House of Dragons

by Jessica Cluess

  Down front, Lysander and Demetrius waited.

  The midday sun found its place in the sky. “Damn, how long is this going to take? We’ve got to get down to the docks. There’s a card game I want in on, and the buy-in’s going to be steep.” Ajax said this to Dog like the dragon could reply. Actually, Dog appeared focused on the calling circle. Really focused. “I don’t want you belching smoke all over the Corvus gang again, all right? You—hey! Where are you going, idiot?”

  Dog soared down toward the circle. Oh, that stupid dragon. Ajax’s cheeks flamed as he followed at a run, all the boys in the arena watching. Of course Dog would find a way to screw up the damn calling.

  “Hey!” he called as Dog landed in the center of the circle. The dragon’s eyes goggled as Ajax pushed after him, and he hmphed when the boy yanked on his bridle. “Dog. No. Not our sitty-spot. This is Lysander’s—”

  Wait. A. Second.

  Ajax looked at Lysander and Demetrius, both openmouthed with shock. He looked at Lord Tiber, sixty-four and bloated as a lazy toad. He looked at the crowd of bastard brothers, none of whom had ever paid attention to him.

  But he had everyone’s attention now. No other dragon came forward. Dog alone waited patiently on that rock to fly away, listening to a call no one else could hear.

  Not a call. The call. Ajax, bastard of the Tiber, had been called to the Emperor’s Trial. Forget the Cut or the competition. Finally, finally, everyone was looking at him with awe. With respect.

  “You little bastard!” Lysander cried. To that, Ajax spat a stream of blood. It lay on the ground, pearled with spit. He grinned as the boys in the arena, all save Lysander and Demetrius, started up a chant.

  “A-jax! A-jax! A-jax!” They rose to their feet pumping fists in the air, a sea of shaved heads and broken noses and crooked teeth. One of them turned, pulled down his pants, and waggled his backside. Beautiful. Ajax spread his arms, reveling in the shouts and knowing there wasn’t a damn thing Lysander could do about it. For emphasis, Ajax made a rude gesture with his hands. Lysander screamed in fury, and the crowd cheered.

  Ajax was going to represent the red Wyvern. He was of the Tiber now.

  No. Forget Ajax of the Tiber. Ajax Sarkonus, Dragon Emperor of Etrusia, all at the tender age of fifteen.

  The world was for the taking, and he would take.

  Hyperia of the Volscia saw no difference between a suit of armor and a gown. Both were battle garb, one meant for war, the other for peacetime. A true leader understood that war and peace could be equally dangerous. In wartime, the people could rebel out of anger. In peace, the nobles could scheme out of boredom.

  Her parents had made certain Hyperia knew her way around every bloody and beautiful battlefield. She thanked them for that.

  For the calling, Hyperia had selected a gown worthy of an empress. She stood calm and tall and cool as the servants fluttered around her, adjusting and pinning. She wore gold, the Volscia color. The taffeta silk skirt was a cloud, the bodice of gold filigree lace so delicate, only the maid with the nimblest hands was allowed to touch. Pearls fastened the cuffs at her wrists, and pearls were woven into her golden hair.

  Her personal maid traced a fingertip across both cheekbones, leaving gold dust like the trail of a falling star. Hyperia turned her face this way and that, her blue eyes examining every facet of her appearance. She knew she was beautiful. She didn’t feel pride at it. Beauty was an accident, like birth. Only ability was earned.

  Nineteen and the elder Volscia child, she’d been born to the Trial. But through years of sacrifice and pain, she’d truly earned her place.

  “Good,” she said at last. The servants exhaled in unison.

  She added the final touch: a belt of weapons. Her sword rode on her left hip, her dagger on her right. She was ready.

  The morning mist had burned away as she crossed the meadow to the calling circle. A cool wind teased the tendrils of her hair. Hyperia caught snatches of birdsong and smiled as laughter bubbled behind her. Normally, she’d take a dagger to anyone trying to sneak up. Anyone but her sister.

  “Are you going to forget me?” Julia grabbed Hyperia’s hand and ran forward, tugging her along. Hyperia didn’t tend to smile—she didn’t tend to do anything dishonest—but she smiled now.

