One table stood in the very center of the room, holding nothing but a map, a stack of papers, and a pencil. Two chairs were pushed all the way in, both facing the side walls so that neither of us would have our back to the door. Twenty noorestones ringed the room.
We were completely alone.
“Have a seat.” Altan motioned to one of the chairs. “We have a lot to talk about.”
My hands shook as I pulled out the nearest chair and pressed myself against the cold wood. I scanned the room again. Still twenty noorestones. Still too heavy with memories of bloodstains and Aaru’s screams and the unnatural silence.
No death chair.
No noorestones in basins.
No weapons, save the baton at Altan’s hip.
“You’re not allowed to kill prisoners,” I whispered.
“I can’t control what a young dragon does, Mira.” He smirked. “Her flame only reaches so far. I suspect it will get rather hot in there, but they’re probably not dead.”
Altan was a liar, I knew that, but I told myself this had to be true. Young dragons did have a very short flame. So maybe . . .
“Let’s start with something simple.” My nemesis moved near his chair, but he didn’t sit. He remained on his feet in a display of dominance. To show that though there was a chair, he had a choice about whether he’d sit.
I glared at him, wishing he’d burst into flames and die.
He did not.
Instead, he pressed a fist to the table and leaned forward, his fury barely contained beneath his skin. “Now,” he said, “tell me why the Luminary Council really sent you here.”
“I told you the truth.”
His mouth pulled back in a growl. “Warriors went to Crestshade and Thornfell. They scoured every port, ship, cargo hold, and warehouse. There was nothing. No trace of dragons.”
Chills swept through me, numbing. If the dragons weren’t there, then where were they? All this time, I’d consoled myself with the knowledge of their whereabouts. Part of me had imagined I might be the one to rescue them, but after Lex—
Well, I’d known then something must be different. That was why Lex and the other two had been at the Shadowed City docks, rather than Thornfell, where the shipping order had said they’d be.
“I’m waiting.” Altan loomed too close.
“They changed the schedule.” My voice was small and weak, but I lifted my eyes to Altan’s and willed him to see that I was telling the truth. “When I came to the Luminary Council with the shipping order, they must have realized there was a possibility I’d tell someone—like you—so they changed the schedule to keep anyone from rescuing the dragons.”
He seemed to grow larger, but he said, “You might be right.”
A knot of tension in my chest eased a little. “I love dragons,” I whispered. “I truly hoped you would find them. Better they return to the Fallen Isles with you than get sent to the Algotti Empire.”
Tense moments passed between us. Three, four, five. Then Altan pulled back and crossed his arms. “All right. Say I believe you.”
He did believe me. Everyone knew what kind of liar I was—a terrible one—so he did believe me. He was just trying to scare me.
I counted the noorestones. Twenty.
“What other route might your council use to send the dragons to the Algotti Empire?”
As if I would know that kind of thing. He was the one with the strategic mind. I was just some girl the Luminary Council had liked to parade around. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why they would do this. The Mira Treaty is supposed to protect dragons—”
“The Mira Treaty is a sham,” he said.
I shook my head. People declared that from time to time, often at me, as though there was something I needed to do about it, personally. “It’s no sham. Just . . . some people are ignoring it.” Like the people who signed it.
Altan blew out a long breath, glaring at me like I was a fool. “You’ve caught the Luminary Council in enough lies, haven’t you? You’ve seen enough to know that they aren’t the benevolent government you once believed.”
Well, that was true. But that didn’t mean that the entire treaty was a lie. “The government is made of people. Humans are fallible creatures. But not the Mira Treaty. It is an ideal.”
“Created by fallible humans.” He stood taller. I forced myself not to shrink back; I couldn’t show my fear. Not now. “The Mira Treaty holds all the appearance of being something good, but underneath, it is a sinister thing. A lie.”
I didn’t want to waste my time defending the treaty to Altan, but he wanted to talk about it. Needed to, maybe. I just couldn’t decide whether allowing him to rant would put him at ease or make him more volatile. With Altan, it could go either way.
I forced my shaking hands into the folds of my dress. “What do you think they’re hiding with it?”
He stared down at me, eyes hooded. “The Mira Treaty sold the islands to the Algotti Empire.”
“That’s preposterous.” I bit my cheek. Like always, the wrong thing just fell out of my mouth, without guidance from my brain.
“Of course you think so. You were conditioned from birth to believe in the treaty.”
If only I could make that preposterous comment disappear. Now that I’d brought up a dissenting viewpoint, I had to continue this argument. I had to let myself be convinced of his rightness.
“All right,” I said. “Tell me why you believe the empire owns us.”
He shook his head and paced the length of the room; my brain uselessly counted his steps (three, four, five . . .). “I have a lot of reasons. I doubt you’d believe any of them.”
“I am literally your captive audience. Tell me why you think my entire life was a lie.” Too glib. That was far too glib. I clenched my fists in my skirts.
Anger laced Altan’s tone. “We aren’t in negotiations. You don’t get to make demands.” He pivoted and paced the other way. (Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .) The anger ebbed, but didn’t fade.
