Out next year, Isabel Ibanez’s Together We Burn is set in a gloriously vivid and imaginative world and has a gloriously vivid and imaginative cover to go with it, which we’re delighted to reveal!
Together We Burn tells the story of 18-year-old Zarela Zalvidar, who is a talented flamenco dancer and daughter of the most famous Dragador in Hispalia. People come for miles to see him fight dragons in their arena, La Giralda. And one day La Giralda will be hers to run.
But during their 500th anniversary show, the family’s dragons mysteriously break free from their pens, causing death and destruction in the ring; and in the carnage, Zarela’s father is horribly injured.
Now it is up to Zarela to protect the arena — her ancestral home and inheritance — even if it means taking her father’s place as the Dragador of La Giralda. Seeking the help of Arturo Diaz de Montserrat, an infuriatingly handsome former Dragador with his own secrets, she trains for the role of her life. But someone is out to ruin the Zalvidar family, and Zarela will have to stay one step ahead of them in order to save her birthright…
Can’t wait to delve into Zarela’s world of dragons, dancing and adventure? Find an excerpt of the novel here…
My mother died screaming my name.
She caught fire on stage, on a day when none of us thought we’d be in danger in the stands.
Papá and I had traveled with her to La Bota, a theater outside Santivilla’s ancient round walls. I remember that it was near an orange grovethat tartly scented the air like a thick lemon wedge flavoring tea. Her performance was in celebration of the recent capture of the Escarlata, the legendary and elusive breed of dragon with scales the color of chili peppers. It was known for its fury and volatile nature, for the fire hidden deep in its belly. Only one or two are successfully brought down alive each year. We were all excited to see it up close, bound in iron.
We sat in the front row surrounding the circular stage, built a hundred years ago and where many flamenco dancers came to perform. The little village encircling La Bota reminded my mother of the coastal town where she grew up. It was Mamá’s favorite place to dance, out in the open, surrounded by the tangerine hued mountains to the east and the ocean to the west.
Flamenco was born in Santivilla, the capital of Hispaloa, and there’s nothing quite like it anywhere else. The blend of the guitarist’s strumming, my mother’s castañuelas, one perfectly rounded, hundred-year-old stage, and the citrus scented air makes what we in Hispalia call the perfect ambiente. There was no hint of an attack from above, even as we all sat vulnerable under an open sky.
No, that day the danger came from within the arena. We all should have been safe. After all, the red dragon was in chains and ready to face the Dragador.
Papá handed me a plate piled high with toasted almonds, perfectly salted anchovies, and soft cheese and I munched happily as we waited for Mamá to perform as the opening act for the fight.
Off to the side, the bald guitarist was already sitting on a sturdy wooden chair that held his sizable bulk admirably well. Surrounding us was a tremendous crowd sitting on the stone benches, and together we were all drinking and merry to be under a cloudless blue sky, even if the heat was remorseless, making my embroidered dress stick to my sweat-soaked skin.
It was the beginning of spring, just days after we celebrated the death of winter. It was too hot for my mantilla, and instead I left my arms and shoulders unprotected under the metallic sun, hanging straight over our heads.
“I forget, Zarela,” Papá had whispered in my ear. I squirmed away from his thick beard, still black and without a touch of silver. “Do you know this dance?”
I nodded. “Mamá taught me last month.”
When Papá smiled, he did so with his whole face. His dark eyes crinkled, the dimples on both cheeks deepened, and the scruff of his beard moved with his mouth as it reached for his ears.
Papá snatched the last bite of cheese off the clay plate and I gasped, reaching for the creamy wedge. The guitarist started strumming his instrument, and he was truly excellent, because within moments he made the guitar sing and cry and roar, and the music rode the wind until my body thrummed with each note. Then there was a sudden silence and I reached for the food again, but Papá playfully pretended to eat it and I playfully pretended to be mad. It’s an old game, even though I was seventeen. The crowd surged to their feet, stomping and whistling as Mamá climbed onto the stone stage.
I forgot about the cheese.
