But tonight, Mother said the words I’d been dreading for eight years: give up the dragon.
I put down my cards, face up. The game didn’t matter anymore. “Why?”
“People need to see you growing up, doing something good with your life.”
I’d never been able to do anything with my life. That was the problem.
Mother glanced at Father; they were united in this decision and it was his turn to explain to their stupid child. He cleared his throat. “You represent the Mira Treaty. Use that power. When people hear Mira believes in better pay for Hartan servants, they will believe, too.”
I glanced at Hristo, who was reading on the far side of the room. The sting of his rejection was four years old, dull now, but I’d never forgotten what he said—that we weren’t equal. “Of course I think Hartans should be paid the same as anyone else on Damina—”
“Then it’s settled.” Mother plucked all the cards from the table to begin a new hand. “In the morning you’ll thank Viktor and Tereza for the time with their dragon. Later we’ll announce your intention to become more involved in civil policies.”
My mouth dropped open. “But LaLa—”
“Oh, forget the dragon!” Zara sat back and crossed her arms. “You like that dragon more than you like anyone else.”
That wasn’t true. . . .
“The dragon was a sweet childhood hobby.” Mother shuffled the cards. “Your responsibilities are different now. You can’t always get what you want, but you do have everything you need.”
Except the freedom to make my own choices.
“A dragon is not a need,” Mother said.
“How will it look if I abandon LaLa? Keeping her will demonstrate that I take responsibility for those under my care—even dragons.”
Father nodded faintly. “That’s true, but I’m still not sure . . .”
“I’ll use my influence.” I rushed over the words, desperate. “I’ll do what you want. Just don’t make me give up LaLa.”
Eighteen heavy heartbeats thumped by. “Fine,” Mother said. “As long as you remember your responsibilities to Damina, you can keep the dragon.”
That had been . . . easy.
And then it hit me. I hadn’t won. The threat against LaLa had never been real. Mother just wanted a way to persuade me to do what she wanted.
I’d thought I’d been standing up for myself, but I hadn’t.
I’d done exactly what Mother had expected.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I FINISHED CLEANING THE MESS HALL BY LUNCH.
Barely.
With Tirta’s advice in mind, I started at the top and mopped the ceiling. It was possibly the most awkward, messy, and uncomfortable thing I’d ever done, but I went across all forty-five panels one at a time, wedging the mop into crevices to scrub off smoke stains. Dirty water dripped onto my outstretched arms and face and shoulders.
From there I scrubbed the walls, then moved on to the tables and chairs and lights. I worked as thoroughly as possible, especially when I got to the floor. The stains were too much for the mop alone, so I was forced to my hands and knees with a brush, scrubbing until the dirt loosened. The last thing I needed was to miss something and have to do it over again—or worse, for Sarannai to notice. How had maids at home managed such tasks?
My arms and legs trembled by the time Sarannai returned, a frown creasing her face. Her boots tapped the floor as she inspected my work, checking the undersides of the tables, just as Tirta had predicted.
“A fair job,” Sarannai said at last. “Wash yourself and eat lunch when the others come in. Then I’ll give you another room.”
Another room. Great.
But when she went to the food window for her own lunch, I scrambled to the tap where I’d been filling and emptying my bucket all morning. When I’d realized there was running water here, it had taken every drop of my will not to throw my whole body under the stream.
Now, I indulged in a moment of spreading soap across my hands and arms, reveling in the simple pleasure of removing grime from my skin. Unlike the jasmine- and citrus-scented soaps from home, this one stank like animal fat, but it was so much better than nothing.
It was over too soon. Other prisoners began to come in, two and three at a time. No one spoke as they shoveled food into their mouths. The hall echoed with the sounds of chewing and grunting and burping. The ones who’d been leering earlier ignored me now, no longer interested or intrigued. For that, I was glad my anonymity was one of the few things I had here, and I wanted to keep it.
