by Liz Flanagan
“Are you all right?” Isak asked, noticing. “Has something happened?” He offered Milla his hand, looking down at her with gentle concern.
What if she blurted it all out? Someone was killed, right under my nose. I didn’t stop it and now a man is dead. He hid something valuable and I haven’t told your father.
She didn’t want to worry him. He needed to be calm to play his part at the duke’s ball. “No,” she said smoothly, but she leaned gratefully on his arm to stop herself limping, just for a few steps.
A portly Norlander woman in a bulging red satin dress scowled in puzzlement over her shoulder, her eyes moving from Milla’s short black curls and golden-brown skin to the purple dress—a few seasons old but still fine quality—and on down to her borrowed shoes.
Milla knew she had become a strange, mixed-up creature who often confused outsiders. Keeping Tarya company, she’d learned a bit of everything: how to fight, how to dance, how to speak like a lady, stretching her vowels in the elegant Norlander style. But some would always judge by first appearances.
Now she caught this woman’s glance of disapproval and braced for the inevitable comment.
“Is the duke letting anyone in this evening?” the woman asked loudly. “Norlanders only, I thought?”
Nestan said nothing, but he stepped very deliberately between Milla and the woman, blocking her view.
Cheeks burning, Milla quickly pulled away from Isak, pointing ahead. “Look! We’re there.”
People were tipping their heads back, mouths open, eyes wide, awed by the size of the smooth brick wall that reared above them: a daily sight turned majestic now that they saw it at close quarters. The crowd walked, ten at once, through the grand stone gateway, flanked by watchtowers, which arched above their heads. Milla examined the guests around her, glaring at every black-clad man she saw, homing in on each black-and-gold mask to see if one matched the assassin’s from the garden. It was hopeless. There were too many. She’d never recognize the right one, and he’d probably switched disguise long ago. But she couldn’t relax, knowing that a killer roamed among them.
Inside the palace grounds, an excited twittering rose from the crowd, like the murmur of a thousand starlings.
“Come on, you two. Isn’t it beautiful?” Tarya came and took their hands, tugging them along wide avenues, flanked by trimmed lime trees hung with oil lanterns. They walked under elegant pergolas draped in jasmine. On either side lay ornamental rose gardens, and the warm night air was scented with their perfume.
“Oh, look, there it is!” Milla pointed, forgetting her watchfulness for a moment. Lit with strings of lamps, like fallen stars, the Palace of the Four Winds was more beautiful than she had ever imagined.
The main building was braced with stone arches like the rib cage of a huge beast. From each corner rose a tall tower, one facing north, one east, one south, and one west, reaching up into the night sky, light spilling from dozens of windows. A tiled courtyard led to the palace steps, inlaid with the image of a massive black dragon breathing fire.
She paused, unable to believe she was really here. Images of dragons were everywhere on Arcosi—on almost every lintel of every house—but she’d never seen anything on this scale before.
They were all ushered into the building beside the palace.
“It’s the dragonhall of the ancient kings, it must be!” Isak breathed as they followed Nestan and Finn through the enormous double doors. He wrinkled his nose to keep his glasses in place as he stared up at the high vaulted ceilings, covered in tiles.
“Like a stable, but for dragons, you mean?” Tarya asked, gazing around in astonishment.
“Finest stable I’ve ever seen,” Milla said, her eyes drawn to the faded murals and ancient tapestries hung around its curved walls. “Look!” She pointed at the nearest wall hanging: a dragon in flight, a female rider on its back, with long black hair streaming behind her.
“It’s a woman!” Tarya said triumphantly. “Looks like they got some things right then, whoever they were …”
“It’s just a story …” Isak sounded doubtful.
“They were real! They lived right here, in our city.” Milla knew the old songs and legends, she’d seen the basking places built into the crumbling walls of the main square, but this was different, this was vivid proof. She wished for the hundredth time she’d lived back then, in the days of the dragons.
