Shadow Scale

by Rachel Hartman

  We kept glimpsing Comonot and losing him again. Halfway through the evening, he planted himself beside the fountain and began telling stories in a wine-ripe voice. Kiggs darted over to Comonot’s side at once, and I followed. Drink rendered the Ardmagar talkative, and there were matters of state and strategy that the prince wouldn’t wish him to reveal to the gathering crowd.

  “I’ve seen war and carnage,” the old saar was saying. “I’ve killed humans, burned villages, eaten their babies, and stepped on their dogs. I’ve killed other dragons—not often, but I’ve severed more than one jugular and been scalded by the steaming blood. Battling the Old Ard should have been nothing new.”

  His jowly face sweated in the evening heat. He took a swallow of wine. “Still, I had never seen anything like this. The sky-rending screams, the choking sulfurous smoke stinging your eyes even through nictitating eyelids. Below you spreads a valley of charred and oozing meat—meat you can’t even eat, all nestmates and co-fliers. You recognize that flayed wing or this mangled head, the smells of a hundred individuals beneath the singular reek of death.

  “How many did I kill? When they first charged us, fangs bared and gullets blazing, I hoped I might not have to kill at all. A bite on the back of the neck to establish dominance, and they’d back down. That was our way, once. But the moment comes when claws are tearing at your eyes and your wing is on fire and you have no other option.

  “We won that battle, if you can call it winning. We were the only side with dragons still flying. They fought to the death, all of them.” The Ardmagar paused, his eyes glazed, remembering.

  “It was unconscionable,” he said at last. “Eskar was right. I can’t countenance the deaths of so many. We lay single eggs and incubate them for three years. We are a slow-maturing species. When I think of all the time and resources and education that lay wrecked on the floor of that valley, just to stop me from returning north …” He shook his head, his mouth bowed bleakly. “What a waste.”

  “Why did they fight to the death?” asked a tall man at the edge of the listening crowd. I recognized him as one of Camba’s brothers; shadows flickered over his face in the lamplight. “The Old Ard are dragons, too. They value logic as much as you do. Where’s the logic in dying?” Around him the crowd murmured in agreement.

  Comonot considered. “Logic can lead to many ends, citizen. No one likes to admit that—not even your philosophers. Dragons revere its incorruptible purity, but logic will coldly lead you over a cliff. It all depends on where you begin, on first principles.

  “The Old Ard have found a new ideology. Its endpoint is potentially the death of thousands, up to and including themselves. I can assure you that they have arrived there through ruthless, unflinching logic, from some very particular beginning. We could, in principle, reason backward to find out what it is. I’m not sure I care to.”

  “Why not?” asked someone else.

  Comonot’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Because what if it makes sense?”

  The gathered Porphyrians laughed at his marvelous joke. Comonot blinked owlishly at them, and I suspected he hadn’t been joking at all.

  Our hostess, the Honorable Phyllida Malou Melaye, had quietly joined the circle of listeners. She raised her bulldog chin and spoke up: “It is generally in Porphyry’s interest for the Old Ard to be quelled. They’re bent on taking back the Southlands, where half our fortune is tied. However, as much as we’d like to support you, Ardmagar, you must acknowledge that we risk retribution if we help you and you lose. The Old Ard would not overlook it; they might even punish us before they take the south.”

  Comonot bowed cordially. “I hear and respect your caution, Madam Speaker.”

  “You must balance Porphyry’s risk with adequate compensation,” she said, refilling her wineglass at the fountain. “We have a panoply of ideologies here, but there’s one we all agree on: flexibility is always possible, for the right price.”

  “I expected that,” said Comonot. “I am prepared to negotiate for—”

  Kiggs elbowed the Ardmagar, which caused the old saar to slop some wine onto the floor. Servants appeared as if out of nowhere to mop up; Comonot scowled as Kiggs whispered urgently in his ear. “I wasn’t going to blurt it all out here,” Comonot grumbled back. “Give me some credit, Prince.”

  Speaker Melaye raised her glass. “We will negotiate in committee over the coming days. Let us enjoy our dinner. Business makes a bitter sauce.”

