Page 83 of A Chill in the Flame
Sedit’s pitiful whine pierced the desert air.
“Trust me, I’m as hot as you are. A horse won’t serve us across an ocean on fire. If only we could fly…” Her eyes stayed fixed on Sedit and his pathetic state before they dragged over the horizon, then up into the aquamarine of the cloudless sky. “Why couldn’t we fly?” she asked the dog.
He tilted his head, his numerous insect-like eyes sparkling up at her.
“Don’t worry, Sedit. I’d make something big enough for both of us. It would have to be something that could cover ground quickly, and suit two riders. A very large bird, don’t you think? Or a horse with wings! But a bigger horse, one where you could sit with me. A…”
Sedit whined again, and she created bowls of water for each of them. He didn’t drink from his obsidian basin but dipped his amphibious paws into the bowl. She winced apologetically as the sizzling sound of steam wafted up from where his feet met the water. A string of apologies and curses wove together as she created a blanket for Sedit to get safely off the sand, as well as a canvas to protect his skin from burning. She didn’t know much about her sweet, strange dog, but at present, Sedit was her only friend in the world.
“Okay, hands.” Ophir wiggled her fingers expectantly. “Let’s make something with wings.”
She had an idea in mind, though the fictional beast only existed in the distant reaches of nursery rhymes and children’s stories. She meditated on the infantile fantasy of a creature made by mothers and nannies and storytellers to tantalizelittle ones into falling asleep. Ophir knew exactly what she needed.
Focusing her intention, the princess cast her palms before her and birthed a dragon.
***
Ophir was lucky it was night. Not only could she spot the glow of the Tarkhany capital from the air, but the dark, enormous shape of her quadrupedal winged beast would be little more than a smudge against the black sky—a peculiar place in the dark where the stars seemed to blot out of focus.
She touched down outside of Midnah but found it difficult to part with her winged serpent, neck and tail nearly twice as long as its spindly torso. It was her favorite thing she’d ever made—save for Sedit, of course. She frowned at it from her place on the sand, eyeing its wormlike neck, the rows of endless teeth, the enormity of its wings. “I don’t know that I can just set you free, my friend.” Her frown deepened. “You’re too frightening for the world, and far too powerful for its citizens. I crave violence as much as the next, but I want to be the one who doles out the justice. I can’t have you eating my enemies before I find them.”
It looked down at her curiously, head twisting like a semi-intelligent lizard, tasting the air as she spoke. It used one of its terrible talons to scratch at the sand dunes as if to respond, kicking up a tiny cloud of dust in the chill of the desert night. This poor dumb beast would know only hunger and the gnashing of teeth. It would have no herd, no nest, none of its kind, no one in the world to love or find or stay with.
It belonged nowhere.
Maybe it didn’t know better. Perhaps it couldn’t hold the capacity for sorrow. Or a third possibility: she was projecting her loss and loneliness onto the gargantuan, winged serpent before her.
She sighed at the monster knowing that, like her vageth,it would offer patience and curiosity only for her. The world would be its orchard as it plucked its fruits from the ground in the form of humans and animals, wicked and innocent alike. The bird-snake monstrosity was not something made for mercy. Yet, she didn’t want to kill it. It was the best thing she’d made.
“I have an idea, friend. I don’t know if it will work, as things never seem to turn out the way I want them to, but let’s give it a shot, shall we?”
Its serpentine neck coiled unnaturally to look at her from different angles, trying to understand her words, though it lacked comprehension of language. It was trying, the poor thing. Her eyes raked over it from head to tail, examining the taut skin of its bat wings, its talons the size of axes, its needle teeth. The monster with the gift for flight was bigger than a house and had the serpentine length of trees stacked one on top of the other. She was quite sure that nothing so enormous had ever existed on the continent—until now, that is.
The corner of her mouth tugged up in a smile as she admired her creation once more. She might have gone on smiling had the answering silence not tugged her face downward. Dwyn would have been proud, too. Joy lost some of its sparkle when she had no one to share it with. The creature deflated at her sorrow, chuffing as it nuzzled her.
Ophir leaned into its snout, patting the stretch of black skin between its eyes. “You need someone who can keep you under control. Someone with wings, in case you get away. Someone who can tell you what is and is not good to eat. I can’t have you vanquishing my enemies for me. Not yet, at least. Not until they know exactly why they’re dying.”
I’m a manifester, for fuck’s sake. I made this fairy book thing, didn’t I? I brought a fiction into the world. Why can’t I make a fae? Something smart, something good?
She pictured a friend—something that could speak, something that could fly, something that could rein in the monster when it needed control. She closed her eyes andpictured a winged fae, something powerful, something resilient, something that could soar through the sky, two unique and perfect bats in the world that she had created all by herself. Ophir dropped her hands to her sides as she let her intention fill her, visualizing an intelligent creature, picturing a face, a torso, arms, legs, hands, feet, and wings. She lifted her hands and pushed her intention into the world, opening her eyes to see what she’d made.
Fuck.
“What the hell are you supposed to be?” She frowned at the abomination, a familiar stench roiling off its flesh.
It hissed back at her, hunching its shoulders as it squatted, flaring its membranous wings behind it. Enormous horns twisted from its head, mirroring the spines of her black dragon. It opened its mouth to show matching teeth, truly her dragon in a near-human body. It slowly rose from the crouching position, and a spike of fire jolted through Ophir as it stared at her. It was so much bigger than she’d expected. Its gray-black flesh ripped with a warrior’s muscles. It flexed talons at her. Of course, she couldn’t make a fae. She’d been insane to try. She rolled her eyes, hands on her hips as she pondered what to do with the monstrosity.
“Youuu…” it hissed.
She took a half step back, fingers flying to her heart. It picked up with an intensity she hadn’t felt in weeks—her first true jolt of fear since abandoning her companions. She swallowed against the lump of fear in her throat. “You speak! You do speak!” The breath left her lungs as she looked around the empty expanse of the desert. There was no one to see her hound, her winged serpent, or the demonic, male human shape she’d crafted.
“I can’t believe I did it,” she breathed again, pride and terror coursing through her in equal portions. The confused spike of anxiety and satisfaction tingled in her fingertips like cold water.
The creature took a step toward her.
“Stop,” she commanded breathlessly, and it listened.
She knew she shouldn’t be afraid. Every creation had heeded her will with blind obedience, but she’d never created something with the intent of it talking, thinking, or making decisions. She swallowed again, feeling her mouth go dry. It was as if the dust of the entire desert coated her tongue and throat, making swallowing impossible. It was as though she’d swallowed chalk.