She looked around, trying to imagine real dragons living here, but the dragonhall had been turned into a ballroom. Tonight, the hall was warmed by dozens of burning braziers, scented by lilies in tall crystal vases, and one whole side of the room was filled with tables laden with delicious-smelling food. There was roast lamb; gleaming black olives; plump salad grains dotted with pomegranate, coriander, and raisins; smoked fish; warm loaves fresh from the oven; and her favorite: baked peaches, oozing juice. Milla’s mouth watered, reminding her how long it had been since she’d eaten.
Just then a fanfare sounded and a herald cried, “Make way for His Grace, Duke Olvar Refarson!”
Guards came first, row after row, all dressed in the duke’s black ceremonial livery. The deep, dark beat of marching feet filled Milla’s ears, drowning out her thoughts. She clutched for Tarya’s hand as she swayed, suddenly off balance.
The guards stood to attention, making a pathway. Everyone turned, expectant.
Milla blinked away the dizziness, eager to see the duke she’d heard so much about.
Three people walked between the lines of guards, drawing every eye: the duke, the duchess and their son.
The duke’s wiry bone-white hair stood on end like a crown, making him even taller. He smiled, and Milla heard sighing in the crowd around her. The duke had the palest blue eyes she’d ever seen, and his face was lined but still handsome.
They stepped up onto a little platform marked out with golden ropes and lit by flaming brass torches.
“Welcome to my Fifty-Year Ball.” Duke Olvar seemed golden, luminous, in the circle of light. He nodded down at the crowd, as if they were all his children, and not just the tall, dark-haired young man at his side.
“That must be Vigo, his son,” Tarya whispered to Milla behind her hand.
“As handsome as they say?” Milla teased. She felt as if she’d walked into a story or a dream, finally seeing these people with her own eyes.
“Maybe.” Tarya sounded unconvinced.
“Hmm, I’d say so,” Isak said on her other side, as if it were a tricky equation to be puzzled out.
As if he could hear them, Vigo’s curious gaze fell on the twins.
Tarya and Isak collapsed in giggles, heads close together, getting shushed sternly by Nestan.
Next to Vigo, his mother smiled warmly down at them, hearing the laughter. She was popular in the lower town. Everyone knew Duchess Serina had wealth of her own, which she spent on healers and midwives throughout the city. She was even said to do healing work herself. The dancing light caught the coil of smooth ebony plaits and the white lily she wore behind one ear. In her bright orange dress, Serina was a spark of color in the sea of black uniforms surrounding them.
A herald stepped forward and cleared his throat nervously. “To mark the occasion of his fiftieth birthday, His Grace will be known henceforth as the First Dragon Duke of Arcosi,” the announcement came.
“Dragon Duke?”
“Did he say dragon?”
The crowd buzzed like a swarm of bees at this news.
Milla dug her fingernails into her damp palms, trying to battle against the heat and a heady, hungry feeling that overwhelmed her now. It was too late. Milla’s vision started breaking up in a sea of colored dots, and she grabbed at Tarya’s hand as if she were drowning.
Milla! What’s wrong?” Tarya held her up. “Are you all right?”
She couldn’t faint at the duke’s ball. She was here to help Tarya, not the other way around. Milla fought the dizziness, bending down and shaking her head to banish the fog. “I’m fine,” she whispe
red to Tarya. “Just hot.” Her face and neck felt clammy, the purple dress too heavy and damp. She took long deep breaths and made herself focus on the duke’s words.
“Today is not just my birthday,” the duke said. “Tonight we celebrate fifty years in Arcosi. Fifty years since our fathers and grandfathers fled famine and plague in the Norlands and made it safe to these shores. Fifty years since our prayers were answered and we found Arcosi waiting for us. Arcosi: our haven, empty as a new shell waiting for the hermit crab …”
They all knew this story: Arcosi’s own personal fairy tale.
Tarya turned to Milla. “Bet he skips the interesting bits … like how his family ended up in the palace!”
“Shhh!” Milla said, with a quick glance to check no one had heard. That was lower-town talk, the kind that could get you arrested. Everyone knew there were no dukes on those broken, wind-battered ships fifty years ago. Duke Olvar’s ancestors had simply been the ones who had talked loudest, fought hardest, and took the best of the deserted island city for themselves.
