Eona: The Last Dragoneye

by Alison Goodman

  The Trang Dein men stepped out of the shadows, their sword hooks slicing through the air in soft whirring circles.

  Yuso drew his knife. “Ryko, I thought you said she’d help you!”

  I sucked in a breath. There was nothing in the cart to use as a weapon; my swords were with Kygo, along with the folio and compass. I scanned the courtyard. The nearest thing was a wooden shovel. Vida edged between me and the approaching men.

  “Get ready to run,” she whispered.

  “Momo,” Ryko said, “I swear on Layla’s grave that we are from the true Master Heron. He needs your help.”

  “You are not being forced?”

  “No!”

  Momo held up both hands. “Wait,” she ordered, halting her men. They lowered their weapons. She stared at Ryko. “If you just lied on Layla’s name, I’ll have them rip you apart. You know that.”

  Ryko nodded. “I know it.”

  “All right, then. Come in. Explain yourself.” She pointed at Yuso. “And you, knife-boy, cut Ryko free.”

  Mama Momo sat back from passing around bowls of tea and studied us. She had also offered small crescent New Year cakes, but Yuso’s warning glance had stopped me reaching for one, although my stomach squirmed with hunger. Distrust flowed both ways. I looked around the room. It was on the second story of the house but had no windows and, strangely, the walls were covered with straw matting. The ceiling was covered with matting, too.

  “Soundproof,” Momo said, following my upward gaze. “Completely.” She smiled as she picked up a blue porcelain bowl and made a show of sipping the tea.

  I took a hurried sip from my own bowl, remembering my fellow candidate’s lurid stories. Across the low table, Yuso shifted his weight, a crimp of pain between his eyebrows; kneeling did not agree with a leg wound.

  “So you claim to be friends of Master Heron,” Momo said to him. “I know Ryko. But who are you?”

  “I am Yuso, captain of His Majesty’s imperial guard.”

  She shot a glance at Ryko, who nodded. She leaned forward. “And you say His Majesty is alive? Sethon proclaimed his death more than a week ago, and my normal channels have picked up only wind-whispers that he survived the coup.”

  “We got him out in time. He is alive and preparing to fight for his throne,” Yuso said. “We left him this morning.”

  “Preparing?” She frowned. “Today is the last day of Rightful Claim. Does he not make his move?”

  Yuso shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “I see.” Her shrewd gaze rested upon me. “And who are you, to be so carefully watched over by your comrades?”

  Yuso bowed toward me. “This is Lady Eona, Mirror Dragoneye.”

  “Lady Eona?” Momo sat back on her heels. “Ah, I see. Lord Eon.” She bowed. “It is a good disguise, my lord.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I really am Lady Eona. The Mirror Dragon is female, as am I.”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Truly?” Her fierce face folded into deep carved laughter lines. “How wonderful, a female Dragoneye. That would have put the wind up those Dragoneye Lords.” She sobered. “Of course, they are all dead now, may they walk in the garden of heaven.” She turned to Ryko. “You do realize how dangerous it is to bring Lady Eona into the city? I didn’t raise a fool, did I?”

  We all froze, staring at Ryko. He looked around the table, his glare finally resting on Momo. “Lady Eona is integral to our plan,” he said flatly.

  “Are you Ryko’s mother?” Dela asked Momo, her own fierceness softening into a small, surprised smile.

  Momo snorted. “Of course not. I took him in when he was eight.” She glanced across at the islander. “Trouble from day one.”

  Ryko’s glare intensified.

  Ignoring him, Momo turned to Yuso. “What is this plan that is so important that you would risk a Dragoneye? Do you try to assassinate Sethon? You will die before you get near him.”

  “We have to get Lord Ido out of the palace,” Yuso said.

  She took a sip of tea, eyeing us. “That’s almost as difficult. He is in the cells.”

  “You’re sure he’s still alive?” I asked urgently.

  “He was this morning,” Momo said. “The soldiers take my girls to look at him like some kind of freak show: the great Dragoneye Lord bowed and bloody. My girls have seen a lot in their lives, and even they are shocked by what Sethon has done. From all accounts, if you try to move him, you’ll kill him.”

