Dragon Speaker

by Mugdan Elana A.

  Keriya decided it was easier not to question anything that had just happened. It was true that she needed a bath, so she stripped down and turned on the tap.

  She wasn’t sure if it was magic or science that made water run through the metal pipes in the palace, that heated and cooled the liquid with the twist of a knob one way or the other, but she suspected it was a bit of both. Either way, it was a vast improvement over Aeria, where she’d had to bathe with stale, freezing rainwater collected in buckets.

  When she finished with her luxuriously warm bath, she wrapped herself in a towel and went to her bedchamber. Roxanne had changed into a red gown that fit her like a glove. She swept over and pushed something into Keriya’s arms. “I got a few secondhand dresses from the servants. You can wear this one.”

  Keriya gazed at the garment. It was purple. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because if you get arrested for treason, I’m probably going down with you,” said Roxanne.

  When Keriya fixed her with an expectant glare, she sighed. “I’ve been thinking about what happened, and based on what little I know of Necrovar, I’d say you made a terrible decision.”

  Keriya bristled. Was this supposed to make her feel better?

  “But I was wrong to say you did it for selfish reasons. You were trying to protect Thorion. I can’t imagine what it took to send him away.”

  Roxanne slowly extended her hand in the Allentrian custom that signified understanding or kinship. “I don’t have to like a person to respect them. What you did for Thorion . . . I respect that. You put his welfare before your own—before everyone’s, really—but . . . we should all be so lucky to have someone like you.” A haunted look darkened her face, clouding her beauty.

  “Besides,” she added, clearing her throat, “I’m a Hunter, sworn to protect those who need me. You’re a mess, and you’ll need all the help you can get if you plan on facing Necrovar.”

  Keriya eyed the proffered hand warily. Then she reached out and grasped it.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I think.”

  Roxanne’s full lips quirked. “You’ve wasted enough time. Put on your dress.”

  Keriya ducked into the bathroom and obliged. When she reappeared, she was frowning again. The dress was too big, and its swooping neckline and filmy sleeves were far too exposing for her.

  “Not bad,” said Roxanne, circling Keriya.

  “I hate it.” Keriya lifted her arms. “You can see my scars.”

  “So?” Roxanne held out her own arms. Beneath her loose sleeves, dark, puckered patches of skin were visible.

  “My father,” she said in explanation, when Keriya’s eyes widened.

  A slow, creeping sickness spread through Keriya as she examined the old wounds. “He did all of that to you?”

  “He was an angry man.”

  “I’m sorry,” Keriya said softly. “I never knew.”

  Roxanne shrugged. “That’s the past. Let’s focus on tonight. Speaking of which, we have to do something with that hair.”

  Keriya never undid her hair from its ponytails. It was impossible to manage, frizzy and unruly even at the best of times. “No! It’s staying like this.”

  But an hour later, when she descended the stairs that led to the ballroom, her hair hung loose down her back. Roxanne had styled it with dark magical items called ‘curlers,’ and now it spiraled around Keriya’s face like wisps of mist.

  A herald waited at the ballroom entrance to announce guests, as Effrax had promised. He drew aside the gauzy curtain that separated the stairwell from the vast chamber.

  “Name?”

  “Keriya Soulstar.” Her stomach was a knot of anxiety. She prayed their plan would work. It seemed too simple and yet too complicated all at once.

  “Lady Keriya Soulstar, the Dragon Speaker,” he cried.

  Keriya willed her feet to move, but they weren’t going anywhere. Roxanne gave her an encouraging push, and she stumbled through the curtain onto the landing of a second, grander staircase.

  A murmur swept through the room as she emerged. A constellation of bright, glowing orbs set in crystal chandeliers illuminated a sea of upturned faces. Everyone was looking at her, waiting. There was no evidence of a fake, fiery dragon anywhere. Her hands twisted in her flowing skirt. Had something gone wrong? Had Effrax betrayed her?

  Across the room, brightness spilled through one of the high, open archways that led to the marble balcony. With a surge of relief, Keriya recognized her cue.

  “And introducing the savior of Allentria, master of lightmagic, Thorion Sveltorious,” she cried as a blazing dragon glided into the room, trailing sparks from its wings. The crowd drew a collective gasp. People cheered and applauded as the dragon gracefully glided toward the gold-inlaid ceiling.

  Then it flickered. Cold horror seized Keriya as Effrax’s apparition sputtered, faded, and vanished altogether. The Fironian had overestimated his abilities. He hadn’t been able to sustain the spell.

  The silence was as vast and deep as an ocean. She braced for cries of fury and words of condemnation, and went limp with shock when they let loose another cheer, greater and more enthusiastic than the first.

  Cries of “Long live the dragon!” and “Praise be to Zumarra!” rang out. They thought it was part of the show.

  Keriya let out a slow, shaky breath. She hurried down the steps and slunk to the side of the ballroom to escape the spotlight. Behind her, the herald announced Roxanne in between bouts of cheering. She flashed her winsome smile and waved to the crowd, unfazed by their brush with disaster.