  “No. I’ll never forget you,” she said quietly.

  Julia scoffed. “You’re supposed to say yes, and then I’m supposed to cry like my heart will break.” Julia had always been prone to flights of imagination. As a small child, she’d begged Hyperia to play make-believe and then acted out the parts of both the princess and the handsome prince herself. Hyperia had been relegated to the scenery. She couldn’t understand such whimsy, but she could love it in her little sister. She touched Julia’s braid of hair, all bound on the back of her head. Yesterday, that hair had tumbled around her shoulders.

  “I suppose you had to grow up sometime,” she said wistfully. In truth, fourteen was a bit late for such a thing. Hyperia had become a woman at twelve. But she didn’t mind Julia staying a child longer. Her sister, shorter and chestnut-tressed, wrapped her arms around Hyperia’s waist. Hyperia planted a kiss atop the girl’s head.

  “When you’re empress, can you come and visit?” Julia asked.

  “Sometimes.” It wasn’t a lie, though Hyperia didn’t think she’d ever crave a return to the Ardennes region. The Volscia land holdings were rich with sun-kissed vineyards and lavender fields, apple orchards and dense forests. They were the first dragon riders and the second-wealthiest family. Their primary family residence at Aureus was more opulent than any other in the known world, their commitment to art and music unparalleled. Julia adored all of that, the concerts and the masques. She could have sipped sparkling rose wine and eaten vanilla cakes smothered in fondant every morning.

  Hyperia didn’t like sweet things. The Volscia had begun as warriors and turned soft. The family hadn’t seated an emperor in nine generations, longer than any other House. It was shameful.

  Fortunately, Hyperia’s parents had trained her to set things right. Now she was ready.

  Though saying goodbye to her sister would prove difficult.

  “Farewell to the nightingale,” Hyperia murmured. Julia tightened her embrace.

  “Hello to the lark.” She grinned. It was a nursery song Hyperia used to sing when they were younger, one learned from an old governess. Hyperia had never seen the point of music. But Julia liked it, so it had value.

  They came to the circle of obsidian stones, glossy under the high, hot sun. Hyperia’s parents glittered in their golden finery. Julia ran to hug them; Hyperia did not. Her father came over and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. She winced at his tight grip.

  “Don’t disappoint,” Father said in a low voice.

  “I never have.” When he let go, she rotated her shoulder. Shadows flashed over the grass, and the family dragons lowered out of the sky. All dragons were magnificent, but the golden Hydra of the Volscia could not be matched.

  Julia’s dragon, Minerva, was splendid. But Aufidius, Hyperia’s mount, was the finest dragon the world had seen since the empire first formed one thousand years ago. Aufidius’s head was the rare, exquisite diamond shape. His wingspan stretched forty feet. Experts had measured the arch of his neck and declared it perfect. His scales, a deep gold, glowed radiant in the sunlight. His eyes, black as volcanic obsidian, shone with fierce intelligence. Most dragons were little more than beloved pets to their riders.

  Aufidius was Hyperia’s partner.

  One day, he might well take her head off if she made a wrong move. That was exactly right. He was a dragon.

  Dragons should be feared.

  They were like emperors in that way.

  Aufidius growled as Hyperia stood beside him and waited. Across from her, Julia waved. The minutes ticked by.

  Hyperia did not panic as ti
me passed. She’d never attended a calling before and trusted that it would all sort itself out.

  She didn’t fear when Minerva opened her wings and soared on an updraft. Julia craned her neck to watch, but Hyperia’s attention remained fixed on the stones.

  When Minerva landed on the center slab of obsidian, though, every muscle in Hyperia’s body froze. The Hydra flared her wings and fixed Julia with an obvious stare. Let’s go, it seemed to say.

  By the blue above, Julia. Hyperia felt a spasm of horror. Her sister knew nothing of warcraft. She was second-born. She was too young. She would never be empress.

  She would be Cut instead.

  Hyperia strode to the center stone while Aufidius gnashed his teeth. Julia sobbed as Hyperia stepped in front of her.

