Legends of the Sky

by Liz Flanagan

  Milla watched how easy it was for Nestan to gain entrance: a hearty Norlander greeting, a bawdy joke, a handshake to slip coin from one palm to another. She hoped it would be as easy for them all to leave.

  They walked in. It was a long single-story building, crudely adapted to its new purpose. In the small entrance lobby, three guards sat at a trestle table, playing cards. They wore black, like the palace guards, but their uniforms were tatty and stained. Even in the dim light of their storm lantern, Milla saw clearly what kind of place this was, with its damp walls and a sour stench of unwashed bodies rolling toward them.

  She was filled with a raging fury against the duke. He had created this prison. It felt like a symbol of his whole rotten system. It didn’t just protect Norlanders! It punished everyone else for not having the right ancestry. Rosa should not be in prison. It was only the unfairness of the duke’s rules that led her to protest in the first place. And if the rules were wrong, wasn’t it right to object?

  Milla kept her temper with difficulty, but she hung back with Josi while Nestan strode up to the table.

  He leaned casually on his walking cane. “Evening, gentlemen.”

  Milla peered from under her hood. Behind the guards, there was a gate with iron bars. The prison itself must be through there. She stared into the darkness beyond: keys glinted dully, hanging on a wall of hooks.

  “What’s this, then? Come to join our game?” the head guardsman said, glancing at Nestan over his hand of cards. His thick blond plait stuck out below his cap, and his face looked yellowish and greasy in the guttering light.

  “We are here to secure the release of Rosa Demarco and her fellow guild members of the marketplace,” Nestan said.

  “Guild members! Hear that? Bit rich, for these Sartolan scum.” The man looked down at his cards.

  Milla felt her fury rising, but she remembered her promise to Nestan and managed to stay silent.

  Nestan hit the table with the tip of his walking cane, making the guards jump. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Just do your job, or the duke will hear of it before the night is through.”

  The man stood, tugging at his belt, puffing his chest out. “It’ll cost you,” he said resentfully. He’d have drawn a blade on anyone else by now: Nestan’s wealth and confidence protected him better than armor.

  “Show me the calculations in full.” Nestan met his gaze. “I’ll have them checked, and if you’ve cheated me, the duke will hear of that, too.”

  The man sucked in his cheeks and reached down a large record book, muttering a word that might have been cripple. Taking his time, he slowly leafed to the correct page, making them wait. He painstakingly ran his finger along each line, jotting down prisoners’ names and figures.

  Nestan tapped his cane on the table loudly as he waited, choosing to ignore the insult.

  Finally, the man named a sum so high that Milla gasped, “You can’t pay that.”

  Josi put her hand on Milla’s arm, telling her to keep quiet.

  Nestan pulled out a leather purse and started counting coins.

  Just then, Milla smelled something new—a familiar, acrid smell—not just the unwashed guards. She sniffed. “What’s that?”

  Nestan raised his head, on alert. “Smoke.”

  “Fire!” Another guard appeared behind the iron gate, fumbling with the lock. “Fire!” he yelled. “Get out of here. That idiot Jensen knocked his lantern over—didn’t even bloody notice till it spread. Fire!” He swung the gate open and ran through. Coughing hard, with his sleeve held over his mouth, he pushed past Nestan, immediately followed by two more uniformed guards who looked no older than Milla.

  The guard with the record book moved faster than Milla thought possible. “Get out!” Dropping cards, knocking over their stools, all three remaining guards dashed for the doorway, jostling Milla and Josi out of their way.

  “Wait!” Nestan bellowed. “What about the prisoners?”

  The last guard half turned as he reached the outer door. “I’m not risking my life for them.”

  Then the door slammed hard, and they were gone.

  Quick!” Milla reacted first, throwing back her cloak. “Get the keys.” The inner gate swung open, and she saw a whole row of them hanging there.

  Nestan pushed through the gate. “Let’s take them all. Come on, hurry!”