  “That is why I am here,” I said. “I can heal him.”

  It was one of the biggest risks in our plan. I had to heal Ido fast enough for him to gather his strength and hold off the ten bereft dragons before they tore me apart with power. Again, I touched Kygo’s ring: not only for luck, but for comfort, too.

  “You can heal?” Momo shook her head in wonder.

  “You say the soldiers take your girls to look at him,” Dela said. “That could work to our advantage.”

  Momo tilted her head. “You’re eastern,” she said.

  “I am Lady Dela. I was—”

  “The Contraire?” Momo sat up straight.

  Dela nodded, smoothing back her greasy hair with a self- conscious hand.

  The old woman pressed her thin lips together. “We may have a problem. I have an eastern girl here, from the Haya Ro, and if she recognizes you …”

  “She may,” Dela said. “I am the only twin soul among the Highland Tribes, and well known.”

  Momo crooked a finger at Stoll. “Tell Hina she can take those two days off to see her son. As long as she goes now.”

  Stoll bowed and left to deliver the good news. As the sliding door closed behind him, I glimpsed one of the Trang Dein man on the landing, armed and alert.

  “And who are you?” Momo asked Vida dryly. “The Sun Empress?”

  Vida shook her head. “I am a resistance fighter,” she said, undaunted by the old woman’s sarcasm.

  Dela circled her hands around her tea bowl. “Why would Sethon torture Ido?” she asked. “It doesn’t make sense. He needs Ido.”

  “No doubt Sethon is trying to get information out of him,” Yuso said.

  Momo grunted. “I don’t like Lord Ido. I never have. He is twenty-four now, but I’ve known him since he was sixteen, and right from the beginning he has had something within him that is”—she paused—”keyed differently. If Sethon wanted something out of him, he would have to push past what a normal man could endure.”

  I knew what Ido was trying to keep from Sethon: how to use the black folio to control a Dragoneye and his power. Or her power.

  “You think Sethon has just gone too far with him?” Dela asked.

  “I have seen Sethon’s methods,” Yuso said grimly. “They do not err on the side of restraint.”

  “It is even beyond that,” Momo said. “We get imperial orders to send girls to the palace for our new esteemed emperor. Sometimes they don’t come back.” She glanced around the table, her eyes hard with anger. “Three bodies in the canal so far; one of them a girl from my house. He enjoys having power over life and death. I’ve tried to stop supplying, as have the other houses, but he just sends his men to get them.”

  We sat in silence.

  “Why do you want Ido so badly?” Momo finally asked. “It’s going to be a hellish job to get him out, and I can see you are here to ask for my help.”

  It seemed we had finally passed her scrutiny. Yuso looked across at me, questioning. I shrugged: Why not?

  “Lady Eona needs training,” he said. “Without Ido, she will not be able to control her power. And His Majesty needs her power to win his throne.”

  Momo leaned forward, pinning me with her bright gaze. “What makes you think Ido will do what you want? From gratitude?” Her thin body shook in a silent laugh. “Ido doesn’t know what the word means. I should know.”

  “When Lady Eona heals someone, she can control their will,” Ryko said. “She has healed Ido once already.”

  My skin heated at the edge in
his voice. Momo heard it, too; her attention snapped to the islander.

  She sat back and sucked on her teeth. “She’s healed you, too, hasn’t she, Ry?”

  His nod was almost imperceptible, his eyes fixed on the table. For a moment, Momo’s face softened.

  “Well, then, Lady Eona.” She turned to me, once again Queen of the Blossom World. “If you can control a will like Ryko’s, you might be able to control Lord Ido. What is your plan, Yuso?”

  “We cannot go in by force, so we must go in by deception. Lady Eona and Vida will masquerade as Blossom Women for one of these gatherings.”

  Momo stared at him. “That is a very dangerous proposition.”

  “Not so dangerous if they go in as high-ranked girls,” Yuso said.

  She crossed her arms and inspected me, then Vida. “Possible, with a bit of work,” she conceded. “Although the refined arts of an Orchid or Peony are not often requested by soldiers. They do not want music or dance. They are more your Jasmine or Cherry Blossom type of men.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “We can work around it, though.”

