Eona: The Last Dragoneye

by Alison Goodman

  A mix of fear and relief pounded through me in time to my heartbeat. “And when I have mastered my power …?” I wet my lips, not sure what I was offering, but offering nonetheless.

  He looked around at me, half of his face in shadow. “Then everything changes.”

  I bowed my head. Of that I had no doubt.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CART HIT a deep rut in the road, jerking me against Vida’s sturdy shoulder. I tightened my grip on the low railing at my back. It had taken us two hot, airless days to reach the city, and although the plan to retrieve Ido had been discussed over and over again, I felt a constant misgiving at its many risks. Not least was the city gate checkpoint ahead.

  “You are so bony,” Vida said, her usual forthright tone high and peevish.

  We were both dressed in thin, ragged gowns, our hair unbound and matted, skin smeared with dirt. Beside me, Ryko looked up with a frown. He wore the deep blue headscarf of a Trang Dein man—the rebel islanders who had been ruthlessly subdued by the army a year ago—and his heavily muscled torso was bare except for a braided leather band that crossed his chest. He lowered his head over his bound hands. I had not liked that part of the plan; binding our best fighter was madness. Still, we were meant to be a delivery of flesh to the Pleasure Ward, and a Trang Dein man would not go quietly.

  “You take too much room,” I whined.

  “Better than being a skinny slut,” Vida shot back, for the benefit of the two soldiers approaching the cart.

  I pressed myself into the front corner, my heart quickening at the purposeful stride of the men. Dela looked back at us from the driver’s seat. Her hair hung in two greasy hanks from under a cap, and her face was rough with stubble. The cap’s brim was pulled down low to hide the elegant arch of her eyebrows. To all appearances, she was a hired thug. Her eyes flickered over Ryko’s slumped shoulders and raw wrists. He had insisted on having the rope tied so tight it cut into his skin; otherwise it would look suspicious, he’d said. Dela had offered to do it, but he had taken the rope to Yuso.

  “Shut up,” Dela snapped at us. “Or you’ll feel my whip.”

  A heavy-set soldier raised his hand, and Dela brought the cart to a stop. Behind us, Yuso reined his horse to a standstill and dismounted, tying the animal to the end rail. He bowed to the soldiers. His role was the flesh trader, and I almost believed it myself. A thin beard transformed his seamed face, and the cold look he cast across us held all the concern of a man checking his livestock.

  “Where are you heading?” the soldier asked. Narrow, crusted eyes took in Vida and me. His partner walked around the cart, bending to check beneath it.

  “Pleasure Ward,” Yuso said.

  “You selling these two?”

  Yuso nodded.

  The soldier brushed a fly from his face. “Who they going to?”

  “Mama Momo.”

  He grinned. “Maybe I’ll come and visit you, hey, girl?” The soldier poked my bare arm.

  I cringed, the hard rails of the cart digging into my back. His damp touch and foul breath brought back the night of the palace coup—Sethon’s soldiers baying with bloodlust, only Ryko standing between me and their brutality.

  The soldier gave a low hoot and glanced across at his scrawny comrade. “I reckon no one’s had her.”

  “That’s why she worth more than you can afford, friend,” Yuso said, but I could see his jaw tighten. The second soldier laughed.

  “I can wait till the price comes down,” the crusty-eyed soldier said. He walked around the end of the cart, his attention turning to Ryko. “Big fellow. You selling him to Momo, too?”

  Yuso followed him. They both stood surveying Ryko as if he were horseflesh. “Jumped his bond. The old lady is offering a good reward.”

  “Ah.” The soldier glanced down at the islander’s bound wrists, then leaned across and slammed the flat of his hand against Ryko’s forehead, forcing his head up. “You’re lucky I didn’t find you, prickless dog.”

  Ryko’s hands lifted, his lips drawn back from his teeth.

  Before I could take a breath, Yuso had a knife at the islander’s throat. “Put your hands down.” Ryko lowered his fists. There was no pretense in the violence that raged in his eyes.

  “Punchy,” the soldier remarked.

  Yuso grabbed the back of Ryko’s neck and shoved his head back down. “Momo probably whores him out, too.”

