He dropped her, but before she could run he slapped her hard. She instantly burst into tears.
“You are not going out there.” His voice was hard as iron as he carried her upstairs. “Not on your life. Do you want those crowds to come for us? Do you want them to throw rocks at your brother and sisters? Do you want them to declare that we support the exiles, and drive us from the city as well?”
Fia was crying so hard that she couldn’t speak.
Once they were on the upper story and the door barred behind them, she wrenched herself free and ran from him to the shuttered window overlooking the street. There was a crack between the shutters and she pressed her eye against it.
The last sight that Fia saw was of Neva running after her family and being pulled up into the overloaded wagon. She was clutching her favorite doll. Its wool stuffing was coming out of one leg where some brave grownup had snatched at it as she’d passed them.
She would never forget Neva’s frightened eyes shining with tears from under her curly blonde hair as the wagon rolled out of the city.
Years would pass before the girls would see each other again. Fia would get the dragon she’d always dreamed of, while Neva would come into a much different inheritance. And the world they’d always known would be rocked by battle once again.
Chapter 2
Eight years later…
THE SPONSALIA
“The greatest day of your life, they say,” Fia hissed into the wind, leaning forward on her dragon’s back. “It’s going to be the greatest day of your life.”
Ryelleth, her emerald dragon, looked over her shoulder at Fia as if concerned, golden sparks flying up from her breath. Fia leaned aside and they blew past her face.
“The greatest day of his life, sure,” she told Ryelleth. “What will Carmelo get when he marries me? He gets my earnings, gets my body – and he gets you, my sweet dragon. And what do I get? I get penned up in some fine household with my body spitting out babies while he’s off flying around … flying around with you.”
Furious, Fia tapped Ryelleth’s neck. “Fire!” she called, and the dragon spit out a gout of flame that lit the air but gave her no satisfaction.
Today Fia was going to her sponsalia, the ceremony in which she’d formally be engaged to Carmelo. Fia couldn’t take any joy in the flight of her emerald dragon as she usually did. Aloft on dragonback, Fia generally loved the air of heaven in her hair as Ryelleth’s wings, wide as the sails of ships, hummed in the wind. Below, Fiorenza lay under them with a patchwork of red tile roofs, the streets below them curving in on themselves like an inescapable labyrinth.
Ryelleth grumbled low in her throat, cocking her head to glance back to Fia, concerned.
Fia patted her dragon’s emerald scales with her fire-singed glove. At the sight of Ryelleth’s compassionate, golden eyes, Fia suddenly had to work to maintain her composure though her head ached and her heart hurt.
This meeting had hung over her like a thundercloud for weeks, and she’d been sick with dread ever since her papa had announced it.
Ryelleth’s emerald scales gleamed like jewels below Fia’s gloved hands, and sparks wreathed the old dragon’s face. Ryelleth had been a war dragon whose owner had died in combat. Fia had rehabilitated the old dragon, had worked with her since she was twelve years old. The old dragon had recovered, and Fia had retired her from war work. They’d worked together, ferrying people between the cities, for almost five years now. Ry was such a good dragon, so calm and steady –
Fia took a deep breath. Don’t think of that. Not now.
And now her father’s tower loomed up in the heart of Fiorenza as Ryelleth came winging in for the landing.
Ryelleth came in slowly, backwinging above the top of the tower where the dragon roosted, what Fia called her aerie. Hot air blew up from her wings, as well as dust from the top of the tower, and the dragon trotted a few steps on her landing, her talons striking up sparks on the stone.
Fia undid her sashes and slid down her dragon to the ground, ducking as her dragon’s great wings stormed shut overhead.
Ryelleth usually went straight to the water trough to drink. This time, however, with a concerned groan, the great dragon brought her head down to Fia. Heat shimmered around Ry’s face as she nudged Fia’s arm in a sympathetic gesture.
Fia burst into tears.