  “Please.” Hyperia made her voice cool and reasonable. She didn’t know to whom she was speaking, but whatever it was, she believed it could hear her. “A mistake’s been made. I am Hyperia of the Volscia, elder child of the House.” Hyperia spoke formally, both because it was natural to her and because if she didn’t she might give in to fear. An empress could not know fear or doubt. She must do what was necessary. “This is my right of challenge. I am the competitor for the dragon’s throne. If you would call off this dragon and choose mine, I could come at once. Without delay.” She paused. “If you would be so kind.” She fumbled those words. An empress did not beg favors.

  But she was not an empress yet, and for the first time in her life that position seemed in jeopardy.

  Minerva lashed her tail and did not move. Hyperia’s gown began to wilt under the hot sun. They were losing time. Soon, Julia would have to leave. Should her dragon arrive at the Trial without her…the Cut would be automatic.

  “Don’t let me go.” Her sister’s sobs wrenched Hyperia from her thoughts. She hugged Julia tight, letting the girl weep against her shoulder. “I can’t do this!”

  “It’s all right,” Hyperia soothed. She kissed Julia’s forehead, squeezed her eyes shut. “My baby. It’s all right.” Cradling Julia’s tearstained face, for one brief second Hyperia’s fingers trembled. “Please forgive me,” she whispered.

  Hyperia drew her dagger and slid the blade neatly across her sister’s throat.

  Julia’s eyes widened in shock. She spluttered and shoved at Hyperia as blood spurted from her neck, then she collapsed. Hyperia should have stood over her fallen opponent—because that’s what Julia had become the minute she was called. But Hyperia knelt instead. She held Julia’s hand tightly, leaned over so that her little sister could see the face of someone who loved her as she died.

  “Farewell to the nightingale,” Hyperia murmured as Julia twitched on the grass. The blood was warm on Hyperia’s face and clothes. Her sister’s grip slackened. “Hello to the lark.”

  When Julia of the Volscia died, Hyperia bit back tears, kissed her sister’s forehead, and stood.

  She heard a buzzing, like a fly. It took a moment to surface from her stupor and realize that the buzzing was actually her mother’s wails. Lady Volscia had fallen to her knees. She reached for her daughters and screamed. And screamed. Lord Volscia held on to his wife, his face blanched.

  Hyperia glared. “Stop that,” she snapped. I am your creation.

  The screams didn’t stop. Hyperia stepped back and watched to see what Minerva would do.

  The dragon hopped off the obsidian slab. She snuffled at the body of her mistress, prodding Julia with her snout. The Hydra keened, her song pure—beautiful and sad. Hyperia felt every mournful note echo through her bones.

  Minerva opened her jaws wide and swallowed Julia’s body in three goes. One: the girl’s head and shoulders vanished. Two: only her stockinged legs were visible. Three: a trace of Julia’s blood on the grass was all that remained. Hyperia nodded, feeling somewhat soothed. That was the end and the glory of all riders. To be recalled into the fiery belly of the dragon was to be immortal.

  It was the greatest honor anyone could have. At least she’d given Julia that, not the ignominy of the Cut.

  I love you, she thought.

  Hyperia turned to the now-empty stone slab, blood bright against her golden front. She felt blood trickling down her cheek, reached to wipe it away, and stopped. Instead, she cleaned her dagger on her skirt and sheathed it. While her parents wailed, she narrowed her eyes, much as she did when sighting down an arrow toward a target.

  “I am Hyperia of the Volscia, last remaining child of the House. The Emperor’s Trial is mine by right. Go ahead.” She held out her hands, palms up. She would wait as long as need be. She would wait forever.

  “Call for me.”

  Emilia hadn’t imagined the world could contain this much blue. She’d woken an hour before, tied tight to Chara’s saddle in traditional riding fashion. A well-fed and rested dragon could fly for a full day without stopping, and Chara had not responded to any of Emilia’s tugs or pressed legs. The dragon had soared onward, listening to the invisible call. When Emilia fell asleep last night, they’d been somewhere over the eastern mainland of the empire. Now, with sun sparkling over the expanse of the sea, she could only stare in awe.

  She’d grown up with the ocean a permanent background roar, but those waters had been dark and storming gray. Not like this, the shade of a summer sky, and so warm.

