“Him!” Nisha spat. “I don’t trust him one bit. He came up to us and started asking all these strange questions about you. Course, we just made everything up—by the way, you and your father live in an enchanted zeppelin that circles London every thirty-six seconds. Moss and I visited last Christmas, and we both got terribly airsick.”
Ember was barely listening. She couldn’t stop shaking—she put her hands under her thighs to still them and forced her thoughts away from Lord Norfell. Right now, there was the plan to focus on. “All right. We’ve got to do this quickly.”
Nisha rubbed her hands together. Moss grinned. After a moment, Ember smiled back, her own excitement kindling.
They filed down the stairs to the lower deck. Ember had to keep a close eye on Nisha, who often tried to grab on to Ember’s shoulder or stand too close. It was awkward: Nisha had already brushed her arm against Ember’s wings once, though the other girl had merely furrowed her brow and asked Moss if he had pulled on her coat.
They reached the room where the cannons were stored, which was low ceilinged and smelled of gunpowder. There were six of them, three on each side of the ship. “You know what to do?” Ember said quietly.
They nodded. Moss had already retrieved the pack he had stowed down there earlier and was untying the straps.
Ember darted back out into the hall and made her way to the forward section of the ship. Her part of the plan was trickier: she had to get inside the locked room where the hunters’ extra gear was stored and break as many arrows as possible. It wouldn’t be enough to call off the hunt—the hunters had their own stores in their cabins—but it would limit their firepower.
She had a pocketknife with her, small enough to pick a lock, but she wouldn’t be using it.
Ember reached the door of the storage room. Her heart was pounding again, and she tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong with their plan. She held out her hand, allowing a flame to flicker to life in her palm.
Ordinarily, she avoided summoning fire—fire meant danger, destruction. She forced herself to remain calm as it danced against her skin. She was not going to burst into flames. She was not.
The lock was iron, but it began to glow and warp as Ember heated it. After a moment, she tugged on it, and it snapped. She pulled the door open—
There was a shout from above. Ember jerked back. She launched herself into the air, pressing herself into the shadowy corner where the ceiling met two walls. And just in time—Mr. Crawford and Mr. Black stampeded by below, into the storage room. They charged out again, jabbering at each other. Ember caught only one word:
Dragons.
Ember swooped back to the ground, landing awkwardly. She cast a longing look at the storage room, but fearful that more men would be on their way, she darted back up the stairs. She ducked into her own cabin and leaned against the door, waiting for her heart to slow. When she left the room, she almost walked into Sir Abraham.
“Steady on!” The man squinted down at her. “Eager to get your first look at the dragons? Well, come along.”
Ember glanced down at the stairwell—she needed to check on Nisha and Moss. But she couldn’t very well do so with Sir Abraham watching her, so she allowed him to lead her upstairs to the deck.
There everyone was abuzz with excitement. Sailors and hunters alike were crowded about the ship’s prow, some clutching binoculars in thickly gloved hands. Ember, straining to see around them, finally—and reluctantly—went to stand near Prince Gideon, from whom everyone kept a respectful distance. The prince gave her a cool look, then turned back to his spyglass.
Ember followed his gaze and gasped.
In the distance, upon the snowy headland, a glittering shape crouched. It was like a fragment of starry sky, sharp and spectral. Then it opened its wings and took flight.
An ice dragon.
The creature glided down to a rocky shore where two others lurked. The size of the dragons was difficult to guess from that distance, and Ember could make out few of their features beyond the gleam of silvery scales. She guessed they were smaller than the fire dragons she had seen, and certainly they were more willowy—while the fire dragons had reminded her of slinking cats, these creatures moved like wisps of cloud. She couldn’t stop staring.
“Have your men ready the cannons, Captain,” Prince Gideon said.
Ember started. Her first reaction was horror for the dragons’ sake, and then she remembered Nisha and Moss. Were they still below? What if the plan was discovered?
