House of Dragons Page 5

  She shut her eyes; Chaos House. Her stomach churned to think of it.

  This wasn’t even the Great Temple at Delphos. This was another holy place, tucked away somewhere in the blue of the Crotian Sea. Emilia had never seen it on any map. Perhaps it had been built solely to gather those the Great Dragon selected. Emilia shivered with the realization that this Trial held mysteries that even she, with all her books and studies, had never discovered.

  Within the courtyard, flowering shrubs and fruit trees bloomed in opulence. The pears and pomegranates practically quivered, ripe and ready to fall. Emilia’s mouth watered. She wanted to pluck a pear and take a juicy bite—

  Emilia felt the chaos surge again, her throat tightening with it. She was going to explode those pears, maybe the whole damn tree. Grunting, she sat down hard on the ground, digging her thumbs into her eyes. Magic boiled in her skull. Multicolored light splashed across her closed lids. The power bubbled in her blood, looking to burst.

  Stop. I just released you. Stop, Emilia begged. She clenched her jaw and heaved a sigh as the chaos fizzled. The hum died down in her brain, and the knot of tension between her shoulders loosened. She’d stopped it in time. But why? She’d just given the magic its own way five minutes before; why should it suddenly appear again when she was thinking about pears? She had never experienced two bursts so close together. “Shit,” Emilia whispered. Maybe if she was normal she could win this Trial with her books and her strategies, but this thing, this monster inside of her…If it showed itself at one wrong moment…

  They’re going to kill me.

  Worse, they’d guess that Emilia’s family had hidden her away to conceal her dark ability. Exploding rocks might be seen as relatively harmless, but Emilia had done worse. Far worse.

  She’d exploded boys, as well. A boy, singular.

  They’re going to blame Mother and Father. She chewed her lip. Alex.

  Her brother would lose his family lands and titles, if not his head. Emilia’s temples throbbed dully. Why had she been called? Why?

  They should have killed you when they first found out, she thought.

  “Hello?” someone called to her right. Emilia shot to her feet and discovered the tall figure of a young man standing in a column’s shadow. He stepped into the sunlight, which played on his shag of black hair. “Good. Someone else is finally here.”

  She didn’t recognize the deep voice or the haphazardly cut hair. But those eyes were unmistakable: that liquid-copper color could only belong to one family. One person.

  For the first time in five years, Emilia experienced the thrill of a pleasant surprise.

  “Lucian?” she whispered, drawing nearer.

  The Lucian she’d last seen five years ago had been half a head shorter than she, with round cheeks. He’d grown tall since then, and lean with muscle. Dark stubble boasted of his need for a razor. Emilia felt warm at the unexpected, entirely admirable sight of him. Different, yes, he was different, but also familiar. He was safe. At that moment, Emilia couldn’t even wonder what he was doing here or where Dido was or anything sensible. What mattered was that he was here, someone who knew her from before her headaches began and her smile disappeared. Relieved, she trotted over to him…and stopped.

  He looked at her like she was an alien creature. Horror lit his eyes as he raked his gaze over her body.

  “Emilia?” he whispered. “What happened to you?”

  Lucian was seven when his mother died on campaign, slaughtered during an unexpected surge by the Wikingar clans against the empire’s forces. Many highborn families had tsked among themselves and wondered why a noblewoman of that rank had gone into battle in the first place, but the Sabel prided themselves on being the only one of the five families that chose to fight on the front lines in the wars of expansion. Brave woman that she was, Lady Sabel had pressed forward until the end.

  Her death had ripped Lucian’s life out at the root. His father never forgave himself for being absent when his wife fell. The Sabel custom was to dress in deep gray for one week following the memorial, but Lucian’s father had kept the family in mourning for six months. He’d sequestered himself in his chambers, unable to even speak to his children. Lucian and Dido had been left with only their governess to watch over them. They’d run wild, frantic with grief.