When lunch was finished, seventeen prisoners lined up to get orders from Sarannai. I carried my empty tray to the window and kept my voice low as Tirta acknowledged me with a nod. “I had a dress earlier,” I said.
“I saw.”
“I want to keep it.” It was filthy, but it was mine.
Tirta glanced toward the pile of folded clothes I’d left on a table earlier. A sliver of silk peeked out. “I’ll hide it back here. Get it after dinner.”
I had to take the chance that she truly wanted to be my friend. “I want to wrap my hair,” I whispered. The line for Sarannai was down to five; she barked more and more orders, sending others scurrying from the mess hall. I had to hurry. “Cut a square of silk for yourself if you want.”
Tirta’s eyes lit. “I will.”
Just as the last person finished getting instructions from Sarannai, I rushed into line.
BY DINNERTIME, MY whole body hurt and my hands burned from gripping the mop handle and soapy rags. But I finished my work and returned to the mess hall. Tirta offered a faint nod as I took my tray, and when I glanced toward the pile of clothes, the dress was gone. She’d kept her word. Or stolen my dress.
Just as I sat down to eat, Altan appeared in the doorway.
My chest tightened. I’d spent all day counting stones and brushstrokes and facets of noorestones, trying to distract myself from the swarm of fears circling my every thought. Not only did my muscles ache from the effort it took to clean a huge stone room, but they shook with the sort of exhaustion that always came when recovering from a panic attack. Even a not-quite attack.
And now, with Altan making his way across the mess hall toward me, every hard-won piece of calm threatened to unravel.
I measured my breathing and concentrated on my food. Slimy. Cold. Slightly spoiled. Either Tirta was a terrible cook, or everything she made went to warriors and trainees, and prisoners got leftovers. Still, it was better than what came in the sacks.
Then Altan took the chair across from me and leaned his elbows on the table. “Good first day, Fancy?”
The display drew sidelong glances from the nearby prisoners. They were probably wondering why a warrior would come over and talk to me.
Seven gods, I was wondering why a warrior would come over and talk to me.
I took a huge bite of rye bread and rinsed it with a swallow of weak tea.
“You’ve got a lot of days ahead of you, Fancy. They can be good or bad days.”
Down the table, the prisoners who’d been pretending not to eavesdrop suddenly looked down. Away. Anywhere else. Whatever was going to happen, they didn’t want to know about it.
“I have questions,” Altan went on, like the uncomfortable audience wasn’t here at all. “I bet you can guess what I want to know about.”
Why would he assume I knew anything?
One corner of Altan’s mouth turned up. “I heard you enjoy hunting. I do, too. I like the truth. It’s the most elusive quarry I’ve ever pursued, but always a rewarding catch.”
Hunting. I didn’t like hunting so much as I loved spending time with LaLa. The way she balanced on my hand, her wings fanned out to absorb the sunshine. The strange purr that rumbled in her throat when she was content. The way she pressed against my chest when she fell asleep.
My little dragon flower. Where was she now?
Then it hit me.
Dragons.
My heart pounded toward my throat,
making it hard to swallow the lump of potato I’d been chewing.
This was why he’d switched to guard duty, and what he wanted from me, as Gerel had warned. He wanted to know what I knew about dragons and where they were. I would reveal nothing.
I went back to my meal, pushing food into my stomach even after I was full. If he got angry, this might be the last time I got to eat.
“Fine.” Altan stood, his chair scraping the floor. A few nearby prisoners cringed, like he was about to beat them, but he just said, “Put your tray away. It’s time to go.”
Mealtime wasn’t over, but I lurched to my feet and hurried to the window where Tirta waited, folds of silk clutched in her hands. “Is he looking?” I whispered as I put my tray on the rack.
She lowered the fabric. “Yes. Wait.” She paused and peered around me. “He just started walking toward the door. No one is looking.”
Quickly, I grabbed the folded cloth and shoved it down the front of my shirt. The silk was cool and smooth against my sweaty skin, a reminder of home.
