by Jodi Meadows
Crystal and LaLa took to the sky as we rode past the enormous collection of spindly, first-century ruins. The pair of dragons wove between the spires of pale stone, all broken arches and crumbling towers. Embedded noorestones glowed a faint blue, even after thousands of years. They should have darkened long ago, and while no one really knew why they still shone, the popular theory was that the ruins themselves formed some kind of conduit to the gods, which kept the crystals charged.
Quite unbecomingly, dragons liked to lick these noorestones.
The eight of us—three humans, three horses, and two dragons—moved west, uphill and toward the Skyfell Mountains. “We’re checking on Lex today,” Ilina said. “And we’ll come back the long way to check on Tower, too.”
Hristo was staring at the back of Ilina’s head as she led the way. “You sound worried.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and though she forced calm into her tone, I could hear the concern now, too. “It’s nothing really. Probably just the earthquake.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Astrid.” Ilina directed her mount around a creeping passionflower vine, heavy with pink and purple blooms. Butterflies danced through the sweet scent. “She wasn’t home last night when I made my rounds near Red Cliff.”
“You think she left her cave because of the quake?” I asked. “She knew it was coming?”
Ilina nodded. “Probably. As sensitive as the little dragons are to movement in the ground, the big dragons are even more. Astrid probably went somewhere more stable to wait it out. I’m sure she’s back now.”
“Maybe we should check,” Hristo said. “Once we’re finished visiting Lex and Tower.”
I nodded, wishing I’d thought of it first. Hristo always knew the right thing to say. It was an annoying habit that had earned him a string of several short-term romances, which often ended because of his obligation as my bodyguard. That, and the girls assumed that he and I were romantically involved.
We most certainly were not.
Ilina flashed a smile over her shoulder, and Crystal gave a throaty chirrup. “That’s a good idea, if we have time.”
We made the rest of the trek up to the territory of a Drakontos rex named Lex. When Ilina and I were younger, we’d composed a song about her, which heavily relied on the rhyme of rex and Lex. Though we’d tried to persuade Hristo to sing it with us, he insisted professional guards didn’t sing. We found out later that he was just self-conscious about his voice—not that we ever confronted him about it.
“There is a big dragon whose name is Lex,” I whisper-sang.
Ilina snorted a laugh. “Surprise, surprise, she’s a Drakontos rex.”
“Her hot breath of fire’s up with the best.”
“Surprise, surprise, she’s a Drakontos rex!”
Hristo groaned. “Not that again.”
Ilina and I grinned at each other, the unease of earlier momentarily forgotten. But then we reached a post with a horse carved into the wood. We dismounted, tethered the horses, and walked the rest of the way.
The scent of smoke billowed from the entrance, which rose in a graceful arc ten times Hristo’s height. Like most of the bigger species, Lex had made the cave by blasting flame into a cliff face, hot enough to melt the very stone into hot rock.
It wasn’t a fast process. Normal dragon fire didn’t reliably liquefy rock, but they could eat dragonroot to manipulate their second lungs into producing a hotter fire. Much hotter. But it was an unhealthy diet to maintain, so they saved it for special occasions. Like creating living accommodations.
It had taken Lex three years to build this cave. She’d chosen a good spot, too, carving into a protrusion of rock that allowed a curved entrance so the wind wouldn’t zip in and disturb her in the deeper caverns.
Ripples of obsidian and basalt flowed down the sides of the opening and down the hill, almost concealed now by the moss, vines, and ferns that had crept back over the years.
LaLa climbed up my arm and perched on my shoulder, making herself small against the curve of my neck. Crystal had taken a similar position on Ilina as my friend whistled for Lex to come out.
“It’s all right.” I petted the soft membrane of LaLa’s golden wing. All the sanctuary dragons knew not to hunt the smaller species, but thousands of years of instinct didn’t just vanish because they lived in the same place now. Dragons—big dragons—were very territorial.
We waited for the low rumble and scrape of scales on stone, but no sound came from the cave.
