Queen of the Blazing Throne

by Claire Legrand

  Inside her thick sheepskin gloves, Obritsa’s fists clenched. She would conserve what power she could. She began making her way down the mountain slowly, on foot, and though it ordinarily revolted her to pray to the elemental saints, the words arose as if of their own volition, ingrained into her by her years in the temple.

  “I fear no darkness,” she muttered through her teeth. “I fear no night. I ask the shadows to aid my fight.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, her breath coming high and thin, her body tight with tension, Obritsa pressed herself flat against the mountain some twenty paces from the building’s door.

  Down in the valley, it was harder to find shadows in which to hide. The torches were many, much brighter than they had appeared from above. But she had reached her destination, and now—­now she had no idea how to get inside.

  The door looked as tightly shut as a door could be. Narrow and tall, it was made of dark metal and had a wicked-­looking latch that clearly required a key. A key Obritsa did not have. And she couldn’t very well try to thread her way inside; someone would certainly see that.

  She clung to the safety of the mountain, struggling to calm her racing thoughts. Torches, standing high above the snow on thick black poles, cast pools of light on the door. Nearby, three tall men in furs counted stacked crates of supplies. Another tended to a team of horses, their coats dusted with snow. A dog with a long sharp nose and thick white-­and-­gray fur lay on a pile of rags near a blazing fire. Its bright blue eyes scanned the night.

  Obritsa tensed. If she didn’t do something soon, the dog would smell her, give her away. But what to do? She could try the door. She could find a nook in the rocks nearby and attempt a covert thread. She could give up, creep back up to her hiding spot, and hope no one saw her leave. These were her only choices.

  She licked her dry lips and took one sliding step away from the torchlight.

  Then, behind and above her, there came a soft rattling sound. A wet rattle, like that of a tongue and teeth.

  Obritsa’s heart jumped into her throat. She turned, squinting up the dark fall of snow-­dusted rocks. Then one of the rocks moved, skittering quickly away into the shadows.

  The sounds of the valley diminished; Obritsa heard only her pounding heartbeat, her roaring panic, the faintest tap of claws against stone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the white-­and-­gray dog stand, snout in the air.

  Beside her, something dropped softly into the snow.

  She turned, ready to spring away, but hands were upon her—­one over her mouth, the other tight around her wrist.

  “Follow me, quickly, up the mountain,” said a male voice, hot against her ear. “Don’t scream. I’m going to help you.”

  Obritsa forced her body to relax slightly. A person who might be sneaking around in the shadows of this place, offering to help a child, was a potential ally.

  “You won’t scream?” he asked.

  She shook her head against his glove, then snuck a glance at him when he released her. She couldn’t see much; his face was covered by a ragged cloth. She saw dark eyes, grave and kind and startlingly lovely.

  He waved her up the mountain, pointing at certain rocks underfoot. The message was clear: Step carefully.

  She nodded, following his slow, precise movements up and up, stepping where he stepped, pausing when he paused, crouching low when he waved her flat. At last, they squeezed through a narrow space between two tall, massive boulders, and Obritsa breathed more easily, for the valley’s torchlight fell away. It was dark and quiet. They walked snow-­lined paths between tall stones as solemn as praying novices. The stars and moon dimly lit the way. The cold smelled like the clean bite of fresh snow.

  When the dark-­eyed man stopped at last, it was in a small clearing littered with bones.

  Obritsa froze, fear flying fast down her arms.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said. “They’re only goat bones. A few snowcats too.” He lowered his scarf and hood. He was young and pale, perhaps seven or eight years older than Obritsa, and his face was gaunt with hunger. His dark eyes matched his brown hair, which fell tangled to his shoulders. He wore threadbare furs and had a thin, reedy frame. He smiled at Obritsa and then looked past her. His smile grew.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he said kindly. “Turn slowly, and really, don’t scream. We’re not far enough away that you can scream safely.”