“Let’s go, Fancy,” Altan called from his place by the door.
Tirta shot me a faint, worried look. “Be careful.”
I adjusted the bundle under my baggy shirt. “See you tomorrow.” Hopefully. After one more smile at my maybe-friend, I went to Altan at the door, and he guided me through the hall, almost companionable, as though we did this every day.
I supposed we would from now on, unless my silence changed his mind. But he didn’t look angry or surprised. He probably thought he’d wear me down.
“You must be pretty sore.” As if he was actually concerned.
I kept my face down like a good, humble prisoner. It wasn’t hard to look pathetic and exhausted when every single muscle in my body trembled. I’d never been so sore in my life.
He scratched at the scab on his cheek. “If you need something to help ease your pain, I can get it for you.”
And have to reveal my secrets in trade? No.
As we came to the anteroom, I made my tone soft, adding notes of curiosity and concern. “What happened to your face?”
“I had a disagreement with someone.” He deepened his voice and lifted his chin. Classic signs of boasting. “This was the least of the wounds inflicted.”
Like I should be proud of him. If I were better at using Damina’s gifts—if I’d received them at all—I’d have been able to say anything and it would have been the right thing. Instead, I had to search through all my potential responses to find something encouraging yet neutral. Something he’d believe. “It must have been quite the disagreement.”
“Not everyone thinks it’s worth having noorestones in the first level.”
We descended the stairs (thirty, same as earlier) into my cellblock. The long hall was dim compared to the rest of the prison—only one noorestone to every three cells.
“I reminded them that those confined to darkness for extended periods of time will often go mad. Insanity makes for difficult workers when they move up to the second level.”
How kind of him to look out for our sanity.
Then, we came to my cell, and he flipped through his keys to find the one for my door (fourth from the miniature mace). “Inside.”
The cell felt smaller than it had this morning, but I stepped inside and didn’t flinch as the metal grille rang shut. The lock clicked. Trapped once more.
But this time, I held on to the last shreds of my dignity. I didn’t cry out. I didn’t rush toward the door.
Altan said, “Don’t forget what we talked about at the table.”
How could I?
“I don’t like asking twice.” His tone was a knife blade. “The next time we discuss this, there will be consequences if you refuse.”
I wanted to ask what kind of consequences, but I didn’t dare speak.
“Until tomorrow.” And though Altan left, the knot in my chest did not. No matter how deeply I breathed, how many times I counted the metal bars across my cage, the knot squeezed.
“Why are you crying, Fancy?” Gerel frowned at me from across the hall. “Get a blister?”
“You were right,” I whispered. “He wants something.”
“I know I’m right. I usually am.” She rolled her eyes and widened her stance for a series of squats. “Tell him or don’t. Just stick with your decision.”
Twenty times, she lowered and lifted herself. Gerel was smart. And strong. And she knew things about this place.
I needed to learn from her. I needed her to like me and help me survive.
But not right now. Right now, my whole body hurt. Maybe when I was stronger, I’d be able to work all day and then exercise with her, too. Not yet, though. After all, a Drakontos mimikus didn’t imitate every part of another dragon all at once. They got the important, survival-pertinent parts first.
In the back of my cell, I pulled the dress from inside my shirt to inspect Tirta’s work.
She’d folded the cloth. Not that folding meant much to silk; it slipped against itself with hardly a whisper, unspooling into a big square. Another length of no particular shape fell out and puddled onto the floor.
When I wrapped the square over my hair, it was the perfect size. And it might have been my imagination, but it seemed as though she’d tried to wash it. The remainder of my dress went inside my pillow, out of sight.
Across the hall, Gerel stretched her arm across her chest. “Your silent friend is trying to get your attention.”
I crawled under my bed, muscles shivering with exertion. “What?” It came out colder than intended.
“Rude before. Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry, just quiet. “You were kind.”
