The king still did not wake. Suntai narrowed her eyes, staring at the old man. He lay slumped, nearly falling from his seat, his shoulders stooped.
By the stars of the night …
Suntai covered her mouth.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “The King of Leen, he’s … embalmed.”
The king was not just pale; he was lacquered and gleaming, frozen like a creature caught in ice. Finally Suntai saw the source of the ticking. At first, from the distance, she had mistaken it for an embroidered sigil. Now she saw that a hole filled the king’s chest, larger than her fist. A mechanical heart filled the cavity, made of bronze gears, springs, and sprockets. The gears turned, ticking with a metallic heartbeat. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.Yet still the king slept, his chin resting against his chest, his limbs splayed. Tick tock, beat his heart, a rhythm like pattering rain and the life of dreams.
“The King of Leen cannot die, child of night,” said Pirilin the dragon. “His sons have fallen; all heirs lie beneath the sea. I have given him life, crafting a device of all my cunning. For five hundred winters has the king sat upon his throne, and my gift of a heart still beats within him. I guard him still.”
Suntai slowly exhaled, staring at this lingering mockery of life, this creature half-machine and half-man. She returned her eyes to the dragon.
“It is Pirilin, then, whom I must speak to. It is Pirilin whom I will ask for aid. Timandra attacks!” Suntai gestured at the two she had brought with her. “I bring before you two Timandrians, two who’ve joined the darkness of night. An army of their kind crawls across the Qaelish plains. Join us in this fight.”
Pirilin blinked, her great lashes—each as long as a human arm—fanning the air. She shook her body, letting her scales clatter and gleam.
“These are not the first Timandrians I’ve seen.” Her voice was low like cold wind over pebbles. “The sunlit sailors have brought their fire, their swords, and their arrows to our lands. From the island of Orida they sail, a sunlit twin to Leen, and they bring death. Our ports burned. Our fleet battled theirs and sunk their ships. We cast the enemy back, yet already more of their galleys sail toward us. I have seen them upon the wind.”
Behind her, Suntai heard Cam translating the words into Ardish for Linee, his voice hushed. Suntai stepped away from the two, moving closer to the dragon, so close that she could feel the beast’s hot breath against her.
“Then you have seen the terror in Qaelin,” she said to the dragon. “Half a million Timandrians now crawl across the plains toward Yintao. The demon Ferius leads them, and he seeks to burn all the lands of night—our empire and yours. I have come, Pirilin, to unite our strength. If your king sleeps and you speak for him, speak the words of war. Fight with me!”
She stared at that sleeping king and his ticking heart. Her chest rose and fell, and her fingers tingled. More than the warmth of a bed, the taste of meat, or the sweetness of wine, she longed for songs of war, for spears banging against shields, for drums and horns and thudding boots. She was Suntai of Chanku, raised to crave the glory of blood, yet here in this hall she craved no glory—only the strength to protect her people.
“Our soldiers are strong and wise,” said Pirilin. “Yet never have we meddled in the affairs of Qaelin or Ilar. For thousands of years, we in Leen have remained upon our island, gazing at the stars, studying the wisdom of the skies.” She shook her scaly head. “The night is large and dark, and we have built a city of light.”
Suntai sneered, resisting the urge to draw her sword. Her voice echoed across the hall. “You cannot stay on your island forever! You cannot ignore the world beyond your shores. That world came to you in ships—enemy galleys that burned your western coast … and a southern caravel bearing a warning.” Her fists shook. “If Ferius the Demon conquers Yintao, he will set his sights on Leen next. He distinguishes not between Elorian to Elorian; we are all equal kindling for his fire. For thousands of years you lingered here, yet you cannot ignore this fire. Sail south with me, Pirilin! Face the enemy upon the mainland! Do not speak of Orida, Leen, or Qaelin; those are old names, and this is a new war. This is a war between day and night.”
She stood, chest rising and falling as she panted. Even in the cold air, sweat beaded on her brow. For long moments, only the ticking of the mechanical heart filled the chamber. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The guards stood still. The dragon said nothing, and Suntai wanted to charge forward, grab the beast’s horns, and shake them.