  The soldier laughed uneasily. “I wouldn’t put it past the old witch.” He stepped back and glanced at his companion. “All clear?” The other man nodded and waved us forward.

  Yuso resheathed the knife, then untied his horse and swung back into the saddle. He motioned lazily to Dela who, with a click of tongue and sharp prod of the switch, urged the cart horse into reluctant movement. It was a stubborn bay that Yuso had bought along with his own mount to replace two of the three horses we had lost on the flooded slope. Only Kygo’s Ju-Long had survived the mud, the battle horse’s big heart and stamina overcoming the shock of the water.

  We bumped across the cobbles toward the huge tunneled gate. Two sweating guards flanked each side, watching our approach. By their smirks, they must have heard Yuso’s conversation. At least their close scrutiny vindicated the hours that Yuso, Dela, and I had spent convincing Kygo that it was too dangerous for him to enter the city with us. Just the way he moved would have raised the guards’ interest, let alone the imperial cast of his features. He had finally agreed to ride out with Caido and his resistance troop and wait with them in the nearby hills until their part of the plan came into play.

  Until a few hours ago, those heated discussions alongside Yuso and Dela had been the closest I’d come to Kygo in three days. He had not sought any time alone with me since the impasse in the strategy chamber, although I had often looked up during the final tactical meetings in the resistance camp to find his gaze fixed upon my face. He always looked away, leaving me stranded in half-smiles and uncertainty—I had no map of this new territory between us. On the hard journey to the city, he had stayed among Caido and his men. It was only at our parting on a deserted dirt track at the outskirts of the city that he finally called me over, away from the others.

  He took my hand, and I felt the tension in his body as he pressed a small metal weight into my palm. It was the thick gold ring studded with red jade. His blood amulet.

  “I want you to take this for protection from harm.” He closed my fingers around it. “My father had it made on my twelfth birthday,” he said. “It was forged with my blood, and the blood of my first kill, in honor of Bross.” He shifted his shoulders, as if feeling the touch of the man he had killed.

  I opened my hand and looked down at the ring. Perhaps it was my fancy, but the gold did seem to have a pink hue. “Who was he?”

  “A soldier who tried to assassinate Sethon. I executed him.” The irony of it edged his voice. “Take the traitor’s blood with you, Eona. And mine.” His eyes clouded. “Today is the last day of Rightful Claim.”

  “Your uncle was never going to honor your claim. Never!” I said, as if my vehemence could shift the weight from his spirit.

  He nodded. “Still, tomorrow I officially become a traitor. A rebel.” His thumb brushed the back of my hand. “Be careful, Eona.”

  I watched him walk away, my hard grip on the ring pressing its edges into my flesh. The boundaries between us had shifted again, and I did not know where I stood. Only one landmark on our map felt fixed: the truth in our kiss.

  Our cart rumbled into the cooler shade of the tunneled gate. One of the guards peered around the edge of the thick marble wall. “I’m saving up my pay, gorgeous,” he called, hot faced and grinning.

  My fingers found the ring through the cloth of my gown, hidden from view on a long leather thong around my neck. I sent a prayer to Bross: Protect us, and protect Kygo, wherever he may be.

  Then I leaned my shoulder against the top rail of the cart and played the wide-eyed newcomer, gawking at the heavy carvings on the inne
r walls. Most of them were the usual huge guardian door gods and symbols of prosperity, but there were also worn inscriptions in other languages. I was sure I had seen one of the strange left-to-right-running scripts at Ari the Foreigner’s coffee stall. As we broke out of the tunnel into the bright heat and the tumult of the old town, it occurred to me that the inscriptions had probably been left by ancient invaders. Perhaps we should etch our names into the stone, too—a foolhardy army of five trying to penetrate the Heavenly City.

  I glanced at Ryko. He remained bent over his hands, but watched the passing stalls and shifting crowd from under his brow with an intensity that told me his blood was still high. After the quiet of the road, the calls of vendors, shrieks of children, and barking of dogs made me flinch. We were in the southwest Monkey Ward, the most squalid section of the city, and it was crawling with soldiers. I pulled back from the edge of the cart and drew my legs up under the curl of my arms, trying to make myself less visible. Vida dug her fingernails into her thighs, watching the bustle of the city from under the veil of her wild hair.