The three of us exchanged worried glances. Astrid going missing was one thing. She might have been out hunting, or avoiding a rockslide, or perhaps there wasn’t enough prey in her territory anymore. She might have left the sanctuary, as unlikely as that seemed; the wall afforded them safety from poachers and thoughtless humans.
But Lex, too? They were on opposite sides of the sanctuary.
“Maybe she left because of the earthquake, too?” But even I didn’t believe it.
Hristo didn’t take his eyes off the cave opening. “Wouldn’t she be back by now?”
“Probably.”
We were all quiet for a few minutes, listening to the wind in the trees and the twitter of birds. This peace was an illusion. Something was very wrong here.
Ilina took a single, decisive step toward the opening. “All right. We’re going in.”
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN THE SCREAMING FADED INTO DESPERATE whimpers, Aaru leaned toward our tiny window again. “That one is Hurrok. From Bopha, I think.”
“He’s scared of the dark?”
“Must be. Aren’t you afraid?”
“I don’t like the dark.” The disorientation. The uncertainty. The feeling of isolation. But Aaru’s quiet voice felt like an anchor.
“Sisters are afraid of storms,” he said. “Alya most of all.”
I wished for a storm now, something to break up this darkness. I’d listen to the thunder, the rain, the wind hissing through the trees. We had wonderful storms in Crescent Prominence. Storms that set wind chimes clanging and palm trees whipping and my mind soaring with possibility. Dragons loved storms like that, because the crackle of electricity in the air ignited the spark gland at the roof of their mouths; they enjoyed it the same way cats enjoyed getting their ears scratched.
Here, we had only darkness.
“Do you help Alya when she’s scared?”
Aaru gave a soft, affirming sound. “Of course. I tell her stories.”
“What kind?” My voice trembled.
“Listen.” He began to tap, but I couldn’t keep up. Knowing what I wanted to say and understanding what he was saying—those were two different skills.
Still, I counted the beats, and the rhythm helped push back the penetrating night. Even though I couldn’t understand what he was saying, I knew there were words in there. A story meant for me.
IT GREW INTO a routine.
My mind dutifully tracked every step I took, and I began to get a better idea of the Pit as I cleaned my way through hallways (footprints, sometimes blood), interrogation rooms (always blood, often vomit), and a space that might have been for recreation for the second- or third-level prisoners. There, I dusted tables, picked up tattered books, and scrubbed blood off a punching bag.
By cell-cleaning day, I was far better at using the mop and bucket when they made it to my space. I scrubbed as best I could, considering the dirty water, and emptied the bucket into my sewage hole to clear away some of the smell.
Then I waited, listening to the other prisoners leave and return, until a guard approached Gerel’s cell. She slid off her bed and followed him—and no one came to get me.
Another decan without a bath? I’d been able to wash up here and there, thanks to working, but there was no substitution for a real bath. Not that I expected citrus and honey soap, or soft towels, or coconut milk for my hair. But I’d have liked the chance to wash more than my face and arms.
Gerel came back and took her second food for the day, not bo
thering to look at me as I sat on my bench, puddling into a filthy smear of despair. This wasn’t fair. Not at all.
Then, Altan stepped in front of my cell. “Ready for a bath, Fancy?”
I jumped to my feet, pathetically excited.
“Bring your laundry.”
I tucked my pillow and blanket under one arm and stepped out. But instead of turning right like we usually did—toward the mess hall—Altan motioned me left, which took me past the other prisoners.
At Aaru’s cell, I glanced in, but he was perched on his bed with his knees up to his chest, his forehead rested on folded arms. Tall. Lanky. Not soft. The cup sat in the center of his space, catching the drip from his ceiling. After that first day, I hadn’t let him give me any more water; I got enough, because I was cleaning.
Down the hall, I glanced through iron grilles to see the tattooed man lying on the floor and muttering prayers to his god: Hurrok, maybe. A woman petted the somewhat clean walls of her cell, and another man was shoving fistfuls of air into his mouth as though faced with an incredible—and invisible—banquet.
