Fireborne (THE AURELIAN CYCLE Book 1)
Fireborne: Chapter 8

ANNIE

There’s a time, after my morale visit to Holbin, when the world goes dark. I remain in bed for hours, skipping meals, refusing conversation.

Your father would be ashamed of you, girl.

Would he have been?

My father died a year before the Revolution. When I search through the handful of memories that I still have of him for an answer, I realize that I remember him too poorly to know.

“Annie. Lee’s been asking about you.”

Crissa’s voice rouses me from a half sleep where I’ve been lying in bed, cocooned beneath the covers and willing my own existence to stop.

For a moment, all I can think of is how it felt when Lee used to hold me. Warm, and safe, the only thing that could make the crying stop.

But not now. Not for Holbin.

“Tell him I’m fine.”

I won’t be that child anymore. I can do this without him.

And eventually, I do. I get out of bed, brush my hair, eat a meal. The world slowly returns: patrols, training, classes. I’m not assigned any more morale visits, and in the wake of Holbin, I can’t say that I wish otherwise. Propaganda now avoids visits in parts of the countryside that have particularly fraught histories with dragonfire.

Overshadowing our usual obligations is the Lycean Ball’s approach, our last public event before the Firstrider Tournament and Palace Day. Though we remain tensed for the Pythians’ first move, the ministry has determined that this tradition, at least, should proceed as planned. Eventually it feels like every spare minute is filled with its preparations: fittings, etiquette sessions, advanced dance lessons. Though in most ways it’s a welcome respite from worse pressure and darker thoughts, it’s not without its own kind of stress.

Especially when, in advanced dance, I’m told to pair off with Lee.

“As the Guardians will be the Lyceans of honor for the event this year, the finalists will lead the opening dance,” the dance instructor tells us as we stand in the vaulted grand hall the Lyceum uses for ceremonies. His accent has traces of Dragontongue, his tunic trimmed with delicate embroidery more fashionable in the old regime. “Shouldn’t be too difficult for either of you since you’re both so light on your feet.”

The instructor moves on, to prepare and position the other practicing partners, leaving silence in his wake. It’s strange to stand so close to Lee after hours spent listlessly in bed, relearning how to do without his comfort. But the person I remembered comforting me in the orphanage bears little resemblance to the one I stand beside now: shoulders full beneath his uniform, toned from years of training on the Eyrie; tall enough that I have to tilt my head up to look at his sunburnt, wind-chapped face. This is a boy who eats until he’s full, who reads into the night, and spends summer days on dragonback.

Although, on closer inspection, Lee’s gray eyes are lined in a way that I didn’t remember them being before my morale visit.

“Have you started training yet?” I ask.

Lee looks startled. “For the Firstrider Tournament?”

I nod, thinking of Power’s offer to train and my refusal. The compliments like insults, the words that cut because they hit home. You probably don’t even want you to win, he said. I haven’t spoken to Power since.

Lee shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Will Lee bother to train? I wonder. Or will he just assume, with that same confidence that leads him from class to rounds to training with such grace, that Firstrider is his for the taking?

Before the morale visit I thought my ambition would make Holbin proud. Now I know better. Whatever history I make as a dragonrider, they have no interest in. Those words that I spent bedridden hours trying to unhear: Your father would be ashamed of you, girl.

For all I know, the widow was right. For all I know, my family would have had no interest in my ambition either.

It’s a relief when the instructor’s voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.

“You’re all familiar with the standard waltz by now,” he tells the class, standing in the center of the polished floor. “Today we’re going to work on a slightly trickier variation.”

Lee emits an exhale of understanding.

“The Medean,” he murmurs.

His eyes have lit with the beginnings of a smile as he watches the instructor assume position with his assistant.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a waltz.”

The instructor explains: “One of the oldest dances across the dragon-birthing sea, the Medean waltz has long been a favorite of the airborne courts. It was designed to imitate a dragon in flight.”

At his prompting, partners join together. Lee extends a hand, palm up, and I place my fingers over his. His other hand goes to the small of my back. Although it’s a position I’ve practiced with other dance partners before, never until this moment have I felt the intimacy of being held here, the center of my gravity, where his slightest pressure lights every nerve of my body, and my only instinct is to respond.

I’ve watched Pallor be calmed by this same hand, this same touch, light but firm, for the last seven years.

The instructor goes on: “The Medean is faster, syncopated, more expressive than the waltz you’re used to—and harder to pull off. But, when done right . . . there’s nothing more beautiful.”

