Seraphina

by Rachel Hartman

  “Lucian!” cried Glisselda. “Don’t let him go. I’m not convinced he’s friendly.”

  “The tunnels are all blocked. He’ll be apprehended before he can do any harm.”

  If only that were true. The harm was done. I turned back to the sky, where my uncle was still getting the worst of it. Even if he survived, he’d be sent back to the Tanamoot to have his brain pruned. I couldn’t bear it.

  Imlann got the drop on him again, and this time Orma could not recover soon enough. He was on fire; he streaked through the sky and landed hard in the river, taking out the Wolfstoot Bridge. A cloud of steam billowed up where he had fallen.

  I clamped a hand over my mouth. Imlann swirled the sky, screaming and flaming triumphantly, the newly risen sun glimmering upon his skin.

  Treaty Eve was over. Usually we Goreddis toasted the new light and cried, “The dragon wars are done for good!” This year, however, everyone had run out into the streets to watch the dragons warring each other overhead.

  I could still hear screams, but it was not the townspeople; it was the wrong pitch. Suddenly I realized the dark dots in the southern sky, which I had taken for a flock of birds, were flying too swiftly and growing far too large to be birds.

  Eskar and the petit ard were returning.

  The dragon Imlann, my maternal grandfather, did not attempt to flee and did not bite his own tail and surrender. He flew headlong at the approaching dragons, flaming and bellowing and utterly doomed.

  As Lady Corongi, he had been devious, ruthless, and calculating. He had tried to kill the entire royal family and his Ardmagar; he might have succeeded in killing his own son. His final charge was nothing short of suicide. And yet, as I watched him in full battle fury, slashing and snapping as if he would rip the sky itself apart, I felt a terrible sorrow rising in me. He was my mother’s father. She had ruined his life as surely as her own by marrying my father, but had her stubbornness been so different from his doomed charge, in the end? Hadn’t she too gone up against unbeatable odds?

  Eskar alone could not drop him. Three dragons together finally set him on fire, and even then he stayed airborne longer than I could have imagined possible. When Eskar finally decapitated him, it was more mercy killing than victory. I watched my grandfather’s body spiral down, bright as a comet, and I wept.

  The church bells changed their pattern to the fire alarm as smoke began to billow up in the south part of town. Even dead, Imlann did a lot of damage.

  I turned back toward the cave entrance, my eyes stinging, my hands and face bitterly cold, a dread emptiness in my chest. Kiggs and Glisselda stood together, both of them studying me anxiously but pretending not to. In the shadows behind them stood Lars, whom I’d all but forgotten. He clutched his pipes, white-knuckled.

  “Phina,” he said when I met his eye, “what hes happendt to Abdo?”

  The dragon Abdo clung to had been set aflame and decapitated. I saw little hope. “I can’t look for him, Lars,” I said. The idea of reaching for Abdo’s hand in my mind and coming up empty terrified me.

  “Candt, or wondt?”

  “I won’t!”

  Lars glowered ferociously. “You will! You owe him thet! He gave everythink for you, gladtly! He foundt the way down the wall, he threw himself at thet dragon, he didt all you esked and more. Findt him.”

  “What if he’s not there?”

  “Then you will findt him in Heaven, but you will findt him.”

  I nodded, picking my way through the snow toward Lars. Kiggs and Glisselda parted to let me pass, their eyes wide. “Keep me upright, will you?” I said to Lars, who silently put his bagpipe-free arm around me and let me lean my head against his chest. I closed my eyes and reached.

  I found Abdo at once. Conscious, alert, almost unhurt, he was seated upon what at first appeared to be an island in the middle of the river. I swooped in with my vision-eye for a closer look. Abdo waved at me, smiling through tears, and only then did I realize what he was sitting on.

  It was Orma.

  Abdo, is that dragon alive or dead? I cried, but Abdo didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t know. I circled. Orma’s chest rose—was that a breath? Crowds of people lined the riverbanks, shouting and waving torches but too frightened to go any closer to him. A shadow crossed them, and they scattered, screaming. It was Eskar: she landed on the strand and arched her neck down to my uncle in the river.

  With a tremendous effort, he lifted his head and touched her nose with his.

