rock, and then there was quiet.
Starflight’s eyelids felt too heavy to open, as if extra scales were piled on top of them. He let the darkness drift up over him again.
Right — guarding the hole. With Clay. Morning sunbeams flickering through the green leaves, octopus-blue flowers turning their heads up to the light. Sunny was back in the village, with Tsunami, watching Glory try to become queen of the RainWings, of all things.
Sunny had brought them food the night before, her golden scales brushing against his dark wings as she passed him strange little purple fruits.
I love you, he would never say. Don’t hate me because of what the other NightWings have done. Don’t think I’m like my tribe. Don’t listen to Glory’s description of my kingdom, the smoke and the fire and the smell and the death and the trapped, tortured RainWings and the cruel black dragons. Don’t look at me like I’m one of them, like I could ever do what they’ve done, please.
And then she’d glanced up at him and smiled, and in Sunny’s eyes he could see himself as Starflight, just fine the way he was.
Her friend.
Which made everything better and worse all at the same time.
“Careful! I’m not going back for more if you spill it, idiot.”
“Get your great honking wings out of my way then, fathead.”
The voices again. Starflight caught at the memories, trying to remember the last thing that had happened before everything went dark.
He’d been staring at the hole, wondering what the other NightWings were really like. Wondering if they were all as scary as Morrowseer. Wondering if he went through and talked to them, whether they would listen. What if he could stop the NightWings and RainWings from fighting? What if his tribe understood him and believed in him; what if they thought it was better to be smart than brave? What if they didn’t care that he had no special NightWing powers?
What would Sunny think of me then?
She’d probably think: who are you, and what have you done with Starflight? Because there was no way he’d ever be brave enough to go through that tunnel on his own.
And then Clay had yelped, “Did you see that? I think it was a boar! I’ll be right back!” And poor ever-hungry Clay had charged off into the trees, leaving Starflight to watch the hole alone.…
In a heartbeat, dark wings had boiled out of the hole; dark claws had circled his snout; a dark voice had hissed in his ear, “Silence if you want your friend to live.” Another dark voice: “Better safe than sorry,” although he hadn’t made a sound, and he’d known it would hurt right before the blow struck his head and pain blazed through him, and that was the last thing he —
SPLASH!
Starflight jolted up with a yell. His eyes popped open. Freezing salt water cascaded over his snout and snaked down his neck, seeping into his scales. The muddled heavy feeling vanished in an instant.
“It worked!” cheered one of the unfamiliar voices.
“Drat,” said another. “I really thought he was dead.”
Starflight shook his head and the pain ricocheted around inside. He rubbed at his snout, trying to clear the ocean water from his stinging eyes.
Six or seven or maybe eight dark blurry shapes surrounded him. Beyond them, glowing red light pulsed in lines along the walls. The freezing water had cleared his nose for a moment, but heavy, smoky air was already pressing back in.
“Who are you?” Starflight gasped, or tried to.
“Huh. I thought he might attack us,” said a third voice. “That’s what I would do.”
“He doesn’t look very dangerous,” said another voice skeptically. “They should have picked someone bigger. Don’t you think? Bigger and scarier and fiercer.”
“Like me,” said the voice who had hoped Starflight was dead.
“You all have tiny RainWing brains,” said yet another voice. Starflight was losing count. “He was still inside his egg when they took him. They didn’t know if he’d be big or scary or even if he’d be male or female. Otherwise, of course, they would have p
icked a girl, obviously.”
“Like me.”
“Hello,” Starflight coughed. “Hello?”
One of the shapes came close enough for him to make out the features of a disgruntled-looking dragonet a year or two older than himself. She poked at his mouth and peered at his teeth, jabbed at his chest so he coughed again, inspected his claws, and sighed huffily.
“Weak,” she declared. “I’d have sent him back, too.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re hoping they’ll pick you instead,” said another dragonet, pushing forward. He patted Starflight’s head in an almost friendly way. “But prophecies don’t work like that.”
“We’ll see,” she muttered.
“That’s Fierceteeth,” said the friendlier dragonet to Starflight. “Don’t mind her. Older sisters always think they can do whatever you’re doing better than you can. I know, I’ve got one, too. I’m Mightyclaws, by the way.”