My mother stood in the center, arms curled high above her head, and the fabric of her tight, flaming red dress hugged the curve of her back and fluttered in long ripples around her legs. Still, my mother wouldn’t move until she found the beat, counting in her head.
Her hip dropped and she twirled her wrists. The notes propelled my mother in circles, her strong legs stomping on the stage, fingers twisting high in the air. Her dark, curly hair whipped around her face—she refused to braid it at the crown of her head like most flamenco dancers, because according to her, what’s the point of whirling in tight circles if you can’t feel the wind in your hair, the expression of joy on her face was clearly visible, mesmerizing.
I hated taking my gaze off Mamá when she was preforming, even for a moment, but I did it anyway because there’s only one thing better than watching her on stage: the look on Papá’s face.
He was bending forward, elbows on his knees, slack-jawed and dark eyes intently focused on Mamá. He knew every step of this routine, every turn her head made. She danced the way she loved: steadfast, gracious, wildly and slightly aggressive.
The musician ended the song with a flourish, and Mamá’s performance finished with her back arched, and her left foot giving one last, loud stomp. I jumped to my feet, clapping and roaring along with Papá and the hundreds of spectators who threw gardenias onto the stage. Mamá grinned and found us, her arms stretched wide as if reaching for the ends of the earth. Her glittering, dark gaze landed on mine and whispered, “te quiero.” I mouthed it back to her, and Papá dragged a heavy arm across my shoulders, pulling me to his side. He smelled like chicory and tobacco and the orange he’d devoured earlier.
We beamed at her and she bowed, facing her family.
She swept off the stage, and I jumped to my feet, and then followed her to the covered dressing room. Papá remained to save our seats, and he merrily waved as I left him to join Mamá. She gave me a hug and kiss on the temple, asked me to fix her hair while the Dragador entered the arena. I remember the sound of applause as the Escarlata was let loose, and the fighter began his dance with fate. I hurried to pin Mamá’s hair back, eager to rush back to our seats in order to see the death of the red dragon. Even Papá had only killed the breed just once in our arena. It was sure to be quite a match, and I didn’t want to miss it.
Mamá turned to me and tucked a gardenia in my hair.
The was my last moment with her.
Bloodcurdling screams bellowed from the arena. Mamá immediately shoved me inside one of the curtained off areas where performers could change before their event, and asked me to stay hidden, told me that she was going to find Papá.
Then she was gone.
I didn’t want to stay behind and hide. The yelling grew louder, the sound of fire blasting from the monster became incessant. I rushed out of the dressing room and raced to the ring, my sandals smacking against the hot stone. I remember my breath freezing in my chest at the sight of the Escarlata racing around the arena, it’s wings having somehow escaped of their iron binding.
The monster was free to fly.
It wasted no time in launching itself from the hard, packed sand of the arena. The red dragon flew around the hundred-year old stage, its blood red scales glinting horribly in the sunlight, and a terrible, frightening stream of fire erupted from its mouth in one long gust. It scorched parts of the crowd, the stage, the poor guitarist still clutching his instrument, Mamá not even ten feet from where he stood.
My eyes met hers.
“Go back!” She yelled. “Zarela!”
The tunnel of flames swerved and she was engulfed and a guttural scream ripped out of her as her body burned. The heat from the blast was thick and I choked on the smoke and scent of singed hair and flesh. The crowd ran in every direction, someone slammed me and knocked me off my feet. The gravel stung my cheeks, and my hand bled from the shards of someone’s plate. I pulled a jagged piece from out of my palm, hissing loudly.
The Escarlata opened its jaws wide, readying to let out another fiery blast.
Papá found me on the ground and pulled me to my feet, and then yanked me away from the dragon ring, from the sight of my burning Mamá. We ran for the orange grove, kicking dust in our wake, and hid under the thick leaves. I gripped Papá, sobbing against his chest, and the sound of his heart hammered against my cheek. He pulled me deeper within the tree’s canopy. The branches scratched my bare arms. The blossoms smelled like rotting fruit.
I never ate another orange again.
Together We Burn by Isabel Ibanez is out on 5 July 2022 from Titan Books.