  “Abdo lives,” I croaked, bringing myself back. “He’s in the river with Uncle Orma. He must have switched dragons in mid-flight.”

  Lars squeezed me and kissed the top of my head, then checked his exuberance. “Your uncle?”

  “Moving. Not well. Eskar’s there; she’ll see to his care.” I hoped she would. Was she really no longer with the Censors? She was the one who’d made my uncle look after Basind. Had she known who he was? I wept into Lars’s jerkin.

  There was another hand on my shoulder. Princess Glisselda was giving me her handkerchief. “Are these your formidable mental powers?” she asked softly. “You can see your comrades in your mind? Is that how you found me?”

  “She can see only other helf-dragons,” said Lars, glaring unnecessarily.

  “There are more half-dragons?” whispered Glisselda, her blue eyes wide.

  “Mise,” said Lars. “I, myself.”

  The princess nodded slowly, her brow furrowed in thought. “And that little Porphyrian boy. That’s who you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  Kiggs was shaking his head, pacing in a futile circle. “I might believe there was one in the world, but three?”

  “Four, counting Dame Okra Carmine,” I said wearily. May as well out the whole bunch, although I had a feeling Dame Okra would be irked that I had done so. “There could be seventeen of us together, if I located the rest.” Eighteen, if I found Jannoula, or she found me.

  Glisselda looked awed, but Kiggs set his jaw as if he wasn’t buying it.

  “You heard Basind call Orma my uncle,” I told him. “Remember how you thought I loved him, how you were sick of guessing? Here’s your explanation at last.”

  Kiggs was shaking his head stubbornly. “I just can’t … Your blood runs red. You laugh and cry the same as anyone—”

  Lars seemed to grow taller, looming protectively over me. I put a reassuring hand on his arm and told him in my mind: It’s time. I can do this.

  The prince and princess stared, mesmerized by how many sleeves and ties I had to undo. I held my bared arm toward them; sunlight flashed off the spiraling silver scales.

  The icy wind blew. No one spoke.

  Kiggs and Glisselda did not move. I did not look at their faces; I did not wish to read how many different words for disgust must be written there. I tugged my garments back into place, cleared the considerable lump out of my throat, and croaked, “We should get inside and see who else still lives.”

  The royal cousins started, as if waking from some terrible dream, and hastened into the cave, ahead of and away from me. Lars put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned on him all the way into the castle, weeping half my tears for Orma and half for myself.

  All the palace was in an uproar when we got back, searching for Glisselda; no one but us had known where she’d gone. She stepped out of the tunnels a tired, cold, frightened girl, but within moments, before she’d even heard the fates of her mother and grandmother, she had put her queenliness on and was reassuring panicked courtiers and terrified heads of state.

  Princess Dionne had not survived the night. The Queen held on, but barely. Glisselda hurried upstairs to be at her grandmother’s side.

  Kiggs went straight to his guards, demanding reports and making sure they had shifted smoothly to daytime duties. They had detained Basind; Kiggs decided he could use a good questioning and hastened off.

  Lars and I were left to fend for ourselves. Without a word, he took my arm and led me through twists and turns of the corridors unti
l we reached a door. Viridius’s manservant, Marius, answered. Viridius was shouting in the background: “What kind of whoreson dog knocks before the sun is up?”

  “The sun is up, Master,” said Marius wearily, rolling his eyes and waving us through. “It’s only Lars and—”

  Viridius darkened the doorway of the bedchamber, hauling himself forward with two canes. His expression softened at the sight of us. “Pardon me, my dears. You’ve awakened an old man on the wrong side of the bed.”

  Lars, who was propping me up, intoned, “She needts a place to sleep.”

  “She hasn’t a suite of her own anymore?” asked Viridius, clearing cushions and a robe off his couch for me. “Sit, Seraphina, you look terrible.”

  “Her true nature is revealedt to the princess and prince,” said Lars, laying a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “She shouldt not hev to face the worldt until she rests, quiet, away from peoples.”

  Marius went to the solarium to arrange a makeshift bed for me, but I fell asleep right there on the couch.

