21
SPECULUS, FOR US Goreddis, should be spent in contemplation of one’s sins and shortcomings. It’s the longest night of the year, representing the long darkness of death for the soul who rejects the light of Heaven.
It was certainly the longest night I have ever lived through.
Kiggs, of course, had drawn his sword again, but it hung from his hand in a desultory manner. It had been useless against one dragon; it was merely token resistance against two.
“We’re not in danger,” I said, trying to reassure him but fearing my good intention was as futile as his sword. “It’s Orma, and behind him is Basind. I didn’t call Basind.”
“But you did call Orma? With that device you don’t have?”
“I don’t have the one I told Imlann about—I invented that on the spur of the moment—and I was trying to reassure you, and I . . . I forgot.”
“I see. So Orma gave you this device and came instantly when called as if he were your lap dog, because he—how did you put it exactly?—he feels nothing for you?”
“We’re not . . . no. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” he cried, furious with me. “Are you his agent? Is he your thrall? There is something between you, beyond this facade of mentorship, beyond what dragons and humans should ever engage in. It is not normal, and I can’t work out what it is, and I am sick of guessing!”
“Kiggs . . .” I had no other words.
“Prince Lucian, if you would be so kind,” he said. “Tell them to shrink down.”
Orma approached, head lowered in a submissive stance. He had apparently told Basind to flatten himself into the snow, because Basind did a good impression of a lizard run over by a cart—a giant lizard, and an unthinkably enormous cart.
“You are all under arrest,” said Kiggs, loudly and slowly. “You two, for unauthorized transformation; Maid Dombegh, because you are clearly in cahoots with two unauthorized dragons—”
“Association with dragons is not a crime,” I said.
“Possession of a quigutl-made transmission device is. Aiding and abetting the delinquency of dragons is. I could go on.” He turned to the dragons and said, “You will shrink yourselves down now.”
Orma cried, “Seraphina, if I have transformed for nothing, I am going to be in an unquantifiable amount of trouble. Tell me why I shouldn’t bite your head off. It couldn’t make things any worse for me.”
I translated that as: “‘We’ll come along quietly, Prince, and will comply with your every reasonable demand, but we cannot shrink ourselves down because you don’t have clothing for us, and we would freeze.’”
“Are you in love with Prince Lucian?” screamed my uncle. “What were you up to when I arrived? You weren’t going to mate right here in the snow, were you?”
I gave myself a moment to get my voice under control before saying, “The dragons suggest that they walk ahead. Their sharp eyes can make out the road more easily than ours. They won’t flee.”
“I told you not to go after Imlann,” screeched my uncle. “I know he was here; I smell him. Why did you not keep him here so I could kill him?”
That was too much. I shouted back, “You can’t have it both ways, Orma!”
“Get back on your horse,” said Kiggs, who’d been able to round up the animals. They were still skittish in the continuing presence of full-sized dragons, so it took me some time to get on. Kiggs held my mare’s bridle, but he would not look at me.
The dragons kept their heads down, docilely, as they followed the road; they left slushy footprints, huge and clawed, behind them. The prince and I followed in painful silence.
It gave me a lot of time to think. How had Imlann found us? Had he tracked us from the coppice, or had he been waiting for us to come back along the same road? How could he know we would return?
“Prince Lucian,” I began, drawing my horse up alongside his.
“I would rather you not speak, Maid Dombegh,” he said, his eyes upon the saar.
That hurt, but I plowed ahead. “I suspect Imlann knew where we were going and that we were coming back. Someone at the palace may have told him—or someone at the palace is him. Who knew where we were going today?”
“My grandmother,” he said tersely. “Glisselda. Neither of them is a dragon.”
I hardly dared suggest it, but I had to. “Might Glisselda have mentioned it in passing to the Earl of Apsig?”
He turned toward me sharply. “If she had—which I deem unlikely—what are you suggesting? That he’s a traitor, or that he’s a dragon?”
“He came out of nowhere two years ago—you said so yourself. He takes no wine. He’s got fair hair and blue eyes.” He’d discerned the scent of my scales, too, but obviously I could not include that detail. “He was part of your uncle’s last hunting party,” I hazarded. That wasn’t evidence, though, so much as circumstance.
“You’re omitting a substantial amount of counterevidence,” said Prince Lucian, finally engaged, even if just to refute me. “I thought we’d concluded he was Lars’s half brother.”
“You said it was a rumor. It might be false.” I dared not suggest what now occurred to me: if Josef was a dragon, he might be Lars’s father.
“He plays viola like an angel. He professes to hate dragonkind.”
“Imlann might adopt such an attitude strategically, to deflect suspicion,” I said. I couldn’t address the accusation of angelic viola playing without bringing up my own mother, who’d played flute with an eerily human cadence, according to Orma.
The prince looked at me sarcastically, and I hastened to add, “All I ask is that you consider the possibility. Inquire whether anyone saw Josef at court today.”
“Will that be all, Maid Dombegh?”
My teeth chattered with cold and nerves. “Not quite all. I want to explain Orma.”
“I really don’t care to hear it,” he said, spurring his horse a little ahead.
