by Jodi Meadows
He glanced beyond me, to the lines of people waiting to get into the theater. “You just took off.”
Right. Didn’t he understand that she was pretending to be me? She’d stolen my name. My title. The thing I’d been my entire life.
“This isn’t like you.”
Even against the thunder, my voice felt low and dangerous. “Maybe it should be.” My whole body shook from rain and wind and rage. “I have to see that impostor. I have to . . .”
What? Make her pay? Expose her? Force my way onto the stage and confront her, declaring my identity to all?
Like this, soggy and wearing an ill-fitting shirt and trousers? I would appear as a madwoman to everyone, while Tirta would be wearing my clothes. She’d be clean and dry, her face perfectly made up with the finest cosmetics imported from Anahera.
Hristo just watched as reality crushed me once more.
“No one will believe I’m me.” The scar on my cheek felt huge, like a range of mountains on the map of my face. “Elbena tried to bleed the Hopebearer right out of me so she could put it into someone else.”
He shook his head. “That’s not something that can be taken from you, Mira. Not unless you let them.”
I closed my eyes. Rain washed down my head and neck and shoulders. “She’s probably here.”
“Who? Elbena?”
“Yes.” A flicker of terror struck me, but it wasn’t as though Elbena would peer outside a window and see me here. The theater lawn was filled with people, and the street bore traffic in spite of the rain. I was just another anonymous girl in cheap clothing, and Hristo was another Hartan boy, both of us obscured by the shimmering rain.
But what about my parents? Mother usually traveled with me. Father’s company was less frequent, but certainly not unusual.
They might be here. In that theater.
With Tirta?
Would they have agreed to this?
I couldn’t make myself look back at the building, too paralyzed by the possibility of seeing Mother’s silhouette in a window. “Where’s Ilina?” I asked instead.
“She took Crystal and LaLa to the inn.”
And Hristo had come chasing me to protect me from myself. “Sorry I ran off.” He was right. It wasn’t like me.
He studied my face for a moment, searching, and after a moment he sighed. “I understand.” Then he adjusted his arm in its sling as he glanced around.
I glanced, too.
1.People—too many to count.
2.Noorestones—fifteen on lampposts around the lawn, and a dozen on the stair rails up to the door.
3.Raindrops—infinite.
“All right. Come with me.” He started toward the side of the theater, not bothering to duck or check on whether we were being watched. “I think I know why you came here.”
Of course he did. He was Hristo. Half the time, he knew me better than I knew myself.
I lengthened my stride to keep up with him, and soon, we were out of view of the crowd, and the hum of conversation and melody of song were muted. The theater soared above us, imposing in all its glory, and our shoes slurped in the mud and grass.
Hristo kept his voice low. “When you came here before, theater security showed me a secret exit.”
“Why?”
He cast a frown over his shoulder. “In case there was a threat against your life.”
“In Harta?”
Hristo slowed his steps to let me catch up. “There have been threats against you everywhere we’ve gone. And you know that even your own home hasn’t always been safe.”
I bit my lip.
“Your mother wouldn’t let me tell you,” he went on. “She wanted you to think that everyone loved you, because you changed after that kidnapping attempt when we were children. She was afraid it broke you, and that anything else would destroy you completely.”
My heart sank, pieces of it sloughing off and falling into the abyss. Five steps. Six. Seven. “She said that?”
Hristo nodded. “She said if I ever breathed a word that there were people who’d tried to kill you, she’d have both Father and me removed from Crescent Prominence and I’d never see you again. So I never said anything.”
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .
“Before you ask, yes. I thought you deserved to know the truth. But I couldn’t take the risk that she’d somehow find out if I told you.”
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . . “How many?” I asked.
“How many what?”
“Attempts.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t count them.”
Because there were so many? Or because he knew that one day I’d find out and ask, and if I knew the exact number then perhaps Mother’s fears would come true?
Hristo didn’t know about the counting. No one did, except for Mother, Doctor Chilikoba, and somehow Krasimir and Aaru. At least, if Hristo and Ilina knew about the counting, they’d never said anything.
I sighed. They probably knew.
“I’m sorry my mother put you in that position. That was cruel of her.”
He stopped walking and faced me. “She doesn’t know as much about people as she thinks she does, but one thing she has never underestimated is how much I love you.”
I smiled. “Do you remember when I asked you to marry me?” I’d been all of twelve years old.
He laughed a little. “The answer is still no, Mira Minkoba.”
“Well, that’s good. I don’t want to marry you anymore.”
“What?” He pressed his palm against his chest. “I’ll never recover from this blow to my ego.”
“But I love you, too.” I took his hand. Though I’d known him for ten years, we’d hardly ever shown affection with simple touches or embraces, so the shape of his hand was unfamiliar in mine. And yet, it felt just as I’d imagined: strong, rough with calluses from holding weapons and working with his father, but also gentle. “I think we should say that more. All of us. I don’t want to wait, saving it for a special moment that might never come, and suddenly it’s too late.”
“I’ll have a decree drawn up.”
I smirked and pulled away, face so hot I was surprised the rain didn’t steam off my skin. “Show me that secret exit first.”
“As you wish.”