  I am the Korozhka, Obritsa told herself, turning.

  But nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes. A beast crouched a few paces away in the snow. It tilted its head, considering her. Its tail flicked back and forth, like a cat trying to decide if it should pounce. Perhaps twenty feet long from the tip of its blunt snout to the end of its tail, the creature was slender and sharp-­edged, like it had been cut loose from the rocks. Around its neck, head, and shoulders was a wild mane of white fur, and this same fur patchily coated its black scaly body.

  It chirruped curiously and then stretched its gray, claw-­tipped wings to the sky.

  Obritsa knew at once that this was the shadow she had seen skittering nimbly through the rocks. She also knew that what she was seeing was impossible. All the godsbeasts were dead and had been for many centuries.

  And yet here, right before her eyes, was the very same sort of creature Saint Grimvald had ridden into battle against the angels so many years ago.

  Here, flapping its wings at her, was a dragon.

  * * *

  Obritsa sat down hard on a frigid flat stone, her legs no longer able to support her.

  “I know,” said the dark-­eyed man, walking past her. “It’s startling the first time you see one. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve grown up around them, you see.”

  He dug into his pocket, withdrew a strip of raw meat, and tossed it to the dragon. It snatched the meat out of the air and devoured it, then butted its head against the man’s leg with a soft, sharp trill.

  Obritsa quickly collected her thoughts. “Who are you? And how do you have a dragon? And what do you want with me?”

  “My name is Leevi,” the man answered. “I don’t have this dragon, or any dragon. Valdís has chosen me as her favorite, and for that I am thankful.” Leevi stroked the fur between the dragon’s black horns, unconcerned when the creature snaked its neck around to snap at his fingers. “And I don’t want anything with you other than to help you.”

  “How is it, exactly, that you know I need help?”

  “All the children in this place need help,” Leevi said darkly. “I only wish I could be more useful to them.” He looked at her, frowning. “I don’t sense any magic on you, though. Aren’t you an elemental?”

  Obritsa, thinking quickly, manufactured an expression of outrage. “I’m a firebrand. Though since I was brought here, I haven’t been able to use my power. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I spoke thoughtlessly. The trauma of abduction sometimes manifests that way. Please try not to worry. Your magic will resurface eventually. Though in this place, it would probably be best if it didn’t.”

  “What is this place? Where have I been taken?”

  Leevi squinted up at the stars. “We’ll talk on the way. We don’t have much time.”

  Obritsa remained seated. “I’m not going anywhere until you give me more information.”

  “We’re going to the laboratory yards about half a mile from here. There’s a tunnel there. It’s narrow and long, and by the time you reach the end of it, you’ll feel as though you’ve nearly lost your mind, but it’s easy to follow, and on the other side is freedom. It’ll deposit you fifteen miles away, near a tiny village. Go to the village’s Firmament. The magister there will send you west on a fishing boat. Once you arrive in Borsvall, you’ll be safe.”

  Leevi beckoned her toward the other side of the clearing.
“I’ll explain more as we go. Please, hurry. I have to make sure Valdís is back in her cage before the next shift. And the sooner you enter the tunnel, the safer you’ll be.”

  Obritsa swallowed her frustration and rose to follow him. The dragon scuttled ahead of them into a narrow snowy passage.

  “She’s still a dragonlet,” Leevi said fondly, gesturing after the creature. “In a few more months, she’ll look not quite so ridiculous skittering about. And she’ll be much larger too. Not fully grown, but near enough.” He paused. “That is, if she survives until then.”

  And suddenly, Obritsa realized the source of the inhuman screams she had heard. They had been the shrieks of dragons. They must have been. The sound matched the slender reptilian body before her eyes.

  “What is this place?” she asked again. “Stolen children and dragons that shouldn’t be alive… I’ve tried to understand what I’ve seen, but I can’t.”

  “They call it the Northern Reach,” Leevi replied, ducking beneath an overhang of stone. “Forgive me, but I’ve not learned your name. How shall I address you?”

