For she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her mother was dying.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, that hideous spring day, the church bells rang in the steeple, their somber knell echoing against the palazzo's walls. The princess collapsed into a shapeless heap of wails and sobs and agony. The king stood, grim-faced. The people of Stalia Nova hung their heads for a moment of silence.
The queen was dead.
And Biancarosa had killed her.
* * *
The clouds over the mountains were heavy and gray. Biancarosa rested her face against the window, watching the wispy shrouds part and swirl around the monorail car as it sped between the summits.
“Come now, principessa,” a gentle voice behind her said. The queen's handmaid stood in the aisle, holding a silver tray and looking down at Biancarosa with a reassuring smile. “You must take your medicine. The king said you could only come along on this trip if you took your medicine.”
Biancarosa's pale lips drew into a thin line. “Maybe if I don't take it, he'll send me home,” she said.
“Oh, come now. His Majesty said you've wanted to visit the Alpi for years!”
Biancarosa did not reply. She simply stared out the window, bone-colored hands gripping the ruffles of her full, black skirt so tightly they ached.
“Principessa …”
“That's enough sulking, Rosalina,” the queen snapped from the other side of the car. “Take your medicine now, or—”
Biancarosa turned her dark eyes toward her stepmother, her eyebrow arched. “Or what? You'll give me some of your own? Well, in that case, I'd better do as you say.”
The queen made a sound of annoyance and turned away. Biancarosa took the crystal vial off the handmaid's tray and, sourly, drank.
The six months since Flora Regina's death had been gray and shapeless as the mountain clouds, though the sun shone bright above it all. The castle Biancarosa had grown up in no longer felt like home to her, not without her mother's presence. She wore her black mourning dress every day, long after the dark crepe had come down off the windows and the rest of the world seemed to move on.
The servants whispered about her in the halls. There had never been servants in the palazzo before, when Flora Regina was alive. It went against her Elvezian sensibilities. “I always took care of myself before I became queen,” she had said. “There's no reason I can't do it now.” But the new queen, Stalian through and through, had no such compunctions. Now Biancarosa couldn't take a step without nearly colliding with one servant or other. They buzzed through the palazzo like worker bees, ready to flit to their queen's whim at a moment's notice. Biancarosa could feel their eyes on her constantly, gazes laden with pity and condescension.
“She feels guilty for what she did,” they'd murmur as she passed.
“It was an accident, the poor child.”
“Was it? To kill her own mother, she must surely be mad …”
It seemed to Biancarosa that it was the rest of the world that had gone mad, but her father's physicians did not agree. They were insistent the voices in her head must have driven her to kill her mother.
Biancarosa had tried to tell them the truth. There had been no voices. Between choked sobs, she'd cried out, “Anneria told me. It was in the book on her tablet.” But when the inquisitors searched the device, there was no record of Dragonworks' existence. Even if she had deleted it, the inquisitors explained, there would still be some indication in the system's memory. But there was none.
Madness runs in the family on her mother's side, the physicians said. The queen had believed she could see dragons and magic. She'd refused psychological treatment. It had only been a matter of time before her delusions passed to her daughter; it was simply a tragic fluke that the voices had guided Biancarosa's hand to such violence.
So the little princess was force-fed medication and dragged to doctors' appointments to silence voices she'd never heard. But, though the tabloids and the palace gossips alike called her a psychopath, Biancarosa knew in the depths of her soul who Flora Regina's true murderer was.
Her new stepmother.
The door to the royal car slid open, and Albero Re strode in. He passed Biancarosa without sparing her a second glance. Anneria rose to greet her husband, clasping his hands in hers.
“We should be on the Elvezian border within the hour,” the king said, kissing his bride on the lips.
“Excellent,” said Anneria. She placed his hands on her belly. “We could do with some fresh air.” She craned her neck toward Biancarosa. “Rosalina, we'll be arriving soon. Change into something suitable.”