  Keriya, however, was already done for the night. She lurked in a corner near the long buffet tables, hoping people would rather pay attention to the lavish feast and the artistic ice sculptures than her. No such luck. After that spectacle, everybody wanted to talk.

  “Will the dragon return to the party, or is he resting before his journey to Noryk?”

  “How does his magic work?”

  “Is it true that he single-handedly killed twenty demons in the Village on the night of the attack?”

  Just when Keriya feared she would have to start answering impossible questions, Roxanne swooped in and took her by the elbow.

  “Prince Maxton has requested an audience with the Dragon Speaker,” she told the Galantrians in a queenly voice. “Please excuse us.”

  “Thanks,” Keriya whispered, linking arms with Roxanne as they squeezed out of the knot of prying nobles.

  “Don’t thank me yet. Max does want to talk to you.”

  Keriya groaned. She hadn’t seen Max since Thorion had left. Would he, too, ask questions she couldn’t answer?

  Roxanne steered her toward their group. Fletcher and Effrax were there, but Keriya only had eyes for the Erastatian prince. He was wearing a white tunic garnished with a silver dress cape. His diamond amulet had been polished to a shine.

  “You look lovely, Keriya,” he said.

  A tingly sensation spread through her body, which for some reason made her forget how to talk. She looked around for assistance. Her gaze fell first on Fletcher, who was swimming in an overlarge set of borrowed robes. He ignored her, so she turned to Roxanne—but she just wiggled her eyebrows up and down suggestively.

  “And Lord Thorion seems well,” said Effrax. He looked rather the worse for wear, and it appeared he’d had a nosebleed. “Will he join us or spend the night in the freedom of the gardens?”

  “I’m sure he’ll stay outside,” said Keriya, playing along.

  A lofty melody floated toward them as a group of musicians struck up a tune on the far side of the room.

  “What do you think?” said Roxanne. “Want to try your hand at an Allentrian dance?”

  “No,” Keriya said emphatically, watching as couples paired off on the open ballroom floor.

  “Does that mean you’ve never d
anced before?” Max asked.

  Keriya’s heart fluttered distractingly against her ribs like a caged bird. “Um . . . well, I wasn’t allowed to, growing up.”

  “Would you like me to teach you?”

  Keriya opened her mouth to reply, but only a squeak came out. She couldn’t decide whether this was the best thing that had ever happened to her, or the worst.

  Max didn’t wait for an answer; he simply led her into the crowd. He held her right hand and placed her left on his shoulder. His other hand fell to her waist, and just like that, her cheeks were on fire.

  “Follow my lead. This dance is easy,” he assured her.

  Keriya tried her best to keep up, but the so-called easy dance involved a lot of complicated foot movements.

  “It’s alright,” he said whenever she trod on his toes. “You’re doing fine.”

  She stumbled on the hem of her dress and knocked into him. “Sorry!”

  “Try looking at me instead of your feet.”

  “How will I know where to step?”

  “I’ll guide you. Relax.”

  Keriya raised her eyes and looked at Max. Something odd happened when she met his gaze—it was as if someone was weaving a spell on her. Her surroundings faded until all she could see was him.

  “Roxanne mentioned you wanted to talk to me,” she blurted, the words tumbling from her lips in a jumbled rush.

  “Yes. King Wavewalker brought news from my father when he returned from Noryk. I’ve been ordered to return to the Erastate.”

  Her stomach plummeted and she missed a step. “Why?”

  “Because the states are preparing for war, and I have duties elsewhere that I need to see to.”

  “Please don’t leave me with the Imperials. Let me go with you!” She said it before she could think about how pathetic—and suspicious—it might sound.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Really?” A disbelieving smile widened across her lips until she remembered Effrax’s warning about disobeying the Council of Nine. “On second thought, I don’t know if I could. I think I’d still have to go to Noryk, now they’ve signed that wartime writ.”

  “Of course you could,” said Max. “I’ll talk to Wavewalker and let him know what we’re planning. That way he can handle the fallout with the Imperials when they find we’ve left without them.”

  “Oh,” said Keriya. Max made it all sound so simple. “Will he listen to you?”

  “I have more power in this state than you might guess,” he said in a dry voice. “I’ll arrange everything. We’ll have to leave the palace early—and quietly. We should meet at—”

  “Actually, can we talk about logistics later?” Keriya interrupted. “I know we don’t have much time, but . . . this is supposed to be a party. And I’ve never been invited to a party before.”

  “I won’t mention it again,” he promised. “Instead I’ll compliment your gown and praise the food, and ask you about people I dislike in the hopes of gathering useful information about them, as any self-respecting Allentrian lord would do.”

  She stifled an unladylike snort. “Is that what you really talk about?”

  “Talking about the people one dislikes is a universal pastime.”

  Sometime during their conversation, the song had ended. As soon as Keriya realized that, she dropped her hands and withdrew from Max. The odd feeling vanished and was replaced by a painful hollowness.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Something inside her wanted to tell him how she felt. How did she feel? She wasn’t certain, because she had never felt this way before.

  “I’m fine. I just need some air.”