My dislike of them had thinned over my ten days here, and I suspected that at least two weren’t (necessarily) criminals, just ill. They didn’t belong here any more than I did. Mostly, I wished they’d shut up and let me sleep when the noorestones went dark.
Out of the cellblock, Altan took me past several familiar corridors. Numbers floated in the back of my head: steps, halls, intersections.
“You’ll get half an hour,” Altan said as we came to a large stone door. The arch above it bore the customary crossed maces, but these were made of inlaid gold, with gilt flames circling Khulan’s holy symbol. “Everything you need is in there.”
He wasn’t coming in with me? That was a relief.
“This is the only door into this chamber,” he said. “I’ll be out here the whole time. Unless you want me to help you, of course.”
My stomach turned and I pulled my belongings over my chest. Gerel’s assurance that none of the warriors would take an unwilling partner rattled through my head again. I had to believe her.
I went inside. Alone.
It wasn’t a large space—maybe ten steps deep and fifteen wide, and most of that was dominated by a steaming pool of sulfur-smelling water, lit by ten blue noorestones embedded in the walls. Four benches stood around the pool, with thin gray towels, baskets of muddy-looking soap, and piles of rags. There was even a comb, though the teeth were dull and three were missing.
One bench had clothes and a blanket drying over the back.
A figure pulled out of the shadows, a towel wrapped tight around her body, and her braids piled into a bun on top of her head. “Hot springs.” Tirta loosened her death grip on the towel. “There’s a whole series of them down here. This is the smallest and smelliest, so they sectioned it off for prisoners.”
Actual hot water. I wanted to dive right in.
“I’m glad it’s just you,” she went on. “They try to keep it to a few prisoners at a time—so we don’t conspire against them, you see—but you never know who you’ll be stuck bathing with.”
“So we’re safe in here?” I asked.
“As safe as we are anywhere in the Pit.” She draped her towel over the nearest bench and stepped into the water. “Do your laundry first, that way it can dry some before you have to put it back on.”
I followed her advice, unloading my belongings. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes. I do my laundry fast.”
Apparently. “I meant in the Pit. As a prisoner.” Hopefully that wasn’t too rude to ask.
“Oh. I’m not sure.” She scrubbed water over her face, careful not to get her hair wet. “Time gets confusing down here. No sun. No proper calendar for prisoners.”
She didn’t know? It must have been a long time.
“Well, today is the tenth of Zabel. Just two decans until the Hallowed Restoration.” Those were the five days at the end of every year. Six days every fourth year. The Hallowed Restoration was supposed to be for reflecting on the previous twelve months and looking forward to the new year.
“Oh, I love the Hallowed Restoration.” She smiled dimly. “We don’t get to celebrate here, of course, but my family lights remembrance candles every evening, praying for health and guidance. Sometimes we exchange gifts.”
Lots of families had sweet traditions like that. I usually spent hours under the mistress of beauty’s brushes, followed by thirty minutes of time alone in the parlor with my family, during which Mother would tell all of us how we’d disappointed her throughout the year and how we could improve over the next. Then we often accepted invitations from Elbena Krasteba; the Luminary Councilor was—by general agreement—the best hostess. Sometimes her gatherings went on until dawn.
Mother probably would have a lot to say about how I’d disappointed her this year.
I turned my attention back to Tirta. “Why are most of the prisoners our age?” I’d seen a few adults in my cellblock and in the mess hall, but not as many as I’d have thought. “Do adults not get sentenced to the Pit?”
Her expression darkened. “Oh, adults are sent here too, but they expect things, you know? And then they die. We adapt better.”
I didn’t want to adapt. I wanted to go home.
But instead of saying so, I scrubbed my clothes and belongings clean, using the foul-smelling soap and a slanted area in the pool with several ridges carved into it. Not that I’d known how to wash my clothes until this very instant; I followed Tirta’s instructions.
“You’re going to do well here.” Tirta wrapped herself in her towel again. “You work hard. You behave. I can’t help but be curious how someone like you ended up in the Pit.”