Biancarosa cringed at the diminutive. “Little Rose” had been her mother's nickname for her. When Flora Regina said it, it always felt like a promise borne of love—that she'd grow into something beautiful, something precious. Anneria's voice filled the name with poison, like the cursed thorn from La bella addormentata.
“This dress is suitable,” said Biancarosa.
The king looked at her for the first time. “Honestly, Rosalina, can't you wear anything other than black?”
“Madre is dead,” was her reply.
Albero Re closed his eyes and sucked air in through his nostrils. “Yes, I'm aware of that. She has been for quite some time now. You have a new mother now, Rosalina. Isn't that something to celebrate? You can't mourn for the rest of your life. Go on, now, change.”
By the time the train passed the gleaming metal sign marking the entrance to Elvezian territory, Biancarosa had changed into a new frock, this one as gray as the ominous clouds outside.
“It's not black,” she said, heedless of the king's scowl as she stormed past him onto the train platform.
* * *
Biancarosa craned her neck to gaze up at the soaring stone ceiling, covered with dripping stalactites. They'd spent the previous night at a chalet on the Elvezian border before moving on toward Drachenstadt, one of the biggest cities in Elvezia. But midmorning, the train had stopped suddenly while passing through one of the dozens of dark mountain tunnels. Biancarosa had thought the monorail had broken down; but upon disembarking from the train, she found they'd stopped alongside a crudely carved stone platform in the midst of an enormous cavern.
A tall man in mud-caked overalls approached them, bowing deeply before Albero Re, and kissing the rings on Anneria Regina's fingers.
“The operation has been a great success so far, Your Majesty,” the man said. “We've found a rich vein of crystals. More than enough for Stalia Nova's needs.”
The king arched a brow. “I suspect you underestimate the extent of Stalia Nova's needs, Foreman,” he said, “but I'd like to see the operation at work.”
The foreman led the king down a dark passage lit with old-fashioned electric lamps. Anneria followed imperiously, with Biancarosa trailing behind. Every so often, they passed a fork in the corridor—the cave was like a labyrinth of dark passages—but soon, the narrow walkway widened and they entered a larger cavern, striped with glistening colors.
Biancarosa ran her hand over the rough, grainy walls. “This is Elvezian crystal?” she breathed.
“In its roughest form, principessa,” said the foreman. “It will need to be processed in order to give it the smooth texture we are accustomed to. But, yes, it has the same properties as the crystal we use in Stalia Nova. It absorbs the sun's rays, and radiates heat and energy we can use for power.”
Biancarosa looked at her father. “And the Elvezians have given you permission to dig in their caves? We're still on their side of the border, aren't we?”
Albero Re chortled. “If the Elvezians don't like it, let them stop us. I'd like to see them try. They don't even have a standing army.”
“The dragons protect Elvezia,” Biancarosa said, not looking away from the crystalline wall.
Anneria laughed out loud. “If mythical beasts are their best defense, then we have nothing to fear.” She glanced at the princess' solemn expression. “Oh, come now, Rosalina. These cryst
als have the power to fuel the whole world. Why should Elvezia be the only ones to have access to them? Why should we have to go through them to supply our country's needs?”
“The Elvezians give us what we need.”
Albero scoffed. “What we need to survive, perhaps, but not to thrive. Stalia Nova is greater than Elvezia's small-minded ideals. If they refuse to supply us what we desire, then we must take it. That's the way of the world, Rosalina. The real world, not the fairytale kingdom of your mother's imagination.”
Biancarosa didn't look at him. In a small voice, she whisper-sang, “I draghi loro scelsero l'Elvezia, ed ora loro proteggono l'Elvezia.” It was an old hymn, one her mother had taught her as a child. She used to run through the garden, crowing it boisterously as a cheerful nursery rhyme. Now, in the cavern, it echoed eerily around them like a dirge.
Albero Re and Anneria Regina looked at Biancarosa oddly. Then, shaking his head, the king turned away from her.