“Older sister?” Starflight echoed, blinking at Fierceteeth.
“Yes, this is the touching family reunion part,” she said. “Same mother, different fathers, we assume. How do you feel?” She eyed him from horns to tail. “Ill? Very ill? Dying, perhaps?”
“What part of brightest night are you having trouble with?” said another dragonet behind Fierceteeth. “Haven’t you been listening in class? Events have to match the prophecies. Hi, strange dragon. I’m Mindreader. But don’t worry, I promise I’ll stay out of your head.”
The older dragonets in the room laughed uproariously, as if this was the most hilarious joke in Pyrrhia history. The three dragonets who looked younger than Starflight rolled their eyes, like they were used to hearing jokes that made no sense from that group.
Starflight rubbed his wet scales, confused.
Now that his sight was clearing, he could see that he was in a long, narrow cave lined with indentations in the rock at regular intervals, all the right size for dragonet beds. He was curled on one of these, not far from a large archway that seemed to be the only exit from the room. Next to him on the floor was a large hollow stone, which was apparently what the dragonets had used to collect the seawater they’d just poured all over him.
It didn’t look like a prison. It looked like a dormitory.
Hot coals smoldered in alcoves in the walls, lending a red glow to the room. A skylight at each end of the cave allowed a bit of dim gray light to filter in.
There were at least fifty sleeping spots that Starflight could see, but only about eleven of them looked slept in. Several had rough blankets heaped on them in messy piles, while others were scattered with objects that looked like seashells and twisted bits of rock. A few of the blanket-covered beds had a scroll lying next to them, which made Starflight’s claws itch with longing. But most of the beds were completely bare.
Places for dragonets, but no dragonets to fill them.
Starflight remembered something Morrowseer had said offhandedly, shortly after rescuing Starflight from the SkyWings. He’d said, “We can’t afford to lose any NightWings, even peculiar little ones.”
Maybe there is something wrong with my tribe, Starflight thought. Maybe they’re losing dragonets somehow — or not having enough of them in the first place.
Everything smelled like sulfur and decaying animals. As Fierceteeth leaned over and jabbed his stomach again, Starflight realized that a lot of the decaying smell came from the dragonets. They all had horrendously bad breath. Morrowseer’s breath had never been wonderful either, but this was much worse. It took all of Starflight’s willpower not to recoil when they spoke to him.
They were also shockingly thin, every one of them, with narrow chests, bloodshot eyes, and hacking coughs. Even the dragonets who survive are in pretty bad shape, Starflight thought.
He stretched gingerly, eyeing the door. It didn’t seem to be barricaded in any way; as far as Starflight could tell, he could walk right out into the caves beyond. There’s probably a guard, he thought. Or LOTS of guards. Or maybe something really creepy, like Queen Coral’s electric eels. Or a lava river like the one that keeps the RainWings trapped in their prison caves.
A shiver of fear ran down his spine.
“Why am I here?” he blurted.
The little crowd of dragonets exchanged glances.
“Because you failed,” Fierceteeth offered. “I assume.”
“We don’t know that,” Mightyclaws interjected. “A couple of the big dragons dropped you here a few hours ago and you’ve been muttering and thrashing around ever since.”
“Yeah, lots of worrying about Sunny. Who’s Sunny?” one of the other dragonets demanded.
Starflight considered throwing himself into the volcano. “Another dragonet,” he mumbled. I hope she’s safe.
“I want to hear about the mainland,” Mindreader said eagerly. “Tell us everything. We’ve heard there are trees taller than dragons and that in some places the sky is blue. True? False? What’s the coolest thing you’ve seen? What’s the best thing you’ve eaten?”
“You’ve never been to the mainland?” Starflight said.
“Dragonets aren’t allowed to leave the island until we’re ten years old,” Mightyclaws said. “Apparently we can’t be trusted to keep all the NightWing secrets until then.”
Almost in unison, all the dragonets snorted impatiently.
“You’re the only exception,” Fierceteeth said in a voice dripping with scorn.
“Him and the other one,” Mindreader said. “I heard my mom say there was another.”
“I don’t know any NightWing secrets,” Starflight said.
