in fury. They seemed to… not to shrink, Mori thought, but to… fold in upon themselves. Their fire twisted, darkened, shaped new forms. Suddenly the creatures appeared almost human to her, their limbs long and fiery, their heads burning. The flames coalesced, forming a man and woman of liquid fire. The lava hardened. Last wisps of flame clung to the figures, then pulled into crystals they wore around their necks. Finally all the phoenix fire glowed inside the amulets—two small, blazing lights.
Mori gasped and whimpered. She reached into her pocket and clutched Pip so tightly the mouse bit her.
The two figures stood in the hall, smoke still rising from them. Both wore armor of pale steel, gilded helmets, and curved swords upon their waists. Their hair was platinum blond, so pale it was almost white. They have ghost hair. Mori trembled to see it.
The man stood facing her, staring at the dungeon door. He was tall and broad, with a face like beaten leather. His eyes were small, blue, and mean. A golden sun was embedded into his breastplate. Mori recognized the emblem—the Golden Sun of Tiranor.
Tirans! she thought. She had heard many tales of them; they were a cruel, warlike people from southern deserts beyond mountain, lake, and swamp.
The woman stood with her back toward the door. She was tall and slender, and her hair was long and smooth. Two sabres hung from her belt, shaped like the beaks of cranes, their pommels golden. Slowly, the woman turned toward the door. Her eyes were blue, her face golden and strewn with bright freckles like stars in sunset. A scar, as from an old fire, ran across her face from head to chin, then snaked down her neck into her breastplate.
Mori gasped.
She knew this woman.
"Solina," she whispered.
Some of her fear left her. Solina was her friend! A princess of Tiranor, her parents slain, she had grown up in Requiem. Mori remembered many nights of sitting in Solina's lap, listening to her tell stories of Tiranor—its white towers rising from the desert, capped with gold; its oases of lush palms, warm pools, and birds of paradise; its proud people of golden skin, bright hair that shone, and blue eyes that saw far.
Solina won't hurt me, Mori thought, breathing shakily. Solina will realize this was a mistake, once she sees me, once she realizes it's me, Mori. I was like a sister to her.
And yet… Mori hesitated. She stayed frozen. That scar that ran down Solina's face… could it be from that night? The night Solina had attacked Father with a blade, and Orin burned her? Mori shuddered. No, it can't be! But she knew it was true; that was the scar of dragonfire.
She remembered, Mori realized, and tears filled her eyes. And now she's here to burn us too.
The tall, stately woman took a step toward the door, and those blue eyes stared right at the keyhole, right at Mori. Solina's lips curled into a smile.
She saw me! Mori leaped back from the door, heart pounding. She heard footfalls move toward her, and Mori scrambled downstairs. She knelt in the shadows by Orin. He was moaning, body hot, burnt, stinking with death. She clutched his hand.
"Don't be scared, Orin," she whispered as the door above shook. "I'll protect you."
Splinters flew. The door shattered, and firelight bathed the dungeon.
Mori wanted to shift into a dragon. She wanted to let scales cover her, let flame blow from her maw. Yet she dared not. The dungeon was so small, a mere ten feet wide. If she shifted, her girth would fill the chamber, would crush Orin dead. Instead she clutched the hilt of her brother's sword, steeled herself, and drew the blade. It hissed and caught the light.
Solina walked downstairs, hands on her own swords' hilts. Her breastplate sported a golden sun. Around her neck, her crystal of fire crackled, painting her face orange and red. The burly man walked behind her, eyes blazing and teeth bared.
"Stand back!" Mori said, holding her brother's sword before her. Her voice trembled, and the sword wavered. She added her left hand to the hilt, the hand with six fingers, her luck hand. Bring me luck today, she prayed to it.
Solina approached her. The scar that halved her face tweaked her lips; she was either smirking, or her scar locked her lips in eternal mockery. She seemed inhuman to Mori—her skin made of gold, her hair of platinum, her eyes of sapphire. She was more statue than flesh