Fireborne

by Rosaria Munda

  “That,” she mutters, “is an understatement.”

  Her and Duck’s eyes meet. For an unsettling moment, they exchange a flash of understanding. Then Crissa turns from the window to face me. The silhouette of her golden hair glows against the light.

  “How long have you known?”

  There is a certain relief in coming clean with her at last.

  “Almost as long as I’ve known him,” I tell her. “Stuff came up, at the orphanage . . .”

  “He . . . told you?”

  “No. It wasn’t like that. There were just—things.” I try to think of something other than the fight, or the fact that he used to ask for my help planning escapes to what I know, now, was New Pythos. “Like . . . he couldn’t really speak Callish when I met him.”

  Rock lets fall an expletive. Cor’s fingers reach up to clutch his hair.

  “It didn’t occur to you,” says Lotus, “to report him?”

  “I didn’t think about it like that, I was just a kid . . .”

  Rock says, “Let me get this straight. Lee is the son of Leon Stormscourge. That Leon Stormscourge. And you realized this. And it wasn’t a problem for you?”

  I shake my head. “It . . . couldn’t be, not at the time.” And then, knowing they need more, I take a breath and explain. “He took care of me. The other kids . . . He made sure they didn’t take my food.”

  It’s humiliating to admit this sort of thing to people I routinely beat in the air, and I can feel my shoulders draw together to confess it. I force them straight. If this keeps them on Lee’s side, I’ll say it.

  Crissa’s mouth is working like she wants to cry. Lotus clears his throat, uncomfortable. Rock scrutinizes me, his eyes narrowed. Cor’s fingers continue to seize at his hair, his head still bowed. And Duck supplies, quietly, from the ground where he sits hugging his knees: “So you didn’t think about it.”

  I nod. “I needed him.”

  Cor tears his hands from his hair and bursts out, “Dammit, Lee.”

  “And later?” Rock demands. “It didn’t occur to you, later, that him being a dragonrider wasn’t a good idea for Callipolis?”

  Cor has raised his head to look at me, too. As if he, like Rock, is demanding an answer. And I realize that after years of friendship, of trusting and following Lee, even Cor is on the verge of dismissing him now that he knows the truth about Lee’s parentage. The realization fills me with fury.

  “No,” I say, “it didn’t. Because there was never any reason to think it. And in the meantime, in case you’ve forgotten, he earned your trust, too. He was tutoring you after hours, Rock, so you wouldn’t get punished for lagging behind. And he was helping you keep the patrician riders in line, Cor, in case you don’t remember the stuff Goran was always turning a blind eye to. By the time Atreus made him squadron leader, he’d already started looking out for every single one of us.”

  I glare around at them. Even in the dim light of the single narrow window, I can see them struggling to find an objection.

  “Look,” says Cor finally. “You don’t have to tell me Lee’s a good person. But this . . . isn’t about that.”

  “It seems like it’s all it should be about,” I say.

  “It’s not, Annie,” Rock says quietly.

  I round on him.

  “Even good people don’t get over things like Palace Day,” he says. “That’s just how it is.”

  “Right,” Cor says, like Rock spoke for him.

  “If people . . . if people did that sort of thing to my family . . .” Rock breathes in slowly, stares up at the wood-beamed ceiling, and clenches his fists. “I wouldn’t forget it, ever.”

  Cor is nodding, grim-faced.

  I think of this morning, of Lee’s face when I showed him the picture of his family, the shutters closing behind his eyes. “He hasn’t forgotten,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean he’s plotting revenge, either.”

  I can tell from Cor’s and Rock’s expressions that they don’t think this is even possible.

  “Look, Annie,” says Rock, and now he just sounds apologetic. “If that’s not why he’s here . . . then why is he?”

  He means it as a rhetorical question.

  But even as I understand this, and know that as far as Rock is concerned, Lee is already finished—I realize there’s an answer. I don’t think it’s one Lee himself would make, and it isn’t one I could ever put into words until this moment. But now that it comes to me, I am unshakably certain it is true.

  “Atonement.”

  Cor and Rock look at each other, then back at me.

  “Lee knows what his father was. What he did. He’s known for as long as I have.”

  But Cor has only returned his head to his hands, and Rock’s face has softened with what might be pity.

  “Annie,” he says, “even if that were the case . . . how could it ever be proved?”

  * * *

  ***

  The stockade is in the lowest level of the military wing of the Inner Palace, lining the arena, where prisoners used to be kept awaiting execution by dragon. I’ve only been down here once before, when Duck and I were young and exploring. It seemed like a dark place, forsaken for good reason, and we never returned.

  “Lee?”

  “Here.”

  I hold the lantern against the bars and peer in. The cell is tiny, its unpaned window letting in the cold air from the arena. Lee is lying on a cot in the corner. He pushes himself up onto one arm and looks at me with a hand shielding his eyes.

  “What did Atreus say?” he asks.

  “Nothing conclusive. I think he’s still . . . deliberating.”

  He has, since I’ve left him, been stripped of his uniform and provided with a tunic and trousers. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in plain clothes since Albans, and my first thought is that they don’t suit him.