  “We do not expect Lady Eona or Vida to actually have to perform,” Yuso said quickly. “And Ryko, Lady Dela, and I will go in as their protectors, or something along those lines.”

  “Could you and Ryko be recognized, captain?” Momo asked.

  “Not unless some of the imperial guard have survived and turned,” he said.

  Momo shook her head. “Executed. Every one of them.”

  Yuso and Ryko looked at one another—a moment of shared anger—then Yuso bowed his head. Ryko pressed his fist to his chest, his face tight.

  After a moment’s respectful silence, Momo said, “If you go in as my men, you will be stopped and held back outside the rooms, but at least you will be inside the palace walls. How quickly do you want to move?”

  “As soon as we can,” I said.

  “There’s an officer’s party tonight. Is that soon enough?”

  I took a deep breath and looked around at the others. I saw the same tension in them that shifted through me: we had all stepped up to the edge.

  Yuso smiled, hard and grim. One by one, we all smiled back.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Momo said dryly.

  It was good to have hot fish and rice in my belly and to be clean again, even if the bath had been rushed and the scrubbing delivered by a maid with the touch of a net-hauler. I pulled the still-damp drying cloth higher up on my chest and shifted on the hard wooden stool as Mama Momo and Moon Orchid examined me.

  The young Blossom Woman reached across and pushed my wet hair behind my ear, then pursed her lips thoughtfully. I tried not to stare, but it was hard to resist the draw of her face. Madina had spoken of the four seats of beauty, and Moon Orchid had them all, in abundance. Thick, soft hair dressed high to accentuate her broad forehead; wide eyes with a hint of clever mischief in them; lips that called for a fingertip to trace their shape; and a long, smooth throat, all in a harmony of spirit that brought a pang to the heart.

  “I don’t think she can be an Orchid,” Momo said. “Her face and voice would pass, but she moves like a delivery boy.” She glanced down at me. “No offense, my lady.”

  I hitched up the drying cloth again and shrugged. Compared to Moon Orchid’s languorous grace, I did move like a boy.

  Moon Orchid tilted her head. “It will have to be a Peony, and we will hope that she is not asked to play for them.” She eyed me for a moment. “I don’t suppose you have any skill with a lute?”

  I shook my head.

  Momo reached across and tilted my face, inspecting my jaw. “The Peony paint will also cover that bruise. We do not want the vultures to circle.” She touched Moon Orchid’s arm. “Will you begin? I’ll see to Vida.”

  She crossed the room to where the resistance woman sat on her own stool. “You, my dear, will be a Safflower. But let me give you a few words of warning about …”

  “I think Mama Momo is too harsh,” Moon Orchid whispered, diverting my attention. “You could pass as an Orchid.” She smiled and handed me a long strip of cloth. “Please pull your hair back, my lady, and we’ll get started.”

  I wrapped the cloth around my head, tucking in the loose strands of hair.

  “You should take off your pendant, too, or it may get paint on it.”

  I lifted the leather thong over my head, pulling Kygo’s amulet from under the edge of the drying cloth. For a moment, Moon Orchid’s eyes fixed on the swinging gold ring. Her long throat convulsed in a hard swallow.

  “Kygo’s—I mean, His Majesty’s blood ring,” she said. “Why do you have it? Is he all right?”

  I pulled it back from her avid gaze. “He gave it to me,” I said.

  How did she know it was Kygo’s ring? The obvious answer was like a slap across the face. We stared at each other, her beauty sending another pang through me, discordant and sour.

  “Is he well?” she asked.

  “He was this morning.” I closed my fingers around the ring.

  Moon Orchid turned and pressed a brush into the white face paint, her smooth brow creased. Even a frown did not detract from her beauty. She took a deeper breath, withdrew the brush, and wiped the excess on the side of the pot. When she turned back to me, her face was once again serene. She placed the brush alongside my nose and gently stroked the cool paint onto my skin.

  “The ring is very important to him,” she said. Her eyes flicked up from her task. “He must think highly of you.”