  Finally, Lucian’s father had sent the twins to the Hibrian Isles, to stay with the Aurun family for the summer. Lucian remained in his room for three days after arriving, only wanting to cry, refusing to play with the Aurun children. Then, one morning, a girl with wild red hair opened his door. Lucian was huddled in the center of his bed, knees pressed to his chest. He sniffled as he beheld this odd creature.

  “H’lo!” She marched up to him. “It is very nice to meet you.”

  Lucian gave her his hand. She put her whole arm into shaking, nearly yanking him out of bed.

  “Would you like to see the tide pools? My brother and your sister don’t want to go.”

  That had been his introduction to Emilia of the Aurun, the girl he’d see every summer for the next six years. She’d taken him to study sea life at the tide pools, ankles grainy with sand, dress increasingly sodden, chortling with joy as she sketched every creature and wrote down every species’ scientific name. (“Strongylocentrotus purpuratus! That’s a purple urchin. I want to find a red one. What’s your favorite color?”) They’d swum together, boated together, crept out at night to tell frightening stories by the light of the full moon. Emilia had been unusual and lively. Her cheeks had been rosy, her eyes bright.

  What had happened to that girl?

  Now her tangled red hair hung heavy in her gaunt, pale face. Darkness ringed her eyes; her lips looked chapped from biting. She kept her arms huddled close by her sides and her shoulders hunched, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. “Are you unwell?” he said, before he could stop himself.

  She lowered her chin. Her large gray eyes glared up at him. “That’s a rude thing to say to somebody,” she mumbled.

  Lucian felt abashed and also strangely relieved. She was ready to scold him; clearly she hadn’t utterly changed.

  He laughed without thinking. “When did you ever know me to be polite?”

  A small smile. “True.”

  She was right, though; he had been rude. “Sorry, Emi. It’s just…I never thought I’d find you here.” He went to put a hand on her shoulder, startled when she flinched and stepped away. Then he understood.

  They were both here for a single reason: to win a throne or be Cut.

  Only one could triumph. Being friendly wouldn’t change that.

  “Apology accepted.” Her voice sounded hoarse. “While we’re on the subject, what happened to you?” Her eyes scanned his hands, threaded with white scars. “My parents said you went on campaign with your father to the northern peninsula.”

  Images flashed in his mind: huts abloom with fire, roofs caving in; two charred bodies curled at his feet like a gruesome quotation mark.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I wasn’t quite the perfect soldier he hoped I’d be.”

  “Really?” She seemed genuinely puzzled. “We heard you and Tyche cleared that barricade at the Vartl fjord. It was an impressive bit of strategy.”

  Yes. Tyche had fired when and where he’d told her, obedient as always. But Lucian had felt the dragon trembling beneath him. He had sat with her in the aerie during the night, trying to coax her to eat while she curled listlessly on the ground, her snout tucked beneath a wing.

  Emilia continued. “Your father wrote to mine about how the emperor commended you for—”

  He couldn’t listen to this anymore. Not from her. Not from anyone, but especially not from her. She was one of the few fond memories of his childhood, and he didn’t want to tarnish it by listening to her rattle on like a trained parrot about what a hero he was.

&
nbsp; “Oh, I know how to kill,” he muttered. “I just forgot to smile while killing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emilia said.

  Shame flooded him. Why should she be sorry? She wasn’t the murderer here.

  Emilia cleared her throat. “Well, what are we going to do about this?”

  He blinked. “This?”

  She frowned. “Don’t be obtuse.” Unbidden, Lucian smiled. Obtuse. Most people would settle for a lesser, straightforward word like dumb, but Emilia had never settled for lesser. “If you’re here, that means my calling wasn’t an accident. A pattern is developing; likely younger children of all the Houses are being called this time. Now the question is, why?” Emilia placed one finger against her lips, the telltale sign that she was deep in thought. “Which leads me to the next question: Who or what does the calling? They say it’s the Great Dragon Himself, but that seems like spiritualist nonsense. I suppose the priests can tell us. Have you seen them yet?”

  “The priests are in the temple,” he said. “But apparently they won’t see us before tonight’s reception.”

