She picked at the remaining fragments of yellow, arranging them in her palm until they were in the shape of one intact petal. Then she brought them to her mouth and chewed slowly.
“This is Euryale all right,” she said, shaking her head with disappointment. “Five hours’ worth.”
Her low voice was barely audible over the volcano’s noise, but Fletcher wasn’t listening. Jeffrey … his name had sparked a memory. In a perverse way, the traitor had helped them get this far. Now, he would unwittingly aid them again, with the spell he’d taught them on their first day in the orc jungles. The growth spell.
“Wait.” Fletcher raised his soil-stained hand and etched in the air.
A symbol gradually formed, shaped like an oval leaf, complete with the webbing of veins through the line bisecting the center. Fletcher fixed it in place, then aimed it at the patch of withered stalks.
“I hope this works,” he prayed, filling his body with mana.
A stream of green-tinged light flowed from his hand, making a beeline for the broken stalks. His mana drained from him faster than ever before, but the effect was nearly instantaneous. The stalks erupted into bloom: fat, waxy petals unfurling and twisting into a conch-like bulb.
“Fletcher, you genius!” Sylva screamed, wrapping him in a fierce hug. For a moment she forgot herself and clung to him, and it was only Fletcher’s hesitantly returned embrace that made her pull away.
Embarrassed, she avoided his eyes and plucked a bulb from a stem. Detached from its base, the petals separated into a pile on her hand. There was a dozen of them. Looking at the twenty-odd flowers, Fletcher calculated that they had bought another—
“Ten days,” he said, thinking aloud. “That’s not enough.”
“No, Fletcher, don’t you get it?” Sylva said, grinning from ear to ear.
She had already removed most of the flowers, stuffing them into her pockets. Fletcher joined in, mystified.
She lifted her own fingers as the last of the petals were poured into the satchel. This time, she etched the growth spell in the air herself, pointing it at the plants they had just deflowered. Understanding dawned on Fletcher as another flash of green made them bloom once more.
“Twenty days,” she winked, bending to harvest them again.
Fletcher stuffed a few more bunches into his pocket. Then he froze … something was wrong.
“Ignatius.”
He spun, only to see the mischievous Salamander haring toward the lava, wading through puddles on the borders of the main pool. Fletcher leaped to his feet and sprinted after him, ignoring the blast of heat that enveloped his body as he left the shelter of the boulder.
“Stop!” he yelled, his voice hoarse with the dry air.
He whipped out a kinetic lasso, but the Salamander was already too far. Ignatius hurled himself aside, easily evading the translucent line of shimmering mana. Fletcher skidded to his knees. This was the second time one of his demons had disobeyed him. They didn’t have time for this.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, grasping his mind’s connection with Ignatius and ordering him to stop. But the demon’s consciousness was slippery as an eel, evading his mental grasp.
“Fletcher, what are you doing?” Sylva shouted.
Ignatius was in the very center of the lava pit now—Fletcher could see the demon’s burgundy head bobbing along, like an otter swimming in a lake. He’d never be able to reach that small, distant target with a kinetic lasso.
Worse still, he couldn’t move any closer, it was too hot—his feet were burning hot, even through the leather, and he could barely keep his eyes open as the dry heat crashed over him.
Perhaps the shield spell, to protect himself from the heat? Then, to his surprise, the head disappeared. Ignatius had dived.
There was nothing Fletcher could do for him now. All he could do was wait.
He staggered to his feet and turned back, the oppressive temperature so powerful that he felt as if his eyebrows were being burned from his face. Cursing, he ran back to the shelter of the boulder and collapsed in its shadow.
“Goddamn mischievous little imp,” he growled. “He’s gone for a swim in the lava again.”
Sylva was stuffing petals back into her pack. Strangely, she had dug out each plant, to unearth the stems and clods of soil with their root networks exposed. She caught his expression and shrugged.
“I’m out of mana, but we’ve got thirty more days in the ether now,” she said, then pointed at the unearthed plants. “If we take these with us, maybe we can regrow them later.”
“Won’t they die without the volcano’s heat?” Fletcher asked. “Maybe I should use up my mana to regrow them again too; Ignatius is just going to drain it all anyway.”
But he never heard Sylva’s answer.
Fear. Sudden and all-encompassing filling his body. Athena had seen something, and the pink overlay of his crystal came into stark focus as he sought the source. He froze.
Wyverns. They were heading straight for the volcano, already so close that Fletcher could make out the colorful riders on their backs and the long tails that lashed behind them. Leading the pack was the pale form of the white orc, astride the smaller Ahool.
“Sylva, they’ve found us,” Fletcher said, frantically scooping the plants and petals into their satchel. “We have to leave now!”
It was all so obvious. The stripped flowers—few demons would brave the heat and height of the volcano to eat them. It had been the orcs. They had come here to harvest and lie in wait, knowing the fugitives would need them eventually.
There was a thud as Lysander landed beside them, hunching in the shelter of the boulder. His plumage was singed and smoking—he had flown directly over the center of the volcano.
Athena leaped down from his back, and Fletcher swiftly infused her. Her added weight would do them little good. Weight …
“Get on,” Sylva yelled, mounting Lysander with the satchel slung over her shoulder. “We’ll come back for Ignatius later.”
But Fletcher couldn’t. On a good day, Lysander was faster than the Wyverns, maybe even the Ahool and the dozens of lesser demons in the Wyvern’s entourage too. But with their combined weights on his back, in his current, exhausted state? Not a chance.
“We’ll never make it,” Fletcher said, the words like stones in his mouth. “Not the two of us. He’s dead on his feet.”
Fletcher saw the understanding in Sylva’s eyes, but she shook her head, as if to dislodge the truth of his words.
“You’re wrong,” she said, and Fletcher could see a tear cutting a trail through her soot-stained face. She glared at him defiantly.
“I can’t leave Ignatius,” Fletcher said, almost gently.
At that moment he knew. Perhaps he had always known, deep down. Khan would never personally lead his entire air force on a dangerous mission into the ether for a mere five fugitives. Or at least, not for this long, nor this far.