  Milla grabbed at sets of keys, her fingers stupid and clumsy, ripping her skin on the raw metal hooks. She glimpsed a corridor stretching away, with cells opening off each side. It was darker in here, lit only by Nestan’s lantern. A long bare room, divided by iron rails, men on one side, women on the other. No privacy. No better than a stable.

  Smoke began creeping toward her. Prisoners were screaming. Bellowing for help, in pure terror.

  Milla found a door, tried a key in the lock. It didn’t fit. She was fumbling for the next, when a woman’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

  “Help us! Hurry!” she shrieked.

  Milla dropped the keys. “I’m trying. Let go!” She pulled herself free and lost precious moments scrabbling for the keys. Which one had she already tried?

  Josi was on her knees, picking a lock with the skewers she’d hidden in her waistband.

  Tears were streaming down Milla’s face as the smoke grew thicker. It was like hitting a wall, impossible to breathe through. She didn’t dare look at the far end of the building, but she could hear the crackle of flames, and the heat was building.

  The second key didn’t fit. Nor the third.

  Keep calm. Keep trying. Every instinct in her body told her to run.

  The next key was stiff. It didn’t move. She pressed with all her strength—click—the lock fell open.

  Milla dropped that key in the straw and jumped back, as the desperate women flung the door open, almost crushing her fingers.

  Other cells were open already, prisoners stampeding past her, and Josi was there, working on the next.

  “Rosa! Rosa Demarco! Where are you?” Milla coughed out, moving to the next door, bent double.

  No answer came.

  Josi tugged at her arm. “Cover your face,” she mumbled, showing Milla. “Like this.”

  Milla copied her, ripping fabric from her cloak lining, tying it across her nose and mouth. She kept working on the next lock, testing key after key, then swapping with Josi.

  She heard awful howls of fear from the farthest, darkest end of the prison. Nestan was down there. She made out his outline against the livid brightness of the flames suddenly roaring up the wall.

  Milla’s vision started breaking up. There were only moments left before it was too late for them all.

  “Milla!” It was Rosa’s voice, shrill and scared, but alive. Here, in this cell.

  Women’s hands reached out, grabbing at Milla, yelling for help.

  “Get back,” Milla begged, fumbling with the keys, only two left to try. “I can’t see.”

  There was a loud crash, as a burning beam fell from the roof. A figure staggered past, carrying the weight of another. She prayed one of them was Nestan.

  The screams got louder.

  Milla could feel the heat now, almost unbearable on the exposed skin around her eyes. She would not give up.

  She closed her eyes, gasping against the fabric. Working by touch alone, the world shrunk to this breath. This key. This lock. She fitted the last one. Turned it. Then she collapsed on the floor, dimly aware of feet rushing past. She tried to crawl away, but she’d lost all sense of direction.

  “Milla! Come on,” Rosa’s voice spoke in her ear. “Move!”

  She managed to lift her head. For Iggie’s sake, she had to live. Coughing, gasping, crawling, she followed Rosa out of the burning building, hoping the others had made the same decision. It was too late to check. It was too late for anything.

  Milla’s world went dark.

  “Come on, stay with me.” That was Josi, pleading hoarsely. “Milla?”

  Milla opened her eyes. The night sky was full of
tiny orange sparks, like fireflies. Someone was smoothing her face with a damp cloth.

  “You’re alive!”

  Milla rolled onto her side, coughing, harder and harder, till she vomited. She lay there gasping and gulping down the cool sweet air that wasn’t full of smoke.

  “Easy, kitten, take it slow.” Josi was there again, helping her sit.

  Milla saw a scene of devastation. Josi must have pulled her away from the burning warehouse-prison. It was ablaze, sending plumes of smoke and fire shooting high into the night sky. She could see them reflected in the inky square of the harbor. There were bodies scattered across the dockside. Some were moving. A few were not.

  “We can’t stay here,” Josi was saying. “We need to move before the soldiers get here and lock everyone up again. The records were destroyed in the fire. They’ll arrest first, ask questions later.”

  Milla tried to speak, but her throat was swollen and it hurt so much she almost passed out again.

  “Someone’s coming.” That was Nestan’s voice.

  He was alive. Her tears leaked, blurring the sky into smears of orange and black.