Lee adjusts, bringing me closer, clasping my hand more firmly in his, craning his neck to track the first few demonstrated steps that the instructor models with his assistant. We stand so close now that my gaze is level with the neck of his uniform, the shadow where his throat meets his collarbone.

When I realize I’ve been staring at it, I jerk my face back and up, to look at his.

“Why are you smiling?” I mutter.

Our turn to imitate. Lee exerts pressure and I move to his touch. The step is long, the catch delayed so it snaps a forceful turn. I feel the delight of its motion the way Aela delights in a dive. Lee studies my face and his smile softens. For a moment, his expression contains something that looks like longing.

“That’s right, Lee’s got it,” the instructor observes, moving between us.

Lee is holding me close enough for his breath to brush my ear. That same easy confidence that I was, moments ago, contemplating in bitterness is now turned on me like sunlight.

“Because this one’s fun.”

The next half hour is a blur of motion and lightness guided by Lee’s touch, and it leaves me with a spring in my step for the first time since Holbin and a lingering warmth in the small of my back where he held it.

In addition to the general lessons offered to the rest of the corps, the Fourth Order riders also receive special etiquette instructions. Lee, Power, Cor, and I attend a private session in one of the small conference rooms of the Ministry of Propaganda, conducted by Miranda Hane herself. I haven’t seen her since my morale visit.

“Good to see you, Antigone. How are you?”

From the way she asks, I realize that she’s remembering how we last parted, when I was—the thought makes me cringe—making a report to the First Protector while crying. But she speaks with a warmth that feels genuine and without condescension.

“I’m better, thanks.”

Hane smiles, then moves to the center of the conference room to address the group as a whole. Cor and I have taken a seat, Lee stands with arms folded, and Power lounges against the side of one of the tables, looking bored.

“Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming.” She goes on to explain that after the Lycean Ball’s dinner, the four of us will be introduced to some of the most influential elites of the class-golds, individually. “This is your first official public appearance as future leaders of the city—and you four will be of particular interest as candidates for next Protector, whom the Golds will take part in choosing. Unlike the other metals, Golds are not just your subjects: They’re also your constituents.”

At Hane’s mention of the Protectorship, Power flashes a brief, crooked grin; Cor looks a little alarmed; Lee’s expression does not alter at all; and my stomach sinks. The upcoming Firstrider Tournament has been a daunting enough prospect without adding this. New ways to be evaluated, new hoops to jump through, more people to impress. At least in the arena, I have Aela.

“We urge you,” Hane goes on, “to make a good impression. Regardless of what your personal political ambitions may be, it’s critical to put your best face forward—especially during these uncertain times. You’ve paid morale visits to the class-bronzes, irons, and silvers; now is the time to reassure the class-golds.”

She gestures forward her assistant, who’s been waiting at the side of the room.

“To that end. Let’s rehearse.”

The introductions are highly formalized, a script that we’re expected to master and perform. We’ll be paired with ministry escorts who will introduce us in Callish, but we practice the Dragontongue variation as well, in case any guest changes the language. Hane drills Cor’s pronunciation of the Dragontongue phrases repeatedly, until he’s flushing with embarrassment but can produce them a little less harshly. When Hane works with Lee, she has to remind him not to mutter his Dragontongue and then compliments him on his accent. Power produces the phrases in both languages with great flourish, and Hane seems torn by disapproval and amusement. When it’s my turn, she introduces me to her assistant, who’s impersonating the third party.

“And it will be polite in your case to curtsy, Antigone—”

As soon as I do it, Power lets out a snicker. I look up. Hane’s face is clouded, and Lee’s gone red.

“Not like that,” Hane says softly.

Confusion makes me struggle to defend myself: “This is how my mother—”

I stop, understanding abruptly. I begin to color, too.

“Like this,” Hane says simply. “This is how you’ll do it from now on.”

She demonstrates. It’s strange to watch someone curtsy in trousers. Hane’s neck remains erect; the motion is slight and airy, and contains none of the sweeping obeisance that my mother’s curtsy did. I imitate, wishing my face would stop burning, wishing Power would stop smirking. Wishing Lee would stop staring at the floor.

Hane proceeds with the role play. “May I introduce . . .”

I need no prompting to produce the phrases that I’ve watched the other three practice before me. But when Hane prompts a switch to Dragontongue, I cannot stop my voice from lowering in shame.

“From the stomach,” Hane reminds me.

I say the Dragontongue again, at full volume. It sounds alien, my own mouth producing the language that I’m so much more comfortable hearing than speaking. I can hear the sound of the Callish accenting my words, rough on the phonemes that, for a native speaker, would sound flutelike and liquid. I wonder whether here, too, Hane is cringing at a peasant’s lingering crudities.

