When She Reigns

by Jodi Meadows

  With a shiver, I rose from the water and wrapped myself in a soft, cream-colored robe. I closed my eyes and exhaled, long and slow.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  When my whirling thoughts began to settle, I took myself into the parlor. Ilina and Chenda were already there, waiting with their supplies, while LaLa and Crystal perched on the back of a chair, clucking and squawking at each other.

  The door to the boys’ room was closed, and I couldn’t hear anything beyond it. If Aaru was up and moving around, he wasn’t making any noise. Of course, he never was.

  Until the other day.

  The pain in my chest shifted again. Had Aaru talked to Altan? Had he shared his voice with Altan? Altan, who’d taken it two months ago?

  My head swam. My heart hurt.

  Chenda beckoned me toward the chair they’d placed near the window, giving them plenty of light to work by. “Come on. We’re not growing hours over here.”

  I lurched into motion. “Where’s Zara?”

  “I sent her out to buy the last part of your disguise.” Chenda glanced at Ilina and grinned. “We have grand plans. Now sit.”

  “Better hope Zara doesn’t take this as her opportunity to run,” I muttered, but obediently took the chair. When they began their work, my gaze slid back toward Aaru’s door, and unwanted thoughts cluttered my mind:

  Was he still in there?

  Why had he freed Altan?

  Did he know I knew?

  Could we trust him?

  Could I trust him?

  Did he still love me?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AS HOPEBEARER, GOING TO BALLS AND OTHER FORMAL events, I’d often worn my hair long and loose, because Mother said it made me look younger—more innocent. Of course, Krasimir had braided my hair plenty of times over the years, but that had been for the everyday, meant to be put up or down, depending on weather or mood. The braids had often felt tight the first day, but they’d been simple to care for. Easy, even when they’d been time-consuming.

  This—what Ilina and Chenda were doing—was something else entirely. More elaborate. More beautiful. More everything.

  The sun pulled high above the city while Chenda and Ilina worked, discussing laws surrounding dragon sanctuaries, regulations Ilina thought prevented proper care for larger dragons, and what could be done about the dwindling population of every species.

  When I was finally allowed to see their work, I gasped. My friends had given me a thousand tiny braids, weaving them into intricate patterns through and around one another, like the perfect decorative knot. I resisted the urge to touch it, to feel the texture of braids over and under, to count the true number.

  “Do you like it?” Ilina squeezed her hands together.

  I loved it. It felt like armor.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, it’s amazing.”

  Ilina practically glowed with the praise.

  Chenda smiled. “This is an older Bophan style. Not two years ago old,” she clarified, “but old enough that it now signals class and elegance. Before I was sent to the Pit, some of the younger girls were starting to wear their hair like this again. They think they invented it.”

  I twisted to inspect their masterpiece from another angle. “It reminds me of the tattoos.”

  “Good. It’s supposed to.”

  It wasn’t long before Zara returned, a small paper packet clasped between her fingers. “You don’t look awful.”

  I opened my mouth to sting her back, but then I caught it: a small, hesitant smile hiding at the corner of her lips. I let my bitterness melt away. “Thank you. Ilina and Chenda deserve all the credit, though.”

  Zara’s smile widened as she turned to the others. “You’re doing a good job, considering what you have to work with.”

  Ilina threw a comb at her, which Zara dodged.

  As the afternoon wore on, my fingernails were trimmed and filed and buffed, and then my face was brushed and powdered and shaded. As the cosmetics went on, a new Mira emerged.

  Mother had always told Krasimir to make me look soft and sweet, like a delicate lala flower. But after two months living in the Pit and running from isle to isle, my face was no longer soft. And my friends didn’t try to pretend.

  They sharpened the lines of my cheekbones into beautiful knives, and shadowed my eyes into deepest night. I began to look like someone else—like a stranger—and then Chenda reached for Zara’s package.

  It was just a powder, bronze in color and sharp on the eyes, but when Chenda dipped a damp brush into it and began to paint across the dips and swells of my right cheek, I understood.

