The uncertainty pierced me. I loved that dragon. As much as I loved any human. And Mother had never understood.
At home, I was too quiet. Too strange. My only friends were a Drakontos raptus, an apprentice dragon trainer, and my personal guard.
Now, in the Pit, I was too loud. Too chatty. Mother might have been proud, except for the prison part. And the panic attack. And all the near-attacks since then. And the rude questions I’d asked my neighbor.
He was probably most definitely real, and now I’d alienated him.
I shouldn’t have told the truth.
Haltingly, I crawled out from under the bed and gathered my blanket around my shoulders. With my back against the edge of my bed and my knees pulled up, I lowered my face and prayed. Could Darina and Damyan even hear me from another island, though? I had to believe they could.
“Please,” I whispered to them. “Please help me get out of here. Please help Ilina and Hristo. Please return LaLa and Crystal. Cela, cela.”
When I prayed at home, sometimes I could feel warmth coming up from the ground. A radiating peace. A sense of love. But I wasn’t on Damina. The Isle of Lovers was so far away.
Here, there was only the permeating sense of abandonment. Darkness. And the only person who’d made an attempt to be nice to me—well, he hated everything about me. Everyone doted on me at home. They said how pretty I was. How nice I looked in a new dress.
But this boy couldn’t see me, only hear my ridiculous questions. I couldn’t believe I’d asked if he was real.
My chest ached with pressure, but I wouldn’t cry. Not again. I just let the hurt flake and float off me, shedding it with every exhale.
One.
Two.
Three.
Muffled noise signaled movement in the next cell. Wood scraped the floor, like he was putting the cup back in place. Then his voice came from the hole under my bed.
“My name is Aaru. From Idris. I wanted freedom.”
CHAPTER FOUR
AARU.
Aaru from Idris.
I wanted to ignore him—to punish him for insulting me—but Aaru was from Idris, the Isle of Silence. That explained so much.
“Sorry.” He spoke more gently, with a quick triple tap on the floor. “Shouldn’t have yelled.”
Yelled. He counted speaking sternly as yelling.
I released a long sigh and started to turn around. I should tell him about the tremor on his island; he deserved to know. But at that moment, blinding light flared from the hall.
With a shout, I slammed my palms over my face. All over the cellblock, similar cries echoed. The light leaked between my fingers, making my eyes burn and water. I groaned, trying to rub the stinging away in vain, but it was no use. After hours in the dark, my eyes had grown used to not seeing.
Footfalls slammed through the hall, followed by the rattle of metal on a cell door. My heart jumped. Was someone making an escape?
I scrambled to my feet and forced my eyes open. Through the film of tears, I saw a pair of Khulani warriors storming through the cellblock. They each carried small sacks in one hand, and a metal baton in the other.
The girl across the hall was on her feet, her back to the rear wall and her hands at her sides. She didn’t look worried as one of the warriors opened a slot in her door and slung a sack inside.
When Altan appeared at my door, I followed the girl’s example. My spine pressed against the cold wall, making the silk of my dress snag against the stone. I could feel the tugging and wanted to pull it free, but I didn’t move. I made my face as cool and impassive as I could manage.
Altan dragged a baton along the iron grating of my door. Clack, clack, clack. In the opposite cell, the girl picked through her sack and removed a package of dried meat.
Food. The sack contained food.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, but it seemed like ages ago, and the only reason I hadn’t fainted from hunger was because I’d been too scared. But now, my stomach felt achy and hollow. I wanted that bag.
Altan offered a sinister smile. “How was your first day?”
I didn’t bother to answer, because the girl across the hall hadn’t spoken to the man tossing food at her, either. And as he moved down, the other prisoners were quiet as well.
Altan hefted the bag of food. “This is yours for the next few hours. I suggest eating everything you can, because there’s no hoarding allowed. Draws pests.”
Hopefully there was a lot of food in there.