  No doubt she saw my cheeks redden.

  “It is to protect us on the mission,” I said.

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled and charged the brush again. A small silence settled as she painted the other side of my face and my forehead in broad strokes.

  I wet my lips. “How long have you known him?”

  She looked up from under her long lashes. “I have not seen him since Her Majesty, the Empress Cela, walked the golden path to her ancestors.”

  She had not answered my question, but something narroweyed within me was pleased that she had not seen him for a year.

  Moon Orchid turned from the paint pot again. “He is a very handsome man.” Another long stroke ended at my chin. “Although his heavenly rank creates tension for his earthly body.”

  I pulled back from the brush. Its white tip hung between us, pointed like her comment.

  “How is that?” I finally asked, curiosity overwhelming my unease.

  “To be so sacred that one cannot be touched. It builds both a hunger and a restraint.” The soft brush followed the shape of my mouth. “A conflict that is mirrored in his spirit.” She stopped painting, her face polite. “Or perhaps you disagree, my lady?”

  For a searing moment, I felt Kygo’s hand around my wrist again and saw the strong line of his jaw as his head strained back, fighting for control. I drew in a breath, meeting Moon Orchid’s watchful gaze. “You know him well, then.”

  A small shrug, and the brush swirled through the paint again. “Well enough to know that he has given you more than just a god’s protection with that ring.”

  I opened my hand and we both looked down at the thick band. I knew it meant more—it had been in the touch of his hand and the soft urgency of his voice—but I still wanted to know what she thought he had given me.

  There was no need for me to ask: Moon Orchid was a practiced reader of desire. She put down the brush, her dark eyes suddenly much older than the smooth beauty of her face.

  “He has given you his blood, and the moment when he crossed into manhood,” she said, and pressed my fingers around the ring again. Her smile was as tight as my heart.

  For a moment I felt victorious, as though I had won some silent battle between us. Then I looked down at her hand enclosing my own, and in my mind all I could see were those long, pale fingers moving slowly across Kygo’s sacred skin.

  I had not even stepped into the arena.

  After what seemed an age, Mama Momo circled me again, Dela by he
r side.

  “You have done a beautiful job, my dear,” she said to Moon Orchid. “Do you not agree, Lady Dela?”

  Dela smiled her agreement, although her face was troubled. She had joined us early in the preparations, like a moth drawn to the flame of femininity in the room. She had sat beside me as Moon Orchid finished painting my face, and I had watched her large-knuckled hands hover over the brushes and paint, her eyes judging the deft darkening of my lashes and reddening of my lips. I could almost feel the ache in her to shave off her stubble and paint back the contours of her true self.

  “Are you all right?” I whispered, when Moon Orchid had stepped away for a moment.

  Dela had put down the pot she was holding, her lip caught between her teeth. “Every day, Ryko sees me in this man’s garb. It is difficult enough for me, let alone him.”

  I touched her arm. “It does not matter. He knows who you really are.”

  “Then why do I see him withdrawing from me?” she asked.

  “I don’t think it is you,” I had said grimly. “I think it is me.”

  Across the room, Vida stared at her completed Safflower reflection in a large mirror that stood against the wall. She touched the glass, pulling back as her finger met the hard surface. I remembered my own shock at seeing the whole length of my body for the first time in the arena mirror; the sudden shift from living within flesh to viewing it, a collection of form and contour that was myself, but at the same time outside myself. Quickly, Vida averted her eyes from those in the precious glass; perhaps she did not want to see her spirit in its depths. She watched her reflected hand trace the curve of her waist. Her body was swathed in diaphanous blue cloth that in some places was only one layer thick, showing the sheen of oiled skin, and in others, three or four layers, hiding everything but shape. She frowned and stepped back, her cheeks flushed.

  “It will be hard to fight in this,” she said. “It is very tight. And I cannot hide a weapon.”

  “You would not get one past the guards anyway,” Momo said. “Come, Lady Eona.” She beckoned me over to the mirror. “See yourself transformed.”

  I gathered the skirt of my pink and green gown and walked over to the mirror, both eager and afraid to see my reflection.