The Dragon of Rosemont High

"Stars of the sky and spirits of the land, we call upon your aid."

"A-and by the sh-shape of his form, oh spirits of Stars, lend us your sight so he might be found!"

When she touches the lighter to the final candle, the flame that erupts is as blue-white as a star, and arcs up like a firework. Zoe shrieks, and jerks back, as the six other candles also flare and grow, each burning a different color: green, blue, yellow, red, pink, and purple. A wind whips around them, summoned from nowhere, sending Zoe's hair thrashing like blue-black tentacles. The lines of salt on the paten seem so bright they're almost glowing and, no. No, they are glowing. They're glowing, and the feather is rising, levitating in the air with the tip pointed down.

"Oh, goddess," Zoe says. Her eyes are huge and white and terrified. "It's never . . . I mean . . . oh. Oh, man."

The feather isn't the only thing that's levitating; the flames are, too. Rising from their candles and circling like witch-lights. Slowly, first, then with increasing speed as they're drawn towards the feather. As they move, Eli can feel the magic building. In the air, in the earth. In his blood and his bones and the dragon inside him thrashes and roars and it takes every ounce of everything he has to it it back and keep it locked inside.

The flames burn brighter and spin faster and the wind gets more violent as the magic builds. The ground beneath them rumbles like an earthquake and Zoe screams, "Eli!" in the one second before the seven flames flare one final time and slam into the feather with a burst of light and power so bright and strong that Eli dives against the forest floor. As he does, he feels the magic crackle over him; a wave of energy like being buffeted in the surf.

It only lasts an instant. When it's over, he hears a sound like a metal plate, dropped onto stone.

"E-Eli?"

When Eli looks up, Zoe is staring at him, wide-eyed, from the far side of the ruined altar. And "ruined" is right; the salt lines are blown out and the candles have been incinerated down to waxy nubs. Even Zoe's paten looks charred and worse for wear. The only thing that looks untouched in the feather, now lying innocuous and still atop the paten.

"I'm okay," Eli says, swallowing hard. He runs a hand over his frazzled hair. "You?"

Zoe nods, though she's pale and shaky. "It's never . . . before, I mean. I didn't expect . . ."

Eli nods, picking himself up and dusting dirt and leaves from his hoodie. "I know," he says. Seems a lot of things no one was expecting have been happening recently.

They both eye the feather, wary, but it continues to sit and do nothing. Eli can still feel the magic in it; the oily corrupt feeling of the peryton itself, but now overlaid by the clean, crisp feeling of what must be Zoe's spell. "What now?" he asks.

Hesitantly, Zoe reaches towards the feather. She gasps when her fingers touch it, but doesn't pull back and no further explosions occur. "Um," she says. "We're supposed to, like. Attach it to a string or something and use it like a dowsing stone."

Eli eyes the feather; it's easily as long as Zoe's forearm. "It's a bit big to tie to a string," he says.

"Yeah. But . . . maybe if I . . ." Zoe hold her hand out, feather balanced on the palm. They both watch as, very slowly, the feather begins to turn. Like a compass needle.

When it finally come to a stop, they both continue to look at it for a while until Zoe finally says:

"Well. I guess that's where we go."

#

The feather takes them on a hike, around the outside of Rosemont Heights and into the woods at the base of Mount Rhodes. They quickly discover that the feather is a compass, not a GPS route; it doesn't care about cliffs or crevasses or otherwise impassable terrain. There are trails up the mountain—for walking and for hunting—and they stick to those as best they can, especially as the ground gets steeper and the trees denser.