of the icebox. He paused for a moment to allow himself to warm a little.
Then he tackled the shelves of pots and pans, tossing each one aside with a clang when he found nothing there. Next, the cabinets full of plates and bowls, which he only sort of tried not to break in his hurry. Then he dug headlong into the pantry of dry goods, leaving clouds of flour and slashed bags of rice in his wake.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there isn’t a backup set of messengers.
Daemon leaned against a workstation in the center of the kitchen, the weight of the day pressing against the countertop.
It gave way behind him. He jumped up, away from the workstation.
Part of the countertop had unlatched and slid open to reveal a secret compartment inside.
Ice. And a small crystal box.
Daemon whooped and pumped his fist. Then he lifted the box carefully out of its frozen chamber and took off the lid.
Wisps of cold floated out. They evaporated and revealed six dragonflies lying on beds of blue satin edged in gold, small soldiers honoring Kichona’s colors even in slumber.
As the warmth of the room thawed the dragonflies, their tiny legs began to wiggle. Their wings fluttered, rasping against the satin.
Daemon smiled at them as he carried the crystal box back to the communications office. He hated to go in there again, but he needed the miniature scrolls and needle-tipped pens that the taiga dispatchers used to compose messages small enough for the dragonflies to carry.
When he arrived, he set the box down on the desk and quickly found the supplies he needed in the top drawer. He secured the miniature scroll onto a board with fasteners designed to hold its corners down. At the edge of the desk, a magnifying glass on a long brass arm stood waiting to be called to action; Daemon extended it so it was positioned directly above the scroll. Then he began to write with the dispatcher’s pen. It was no easy task. Dispatchers needed not only impeccable penmanship but also a steady, detailed hand, for each letter was no bigger than half a millimeter.
Daemon painstakingly recorded what he’d discovered of the Dragon Prince’s plans. It took multiple sheets of paper, and he hoped the Council could read what he wrote, but he did the best he could. If he were still a Level 2 or 3 apprentice, this scroll would be the highest mark he ever received in handwriting class. But alas, there were no such rewards for composing messages about impending doom.
He rolled up the scroll and secured it to one of the dragonfly’s legs using tweezers and thread. Then Daemon tried to set it free. It should know what to do, how to fly to the Citadel.
The dragonfly stood around the desk awkwardly, one-sixth of its legs bound to a scroll.
“Hmph,” Daemon muttered.
He tried nudging the dragonfly.
It remained where it was.
He tried talking to it, as if it could understand what he wanted.
Nothing.
Then, as Daemon was about to give up, the dragonfly seemed to wake up from its daze. Perhaps it had still been groggy from the icebox. It bolted into the air, circled the communications office twice, and zipped out a hole in the window.
Daemon exhaled and collapsed back in his chair.
He let himself rest for all of two minutes.
And then he launched himself into the other part of his self-appointed mission—he had to get through to Sora.
Hey-o, he called out through their bond. She wouldn’t be able to hear his words, of course, just feel his presence and his emotion, but sometimes he spoke to her to help convey his feelings.
But as before, his greeting seemed to ricochet off something and smack back into him. He actually ducked, as if the rejected “hey-o” could hurt him.
Undeterred, he tried again. Sora?
Her name boomeranged back.
The silence in their bond ached. Daemon’s and Sora’s minds had been interwoven, their partnership omnipresent, for eleven years. When they were children, they used to do everything together—eat together, spar together, study spells together. For things they couldn’t do together, like sleep, they’d stay connected to each other until the last moment, sending soothing thoughts through their bond until they were drowsy enough to fall asleep.
He took the pain of not having Sora and drilled that into their connection, shoving it like a battering ram. It would not be a nice emotion for Sora to receive, but that was the point. Maybe he needed something intense—like his terror when Sora was hypnotized