“Will you not fight?” she cried, turning from dragon to guards and back again. “Will you wait in your hall until the demons burst into it? You spoke of commanding ships. Soldiers fill your city. Send them south! Roar your battle cry and fight with—”
“Leen does not take orders from Suntai the rider,” said Pirilin, interrupting the speech. “You are a warrior, Suntai, and you are strong and brave, yet we in Leen value other qualities.” The dragon’s fangs gleamed. She uncoiled and rose to hover above the tiles, flowing toward Suntai like a snake upon the water. “We value wisdom above all else. You are strong, rider of wolves, but are you wise?”
Pirilin’s scaly head hovered only a foot away now. Her toothy mouth opened. She could have swallowed Suntai whole.
“All great warriors are wise,” Suntai replied, staring into the dragon’s eyes, each one as large as her head.
The beast grinned, and it reminded Suntai of the grin her wolf made before tearing into living flesh. “We shall see.” The dragon licked her chops with a purple tongue. “I will test your wisdom, Suntai of Qaelin, and the wisdom of the Timandrians you bring into my hall. My brother Shenlai, the blue dragon of Qaelin, is a keeper of secrets. My brother Tianlong, the black dragon of Ilar, is a warrior. Yet I am Pirilin the White, a riddler.” The dragon’s eyes gleamed, and her tail rose behind her like a scorpion’s stinger about to strike. “Three riddles will I ask you. If you answer all three, I will judge you wise, and Leen will join its strength to yours.”
“And if I cannot answer?” Suntai said. “You will cast us out?”
Pirilin laughed. “If you fail to answer, you are foolish, and I have only one use for fools. You will remain here as my playthings … until I grow hungry, and then you will become my meals.” The dragon licked the drool off her chin. “Are you ready?”
The heart ticked. Suntai looked to the king, praying silently for him to wake, as if prayers could end a sleep of centuries, undoing the clockwork of an ancient dragon.
“Do not look at him!” Pirilin demanded, moving to block the view. “You speak with a dragon now, not a king. Do you accept my challenge? If you do not, leave this court.”
Suntai growled. Was this a game to Pirilin? Her people were dying, and the dragon would play with riddles? She looked over at Cam and Linee. They stared back, faces pale and bodies stiff.
“I say we play,” the shepherd whispered to her. “I’m good at riddles. Or at least I used to be at The Shadowed Firkin, our tavern back home. Hem would tell riddles sometimes and I used to solve most of them.”
Linee nodded, hair flouncing; she spoke in mix of Ardish and broken Qaelish. “I’m good at riddles too! We had a book of them back at the palace. I mostly read books about animals, but sometimes I read the riddles one.” She twisted her foot and lowered her gaze. “I mostly cheated and just read the answers, but … I remember a lot. Maybe Pirilin will ask a riddle I already know.”
Suntai grunted. She was wise at tracking stonebeasts, reciting histories of battles, and fighting with the blade, yet riddles were a strange craft to her. But what other option did she have? She would not leave this palace empty-handed. Not as Okado needed her.
She returned her eyes to Pirilin. “Very well, Pirilin the White, dragon of Leen. Ask us your three riddles. We will answer them truly, and then … then we will sail to war.”
“Or I will enjoy a meal,” said Pirilin with a hungry smile. “We begin.”
* * * * *
Cam took a deep breath, struggling to calm his frayed nerves.
Linee took his hand and squeezed it, but the warm gesture offered little comfort.
We should have brought Torin with us, he thought. Torin had always been the best at riddles. Instead he had Suntai, a woman who knew every way to kill a man but had probably never read a book, and Linee, a woman who had owned many books and probably only looked at the pictures. As Pirilin the dragon licked her lips and cleared her throat, Cam gulped.
I’ll have to rely on myself, he thought. It’ll be just like a game back at The Shadowed Firkin.
The dragon’s tongue darted, and the beast spoke her first riddle, her voice carrying across the hall. She uttered it first in Qaelish for Suntai, then in Ardish for Cam and Linee.