  Comonot wordlessly raised his glass to her in turn and downed what remained of his wine.

  After dinner, all the guests retired to a large terrace on the southern side of the house, where two bright braziers burned. House Malou’s resident artist, the poet Sherdil, gave a recitation while everyone drank fig wine and eagerly awaited the moonrise.

  My Porphyrian was not quite equal to the metrics and metaphors of poetry. I was concentrating so hard that I jumped when Kiggs touched my shoulder. “Oh, excuse me,” he whispered, lightly amused. “You’re enjoying this.”

  I shrugged. “Poetry is difficult.”

  “So that’s a yes.” He smiled. “Don’t pretend; I know you. You go haring after ‘difficult’ at every opportunity. But I don’t like to interrupt if you’re engrossed.”

  An unaccountable bubble of lightness rose in me. “If it were music, you wouldn’t stand a chance, but I don’t mind missing this.”

  Still, he hesitated; I took his arm encouragingly. We had the same intuition at once and looked around for Comonot, but the Ardmagar was pleasantly engaged with a glass at the far end of the terrace. We avoided his eye, ducking around merry guests and glazed pots bristling with ornamental grasses, climbing the terrace toward the silent house.

  The corridors were cool and empty. Kiggs led me to a triangular garden, an irregular space left over by a new addition to the house. The air was drunk with lemon and jasmine; translucent windows glowed warmly with lamplight from indoors. The moon hovered below the roofline, but an oracular aura shone where it would soon rise. We sat upon a cool stone bench, leaving a gap wide enough for fat Propriety to squeeze between us.

  Propriety. If Goreddis made allegorical statues, she’d be the first we’d carve.

  “You didn’t tell me Comonot had gone to the front,” I said, adjusting the skirt of my tunic. “I pictured him moping around the castle all this time, driving Glisselda mad.”

  “Oh, he still managed that, even from a distance,” said Kiggs, sitting cross-legged like a child. His sparse beard made a humane frame for his smile. “We couldn’t tell you over the thnik, but he left shortly after you did. No more directing his war from afar. Now that he’s seen what’s really going on out there, he’s at great pains to stop it. He agrees with Eskar that if he can find a way to get to the Kerama, the war at large will cease while succession is settled properly. He might still lose the succession argument—or combat, or whatever it comes down to—but the dragon civil war would be over.”

  “What about this new ideology?” I asked. “Will it drive them to keep fighting?”

  Kiggs shook his head and sighed. “These are exactly the questions that keep me up at night. Comonot believes dragon law and custom will prevail. If we don’t trust him, we’ve no one left to trust, but I can’t pretend there’s no risk.”

  Kiggs reached down the front of his doublet with one hand and drew out a bronze thnik in the shape of a St. Clare medallion. “Selda turns sixteen tomorrow,” he said, weighing the device in his hand. “I am likely to be tied up with Comonot and the Assembly all day. It’s after midnight back home, but surely it’s better to wake her in the early hours of her birthday than in the early hours of the day after.”

  “Much better,” I said, smiling ruefully at his conscientiousness.

  He flipped the switch and we waited. No one answered. Kiggs gave it a minute, a furrow deepening between his brows. “That laggardly page boy is supposed to sleep in the study, under the desk.”

  “Maybe his stressful post has driven him to
drink,” I joked morosely.

  Kiggs frowned, unamused. “I’ll have to try again tomorrow, I suppose.”

  “L-Lucian?” crackled Glisselda’s voice. “Is that you?”

  A relieved smile broke over his face. “Indeed! And also—”

  “Thank Allsaints in Heaven! But who got word to you so soon?” she cried, her voice creaking tearfully. “I was just coming in to tell you myself.”

  Kiggs met my gaze, his eyes wide and alarmed. “What do you mean, who got word to me? It’s been sixteen years since the happy event. That’s plenty of time.”

  There was a pause while she made sense of his words. “You villain!” she cried. “You haven’t heard anything. You’re calling for my birthday.”

  “Of course I am, goose,” he said.