But instead she says, “Excellent.”

For the female Guardians, there are also fittings, dresses occasioned for the first time in years and commissioned by the ministry. I pass the session at the dressmakers with my tongue thick in my mouth; the fabrics that they’re asking us to choose between are luxurious enough to delight Deirdre and Alexa, but leave me speechless with unease. Crissa, who seems to straddle the other girls’ delight and my discomfort, stays by my side and keeps up a steady stream of commiserating commentary to put me at ease—Oh, these city dresses are so fancy, aren’t they, my family would never dream of going to dressmakers this nice—and I appreciate it, though I don’t tell her that the idea of going to a dressmaker in the first place would, to my family, have been unfathomable. We’re assigned colors by squadron, but the cut and textile are left to our choosing. Crissa worms preferences I’m surprised to find I have out of me while the dressmakers are in the back room, then demands them on my behalf when they return.

“Having a dress you feel good in can make all the difference,” Crissa tells me sagely afterward, when I attempt to thank her.

I don’t really understand what she means until the night of the ball. Then, barricaded in the girls’ dorm, I pull on a dress that looks like something out of Duck’s book of fairy tales and allow Crissa to arrange my hair. When Alexa passes me the mirror she’s smuggled in from her home on the Janiculum, I take in my appearance with surprise. It’s strange to see that with the right kind of clothing and hair, I don’t look like someone who would ever have been called a peasant. Almost reflexively, I pull my shoulders back and stand a little straighter. Deirdre and Alexa are letting out shrill exclamations of delight, and for once I don’t mind. Even Orla, lying on her bed and reading as usual despite her ball gown, takes the time to glance over the top of her book and give me a thumbs-up.

“Our Annie, all grown up,” Deirdre says to Alexa, wiping an imaginary tear.

Crissa takes my hand to spin me toward her, the half step of a dance, and I let out a laugh of startled delight. At the sound of my laugh she presses her finger against my lips like she’s pausing something.

“That’s it. That’s the face you need to wear. Smile the whole time, Annie. Show those wrinkly old Golds how much fun you’re having. That’ll impress them more than anything.”

I haven’t told her any of what Hane said to us in the private session for the Fourth Order. But maybe Lee or Cor did. Or maybe Crissa just guessed.

When we join the boys in the solarium, I hesitate on the threshold. It feels ridiculous to be wearing a formal gown in front of people who’ve never seen you in anything but a military uniform. But then Duck appears in front of me.

“Annie?” Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I let out a half-embarrassed laugh. He wears the same delighted expression he once turned up to a starry sky when he insisted I see it. Warmth fills me. Surely this is a gift greater than any other, to be able to enjoy the world so openly, without apology.

“Not bad yourself,” I tell him, and Duck laughs, patting his own wet-combed hair with a sheepish grin.

And then, amid the sparkling of dresses and the black mantles and the sprinklings of laughter, I feel the eyes of a single person on me from across the room. Unlike the others, he stands perfectly still. Waiting for me.

I kiss Duck on the cheek, like Crissa might have done, except for once her exuberance suits me, too. Then I turn and walk across the floor to Lee.

“Hey.”

I feel a foreign boldness coursing in my veins as I stand in front of him and we look at each other. I take in the sight of Lee in dress uniform, so suited to it that he seems dangerous. And I take in the cool liquid tension, like discomfort but not quite, that comes with the feeling of his gaze on me.

“Better than the last dress you saw me in?”

The last dress he saw me in was a shift approaching rags. I hear myself make the Albans reference as if someone else dared it. Lee’s smile becomes a grin. He lets out a soft laugh.

“Much better,” he agrees.

And still, his gaze is on me. Surprised, like he’s just realized something and is pleased by it. I feel the pitter-patter of recognition, of those eyes, that face—all the more familiar in a dragonrider’s ceremonial uniform—but for this one moment I refuse to acknowledge it.

The Palace clocktower is tolling the hour. It’s time to go.

Lee turns his elbow ever so slightly away from his body, and though it’s not a gesture of politeness we’ve been taught, I understand. He’s offering me his arm.

Heart in my mouth, I take it.

LEE

Even though all our training and security measures since the sighting have been implemented under the assumption that we’d be going against a sparked fleet, I’ve still, in the wake of meeting with Julia, felt uneasy. Unable yet to make any report that wouldn’t arouse suspicion, I’ve been advocating for higher numbers of patrols along the northern coast, with a greater number of Guardians manning each one. But when it comes to the night of the Lycean Ball, my request for additional precautions is overruled.