  She hurried toward the nearest archway. If she could get away from the noise and the over-bright glow of the chandeliers, she could hear herself think and try to make sense of her tangled emotions.

  Keriya left the ordered chaos of the ballroom and emerged onto the balcony. The sweet scent of wisteria and starblossoms wafted up to her.

  She leaned her elbows on the balustrade and rested her head in her hands. She’d come so close to telling him . . . what? She barely knew Max. What would be the point of telling him anything? He was a prince and she was a peasant, a runaway, a homeless, nameless child on a fool’s errand.

  The sound of footsteps told her that Max had followed. She supposed she should be flattered by his attention, but she was too drained to care.

  “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Keriya,” he said, coming to stand by her side. “I’ll collect you an hour before dawn. We’ll leave before anyone can stop us.”

  And what will happen when you discover Thorion is gone? she wondered.

  Her unease must have shown on her face, because Max took one of her hands in a comforting manner. “You don’t need to be strong all the time. You’re only human.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was all she could think to say.

  “Don’t ever apologize for what you are,” he said with a small smile.

  Do something, she told herself. Say something! Now’s the time to tell him—

  “Until tomorrow,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it softly. Then he vanished into the ballroom, and Keriya’s chance to say whatever she had wanted to say had vanished.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Knowledge is power, but ignorance is bliss.”

  ~ Ghoori Proverb

  Seba’s evening was terrible.

  She learned that Max had been ordered to return to the Erastate. That alone might not have been so upsetting, but he had known of this for days and hadn’t bothered to tell her. On top of that, Keriya Soulstar had the nerve to dance with him.

  Seba was growing to loathe that girl. She was in no way special—apart from the obvious. Her skin was too pale, her face too round. Her hair was wild and scruffy, and her manner of speech was common and crass.

  And why was it that Princess Sebaris Wavewould, Eldest of House Ishira, Heir to the Coral Throne, was caged in an ice bubble with permanent bodyguards, destined to be never more than a figurehead, while that peasant was free to go on grand adventures?

  Seba wanted to stab things with her knives.

  She spent the rest of the party watching the other two tagalong peasants take advantage of their undeserved status. The scrawny boy had eaten his body weight in food and the tall girl had thrown herself at every good-looking nobleman she met. They weren’t rheenarae, so why was the king wasting his hospitality on them?

  Seba leaned against the cushioned headrest of her throne at the head of the ballroom, feeling faint. She should have recognized the warning signs, but she was so tired that she couldn’t distinguish the foresight sleep from a normal wave of drowsiness. There was no time to prepare, as was usually the case. She closed her eyes for a moment . . .

  And then she was in the dream.

  The woman and the man followed a path together. Both carried weapons; the woman bore a sword and the man clutched a longbow. A dragon soared through the mist to join them.

  As soon as it landed, the dragon collapsed on the ground. It writhed in torment, helpless against whatever invisible power gripped it. The woman tried to help, but the man held her back from the flailing mass of talons.

  They exchanged heated words. The woman sank to her knees. Tears drew clean tracks down her dirty cheeks. The man knelt before her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He spoke to her, lifted her chin, and gently kissed her.

  He whispered in her ear.

  The woman stood, and there was darkness in her eyes. She lifted the sword over her head and—

  “Sebaris!”

  Seba became vaguely aware that someone was shaking her, attempting to jolt her out of her dream. She struggled to open her eyes, to escape the horrible images burning in her mind, but the foresight still had
a hold of her.

  “Bring water!” thundered a familiar voice. Her father.

  Someone was still trying to shake her awake. They ought to know better. She would regain consciousness once the foresight relinquished her.

  When she woke, the present appeared blurry through eyes that had grown accustomed to seeing the future. It was like blowing out all the candles in a room and waiting for one’s vision to adjust to the dark. She was back in the mundanity of the here-and-now.

  “I’m alright,” she told her father, who was looming over her. Behind him, her mother let out a cry of relief.

  A crystal pitcher of water appeared for her. Seba coughed as she drank. She was trembling and her breathing was labored—no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to get a proper lungful of air. She’d never been so affected by a foresight before.

  “What happened?” her father asked. “Did you have a vision?” The surrounding servants drew near, awaiting her response.

  Usually Seba had no problem sharing her foresights, partly because they were often full of symbols that someone else had to interpret, and partly because she liked the attention. But the future had never been so clear, so scary, so directly connected to her.

  “Can’t . . . say here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—”

  “Sire, please.” She addressed him as king. “This, I must tell you alone.”

  His mouth thinned to a thin, grim gash. He nodded and announced, “We will retire to my study.”

  A stretcher was brought in short order. She eased onto it, willing her head to stop spinning.

  The king swept from the ballroom, accompanied by the servants who bore Seba. They walked in silence until they came to the door of his private office.

  “I can do it,” she croaked, dismissing the helping hands and rising from the stretcher on her own.

  “Leave us,” her father commanded, and the horde of attendants evaporated. With them gone, Seba had to defer to the king’s higher authority. She opened the door for him, following as he entered and closing it firmly behind her.

  “What happened?” Her father began to pace in agitation.