  “It’s all right,” Josi told him, “it’s not the soldiers, look …”

  Milla knuckled the tears from her eyes, to see people spilling out onto the dockside, pulling carts, carrying mats, an old door. Ordinary people, men, women, children, working together, silhouetted against the fire. Wait! Serina was there, too. They worked fast, loading up the survivors and carrying them away to safety.

  “Rosa?” Milla whispered hoarsely.

  “Alive,” Josi croaked. “With Thom and Simeon. Come, we must go before the soldiers get here.”

  Josi leaned down and took one of Milla’s arms, Nestan on her other side. He’d lost his cane, but they all supported one another, and somehow managed to limp away from the dockside. In hoarse gasps, Milla directed them to the smugglers’ steps. Every step took more stamina and strength than Milla thought she had. It felt like hours later when they finally fell through the gates of the Yellow House.

  Milla went straight to the kitchen well and collapsed. Fumbling blindly for the pail, she dipped it deep in the stone basin and then poured sweet, cold water over her head.

  “Here, let me,” Josi said, smoothing back Milla’s hair, smudging the smoke stains from her skin. When she’d finished, Josi sank back, exhausted, and huddled there, knees to chest, shivering hard. For the first time in her life, Milla saw that this strong woman was not invincible.

  “You next.” Milla coughed, though she was shaking with cold now, too. And she poured clean water over Josi’s head in return.

  Still coughing, still hoarse, they staggered, dripping, back to the warm kitchen and changed out of their smoky clothes.

  Milla wanted nothing more than to lie down by the fire and sleep, but the thought of Iggie, alone, spurred her on.

  “Here. Eat this,” Josi said, handing her a bowl of cold soup. “Then let’s get you back to the palace before they spot you’re gone.”

  They wearily set out again, exchanging a silent hug of farewell just outside the shadow gate.

  To avoid the sentry, Milla used the hidden door at the back of the dragonhall: the one that Kara had escaped through, all those months ago.

  She slipped noiselessly inside. The others were all asleep: she could hear their deep calm breathing. She fell into her bunk. Iggie crawled in next to her, taking up most of the space now, and kindled gently to warm her up while she cried. As she hugged Iggie, the pain in her throat eased, as if he were taking it away.

  Milla wept for Rosa, and the horror she’d endured. She wept with relief that all her friends had made it home. She wept for the people who hadn’t. And she wept for her divided city, rotten at its core, where such things were even possible.

  Winter had arrived in Arcosi. Sleety rain fell and the wind howled around the dragonhall. The duke’s curfew covered the whole island, including them. Everyone was stuck indoors, grumpy and restless. Even the dragons’ play fighting took on real aggression.

  “I’m bored,” Vigo said.

  Milla rolled her eyes. “You’ve got everything anyone could possibly want.” She thought of her friends in the city. Since the fire, she had barely left the palace, though Nestan visited them and whispered the news to Milla.

  Arcosi was tense and dangerous, ready to explode. Six people had died that night. Their funerals triggered riots: first, Norlander homes and businesses were looted; then Sartolan ones were burned in revenge. Some islanders of Sartolan descent chose to leave Arcosi. Rosa and her family refused to go. Banned from the marketplace, now they sold their goods door to door in the lower town, in all weathers.

  Milla’s tone turned bitter. “You have more food than you could eat. A warm dry home. A dragon.” She didn’t know why she was taking it out on Vigo—all these things applied to her, too. Maybe that was it: she felt guilty and it made her irritable.

  “Is the little duke bored?” Isak readily joined in, teasing Vigo with an undercurrent of something darker. “Servants? Bring entertainment, this minute!”

  There was a growing tension between Isak and Vigo. Was it because Tarya preferred Vigo to Isak these days? Or because the duke treated Isak more like his son than Vigo? Probably both, Milla realized.

  Vigo’s face fell. “I’m not that bad.”

  Nobody answered him.