The warrior opened the slot in my door and tossed the bag at my feet. I didn’t reach for it. I’d wait for him to go away, first.
“A few pieces of information for the new girl,” Altan said, putting the baton in his belt. “Once a decan, you’ll have the chance to clean your cell.”
Once every ten days? That seemed . . . like not enough.
“A mop and bucket goes down the line. You’re last, so it’s going to be dirty by the time it gets to you. But clean your cell anyway. After a few decans, you’ll thank me for the warning.”
I’d always been a tidy person, but at home we had servants for the real work. Now I wished I’d paid more attention to what they’d been doing this whole time.
But if I was last in line for the mop, at least I could watch the girl across from me. See how she did it.
“After that, you go down to the baths. Wash yourself whether you want to or not. If the smell in here becomes too unbearable for us, you all get punished. So stay clean.”
Damina, what I wouldn’t give for a bath right now. I touched the spot on my chin. The blemish felt huge and inflamed, like it was ready to burst. Even the slightest pressure sent ripples of pain across my face.
My skin crawled with the oppressive, smothering sensation of dirt and oil. The thought of a bath . . .
Altan smirked. “You’ve probably never gone a day without a bath, hm?” He shook his head, like not bathing was a rite of passage of some kind—like everyone should try it at least once. “Well, you’re lucky. It’s mop day. And therefore bath day.”
Today was Surday. Surday was bath day. I tried not to let my excitement show, but clearly I failed, because he just chuckled.
“The rest of the decan, you’ll get breakfast, and we come in after three hours and collect your sacks. Don’t vomit in there or you’ll regret it.” He leveled his glare on me. “But today everyone eats, gets their turn with the mop, and then they go off for baths. They get more food after that. It’s a special day. Everyone’s favorite.”
Because we got fed twice?
I was dying to look inside the bag, but Altan’s glare kept me pinned in place.
“You can earn freedoms,” he went on. “Time out of that cell. You can take a job. More food. More water. More room to exercise. Maybe even move to a better cellblock, if you’re good enough.”
What kind of work did they need done in the Pit?
My question must have been obvious, because he added, “The Pit is a big place. We always need people to clean. There’s usually blood on the floor. The prison kitchen needs more workers, too. If what I hear about the food in that bag is true, they need quality cooks.”
He thought I knew how to cook?
“If you’ve done any kind of blacksmithing, we have places in the forge. Not, of course, for making weapons. The only time you’ll touch a weapon is when you’re on the wrong end of it.” He shook his head. “Still, there are other duties a pretty thing like you might take on.” His eyes dropped to my chest.
It took me a moment to understand what he was implying.
“No.” The word came as a whisper, but he heard me.
His hand slid toward the baton on his belt. Fingers wrapped over the wooden handle. But he didn’t draw. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. Working will get you out more. You’ll stay healthier.”
I did need to exercise. But working? And for them?
“One more thing, Fancy.” Altan leaned closer to the door, his face sudden
ly in shadow. “One little piece of advice, because I’d hate to see something bad happen to my favorite prisoner.”
He didn’t make favorite sound like a good thing.
“Don’t trust anyone. Everyone here is slime, including you.” His shadow fell across the floor of my cell, ominous and oppressive. “Out there, you might have been better than them, with your special family and important friends. But in here, you’re better than no one. You’re all criminals. All equal, no matter what crime you committed.”
I hadn’t committed a crime.
“Even if that crime was simply knowing too much and refusing to shut up about it.”
My stomach dropped down to my feet, through the floor, and deep into the center of the world. How much did Altan know?
A terrible smile split across his face, like my reaction had just confirmed everything he suspected. “This is the Pit, Fancy, and no one here helps anyone out of the goodness of their heart. Don’t accept favors you can’t return.”
My gaze cut to the wall I shared with Aaru.
The guard laughed and shook his head. “That was fast. What did he offer? Something to help make your first day easier? Protection? An ear to listen to all your problems? No one really understands how difficult life can be when your dress is torn up.”