“Lives in dungeons
And dead men’s eyes
Dwells in holes
And beyond the skies
Fills a killer’s heart
And the weary’s yawn
Yet come to meet me
And find me gone”
Cam frowned, took another deep breath, and searched his thoughts for an answer. At his sides, he saw Suntai and Linee mumble to themselves, brows furrowed.
Come on, just pretend you’re Torin and answer! Cam told himself. He tried to remember the dragon’s words, but already they were slipping from his mind.
What lived in dungeons? Rats? Prisoners? A rat would disappear if you came to meet it, but … how could rats live beyond the skies? Cam clenched and unclenched his fists. How could anything exist beyond the skies?
“Well, foreigners,” said the dragon. The beast emitted a hissing laughter, and her tongue darted. “Will you not answer?”
“Give us some time!” Cam said.
The dragon’s teeth gleamed. “Answer, strangers, for I grow hungry.”
Despite the cold air, sweat trickled down Cam’s back. He glanced at Linee and saw her chewing her lip and wringing her hands. When he glanced at Suntai, however, he saw no nervousness. The wolfrider lowered her head, and her arms hung loosely at her sides. She seemed almost sad.
“Answer!” demanded the dragon. “Answer or I feast.”
Cam wracked his brains. The riddle had said something about filling hearts and eyes. Cruelty? Joy? Why would those disappear if you visited them?
He opened his mouth to request—to beg for!—more time. Before he could speak, Suntai raised her head. She spoke in a soft voice, a voice full of sadness and frailty that Cam had never heard in the proud warrior.
“I know something of this thing,” said the wolfrider and placed a hand on her belly. “The answer is: emptiness.”
Pirilin seemed to pout—if it were possible for a dragon to pout. “Pity. I was hoping to eat you already. You answered truly.”
Cam took a deep, shuddering breath, but his relief was short lived. The dragon rose higher, hovering several feet above the floor, and spoke her second riddle.
“Topples mountains
Cuts through stone
Mightier than crown and throne
Strangles men
And crumbles lead
Yet without him
All lie dead”
The companions stood before the dragon, frowning and mumbling to themselves. Cam bit his lip and twisted his fingers. Topples mountains and stone and lead? What kind of weapon could do that … yet foster life?
He glanced at Suntai, but she seemed just as stumped; she winced and twisted her brow, deep in thought. Cam cursed under his breath, and a shiver ran through him. A cannon? An army? One could claim that an army protected life, but how could even an army cut stone and topple mountains?
“It looks like I’ll be enjoying a meal,” said Pirilin. Saliva dripped between her teeth. “I do believe I’ll eat the boy first; he is small as an appetizer.”
Cam held up his hand. “Wait! Give us a moment.”
At his side, Linee whimpered and covered her eyes, and Suntai cursed. Cam tapped his foot, thinking back to the war. What had been the greatest danger he’d faced? Arrows? Swords? Fire? None seemed to fit.
He snickered. It often seemed to him that more than weapons, it was the journey at sea that had crippled him; he had gagged overboard so often that—
Cam froze, mouth hanging open.
“Time to feast,” said the dragon and hovered toward him, maw opening wide. Her hot breath blasted him, and strings of saliva quivered between her teeth like harp strings.
“Water!” Cam shouted. “The answer is: water!” He laughed. “Of course.”
The dragon hissed, pulled back, and closed her mouth. She glared at Cam and whipped her tail. Her scales clinked like a sack of coins. With a growl, the dragon spoke her third riddle.
“Both question and answer
Both darkness and light
In the minds of the wise
And the stars of the night
I guard the paths to wisdom
I hide the greatest treasure
Name what lies behind my door
And you’ll lose me forever”
For a long moment, the three companions stood silently.
Cam clutched his head, tapped his foot, and bit his lip, but no answer came to him. At his side, Suntai was balling her fists and whispering, her eyes closed, but seemed no closer to finding an answer. Pirilin the dragon laughed, a sickening sound, and snapped her teeth.
Oh muddy sheepskins, Cam thought with a grimace. I don’t know this one. I don’t know. We’re dragon food. Oh Idar …
Linee’s voice rose beside him. “It’s a riddle.”