“Oh,” said Mightyclaws. “I guess that’s one way to make sure you keep them!”
The scrabble of claws in the hall outside heralded the appearance of a dragonet smaller than the others, perhaps three years old. She raced into the room and gasped, “He’s coming!”
Immediately the dragonets scattered to their sleeping spots. Half of them dove into their blankets and pretended to be asleep. A few of them grabbed their scrolls and looked studious; others fussed busily with the objects around their beds. Fierceteeth sat down on her bed, folded her wings, and glared at the doorway.
Starflight wished he was unconscious again as he heard heavy footsteps tramping toward the room. He glanced up at the skylight, wondering if he could fit through it but knowing perfectly well he was too terrified to try.
With a scraping, hissing sound, Morrowseer slithered into the room. He frowned at Fierceteeth, then looked coldly down his long nose at Starflight.
“Up,” he snarled. “The queen of the NightWings wants to see you.”
Starflight’s experience with dragon queens thus far had not been exactly wonderful.
“M-me?” he stammered. “Now? You mean, right now? Shouldn’t I — I mean, I’m not really prepared to, or, I — I don’t really look — to see a queen, I mean — maybe —”
“Stop blithering and follow me.” Morrowseer swept out of the cave with a growl.
“Go, go, go,” Mightyclaws hissed, flapping his wings as Starflight hesitated.
Starflight’s claws caught on small holes in the rocky floor and he stumbled as he chased after the giant NightWing. Volcanic rock, he thought, peering at the walls around him. I wonder when it last erupted. From the rumbling under his talons and the heat rising through the floor, it didn’t seem like the most dormant volcano.
Morrowseer led the way up a winding tunnel without looking back.
“My friends —” Starflight started to say. “Sunny and the others — are they —”
The large black dragon didn’t turn around.
Starflight kept walking for a few minutes, then took a deep breath and tried again. “When can I go back?”
His only answer was a snort of disgust. Starflight swallowed his questions and nervously tucked his wings in. The walls felt like they were getting closer.
He didn’t see any guards or rivers of lava. He didn’t see any other NightWings at all.
 
; But as they moved along the tunnel, Starflight heard something up ahead — a hissing, murmuring sound that grew louder as they approached.
Dragon voices, jumbled and arguing.
Dread prickled through every scale on Starflight’s body. If he hadn’t been more terrified of what Morrowseer would do to him, he would have turned and bolted back down the tunnel.
Finally Morrowseer and Starflight stepped through an archway into a cave full of dragons. The walls were packed with dragon wings, with NightWings hanging from crags and rocks and the ceiling like bats. One by one, dark-scaled dragon heads turned toward them. The gathered NightWings fell silent.
A last voice cried, “We should attack now. We should have attacked yester —!” before cutting off abruptly as the speaker noticed Starflight.
Starflight wondered again if he was dreaming, because this was his biggest nightmare come to life: a room full of angry NightWings, all of them glaring at him.
“Watch it,” Morrowseer growled as Starflight stumbled into him, and then Starflight saw what lay ahead of their talons.
A few steps into the cave, the rocky path abruptly fell away on either side, leaving only a thin strip of stone to stand on. Below him was a bubbling lake of glowing orange lava. He could feel the heat crackling along his scales.
Morrowseer stepped back to the safety of the doorway and prodded Starflight forward, so the dragonet was left alone on the spur of rock, surrounded by lava.
Lava and NightWings.
And they’re all reading my mind, he thought with another jolt of terror. They can see all my thoughts. They know I’m terrified and weak and useless and that I don’t think Blister should be the next SandWing queen and that I think this is a horrible place to live and —
Stop thinking about all the things I don’t want them to see in my head!
With a massive effort, Starflight focused on the details of the room around him. Think about what you see. Don’t think about anything else.
First, there weren’t actually hundreds of dragons staring at him. He did a quick estimate, hiding his other thoughts inside mountains of numbers. Maybe forty. About forty black dragons filled the cave, most of them as large as Morrowseer, which meant they must be quite old. They were all as thin as the dragonets in the dormitory, and many of them had worn patches on their scales, sores on their snouts and wings, and traces of blood around their nostrils. These dragons looked like the tribal opposite of the colorful, healthy, well-fed RainWings.