  Along the narrow street, shredded red paper lamps from the New Year celebration still swung from crossbraces, and some shop-house doors displayed the long, red banners of New Year’s couplets hung to attract wealth and good fortune. They should have come down days ago in respect for the old emperor’s death. No doubt the merchants hoped the special wishes would help protect their businesses from Sethon’s soldiers.

  A roar of male laughter rose above the clamor of hawker calls and shrill bargaining. I did not move my head but found the source at the edge of my sight. A large group of off-duty soldiers sprawled across the wooden benches of an oyster stew stall, shouting down a comrade’s joke. Although they took no notice of our slow progress, Ryko’s hands flexed against his bonds.

  For a few lengths, a sesame cake vendor walked alongside us, beating a wooden tablet hung from the basket pole across his shoulders. The nutty sweetness of his wares filled the air and I swallowed a sudden rush of saliva; for two days I had only eaten salty dried road rations. He glanced across at me and, seeing no chance of a sale, hurried past, adding his raucous voice to his drum.

  Behind us, Yuso’s horse sidled at the harsh sound, the captain holding the animal in check with firm knees and hands. I watched him manage the horse’s fear, soothing it back into submission. After the last few days in Yuso’s company, I had finally seen what prompted Ryko’s loyalty and Kygo’s respect. It was not only his command of tactical deception, although that had come to the fore as we planned this venture. It was also his concern for his men. On our last day at the resistance camp we had entombed Solly, and as we gathered for the death procession at dawn, Yuso had arrived carrying Tiron on his back. The injured guard was no lightweight, and both of his legs were splinted, but Yuso had borne him up to the hillside tomb to help send Solly to his ancestors. And that was not his only kindness. I saw him pass a small pouch to Tiron as we said our good-byes to the camp people. Later, when I asked him what he had given the young guard, he had eyed me in his usual dour manner and said, “If it is any of your business, my lady, I gave him the rest of my Sun Drug. Better that the boy not withdraw while his bones are mending. I can get more when we reach the city.”

  “Get your head down,” he said now, through his teeth, as he eased the horse past me. Abashed, I obeyed. I had to remember my role.

  He drew level with Dela. “Go over that bridge.” he ordered, pointing to the wooden arch across a narrow canal, “and then right. Got it?”

  Dela nodded and prodded the bay into a trot. As we thudded over the bridge, I caught a glimpse of opaque brown water and the sleek arrow of a water rat cutting through the sluggish current.

  We turned into a wide road, each side a jumble of open- front taverns and sprawling eateries clustered around fire pits. Cooks bent over hissing pans, and the fatty smoke of roast pork flavored the air, briefly overriding the stench of sun-warmed urine and rotting cabbage. A few calls and jeers from early patrons followed us as we headed toward the tall red gates of the Blossom World.

  I had never been in the Pleasure Ward, although I had heard many stories about it from the other boys when I was a Dragoneye candidate. Mainly it had been whispers about strange contraptions and impossible positions, but one boy’s master had actually taken him inside the Blossom World. He had told us that every man who passed through the gates had to wear a mask and a disguise; it was the symbolic shedding of self, he’d said loftily, to become whoever you wanted to be, or to put down the burden of who you already were. For a night, farmers could be lords, and lords could be peasants. All men were equal, and no one was allowed to carry a weapon inside the gates. Except, he’d added with a knowing grin that made us lean closer, the infamous Sword Lilies, who practiced the art of pain.

  “Greetings!” Yuso called to a gateman as we drew up to the ornate entrance. He dismounted and led the horse up to the neat annex that jutted from the towering wall.

  The wooden gates—too high for a man or even a man on his friend’s shoulders to look over—were heavily carved with stylized flowers: peony, apple blossom, lily, and orchid. I searched the sinuous tangle of stems and leaves for the lewd figures that were supposed to be hidden among them. All I could see was the faint outline of a smaller door set into the left panel.

  The gateman ambled out of his gatehouse and surveyed us. “Expected, or touting?” he asked.

  “Mama Momo,” Yuso said. “Tell her Heron from Siroko Province is here.”