I had to be careful. He had my friends trapped in a small space with a scared dragon.
Altan kept pacing, and the echo of my question feathered into nothing. He had said we weren’t negotiating, and I’d kept quiet, so he’d decided he’d won.
I waited. People loved to announce their opinions, whether they were asked for or not. He wouldn’t be able to resist.
Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight. His steps were even, precise, and clipped just so. “First of all, there’s the language of the Mira Treaty.”
I schooled the triumph from my face; this was only a minor victory. “I’ve read the Mira Treaty a hundred times.” A hundred and seventeen times, but who was counting? Still, I kept my tone even, maintaining the same invitation to prove me wrong. “Nowhere does it say that the document cedes ownership of the Fallen Isles to the Algotti Empire.”
“No, but the preamble says the islands bow to the one true authority.”
“The Fallen Gods.”
“The empire,” Altan explained. “The one true authority, according to the Mira Treaty, is the Algotti Empire.”
“How do you know?” I stayed defensive, but added a carefully measured note of uncertainty. Just enough for him to pick up on. Mother would be proud.
He shook his head. “Only one place has the audacity to call themselves the ‘light of Noore,’ and it isn’t us.”
That struck a chord. I remembered asking about “the light of Noore” as a child, and being reassured the light was the seven gods, come down from the stars to bring us hope and peace. Why wasn’t it lights, plural, then? Because the Mira Treaty united everything, even the gods and their light.
“No one used the phrase before the Mira Treaty,” Altan said. “No one on the Fallen Isles, at any rate.”
“Why would the Algotti Empire insist on Hartan independence, though? Or unite the islands? Or protect dragons? That seems like it would make it more difficult for them to conquer us.”
“We’
ve already been conquered. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He growled with frustration, but the anger had dimmed for now. “All are equal in the Algotti Empire. Territories cannot own other territories; it all belongs to the empire and to the empress. As part of the Algotti Empire, the same must apply to the Fallen Isles.” He pivoted again, still pacing. (Sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven . . .) “We are a single body belonging to them. They see no difference between Khulani and Idrisi, or Anaheran and Hartan. For now, we’re allowed to keep our individual cultures, but as time goes on, we’ll become more and more acclimated to the new way of life that comes from belonging to the empire.”
“What about the dragons?” I asked. “Why would they care about preserving dragons?”
“The Great Abandonment,” he said, like it was obvious.
“To placate us?” Surely the Algotti Empress didn’t believe the Great Abandonment was real.
He nodded. “The empress isn’t stupid, Mira. She knows that territories she conquers value their cultures and traditions and myths. So she makes a show of respecting them, and over time, her new territories begin to meld with the old. It’s not overnight, or fast, but she is patient. Eventually, she expects us to turn from our Fallen Gods and worship her.”
People in the empire worshiped their empress? But she was . . . mortal. How could anyone worship anything mortal? I’d always believed they worshiped the Upper Gods—those who’d stayed in the stars when our gods fell to Noore.
“The other proof,” Altan said, “is that we are shipping our dragons to the empire. Proof you’ve seen.” He stopped at the table and glared down at me. “Why else would we send the children of the gods to our enemies?”
I sank deeper into my chair. I believed in the goodness of the Mira Treaty. I did. But I hated how compelling that particular argument was.
Hadn’t I been asking myself over and over why the Luminary Council would allow our dragons to be sent away? And our noorestones—ones we could use to protect ourselves? “You think the governments themselves are sending the dragons?”
“It’s a payment,” Altan went on. “We don’t want them to attack us, so we’ve silently surrendered. Even with seven islands, we cannot defend against her. The Algotti Army is endless, growing with every country the empress devours. Her hunger is insatiable.”
“We couldn’t fight her off?” Wasn’t that what the Khulani warriors were for? They’d taken oaths to defend the Fallen Isles, even when we fought one another. They were supposed to defend against outside invasions.
“Our advantage has always been the dragons. But with the population dwindling, we don’t stand a chance.”
“That’s why the Mira Treaty specifies that even warriors cannot ride dragons anymore?”
He bowed his head. “To prevent us from taking up arms against the empire, because even a few Drakon Warriors could cause severe damage. We could cost the empire lives and money and time.” He stopped pacing and frowned. “But it would be mitigative efforts. They would win, eventually. So we—the Fallen Isles—surrendered. We quietly gave ourselves to them, and now we pay them to keep out of our business. For a time, at least. As I said, assimilation is inevitable.”
It sounded too wild to be true, but I couldn’t think of a better reason why the Luminary Council would send dragons and noorestones to the mainland. “Who knows about this?”
Did Mother and Father know? Father was the architect of the Mira Treaty. Thinking he might have done something like this intentionally, knowingly betraying his own people . . .
“Your government. Mine. All of them.” Altan frowned. “I’m not sure how many within each government, but certainly everyone who signed the Mira Treaty had to know what it was.”
It seemed so farfetched. But the Luminary Council had betrayed me. The Twilight Council had betrayed Chenda. Why should I expect anything but underhanded awfulness from those entrusted with our safety?