“Surely we’re too far away,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
The prince smiled. “Let’s find out, shall we?” He turned to the hunters gathered at the prow, and said in a carrying voice, “Any dragon killed by cannon fire is property of the Crown.”
There was some grumbling at this. The hunters’ bows would not work at this range, which meant the prince had an unfair advantage. But the hunters couldn’t very well do more than grumble.
Ember opened her mouth to argue further, but the prince raised his hand at one of the sailors, who gave an answering nod. Prince Gideon stepped up to the railing, a cold smile on his face.
“Fire!” he shouted.
Ten
Sabotage
Fire dragons were worshipped as gods by certain tribes in the South Pacific, who believed that to kill a dragon was to invite ruin into one’s household and curse one’s descendants with illness of both body and spirit. . . .
—TAKAGI’S COMPENDIUM OF EXOTIC CREATURES
What followed was a dull whump, whump, whump, and then a cloud of ice, blown by the wind, sprayed across the deck.
The hunters yelled and shielded their faces. “What happened?” Prince Gideon cried as the cloud cleared.
“I don’t know,” Lady Valle said. “But I think the dragons escaped your cannons.”
Indeed, the dragons hadn’t even moved—Ember doubted they were aware they’d been fired on. She had to face the railing, choking on her laughter, as Prince Gideon stalked about, yelling at everybody.
A sailor dashed onto the deck. “Your Highness, the cannonballs, they’re—well . . .”
“Well, what?” Prince Gideon snapped. The sailor was holding one of the cannonballs—a black, round thing about the size of his palm. The prince seized it, and let out a strangled sound. Narrowing his eyes, he flung the cannonball against the mast with all his might. Mr. Crawford, leaning against it, jerked aside with a shout.
The thing shattered like ice—because it was ice, shaped and dyed to mimic the appearance of a cannonball.
“They’re all like that, Your Highness,” the sailor said. “I can’t find the real ones.”
And you won’t, Ember thought. Unless you search the bottom of the sea. Nisha and Moss had succeeded. Of course, it had been largely Nisha’s idea—she was the one who had insisted on measuring the circumference and diameter of real cannonballs, and replicating these measurements to produce snowballs of exactly the same size. That way, if the prince didn’t end up using them, their appearance would ensure no suspicion was raised during the voyage.
Ember could barely breathe. Her plan was working! She watched the dragons lounging by the shore—they were alive, at least for now, because of her. Before that moment, her plan to sabotage the hunt had been a formless thing, made of air and hope. She realized that part of her had always expected to fail—after all, the Winterglass Hunt was so much bigger than she was, powered by the machinery of the empire.
“Even the mightiest train can be derailed by a single penny,” her aunt had said. Could she be that penny? The feeble sound of the snowballs erupting seemed to echo through her mind like a trumpet.
“You.” The prince rounded on Ember, his eyes flashing. “You did this.”
Ember gazed at him blankly, relieved beyond words that he hadn’t phrased it as a question. “Me?”
“I doubt that the child is to blame, Your Highness,” Sir Abraham said in his gravelly voice.
�
�Surely not.” Lady Valle’s pale eyes flashed to Lord Norfell and Lady Tennenbaum. “Besides, we’ve already seen evidence that not everyone is focused on our mission.”
Lord Norfell alone among the hunters hadn’t seemed disturbed by the false cannonballs—he had watched with barely suppressed amusement, which faded fast as the other hunters rounded on him. “Are you implying I would attempt sabotage on His Majesty’s ship?”
“Someone has clearly done so,” said the Marquis de Montvert. “I for one suspect the Scientists. Any one of them could be responsible for this. We all know of their sanctimony and softheartedness where these beasts are concerned. Every person in the research station should be questioned upon our return.”
Several of the others nodded. The prince was silent for a long moment. He fixed his cold, tawny eyes on each of them, one by one, and though he was only twelve, and barely as tall as the fairylike Lady Tennenbaum, more than one of the hunters looked away. He held Ember’s gaze the longest, and she stared back stubbornly, chin jutting.