  “I’ve brought you some stuff.”

  “Oh . . . thanks.”

  He rises and approaches.

  “Ice,” I say, handing that over first. “And there’s a medical examiner coming to look at you in a bit.”

  “It’s really not that bad—”

  “I want him to be able to testify later.”

  “They won’t care,” Lee says.

  I hear it as an echo of Power’s goads, which have been resounding in my head during the few quiet moments I’ve had over the last hours. Were they punished? I tell him what I’ve been telling myself. “That’s not true. The Palace Day perpetrators were locked up, they were executed, I checked ages ago—”

  Lee’s face is startled at first and then, at once, guarded.

  He clarifies: “I meant they won’t care because of the concerns for national defense. They can’t afford to confine sparked riders, especially not one in the Fourth Order. Power’s too valuable.”

  Then Lee clears his throat and adds, softly:

  “He didn’t say anything I haven’t already had to think about for years, Annie. Don’t worry about that.”

  He turns from me, slightly, pulls his shirt up, and holds the bag of ice against his abdomen. I stare at the web of burn scars across his back that don’t entirely mask a different, older web of scars beneath. The ones he has never, not even in Albans, talked about.

  The day, its disaster, lies shattered around us. All at once the only thing I want is to rewind: to yesterday, to hours ago, before everything went wrong. Before I had to see Lee like this.

  “I . . . told some of the others. Figured I’d better, in case Power . . . anyway. Duck, Cor, Rock, Lotus. And Crissa. No one else.”

  Even with him turned, I’m able to see the knot of his throat move as he swallows.

  “And they . . . ?”

  “Some of them might need time.”

  Lee nods rigidly.

  “I’m acting fleet comma
nder,” I go on. And add: “For the interim.”

  The interim before—what?

  But Lee doesn’t comment on this phrasing. Just says, “Good.”

  “I’m . . . going to need to talk to you about that. At some point.”

  I hear my voice do the thing I’ve been praying it won’t do, then: jump an octave, go shrill. Lee hears it too and stills. And then he lowers the ice from his stomach and turns back to me.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Only from Lee would such a simple phrase be enough to calm me like a caress.

  “We can go over it now, if you want,” he says.

  I nod, mortified by my swollen throat, by the fact that in such a moment Lee would be comforting me. Mortified by how much I need it.

  “Do you have something to write with?”

  I nod again.

  We sit together on the stone floor of the stockade, separated by the bars, as Lee holds the ice to his stomach and talks while I take notes. He tells me about the duties he’s assumed as Firstrider—and then about more than that. Additional responsibilities he’s taken on over the years, while doing his rounds with the ministry and the military. He describes the contacts he likes to check in with, the quirks of each task, the extra measures he likes to take to ensure the jobs are done well.

  Lee’s voice is contained, calm, steady throughout, even as my own breathing grows ragged.

  When he’s finally told me everything he can think of, he hands me back the mostly melted bag of ice. He’s shivering, his leg damp from the ice bag’s dripping water. I pull the blanket I brought him out of my bag and pass it through the bars. He wraps it around himself, murmuring a thank-you. I hand him, one by one, the remaining contents: a pillow; matches; a lamp; today’s editions of the People’s Paper and the Gold Gazette; and his copy of the Aurelian Cycle, in the original Dragontongue.

  His eyes close as he takes this last from me, like he’s receiving a benediction, and for a moment his fingers and mine touch over the book. Then the contact is broken, and we both get to our feet.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can—”

  “You’ve done enough. You need to prioritize other things right now.”

  I don’t argue with that.

  “Is there anything else I can bring—?”

  Lee starts to shake his head and then stops.

  “I don’t know if he’d want to come. But . . . Cor?”

  “He’s not ready yet, Lee.”

  Lee’s swallows, his face rippling with the effort to remain calm.

  “And . . . Crissa?”

  As soon as he says her name, he catches himself, shrinking as if he fears my anger. But it’s not anger so much as sadness that settles over me, and not the kind he’s anticipating. Because there’s nothing so heartbreaking as the thought that, even in this way, he’s at my mercy.

  I look at him, standing alone in a cold, dark cell to await whatever fate he’s offered himself up for, and I imagine how it would change, to have Crissa here, her laughter, her smile, her gentle humor a light in the darkness, her beauty something to blot out the barren ugliness of this place. Who am I to begrudge him the ways he’s found to escape his darkness? I’ve been escaping mine with Duck for years.

  My heart swelled with love for him, I say:

  “I’ll make sure she gets visitation rights.”

  Lee, for the first time in our interview, looks close to losing control.

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  ***

  Crissa finds me outside the oration room where I’m about to hold my first meeting as fleet commander. I’m surprised when her greeting has nothing to do with Lee.

  “You ready?” she asks.

  I nod, my stomach leaping, and Crissa touches my arm. She stands so erect, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders, that I have to lift my head to meet her eyes.

  “When Atreus made me squadron leader,” she says, “the most important thing for me was confidence. Even if I didn’t feel it, I faked it. I faked it all the time. And eventually, I’d faked it so long, I convinced myself. That’s what you’re going to have to do, Annie.”