Anneria scampered after him, hissing, “We shouldn't have let her come. She's growing more and more unstable every day, Albero. She's a liability.” She spoke quietly, but her words reverberated off the unhewn crystal.
Biancarosa closed her eyes and placed her forehead against the wall. She would not let the tears come now. Not in front of them. But they burned inside her just the same.
“Principessa, your medicine.” She looked up. The handmaid stood beside her, holding the silver tray.
“I don't want it,” Biancarosa said.
“Now, principessa …”
“I said, I don't want it!”
As Biancarosa shouted, several things happened at once: In the distance, a shrill, reptilian shriek rattled through the cavern. The cave floor began to shake violently, rolling up and down like an earthquake. Biancarosa and the handmaid struggled to keep their footing, and the vial of medicine slid off the tray, spilling all over Biancarosa's skirt.
An instant later, the rumbling of the earthquake was drowned out by Biancarosa's screams. The liquid burned through the fabric of the dress, dripping down her leg and searing the flesh beneath. She doubled over, howling in agony as the handmaid cried her name.
“Get away from me!” Biancarosa screeched, shoving the queen's servant off her. The earthquake had stopped, leaving behind an uneasy silence—and a sudden clarity in Biancarosa's mind, one coherent thought cutting through the pain of the burn like a knife. Anneria had done this. She wanted her dead, just like her mother.
“Rosalina?” she heard the king call from down the corridor. Without a moment's hesitation, she ran in the opposite direction, each step with her right leg shooting excruciating pain through her body. She couldn't stop. She had to get away, before Anneria tried again.
A fork in the corridor led her to a wide, open chamber. A short distance away, the floor dropped off into nothingness. A flimsy metal handrail was all that separated the walkway from the precipice.
From the depths of the cavern, the reptilian shriek sounded again.
Biancarosa clutched the railing, panting for breath, bracing herself against the metal. The exposed skin on her leg was raw; it hung in tatters from her thigh and knee. Tears coursed down her face. She felt like she was going to faint, but she had to keep running.
“Rosalina!”
Albero Re burst into the chamber, Anneria on his heels. Her flaxen hair was disheveled, wispy strands flying around her face, knocked free from their bun by the earthquake. Biancarosa's vision swam. She tried to will herself to move again, to run, but her body would not respond. There was nothing but pain, pain, pain.
“Don't come any nearer,” she panted, voice ragged.
“Rosalina, what in the world is the matter with you?” Albero asked.
“Keep her away from me! Padre,” Biancarosa said, “Anneria is trying to kill me! Just like Madre!”
Albero Re's expression was grim. He turned to his wife. “She knows,” he said.
The words were like a physical blow. Biancarosa clung to the railing, knuckles white. “Padre? You, too?”
“I'm sorry, Rosalina. But it was for the good of the kingdom. And so is this, now.”
Tears streamed down the little princess' face. “Padre, please. You can't.”
“Forgive me, Rosalina,” the king said. He looked at the queen. Anneria nodded. Then he moved forward.
Biancarosa's scream echoed off the cavern walls as she fell. It seemed too loud, unnatural, like the roar of a dragon. She felt nothing but the rush of cold air around her; then, blackness.
* * *
Seven years later…
Leaf looked out the trolley window at the bustling hub of Drachenstadt sprawling below him. Throngs of people hurried their way across the multicolored honeycomb of the solar-panel streets. A few people, probably tourists, stopped and pointed at a passing Skylyft trolley gliding over their heads. The trolley network wove through the city like a complex spider web, its farthest veiny threads stretching as far as the Alpines, interconnecting the mountain villages surrounding the city with the urban area.
He sighed, running a brown hand through even darker brown hair. Things couldn't be that bad if there were still tourists visiting Elvezia. It just felt that way.
A reptilian screech filled the air around the trolley. A few people gasped as a large, golden-scaled dragon soared past the Skylyft, the sun reflecting brightly off its skin. Even for native Elvezians, it was an unusual sight to see a dragon in the open air, this close to Drachenstadt. But these were unusual times.