“We set out first thing tomorrow morning,” he snapped. “An hour earlier than scheduled. Those who aren’t ready will be left behind.” With that, he strode away.
The prince was true to his word. The next morning—if a black sky with only the faintest stain of blue could be called morning—they clambered into cold rowboats weighted with supplies and set sail for shore. From there, they would make for the dragons’ hunting grounds by dogsled.
Ember’s hands trembled as she stepped onto one of the sleds. She had never ridden any sort of sled before, let alone one pulled by four massive dogs. Sensing her fear, the closest dog looked over its shoulder at her. Several of the hunters, bundled in layers of coats and scarves and furred boots, were squinting in the darkness. Ember’s eyesight, though, was excellent—she could see at night as well as Puff.
The prince gave the command to start. The other hunters fell in behind him, allowing him to lead the way. The seconds and servants followed. The prince handled his dogs well, calling crisp commands, which was irritating.
Ember’s dogs broke into a run when the others did, but they soon fell behind. The lead dog was acting strange, growling and snarling at the others and veering sharply back and forth. The other dogs followed her lead, as they were trained to do.
“Steady,” Ember called as the frosty air whipped her face. “Steady!” Her voice was thin with fear—she felt as if she were riding an unbroken horse.
The lead dog growled. With a yip, she broke away from the other hunters’ sleds entirely and plunged into the darkness.
“Haw!” Ember yelled, which meant left. The dog ignored her. She was heading for a heap of rubble and boulders at the base of a mountain. To Ember’s horror, beyond the boulders the ground disappeared, a glacial rift that could be hundreds of feet deep.
“Whoa!” Ember shouted. Terror made the word stick in her throat. “Whoa!”
The dogs paid her no heed. They were all going to plummet off the glacier, or be dashed against the rocks. Realizing that she had no way of saving the dogs, Ember flung herself off the sled. She rolled across the slippery ice, losing all sense of direction, while behind her the sled struck stone with a tremendous crash. She barely managed to grab the edge of a boulder before she tumbled into the rift.
Ember screamed. Her legs dangled in thin air. The rift wasn’t horribly high, after all, but certainly enough to break a leg or ankle. One of her wings, tangled up by the roll, was caught painfully under her arm. Frantically she tried to free herself. Her hand kept slipping on the rock as the ice melted under her too-warm grip.
“Hang on!” A hand gripped the collar of her jacket and hauled her onto the glacier.
Ember lay there a moment, panting, relishing the feeling of being on solid ground. She was shaking all over. The dogs were whining, but they seemed unharmed. The sled was destroyed, pieces of it scattered everywhere.
Ember glanced up at her rescuer, and was astonished to find Prince Gideon looking back at her.
“Are you all right?” he demanded. His face was pale.
“I—I think so.” Her right wing ached, but she didn’t think it was broken. The rest of her felt fine, though she didn’t think she would be able to stand for a while.
“I saw your dogs break away from the group,” Prince Gideon said. “I turned my sled around right away. What happened?”
“It was the lead dog,” Ember said. “It was like she was possessed. . . .”
The prince’s tawny eyes narrowed. He seemed a different person than he had been yesterday: thoughtful and decisive and completely without malice. He whistled for the dog, who was rubbing her back against the rock. She came to him grudgingly, twitching and uneasy. Ember had never seen a dog behave that way. Prince Gideon shone his lantern on the dog’s paws, then her back.
He froze, and then yanked at something tangled in the dog’s fur. He examined the thing for a moment, then held it out to Ember. It was the size of a pebble and cruelly spiked, covered in fur and specks of blood.
“Burrs,” Prince Gideon said. “They’re all over her.”
“Oh!” Ember hurried to the dog’s side and began pulling at the burrs herself. The prince did the same, his fingers surprisingly gentle. He stroked the dog’s muzzle as she whined.
“No wonder she was acting that way,” Ember said. “She was in pain, poor thing.”