  I dozed on and off all day. Viridius and Lars kept everyone away and asked no questions.

  The next morning I awoke to Lars sitting at the end of my impromptu bed. “The princess was here,” he said. “She wants thet we come to the Queen’s studty when you are dressedt. A lot is heppenedt.”

  I nodded blearily. He gave me his arm and we went together. Princess Glisselda had commandeered her grandmother’s massive desk; eight high-backed chairs, most of them already occupied, had been placed in a semicircle before her. Kiggs sat behind her to the left perusing a folded letter; he flicked his eyes toward the door when Lars and I entered but did not raise his head. To the princess’s right, like a gray shadow near the windows, stood my father. He smiled wanly. I nodded at him and followed Lars toward the two empty seats beside Dame Okra Carmine.

  Abdo peeked out from behind her ample form and waved at me.

  The Regent of Samsam, Count Pesavolta of Ninys, Ambassador Fulda, and the Ardmagar occupied the other seats. The Regent was clad all in severe black, his silver hair brushing his shoulders, while Count Pesavolta was wide, apple-cheeked, and bald; they wore similar sour expressions, however. Lars slumped beside me as if to make himself smaller, casting wary glances at the Regent.

  Princess Glisselda folded her small hands on the desk before her and cleared her throat. She wore a white houppelande and the circlet of the first heir; golden netting restrained the exuberance of her curls. Small though she was, she seemed to fill the room with light. She said, “My mother is dead and my grandmother extremely ill. I am first heir by rightful succession. The incapacity of the Queen—St. Eustace leave her lie long as he may—necessitates my speaking, deciding, and taking action on her behalf.” The Regent and Count Pesavolta shifted in their seats, grumbling. Glisselda snapped: “Counselor Dombegh! Precedent!”

  My father cleared his throat. “When Queen Favonia II was incapacitated by stroke, Princess Annette served as acting Queen until she recovered. No Goreddi would question your right, Your Highness.”

  “You are but fifteen years old,” said Count Pesavolta, his round face smiling but his eyes hard. “No disrespect intended.”

  “Queen Lavonda was but seventeen when she treated with me,” said Comonot unexpectedly. He rested his hands on his knees, several quig-made rings on each finger; they gleamed like a miniature hoard against the dark blue of his houppelande.

  “Her youth did not excuse her foolishness,” said the Regent, glaring down his narrow nose.

  Comonot did not acknowledge the comment; he was speaking only to Glisselda. “She was already Queen in her own right. Already a mother. She climbed Halfheart Pass through a raging snowstorm with only two goat-girls from Dewcomb’s Outpost to guide her. I had assumed no rational being would brave that kind of weather, so I was not even in my saarantras to greet her. My scouts brought her into our cavern, this tiny, half-frozen girl, snow whirling around her. We all stared at her, not sure what to think, until she threw back her fur-lined hood and unwrapped the woolen shawl from over her face. She looked me in the eye, and I knew.”

  There was a long pause until Glisselda said, “Knew what, Ardmagar?”

  “That I had met my match,” said Comonot, his face sharp, remembering.

  Glisselda nodded at the Ardmagar, a small smile on her lips. She held a hand out to Kiggs, who passed her the folded parchment. “We received a letter this morning. Ambassador Fulda, would you please read it aloud?”

  The ambassador fished a pair of spectacles out of his vest and read:

  We the undersigned have seized the Kerama as of yesterday. We proclaim ourselves rightful rulers of the Tanamoot, all its lands and armies, until we are in turn removed by force.

  The traitor Comonot yet lives. He is wanted for crimes against dragonkind, including but not limited to: making treaties and alliances against the will of the Ker, detrimental to our values and way of life; indulging in excessive emotionality; fraternizing with humans; indulging deviants; seeking to alter our fundamental dragon nature and make us more human-like.

  We demand his immediate return to the Tanamoot. Failure to comply will be tantamount to an act of war. Recognize, Goreddis, that you are in no position to fight. We expect you to act in accordance with your interests. You have three days.

  “It’s signed by ten generals,” said Ambassador Fulda, refolding the parchment.