“He saved my life!” I cried at his back, determined to make him hear it whether he wanted to or not. “Orma was my tutor when I was little. You recall that his family is flagged for scrutiny. Well, the Censors feared he might become too attached to his students, for he dearly loved teaching and was good at it. They sent a dragon called Zeyd to test him. She lured me up the bell tower of St. Gobnait’s with the promise of a physics lesson, then dangled me out over the plaza, as if she might drop me. If Orma rescued me, you see, that would indicate that he was compromised. He should not have cared that much.”
I swallowed. My mouth still went dry, recalling the terror of my shoes falling, the wind roaring in my ears, the tilting world.
Kiggs was listening in spite of himself; my horse pulled up even with his. “Orma arrived,” I said, “and my first thought was, Hurrah, he’s rescued me! But he leaned against the balustrade, utterly unconcerned with my welfare, and began trying to convince her that it would be the end of her career—to say nothing of the peace—if she dropped me. She shook me around, let me slip a bit in her grasp, but he never flinched. He didn’t care about me at all; he was just helping out his fellow saar.”
That part still hurt, frankly. “She finally set me down on the walkway. Orma took her arm and they walked away together, leaving me alone, weeping and barefoot. I crawled down the stairs, all four hundred twenty of them, and when I finally made it home, Orma scolded me for trusting a dragon and called me an idiot savant.”
“But he’s a dragon,” said Kiggs sensibly, fiddling with his horse’s reins.
Cack. I supposed it couldn’t matter if I told him. “I didn’t know back then.”
He studied me now, but I couldn’t meet his eye. “Why are you telling me this?”
Because I want to tell you something true, and this is as close as I can manage. Because I think, at some level, you will understand this story. Because I need you to understand it.
I said, “I want you to understand why I have to help him.”
“Because he was so cold to you?” Kiggs said. “Because he left you to walk home alone and called you an idiot?”
“Because he—he saved my life,” I stammered over my rising confusion.
“You’d think, as Captain of the Queen’s Guard, I’d have heard this story before. A dragon almost killing someone is no small matter, and yet your father didn’t jump right in to see her prosecuted?”
My stomach knotted. “No.”
Kiggs’s expression hardened. “I wish I knew how much of your story was true.”
He spurred his horse forward, leaving me alone.
We approached the city at a crawl; dragons are not as fast as horses on foot, and these two seemed in no hurry. It was long after midnight by the time we reached the stable at the foot of the hill.
The dragons transformed in sight of the stable, cooling and condensing and folding themselves into a pair of naked men. They followed me in with the horses while Kiggs went to see what spare clothing John Ostler might have for them. Orma no longer had his false beard; I hoped he’d at least stowed his spectacles somewhere safe before transforming. “I’m astonished you’re not hurt,” he said through chattering teeth, a bit more sympathetic as a human. “How did you contrive not to get yourself killed?”
I pulled him aside, away from Basind, and told him how I’d bluffed Imlann. Orma’s eyes narrowed as he listened. “It’s lucky he believed you were a saar. I could not have predicted that your peculiarities could be so useful.”
“I don’t think the truth ever crossed his mind.”
“The truth?” said Kiggs, who had stepped up right behind us, his arms heaped high with tunics and trousers. “Don’t tell me I missed it,” he said, passing clothing to the saarantrai.
I could not meet his gaze. He snorted in disgust.
Basind, bless his thick skull, was the only one among us who seemed to be enjoying himself. During the long haul home he had kept asking Orma what was going to happen next, and whether we were there yet. Now, back in his saarantras, he croaked, “Are they going to throw us in the dungeon?” He seemed almost gleeful at the prospect.
“I don’t know,” said Kiggs unhappily, his shoulders sloping. He’d had only four hours’ sleep the night before; exhaustion was catching up with him. “I’m turning you over to the Queen and the Ardmagar. They’ll sort out what to do with you.”
We obtained new horses and set off again, this time toward the city gate. Kiggs did not wish to reveal the sally port to dragons. The guards gruffly blocked our way but fell back when they recognized their prince. We wound our way through the untouched snow of the sleeping city, back up the hill to the castle.
Neither the Queen nor the Ardmagar was awake, of course, but Kiggs would not let us out of his sight. He kept us cooped up in the anteroom to the Queen’s study under the watchful eye of three guards. Basind, seated by my uncle on an elegant velvet settee, dozed off against Orma’s shoulder. Kiggs paced endlessly. His chin was gritty with stubble; his eyes glinted with an edgy, feverish energy, the last dregs of exhaustion. He couldn’t keep his gaze in one place; he looked everywhere but at me.
I couldn’t stop looking at him, even though something terrible threatened to rise in me every time I did. My body was filled with restlessness; my left forearm began to itch. I needed to get away from here, and I could think of only one way to do it.
I rose; the three guards leaped to attention. Kiggs had to look at me then. I said, “Prince, I hate to be a nuisance, but I need the garderobe.”
He stared at me as if he didn’t understand. Was garderobe not what they called it in polite society? What would Lady Corongi say? The chamber of unfortunate necessity? Urgency to be gone made my voice unnaturally high: “I am not a dragon. I can’t just duck down a ravine or piss brimstone into the snow.” The latter referenced something Basind had done on the way home.