  He couldn’t hold back the acid in his voice at the word reception. This island was beautiful, with the turquoise sea and the clear sky, the ripe fruit and the gilded temple. The reception would be luxurious, fit for the future ruler of an empire. An empire that didn’t give a shit how much blood it had to spill to achieve its goals.

  I should have just let them Cut me, Lucian thought grimly.

  “My father heard you were headed to Delphos.” Emilia seemed to sense the course of his thoughts. “You were going to take vows with the brotherhood?”

  “Yes.” He squared his jaw. “But not now.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. He looked at her again. Whatever had happened to her these past five years—and something must have—it had clearly worn her down. After his first campaign at fourteen, he’d forgotten to write to her. No: he’d chosen not to. He’d hated her a bit for being innocent.

  What if she’d needed his help, and he hadn’t given it?

  “I’m sorry, too, that you have to be here,” he said. He wanted to reach for her, but stopped himself. “If it helps, I’m not going to fight. Coming here was weakness.”

  Emilia’s eyes widened. “No, you have to at least try. I don’t want you to be Cut.” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t want any of us to be Cut, but I suppose none of us has a choice.” She slid fingers through her tangled wall of hair. “Now I wonder how poor Alex didn’t go crazy.”

  Lucian extended a hand. She regarded him warily.

  “I won’t hurt you, Emilia. I can guarantee that.” He gazed skyward. Where in the depths were the others, anyway?

  “Well, there’s at least one House that won’t be surprised,” Emilia said. “The Pentri. Antonia’s their only child. She’ll be here.”

  A dragon screamed overhead. They looked up to find a small brown creature hurtling to earth, a girl’s shrieking voice merging with the beast’s call. The screeching pair landed somewhere on the other side of the island. Emilia and Lucian frowned at each other.

  “Whose dragon was that?” he asked.

  A mistake. Vespir mouthed the words while she slid off Karina’s back. Her dragon panted as she laid her head on the earth. Vespir touched the poor creature’s neck, the scales nearly burning her hand. An overworked dragon might suffer what handlers called a “flameout,” the fiery acid in their stomachs rupturing and burning a hole from the inside. Karina was too small for such an enormous, nonstop flight. An hour ago, Vespir had been certain they’d plunge into the sea.

  “Shh, it’s okay, girl,” she whispered. Karina closed her eyes and mewled.

  A young man in a brown tunic and sandals appeared beside them, his shadow stretching over Vespir.

  “You’re invited to wait,” he said. “Their Graces will—”

  “Get her a bucket of water, not too cold. She needs to rest in the shade. Where’s the aerie?” Vespir said all this while rubbing Karina’s neck; thankfully, she felt it cooling beneath her hands. They were out of danger. Probably. Thank the blue above she never rode the dragon with a saddle. That might have tipped the scales into a rupture. “And food, too. Lamb’d be best.” Vespir finally looked up. The young man blinked; clearly he hadn’t expected her to be this talkative. Like Vespir, he had olive skin, high cheekbones, and narrow, dark eyes. Perhaps he was from the eastern Ikrayina as well. Perhaps he’d be sympathetic to her.

  Then, reaching out his hand, he whistled low. Karina perked up, stood, and bobbed toward him. He touched her snout, letting her get his scent.

  “You’re invited to wait.” He nodded at a small incline. “The temple’s that way.” All business. No sympathy. Karina bumped his arm with her nose, a classic, playful move.

  I think I have to leave her with him.

  This was all a mistake.

  “Who do I talk to?” she asked. This time, the boy said nothing, merely led Karina away along a dirt path. Vespir cursed under her breath, climbed that slight hill the boy had pointed at, only to find herself before a damn palace. The white marble, the gold, the fountain—it all stopped her breath.

  Antonia belonged here. This place was made for a girl like her. Vespir put a hand to her stomach, now painfully tender where Lord Pentri had kicked her. She must make it back to Antonia. The noble girl was Vespir’s fixed destination, whatever the journey ahead.

