by Liz Flanagan
Joe arrived in the palace gardens, just a little late, as everyone was getting ready for the opening parade of the festival. Ren would find him soon – she’d gone to snooze in the cavern meanwhile. Joe and Winter had moved permanently into the dragonhall underground: Ren and Fidell saw the cavern as their home and they loved having the stream – even if it was cool again now and they were far too big to swim in it these days.
They’d all had to live down there for ten days after the volcano blew last year. Everyone shared food and water, forced to get to know each other more than ever before in such close quarters. Joe had used every part of the shipwreck kit and been grateful to his father for that life-saving gift all over again. There’d been tense moments and a few scuffles, he remembered, but the people of Arcosi had worked together and they’d survived. By the time it was safe to go back into the city again and the ash cloud had cleared, the people of the island were more tightly knit than ever.
Joe wandered through the buzzing crowd of people who were adjusting their costumes, tightening the straps on their stilts, and having their faces painted in bright colours. He called out greetings to people he knew – people of all ages and from every quarter. Today they were celebrating all the rich and varied strands that made up the fabric of island life.
People of Norlander ancestry clustered round a huge paper sculpture of a longship. Children had made boat-shaped hats, with waves painted on their cheeks, to celebrate their origins in the far north and the long journey their ancestors had survived sixty years earlier. Joe recognised a few Norlander men as former members of the Brotherhood. Some had remained on Arcosi: the younger ones, the ones who were willing to change. But Noah was missing. He and his mother had left the island in the confusion after the volcano’s eruption. Back in the cave, Noah had avoided even looking at Joe, unable to bear the fact that he owed him his life.
Next came the Sartolan families, walking behind a huge paper fish, silvery blue, an intricately detailed sculpture carried on six poles, with a tail that moved, flicking from side to side. The children here wore paper fish heads and fish tails made of stiff shiny fabric. King Luca joined in too. He’d led his people to shelter in the Sartolan uplands that terrible day last year, but the harbour and low-lying streets had been badly hit by the wave.
Then came the Silk Islanders. They wore flowing red robes and walked behind a paper-crafted silk loom.
And so it went on. There were ten different sections. It would look like a living rainbow from dragonback, Joe guessed. He was glad he didn’t have to choose which section to belong to. He and Winter had their own section: the shadow dragons were honoured with the final position and would close the parade.
‘Joe!’ Winter called when she saw him. ‘You’re late!’
‘Sorry, we were swimming. Flying, I mean. You know … Anyway, we’re last, there’s no rush – we can always catch them up on dragonback.’ He held his hands up defensively, laughing.
Winter pretended to be cross. ‘Isak’s looking everywhere for you. I said you’d be late. I also said you wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Where else would I want to be?’ he teased.
Winter wore dragonrider robes and a scarf of emerald green, dotted with gold sequins in stripes to reflect Fidell’s adult colours. Her grey eyes seemed green today too and full of laughter. Her long black hair was plaited ornately, with green ribbons through it. Her smile was wide and bright, lighting up her whole face.
Joe paused long enough to flash a grin back, then hurried and found his own costume: a fine woven silk jacket of dappled purple, with gold buttons that his fingers struggled to do up now. Amina had helped her father design them. On the back of his jacket and Winter’s there was a circle, half made of waves, half of flames, to signify the shadow dragons’ special gifts, able to move seamlessly between the elements.
Now the music started up, and the drummers began, beating out a rhythm on the drums they wore on thick bands round their necks. Joe felt his excitement rising. People stamped on the spot, practising their dance moves, or waving their ribbons and banners in circles to watch them shimmer in the sunlight.
Ren and Fidell arrived at the last moment, circling down over their heads, with their wings spread wide like silken canopies. People scattered as they landed, quite used to this behaviour.
‘You’re late!’ Joe called up to Ren in his turn. She blinked at him through those golden eyes, and he could swear she was almost laughing too. He came forward and leaned on her, his cheek against her scaly hide, breathing her in, while Ren snorted smoky breath down his neck, whiffling into his hair. He smoothed his hands over her back, checking she was warm enough.
And then it was time! The parade moved off slowly, down through the palace gates, along the main street that coiled the island like a snake. The roadway was lined with people watching and waving, some city folk, some visitors, all smiling and ready for the festival. Dragons walked among the groups, carrying their riders and extra children on their backs, glowing with pride.
Finally it was their turn. Joe turned to Winter. ‘Come on then, let’s show them who the most beautiful dragons really are.’
‘Fidell, my love,’ Winter said, ‘will you lead the way?’
The green shadow dragon stepped forward, shimmering gold and green, with Winter at his side.
Joe and Ren followed, the very last part of the parade. It was their honour.
As he walked through the city, the sun hot on his face, the noise of cheering in his ears, smelling the delicious street food – orange cakes, sweet caramelised nuts and roasting meat – Joe couldn’t help recalling that other day last year when they’d first emerged from the tunnels.
The skies were dark grey that day, and the air had tasted of smoke and death. It was still carrying ash, though the main cloud had dispersed to the north. It was heart-breaking to see what the flood had done to the island. The streets were full of thick black sludge and heaps of flotsam from the wave, with broken wood and glass scattered everywhere. It stank like blocked drains, and Joe couldn’t see how they’d begin to clean it up. It felt like a giant had picked up the island, turned it upside down and shaken it, before casting it away.