  “Tattoos are individual,” she murmured, still working. “Not all Bophans have them, of course. It costs money. Most people think that the different pigments signal different class levels, and in some ways, that is true. But it has more to do with what people can afford. The white pigment a lot of people use, for example, is fairly inexpensive.

  “You are going as a lady of wealth and importance,” she went on. “You’d have a higher-quality pigment, something chosen to complement your skin tone. Unfortunately, we don’t have time for an actual tattoo today—”

  “Not to mention she’d be stuck with it for the rest of her life,” Zara muttered from the doorway.

  “I like my face the way it is, thank you.”

  “Even if there were someone who could do a real Bophan tattoo here, it would need time to heal. But I think I can create a reasonable facsimile for tonight. It should stay put as long as you don’t go rubbing your face on anything.”

  When she dipped the brush into the pigment again, I said, “I’ll try not to turn into a house cat while I’m there.”

  Ilina smirked.

  “What do the patterns mean?” I asked, before Chenda touched the brush to my face again. I couldn’t see all the details because her body was blocking the mirror, but every now and then I caught a flash of bronze against brown, bright swirls against dark cosmetics. It was a striking contrast.

  Chenda tilted my face sideways; the touch of her brush was soft but deliberate. “Different lines suggest different meanings, but there can be more than one interpretation of every tattoo. It’s individual to the person, and sometimes private, with only a suggestion of pain or joy or some other feeling associated with what the tattoo actually means to the wearer.”

  “What are you putting on Mira’s?” Ilina asked, though she must have been curious about Chenda’s tattoos now. Like me, she’d grown up reading The Book of Love and wouldn’t ask for personal information that wasn’t offered.

  “Dragons,” she said. “Hope and power and voice.” She pulled back and smiled at her work. “I would have liked to draw something completely misleading, to add to the disguise, but that would be tempting the Deepest Shadow. To wear a lie is to poison oneself with other falsehoods.”

  “It’s not a permanent tattoo,” Ilina said, “just a drawing.”

  “Perhaps, but why risk it?” Chenda shrugged. “Besides, no one will be able to read all the true meanings. Bophans will respect that, and outsiders won’t ask.”

  As we were finishing, the suite door opened and two pairs of footfalls came in: the even cadence of Hristo’s long stride, and the angry thunder of Gerel’s.

  I started toward the parlor, but Ilina caught my hand. “Not yet.”

  “But—”

  Ilina shook her head. “Get dressed.”

  It had been almost physically painful to buy a gown from a shop—partly because I had a better idea about what things cost now, and also because I had never worn a premade dress and I was certain everyone would be able to tell. But shopping in Flamecrest meant there was so much competition that shopkeepers were willing to bargain, and if anyone knew how to get a deal, it was Ilina. In a display of Daminan charm rarely seen, she talked the seamstress into selling us the gown for half the price.

  We were fastening the last of the buttons into their eyelets as Ger
el walked into the bedroom, a dark look on her face. “Nothing. No idea where he went.”

  I sighed. “I’m sure he’ll turn up the moment we think we’re free of him for good.”

  “When he does, I’m going to gut him.” Gerel crossed her arms.

  “That’s reasonable.” Chenda stepped back from me. “But will you at least acknowledge what I have accomplished?”

  Ilina cleared her throat.

  “With Ilina’s help,” Chenda added.

  Gerel’s eyebrows lifted. “Aaru is going to combust when he sees you.”

  I couldn’t imagine what Aaru would think. He had never commented on my appearance before, though the way he looked at me made me feel beautiful. Thinking of him now, knowing Altan had evaded Gerel and Hristo . . .

  “Maybe he’ll reconsider how slowly he’s been moving.” Ilina’s smile drifted into a frown. “I mean, it makes sense right now, after Idris, but it’s so clear that you and he want to be together. Don’t think I didn’t see how you two held hands every night on the Chance Encounter.”

  My face went hot with embarrassment.

