Fireborne

by Rosaria Munda

  I don’t really understand what she means until the night of the ball. Then, barricaded in the girls’ dorm, I pull on a dress that looks like something out of Duck’s book of fairy tales and allow Crissa to arrange my hair. When Alexa passes me the mirror she’s smuggled in from her home on the Janiculum, I take in my appearance with surprise. It’s strange to see that with the right kind of clothing and hair, I don’t look like someone who would ever have been called a peasant. Almost reflexively, I pull my shoulders back and stand a little straighter. Deirdre and Alexa are letting out shrill exclamations of delight, and for once I don’t mind. Even Orla, lying on her bed and reading as usual despite her ball gown, takes the time to glance over the top of her book and give me a thumbs-up.

  “Our Annie, all grown up,” Deirdre says to Alexa, wiping an imaginary tear.

  Crissa takes my hand to spin me toward her, the half step of a dance, and I let out a laugh of startled delight. At the sound of my laugh she presses her finger against my lips like she’s pausing something.

  “That’s it. That’s the face you need to wear. Smile the whole time, Annie. Show those wrinkly old Golds how much fun you’re having. That’ll impress them more than anything.”

  I haven’t told her any of what Hane said to us in the private session for the Fourth Order. But maybe Lee or Cor did. Or maybe Crissa just guessed.

  When we join the boys in the solarium, I hesitate on the threshold. It feels ridiculous to be wearing a formal gown in front of people who’ve never seen you in anything but a military uniform. But then Duck appears in front of me.

  “Annie?”

  I let out a half-embarrassed laugh. He wears the same delighted expression he once turned up to a starry sky when he insisted I see it. Warmth fills me. Surely this is a gift greater than any other, to be able to enjoy the world so openly, without apology.

  “Not bad yourself,” I tell him, and Duck laughs, patting his own wet-combed hair with a sheepish grin.

  And then, amid the sparkling of dresses and the black mantles and the sprinklings of laughter, I feel the eyes of a single person on me from across the room. Unlike the others, he stands perfectly still. Waiting for me.

  I kiss Duck on the cheek, like Crissa might have done, except for once her exuberance suits me, too. Then I turn and walk across the floor to Lee.

  “Hey.”

  I feel a foreign boldness coursing in my veins as I stand in front of him and we look at each other. I take in the sight of Lee in dress uniform, so suited to it that he seems dangerous. And I take in the cool liquid tension, like discomfort but not quite, that comes with the feeling of his gaze on me.

  “Better than the last dress you saw me in?”

  The last dress he saw me in was a shift approaching rags. I hear myself make the Albans reference as if someone else dared it. Lee’s smile becomes a grin. He lets out a soft laugh.

  “Much better,” he agrees.

  And still, his gaze is on me. Surprised, like he’s just realized something and is pleased by it. I feel the pitter-patter of recognition, of those eyes, that face—all the more familiar in a dragonrider’s ceremonial uniform—but for this one moment I refuse to acknowledge it.

  The Palace clocktower is tolling the hour. It’s time to go.

  Lee turns his elbow ever so slightly away from his body, and though it’s not a gesture of politeness we’ve been taught, I understand. He’s offering me his arm.

  Heart in my mouth, I take it.

  LEE

  Even though all our training and security measures since the sighting have been implemented under the assumption that we’d be going against a sparked fleet, I’ve still, in the wake of meeting with Julia, felt uneasy. Unable yet to make any report that wouldn’t arouse suspicion, I’ve been advocating for higher numbers of patrols along the northern coast, with a greater number of Guardians manning each one. But when it comes to the night of the Lycean Ball, my request for additional precautions is overruled.

  “It’s been weeks, we’ve seen nothing, and Atreus wants all of you there,” Holmes tells me beforehand, during our meeting in his office in the Inner Palace, lined from floor to ceiling with maps of the Medean, of the North Sea, of Callipolis. “For all we know, they’re not even sparked.”

  For a moment, I consider telling the Minister of Defense that I know better. But I’m fairly certain this man, this hero of Palace Day, would drop his avuncular tone pretty quickly at that news.