  Comonot opened his mouth, but Glisselda silenced him with a gesture. “The dragon Imlann, as my governess, taught me that Goredd is mighty and the dragons are weak and demoralized. I believed it until I saw for myself how dragons fight. Orma destroyed the Wolfstoot Bridge and sheared off the top of St. Gobnait’s; where Imlann fell, an entire city block burned. How much worse if they’d been fighting us and not each other? The dracomachia is a shambles. I fear the cabal is right: we would not last alone against dragons. As much as I admire you, Ardmagar, you’re going to have to persuade me not to give you back.”

  She turned to Fulda. “Ambassador, will dragonkind stand with their Ardmagar?”

  Fulda pursed his lips, thinking. “It’s not a legal succession while Comonot lives. There may be those who reject the cabal for that reason alone, but I suspect the older generation will largely be in sympathy with their goals.”

  “I dispute that,” said the Ardmagar.

  “The younger generation,” Fulda said, pressing on, “will likely stand firm in favor of the peace. This could turn into an inter-generational war.”

  “Infanta!” said the Regent of Samsam, shaking a bony finger as if to scold her. “Surely you have no intention of giving this creature political asylum? It was degrading enough that your noble grandmother—St. Eustace blindly pass her by—should have negotiated with it. Do not show it mercy when its own kind wants it dead.”

  “You would be inserting your country—and the unwilling Southlands with you—into a dragon civil war,” drawled Count Pesavolta, drumming his fingers on his ample gut.

  “If I may,” interjected my father. “The treaty contains a clause forbidding Goredd from interfering in internal dragon affairs. We could not meddle in a civil war.”

  “You’ve tied our hands, Ardmagar,” said Glisselda, her pretty little mouth curling sardonically. “We would have to break your own treaty to save you.”

  “We may have to break the treaty to save the treaty,” said the Ardmagar.

  Glisselda turned to Ninys and Samsam. “You wish Comonot returned. I may decide I cannot do that. If it comes to war between Goredd and the dragons, can I rely on you? If not for help, then at least not to take arms against us opportunistically?”

  The Regent of Samsam looked pale and peevish; Count Pesavolta hemmed and hawed. Each finally muttered something close to, if not exactly, yes.

  “Goredd’s treaty with Ninys and Samsam banished knights across the Southlands,” continued Glisselda, her blue eyes cold and sternly fixed upon them. “I will not risk war unless we are free to revive the dracomachia.
It would mean renegotiating that agreement.”

  “Your Highness,” said my father, “many of the Samsamese and Ninysh knights were rumored to have fled to Fort Oversea, on the isle of Paola. Their dracomachia may be in healthier condition than ours. Altering the treaty could allow the knights of all three nations to work together.”

  The princess nodded thoughtfully. “I’d want your help drafting this document.”

  “It would be my honor,” said my father, bowing.

  The Regent of Samsam sat up straighter, his skinny neck extending like a vulture’s. “If it means we might reinstate our valiant exiles, perhaps Samsam would be willing to negotiate some sort of nonaggression pact.”

  “Ninys would never side with dragons against Goredd,” Count Pesavolta announced. “We stand behind you, of course!”

  Glisselda gave an arch nod. Kiggs, behind her, had narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Ninys and Samsam would have squirmed in their seats had they realized what intense scrutiny would be upon them.

  “This brings me finally to you,” said the princess, indicating us half-dragons with an elegant gesture. “We have here a fearless boy who grappled a dragon in his own version of dracomachia, a man who can design sophisticated engines of war—”

  “And musical instruments,” mumbled Lars.

  “—a woman who can tell the near future with her stomach, and another who may be able to find me more people of extraordinary talent.” Glisselda smiled warmly at me. “At least, you mentioned there are more. Are they all so talented?”

  I almost said I didn’t know, but it occurred to me suddenly that I might. If I’d thought about it, I’d have known what to expect from these first three: Abdo was always climbing and balancing; Lars built gazebos and bridges; Dame Okra pulled up weeds before they had a chance to sprout. Every one of my grotesques engaged in idiosyncratic behaviors. Pelican Man stared at the stars. Pandowdy was a monster in his own right. Jannoula—if I ever dared to look for her again—could climb right into my mind, but maybe not just mine.