  Chenda sat on the bottom corner of the bed and beamed. “We can all rearrange rooms if you need. Just say the word.”

  Gerel waved that away. “You know what? Don’t say the word. We’ll rearrange anyway. I mean, they will. Chenda and I are staying together, obviously.”

  “That puts me with Zara.” Ilina sulked. “Or Hristo, I suppose, but honestly, this seems so unfair to me. Nevertheless”—she looked at me—“I’m cheering you on.”

  My skin burned so much I thought I might explode. “You know he can probably hear us, right?”

  The three of them looked at one another and erupted in laughter. “Good!” Gerel grinned. “Maybe he needs some encouragement, too.”

  “His fault for eavesdropping.” Ilina shook her head.

  They teased me a few minutes more, until a knock sounded on the door. Everyone sobered. “It’s time to go,” Hristo said.

  “All right. You look beautiful. Go combust him.” Ilina swung the door open, and they all shooed me into the parlor, where Aaru waited.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  From the first moment I’d seen him in his cell, skinny and dirty and dark-eyed, I’d known there was something compelling about him. About the way he carried himself, about the depth of his gaze, about the shape of his mouth: even then, he’d been magnetic, and I hadn’t wanted to look away.

  And now.

  He’d shaved, so his jaw was smooth and sharp. The cut of his suit was all clean lines that accented his slender build, and the fabric was deep blues and black, with hints of bronze embroidery that popped around his cuffs and collar. So unlike an Idrisi. Even his fingernails were clean, trimmed neatly into pale ovals over his warm brown skin. I couldn’t look away.

  Then I realized he was staring at me, too, and his careful unreadability was gone. His lips had parted. His eyes were wide. His breath moved short and fast.

  I must have looked like a stranger to him.

  With my hair braided like this, my entire face was clear, as if I wasn’t trying to hide my identity at all. It revealed the bronze lines of Chenda’s artwork, which twined across my right cheek and down my neck. On my left cheek, my scar stood as clear as ever. And then there was the gown.

  When I was the Hopebearer, my gowns had been elaborate creations, lovingly designed by my family’s personal seamstress. Mother had always intended me to look beautiful, young, and distant. Like a painting. The gowns had reflected that by style and color and level of complication. I’d been meant to be seen—heard when appropriate—but not touched.

  This was something else entirely. It was simple. Elegant. Cut in the flowing Bophan style, the black gown hugged my chest before flaring down into loose ripples that showed hints of my shape when I moved. I’d chosen it because Mother wouldn’t have, and because I liked the way the silk felt as it slid over my body.

  The entire ensemble made me into another person. Older. Sharper. Stronger.

  Aaru’s mouth moved, but he didn’t speak. Slowly, he packed away his surprise: his lips closed, his eyebrows fell to their normal height, his breathing evened out. Then he approached me and offered a hand, as though to ask if I would dance.

  My heart thundered so loudly he had to hear it, but as I accepted his hand, warmth spread through me at his touch, and I knew—no matter what he’d done earlier—that I still loved him. I would still do anything for him, if only he asked.

  “Are you ready?” My voice came from deep in my chest, thick with longing.

  Aaru squeezed my hand. “Yes.”

  PART TWO

  THE GREATEST CALAMITY

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IN SILENCE, WE TOOK THE HORSECARRE TO THE RED Hall, where the memorial was to be held on the largest rooftop garden. My hands rested on my lap. Aaru’s stayed on his knees. Knots of anxiety tightened between us, and I wanted to ask him about Altan—surely he had a reasonable explanation—but that worry kept coming back. I’d been betrayed too many times.

  I distracted myself by watching the red sandstone buildings pass by, listening to snatches of dialogue from people on the streets, and praying that no one at the memorial or ball recognized me. I looked different, I knew that, but anyone who cared to see me would know the truth.

  The Red Hall rose ahead of us, its jewels glittering as the sun eased toward the west. We pulled into a long drive, lined with springy grass and bright dragon flowers, until we reached a grand stair that led up to the south face of the building. Daminan-style columns stood sentinel around a huge patio, and windows—dozens of them—glittered in the hot glare of the sun.