“What? Everyone knows he’s not noble, not like the duchess,” Tarya hissed back. “She just had to marry him to seal the peace.”
“Not the time. Not the place …” Isak told his twin between gritted teeth. “The guards are looking!”
“What?” Tarya repeated. “It’s the truth!”
Milla squeezed her hand again, hoping she’d get the message. There was a fine line between fearless and reckless, and she was used to Tarya dancing all over it, but the stakes were higher tonight.
Nestan turned and glared at both twins, hawklike in his dark mask.
“We filled the ancient city with life once more,” the duke was telling them. “And we were blessed in our endeavors. Our ships multiply and we prosper. Our children grow up without fear.”
Some of them do. Milla felt uncomfortable contradicting this golden duke in her head, as she watched Tarya stifle a yawn.
“To mark this day—my birthday and the day our fathers arrived here—I adopt the symbol of Arcosi, birthplace of dragons.”
At that magic word, complete silence fell. Milla held her breath to listen.
“I take as my emblem this proud image of the city’s past. The dragons are dead, like the former people of this place, perished in mystery …” The city was full of images of the lost dragons: carvings, statues. None of the wind-worn engravings showed where they’d gone.
“We remember them. We honor them.” The duke’s expression turned sorrowful. “But we are now the children of this city.” He brightened. “We are the children of the dragon. And I am the Dragon Duke.”
At that, dozens of trumpets sounded and actors trooped in, carrying aloft on wooden poles four enormous paper puppet dragons, lit from within so that each one seemed to be alive. The crowd murmured in delight.
The colors were dazzling. One was as blue as a peacock’s feather, one as yellow as a cracked yolk, one as red as the blood Milla had seen spilled that day, one as green as a new spring leaf. The paper dragons spread their wings and danced around the duke in curving, sinuous flight, casting shadow dragons on the high walls. She saw the muscles stand out on the arms of the young puppeteers.
Finally, the duke clapped his hands and the dragon dancers all stopped, arranged around him. “Please,” Olvar commanded, “enjoy the entertainment, the fireworks. Then, I will receive the young men’s oaths of allegiance. Afterward, I invite you to feast, drink, and dance, here in my home. Tonight my doors are open to the people of Arcosi!”
The crowd paused. People were smiling, hands raised, about to applaud.
In that blink of an eye, a strange noise began: a high, keening wail.
Was this part of the show?
The wide grin vanished from the duke’s face.
“You are not the Dragon Duke,” a woman’s voice screeched, as loud and yowling as a cat in the night.
Who was speaking? Milla peered around as the crowd held its breath.
The duke motioned with his hands, and his guards slipped from his side, moving silently through the bodies to find the unseen speaker.
“You are thieves! Interlopers. This is not your city!”
It was as if they were all turned to stone, all these gathered Norlander noblefolk.
“Keep your paper dragons! That’s all you’ll ever know.”
Everybody stayed frozen, listening.
“We are the children of the dragons. This city was ours …” The woman spoke with the same rusty accent as the murdered man. “Our people were imprisoned. They died as they fled. Our blood is on this stone. Our ghosts haunt your beds. Can’t you hear us?”
“Find her!” the duke roared. His face had turned paler than ever, except for a red patch on each cheek.
Milla pushed her way forward, ignoring the twins, to get a closer look. She saw who was speaking: an old woman in the middle of the crowd.
The woman opened her arms and circled on the spot, apparently unafraid. She had gray hair shot with silver, gathered in a loose knot on her head, revealing gold hoops in her ears. Her skin was rich brown; her face was as weathered as a piece of driftwood. Her bearing was proud and straight, even as the guards pushed closer, hunting for her.
Milla saw the same black tattoo inked on her inner arm as she’d seen on the blue-cloaked man before he died. And the fabric of this woman’s robe? It matched the dead man’s exactly. Had they traveled here together, on that newly docked ship?