“Where did they come from?” the prince murmured. “These look like burdock. It doesn’t grow in Antarctica.”
The dog buried her head in the crook of his arm. “There, there, Nell,” the prince said in a voice that was so kind Ember could barely believe it was his. “I’ll sort you out.” He seemed to remember that Ember was there, and turned back to the burrs, flushing.
“Is she your dog?” Ember said curiously.
“They’re all my dogs.” The prince’s voice was formal again, edged with disdain. “Only true-bred Antarctic sled dogs have what it takes to survive out here. Once I find out who did this, I’ll make sure they’re sorry.”
He leveled Ember with a hard stare, and she bristled. “Are you mad?” she said. “Why would I have injured my own dog? I almost went over a cliff, if you didn’t notice.”
“I’ve noticed that you aren’t very bright,” the prince said. “Joining a hunt like this when you have no idea what you’re doing. Perhaps you thought this a funny joke.”
Ember glared at him. “Anyone with half a brain can see that someone doesn’t want me taking part in the hunt—I’d take a hard look at the other hunters, if I were you. Unless you’re the one who did it.”
“I would nev—” the prince began hotly. Then he seemed to make an effort to control himself, hiding his anger under a mask of scornful dignity. He tossed another burr onto the snow, then rose, murmuring for the dogs to follow him. They did so, tails wagging, seeming delighted to trot along at their master’s heel.
“Ember!” Moss drew up his sled and dashed to her side. “What happened?”
“I wish I knew.” Ember cast a grim look at the broken sled, and then at the prince’s retreating back. “But we might not be the only saboteurs on this hunt.”
Eleven
Thieves in the Night
Several ancient cultures speak of “shadow dragons” (China: “coal dragons”), which are said to be kin to the fire dragon, beasts of ash and darkness that breathe fear itself, enough to reduce the most stalwart of men to quivering children. Most Scientists, however, believe the tales to be little more than myth.
—TAKAGI’S COMPENDIUM OF EXOTIC CREATURES
They approached the hunting grounds as quietly as possible—which was not very, given their numbers. Ember’s heart was in her ears the entire time, so loud she felt certain the hunters would hear, but of course they didn’t. They didn’t seem to notice her at all. Which suited her just fine.
Fortunately, the rocky beach where they had spotted the dragons was empty in the moonlight. Despite the danger of the dragons returning at any momen
t, Prince Gideon ordered them to set up camp behind a sheltering cluster of rocks, and stationed guards upon the nearby hills. They lit a fire too, which stained the snow red. The hunters clustered around it as the seconds prepared their tea. Some were jovial, boasting about previous hunts and telling bawdy jokes, while others were drawn and serious, gripping their bows and repeatedly glancing over their shoulders into the darkness. Though it was nearing midday, the sun had not yet risen, and the sky was the cool navy of early twilight. Winter, and the total darkness that came with it, was rapidly overtaking the continent.
Ember tried not to pay attention to the dozen or so silent, burly men who had their own separate cluster of tents. These were not hunters—they were butchers. They had been hired to strip the winterglass from any dragons that were killed and carry it back to camp. The hunters were not expected to get their hands dirty.
Moss did most of the work constructing their tent, while Nisha stood back and delivered mostly unhelpful instructions. Ember, for her part, was too nervous to focus on anything. She wandered away from the firelight. The earth wheeled below the stars, which formed a glittering carousel of snakes and centaurs and dead heroes and other constellations she couldn’t name.
She reached the small bluff that overlooked the rocky beach. To her dismay, Prince Gideon was there, crouching by several of his dogs. He was examining their paws, muttering to them in that same weird, kind voice. She was about to turn around, but then she remembered something that had been nagging at her. Sighing, she came forward, allowing her normally silent feet to crunch against the snow.
He glanced up, and his eyes narrowed. “Good day, Your Highness,” Ember said, bowing her head. She tried to keep the mockery out of her voice, but was only partly successful.
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