There was a broken boat on the roof of a house, smashed shutters and broken flowerpots leaking soil. He saw a dead cat, its body swollen with sea water. Windows were broken, curtains torn and the mud covered everything. They streamed out, a forlorn band of survivors, each heading home to discover how bad the damage was there.
In the end the palace was spared – except for the southern tower, which had been destroyed by Heral as he’d rescued Tarya. But the library was safe, and all of Isak’s precious books. No one ever saw the leaders of the Brotherhood again, though rumours swirled about their disappearance. Some said that they’d fled to the harbour at the last possible moment; others claimed that they’d been seen heading north by the captain of a Sartolan ship. They’d taken their chance on the ocean, rather than joining the people of Arcosi in the tunnels, and that told Joe everything he needed to know.
Six months ago, he’d received a package, delivered by a trader from the north. He’d unfolded a piece of purple silk to discover a tiny purple dragon carved of marble and a note that read: ‘From your friend, Y. Thank you,’ scrawled in Norlandish.
So Yannic had survived. He’d saved Tarya’s life, and Joe hoped that gave him peace. And that the gold made him happy. He wondered if he’d found the vengeance he sought, before the wave came. Was Asa still alive? He should be brought to justice. But Joe found he didn’t mind, as long as he stayed far away from Arcosi.
As for the rest of the gold he’d found with the eggs? It was all gone. Joe had taken it to Tarya and the duke, and begged them to divide it equally among the city folk, so everyone could rebuild their homes. They’d all worked so hard, everyone pulling together in those first desperate days when food was scarce and the spring water wells were the most precious resources on the island.
Now h
e glanced around him at the streets full of people and life again. The houses had new shutters, freshly painted in bright colours, all the buildings scrubbed clean, inside and out.
‘Look, it’s Joe and Ren!’ a small boy shouted in excitement.
Joe waved, feeling shy, still not used to the way he was recognised now, but Ren purred comfortingly, and he knew it was all worth it to have her in his life.
Then they were arriving at the marketplace for the festival finale. The drumming sounded louder here, echoing off the sides of the surrounding buildings. Joe found a sunny spot at the side for Ren to bask in.
A group of ten children, dressed in the different colours of each section, came forward and performed a dance with great concentration and solemnity that told the story of the eruption and the flood and the long, slow clean-up.
After the applause died down, Duke Vigo stepped forward, smiling.
For a moment, Joe was taken back to the day of the hatching ceremony, and a shudder of horror pulsed through him as he remembered what he’d done and said. He made himself take slow calming breaths: that was before he’d changed. That was before Ren.
She moved towards him, wrapping her long neck around his shoulders, and he leaned on her gratefully. The huge bulk of her next to him, the gleam of her scales, her dazzling beauty, this told Joe how far he’d come. That awful day had begun his journey here. Each painful step had been worth it.
‘Friends,’ Vigo was saying, ‘I hope you’re enjoying the first festival of Arcosi. My daughter is!’ A huge cheer went up, for Tarya at his side, wearing baby Serina in a sling to face the crowd. The little girl’s huge brown eyes were round and wide. She flapped her arms and squeaked in excitement, her wispy black hair dancing in the breeze. ‘I won’t speak for long,’ Vigo said. ‘I just want to say how proud I am of the way we worked together …’
Joe half-listened to the speech, focusing instead on Winter, a few steps away. The way she was smiling at him made his cheeks warm.
Next, it was time for the feast. Everyone had brought their favourite dishes down to the marketplace, all striving to outdo each other. Joe’s mother and Matteo had both been cooking for days.
They’d all mourned Nestan, this past year. When they returned home, they’d given him a proper Norlander funeral, with full honours, though the burning ship was empty this time, while Nestan rested in peace under his olive trees. Josi had found solace in her garden and her cooking, and in her new grandchild.
Joe met his mother’s eyes in the crowd and waved at her. ‘Save me some of your food?’ he mouthed.
She pulled a mock-stern face, and then nodded in reply.
‘Nobody will miss us, will they?’ Winter said.
‘Never, we’ll slip away like two cats,’ Joe said, smiling. ‘No one could possibly notice the island’s only shadow dragons flying overhead.’
‘They want a swim, and fresh fish. Don’t you, Fidell? Not this mashed-up picnic …’ Winter still wasn’t keen on crowds and had a habit of melting away from gatherings, just as she used to.
‘You need a swim, more like. I think you’re amphibious now,’ Joe teased, planning to come back afterwards and feast on his mother’s cooking.
‘Fidell’s rubbing off on me – though I can’t quite fly yet.’
‘I’ll race you to the western beach!’ Joe said, slipping one leg over Ren’s enormous shoulders. She unfurled her wings, making people back away, and moments later they were in the air, waving down and yelling their goodbyes.
As the city streets receded below them, Joe held tight to Ren’s neck and looked around for Winter. There they were! Fidell was catching up, his green wings flashing in the sunshine.