  Not an option. I’m only safe—and only free to act—as Lee sur Pallor, from Cheapside.

  So I bite back the answer that I can’t give and deliver the one I can. “I thought the policy is to plan as if they are sparked.”

  Holmes gives me a hard-eyed stare, then lets out a bark of appreciative laughter.

  “I like how you think, Lee. But it’s just one night. Try to enjoy yourself, all right?”

  By the night of the ball itself, I’ve almost persuaded myself to listen to Holmes. As we make our way to the Hall of Plenty at sunset, its lingering warmth enough for the breeze to feel like a caress, the tension left in me from Julia’s threats slides reluctantly away. It’s hard, on such a night, to remember fear.

  Especially not with Annie’s arm folded in mine. She lingers beside me as we make our way through the Palace to the Hall of Plenty, and her continued presence is something I marvel at. Duck walks a few paces ahead, sucked into conversation with Rock and Lotus, though occasionally he twists back to look at us. Each time he does, his eyes find and fixate on Annie. I can’t tell if she doesn’t notice or is just acting like she doesn’t.

  Though the occasion has changed, much about tonight’s feast feels familiar from the old days: the elegant figures making their way to the candlelit Hall of Plenty; the sound of muffled laughter within echoing in the courtyard without. As a child, I used to wander here with my cousins and siblings after dinner, throw rocks in the ponds surrounding the statue of Pytho the Unifier, and climb the marble dragon’s back to touch old Pytho’s nose. Pytho is gone now, destroyed in the Revolution, but his dragon remains.

  Outside the hall, ministry officials are pulling aside guests who will make up the opening procession: the Lyceum graduates; followed by the Guardians according to flight ranking; and finally the professors of the Lyceum, robed for the occasion in their academic caps and gowns. I can hear the sound of hundreds of people inside, talking, laughing, waiting for the meal to begin. Annie, standing beside me at the rear of the Guardian section, sucks in a breath and then exhales.

  I turn to look at her, and as I do, I can’t help taking it all in again: her gown, a burnished aurelian red, settling just off her shoulders; the curls of auburn hair arranged atop her head in an elegant cascade; the pale expanse of skin between, rippling with the burn scars of a dragonrider. She’s at once as beautiful as what came before and something else entirely: something powerful. The women of the old order have been surpassed, and so too has the cowering child I once met in an orphanage.

  But I take in her expression and realize that, absurdly, despite her transformation, Annie is still intimidated by a fancy dinner.

  “You’re nervous?”

  Annie nods. “I don’t exactly belong in there,” she mutters, smiling grimly.

  I wonder if I’m imagining that she puts an emphasis on I.

  ANNIE

  Stained glass sparkles high above, stone pillars as broad as the tables themselves rising to support a vaulted ceiling shrouded in smoke from the fires that line the hall. Candlelight warms the faces turned toward us, sparkles on jewels and gowns, and glints on the golden wristbands on every wrist. I am aware of the eyes of the hall on us as we make our way down the central aisle. Our seats, along with those of the other members of the Fourth Order, are at the high table.

  Once everyone is seated, Atreus rises.

  “We are gathered today to celebrate the accomplishments of th
ose Lyceans who have completed their education and are now entering our society as colleagues. Some might wonder, in this time of crisis, whether such ceremony and celebration still has a place: To them I answer, now more than ever. On the brink of war we do well to remember what we fight for. We do well to remember that Callipolis has a future that shines brightly, and these young people deserve a better world.

  “The graduates we honor today will not only inherit the world we leave them: Some of them will be on the vanguard fighting for it. Tonight, in a very special addition, we also welcome the thirty-two Guardians who have reached the final stages of their training.

  “Lyceum graduates, please rise when I call your name.”

  Atreus proceeds to read from a roll: the student’s name, their specialty, and, where applicable, their government posting. After about forty young men and women have risen from their seats, scattered up and down the long tables that fill the hall, they are applauded and sit down. Atreus proceeds:

  “Will the Guardians of the Thirty-Second Order please rise when I call their name.”