  It was the code name that Kygo had given us. Mama Momo, it seemed, was more than just Queen of the Blossom World. If the code name failed, we had Ryko as backup: he had admitted he’d known her long ago, in another lifetime. I knew he had once been a thief and hired muscle. Perhaps it had been for this woman who now held our way into the palace.

  The gateman straightened. “Mama Momo?” He snapped his fingers, and a boy hurried out of the gatehouse, wiping crumbs from his mouth. “Run up to the big house, Tik, and tell Mama—who are you again?” Yuso repeated the code name. The boy nodded his understanding. “And wait for her instructions,” the gateman called as Tik pushed open the smaller door in the gate and stepped through. It banged shut behind him.

  The gateman smiled brown-stained reassurance. “He shouldn’t be long.”

  He wasn’t. Tik returned with a plump man whose winged black hat and soft body marked him as a scribe eunuch.

  “I am Stoll, Mama Momo’s secretary,” he said, bowing to Yuso. His eyes passed over me and found Ryko. Thin plucked brows lifted with interest. “Please come this way.”

  He pointed to the far end of the high wall at a plain wooden gate—a delivery entrance. The beautiful front gates of the Blossom World did not open for a flesh trader and his wares.

  The delivery gate was dragged open by two boys as we approached. Not eunuchs—at least not yet. Stoll waved us into an alley that ran alongside the far wall of the Pleasure Ward. Courtyard after courtyard backed onto the narrow roadway, the rear living areas of huge houses that must have faced onto the main thoroughfare of the Blossom World. Large quantities of washing hung from ropes strung between walls and trees, all of it sheets and drying cloths. As we passed each courtyard, women in loose gowns looked up from cooking on small braziers, throwing fortune sticks, mending gowns, and drying their wet hair in the noon sun. A few were even chasing the dragon, the smoke from the drug curling around their heads like the tail of one of the great beasts. I recognized the pungent smell from the teahouses around the market. The women’s interest was fleeting, mainly centered upon Ryko; then they turned back to their own start-of-day concerns. The only fixed gaze came from a tiny girl crouched at the feet of a woman who strummed scales on a long lute. The plaintive rise and fall of the notes caught on a faint breeze that stirred the heavy air and brought the perfume of soap and the succulence of grilled fish. The little girl smiled and waved. I lifted my hand in response and watched her jump up in delight.

  As we neared the
summit of a small hill, the tiled roof and elegant shutters of a large house rose above its more squat neighbors. It was obviously our destination, for Stoll hurried ahead and turned to wave us into its courtyard. I wiped the sweat from my neck and touched the blood ring again—for luck, and for the hope that Kygo was safe.

  Unlike the other courtyards, this one was not full of washing or the out-spillings of cramped living. Instead, it was cobbled and clean, with a stable at the left and a small walled garden to the right. A low platform ran along the length of the house, creating a deep step up to a wall of paneled screen doors. One was open, allowing a framed glimpse of the interior: traditional straw matting, low table, and the abrupt angles of a formal orchid arrangement.

  A feminine figure moved into the frame and stood silhouetted for a moment, slender and erect, then stepped out on to the platform. She was older than her elegant bearing had led me to expect: perhaps around sixty, with deep lines that carved fierceness into a face that still had the graceful bones of beauty. She lifted the green silk hem of her gown and walked to the edge of the platform. Stoll hurried forward, but she stopped him with a raised hand.

  “You are not the Master Heron I was expecting,” she said as Yuso dismounted. Dela pulled our cart up beside him. The cart horse shook its head, the jangle of its harness loud in the sudden wary silence.

  Yuso’s eyes darted to the stable. I followed his gaze into the dim interior: two large Trang Dein men holding lethal double hooks waited inside the doorway. Across the yard, another two armed men watched from the shadows of an outhouse. So much for the policy of no weapons.

  “Who are you?” Mama Momo demanded.

  Yuso glanced back at us. “Ryko, what are you waiting for?” he said through his teeth.

  Beside me, the islander straightened and cleared his throat. “Hello, Momota. It’s been a long time.”

  “Ryko? Is that really you?” Her narrowed gaze dropped to his bound wrists, then back to Yuso. “Boys, we’ve got trouble,” she said, and it was an order.