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  Mercy unfolded Eliana's swaddling clothes. Slowly, the paladin lowered her bundle of leaves . . . and pressed it against the baby's chest.

  Eliana's scream tore across the village.

  Cade's fists shook and his teeth gnashed, but a part of him was thankful. The ilbane burned her. Eliana was cursed with dragon magic. She would be spared a life as a breeder.

  Mercy pulled the ilbane leaves back; they left ugly welts across the baby. Eliana still screamed, the poison spreading across her, reddening her skin, stiffening her muscles.

  "The babe is diseased!" Mercy announced to the village. "She must be cured!"

  Cade glanced over to Derin. His stepfather stared back, eyes dark.

  As bad as testing a child was, curing her was worse. Ilbane, the leaves from the black bowl, burned like fire. But the leaves in the white bowl . . . they were like a rusty spoon thrust into a person's chest, cutting and carving out the very soul.

  Mercy reached into the white bowl and pulled out a bundle of new leaves. These leaves were thicker, deep green and aromatic. A single blossom bloomed among them, large as a fist—the same blossom engraved into Mercy's breastplate. A tillvine blossom, sigil of the Cured Temple.

  "Tillvine!" Mercy said, presenting the blossom and leaves to the crowd. "The most blessed plant of our order. A plant to cure the disease. A plant to purify this innocent child from the evil lurking within her."

  A plant to rip out her magic, Cade thought, tasting bile.

  He wondered, as he often did, how he himself had been saved from the tillvine. The paladins knew of every child born in the Commonwealth—they always knew—yet somehow Cade had been spared. His parents had smuggled him away, had placed him here in this village. Derin and Tisha never knew how it had happened, how he had escaped purification.

  Cade only knew that if he were discovered, the paladins would not merely rip out his magic. They would return him to the capital. They would hang him from the Temple before a crowd of thousands. And they would let the firedrakes roast him alive as the city cheered.

  Mercy moved her eyes across the crowd, villager by villager. When finally her gaze reached Cade, she stared into his eyes, and a crooked smile found her lips—a smile as pleasant as a wolf grinning over a dying deer.

  She kept her eyes locked on Cade as she crushed the tillvine blossom in her palm, squeezing drops into the babe's mouth.

  At first not much happened. Eliana gurgled and tried to spit the liquid out. Mercy held the baby's mouth open, dripping in more of the tillvine juice. The baby swallowed a few drops and blinked. The villagers were silent. Many lowered their heads, jaws tight, eyes closed.

  Mercy stared into Cade's eyes, and her smile widened.

  "Watch," the paladin mouthed.

  And it began.

  Like so many times in the village of Favilla, the light of purification glowed.

  At first only a thin haze of light rose around Eliana; it looked like mist in moonlight. Then the glow intensified, burning bright, coiling into strands. Eliana thrashed in her bonds. She screamed. Her face reddened, and she seemed barely able to breathe. The light kept rising from the baby, ripping out of her, blasting from her fingertips, nostrils, mouth, leaking like blood, and rising, always rising to the sky.

  Cade leaped to his feet. He took a step forward. He froze, fists clenched, knees shaking.

  Mercy winked at him.

  Eliana's screams rolled across the village.

  The light rose in tendrils, hovering above the babe, taking the form of a dragon. Woven of starlight, the apparition reared in the air, tossed back its head, and cried out in agony. The ghostly keen was full of more pain, more mourning than anything Cade had ever heard.

  "The babe is purified!" Mercy shouted. A servant approached, holding a bowl of embers and a brand. Mercy lifted the red-hot metal, its tip shaped as a tillvine blossom, and pressed it against Eliana's shoulder.

  Flesh sizzled.

  Branded, Eliana gave a final scream . . . and fell silent.

  Below the starlit dragon—the magic torn free from the babe—Eliana couldn't even scream.

  The baby wasn't breathing.

  She was turning crimson, then purple.

  "You're killing her!" Cade shouted and raced forward.

  The firedrakes leaned in, blasting sparks and streams of smoke. Paladins pointed down their lances. Cade ignored them, bounded across the square, and reached the altar. Above, the astral dragon rose higher into the sky, its cry fading into a mournful whisper, soft as a flute, then gone. As the starlit strands dispersed, Cade grabbed his sister and shook her.