  “It’s a mistake,” Vespir whispered, and took off for the palace. She was bleary with exhaustion; having no rope to tie herself down, she’d had to stay awake all night to avoid falling off Karina’s back. “I need to talk to someone.”

  “Hey!” A young man stepped into the path ahead of her, near a rectangular pool. He was dressed in royal blue. Vespir knew the other Houses’ colors—this was one of the competitors. By the Dragon, he was tall. Built like a bull. Vespir locked her eyes to the ground as she fell to her knees. There was the sound of footsteps, and a girl appeared next to the boy. Vespir stared at the purple hem of her gown.

  “It’s one of the Pentri servants,” the girl said, obviously recognizing the green livery. She sounded bewildered. Good, she and Vespir had something in common. Vespir pressed her palms and forehead to the earth. “Where’s Antonia?”

  “Forgive me, my lady. I was called in her place.” Vespir swallowed. Her throat was sore and dry. “But it’s all a mistake.”

  “There’ve been many mistakes today,” the boy grumbled. He stepped nearer. “It’s all right. Let me help you up.”

  Vespir dared to glance at them. The girl’s face—what Vespir could see behind a mass of hair—appeared blank with amazement. The boy narrowed his eyes. What was Vespir doing looking on the faces of nobility? She winced as she got to her feet and kept half bowed.

  “If I could see someone…I need to speak to…This is wrong.” Vespir groped for a full explanation, then muttered an apology and ran along the pool, sprinting for the bronze door. Her thighs screamed, but she blocked out the pain. Even when the world threatened to fuzz around the edges, she forced herself forward.

  All she had to do was show up with dragon shit on her clothes and mud caked onto her cheap leather boots, and the priests or whoever would know this was wrong. They’d send her home.

  You don’t have a home anymore. Vespir nearly skidded to a halt. The Pentri would kill her if she ever showed her face again, and she hadn’t seen her parents or her siblings in five years. For all she knew, they were dead.

  Not right now. Inside the temple, the air was cool. The floors were creamy marble veined with gold, so polished that Vespir found an upside-down version of herself gazing back, like her soul had been trapped in a world beneath her feet. Her knees ached just thinking about the hours of work needed to achieve a shine like that.

  Vespir ran the echoing length of the building until she came to a large pair of wooden door
s. Two kids in brown robes—they all seemed to be kids here—waited on either side. Vespir moved to open the door, but they silently blocked her path.

  “I need to talk to someone.” Vespir’s voice broke.

  “Their Graces will see you in due time,” the girl to the left said. She sounded cool and even a little bored.

  “Who are Their Graces?” Vespir didn’t give a damn that her voice was getting loud. These kids in their brown robes had to be servants just like her. No harm in shouting.

  “The high priest and priestess.” The girl curled her lip in disgust. “But surely you knew that?”

  Vespir had heard that tone in noble voices a million times over. Astonishment at a peasant’s ignorance; amusement at their earnestness; irritation, because how could anyone not know something so obvious?

  But she would not let these…whoever they were…look at Vespir like she was trash. Something broke in her mind. Vespir lunged forward, shoving at the doors.

  “Stop!” the girl cried, trying to push Vespir off. Vespir beat her fists against the wood, screaming to anyone who would listen.

  “I need to talk to someone! Please! There’s been a mistake!” she shouted.

  And then, she could not move.

  She could not even blink. No sound passed between her frozen lips. Her fists remained raised above her head; she could not lower them. She could still think and breathe, but otherwise she was trapped. A prisoner in her own body.

  What’s happening to me?

  “Have you got her?” the brown-robed boy to Vespir’s right asked. The girl huffed.

  “I’ve never used stasis magic on a person before. I wonder if Their Graces will certify me.” The two chuckled, and Vespir understood.

  Even a peasant knew the three branches of the orderly magical arts: stasis, binding, and construction. A person was either born with the ability to become an orderly magos or not. No matter their station, any child who displayed the talent for order magic was taken as an acolyte and trained for the priesthood. There was no higher honor.