  It’s as if she knew exactly the doubts that have been wriggling in my stomach. Before I can even think how to thank her for sharing such a thing, she’s stepped over the threshold of the oration room and left me to find her seat.

  Power is waiting for me inside the doorway. He makes a flourishing salute.

  “Congratulations on your promotion, Commander.”

  I stop dead.

  “He let you off?”

  Power shrugs. “Atreus gave us a slap on the wrist and suggested we keep our mouths shut for the time being. I’ll do my best.” He grins at me in a way that puts me on edge at once. Then he nods inside. “Better hurry. Looks like Goran’s already staging a coup.”

  Goran has taken the rostrum, calling the room to order. At the sight of him, a weight like a stone thuds in my gut. I approach, watched by thirty of my classmates.

  “I’ll take it from here.”

  Goran looks at me.

  “That’s all right, Annie, there’s no need.”

  We stare each other down. I think of how he must see me, a sixteen-year-old peasant girl who doesn’t know her place.

  Even when you don’t feel confident, you fake it.

  I raise my chin, square my shoulders, and think of Aela.

  And to my amazement, Goran steps aside. The corner of his lip raises and he makes a little shrug, as if to say, Suit yourself, if you want to make such a fuss about it.

  I take his place at the rostrum. Then I turn to him.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, “you are dismissed.”

  Goran’s half smile flickers. But even he recognizes the reality of rank when it’s laid bare: He may be our drillmaster, but drillmasters do not outrank fleet commanders.

  Without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

  My classmates, watching us, have fallen silent.

  Into that silence, I tell them that Lee has been apprehended on allegations of misconduct and is relieved of his duties until an investigation can be completed. I tell them that they will, in the meantime, take orders from me. Deirdre becomes acting aurelian squadron leader in my place.

  I hold my shoulders back, speak from the diaphragm, and pace it slow. Like Crissa and I once practiced. And then, when I conclude with a call for questions, I intone it the way Lee does, down, like I’m not really asking at all.

  Power raises his hand.

  “I’ve got one,” he says. “If it looks like a Stormscourge, talks like a Stormscourge, and walks like a Stormscourge—is it a Cheapside slum orphan?”

  * * *

  ***

  The damage control after that takes hours. It’s only after Cor raises his voice at the Guardians interrogating me that I’m finally given a few moments’ peace; throughout the Cloister, groups are gathered in discussion. Cor and I lock ourselves in Lee’s office to confer.

  “I’m backing you hard, as is Crissa, but you’re going to have to be ready for gossip,” Cor says. “Power’s telling everyone that you’ve been covering for Lee all along. And—he’s saying more than that.”

  After being on the receiving end of Power’s birth-based slurs for the past seven years, I can readily imagine what more he’s saying than that.

  “I don’t care what he says about me.”

  “You’ve got to. You’re the fleet commander. And if you want them to hear your case for Lee, you’ll need their respect.”

  Over the next few days, I hear whispers around the Cloister—theories about why I’ve stood by Lee, ranging from those that question my allegiance to those that say I’m a lovesick schoolgirl, to those that insinuate serving dragonlords is in my blood. The one time I overhear this last suggested, it’s Criss
a’s voice that opposes it with fury.

  “If I ever hear that you utter that old-regime blood-determinative bullshit again, I will report you.”

  To my face, no one opposes me at all. In the meantime, I figure out how to do Lee’s job. Managing the details and the paperwork comes easily; for the rest, I use every trick I’ve learned from watching Lee and training with Crissa to project confidence. Aware of the murmured reservations of the corps—for me as a leader generally and now, specifically, as the supporter of a dragonborn—I’m conscious of the importance of showing them that I can do this job right. Not just for my sake, but also for Lee’s. Those who doubt me and those who trust me alike follow my orders without question, but I sense that the calm is temporary: It’s as though we all hang suspended as we wait for Atreus’s decision. And in the meantime, we hear nothing more.

  Lee reads about two books a day, brought to him by Crissa, and less frequently by Lotus and Duck. Cor and Rock haven’t yet visited him. And I haven’t gone back. Lee’s right: I have other priorities, and I need to stay focused. I can’t when I’m thinking about Lee.

  In the meantime, my time is consumed by organizing ration distributions, which are to take place on a rotating basis throughout the winter from depots at major population centers across the island. Schedules for distribution are based on class metals, with each class metal collecting their ration cards on different days. The Inner Palace hopes to minimize discontent by minimizing comparisons, though it’s acknowledged that people won’t remain blind to what’s happening forever. That’s where dragons will come in, General Holmes tells us, in his briefing to the corps. He doesn’t explain his meaning.

  On the first day ration cards are distributed in the city, they’re given to class-irons in the center of Cheapside. Cor and I accompany it. The location and class metal were chosen by the Ministry of Propaganda, to be heavily featured in the People’s Paper the next day. The ration cards’ equivalents in bread and potatoes will be meager, even by Cheapside standards, but no one in this crowd complains. For them, the miracle is that the food will be free. Discontent will come later. When they begin to realize just how little they’ve been given, when they come to see what others have.