  "Eliana!" he cried. "Breathe. Breathe!"

  The baby lay still in his arms, and tears streamed down Cade's face. He shook her. Again. Again.

  "Eliana, breathe!"

  He placed a finger in her mouth. He pressed against her frail chest, again and again.

  "Breathe," he begged.

  The baby coughed, gasped for air, and screamed.

  Cade lowered his head, shaking, tears on his lips. "Thank the stars," he whispered.

  His legs shook wildly, and he leaned against the altar, nearly falling to the ground.

  Overcome with emotion, he banged his elbow against the black bowl, and its leaves spilled across the altar.

  A few of the ilbane leaves—herbs for testing the magic in babes—touched Cade's hand.

  Bolts of agony shot through Cade—agony pure white and terrible, the pain worse than a thousand hot ovens, than a thousand rusty blades. He leaped back as if struck by a viper.

  The village seemed to freeze.

  Cade's stepfather had begun to run after him; he now stood frozen halfway across the square. The firedrakes stared down, the paladins on their backs aiming their lances. Mercy stared at Cade, head tilted, eyes narrowed.

  Cade looked at his arm. Red, raw welts rose across it where the ilbane had touched him, where it had sensed the magic within him.

  With a movement so swift Cade barely saw it, Mercy leaped forward, grabbed more ilbane, and shoved the leaves against Cade's cheek.

  He tossed back his head and howled.

  The pain blasted through him, endless lightning, endless fire, blades digging through his organs.

  Paladins cried out in rage. Firedrakes screeched. Derin shouted his name.

  "A weredragon," Mercy whispered, still holding the leaves against him. "An adult weredragon. Uncured." She raised her voice to a shout. "A weredragon!"

  She dropped the ilbane and drew her sword.

  Cade glanced at his stepfather, seeing the terror in the old baker's eyes.

  I'm sorry, Cade thought. I'm sorry.

  He summoned his magic.

  For the first time in open daylight, Cade shifted.

  Scales flowed across him, golden and hard as steel. Mercy's sword clanged against them, doing him no harm. He kept changing. His body grew, doubling, tripling in size, growing larger still. His fingernails lengthened into dagger-like claws. Fangs sprouted from his mouth, and a tail lashed behind him. Wings burst out from his back with a thud.

  "Slay him!" Mercy shouted.

  Across the square, firedrakes blasted down jets of flame.

  Cade—a golden dragon, larger than any hut in the village—beat his wings and took flight.

  The firedrakes' pillars of flame crashed down against the village square, singeing his paws. He rose higher, soaring into the sky, and beat his wings madly.

  I'm sorry, Father, Mother, he thought, looking behind him at the village. He saw Derin gasping, shielding baby Eliana within his embrace. He saw villagers flee. And he saw Mercy leap onto her firedrake and soar, and soon all the beasts were flying, and their dragonfire streamed toward him.

  Cade flew higher, dodging the flames. Tears burned in his eyes. He had never flown in daylight before, never flown in the open for anyone to see.

  Today he flew faster than ever, heading north toward the mountains, leaving his village behind. He cried out, a torn howl of fear and pa
in.

  Behind him, Mercy shouted from her saddle, and the dozen firedrakes flew in pursuit.

  MERCY

  A weredragon.

  Mercy shook with rage, leaned forward in the saddle, and sneered.

  A living weredragon.

  The foul creature flew ahead, streaming across the sky, a golden dragon. But he was no true dragon. Mercy had seen his true form—a pathetic, sniveling little peasant boy. Infected. Cursed. Impure.

  "Faster, Pyre!" Mercy shouted, digging her spurs into the firedrake she rode. "Faster, damn you!"

  Scales in all the colors of flame covered her firedrake, this true dragon, a dragon whose human form had been yanked out. Mercy had cut off two of the scales, leaving room for her spurs to dig into the soft flesh beneath. Now, as Mercy drove in the steel spikes, the beast howled and beat its wings mightily. Streams of smoke blasted from its nostrils, and its saliva dripped toward the fields below. Eleven other firedrakes flew around Mercy, paladins in white armor atop them. The paladins' hair—the pure white hair that grew from only the right side of their heads—billowed like banners.