“But why the secrecy? Why not just explain that the empire will destroy us if—”
“Can you imagine the riots? The revolts? We’d destroy ourselves. No, we have enough trouble growing accustomed to Hartans being equal with the rest of us.”
Some people would contest that Hartans were truly equal.
“Think of the outcry if the truth about the Mira Treaty came out.” He shook his head and sat down across from me once more. “No, the people of the Fallen Isles must not know.”
Why? Maybe they deserved to be outraged.
He touched the crossed maces on his jacket. “I took holy vows to protect the Fallen Isles. I mean to uphold those vows, even if it destroys me.” The danger crept back into his tone. “Now, I want to discuss what alternate routes your Luminary Council might have used for shipping the dragons.”
This again. I’d hoped he’d forgotten. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
A look between disappointment and annoyance crossed his face. “Given your devotion to dragons, I thought you would be more willing.”
Did he? After leaving me alone in the dark for days? After torturing Aaru? After endangering my friends as insurance for my cooperation?
He couldn’t be more wrong.
“Mira.” He leaned his elbows on the table. “Your friends don’t have much time.”
My heart lurched.
“You know I can be cruel,” he said. “But I can be kind if you earn it. I can reward you.”
My voice was trapped in my throat, useless.
“I’d like for you to take care of our dragons. The juveniles, and soon the adults, when they are retrieved. Doesn’t that sound better than cleaning for Sarannai?”
I’d never wanted to be the face of the Luminary Council. For me, happiness had always been one dragon moment to another. It had been my time with LaLa, and my studies in the sanctuary.
“Let me make it easy,” Altan said softly. “Tell me the alternate routes they’d use, or”—he glanced toward the back of the room—“tell me this secret about noorestones. The secret you almost let your friend die for.”
The second shipment. The weapon that could level a city.
I didn’t know the alternate routes, and I could not give him information he could use to hurt people. I’d always thought Drakon Warriors must be the most honorable and fierce of warriors. And maybe they had been. Once. But Altan was not the kind of man I’d envisioned being a Drakon Warrior. If he was the one they’d sent to get information from me, I knew I could not trust anyone who wore the claw badge.
“I know you love dragons,” he said. “In that, we are the same.”
“No.” I lifted my chin and met his eyes. “You cannot buy me. I’ve spent my whole life being the Luminary Council’s puppet. I will not be yours.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ALTAN SEEMED MORE TAKEN ABACK THAN ANGRY.
I pushed myself to my feet; the chair clattered to the floor behind me. “I will not help those who harm my friends, or seek to use me, or speak pretty words only when it suits them.” My whole body tensed. These were statements I could never take back, and Altan would never forget. “Nor will I help those who harm others to further their cause. You call yourself a protector of the Fallen Isles. You call yourself a Drakon Warrior, but you are neither. You would tear apart the islands if you thought it was the only way to save everyone from the Algotti Empire, but you’re wrong.”
Altan hit me.
The baton whipped out of his belt and came flying at me so fast I couldn’t move out of the way.
Metal struck my shoulder and numbness rang through my arm.
I screamed and staggered back, clutching my shoulder. Hot pain surged up and blinded me. For a heartbeat, my whole body seemed out of my control, and when my vision cleared, I was on the floor. My knees ached where they’d hit the stone, and one of my ankles throbbed where it was twisted beneath me.
I’d fainted. It had just been a moment, but even that much was terrifying, especially since Altan loomed over me, his baton drawn back.
&
nbsp; But he didn’t bring it down. Not again.
Not yet.
“You will not speak to me that way.” His voice was deadly cool, his eyes hard and narrowed. “Never forget that you are a prisoner here, and I control your fate.”
Everyone thought they controlled me. My parents. The Luminary Council. The Twilight Senate. The warriors. But I was done being used. If my trip to Bopha had taught me anything, it was that I was in control of me. No matter how much others insisted, they did not direct my arms and legs. They did not determine what words came out of my mouth. The only reason they’d succeeded for so long was because I’d let them—because I’d never realized that I had the strength to stop them.
I knew better now.
“You’re a worm,” I said. “Utterly deplorable. You grab for power because you have none of your own. Because you’ve let yours be taken from you.”
The baton came down, aimed for my head, but I blocked it with my arm—the one with the hurt shoulder. My bones shuddered under the impact and I wanted to curl into a ball and hide. But this was the moment. I had to seize it now.
“You hurt others because you are hurt. Because even with all your training, you haven’t gotten what you wanted, and you think you can just take it from others.” My whole body shook with adrenaline, as if the memory of noorestone energy remained in this room and flooded into me.
“You don’t know anything about me.” Altan raised the baton to hit again, but I rolled out of the way and—miraculously—found my feet.
“I know you desperately want to be important.” I gripped the table with my good hand, leaning hard against the smooth wood. With my aching knees and my twisted ankle, standing was much harder than it had been two minutes ago. “But you were second to Gerel as a trainee, and you are nothing now.”
Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I knew I should at least consider watching my tongue. But all my life, I’d been speaking other people’s words at their convenience, and not nearly enough of my own. These words—right or wrong, brave or foolish—were mine. I owned them.