As the dragon passed, Leaf caught sight of a human figure on its back. Marigold. She glanced over her shoulder and noticed Leaf in the window. She grinned and waved for just an instant, before the massive creature beat its wings once more and they disappeared from his line of sight.
Leaf's mouth turned up in spite of the worry gnawing at his insides. At seventeen, he wasn't old enough to have known the last oratrice—she'd left Elvezia long before Leaf was born, to marry the king of Stalia Nova—but even he knew the new Speaker for the Dragons was different. Her unusual habit of soaring through the sky on the dragons' backs was just the tip of the glacier.
She was waiting for him when the Skylyft at last pulled into the Sunglow Caldera station. She hurried towards him, leaning heavily on her walking staff, a swift three-legged gait.
“Leaf, you're back! How was your trip? Is there news from Stalia Nova?” she asked.
“There is,” Leaf said, “but this isn't the place for it. Will you convene a council of the dragons?”
Marigold frowned. “It's bad news, isn't it?”
Leaf chewed his upper lip. Then he nodded.
An hour later, the Forty were assembled in the vast Sunglow Caldera. Its basalt walls sloped up to the sky, forming a perfect circle of open air in the center of the chamber's ceiling. Marigold wore her elaborately embroidered oratrice robes. With her short mess of black hair covered by the golden-scaled headdress, she almost looked like royalty. It was a stark contrast from the scrawny mountain orphan Leaf had called friend for the last three years.
Leaf bowed respectfully when he entered the caldera. From their perches all around him, the Forty inclined their mighty heads.
The dragon to Marigold's right—her name was Goldrute, but Marigold always called her “Mother”—opened her mouth, showing three rows of fangs. A deep, rumbling growl rolled from the back of her throat. As she spoke, the air around her turned gold and silver, a shower of light fragments. Leaf caught snatches of words here and there, phrases Marigold had taught him, but he couldn't quite make the words form a sentence the way the Speaker did.
Marigold nodded, then turned to Leaf. “Friend Leaf, Knight of the Order of the Dragons, Guardian and Protector of the People's Nation of Elvezia, Equitably Chosen to Serve Equality”—she paused here to catch her breath—“welcome. The Forty are pleased to see you've returned from Stalia Nova safely. What news do you bring from the other side of the Alpines?”
“I've been in contact with several
members of the Stalian resistance. Very few members of the populace agree with the war on Elvezia.”
“But that's excellent news,” Marigold said, dark eyes shining. “Then the Elvezian people's offer of truce, of joining our two nations in a union of states, should be well-received.”
Leaf scoffed. “The king of Stalia Nova is not interested in the opinions of his people. He wants more power, and he doesn't care who it hurts along the way.”
Marigold's face went rigid, and her eyes glazed over, getting that far-away look he'd seen before. Like she wasn't all the way here.
Goldrute leaned over and nudged the oratrice with one of her claws. Marigold blinked, then half-laughed. “Oh, sorry, Mother.” She began to rapidly translate, her fingers moving in deft strokes, tracing intricate patterns of gold light in the air.
When she was done, another dragon, this one with scales silver as the mist of a cloud, began to speak.
“All will be well, Friend Leaf,” Marigold translated. “The dragons will continue to guard Elvezia. The kingdom will not fall to the likes of the Oaken King.”
Leaf opened his mouth, then hesitated. He knew he needed to tell her, to warn her. He'd spent the whole journey back to Elvezia, the long treks through dark, secret tunnels, rehearsing it in his mind. But now, the words wouldn't come.
“Leaf? What is it?”
“There's … more,” he said. “Our allies in Stalia Nova … they heard rumors that the Stalian forces have …” He swallowed, forcing it out. “They've found a way to kill dragons.”
Marigold's hands had been fluttering like a butterfly, translating as Leaf spoke, but now they broke off in midair, flew up to cover her mouth. “That's impossible,” she gasped.
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