“I imagine disposing of a carcass that size would be quite the chore.” The colonel said it with a quirk to his lip.
The dragons took care of their own dead, incinerating a corpse as though tending a respectful pyre. Sometimes there were scales or charred bones to see to afterward, and it was a bit of a chore, but that was never the point.
Milo bristled. “It would be a massive waste. It would be a dead dragon, and for what? Because someone in some government cubby somewhere needs to check I’m not telling someone in Vistosa something they already know? It’s a stupid rule, and it’s impractical, and if—”
“Ho there, lad. No need to set fire to my eyebrows.” The colonel held up his hands. “I’m only curious. I get copies of those reports, you know. And sometimes I don’t understand what various bits of information might mean.”
“Like what?”
“Like.” The colonel slipped his hands back into his pockets and leaned against the side of the car. He squinted out over the waves. “You keep track of all the dragons on this path.”
“Of course.”
“So if one didn’t show up before the migration season is done, you’d know it.”
“If one didn’t show up here at Old Forge, yes. Not every preserve along the way, though.”
The colonel peered at Milo from beneath the bill of his smart black cap. “Why is that?”
“Well, at Sowing, Old Forge is the last stop before the North Blackson. It’s a long stretch of nothing but water from here to Harthoer, where these clans are heading. If a dragon hasn’t rested here for a week or so before moving on, if it hasn’t refueled with fresh game or had its fire topped off, it’s likely not going to make it. We’re the last stop at Sowing and the first at Reaping, so we generally get a full count because they need the rest before or after braving the ocean. But at Reaping, once they get past Vistosa, you’ve got the whole of upper Drensland before you hit the southern waters. The stronger dragons might skip a preserve if they feel like hunting for themselves, or if they’re the ornery type that just prefer to stay away from people.”
“But you’d know if a dragon didn’t show up at any one preserve?”
“Sure. If they skip one, they’ll usually stop at the next, and if not, someone will probably at least spot a flyover. We all do counts and submit them in the reports.”
“And?”
Milo rolled his eyes. “And, yes, we write to each other if one goes missing. Hopefully it’s stopped at another preserve somewhere on the route and hasn’t died or disappeared along the way.”
“Do many disappear?”
“That’s enough, Alton.” Ceri had come off the porch and was slowly making her way across the yard, chickens clucking in disapproval as she stepped through an apparently worm-rich smudge of mud.
“I don’t think it is.” The colonel stood straighter, like he couldn’t help himself.
Ceri’s teeth set. “Anything you want to know, you can ask—”
“I’m asking dragonkin.” The colonel lifted his eyebrows, some kind of silent rebuttal Milo couldn’t parse.
Somehow, it shut Ceri up. She winced as though slapped then curled her lip, angry again, and looked away.
Milo had never seen his mam back down like that. Ever.
The colonel turned back to Milo. “Have you ever had a dragon disappear?”
Milo frowned between his mam and the colonel, looking for clues, because this had abruptly turned very odd, and he had no idea what the tension in the air might be. The colonel was still as unreadable as he’d been down at the gate. Ceri was clearly seething, but still strangely silent. Wary, though. On the balls of her feet, waiting to step in again.
“Yeeees?” Milo answered slowly. “I mean, not exactly. Not on this path. If one goes missing we can generally track—”
“There have been times when one has disappeared along other paths, though?”
Milo clacked his mouth shut, still trying to figure out what was going on here, and still unable to do it. His mam was staring a hole into the ground, no help at all.
“The central path has had a few instances, yeah.” Milo watched them both for reactions, but when Ceri gave him none and the colonel only nodded for him to go on, Milo said, “The preserves in Błodwyl reported two spitters that never showed up last Sowing, and a blackhorn this past Reaping. All cows. I mean, there’s always the chance they were pregnant and stayed behind to brood, in which case they’ll turn up again in about a year or so.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“The dragonkin in Błodwyl said they’d’ve noticed. And since I would’ve noticed....”
The colonel stared at Milo, thoughtful, waiting, but when Milo didn’t go on, asked, “So what d’you think happened?”