Cam groaned. “Yes, Linee, I know it’s a riddle. Let me think.”
She tugged his sleeve. “But Camlin! It’s a riddle.”
“I know, Linee!” He glared at her. “I know it’s a riddle. Please be quiet and let me think of the answer.”
Linee groaned, crossed her arms, and stomped her feet. “The answer is ‘a riddle’, you foolish boy. ‘A riddle’ is both the question and answer.” She turned toward the dragon, puffed out her chest, and grinned. “The answer is: a riddle.”
Cam turned toward the dragon, expecting the beast to lunge and feast upon him. But Pirilin only stared, her violent eyes gleaming. A smile stretched across the dragon’s face, but this time it was not hungry, but a smile of kindness and wisdom.
“The riddles are solved,” she said. “Your wisdom is deep.”
Linee hopped up and down, clapped excitedly, and hugged Cam. He pried her off and stepped closer to Pirilin.
“Will you fight with us?” he said, chest rising and falling. He looked across the hall at the embalmed king upon his throne, clockwork heart ticking; at the guards between the columns, faces hidden behind silver helmets; and back again at the white dragon with the lilac eyes. “Will you sail south with us? Will you fight Ferius and his hosts?”
They were all silent. Cam panted, staring from side to side, and drew his sword. He raised the blade, eyes stinging.
“Will you not answer?” Cam walked from soldier to soldier and then back to Pirilin. Heart thrashing, he touched the dragon’s scales; they were ice-cold. “I’ve answered your riddles. Now answer mine! Will you fight?”
Pirilin blinked her crystal orbs. For a moment, the only sound was the sleeping king’s clockwork heart. Cam stared at the dragon. Suntai and Linee came to stand at his side.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Slowly, Pirilin rose like a snake from a basket, like smoke from a flame, until her head nearly touched the vaulted ceiling fifty feet above. Her body swayed and chinked. She looked down upon the companions and cried in a voice that shook the hall.
“Leen will fight!”
Linee hopped and squealed with joy, and Suntai raised her sword and cried for battle. Cam, however, could feel no joy, not even relief. He only closed his eyes, lowered his head, and squared his jaw.
I avoided starvation and a dragon’s wrath. His eyes stung. Now I will sail with an army. Now blood will spill, fire will burn, and death will cover the night.
The cry echoed in the chamber, and the so
ldiers of Leen repeated the cry. “Leen will fight! Leen will fight!”
The chants rose. The heart ticked on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE SHIPS OF ILAR
“No,” she whispered, thrashing her head. “Please, no, don’t…”
She tried to pull back but could not. She begged, but the beast would not listen. Still the nightwolf fed, digging its teeth into her arm, ripping flesh, shaking its head and tugging and clawing, tearing tendons, cracking bone. Koyee wept, her ruin of an arm trapped within the beast’s mouth, and she screamed as it ate her.
“He’s eating me … please, stars, please … he’s eating me alive…”
But the wolf was gone; it had never been a wolf at all. Her arm lay within a pile of smoking bones, not a beastly mouth. Bits of charred flesh still clung to the pile, hot, searing her. She recognized these remains. Here were the bones of her father, stacked in a wheelbarrow, and Koyee screamed again, trying to pull her arm loose, lost in the darkness. The bones were so hot, crackling with flame, and she watched her arm wither until it too was only a bone, only a smooth shaft coated with burnt skin. She wept.
“Help … help me, please…”
A hand touched her forehead. “I’m here, Koyee. I’m here. You’re safe.”
She knew that voice. It was Torin! Torin the demon, the creature with the mismatched eyes! He stood behind the wheelbarrow, pushing it forward, bringing this death into her land.
“Go away,” she begged him. “Go back into the dusk. Leave Oshy. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go to Pahmey. Please … Torin, go away.”
Yet he would still not release her. He still kept his hand on her forehead, only it wasn’t Torin after all; why had she thought it was Torin? She tried to toss off the warty hand, but he only laughed—Old Snaggletooth, his gums stained with the spice, his strands of hair swaying. He reached into her pockets, seeking, rifling, stealing her money, her life, her memories of home.
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