  "We hunt a weredragon, brothers!" Mercy cried and laughed. "A true, living weredragon!"

  She had heard tales of weredragons living in the Commonwealth, still infected—those who had escaped purification as babes. Mercy had hunted several herself, slain them with her own lance. This was a great hunt, a great moment of triumph for her god. She licked her teeth as they flew in pursuit. The golden dragon—this Cade Baker—was fast, streaming across the sky just as fast as her firedrakes. But she had trained her firedrakes for stamina, for long flights across the great distances of the Commonwealth. The weredragon ahead would have only flown at night, in secret, probably never more than a mile or two. He would soon tire.

  "And then I will break you, Cade," Mercy whispered, her sneer growing into a grin. She imagined how she'd bring him to the capital, how she'd chain him upon the palace balcony, displaying him to the multitudes. She would break him then. She would shatter his bones with a hammer, and she would whip his flesh, and finally when he begged her for death, she would mount her firedrake and burn him with dragonfire. She would laugh as he screamed.

  "You cannot escape us, Cade!" she shouted into the wind. "You cannot escape your death." She dug her spurs into her firedrake again. "Blow your fire, Pyre!"

  The great multicolored reptile blasted out a jet of flame. Around Mercy, the eleven other firedrakes shot forth their inferno. The dozen fiery streams blasted forward, crackling and spinning. Cade flew just out of range; the last flickers of fire singed his tail, only spurring him onward. Mercy laughed to hear his yelp of pain.

  "You will hurt far more before I'm done with you," she said into the wind, her teeth clenched, her grin so wide it hurt her cheeks.

  Along with her rage, her pain drove down into her belly, a metal rod forever inside her. The weredragons—those men and women with the disease so many were born with, the disease her Temple cured—had caused nothing but misery. Thousands of years ago, they had formed a kingdom for their kind, a kingdom that had suffered through endless wars, genocides, and tyrannies. They had given their kingdom a name, a name forbidden now, a name Mercy dared not utter, not even think of. And for that name, millions had died.

  Throughout history, the weredragons had attracted the wrath of demons, of griffins, of phoenixes. Throughout history, endless wars had been fought for that magic of reptiles.

  Until the Cured Temple.

  A hundred years ago, Mercy's great-grandmother, a pious woman, had heard the words of the Spirit, the wise god, creator of all. The priestess had raised the Cured Temple, a small but ancient religion, to dominion. It was a religion to cure all weredragons, to remove the illness that had brought so much death. The first High Priestess had begun to cleanse the land of dragon magic. She had burned all scrolls and books bearing the kingdom's old name, had outlawed uttering that name, and had called her new realm the Commonwealth—a realm for the cured. A realm without weredragons.

  For a hundred years, Mercy's elders had worked to make this dream a reality, to finally rid the world of the last weredragon. The Spirit taught that when the last weredragon fell, the ancient King's Column—a relic of marble in the capital—would fall too. The world would be cured. The ancient disease would be cleansed away. The Spirit himself would descend to the earth, ushering in an era of peace and holiness.

  The Falling, Mercy thought, sucking in breath. The day the column would fall. The day all adherents of the Cured Temple craved.

  Perhaps Cade himself was the last weredragon. Perhaps she, Lady Mercy Deus, would be the one to bring about the Falling.

  She spurred her firedrake again, racing across forests and hills. The parti-colored beast blew fire again, and Cade kept flying, but she saw him wobbling in the sky. He was weakening. He would not be able to keep flying for much longer.

  Mercy tightened her grip around her lance's shaft.

  Yes, she craved the Falling. She craved the holiness that would come from cleansing the world. But even more, she craved revenge.

  "The weredragons killed him, killed my—"

  Pain bolted through Mercy. No, she would not summon that memory now, the memory of a day of fire, of screams, of loss. A day of a soul torn from her.

  "Weredragons are murderers," she whispered, and her eyes stung with tears. "And now I will murder you, Cade. Slowly. Savoring every drop of your blood."