Milo shrugged. “Well, everyone heard about the plane in Ostlich-Sztym last year, for all they tried to keep it a secret. So there’s the possibility people are getting bolder, or stupider, when it comes to encroaching on flight paths.” The newspaper article had outraged Milo, less mournful about the lost pilot and more furious about anyone taking a chance like that anywhere near a migration path, off season or no. Planes were more at risk than dragons when it came to something like that, which was why no one with any sense ventured into what had been dragon airspace long before people found a way to launch themselves into the skies as well. But if a propeller managed to damage a wing and the dragon landed badly… Milo shook it off. “Honestly, though, with the trouble in Colorat and Ostlich-Sztym, I just figured it was a matter of not getting reports. Like the Colorat Coven going dark.”
He paused, ruminating, then went on, “Although, now that I think about it, Kriuces was missing one a few seasons ago. Might’ve been a horned redcrest, but I’d have to look it up. We had a couple of redcrests stop here, in fact, last Sowing, and a grayback, which was odd since they don’t usually venture this far west. But none of those were the one that disappeared, and I think that was before everything started with Colorat. I don’t remember anyone ever explaining it, though.”
“And Kriuces is the first stop on the central path after the Gray Ghosts Sea going south from Colorat.”
“Yeah.” Milo frowned at the colonel. “Is someone in Colorat killing dragons?”
It made no sense. Dragons weren’t easy to kill, and it was stupidly dangerous to try. Moreover, anything that might be got from some black market somewhere wouldn’t be enough to make it worth the risk.
“Not really what I had in mind,” the colonel said, low and with another speaking glance at Ceri.
Ceri seemed to understand what it meant, because she tightened her jaw and lifted her chin, scowling.
Milo only wished he could decode whatever silent language they were using. Because something was going on, something to do with missing dragons, and that was absolutely, unquestionably something dragonkin had a right to know about.
“And have any of your dragons been acting… different? Odd?”
That made Milo blink. “I mean, they’re all odd in their own ways. Odd how?”
“I don’t know. I’m asking you.”
“Well then, no. There’s nothing I can think of.”
“Is there anything you know of that could make a dragon act oddly?”
“I don’t even understand the question. If you tell me what you mean, maybe I can give you the answer you’re looking for.”
“I don’t really know, Milo. That’s why I’m asking dragonkin.”
“Then my answer is still that I don’t understand the question. Very few things could make a dragon do anything. In fact, I’d have to say, in my experience, nothing can make a dragon do anything it doesn’t want to do. So if you’ve heard of—”
“Thank you, Milo, that’s all I need.”
Dismissed. The colonel had just dismissed Milo, in his own yard, as though Milo were one of his subordinates. Which he absolutely wasn’t since the colonel had given Ceri her way and booted Milo out of consideration for the Home Guard.
> Before Milo could say as much or demand the answers he definitely deserved, the colonel tipped a firm nod. “This is between us, Milo. Do you understand?”
“No.” Milo gave the colonel the dirtiest look he could muster. “If someone’s hurting dragons, I’ve a right to know about it.”
“Not when Her Majesty says you don’t.” The colonel all but snorted at him, condescending, and turned to Ceri. “Think about what I said. It’s the best you’re going to get.” He slid his glance at Milo then back to Ceri. “Better than most.”
Before Milo could marshal a response that clearly wasn’t welcome anyway, the colonel opened the car’s door and slid into the passenger seat. Milo couldn’t help a bit of petty satisfaction when it made the lieutenant—still watching the sky like a dragon was going to descend from it and eat him—jump nearly out of his snazzy uniform.
Ceri grabbed hold of the door before the colonel could swing it shut. “Burn in the nether, Alton.” Snarled. “You and all the rest of them.”
The colonel huffed something that wasn’t exactly a laugh. “Last one there buys the drinks.” He shut the door when Ceri let go of it then rolled down the window. He lifted an eyebrow. “I assume I’ll still need an escort off the preserve.”