She had been holding back her feelings all morning, but that sweet gesture from her old friend was too much. Fia’s heart was full of what was to come. “Oh, my old friend, my dear friend,” she sobbed, patting Ryelleth’s mailed head with her gloved hands.
Ryelleth gazed at her with those great golden eyes, then nudged her gently again, a loving gesture.
“Don’t, I can’t, I just can’t. It’s not your fault.” Fia’s words were broken as she clung to her dragon’s face, not caring if her asbestos sleeves were singed.
Ry nuzzled her again, which was like being nuzzled by a hot stove.
Fia took a deep breath, fought for control. She leaned back and looked into her dragon’s golden eyes. They’d worked together for so many years. She thought of how devoted they were to each other – all those long days on dragonback, the winds of heaven blowing through her hair – her sweet dragon protecting her, caring for her, just as Fia had protected and cared for her after she’d taken over Ry’s care.
“I won’t give you up,” she told Ryelleth. “I swear to you I will not.”
She knew she was late to the sponsalia ceremony, but she had to compose herself, and just have a moment with her dragon.
“I know, honey,” Fia said, as Ryelleth rubbed her head against her, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Don’t do that, girl, I can’t afford to catch on fire right now. I gotta go.”
By the blessed Virgin, she did not want to go to her sponsalia, but she didn’t have a choice. She blew a kiss to her dragon, who stooped down to drink. Ryelleth’s vat of water was nearly dry. Hells, she’d have to get that filled again when this was done.
A low, covered doorway stood at the top of the tower. Fia ducked through this into the dark, spiraling stairway that would take her from the tower down through the rest of her father’s house.
Fia rushed down the stairs, nearly blind in the darkness.
The stairway opened into the second story of the house, where the bedrooms were.
“Sissy!” her sister Bice shouted.
Fia jumped, startled, and grabbed the wall so she wouldn’t fall down the stairs. “What?” Fia cried, coming out of the stairwell
Bice popped out their communal bedroom. Behind Bice, Fia could see her younger sisters and brother all leaning out of the open casement to watching some excitement in the streets below.
From out in the narrow streets, somebody shouted, “That’s what your mother said last night!” followed by a roar of laughter. The next moment came a scream, then fighting.
Fia frowned at the sound.
“The Pacini brothers are fighting again,” Bice explained, rolling her eyes like a typical jaded fourteen year old.
“All this city does is fight itself,” Fia growled, half to herself. “Endless fighting. It has turned upon itself for decades, eating at itself from the inside out.”
“Er, all right,” Bice said. “Come on, Daddy’s waiting for you. Aren’t you going to change?” Bice tapped Fia’s scorched gloves.
“Absolutely not,” Fia said.
“What happened to your gloves?”
“Ry sneezed unexpectedly yesterday. I barely got out of the way in time.”
Bice grimaced. “Ow. But you should change. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” The sisters clipped down the stone steps, side by side.
Fia rubbed at the black soot on her gloves though she knew it wouldn’t come off. “I’ve got to fly Father to Siena immediately after this. I don’t have time to change.”
Bice rolled her eyes. “Enjoy your lecture.”
“Pfft. Babbi won’t lecture me now,” Fia grumbled.
“No, of course not,” Bice said, “but he will later, all the way to Siena.”
Fia sighed an especially gusty sigh as she hurried out to the courtyard where the sponsalia was taking place.
She hated when her little sister was right.
Fia paused just outside the stone arch that led into the garden, taking deep breaths to calm her thudding heart.
Bice grabbed her gloved hand. “I’m praying to the saints for you,” she said.
Fia gently squeezed back. “Thanks, sis.” They hugged.
Fia thought of the money she was saving from her ferrying work. She was trying to save enough to make sure that none of her sisters would have to marry – that they could stay single and childless and live a life of their own choosing. Fia wasn’t sure if it would work – but she worked so hard in hopes that she could give her sisters that chance that she would be denied.
With one last squeeze, Fia walked into the garden. Bice stayed behind, as no woman was welcome at a man’s ceremony.