  Cade dipped lower in the sky. Smoke streamed from his nostrils in two trails. He was slowing down. The firedrakes, meanwhile, only flew faster at the sight. The great beasts tossed back their heads and screeched, the sounds beautiful—the sounds of ripping flesh and snapping bones.

  "Burn him!" Mercy shouted.

  The firedrakes blasted out their flames.

  The inferno shot toward Cade and washed across him.

  The golden dragon screamed.

  It was a human scream, the cry of a boy, pained, beautiful. Mercy grinned and licked her lips to hear it. Scales heated, expanded, and cracked across Cade, but still he flew.

  "We take him alive!" Mercy shouted. She rose in her stirrups and raised her lance. "Barely alive."

  She aimed the lance, prepared to thrust it into Cade's wing to cripple him, then drag him back to the capital in chains.

  Before her, Cade turned in the sky.

  "What's the damn fool doing?" she growled.

  With a roar, the golden dragon came charging toward the dozen firedrakes.

  "He's taking us head on!" said Sir Castus, a tall man who flew a firedrake at Mercy's right side.

  She stared in disbelief. "Burn him!"

  Beneath her, her firedrake thrummed, its scales of many colors clattering, as it blasted out flames. Its eleven comrades blew fire too. The jets coalesced into a single strand, an inferno like a dying sun, a great pillar—wider than a city boulevard—that streamed toward the charging gold dragon.

  Instants before Cade could hit the fire, he soared higher, dodging the flames. The gold dragon rose toward the sun, then spun and swooped.

  His dragonfire rained down.

  Mercy screamed and raised her shield.

  Cade's inferno rained upon her.

  The dragonfire blazed across her shield, and Mercy screamed. Tongues of fire reached around the metal disk to lick her armor. Her firedrake shrieked, the flames cascading across its scales.

  "You'll be the one to burn, Mercy!" the golden dragon roared. An instant later, Cade's claws came slamming down.

  Mercy gnashed her teeth as she raised her shield. The dragon claws clattered against it. Mercy swung her sword blindly, trying to hit Cade. He dodged the blade, grabbed her shield in his claws, and yanked it free from her grip.

  For an instant, Mercy stared up into the roaring jaws of the golden dragon, and she saw her death.

  For that instant, terror, all-consuming, filled her.

  Cade plunged down, prepared to snap his jaws around her.

  Mercy gr
owled, rose in her stirrups, and thrust up her sword.

  The blade drove into Cade's palate, piercing him, and blood showered. The dragon screamed and beat his wings, rising higher in the sky.

  "Burn him, Pyre!" Mercy shouted.

  Her firedrake reared beneath her and blasted flames upward. The other firedrakes joined in. One of the beasts slammed into Cade, knocking the golden dragon aside. Another firedrake thrust its claws, tearing at Cade's scales.

  The golden dragon cried out and plunged down in the sky.

  As Cade tumbled down by her, Mercy leaned sideways in her saddle and thrust her lance. The blade cracked one of Cade's scales and drove into the flesh. Blood spurted.

  The golden dragon cried out and lost his magic.

  Cade plunged down in human form, a boy again.

  Mercy grinned.

  "Grab him, Pyre!"

  The firedrake swooped, claws extended. As Cade fell toward the distant forest, Mercy rode her firedrake down in pursuit, prepared to grab Cade and bloody him a few more times before chaining him up.

  The land below—rocky mountains covered in pines—raced up toward them. Pyre's claws stretched out like an owl reaching for a mouse.

  The firedrake's claws grazed the tumbling boy.

  Before the claws could grab him, Cade became a dragon again.

  Mercy screamed. As Cade shifted, he ballooned in size. The golden dragon slammed against Pyre, knocking the firedrake back. Mercy nearly tumbled from the saddle.

  Cade's fire blasted skyward, hit Pyre's belly, and exploded in a great fountain. Smoke blinded Mercy. She grabbed the saddle's horn, pulling herself back into position. Flames burned at her boots. She screamed and thrust her lance blindly, and her firedrake swayed, and for a moment Mercy didn't know up from down. The other firedrakes streamed around her.

  When Mercy finally righted herself, she stared around, sneering and panting.

  "Where is he?" she shouted.

  Cade was gone.