“It’s been weeks, we’ve seen nothing, and Atreus wants all of you there,” Holmes tells me beforehand, during our meeting in his office in the Inner Palace, lined from floor to ceiling with maps of the Medean, of the North Sea, of Callipolis. “For all we know, they’re not even sparked.”

For a moment, I consider telling the Minister of Defense that I know better. But I’m fairly certain this man, this hero of Palace Day, would drop his avuncular tone pretty quickly at that news.

Not an option. I’m only safe—and only free to act—as Lee sur Pallor, from Cheapside.

So I bite back the answer that I can’t give and deliver the one I can. “I thought the policy is to plan as if they are sparked.”

Holmes gives me a hard-eyed stare, then lets out a bark of appreciative laughter.

“I like how you think, Lee. But it’s just one night. Try to enjoy yourself, all right?”

By the night of the ball itself, I’ve almost persuaded myself to listen to Holmes. As we make our way to the Hall of Plenty at sunset, its lingering warmth enough for the breeze to feel like a caress, the tension left in me from Julia’s threats slides reluctantly away. It’s hard, on such a night, to remember fear.

Especially not with Annie’s arm folded in mine. She lingers beside me as we make our way through the Palace to the Hall of Plenty, and her continued presence is something I marvel at. Duck walks a few paces ahead, sucked into conversation with Rock and Lotus, though occasionally he twists back to look at us. Each time he does, his eyes find and fixate on Annie. I can’t tell if she doesn’t notice or is just acting like she doesn’t.

Though the occasion has changed, much about tonight’s feast feels familiar from the old days: the elegant figures making their way to the candlelit Hall of Plenty; the sound of muffled laughter within echoing in the courtyard without. As a child, I used to wander here with my cousins and siblings after dinner, throw rocks in the ponds surrounding the statue of Pytho the Unifier, and climb the marble dragon’s back to touch old Pytho’s nose. Pytho is gone now, destroyed in the Revolution, but his dragon remains.

Outside the hall, ministry officials are pulling aside guests who will make up the opening procession: the Lyceum graduates; followed by the Guardians according to flight ranking; and finally the professors of the Lyceum, robed for the occasion in their academic caps and gowns. I can hear the sound of hundreds of people inside, talking, laughing, waiting for the meal to begin. Annie, standing beside me at the rear of the Guardian section, sucks in a breath and then exhales.

I turn to look at her, and as I do, I can’t help taking it all in again: her gown, a burnished aurelian red, settling just off her shoulders; the curls of auburn hair arranged atop her head in an elegant cascade; the pale expanse of skin between, rippling with the burn scars of a dragonrider. She’s at once as beautiful as what came before and something else entirely: something powerful. The women of the old order have been surpassed, and so too has the cowering child I once met in an orphanage.

But I take in her expression and realize that, absurdly, despite her transformation, Annie is still intimidated by a fancy dinner.

“You’re nervous?”

Annie nods. “I don’t exactly belong in there,” she mutters, smiling grimly.

I wonder if I’m imagining that she puts an emphasis on I.

ANNIE

Stained glass sparkles high above, stone pillars as broad as the tables themselves rising to support a vaulted ceiling shrouded in smoke from the fires that line the hall. Candlelight warms the faces turned toward us, sparkles on jewels and gowns, and glints on the golden wristbands on every wrist. I am aware of the eyes of the hall on us as we make our way down the central aisle. Our seats, along with those of the other members of the Fourth Order, are at the high table.

Once everyone is seated, Atreus rises.

“We are gathered today to celebrate the accomplishments of those Lyceans who have completed their education and are now entering our society as colleagues. Some might wonder, in this time of crisis, whether such ceremony and celebration still has a place: To them I answer, now more than ever. On the brink of war we do well to remember what we fight for. We do well to remember that Callipolis has a future that shines brightly, and these young people deserve a better world.

“The graduates we honor today will not only inherit the world we leave them: Some of them will be on the vanguard fighting for it. Tonight, in a very special addition, we also welcome the thirty-two Guardians who have reached the final stages of their training.

“Lyceum graduates, please rise when I call your name.”

Atreus proceeds to read from a roll: the student’s name, their specialty, and, where applicable, their government posting. After about forty young men and women have risen from their seats, scattered up and down the long tables that fill the hall, they are applauded and sit down. Atreus proceeds:

“Will the Guardians of the Thirty-Second Order please rise when I call their name.”