I wouldn’t tell. Not even Tirta. Not yet, anyway. “I’m sure everyone wonders what a Hartan girl did to get here, too.” I smiled as warmly as possible so she’d know I wasn’t trying to be mean, just making a point. “We’re both odd here, aren’t we?”
With my laundry finished and hanging on a bench to dry—though how anything could dry in this steamy room was a mystery—I pulled up my twists and stepped into the water.
It was as I worked the soap down my arms and legs that I discovered the firmness in my muscles. Sarannai had said I was soft that first day of work, but after a decan, my fingers grazed the new ridge of muscle along my upper arm, a cord of strength down my forearms.
Yes, I’d done all the training exercises Instructor Boyan had given me. Yes, I’d regularly doubled as a perch for a small dragon. But I’d never been strong before. Hristo and Ilina would be proud.
“Gerel is in your cellblock, isn’t she?” Tirta asked. “What do you think about her?”
“She’s difficult to like,” I said carefully. “But she knows about the Pit. She warned me about Sarannai.” And about Altan.
He hadn’t asked me about dragons again. Not since that day in the mess hall. Nevertheless, the threat of consequences haunted me. I couldn’t begin to guess what he’d do if I continued to refuse. But how could I tell him something so important?
I just had to hold out until my parents saved me.
“Be careful of Gerel.” Tirta picked a piece of dirt out from under her ragged nails. “Don’t trust her.”
“Why?” Gossip was the Daminan way. Everyone had real secrets—like my counting—and people worked very hard to keep those hidden, but most were merely illusionary secrets. So Tirta sitting there, wanting to tell me something about Gerel—I couldn’t resist.
“I heard she tried to destroy the Heart of the Great Warrior and everyone inside it. Prisoners. Trainees. Warriors.”
That seemed . . . impossible. The Heart was huge. And underground. And all stone. Not even a Drakontos titanus would be able to burn it down. “How?” I whispered. Not that I wanted to destroy the Heart. I just wanted to get away from it.
“I don’t know.” Tirta shook her head. “Sometimes I wish she’d succeeded. In my dark moments, you know? But
you can make a life here if you work hard. It’s not fun, but it’s a life and it’s better than nothing.”
I hoped I never became so accepting of my incarceration.
After I climbed out of the water and dried off, she motioned to my hair. “Did you do your twists?”
I shook my head and pushed away the memory of my last visit with Ilina. Missing her would choke me.
“Do you know how?”
“No.” At home, Krasimir had visited once a decan to wash and style my hair. My maid, Sylva, took care of it the rest of the time. “I mean, I know how to braid and twist, but I’ve never done my own.”
“I can teach you. We might not always get paired and it’s important to keep doing things here that make you feel human. Even if it’s just your hair.”
A bubble of warmth filled me. She understood.
“Some prisoners get their hair shorn like the warriors so they don’t have to take care of it. But I always thought that was too much like giving up.”
I nodded, then held still as she bent close to inspect Ilina’s work.
“Whoever did this was smart. It’ll last a long time.” She patted my shoulder and moved away. “Just don’t soak your hair, don’t undo the twists, and try not to touch any of it.”
“Ever?” I couldn’t stop the horror in my voice.
She laughed a little. “When you can’t stand it anymore, or the twists start coming unraveled, I’ll help you do it again. Until then, just scrub your scalp a little.”
Before I was ready, Altan and another guard strode into the room. “Time’s up, Fancy.”
Grudgingly, I shoved my damp belongings into my pillow once more and looked to Tirta just as she thrust a small pile of rags into my hands. “For . . . you know. Bleeding.”
I hadn’t even thought about that yet, but now I couldn’t stop wondering what I’d do with the dirty rags and how I’d get more—or if I was expected to wash them in the bath area, too. That could not be sanitary.
Tirta and I left the bathing room, and behind us, the guards carried on a discussion about unrest . . . somewhere.
“It’s bad,” the other guard said. “And it’ll probably get worse before they ask any of us to go help.”