THEY HAD to wait until Harri and Howell were finished unloading the wagon. Howell somehow read Milo’s dazed awkwardness, his confused silence, and headed directly up to the house before Harri even got his tarps refastened.
The trip down was forever. The trip back up was even longer. Milo had dragons to check on and wards to test, and Glynn would be back from school this afternoon, expecting to have her excursion with Milo out to the pastures and whatever was waiting for them there.
It was all going to have to wait.
He left Poppy, still saddled, in the little corral off the sideyard and burst through the kitchen door. His mam sat at the table, alone, a fresh loaf of bread on a cooling rack in front of her, cold tea at her elbow, and her usual composure belted up around her like the deflective armor Milo was only recently coming to understand it was. She didn’t startle when Milo came charging in. She didn’t even look up at him.
She said, “I can’t tell you.”
And that was all.
Howell was nowhere to be seen. Lleu was curled in his bed beside the hearth, looking as poised and unconcerned as Ceri did.
Milo set his teeth. “You can’t just say that! Not about… I’m dragonkin. If this doesn’t concern me, then who—you can’t just—I have to know what—”
“What you have to know, Milo, is that I love you. Since the day I knew you were growing inside me, everything I’ve done, everything I will ever do, is for you.”
It was so infuriatingly calm. And even more infuriatingly uninformative.
“Mam.” Milo took a step forward. “I know that. I’ve never, ever questioned it. But this isn’t about—”
“You don’t know what it’s about!”
“Because you won’t tell me!” Milo threw out his hands, frustrated and edging on furious. “He didn’t come here for information on dragons. Every question he had, he could’ve asked me down at the gate. He came here for you.”
Ceri huffed with a roll of her eyes. “A word of advice, Milo—never try to decipher Meredith Alton.”
“Yeah? Well it’d probably be easier than deciphering you. At least he doesn’t lie to me when I ask—”
“I have never lied to—”
“You do it all the time! You’re doing it now! You look me right in the eye and say ‘I can’t tell you, Milo,’ or ‘It doesn’t concern you, Milo,’ when clearly it does, because even if it didn’t concern dragons it concerns you, and you’re my mam!” Milo paused, chest tight. “Something is always brewing. You said that. And now he shows up and you shut down, and I have a right—”
“You have no right to demand—”
“No, stop! Stop! I’m not a boy anymore. You can’t just order me to accept ‘I can’t tell you, don’t ask’ for an answer.” Milo took another step closer, hand gripping the back of a chair to keep himself from… flailing, raging, swooping in and shaking her, he didn’t know. “He came here for the Black Dog.” No reaction, not even a twitch, because Ceri Priddy used to be a spy and knew how to be unreadable when she wanted to be. Milo clenched his teeth. “He came here because something is always brewing, and he wants the Black Dog to find out what. And you’re thinking of doing it, aren’t you?”
Ceri snorted. “Honestly, I don’t know where you come up with—”
“So you won’t be leaving on another mysterious trip, then?”
“—these wild ideas. Alton is Colonel-in-Chief of the Kymbrygh Home Guard, not some secret spy organization.”
“Except he gets his orders from Llundaintref just like every other commanding officer. The Home Guard ranks in Tirryderch and Wellech are full of locals, commanded by locals. Not Alton’s. D’you think no one’s ever noticed how many times brass from Parliament pass through here? Or how you and a select few others always have your ‘reading group’ when they’re in town? I have. I’ve noticed. I know what a handler is, Mam, and it looks exactly like Alton. I’m not an idiot!” Milo slammed his palm on the table so hard the bread jostled off its cooling rack. Lleu sat up with a halfhearted whuff. And still, Ceri only sat there, looking exasperated now, as though Milo’s concern was a bother. It made Milo even more livid. “Blood and rot, Mam, I’m not blind and I’m not nearly as naïve as you seem to think I am! It’s not hard to guess—”
“No, you’re a stroppy, disrespectful boy who suddenly seems to think he knows more than his mam!”
“Oh, I’ve never had that delusion, since I’ve never not known my mam has been keeping secrets from me all my life!”
“Because there are some things you’ve no right—”
“I’m your son!”