  She’d been correct; that gave her a little flush of pleasure. The Trial’s first location was the Crotian Sea. Emilia had studied the Crotian territory and knew that it was a land of eternal summer, of wild islands, of ceaseless blue.

  “We almost there, girl?” Emilia’s bladder felt near to bursting. In response, Chara glided down on the wind’s current. Ahead, Emilia caught hazy sight of an island. “At last,” she moaned.

  Chara flared her wings, slowing and dropping. Eventually, they landed on a wide, cleared patch of earth. Emilia’s knees buckled as she slid to the ground, the insides of her thighs throbbing with pain. She’d never ridden that long before.

  Shaking, she placed her palms on the ground and closed her eyes. She felt the thread of connection between her body and Chara, her hands and the earth beneath and the ocean behind.

  As her heart beat faster, the warmth of magic began to fill her. Nothing had changed. Once again, Emilia was a blasted vessel for it. The flight here had shocked her so deeply that the chaos had held itself at bay, but it was resurging with a vengeance now. The magic—the prickling, boiling pain of it—demanded its liberty. She spun around and on her hands and knees looked down into the lapping waves. She focused upon a cluster of stones slick with algae, their tops shining when the water receded for one instant before sloshing back over again. Emilia saw the rippling dark of her shadow outlined by the sun’s glare.

  Her head throbbed; the blood pulsated at her temples. Biting her lip, Emilia focused on those rocks and freed her chaos.

  The stones exploded, shards shooting every direction in the water. Enormous bubbles of air rose to the surface. The sea muffled the eruption, and instantly the tightness around Emilia’s head eased up. The dull roar in her ears vanished. She was safe.

  For now. Emilia had long compared these “outbursts” to a violent stomach illness. You could sense it coming, but you couldn’t stop it. All she could do was try to find the best place to be sick. After, she felt empty. Breathing heavily, Emilia turned and stared at a pair of sandaled feet. The person before her wore a homespun brown tunic.

  Oh no. No, no, did they see? Trying to remain calm, Emilia glanced upward. The person before her did not appear startled or frightened. Breathing out in relief, Emilia rose, dusting off her knees. The girl—yes, definitely a girl, not much older than she—gazed at Emilia with great calm.

  “You’re invited to wait,” the girl said, gesturing toward a path that led up a small incline. “Their Graces will be with you in time.”

  “Oh.” Of course, Their Graces, the high priests of th
e temple at Delphos. The administrators of order’s magical power, the high priests spoke for the Great Dragon here on earth. They always administered the Emperor’s Trial. Until a new leader was crowned, they were effectively the sole authority in Etrusia.

  And Emilia would have to evade their notice. Nausea rocked her at the thought.

  “Thank you.” Emilia attempted a smile. Try not to show too much teeth, her mother had once warned her. Emilia’s smile made people uncomfortable.

  Chara snuffled behind her. Emilia went to remove her saddle—the poor dragon would have sores if she wasn’t rubbed down soon. The hooded girl—the brown robe marked her as an acolyte of the temple, Emilia understood now—made a noise in her throat and took Chara’s reins. The dragon let her.

  “You’re invited to wait,” the girl repeated.

  Emilia grabbed her satchel and walked. She threw glances at Chara over her shoulder, but the dragon appeared more than fine, puffing gladly as the girl loosened the saddle.

  When Emilia got to the top of the path, she looked out at the temple beyond. Her eyes widened. She had anticipated beauty, but not…not like this.

  Rows of marble columns led down a long, flowering courtyard and up to the building. Several steps ascended to the temple’s single level, made of stone so white it was a glare in the sunshine. The doors gleamed brass, the triangular roof glimmered in accents of gold. A carved frieze displayed images of warriors on dragonback surging against a horde of snarling enemies. Near the start of the columns, mossy stone dragons had been set to guard the area. A rectangular pool lay in the center of the space, reflecting the azure blue of the sky. A fountain burbled at the far end, adjacent to the bronze statue of a man, his feet skating the pool’s surface. The man raised an arm in triumph, while a dragon’s wings extended from his back on either side. Emilia knew her history: this had been sculpted to commemorate Antoninus, the first emperor, who’d ridden the Great Dragon into battle against the Chaos House.