  He didn’t seem to recognize her; perhaps up here in this Northern Reach, the newly minted coins bearing her visage had not yet arrived.

  “You may address me as Serafima,” Obritsa replied.

  “A lovely name. From where did they take you?”

  “Genzhar.”

  Leevi nodded. “Many of you have come from the capital. You seem much more in control of your mind than the others I’ve seen. Usually, by the time I’m able to take a child to the tunnel, the angels have already left their mind rather shredded. Some of the ones I’ve tried to help have been too far gone for me to save. They’ve turned violent, endangered the entire operation.” He paused, then added softly, “I’ve had to kill a few.”

  Obritsa concentrated on the sensation of her boots sinking into the snow. “So there are angels here? This is their compound?”

  “Yes. They live in the fortress. They work in the valley and throughout the mountains. They’re building ships and forging weapons, training recruits. And they are creating terrible creatures, profane beasts that should not exist. They are unnatural, not of the empirium—­or at least not of the empirium as I have known it. They are being crafted from rage and hate and violence. The angels are frighteningly intelligent. I don’t understand how they can create such abominations.”

  “They’re building an army,” Obritsa murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “For what purpose? Is it an invasion force? What are their numbers?”

  Leevi glanced at her. “Most children don’t ask such specific questions.”

  She could not resist. “I am not most children.”

  “That much is becoming clear to me.”

  Valdís had stopped a few paces ahead of them, chirping irritably. Leevi threw her another piece of meat from his pocket. Satisfied, she turned away to gobble it up, then pounced on a white rabbit hiding in the snow.

  “I’ve been in this place for over three years,” said Leevi, carefully picking his way down a slight slope. “During that time, I’ve gleaned much information by observing the angels at work, but I’m not sure I should tell you any of it. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

  Obritsa bit back a protest. She was supposed to be a meek abducted child, after all. “How many children have you saved during that time?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “And how many have been brought here?”

  “Hundreds.”

  She stopped to stare at him. “And you’ve saved only fifteen?”

  “My first year here, it was all I could do to survive,” Levi answered hollowly. “Over the next year, I began crawling out of that despair. At last, I found a stolen child, an earthshaker about my age, strong enough to dig an escape tunnel. He dug his way out and made me swear to save as many of the others as I could. So that’s what I’m doing. Fifteen is better than none, Serafima. And if you haven’t lived in this place, if you haven’t endured the misery I have, you cannot speak too harshly against me.”

  They had reached the bottom of the slope and were now walking across a field of rocks and muddy snow. Obritsa observed him as they went.

  “You loved him,” she said. “Your earthshaker friend.”

  “I did,” Leevi replied. “After he left, my mind fell back into that desolate place for a time. But I had to let him go.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “And leave the dragons?” Leevi looked at her in horror. “I could never.”

  Obritsa’s patience was fraying fast. “Take them with you, then. Can’t dragons fly? Ride them away from here! Send them flying off with the children on their backs!”

  “All the dragons strong enough to carry anyone past the mountain winds have been altered and cannot be trusted with children,” Leevi said. “Valdís could carry me. She’s strong enough for it, and I weigh little. But without the drugs the angels feed her, she’d die in less than a day. That’s how they keep the dragons docile and dependent. And once they’re grown, once they’ve been transformed, that’s it. They’re lost to us.”

  “Speak plainly,” Obritsa snapped, a rising queasiness shredding her nerves. “You say the dragons are being transformed? Transformed into what? What’s happening here, and what’s your role in it?”

  Leevi gestured for her to be quiet and sank into a crouch. He crept to a low wall of stone, his gaze sharp, and scanned for something Obritsa couldn’t see. Then he waved for her to join him.

  Cautiously, she obeyed, and when she peered beyond the rocks to what lay below, it snatched away her breath.