Kiggs blinked rapidly, as if to wake himself up, and made two hand gestures. Before I knew it, one of our guards was marching me down the hallway. He seemed determined I should be made as uncomfortable as possible: we bypassed all the relatively warm latrines of the inner keep and crossed Stone Court, through the snow, out toward a soldiers’ jake-hole on the southern wall. We passed the night guard, clustered around charcoal braziers, cleaning their crossbows and laughing raucously; they fell silent and stared as their comrade herded me past.
I didn’t care. He could have marched me all the way to Trowebridge. I just needed to be somewhere away from Kiggs.
I shut the door of the little room and scrupulously bolted it. The latrine smelled better than I had feared; it was a two-seater and dumped directly into the defensive ditch below. I could see the snowy ground through the holes. An icy wind gusted up, enough to freeze the staunchest soldier’s nether end.
I opened the shutter of the paneless window to let in some light. I knelt upon the wood between the dragon’s eyes (as some call such holes). I rested my elbows upon the windowsill, my head in my hands. I closed my eyes, repeating mantras Orma had taught me to quiet my mind, but one thought kept buzzing around me, stinging me like a hornet, over and over.
I loved Lucian Kiggs.
I emitted a single, sour laugh, because I couldn’t have chosen a more ludicrous place to have this realization. Then I wept. How stupid was I, letting myself feel things I should not feel, imagining the world could be other than it was? I was a scaly fiend; I could have confirmed it with a hand up my sleeve. That could never change.
Thank Allsaints the prince had both principles and a fiancée to act as barriers between us; thank Heaven I’d alienated him by being a filthy liar. I should rejoice in these obstacles; they had saved me from abject humiliation.
And yet my mind, in its perversity, kept returning to what had happened after Imlann flew off. For one moment—a moment transfixed in my obstinate memory—he had loved me too. I knew it, beyond question. One moment, however fleeting, was far more than I had ever believed myself worthy to receive, and it was far short of enough. I should never have allowed even that much; knowing what I was missing only made everything worse.
I opened my eyes. The clouds had parted; the moon shone gloriously across the snowy rooftops of the city. It was beautiful, which only made me hurt the more. How dare the world be beautiful when I was so horrifying? I pulled up my outer sleeves and carefully untied the cloth band binding the sleeve of my chemise. I turned that last sleeve back, exposing my silver scales to the night.
The moon gave enough light that I could discern each scale in the narrow, curling band. The individual scales were tiny compared with a real dragon’s scales, each the size of a fingernail, with hard, sharp edges.
Hatred tore at my insides. I was desperate to stop feeling it; like a fox in a snare, I’d have gnawed my own leg off to escape it. I drew my little dagger from the hem of my cloak and stabbed myself in the arm.
The dagger glanced off, but not without jabbing the tender human skin beside the scales. I clamped my lips together to muffle my cry of surprise, but my dull dagger hadn’t broken the skin. I sliced at the scaly band with the side of the blade this time, which was hard to do quietly; the steel slipped and sparked. I could start a fire with those sparks; I wanted to burn the whole world.
No: I wanted to put the fire out. I could not live, hating myself this hard.
A terrible idea bloomed in me like frost upon glass. I flexed my wrist to bring the edges of the scales up; I edged the knife under the end of one. What if I pulled them off? Would they grow back? If it left my arm scarred, would that really be worse?
I pried. The scale didn’t budge. I worked the knife under slowly, back and forth, as if I were peeling an onion. It hurt, and yet . . . I felt a glacial coldness wash over my heart, extinguishing the fire of shame. I gritted my teeth and pried harder. A corner came up; I doubled over in pain and inhaled frigid air sharply through my teeth. I felt the freeze again, all through me, and experienced it as relief. I could not hate when my arm hurt this much. I squeezed my eyes shut and gave one final pull.
My scream filled the tiny room. I cradled my arm, weeping. Dark blood welled up where the scale had been. The scale glittered on the end of my knife. I flicked it down the jake-hole; it twinkled as it fell.
I had almost two hundred scales on my arm alone. I couldn’t do it. It was like yanking out my own fingernails.
Orma had once told me that when dragons first learned to take human form, centuries ago, some had been prone to harming themselves, rending their own flesh with their teeth because the intensity of human emotions had taken them unprepared. They had rather endure physical pain than mental anguish. This was one reason among many that they kept their human emotions so tightly under wraps.
If only I could’ve done that. It never worked; it just put the feeling off until later.
Soldiers were pounding on the door in response to my scream. How long had I been in here? The cold had caught up with me: I shivered as I sheathed my knife and wrapped up my bloody wrist with my chemise binding. I mustered what dignity I could and opened the door.
My guard glared at me from under his helmet visor. “Queen Lavonda and Ardmagar Comonot are awake and waiting on your presence,” he snapped. “St. Masha and St. Daan, what were you doing in there?”
“Female things,” I said, watching him balk at the mention of the unmentionable.
Even my human half could frighten people. I brushed past him, hating that. Somewhere in my heart, the flame still burned.