Together, we crept along the side of the theater. Other buildings rose up next to it, so we tried to move quickly and keep to the shadows, lest anyone glance out a window; the rain would only hide us so much.
The secret exit turned out to be a small back door, like the kind someone might use to dump a bag of trash outside, and that didn’t seem so secret to me, considering the other hidden passages we’d seen lately. But this one was locked.
“Are you going to break it down?” I asked.
“Of course. You know I always choose brute force.” He patted through his pockets, twisting awkwardly when he reached around his bound arm, but finally he pulled out two slender pieces of metal. “I don’t suppose you learned to pick locks in prison.”
“Where did you get those?” I checked our surroundings, but the buildings around the theater were dark and quiet.
“Captain Pentoba gave them to me.” He handed one piece to me—a length of steel with a small flag on one end. “I need your help.”
“What do I do?”
He showed me where to insert the tension wrench, how to hold it, and then he slid the lock pick into the keyhole.
It was slow work, because he was used to picking locks with his right hand and I didn’t know how at all. But after one hundred and five pounding heartbeats, pressure inside the cylinder gave, and I turned the lock.
“Good work.” Hristo put the tools in his pocket and we slipped inside a narrow space, barely big enough for both of us. A small noorestone on the floor illuminated the stone walls and a single wooden door. He rested his hand on the doorknob. “This will open near the servants’ washrooms. We can go in and dry off, that way we don’t leave a trail of water. There’s p
robably no one in there now, because fake Mira is already here, but we still need to hurry.”
“Fake Mira is just Tirta. She was with the Luminary Guards in the Pit, during the tremor.”
“If she’s masquerading as you,” he said, opening the door, “she’s fake Mira.”
The washrooms were empty, and as soon as we’d scrubbed ourselves dry, we each took a brown theater jacket and slipped it on. I helped Hristo button his closed, and then we headed for the auditorium.
My feet knew the way.
We kept our heads down, offering polite greetings whenever we passed someone in the halls. No one stopped us.
“What’s your plan?” Hristo asked as we came to one of the halls with double doors that opened onto the main floor. “Elbena is here. You shouldn’t confront anyone.”
No need to worry about that. Now that we were here, I wished I wasn’t. I wanted to turn around and sneak out through the not-so-secret exit and run all the way to the Red Wine Inn. I’d apologize to Ilina for my abrupt departure. I’d discuss my next move with the others. I’d hold my dragon. I’d pretend like the idea of sending Aaru off to a different ship tomorrow didn’t break my heart.
But I was here. And I needed to know.
The drone of the audience’s conversations drew me through the door and into an enormous shell of polished marble, crafted with such precision that a whisper on the stage would reach even the farthest stretches of the audience.
Seven hundred noorestones illuminated seven thousand seats, distributed across the main floor and three layers of balconies. Statues of all seven gods graced the chamber. Damyan and Darina reached for each other from opposite sides of the stage, while Bopha had been placed to cast the deepest of shadows on a wall. Harta stood by one of the doors, serene and majestic at once, while Khulan held his mace as he glared across the audience. Anahera had both hands covering her face, but one was palm-out; hints of a devious smile suggested she’d laid a trap we were all caught in. And Idris—he was hidden somewhere in the back, present, but often overlooked.
The stage, where Tirta would speak, was dim for now, but the moment she came out, theater workers would adjust mirrors to focus the light of noorestones onto her. She’d stand under that cool blue glow and sparkle, just as I always had, and people would love her.
I thought of the secret exit and Hristo’s words; not everyone would love her.
No one paid attention to me. Not without my dresses and jewelry and elaborate hairstyles. Here, I was as anonymous as I’d been in the Pit, and I could move about the aisles without arousing suspicion. Hristo followed on my heels.
“You!” An older woman in a theater uniform beckoned me. “Don’t dally. There’s work to do.”
At my glance, Hristo nodded and we hurried over to the woman.
I knew her. She was one of the theater managers. We’d met the last time I’d been here, but if she realized that the “Mira” she was hosting tonight wasn’t me, she didn’t show it. “You’re supposed to be on the upper balcony to work the noorestones when she comes out. Third set to the left.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll go up there right now.”
“Good.” But before I could move, she grabbed my arm and suddenly looked at me.
Thunder rolled in my head, and outside. A breath rasped out as I waited for her to recognize me, to say something about me looking familiar, but it didn’t take long for her gaze to flicker to the scar.
She released me.
“Both of you, get to work.”
My heart pounded in time with my steps as Hristo and I hurried off the main floor and took the stairs to the upper balcony’s lighting room. It was small, and lit with only ambient light, but I’d have a perfect view up here, and no one would question my presence.
“That was close.” Hristo closed the door after us. “But I suppose no one expects the Hopebearer to look anything other than exactly as they expect her to appear.”
“You’re right about that.” I looked around our station: twenty-five noorestones, and just as many mirrors and velvet covers. They were the same as those in other theaters and grand halls I’d been in, but I’d never had to use them before.
Well, I didn’t have to use them now. Tirta was stealing my identity; I didn’t have to do work for her. I was here to watch. If my parents were in Val fa Merce, I could speak to them tonight. I could tell them the truth about the speech on Bopha. And I could learn what they knew about the Mira Treaty.