Water. Aaru had offered me water. And I’d taken it without hesitation.
Did I owe him a favor now? What would he ask of me? When? I didn’t have anything to give. I hadn’t known. I hadn’t realized.
Ignorance wasn’t an excuse here. That was likely why he’d offered the cup of water immediately—before anyone had a chance to warn me that I shouldn’t accept any sort of kindness. No favors were free.
“Well,” Altan went on. “It could have been worse. At least you indebted yourself to an Idrisi boy who doesn’t know what to do with a pretty girl like you.”
Oh. Another shudder rippled through me. That again.
I wished I’d never accepted that cup of water.
“Down there”—he motioned out of my field of vision—“is a dragon poacher. He was caught selling to Bophan elite. They’d hobble the poor beasts and hunt them as sport, then celebrate their victories with a meal. Dragon meat is a delicacy to some people.”
I wanted to be sick. My stomach rolled over and the taste of bile tickled the back of my throat. Down the hall, someone was giggling to herself.
“People like you don’t do well in here,” he went on. “They die in their first decan, but that poacher. He’s a stubborn one. Just won’t quit breathing.”
This place was a nightmare.
“We also have a child-murderer, a thief who tried to steal from the wrong people, and one who attempted to defile every shrine to every god by defecating on them.”
Defecating? Oh.
Ew.
“And that girl? Her name is Gerel.” Altan motioned over his shoulder, where the girl was tearing through a small loaf of bread. “She used to be a warrior. You don’t want to know what she did.”
I shivered. Taking the mace was a great honor. Every Khulani woman or man I’d met had boasted about the warriors in their family. Children. Cousins. And everyone could trace their lineage back to some famous warrior or another, often a Drakon Warrior: a dragon rider.
“But if you behave here, we might be able to help each other. Just think about it.” Altan grinned and walked away to pass out the rest of the food.
After a few minutes, the cellblock was empty, save the prisoners. I swallowed back a sharp cry as I dropped toward the sack of food.
My hands shook as I reached inside. One packet of dried meat (three small strips). One leather container of liquid—water, I hoped. Half a loaf of hard bread with nuts and banana slices baked into it. And one apple; it had four bruises and two holes in the pale green skin. I’d never eaten an apple that might have had worms, but I was hungry. I took a bite.
And then I spit it onto the floor.
The fruit was bitter, sharp. The texture was off too, all soft and slippery. I gagged and spit until the taste was out of my mouth.
Across the hall, Gerel shot a disgusted look, like I ought to love rotten apples. Then she pressed herself onto her stomach and began a series of push-ups. The rhythm of her faint grunts ticked away in the back of my mind.
How could this be my life? I wished I were eating dinner at home, with Mother criticizing my performance in lessons, Father lost in his own work, and Zara complaining about all the things she complained about. I wished I were in the dragon sanctuary.
But wishing wouldn’t help. I dropped my eyes to my food bag once more. The apple was inedible, but the bread might be all right. It was hard and dry, but I forced down a few chalky bites before a lump stuck to the back of my throat and I started to choke.
I dumped the apple and the bread down the sewage hole. A little hunger wouldn’t hurt me; I’d fasted before, though never without a decan of preparation.
Gerel was still doing push-ups, fiercely ignoring me. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine . . .
How was I supposed to survive this?
Mother’s voice echoed in my head: “Everyone loves a beautiful girl. Use that.”
But Altan was my jailer. Aaru couldn’t see me. And Gerel didn’t care. My one advantage wasn’t much of an advantage right now.
BEFORE
Ten Years Ago
A MAN TRIED TO KIDNAP ME ONCE.
My memory of the attempt itself faded rather quickly. Self-protection, perhaps. Rather, it was the moments after that stuck:
1. Doctor Chilikoba, with sun-darkened skin and smile lines, as she explained my injuries to my parents. “The cuts won’t scar.”