He begins with the lowest-ranked of the dragonriders, whose ranking was determined in qualifiers before the public tournaments began. Their names are followed by drakonym instead of surname, and modified by dragon breed. After the riders of the Thirty-Second Order have been listed and applauded, Atreus proceeds to the Sixteenth. Lotus and Deirdre are among those who rise. Then the Eighth, those who made it to the public quarterfinal: Duck, Rock, and Crissa are among them. Crissa’s squadron leadership is noted after her dragon’s breed. Then the Fourth: Power sur Eater, Stormscourge. Cor sur Maurana, Stormscourge squadron leader. And finally Atreus says, “Last but not least, our finalists for Firstrider.”

Antigone sur Aela, Aurelian. Lee sur Pallor, Aurelian squadron leader.

The applause is, by now, shockingly loud; I can feel it thrumming through my chest, sending tingles up my spine. Lee is staring hard in front of him. Atreus nods to us, we resume our seats at last, and he raises his glass.

“To the future.”

We raise our glasses and drink. My mouth has been uncomfortably dry for the last half hour. I’m surprised by how pleasant my first taste of wine is, like grape juice but richer. I take another sip, and Lee leans over.

“It’s strong. Don’t use it to quench your thirst.”

I nod, but can’t help thinking that if my mouth keeps drying out at the rate it has so far, my throat might just close up. Lee takes in my expression and frowns. He twists and makes a minute gesture at one of the servants moving along the table, who swoops down at once to hear Lee’s request. An iron wristband, I note, with muted discomfort. Around us, roast goose is being sliced and served, steaming vegetables are being piled on plates.

Lee tells the servant: “Water for the table, please.”

The servant bows. “At once, milor—”

He catches himself. Lee smiles politely, not acknowledging the slip, and the servant backs away, embarrassed. I take a gulp of wine, on purpose.

Aside from Miranda and myself, there’s only one other woman at the table present for reasons other than marriage: a steel-haired, middle-aged woman with jewels glittering silver against the warm gold complexion of her neck. When Atreus introduces her as Dora Mithrides, I realize I know about her already. For various reasons related to a dead husband and an inherited financial empire, she’s one of the most powerful citizens on the Janiculum, an honorary alderman on their council, known for investments that were critical to getting the Revolution off the ground. When she speaks, it takes a moment to figure out why I don’t understand her right away. Then I realize she’s speaking in Dragontongue.

Hane drums her fingers on the table, lines appearing between her eyebrows at the sound of the language; she glances at Mitt Hartley, the chairman of the Censorship Committee, who lifts his eyes to the ceiling. The foreign minister, Legio Symmach, and Dean Orthos, head of the Lyceum, smile almost guiltily; Holmes’s forehead wrinkles like he is parsing.

“Callish, Dora,” Atreus chides gently. “Many of our guests don’t speak Dragontongue.”

Dora hmphs and reverts to heavily accented Callish. “Including your four Guardians, I take it? I’ve noticed that no riders from the Janiculum made it into the Fourth Order.”

“I’m from the Janiculum,” Power says.

Dora, who is sitting next to him, pats a ring-crusted hand on his arm. “You’ll forgive me, boy, I mean to say Janiculum blood. Patrician blood. You are adopted, are you not?”

Power blanches. Cor chokes on his wine and nearly spits it out. Even Lee has to hide an inhaled snort that he turns into a cough.

Adopted? Power, who spends all his time lording his birth over commoners like me?

Power gives Lee and Cor a look of venom, the color of his cheeks deepening nonetheless. And when he catches me struggling to keep my mouth in a line, he juts out his chin, glaring at me.

I hide my smile in my wineglass and return my attention to the adults, who have noticed none of our exchange.

“I thought we were agreed,” Atreus is saying to Dora, smiling with the strained patience of an old argument, “that blood is precisely not how this regime would select its elite.”

“You mistake my point,” Mithrides answers promptly. “I have no classist complaint to make. My concern is military.”

General Holmes’s eyebrow lifts with a look of incredulity, but he continues slicing his goose without engaging.

“Oh?” Atreus asks, with reservation.

“With regard to your sparking problem.”

Holmes puts down his knife.

“Madam Mithrides, there is no sparking problem.”

Mithrides snorts.

“You need dragonborn blood to spark your fleet. The patricians have dragonborn blood in them. Too many generations of intermingling not to. All I’m saying is, if you had a few more patrician riders—”

Hane and Atreus look at each other, expressions not entirely masking surprise, seeming to be silently conferring. Stephan Orthos, the dean of the Lyceum, responds first, his tone irritable.

“Yes, I know that theory is all the rage right now,” he says, “but there’s no science behind it, Dora. Just misapplied literary criticism. The Aurelian Cycle is a work of fiction, not a military manual. Whatever people down at the club are saying.”