  “Would you believe,” said Glisselda, her voice quavering, “I forgot all about it?”

  Kiggs inhaled sharply. “What’s happened?”

  Glisselda burst out crying. “Oh, Lucian! St. Eustace has come for Grandmamma at last, rest she snugly in the arms of Heaven.”

  “M-may she dine at Heaven’s table,” said the prince, staring at nothing. He rubbed his beard, then his eyes with a finger and thumb.

  I watched Kiggs, hand upon my heart. Queen Lavonda had been declining since the events at midwinter, but it was still shocking to think that she was dead.

  “She went peacefully,” Glisselda was saying. “I fed her breakfast, the nurse said she seemed sleepy at lunch, and then we could not rouse her for supper. She slipped away little by little this evening.” Her voice broke; she gave a tiny cough. “She has climbed the Golden Stair. Mamma is surely waiting at the top to scold her for coming so soon.”

  “No,” said Kiggs gently. “Uncle Rufus won’t allow scolding. He’ll be waiting, too, with St. Brandoll and a treacle tart.”

  “Grandmamma never liked treacle tarts,” fretted Glisselda.

  “Believe me, he’s counting on that,” said Kiggs.

  They laughed a little and wept. I quietly pressed knuckles against my lips. They’d lost Prince Rufus, Princess Dionne, and now their grandmother—their whole family in less than a year.

  “Did you say someone was with you?” said Glisselda, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Phina’s here,” said Kiggs.

  “Hello,” I said, absurdly waving as if she could see me.

  “Phina!” cried Glisselda. “Now isn’t that lucky? It does put my heart at ease, the pair of you there together, just knowing you’re both well and whole and … and alive. You’ll be home soon and then everything will be right again, or close enough.”

  Kiggs did not answer, but closed his eyes and lowered his head onto his hands. I cleared my throat and said, “I’m ready to come home, Your Majesty. I’m homesick—”

  “Me too!” cried the young Queen. “Isn’t that silly, since I am home? But it hasn’t felt like home since Mamma died, and it’s even grimmer with you and Lucian gone. Lucian, have you told her about Fort Oversea?”

  Kiggs raised his head, as if to answer, but Glisselda cut him off, saying, “Fetch the knights with Lucian, Seraphina, and then come straight home.” Background mumbling interrupted her momentarily. “I’m being summoned. I have to sit with St. Eustace for Grandmamma.” Her voice caught again. “But thank you. You called at the right moment, making the unbearable somewhat more bearable. I’m so grateful for you both.”

  She disconnected. Kiggs put the thnik away and sat holding his head, elbows on his knees. His shoulders shook. I folded my hands in my lap, wishing I could draw him close and comfort him, thinking maybe I should do it anyway, even though we’d promised each other not to. He was so adamant about being fair to Glisselda—and I agreed, in principle—but sometimes surely it was better to err on the side of kindness?

  Alas, I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the side of selfishness. I clamped my hands between my knees.

  Kiggs ran his fingers through his curling hair. “Forgive me, Phina. I thought we could wish her a happy birthday and then have a nice talk, or …” He gestured bleakly toward the full moon, now risen above the rooftop.

  “There will be time,” I said. “We’ll talk all the way to Fort Oversea.”

  “Yes, we will,” he said, an unexpected bitterness in his voice. “That’s what I wanted. I didn’t have to come along with Comonot, you realize. He can handle himself. You could’ve made your own way home; the knights can find Goredd on a map.”

  “You wanted to see me,” I said quietly, my heart sinking.

  “And for my selfishness, Selda has to bear our grandmother’s death alone.” Kiggs stood and paced restlessly. “Even when I’m with her, I’m not. I know it was my idea to … to lie, but even a lie of omission builds a wall between people. I’m trapped behind it, unable to give Selda the unconditional support she needs.”

  “You don’t need to explain it to me,” I said, folding my arms. “I’ve lived it. I’d half expected you to break and tell her the truth by now.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I’ve considered it. Would that tear down the wall, though, or build it higher?” He trailed off, wiping his eyes. “How did you stand lying about yourself for years? You must have felt cut off from the whole world.”