Cuts. Because I’d been shoved into my display case of tiny dragons. Mother was relieved. “It would be a shame to permanently damage that perfect face.”
2. My sister Zara, her pale pink dress glowing against her deep brown skin. “That boy.” She motioned at the gardener’s son. “He saved you.”
“Isn’t he Hartan?” I’d thought everyone from Harta was a pacifist. Harta hates harm.
The boy caught us looking and dropped his eyes.
3. My parents, explaining that the attacker was a Bophan man who’d once owned a business on Harta. His business had done nothing but ship Hartan produce away from Hartan farms, and the newly established government had decided not to work with him. His company had folded and he lost everything. He blamed the Mira Treaty for granting Harta its independence.
“To a lot of people, you are the Mira Treaty. If someone doesn’t like it—”
They didn’t like me. I’d always been told I should be proud of the Mira Treaty, though I had nothing to do with it. For me, the treaty had always existed: Harta was independent, the Fallen Isles were united, and dragons were protected.
“Life was different before,” Father said. “Some people miss those days.”
4. The gardener’s boy, who had dark eyes filled with cleverness.
“What’s your name?” Father asked.
“Hristo.”
“Why did you help Mira? That man could have killed you.”
“It was the right thing to do.” Hristo glanced at me. “And she smiled at me once. Said she liked my lala flowers.”
He’d planted a thick rainbow of them, white flowers in the middle forming the silhouette of a dragon. “They’re my favorite,” I whispered.
“Would you do it again?” Father asked. “Protect Mira?”
Hristo was only nine or ten, but he seemed older. Wiser. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”
5. That night, I assessed the damage of the attack.
All my glass dragons were broken. The metals were fine, but some of the stones had chipped.
Nine shattered. Fourteen disfigured.
Mother hadn’t mentioned the cost, but she’d been thinking about it. Even though I wasn’t smart enough to add all those lumes, I knew it was a lot.
She was upset about the injuries, too, especially the ones on my face. Fat
her had decided to enroll me—and Hristo—in self-defense classes, and Mother had mostly been worried I’d begin to look rough.
In the dressing room, I stood before the triple mirror. Seven small cuts marked my face. Forty-three marked my neck and shoulders. Five gashes had earned bandages.
For hours, I counted and recounted. When the sun peeked above the sea, I walked back to bed. One, two, three . . . Twenty-five steps from the mirrors to bed.
After that, the numbers lived in me.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN THE MOP CAME DOWN THE LINE, I WATCHED Gerel.
I watched the way she dunked the dirty mop, pressed the wringing mechanism, and then slid the wet end along the floor five times before repeating the process twice. She used a long, flat broom to sweep the water from her floor into the sewage hole.
That didn’t look too hard.
Farther down the hall, I heard a guard tell a prisoner to come along, it was time for a bath. I could hardly wait my turn. When Altan moved the mop, bucket, and broom into my cell, I did exactly as Gerel had. Every gross plop of the mop fibers on the floor was one gross plop closer to a bath. To being clean. To feeling like myself again.
And while I worked, Gerel watched me, evaluating and judging my every move. It was a look I got from Mother all the time, usually followed by a lengthy criticism of my performance on tests, or how I didn’t spend enough time with the Luminary Council.
I tried to ignore Gerel. She wasn’t Mother. She definitely wasn’t Ilina or Hristo. I shouldn’t care what she thought of me.
When I finished cleaning my cell, I stepped to the back while Altan removed the tools.
“Make any important decisions, Fancy?” he asked, setting the empty bucket aside.
Cleaning had been easy enough. Swirl a rag around a dirty spot. Plus, as he’d said, there were benefits to taking a job.
1. Exercise. (I needed to be strong.)
2. More—ideally edible—food. (I needed to avoid starvation.)
3. Pretense. (If Altan thought I’d cooperate with him, he might be nicer to me.)
So I gave a short, serious nod.