Technically, Fia should not have been out here, either, as this event was not within the realm of women. She was only in on this negotiation because she’d demanded it of her Papa. “I’m the one who’s being promised in marriage. I should be there,” she’d told him.
As usual, he’d made it possible, though more reluctantly than usual, which was odd. He’d always encouraged her to do her own thing, woman though she was. He was the one who allowed her to rehabilitate Ryelleth. He had let her start ferrying his friends from place to place, which grew into her own business. He’d been proud of her for bringing home her own money, and he’d told off people who had sniped at Fia in disapproval.
But on the morning he told her about her sponsalia, she’d said, “I need to be there.”
And he’d turned with a frown. “No,” he said instantly. “This is one thing you cannot do.”
Fia had been taken aback by this answer, because she was certain that he would let her. But she’d talked him into it, as she always had – with her dragon, with her ferrying business. “I should be there,” she’d said. “You are deciding my future, and I won’t let you do it if I’m not there.”
“You can’t get out of this,” he said firmly, now turning in his chair and looking at her. “You can’t change what’s been decided. I am making this alliance between our families because we need an alliance. And I know Carmelo,” he said, his voice softening. “He will be a good match for you. You are very lucky in that.”
How well she knew it. She’d had friends who were shut up with cruel and vindictive men, and Fia was grateful that her father took this into consideration.
Now that she was here, though, watching her future taken out of her hands, she was not as grateful.
Her papa, her Babbi, placed his fingertips on the document that was laid out upon the table, speaking softly to the marriage broker. Her Babbi was wearing his robes of state, long red robes edged with ermine, as well as the golden medallion that showed his rank as one of the 12 priors of the city.
Lando di Mazzoni, Carmelo’s father, was scowling, but when Fia’s father turned to speak to him, he softened into a smile.
Carmelo di Mazzoni, Fia’s betrothed, was standing off to the side, winding his long, blonde hair around his finger. He looked especially fine today. When he went to daily Mass at Fia’s church, he’d wear a clean tunic, leggings that showed off his muscular legs, and soleless leather boots. Here in Fia’s courtyard, he also wore a black cloth hat and a family sword belted at his side, and elegant blue robes edged with mink fur.
Carmelo looked up. His eyes met hers – and he frowned as he looked at her outfit.
And here Fia stood, wearing fire-blackened gloves, a formless floppy hat that kept the sun off, and a heavy asbestos cloak peppered with spark burns. Her crinkled veil was stiff with the juice from all the bugs that struck it while she was in flight – she could not afford those glass lenses issued to the Pope’s army that protected their eyes. Fia’s high boots still had mud splattered on them from her morning stop at the farm, when the goat that she was about to feed to Ryelleth broke free and she and the goatherd had to chase the little bastard down. She smelled acrid as if she’d been set on fire. She hadn’t even had a chance to wash her face.
Fia looked at her singed goatskin gloves with the long asbestos gauntlets that protected her arms. Worn, soft, abraded by dragon scales, these gloves were marked with her work and had always given her a quiet sense of pride.
Despite feeling out of place with her burned and sun-faded garb, Fia pulled herself straight and walked through the stone arch into the courtyard, carrying herself like a queen.
The rest of the men who were standing around a small table turned to see her. Only Carmelo gave her a faint smile.
Ser’ di Mazzoni, now noticing her, curled his lip. “Is this how you have come to this ceremony?”
His sneer shoved all of her queenly pride over like a stack of blocks.
Papa lay down his quill, which he’d had made from a raven’s feather due to his small, fine handwriting. Her father was a dark-haired man with obsidian eyes. He was a banker and one of the twelve priors who ran the city. Father had talked for months about this arranged marriage the way he always talked about his endless negotiations between the city’s warring factions: His primary concern was to create an alliance between families – to create peace.
Peace for some, Fia thought. But not all.
“Lando, please excuse my daughter,” Papa said. “She just arrived here from her work. Once we have signed these papers, she will immediately be flying me to Siena to the peace talks there.”