As the guards elbowed guests aside to reach her, the woman spoke faster: “We were ripped away from here. But I have returned to my home. And I am not the only one. Your days here are ending, you’ll see …”
Her voice rose to a new volume, loud and clear, so no one missed a word: “We are coming home. The dragons of Arcosi will return! And they will never belong to you!”
Then the woman pulled her hood over her head and started moving toward the back of the hall.
“A reward for the capture of that woman!” the duke shouted. “Which way did she go?”
Milla watched the guards searching and said nothing.
As she passed, Milla locked gazes with the woman. Her bright, beady brown eyes held Milla’s and she couldn’t look away.
He’s dead! Someone killed your friend. You’re not safe! Milla wanted to grab the woman and tell her what she’d seen, but her mouth seemed full of sawdust and no words came.
The woman’s gaze dropped only for a moment, down to the gold disc around Milla’s neck. The woman gasped and her eyes widened. Surprise, joy, fear: they flashed across the woman’s face in rapid succession, like cloud shadows over the sea.
Milla’s own face burned, under her mask.
The woman backed away, but kept her eyes fixed on Milla’s as if she was trying to tell her something.
Her nearest neighbors turned to Milla, curious, to see what the woman was staring at. Milla ducked her head, grateful for the purple mask that covered her face. She started shuffling backward. Then she turned and tugged off the mask, shoving it in the pocket of the dress so it couldn’t mark her out. She reached the platform where the duke and duchess stood. She circled around the platform surreptitiously, hoping no one would notice her.
Duchess Serina spoke quietly at her husband’s side. Even frowning hard, she was stunningly beautiful, with clear tawny skin, high cheekbones, and expressive eyes that seemed black in the dim light.
“Call off your guards?” Serina asked the duke. “That woman looked elderly. Alone. She is no threat to us.”
“My dear.” Duke Olvar’s tone was perfectly controlled and barely audible. He stared down at Duchess Serina. “Leave it. Let the guards deal with this …”
Behind the platform, Milla was close enough to see the knuckles on the duke’s hand turn white where his fingers gripped his wife’s arm.
A flicker of movement caught Milla’s eye. While everyone else was distracted, watching the guards search through the crowd, the old woman had reached the back of the hall, her dark
blue cloak almost invisible in the shadows. She tugged aside a wall hanging and disappeared behind the tapestry.
No one else saw her go.
Milla felt the words rise in her throat. She’s there. She’s escaping! But she recalled the bright gleam of recognition in the woman’s brown eyes and stayed silent.
The interruption had wrecked the timings. Fireworks started going off outside the hall. Milla could hear the wail and fizz as they shot up into the sky. People swarmed through the great doors of the hall to watch the display: sparkling golden blooms exploding in the air and shimmering down over the island. Milla stumbled, carried along by the crowd, as everyone poured out into the garden.
People tipped back their gaudy masks to see better, revealing rigid smiles pasted over shocked expressions. It didn’t help that they were tinted gold, green, and pink by the light of the fireworks. Duke Olvar’s face seemed carved in stone. Everything took on a tense, nightmarish air.
Milla found Tarya and Isak.
“Who was that old woman?” Tarya whispered under the noise of the fireworks. “Did she say dragons?”
“She can’t mean real ones. She was just speaking in symbols, like the duke. Wasn’t she?” Milla still felt addled with heat and hunger.
“What did she mean, about the people who lived here once?” Isak looked horrified at the idea. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “It can’t be true they’re coming back!” His breathing had turned hollow and fast again.
“Breathe with me, Isak. Come on, let’s sit here.” Tarya put her hand on his back and took deep slow breaths for him to match. “That’s better.” Her face was all focus and concern for him.
“Well, someone must’ve built the city. And then vanished,” Milla said. “What did you think?”
“She was angry. But it’s not our fault!” Isak said in breathy gasps. “How could it be? The city was empty when our people arrived. And we were born here.” He tilted forward, one finger on his eyeglasses to keep them in place. His breathing settled at last, as he stared down over the palace gardens and out to sea, where the last of the fireworks were reflected in little points of light. “This is our home. It’s not our fault, whatever happened before.”