Orthos does not notice how his words generate another exchange of glances between Hane and Atreus, or its alarm.

“I’d like someone to please explain to me this theory that the Lyceans are discussing in their club,” says Holmes.

Holmes is, I realize with a start, the only exception to the class-gold guest list. Either consciously or not, he flicks his wrist as he speaks, so that his sleeve covers his silver wristband.

Hane speaks first, her tone hesitant.

“As I understand from my research department, the theory Dora refers to is one that’s cropped up on and off over the years and found a small resurgence recently because of the pressures on our fleet to spark. The usual blood-supremacy argument about dragonriding families, based on the Aurelian Cycle. Because it depicts dragonlords as godlike, the theory would say that there’s a blood difference, a blood superiority, between the dragonborn and their subjects. Of course it’s a completely—unsubtle—reading of the text . . .”

There is distaste in Hane’s tone.

“And how is that?” Mithrides asks icily.

Lee’s voice is quiet, but he has no difficulty drawing the attention of the table, even though he’s speaking for the first time.

“Because the hubris of the first Aurelians was their downfall. You could just as easily read the Aurelian Cycle as a condemnation of the dragonlords.” Lee nods at Atreus, acknowledging the interpretation that we have discussed in class, and then adds: “You could even read it as a condemnation of dragon-riding itself.”

This last part is an extrapolation Lee seems to have made on his own. Atreus’s still face flickers as he studies him, the briefest trace of surprise. But Hane, nodding wordlessly in Lee’s direction, doesn’t notice.

“In recent months the theory has taken on new elements in certain circles,” she explains, “claiming specifically that dragon-born blood is tied to dragon bonding and sparking. It’s all completely unfounded, but the problem is, of course, that sparking itself remains such a mystery. What causes it? How to trigger it? We don’t know. In any case I’d thought”—here, Hane gives Dean Orthos a questioning look—“that the blood-superiority theory had only fringe popularity and that most of its proponents had been apprehended by the Reeducation Committee. I would not have known it is all the rage down in the club.”

Orthos shifts in his chair. He is a middle-aged man, graying, venerable, even when wearing an academic cap. At her glance he is, suddenly, full of discomfort, as if realizing that what he’d assumed was common knowledge was in fact something he has just, in fact, divulged. When he speaks, his tone is apologetic, appeasing.

“Well, you know how it is, Miranda,” he says. “Conspiracy theories find fertile ground where people are frightened.”

Hane takes this observation with a gracious nod of her head. “That is undoubtedly true.”

And then, when she looks up, it is at Hartley, the chairman of the Censorship Committee, who has not yet spoken. He returns her gaze with matching gravity.

Though neither speaks, it’s the first exchange in this conversation that actually alarms me. Hartley’s committee determines what literature to restrict, ban, or confiscate; an exchanged glance with him has the power to change a library’s contents.

Dora Mithrides has turned to Lee. “I take it you are studying the Aurelian Cycle? Where are you from, again?”

Lee’s lip curves. “Cheapside.”

“So you have learned Dragontongue in school.”

There is unmistakable skepticism in Mithrides’s tone. Lee nods.

“Well, you discuss the work very comfortably, for one who lacks a native appreciation for it.”

Hane actually lifts her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. Atreus is watching Lee and Dora with a look of muted curiosity; the corner of his lip has lifted in a mild smile.

Lee nods and inclines his head, graciously accepting what Dora seemed to intend as a compliment.

Then he smiles and answers in Dragontongue.

This is our work; this is our labor.

It’s a quote from the Aurelian Cycle. I recognize it because we translated the line a few weeks ago. Lee has changed it slightly, so that the line makes sense in context. His accent is perfect. Cor and Power swing around to stare at him in surprise; Lee has always been notably unwilling to contribute during Dragontongue class. The rest of the table, who have already been watching him, are shifting and exchanging glances.

Atreus looks from Lee to the faces turned to him, picks up his wineglass, and takes a drink. Dora’s eyes are still on Lee, though she speaks to the First Protector instead.

“I see what they’re talking about, Atreus.”

LEE

As dinner progresses, I grow more and more tense. I’m beginning to feel as though, at every turn, I’m about to expose myself.

Their hubris was the Aurelians’ downfall, and it will be yours, too, if you keep showing off.

But this room, these people, this setting, spurs me to a recklessness that only a conscious effort at self-control can contain.