  He begins with the lowest-ranked of the dragonriders, whose ranking was determined in qualifiers before the public tournaments began. Their names are followed by drakonym instead of surname, and modified by dragon breed. After the riders of the Thirty-Second Order have been listed and applauded, Atreus proceeds to the Sixteenth. Lotus and Deirdre are among those who rise. Then the Eighth, those who made it to the public quarterfinal: Duck, Rock, and Crissa are among them. Crissa’s squadron leadership is noted after her dragon’s breed. Then the Fourth: Power sur Eater, Stormscourge. Cor sur Maurana, Stormscourge squadron leader. And finally Atreus says, “Last but not least, our finalists for Firstrider.”

  Antigone sur Aela, Aurelian. Lee sur Pallor, Aurelian squadron leader.

  The applause is, by now, shockingly loud; I can feel it thrumming through my chest, sending tingles up my spine. Lee is staring hard in front of him. Atreus nods to us, we resume our seats at last, and he raises his glass.

  “To the future.”

  We raise our glasses and drink. My mouth has been uncomfortably dry for the last half hour. I’m surprised by how pleasant my first taste of wine is, like grape juice but richer. I take another sip, and Lee leans over.

  “It’s strong. Don’t use it to quench your thirst.”

  I nod, but can’t help thinking that if my mouth keeps drying out at the rate it has so far, my throat might just close up. Lee takes in my expression and frowns. He twists and makes a minute gesture at one of the servants moving along the table, who swoops down at once to hear Lee’s request. An iron wristband, I note, with muted discomfort. Around us, roast goose is being sliced and served, steaming vegetables are being piled on plates.

  Lee tells the servant: “Water for the table, please.”

  The servant bows. “At once, milor—”

  He catches himself. Lee smiles politely, not acknowledging the slip, and the servant backs away, embarrassed. I take a gulp of wine, on purpose.

  Aside from Miranda and myself, there’s only one other woman at the table present for reasons other than marriage: a steel-haired, middle-aged woman with jewels glittering silver against the warm gold complexion of her neck. When Atreus introduces her as Dora Mithrides, I realize I know about her already. For various reasons related to a dead husband and an inherited financial empire, she’s one of the most powerful citizens on the Janiculum, an honorary alderman on their council, known for investments that were critical to getting the Revolution off the ground. When she speaks, it takes a moment to figure out why I don’t understand her right away. Then I realize she’s speaking in Dragontongue.

  Hane drums her fingers on the table, lines appearing between her eyebrows at the sound of the language; she glances at Mitt Hartley, the chairman of the Censorship Committee, who lifts his eyes to the ceiling. The foreign minister, Legio Symmach, and Dean Orthos, head of the Lyceum, smile almost guiltily; Holmes’s forehead wrinkles like he is parsing.

  “Callish, Dora,” Atreus chides gently. “Many of our guests don’t speak Dragontongue.”

  Dora hmphs and reverts to heavily accented Callish. “Including your four Guardians, I take it? I’ve noticed that no riders from the Janiculum made it into the Fourth Order.”

  “I’m from the Janiculum,” Power says.

  Dora, who is sitting next to him, pats a ring-crusted hand on his arm. “You’ll forgive me, boy, I mean to say Janiculum blood. Patrician blood. You are adopted, are you not?”

  Power blanches. Cor chokes on his wine and nearly spits it out. Even Lee has to hide an inhaled snort that he turns into a cough.

  Adopted? Power, who spends all his time lording his birth over commoners like me?

  Power gives Lee and Cor a look of venom, the color of his cheeks deepening nonetheless. And when he catches me struggling to keep my mouth in a line, he juts out his chin, glaring at me.

  I hide my smile in my wineglass and return my attention to the adults, who have noticed none of our exchange.

  “I thought we were agreed,” Atreus is saying to Dora, smiling with the strained patience of an old argument, “that blood is precisely not how this regime would select its elite.”

  “You mistake my point,” Mithrides answers promptly. “I have no classist complaint to make. My concern is military.”