  I fought down the lump in my throat. “I did indeed. And then I met this prince who seemed able to see through me, to the truth behind the lies. He was terrifying and fascinating, but to my amazement, it was an immeasurable relief to be seen.”

  Kiggs’s dark eyes softened. “What you’d hidden was not so awful. What I’ve hidden will hurt Selda, whom I love like my own sister.”

  There was a wall between Kiggs and me, too, built of propriety and promises. I could not reach out to him, could not kiss his sorrowing brow. Holding back was misery, but he’d surely use any lapse as a stick to beat himself with later.

  I said, “Yes, it will hurt her. But—” I hesitated; the idea was forming, looking for words to clothe itself in. “Letting her bear her own pain can be a gesture of respect.”

  He sat down again, his eyes locked on my face. “What?”

  “I mean,” I said, still struggling for the right way to say it, “you’re carrying all the weight of it yourself to protect her. You’ve decided she’s too fragile to bear the truth, but is she? What if you let her be strong on her own behalf? It would honor her, in a way.”

  He snorted, but I could tell he was thinking now. That was what I loved most of all: Kiggs thinking. His eyes lit up. I clasped my hands between my knees again.

  “That is the most convoluted piece of sophistry I’ve ever heard,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “Shall I slap her across the face, if pain is such an honor?”

  “Who’s a sophist?” I said. “You know that’s a specious argument.”

  He smiled mournfully. “I’m going to refute you, because you’re wrong, but I don’t have it in me now.” He rubbed his eyes. “Tomorrow will be a long day of negotiations.” He yawned.

  I took the hint, although I didn’t like to. “I should let you get some sleep,” I said.

  I rose to go, but Kiggs reached for my hand. In that moment the entire world bent toward that focal point; all we felt or understood, all matter and emptiness, compressed between two hands, one warm, one cold. I didn’t know which was which.

  He took a shaky breath and let me go. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “And I will refute you.”

  I bowed. “Good night, Prince,” I said, fully believing he would hear the words behind my words, the things I couldn’t say.

  I was not invited to Comonot’s meeting with the heads of the Agogoi, nor did I expect to be. Surely Kiggs and I would be leaving Porphyry soon—how long could negotiations possibly take?—and I’d already decided not to spend my last few days trying to persuade the ityasaari to come south with me. They were happy here; let them remain so. I would return and see them in more peaceful times.

  Instead, I spent the next morning with Abdo and his family. Abdo had been less f
everish and more tranquil the last two days, but he slept all the time. I hoped this might mean Jannoula was relenting and that Naia could take him back to Paulos Pende whenever he opened his eyes. Around midday I wandered to the harbor market and played flute in the sunshine. Children skipped circles around me. I’d hoped Brasidas would find me, but he wasn’t around.

  When I returned to Naia’s in the late afternoon, a note had arrived from Ardmagar Comonot: Meet the prince and me at the Metasaari public garden at sunset. That was it; no hint of how his meeting had gone.

  I went early and ate at the little caupona where I’d met Saar Lalo. I’d come to love octopus balls in gravy; I would miss Porphyrian food in Goredd. I loitered at a table, nursing my mint tea and watching the sun go down.

  Kiggs and Comonot appeared at last, two lengthening shadows in the descending dusk; I met them by the public fountain where water spewed from a mer-dog’s snout. “This way,” said the Ardmagar, in lieu of a greeting, and we set off toward a long, low colonnaded house on the north side of the square.

  “How did the negotiations go?” I whispered to Kiggs.

  The prince shook his head. “We’re sworn to secrecy. These may not be my gods, but I don’t relish meeting Dread Necessity down a dark alley,” he said. “However, I believe I may hint obliquely that the jewel of our purpose is to be ransomed at a high price, and that the Ardmagar is a miserly villain.”

  “I can hear you,” said Comonot over his shoulder as he knocked on the door.

  I pinched my lips shut around a laugh, but found Kiggs’s hint perplexing. Comonot was prepared to pay to end his war. What price had Porphyry demanded?