  Milla leaned on the wall of the dragonhall. Being confined in here made her gloomy and snappish. She kept thinking about Kara’s story of Silvano’s murder. Where had it happened? She looked around the warm, airy hall: for a heartbeat she saw hot, dark blood pooling on the floor. She shivered, hugging herself tightly, tugging her jacket closed.

  She couldn’t even enjoy these fine clothes anymore. How much money could she raise if she sold each one? This jacket? It could pay for Rosa’s stock for a month. This silk tunic? It could cover Thom and Simeon’s harbor tax. How can I keep living here? she asked herself every morning. If she and Iggie didn’t leave, they were part of the system that kept her friends suffering. Just a little longer, she told herself every day. As Vigo said, they just needed to wait and be patient. Just till spring, till Iggie was bigger and stronger. Then things would change, she would make sure of that.

  What if spring was too late? The words of the poem circled in her mind:

  The dragons will return one last time

  When the trade winds blow from the east.

  Walls must fall, peace must reign.

  Or the nest be forever lost.

  It was just a poem, she told herself. Iggie was fine, wasn’t he?

  Right now, the dragons were all preening on the dragonperch, while their people lounged nearby. The perch had been rebuilt twice to keep up with their astonishing rate of growth.

  All of them had been snacking in a lazy manner: the people had sugar cookies; the dragons had crunchy lamb bones. Iggie’s flanks were lightly covered in claw marks. Their fights had turned more serious. These days, if the dragons were fighting, you stood well back.

  As if he heard her worries, Iggie looked over, blinking slowly.

  She smiled at him and he went back to preening his wings.

  “Am I that bad?” Vigo asked at last.

  “Nah, you’re not usually that bad. Not anymore. You could almost pass for a person, not a prince,” Tarya told him, leaning up to drop a kiss on his cheek. “And you’re right, we need distraction before we all fall out. Who’s got a story?”

  “I heard something this morning,” Isak said. “Someone blew up a Norlander warehouse. The duke’s arrested a load of troublemakers.”

  Milla felt an icy finger up her spine. Did that include Rosa? She hadn’t told any of them she’d been present at the prison fire, for Rosa’s sake: no one spoke of the rescued, in case the duke’s soldiers decided to rearrest them. Her friends knew she’d been with Josi that night, that was all.

  Iggie glided from the perch and came to her, nosing at her side. She stroked his large blue
head, grateful for his understanding. He was huge now, the size of a pony. He curled up, leaning his snout on her, and its weight was comforting.

  “What troublemakers? What are you talking about?” Tarya sat up straight. “More riots?”

  Heral raised his head, growling softly.

  “Some Sartolan-born vandal, destroying Norlander property.” Isak sounded dismissive.

  “That’s terrible!” Tarya cried.

  “Did you hear any of their names, these vandals?” Milla asked. “Where were they taken?”

  Iggie whined, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “Is our house all right?” asked Tarya. “Why would they do that? Destroy property?”

  “Really, Tarya?” Something snapped inside Milla. “If you think for half a moment, even you could work it out.”

  The other three all stared back. Milla was never mean to Tarya.

  “Milla! Do you … Are you saying you know these people? That you understand?”

  “Are you saying you don’t understand? Oh, wait, you two are Norlanders, and you’re the duke’s son. Of course you don’t!” As soon as her words were out, Milla regretted them, seeing their faces slam closed. She braced against the wall and released Iggie, ready for a confrontation.

  “Come on, then, Milla,” Isak hit back, his sarcastic tone matching hers. “Enlighten us, with your superior knowledge of Arcosi life!” Belara had joined him now, and she was making a high, distressed noise in the back of her throat, her golden ears flat against her head.

  Iggie growled softly, warning Isak.

  Milla took a deep breath, resisting the urge to scream Rosa’s story in Isak’s face. Instead, she thought for a moment, then took the plate of sugar cookies that lay on the floor between them and counted them. “See this plate, here, this is Arcosi … And there’s twelve cookies, right?”

  They were watching her carefully, people and dragons.

  Milla tipped all the cookies off the plate, then added two back on. “Here’s the Norlanders, arriving on Arcosi, fifty years ago, finding a lovely empty island, and settling here. Right?”