ringing sounds of war, but she recognized it.
“Maker, you’re alive!” She dragged herself across the clearing, still holding the Stone and dodging bolts of fire as she went. Demian raged behind her, but she refused to look back.
Maker had pulled himself up against the trunk of the twisted tree, his face so white that his lined flesh was almost translucent. “We can’t win this battle—not even with Demian contained. There are simply too many demon warriors. You must unleash the dragon.”
“What?” Donna shook her head, trying to understand what he was saying over the sound of fighting. “What are you talking about? I have to get you out of here.”
“No, dear girl,” Maker replied. He touched her cheek. “It is long past time for me to rest. It’s up to you now.”
“No.” She trembled, no longer able to focus on anything except Maker. Interspecies politics, warfare, Faerie, and even the Underworld … it all faded into white noise. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be okay. I can—”
“Don’t argue,” Maker replied. His voice was strong, his eyes certain. “This is the work that only you can do. The Great Work—that’s the name of true alchemy. You know this. The creation of the Philosopher’s Stone is only the first step. Next comes the Blackening. Facing the dragon.” He began to cough and blood ran down his chin, but he gripped her arm and forced himself to go on. “Accepting the dragon.”
“And then unleashing the dragon,” Donna whispered. “But that’s just symbolic. It’s all symbolic. The books talk about how the Order of the Dragon was named after the creature itself, but only as a myth.”
The old man raised his eyebrows. “Since when did you stop believing in magic, young lady? Especially after what you’ve achieved here today?”
Donna swallowed, only vaguely aware of the smoke that burned the back of her throat. She rubbed her palm across her dirty face, probably smearing ash and making everything worse.
“Maker, you’re not going to die.”
“Of course not, not in the way you mean,” he replied. He coughed, more blood flecking his lips. “But it’s time to move on. Long past, actually. I’m quite looking forward to going home.”
“Home? What are you talking about?”
“Never mind that now,” the old man said, patting her shoulder. “Simon is not the man he once was, and Quentin’s time at the head of the alchemists is over. The Order of the Dragon will pass into new hands—better hands.”
“Who?” Donna shook her head, but she knew exactly what the old man was going to say even before he spoke.
“Rachel Underwood will make a very fine Archmaster.” His lips quirked into a tiny smile. “Archmistress.”
Donna thought of her mother and wondered if the alchemists would really accept a woman as their leader.
Maker shook his head. “We don’t have time for me to explain everything now. You have to use what remains of the prima materia—along with the Philosopher’s Stone—to tap into the ley line beneath the Ironwood. There you will encounter the dragon—that’s where you’ll find the power to defeat the demons and send them back where they belong.”
Donna remembered the Silent Book, and specifically the image of a serpent breathing fire. The Blackening.
She took a shaky breath and patted Maker’s shoulder. “I’ll be back for you. Don’t … don’t go anywhere.”
“Take the Stone.” The old man smiled at her. “I’m proud of you, child. So very proud.”
Donna covered him with the blanket from his wrecked wheelchair, trying her best to make him comfortable. He nodded his thanks and she forced herself to walk away. If she didn’t do it now, she never would. Everything was crazy. Chaos was raining down on them all. The Ironwood was on fire, and the night sky was streaked with smoke and flames. The Strix flew overhead as Demian’s army punished the alchemists and the fey for daring to join forces against him. The King of Terror might be trapped within her circle, but his power reached way beyond his cage. She might have weakened him, but perhaps he was strong enough to destroy everything anyway.
Maker was right. She needed to find a way to stop the war before Demian took everybody with him. She hated that it all rested on her shoulders. She hated that she was alone. Xan was out there, with this father, fighting a battle that they most likely couldn’t win. And he’d never trained with that stupid sword. What if he was injured, even now? What if he was killed