‘Come on, Ren! We can beat them,’ Joe laughed, feeling his heart speed up, as they headed out to the open sea – and freedom.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Dragons might only live in our imaginations, but you don’t have to look far in our miraculous natural world to find dazzling examples of power and transformation. From the dragonfly to pyrophytic plants, I have taken inspiration from real living things to make shadow dragons.
The tunnels also came from real-world examples, and the impact of a trip to Naples and a visit to Vesuvius are probably obvious here! There are many cities around the world that have underground tunnels or caves – from Edinburgh to Paris to Rome or Berlin – and they fascinate me. Having said that, I have stretched the limits of possibility in many many ways, so please do forgive and bear with me (and please don’t try to shelter in caves if you should ever face a tsunami – it’s only the very specific height and location of the tunnels in Arcosi that makes that even a fictional solution).
I’m not a scientist, but I’m lucky enough to be married to one, and I thank him most gratefully for all the help he gave me with research, not to mention everything else. Christoph, this one is for you (sorry there’s not more geology). Thanks to all my friends and family for your endless generous support.
Thank you to everyone at David Fickling Books, especially Rosie for continuing to believe in me, and Bron, for allowing the dragons to fly far and wide.
Thank you to my agents Abi Sparrow and Phil Perry for their leap of faith.
Thanks again to Angelo Rinaldi for yet another stunning cover. And thank you Paul Duffield for more beautiful interior art. I am dazzled and inspired by the work of both of these talented artists.
Grateful thanks are due to The Society of Authors for the Authors’ Foundation Grant which supported the writing of this book. Please see www.societyofauthors.org for more information on the work of this wonderful organisation.
The first draft of the story was written when I took up the #100DaysOfWriting challenge, inspired by novelist Jenn Ashworth’s sharing of her own experience with it. I wouldn’t have managed my 100 Days without my dear friend Tara, who joined me.
Thank you to all my beta readers, including Rosie Beyfus, A.M. Dassu, Mustafa Dassu, Hanna Kratz, Arlo Lloyd and Raffy. Thank you to Tom and Rosie for letting me continue to borrow your names; neither Thom nor Rosa is as cool as you, the originals!
Thank you to all the eagle-eyed members of my writing group, Story Mill, whose advice, support and insight is invaluable: Sally Ashworth, Brianna Bourne, Tara Guha and Kate Sims. Thank you to all my local writer friends, including Melvin Burgess, Chloe Daykin, Bec Evans, Harry Heape, Susie Lloyd – you rock and I’m lucky to know you!
To Fiona Sharp and Durham Waterstones Children’s Book Group – thank you for your support, feedback and advice! I’m afraid I failed utterly in my homework, except I did sneak the words ‘fire dragon’ in there. Perhaps you’ll forgive me if I visit you again and bring better sweets?
Heartfelt thanks are due to all the amazing booksellers who have supported me. Thanks to all of you, near and far, including the amazing folk of Bookwagon, The Bookcase, The Book Corner, Bradford Waterstones, Deansgate Waterstones, Imagined Things, Kenilworth Books, The Little Bookshop Leeds, Read Holmfirth, Seven Stories Bookshop, Simply Books and Tales on Moon Lane.
Library professionals, I salute you! Thank you to all who champion children’s reading, especially Eileen Armstrong; Kirsty Fenn and all at Leeds Library Services; Alison Roberts and all at Calderdale Library Services.
Massive thanks to all the teachers and students who have welcomed me into their schools. I have loved travelling round the UK and hearing your ideas this year. Thank you, Susan Williams, for the teacher resources on my website. Thank you, Authors Aloud. And thank you to the Federation of Children’s Book Groups and the extraordinary Ros Bartlett.
Thank you to all the book reviewers and book bloggers who have taken the time to respond so thoughtfully to the world of Arcosi, including Gordon Askew, Fiona Noble, Pam Norfolk, Anna McKerrow at BookTrust, My Book Corner, Book Monsters, Scott Evans, Mr Ripley’s Enchanted Books, Serendipity Reviews – I really appreciate your fantastic reviews and support.
To everyone who has written to me with their artwork or reviews: thank you so
much! I am very grateful to you. Receiving your letters is a joy and I’ve started a new part of my website to share readers’ artwork, see lizflanagan.co.uk. I hope you enjoy this story too!
THE DRAGONS WERE LOST AND FORGOTTEN, UNTIL NOW …
On the island of Arcosi, servant girl Milla witnesses a murder and discovers four strange eggs. Dragon eggs! And her world will never be the same again.
Fiery friendships, forgotten family and the struggle for power collide in this exciting fantasy adventure.
Also by Liz Flanagan:
Legends of the Sky
DRAGON DAUGHTER
EDEN SUMMER
COPYRIGHT
RISE OF THE SHADOW DRAGONS
First published in 2020
by David Fickling Books, 31 Beaumont Street, Oxford, OX1 2NP
This ebook edition first published in 2020
All rights reserved
Text © Liz Flanagan, 2020
Cover Illustration © Angelo Rinaldi, 2020
Map Illustration © Paul Duffield, 2020
The right of Liz Flanagan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 978–1–78845–145–1
