“Aim…”
The tree was only a few yards away. Fiona lined up perfectly. “I got it.”
“Relax your fingers,” Jorian coached, “then let go.”
Fiona held her breath and loosed the arrow. The bowstring twanged and the recoil pushed her into Jorian’s arms. “Whoa!”
She hurried toward the tree, expecting to see the arrow dead center in its trunk. Instead she saw a gash mark along its left side. And no arrow at all.
“I missed,” she groaned. “Where’d it go?”
“We’ll find it,” Jorian assured her. He rose up, looking pleased despite her failure. “Practice. You’ll get better fast. You have an excellent teacher.”
Fiona smiled but didn’t laugh. “Jorian?”
Jorian was already pulling another arrow from his quiver. “Yes?”
“If the Skylords come, you’ll have to give me up,” said Fiona. “No one can beat them. The dragons couldn’t beat them…”
“Centaurs are not dragons,” boasted Jorian. “Have I not told you I would defend you?”
“Merceron told us all about the Skylords,” Fiona argued. “They hate humans. They’re not going to let you keep me here.” She shook her head. “They’ll kill you if you try.”
Jorian handed her the arrow. “Take it,” he said, then un-looped his own bow from his shoulders. “I want to show you something.”
He retrieved another arrow, this one long enough for his own weapon. He set it into his bowstring, holding it all with one hand.
“I have no fear of the Skylords,” he said. “The Skylords fear me. Ready your arrow the way I told you. Aim into the sky.”
“All right,” agreed Fiona, not knowing why. She nocked the arrow, got herself back into her shooting stance, and pointed the shaft skyward, waiting for instructions.
“Good,” said Jorian. “Now watch.”
He nocked his own arrow, tilted his bow skyward like Fiona, and began to pull back. As he did his draw hand started to glow, first a faint yellow, then a burning orange encasing his entire fist. Fiona watched in shock as the fire ran from his hand into the arrow, setting it alight, turning its wood into something else, something more like lightning.
Jorian closed his eyes. “Shoot your arrow.”
Fiona pulled back her bowstring, aimed for the sky, and fired. The arrow whistled into the air, higher and higher against the blue sky.
“Watch it,” said Jorian. “Don’t lose it.” He waited, waited, then he let his own shaft fly, not opening his eyes until the lightning shot from his bow.
It moved impossibly fast, catching up to Fiona’s arrow, hunting it down like a hawk to a sparrow. High over the valley the two collided in a burst of fire. Little flaming bits of wood showered down, then disappeared.
“What was that?” Fiona shrieked.
“That,” said Jorian, “is why the Skylords fear me.”
The Skylords called it “Jorian’s Lightning,” a term that delighted Jorian. He explained the gift as a magic his father and grandfather had held before him, an ability of his blood-line to call down the fire of heaven. There was nothing an arrow shot from Jorian’s hand could not hit, he told Fiona, and no living thing that could withstand it. Fiona imagined the Skylords swooping down on Pandera and how easily Jorian could pick them off—one, two, three bolts of fire, all with his eyes closed.
For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon she and Jorian practiced with her bow, sharing stories about their families and the places they called home. Gradually, Fiona got better with her bow. By the middle of the day she could hit a nearby tree every time. They walked deeper into Jorian’s valley, he pointing out places he’d explored as a child, she enthralled by every word.
Finally, when the time came for them to return to the village, Fiona didn’t want to go.
“It’s a long way back,” she said. She sighed dramatically. “A very long walk. I’ve been so sick lately…”
Jorian looked concerned. “You feel poorly?”
“Well, no, not really. It’s just a very long walk.”
She smiled, hoping he’d get her hint.
“You mean you want to ride me?” thundered Jorian.
“Can I? I rode horses a lot back home. I know I can do it.”
“I am not a horse!”
“I’ve ridden dragons, too,” countered Fiona. “Maybe me and Moth are the only people ever to ride a dragon.”
“Ugh,” scoffed Jorian. “What a disgusting idea. No wonder the dragons lost their war. You will walk, Little Queen. I’m not a donkey.”
Fiona shrank back, sorry she’d asked. She wasn’t really too tired to walk; she just wanted to climb upon such a noble beast, to really be a part of him. Like a real centaur.
“I won’t ask again,” she promised. “You’re right, you’re not a—”
She paused, sighting something over Jorian’s shoulder, a small black mass coming toward them from the mountains. At first she thought it was a bird, or maybe a Redeemer come to find her. Then, a moment later, she realized it was something far worse.
“Oh, no…”
Jorian followed her gaze. “What is it?” he asked, spotting the object.
Fiona felt her old world crashing with her new. Any second now, they’d hear the two big engines.
“The Avatar,” she said, barely able to get the word out. “My grandfather.”
ONE MORE STEP
WITH ONE BLOW OF HIS HUNTING horn, Jorian called his centaurs to battle.
Out in the open, they could see the Avatar descending from the sky, like a great, black cloud obscuring the sun. They did not hide nor try to shield Fiona from what might come. Instead, they gathered in a meadow around their Chieftain, over two hundred strong, to defend their valley. Fiona stood at Jor-ian’s side, nestled between him and Nessa. The Avatar had been badly damaged somehow, the front of its carriage covered with cloth, one engine whining louder than the other. The giant airship seemed to limp into Pandera, but Fiona warned Jorian not to be fooled.
“Remember the guns,” she told him. “Once you hear ’em it’s too late.”
Surrounded by his fellow centaurs, his outsized bow clamped in his fist, Jorian watched in fascination as the airship floated earthward. He had promised to protect Fiona, but now she wasn’t so sure.
“He wants the Starfinder,” she told Jorian. “He must think I have it.”
“Then they don’t have the boy,” Jorian surmised. “Your friend would have told them he gave the Starfinder to Merceron.” He glanced at Fiona. “Right?”
“Yeah,” said Fiona. “Or no. Moth’s pretty stubborn sometimes.”
“You’re not making sense. If you’re afraid, do not be. Never let your enemies see you afraid, Little Queen.”
Fiona didn’t know what she was feeling. Her feelings were a jumble. Part of her hoped Moth was safe on the Avatar, but another part hoped he’d escaped somehow. Maybe he’d eluded her grandfather that night she fell into the river. Maybe he was already with Merceron. Kyros, Jorian’s friend and advisor, approached from the back ranks, muscling past young Tyrin to replace him at Jorian’s side.
“The young ones are all inside,” he announced. He’d galloped hard from the village and was short of breath.
Jorian pointed at the Avatar. “Look at that, Kyros,” he said, unable to hide his awe. “How can such a thing fly?”
Kyros scoffed. “Dragons fly,” he reminded his Chieftain. “What good did it do them?” He considered Fiona. “I should take you back to the village.”
Jorian looked down at Fiona. “Is that what you want? You would be safer there.”