  It was a tidy, flat stone yard that sat snugly in the middle of a cluster of cliffs and shelves of rock. Cages lined the perimeter, with torches flickering beyond them. The cold air wafting up to greet Obritsa reeked of waste. Beyond the yard stood a row of tall, broad doors cut into the mountain. A still figure stood on a small rise of rock, a black whip in their hands. An angel, Obritsa assumed, though her mind still struggled to accept this as reality. Two other figures turned a chain around a wheel, smaller chains around their ankles binding their legs together. As the wheel turned, its chain pulled open one of the massive doors with a groan.

  Once the door thudded open, one of those same terrible screams sliced its claws through the air—­deep and resonant, ringing with a sound Obritsa knew instinctively was pain. Her bones sensed it at once; the animal parts of her surged to the fore, recognizing the pain of another beast somewhere close and urging her to run.

  A chorus of smaller, thinner screams arose from the massive cages below. Their metal bars rattled, writhing with shadows. Talons flashed, as did bright, yellow eyes, and now Obritsa could see in the unreliable torchlight that the cages were full of dragonlets like Valdís.

  And then, the most terrible thing of all in this vast realm of terrible things—­another smaller door opened in a far corner of the yard, and two angels emerged, wearing gloves and long furs, their faces bound against the cold. At least, Obritsa thought they were angels. They moved with a stillness, an assuredness, that she didn’t think anyone in the Northern Reach would possess unless they were the ones in power.

  Between them, the angels dragged a screaming, sobbing child. A pale, dark-­haired girl, perhaps sixteen years old, in ragged finery and mismatched boots. She was thin, no match for the angels pulling her across the yard, but she kicked and screamed nonetheless.

  Obritsa watched in horror. That was Lady Ivanna, the girl who had disappeared from the festival grounds.

  Beside Obritsa, Leevi swore.

  “They’re ahead of schedule,” he hissed. “I have to get Valdís back into her cage before they notice she’s gone.” He looked swiftly at Obritsa. “Stay here. Stay low and quiet. I’ll return once she’s safe.”

  He found Valdís, who crouched beside him. She peer
ed down at the scene with her long, dark head flat against the rock and her tufted ears swiveled back in distaste. Her whole body quivered, and the sight of such a beast trembling with fear left Obritsa cold with terror.

  Leevi placed a gentle hand on either side of the dragon’s head and turned her toward him. He placed his brow against hers, murmuring something in a Borsvallic dialect with which Obritsa was unfamiliar.

  Valdís calmed, chirping quietly. Her pale, slitted eyes focused on Leevi’s face. Together, they hurried quietly into the shadows—­Levi tall and thin and ragged, Valdís a serpentine shadow at his side.

  Obritsa watched them leave, realizing at last what she was seeing. And when Leevi returned nearly an hour later, his face drawn with grief, Obritsa said, “You’re one of the Kammerat, aren’t you?”

  He sat down heavily beside her, dropping his head into his hands.

  “Is she safe?” Obritsa asked after a moment.

  “Safe?” came Leevi’s hoarse reply. “Yes, I suppose. A piece of my heart dies every time I’m forced to return her to that cage. But yes, she’s safe for now.”

  “You are one of the Kammerat,” she repeated, sure of it now. “I thought your kind had long vanished, along with the godsbeasts.”

  “I wish we had vanished,” he said. “Sometimes, I think the dragons stayed in this world rather than returning to the empirium due only to their love for us.” He looked up, his eyes bright with tears. “I don’t know about the other godsbeasts, but the dragons never left. They were hiding high in the Villmark, away from prying eyes. We protected them, guarded them from whatever and whoever might want them, ensuring that they would only ever encounter humans when they wanted to.” Leevi smiled faintly, his gaze distant. “Dragons are social creatures, and not just with their own kind. They love humans—­the right ones, anyway. We are as pets to them. Together, the dragons and the Kammerat lived like this for millennia. Only now, we’ve failed them.”