Carmelo’s father grunted and made an impatient gesture. “I expected my son’s future woman to show more respect for these proceedings than … this.”
Papa gestured to one of the servants, who carried over a small tray of small cakes that smelled like roses and spices. “Come. Have some of these dainties. Then we will sign these documents to pledge my daughter, Fia Portinari, to your son Carmelo.”
Carmelo’s father picked up one of the dainty cakes. With his first bite, his sour face softened. “Mmm. This is heavenly.”
Papa bowed, smiling. “These are love cakes, a recipe from my wife’s great-grandmother in Persia. Rosewater, almonds, and cardamom.” He nodded briefly to Fia. “I will pass this recipe to you so you may remember your great-great-grandmother. She would have been so proud of you.”
Fia felt the blush and clumsily accepted a cake with her scorched gloves. Normally she would have loved to hear this story – but not now. Not under the scornful eye of her future father-in-law.
Papa gestured to a second servant, who brought a flagon of wine. “Please drink. This is from the first pressing.”
“Ah! The best wine,” Carmelo’s father said greedily, accepting the goblet that was poured for him.
Her father accepted a clear glass goblet with only a modest amount of wine, as he rarely drank. “I wish to build this alliance between our families,” he said, lifting the goblet. “Though our families are at odds, ideologically, we can still build a strong alliance and protect each other against the constant turmoil.”
“And we’d get your daughter’s dragon,” Carmelo’s father said. Not a question.
“Yes, and the dragon would be yours to control,” Papa said smoothly. “He is part of the bridal price.”
“She,” Fia growled under her breath. “My dragon is a she.”
“Shall we sign?” Papa asked, ignoring her.
Ser’ di Mazzoni raised a hairy eyebrow. “This does not mean that negotiations are done,” he said.
“Of course not,” Papa said, bowing slightly. “This signing is merely to signify that we have pledged to have Fia marry your son next year.” He turned to the marriage broker, who nodded in assent.
“This lovely bride will prepare for her move to her husband’s house next year,” the broker said so graciously to Fia that she felt warmed, despite the foul circumstances.
“
And that dragon will finally be doing the work that God meant it to do,” Carmelo’s father muttered. “Flying in support of the great city of Fiorenza to drive these stinking rebels from this land. I cannot believe that a war dragon as powerful as that one has been turned into a ferry animal,” he sneered. “A dragon that was one of the best war machines in the land is doing the work that is given to old, broken-down dragons. That glorious war dragon, anyone can see how strong and powerful he is! But now he’s forced to do menial work. He serves no greater purpose than a mule or a jackass.”
Fia gripped the edge of the table. Men like Carmelo’s father used their dragons ruthlessly and worked them half to death. A man like Ser’ di Mazzoni would make Ryelleth fight in the wars. A man like him would work Ryelleth to a skeleton, strike her with a spiked crop until her neck was bloody.
After that day her grandfather died, after that day that Neva had been dragged away with tears in her eyes, Fia had sworn never to get involved with those endless wars. When Ryelleth had been given over to her, badly wounded after that same conflict, Fia thought it was fit and just to take a weapon of war and make her gentle and take her away from the warmongers for good.
Just then, Carmelo came to stand next to Fia. “Hello,” he said quietly.
Carmelo had a thin face and long, blonde hair that gathered on his shoulders in gentle waves and curls. After Mass at Santa Margherita’s every morning, Carmelo would laugh loudly with his friends and play silly jokes on them, but around Fia he didn’t speak as much. They’d known each other for years after his parents started attending the same little church her family did, the Santa Margherita de' Cerchi.
Fia looked at the fathers from out of the corner of her eye. The marriage broker turned page after page, showing the two fathers where to sign, explaining the legal document to them.
“I didn’t think you were supposed to talk to me at this ceremony,” Fia muttered under her breath. “I thought I was supposed to just stand here and look pretty.”
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