  General Holmes’s eyebrow lifts with a look of incredulity, but he continues slicing his goose without engaging.

  “Oh?” Atreus asks, with reservation.

  “With regard to your sparking problem.”

  Holmes puts down his knife.

  “Madam Mithrides, there is no sparking problem.”

  Mithrides snorts.

  “You need dragonborn blood to spark your fleet. The patricians have dragonborn blood in them. Too many generations of intermingling not to. All I’m saying is, if you had a few more patrician riders—”

  Hane and Atreus look at each other, expressions not entirely masking surprise, seeming to be silently conferring. Stephan Orthos, the dean of the Lyceum, responds first, his tone irritable.

  “Yes, I know that theory is all the rage right now,” he says, “but there’s no science behind it, Dora. Just misapplied literary criticism. The Aurelian Cycle is a work of fiction, not a military manual. Whatever people down at the club are saying.”

  Orthos does not notice how his words generate another exchange of glances between Hane and Atreus, or its alarm.

  “I’d like someone to please explain to me this theory that the Lyceans are discussing in their club,” says Holmes.

  Holmes is, I realize with a start, the only exception to the class-gold guest list. Either consciously or not, he flicks his wrist as he speaks, so that his sleeve covers his silver wristband.

  Hane speaks first, her tone hesitant.

  “As I understand from my research department, the theory Dora refers to is one that’s cropped up on and off over the years and found a small resurgence recently because of the pressures on our fleet to spark. The usual blood-supremacy argument about dragonriding families, based on the Aurelian Cycle. Because it depicts dragonlords as godlike, the theory would say that there’s a blood difference, a blood superiority, between the dragonborn and their subjects. Of course it’s a completely—unsubtle—reading of the text . . .”

  There is distaste in Hane’s tone.

  “And how is that?” Mithrides asks icily.

  Lee’s voice is quiet, but he has no difficulty drawing the attention of the table, even though he’s speaking for the first time.

  “Because the hubris of the first Aurelians was their downfall. You could just as easily read the Aurelian Cycle as a condemnation of the dragonlords.” Lee nods at Atreus, acknowledging the interpretation that we have discussed in class, and then adds: “You could even read it as a condemnation of dragon-riding itself.”

>   This last part is an extrapolation Lee seems to have made on his own. Atreus’s still face flickers as he studies him, the briefest trace of surprise. But Hane, nodding wordlessly in Lee’s direction, doesn’t notice.

  “In recent months the theory has taken on new elements in certain circles,” she explains, “claiming specifically that dragon-born blood is tied to dragon bonding and sparking. It’s all completely unfounded, but the problem is, of course, that sparking itself remains such a mystery. What causes it? How to trigger it? We don’t know. In any case I’d thought”—here, Hane gives Dean Orthos a questioning look—“that the blood-superiority theory had only fringe popularity and that most of its proponents had been apprehended by the Reeducation Committee. I would not have known it is all the rage down in the club.”

  Orthos shifts in his chair. He is a middle-aged man, graying, venerable, even when wearing an academic cap. At her glance he is, suddenly, full of discomfort, as if realizing that what he’d assumed was common knowledge was in fact something he has just, in fact, divulged. When he speaks, his tone is apologetic, appeasing.

  “Well, you know how it is, Miranda,” he says. “Conspiracy theories find fertile ground where people are frightened.”

  Hane takes this observation with a gracious nod of her head. “That is undoubtedly true.”

  And then, when she looks up, it is at Hartley, the chairman of the Censorship Committee, who has not yet spoken. He returns her gaze with matching gravity.

  Though neither speaks, it’s the first exchange in this conversation that actually alarms me. Hartley’s committee determines what literature to restrict, ban, or confiscate; an exchanged glance with him has the power to change a library’s contents.

  Dora Mithrides has turned to Lee. “I take it you are studying the Aurelian Cycle? Where are you from, again?”

  Lee’s lip curves. “Cheapside.”

  “So you have learned Dragontongue in school.”

  There is unmistakable skepticism in Mithrides’s tone. Lee nods.