After dessert, Atreus rises and offers annual awards of accomplishment to class-golds who have made significant contributions to Callipolis. Recognition is given for civic virtue, for technological and economic innovations, for military service, academic research, and artistic achievement. Lotus’s father, Lo Teiran, is awarded the title of Callipolan poet laureate. When he rises to receive the laurel Atreus presents, he turns out to have Lotus’s same wiry hair and lanky build.

In the half-hour break before the opening dance, the Fourth Order riders are taken around the hall to make introductions. Miranda Hane escorts Annie, General Holmes takes Cor, and Dean Orthos takes Power. Atreus escorts me. The conversations I have at his elbow with class-golds around the room soon run together.

“Lee sur Pallor! Pleasure to meet you at last, we’ve heard so much about you . . .”

“That’s kind, thank you.”

“Training up for the Firstrider Tournament? Between you and me, you are our—favored—finalist. Mustn’t let us down, my boy . . . Not with these Pythians on our backs.”

The man’s voice is conspiratorial, the we seemingly referring to the Golds generally, whom Atreus has informed me he represents on the Gold Advisory Council. I give my answer smiling, though my thoughts are of Julia and her urging to betray; and to Annie, on whom this man’s praise casts oblique aspersions. Of course he has no way of knowing, as he confides between you and me with a dragonborn, the irony of his preference.

He also has no way of knowing that, as I look at him, I recognize him. Not from rounds in the new regime: from court in the old.

Because while the small talk required by Atreus’s introductions is not difficult, ignoring the disconcerting familiarity of many of the faces is.

What would Julia say, if she saw me shaking hands with the people who betrayed us?

But I already know the answer to that.

Her answer would be that we should make them pay.

ANNIE

Miranda Hane turns out to be the one who will accompany me around the hall making introductions. It doesn’t ease my nerves. But I’ve been replaying the lines of introduction, in either language, over and over in my head for the last few days and know them cold. I’m startled when one of the first couples I’m introduced to, middle-aged and graying, beams at me.

“You, my dear,” the man says, squeezing my arm, “are the light of the nation. This is what we once only dared to dream of.”

I thank him, a little unnerved. As we move away, Hane smiles.

“The Bertrands were some of our earliest supporters,” she tells me.

But they’re not all like this. When Hane introduces me to another of the guests, a towering, elderly judge who serves on the Janiculum Council, he regards me with unchecked amusement. His tunic is long, intricately embroidered, and, like many of the vestments tonight, reminiscent of the old regime.

“So this is our highland rider!”

“How do you do,” I say, curtsying.

Instead of bowing or even replying, he turns to Miranda. “Only a trace of a highland accent,” he remarks, with admiration, in Dragontongue. “And she’s clearly been given a good scrubbing—”

I can feel a flush blooming across my chest where it would usually be hidden beneath a uniform. Tonight, in the scooped neckline of my ball gown, it’s exposed. When Hane doesn’t crack a smile, the man wilts and switches to Callish.

“It was just a joke, my dear Miranda . . . Sometimes it seems one can’t make them anymore . . .”

Hane looks sideways at me, as if to see if I have any rebuttal. I think of Lee, pulling out a line from the Aurelian Cycle, in Dragontongue, for a table of onlookers. But as at the Lyceum Club, when I stared down Power and realized words had fled me, I have no such rejoinder. When Hane realizes I don’t, she makes an exiting remark and steers us on. I am still nauseated with shame as she introduces me to the next set of guests.

Once would have been enough, but they keep coming, these compliments that feel like insults, the airy condescension that purports itself as kindness. When I’m introduced to Darius’s parents, who turn out to own a shipping and trading company that takes up half of Harbortown, they actually turn away from me while I’m still mid-curtsy.

“Is this her?”

By the time this voice finds us, I’m so exhausted that I turn only with reluctance at the sound. The man is younger, in his mid-twenties, his tunic simple but well-cut. It takes me a moment to realize what I noticed about his voice: a highland accent.

“Declan,” Miranda says, with unmistakable relief. “Yes. Antigone, may I present Declan of Harfast, a junior advisor to the First Protector and one of the youngest members of the Gold Advisory Council. Declan was among the first graduating classes at the Lyceum.”

“How do you do.”

Declan grins. He’s fair-haired, long-faced, lanky like an overgrown teenager. “Surviving,” he says. “They eaten you alive yet?”

I let out a startled laugh. As soon as I do, I worry I shouldn’t have, but when I look over at Miranda, her mouth has quirked.

“They’re just jealous of our brains,” Declan tells me. “Don’t pay them any mind.”

Instruments have begun to tune in the back of the hall. The open space in the center of the floor has cleared; guests are gathering on its edge. Miranda nods to me.