I shucked off my borrowed theater jacket and went to the edge of the balcony.
We had a perfect view. As workers adjusted their mirrors and filters over the noorestones, a bright beam focused on the center of the stage, where a tall woman stood. The orange dress she wore set off her deep-brown skin, and the thick sash around her waist emphasized her full figure. A matching band held back dark curls, revealing the soft curves of her face.
Eka Delro, the First Matriarch of Harta.
I’d met her both times I’d visited Val fa Merce before, and I’d always thought her wise and kind; did she not know my impostor for what she was?
Applause rose like thunder while Eka stood in the center of the stage, looking as regal as ever. Only when she lifted a hand did the room begin to quiet.
“My dear family.” The shape of the theater amplified her voice, and the polished stone made her words echo in just the right places to allow everyone to hear. She gazed out over the crowd, covering every row, every balcony, so that no one would feel left out of her love. “My dear family,” she said again, “this evening we have a visitor we all admire, Mira Minkoba, the Hopebearer, the Dragonhearted.”
A rush of whispers filled the room: “Dragonhearted?”
Eka waited for them, ever patient, and when she could be heard again, she told Elbena’s version of what had happened on the docks in the Shadowed City. The way she spoke, I’d bravely put myself between a raging dragon and hundreds of terrified people. I’d lifted my hand and ordered the dragon to halt, and she had. And then I’d gone person to person to help them to their feet and offer a calming word to all.
“Dragons are the children of the gods,” Eka said. “We say this, and yet we forget they are fearsome creatures until something like this happens. Or something like the accident from our own sanctuary. We forget that though we are meant to protect the children of the gods, they are the children of the gods and they are more powerful than we can understand.”
With all the light focused on the stage, it was hard to see the darkened audience. But I caught hints of nodding.
“Calling Mira the Dragonhearted is no light thing.” Eka held up her palms as though pleading for her people to understand. “The Dragonhearted must face what we cannot. She must know the children of the gods. She must be incorruptible.”
“Seven Fallen Gods.” The darkness trapped my whispered curse in the lighting room with only Hristo here to hear it. She was turning me into a legend to convince the audience of the veracity of whatever Tirta was about to say.
“We are beyond happy to welcome her here tonight!”
If the applause before had been a thunder, this was the roar of the ocean crashing against cliffs. This was a shattering of sound as thousands of people poured out their approval.
Mirrors shifted the noorestone light to the ceiling as Eka Delro left the stage, and in the shadows on the stage, another figure moved into the center.
Tirta.
The Luminary Council had said they could replace me—elevate another pretty face—and here she was. Not by declaring another girl special, but turning her into me. She stood before all of us now, waiting between the outstretched hands of Damyan and Darina.
Light moved again. At the back corner of the stage, I could see the shape of Elbena, the Luminary Councilor who’d accompanied me on state visits throughout my life. She’d been a comfort. A friend. A confidant.
I touched the scar on my cheek.
Elbena was a thief. A liar. A traitor. Here, she stood with a
n impostor.
Tirta wore a long red gown seeded with gemstones that flashed under the bright glow, and her hair had been pressed into loose curls, pulled back with glittering pins. From this far away, she looked the part of the Hopebearer. The Dragonhearted. The gown, reminiscent of the red dress I’d worn in the Shadowed City, moved like dragon scales over her slim form.
The applause went on and on. People cheered. Some cried out that they loved her.
Fury pounded through my temples.
In the Pit, when Tirta had befriended me, I’d thought she resembled my sister. It was in her posture. Her delicate features. I hadn’t considered that she might have been studying me.
She’d come to help me in the end, however, and suggested she wanted to sneak me to safety without the Luminary Guards’ knowledge. I’d turned her down.
Now, on the stage, Tirta gazed from one side of the audience to the other. Even from here, I could see the sharp lines of her jaw, the broad strokes of black and gold shading that extended from her eyes to her temple, and the delicate point of her nose.
Hristo touched my arm, his expression dark with worry. “Someone’s coming up the stairs.”
He was right. The angry thump thump of climbing footfalls came toward us.
“The manager?” Twenty-five mirrors and twenty-five covers weren’t moving themselves, after all.
The lighting room door flew open, and the manager stood in the doorway, a furious expression darkening her face. “What are you doing? Don’t you know how to do your job?”
“No.”
She glared at me, incredulous. “You’re a humiliation. An embarrassment. I want you out of the theater immediately. No pay. I never want to see you again.”
Hristo looked to me for instruction.
“We can go.” I’d come to look. I’d stayed to see if my parents were here, but if they had come to Val fa Merce with Tirta, they would have been next to Elbena.
Before I could move toward the door, though, Tirta’s voice carried across the theater.
“Thank you for having me here tonight.” Tirta smiled widely as the crowd finally quieted enough for her to speak. “Seventeen years ago, the Mira Treaty took a stance against discrimination, and against the pillaging of our islands. The treaty states that to truly honor the Fallen Gods, all islands must be equal and independent. Anything less is immoral. Unethical. This truth is indisputable.”