“Which is why you should be trusting your mam and not trying to interrogate her!”
“Does Howell know? D’you tell him all these secrets you keep from me?”
“Howell has nothing to do with—”
“Then who does? Who does get answers from the Black Dog? Because I’d like to sign up for some lessons!”
“Stop calling me that! You’ve no right! You’ve no idea what—”
“Because you won’t tell me!
It was something between a cry, asking, and a roar, demanding. It was vehement and borderline desperate, and it shocked them both silent. The resonance of their voices—hanging together, interweaving, sharpness turned to a dull ring, like the aftermath of a struck bell—sat in the still air of the kitchen as thick as fog between them.
A dragon growled in the distance, something annoyed and petulant, likely a row over a sunny slab of rock in the south fields. The bells from the fishing boats trilled, high and bright. Kittiwakes and petrels squabbled on the pebbled beach at the feet of the cliffs. The sea rumbled and crashed.
Background noise Milo had been hearing all his life. Comforting. Welcoming. Loved.
And all he could hear right now was the booming silence that hung between him and his mam. Too full of secrets to be intimate. Too full of an excruciating love Milo didn’t understand to be anything but cruel, however unintentionally.
Ceri broke it when she stood, chair scraping across the scuffed wood of the floor. She pulled in a deep, calm breath, laid her hand to Milo’s cheek. “Because I love you.” Then turned and left the kitchen.
THREE WEEKS of cross words and angry silences later, Ceri left.
Just left.
Without even having told Milo she was going.
Howell took her to the station while Milo was out in the pastures. Milo came home that night to a note that more or less said I know you didn’t mean it, but even if you did, I love you, and I know you love me. And that was all.
“Where?” Milo croaked, head a bit light and his gut a sudden depthless cavern. He was sitting in the same chair Ceri had sat in while they’d torn at each other like angry dragons.
/>
Howell sighed. “You know better than to ask, boy.”
“Did she tell you?”
“Don’t be dense.” Howell huffed a mirthless laugh. “I know better than to ask.”
“For how long?”
Howell was quiet for a long time, squinting into the middle distance, clearly seeing nothing but what might be behind his unquestionably sad eyes. He jerked his head, set his jaw, and laid a hand to Milo’s shoulder.
“I know better than to ask.”
He left Milo there, sitting blankly in the kitchen, Lleu forlorn and needy but quiet at Milo’s knee. Milo sat for quite a long while before he stood, bunged his chair across the kitchen—a burst of fury he couldn’t have helped if he’d tried—and went to find his violin.
He stayed out late that night, confused and angry and afraid without quite knowing why, and played for the dragons until the calluses on his fingers were creased and sore.
It… didn’t really help.
When he got home, he stalked to Ceri’s room, broke the lock on the door with magic, and did what he’d never done before, never dared do before—he Looked. Because if he could touch the nimbus she’d left behind....
She’d wiped it clean. Somehow. Right down to the back corners of her cupboard, the bottoms of her drawers. The whole place was drenched in her magic, obliterating any trace she may have left behind and any chance Milo might have had of understanding what she thought she was doing.
All of it as gone as she was.
Chapter 8—Chord
: a harmonic combination that has three or more pitches sounding simultaneously
“Another Dewin. The place is bloody crawling with them, and all of them lousy with magic they hoard for themselves.” Folant turned toward Milo. “I guess you’d know. You and that bloody coven, all the bloody covens, tugging at the Queen’s skirts and petitioning for aid to the exiles. Refugees.” He rolled his eyes.
As though the word itself was a lie. As though people would leave their homes and lives and settle in an entirely different country only to annoy him.
He’d fought against accepting any into Wellech. Especially those who happened to have magic. And while most other communities in Kymbrygh welcomed those who’d managed to flee Colorat and Ostlich-Sztym—or at least didn’t blatantly challenge the Crown’s recent policies on immigration from the unsettled nations—Folant hadn’t even bothered to try to conceal his open bigotry. Or his wrath when both the Crown and his son thwarted his attempts to refuse asylum.
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