“I’m trying to be, but you don’t make it easy.” Ugh. Even if it was the truth, I shouldn’t say that. “It wasn’t nice of me to accuse you of not being real.”
Light under the bed was weak, but I could see pieces of his face through the hole: hollow cheeks, thick eyebrows, lidded eyes. In spite of the patchy stubble, he looked young, maybe my age, but it could have been the dim space. “I understand. I was rude too.”
“Maybe we can start over?”
“Yes.”
Idris was a serious, silent place. A place that valued politeness. I’d never been there, but Father had, and that was what he’d told me about the island. Very quiet. Very reserved. Very secure, when he’d stepped off the ship and had to be searched. He’d tried to joke with the inspectors that it must have been such a pain to search every single passenger from every ship, but he’d received only a glare. The entire exchange had been one-sided.
Even the Idrisi I’d met on Damina had always seemed uncomfortable, avoiding conversation. They thought the rest of us too free with our speech.
“There was a tremor,” I said. “On Idris. Sixteen days ago.”
“I know.” His voice squeezed. So either someone had already told him, or he was a new prisoner, too. “People died.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes.” A great sadness filled that one word, shifting something inside of me. “Tried to help. Made it worse.”
I knew how that felt. “When did you get here?”
“Day before you. Early morning. It was still dark.”
He was just as new and uncertain as me. And maybe, like me, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d said he’d tried to help. And the first thing he did for me was offer water.
What had I offered him?
Usually a smile made people like me, but here, I was dirty, tired, and Aaru couldn’t even see me. Strip away the things that had made me special at home, and underneath I was just an awkward girl with panic attacks and a counting habit.
And reduced to this, I really needed my friends.
BEFORE
Ten Years Ago
IT WAS DRAGONS THAT BROUGHT ILINA AND ME together.
“Where should it go?” I lifted a new purple dragon, making the amethyst eyes sparkle. Its wings were delicate arcs, like it wanted to fly off.
&nb
sp; Ilina considered my display case. “You could separate them by type. Glass here. Metal here. Stone back there. They could fight.”
“We’re building an army to battle Zara’s unicorns. In-fighting is bad for morale.”
She rearranged the ranks of figurines. “Put it there.” She motioned to an empty spot near a blue, and there it was: a rainbow of dragons.
“Perfect.” My collection was almost three dozen strong. They were delicate, exquisitely made creatures. The stone took years to carve, or so I was told, and the metal came from the deepest mines on Bopha. It was an expensive collection, I was assured.
A hundred lumes for the pink sandstone, my first dragon; it was a birthday gift from my aunt, but Mother told me the price when she caught me flying it around my room.
Seventy-five lumes for the quartz, which I’d spotted in a shop window; the sandstone dragon needed a friend.
Two hundred eighty-seven lumes for the blown glass, this one translucent orange with a mesh of finely wrought gold scales across its body. Mother nearly swallowed her tongue when she saw the price, but Father bought it for me anyway.
After that, dragons began to arrive in small, silk-cushioned boxes, some from family, and others from the Luminary Council and important visitors. Zara had been jealous, so our parents started a collection of unicorns for her.
“There’s a baby dragon in the sanctuary,” Ilina said. “A yellow one.”
“Really?” I hopped with excitement. “Can we see it? When did you get it? How big?”
“No visitors yet.” We retreated to my bed, her sitting cross-legged, while I had to arrange my long, Idrisi cotton dress and sit with my feet to one side. Our parents had very different ideas about play clothes. “The adults either abandoned her or were killed. Someone heard her shrieking from her nest for three days before they sent for us.”
“Poor baby!” I pressed my hands against my chest. “What species is she?”
“Drakontos raptus. She’s as big as my palm.”
“So cute.” Drakontos raptuses weren’t rare, as far as dragons went, but they were the smallest. “Imagine living five hundred years ago, when the big dragons all flew around the islands. Drakontos rex.”