  Our driver stopped behind private carriages and other horsecarres, and Aaru reached for the door. I held up a hand. He hesitated, but a moment later, the driver came around and opened my door for me.

  I slid out. Aaru slid out. A blue-jacketed porter strode toward us, his palm up as he asked for our invitations and papers. Aaru produced both from within his jacket pocket, then hid his shaking hands behind his back while the porter studied everything as though the high magistrate were watching.

  When he looked at my paper, then my face, my heart pounded painfully. The drawing had my scar, but not the false tattoos. There was just a box checked—facial markings—and nothing more.

  “You look familiar.” He glanced at the drawing again—I looked more like me there—and frowned.

  “You would be surprised by how many people think they know me.” Not a lie, but then I had to say the next part to solidify the story. “They always say I look like—”

  “Mira Minkoba,” he finished. Hearing my name sent spikes of fear down my spine, but the porter was nodding, grinning. “Yes, I can see the similarities now. Maybe you’re distantly related to her.”

  I forced a smile. “Perhaps.”

  Finally, the porter handed the papers back to Aaru. “Follow the signs to the memorial. There will be attendants along the way in case you get lost.”

  What he really meant was: Don’t wander because we will be watching you.

  As Aaru and I followed a line of Anaheran elite up the stairway, my heart began to slow to a normal speed. The others had coached me on how to deflect that sort of attention, but I hadn’t thought I’d need it right away. With the porter, of all people. This promised to be a very long evening.

  Cool air enveloped us as we stepped inside the entry hall. It was just as I remembered, lavishly decorated with art from all over Anahera: paintings of dragons in flight, intricately woven rugs made from talopus down, and wooden baskets filled with obsidian knapped to look like dragon eggs. I’d always liked those eggs, especially the ones that had been cut from the inside, too: the black glass was shaved so thin that a small noorestone placed inside made them glow like dark lamps.

  Every time Mother visited, she left with new ideas for how to redecorate our entire home—until Father talked her out of it. I wondered what she thought of the Red Hall’s
beauty and elegance now that she was a captive.

  A small sign pointed toward the stairs. True to the porter’s word, several servants were stationed around the entrance hall, some offering glasses of wine as they greeted guests, while others watched us with judgment plain on their faces. All of them were dressed in the same flame-blue livery, almost like they were guards, and as one shifted his weight, I caught the bulge of a dagger hilt under his jacket.

  Fear prickled through me, and I could feel Aaru’s tension at my side. He was doing his best not to stare around the room in awe; all of this was so different from his home on Idris.

  We took to the rug-cushioned grand stairs, climbing higher and higher as we listened to the guests ahead of us complain about the imposition without actually complaining.

  “My knees do not like stairs.” The man did his best to sound pleasant. “Of course, to be invited to the Red Hall is such an honor. I’m happy for the pain. It makes me think of the high magistrate and all he endures to keep us safe.”

  The woman with him nodded in emphatic agreement, even as she clutched the banister so tightly her knuckles paled.

  After five flights of stairs, we were ushered through a large glass door that led to the rooftop garden. It was a space big enough for a hundred people, though only sixty or so had arrived. Many held flutes of wine or plates of bread and soft cheese, taken from one of the long tables that sat on either side of the door. A house servant was stationed near each, ready with small paper napkins, and trays for empty plates and glasses.

  The hum of soft conversation surrounded us as Aaru and I paused next to one of the potted palm trees that lorded over the garden, and both of us studied this first battleground.

  Seventeen boxes—of orchids, lala flowers, bitter dawn trumpets, and other flowers I couldn’t identify—spilled riots of color across the garden. They were carefully pruned and maintained with the meticulousness of a proud Hartan gardener, but all I could see was how trapped they were.

  An entire wing of dragons graced the tiled floor, bright and colorful mosaics against the dusky red background. Drakontos sol, rex, ignitus—if I looked, I’d probably find every species represented here.