“It’s time, Annie,” she says.

Time to get up in front of these people and perform.

My gown was designed to be light, for dance; but all the same, as I weave through the crowd to find Lee, I find its crimson folds hindering and the skin of my chest and back feel bare. The excitement I felt at the beginning of the night at my own reflection has died. I miss my uniform.

I find Lee on the edge of the floor. To my surprise, he looks as drained as I feel. His face is pale in contrast to the dark of his dress uniform, his gray eyes flat and unseeing.

“How was it?” he asks.

I just shake my head.

“Yeah,” Lee says, exhaling. “These . . . people.”

There’s something more than distaste in his voice: a latent anger approaching fury. It is, for Lee, almost unprecedented. When he realizes I’m looking at him, he composes his face at once.

As accustomed as I am to wondering at all the ways this life comes more naturally to him than to me, I’m startled to feel myself swept by sudden compassion as I understand something I should have seen from the start.

Of course. Lee has reasons to find tonight hard, too. Probably even harder than I do.

I think I surprise both of us with my next words.

“It’s almost over, Lee.”

Lee’s eyes meet mine, searching. Then he takes my hand in his and together, we step away from the crowd.

LEE

Annie’s fingers hold mine tightly as we assume position, her brown eyes fixed on mine as though determined not to look anywhere else. I could count her lashes, the freckles across her cheeks and shoulders, her burn scars shining in the candlelight. The red of her dress, blending in color with her hair. For a moment the room is silent, the eyes of the guests trained on us.

And then the music starts.

I’ve known since rehearsal that the melody would be one I know; but it’s not until this moment, in the echoing vaulted hall, surrounded by the glittering gowns and formalwear, that I feel the ache of it. The sound of a single violin, the notes throbbing like a human voice and then rising up, higher, impossibly high, painfully beautiful. The memory of this dance, another night, another life, my mother and father and sisters and a world that was their birthright, a world that’s lost. And all that’s left is a handful of revenge-bent survivors on a rock in the North Sea and this room full of the people who betrayed them.

Annie’s hands leave their position and circle my neck; the slight pressure is enough for her to bring my face down to look at her. Her eyes are wide, clear; her gaze seems to see me, see everything.

“Stay with me,” she whispers.

I reach up with a single hand to take one of hers down from my neck. At the cue I step forward, and Annie responds. Now it’s my turn to keep my eyes fixed on hers, to forget everything but the sound of this, my parents’ melody, my parents’ dance, and the sight of Annie moving with me, the feel of her waist against my hand and the pressure of her palm against mine.

Annie smiles suddenly, breathlessly, at the completion of a turn, and I feel an irrepressible smile answer hers; and then the sorrow is transformed into something more, something beautiful, and this, this movement that is so tantalizingly close to flying, that’s like the high notes of a violin, some mix of joy and pain, is part of that transformation.

It’s a fragile balance and I know it can’t last, but it seems as long as we’re here, dancing the Medean, all of these things can be reconciled and held together as one.

The music descends, and in its lull the other two squadron leaders join us on the floor for the final movement: Crissa, with Lotus, for the skyfish squadron; and Cor, with Alexa, for the stormscourge. Echoing, for those who remember it, the Dance of the Triarchs—and for a moment, though the banners hanging overhead are still the new regime’s, the colors streaking across the floor are once again the tricolor of the old: Aurelian red, Skyfish blue, and Stormscourge black.

And then the last turn, the last resolve, and Annie is back in my arms, still except for her heaving breaths. It’s finished. She’s standing so close that I feel the heat of her body radiating against mine; her face is upturned, the roots of her hair are glistening with sweat; my face is bent toward hers.

Then the applause starts and the moment breaks. We step away from each other. Alongside the other two couples, I bow, she curtsies, and I lead her off the floor.

I am still strangely, painfully happy. And for one bright, oblivious instant I envision this moment continuing: her remaining with me, alone, and the night wearing on with no one but each other for company.

But then she points out Duck and Lotus. They’re sitting in the semidarkness at a table on the edge of the hall, Duck waving.

The vision fades.

I tell her: “You go on.”

Her fingers find mine, twist, and pull. “Come with me.”

And all the hope comes rushing back. We make our way over. In the afterglow of the dance, it feels instinctive to guide Annie with a touch below her shoulder blades as we move through the hall, to allow my gaze to linger on her hair, beginning to trail in wisps from its bun, tickling her neck and glowing red in the candlelight. Duck scoots to the side to make room for us, and when we sit, Annie’s side touches mine ever so slightly on the bench. Though I’m certain she must feel it, too, she makes no move to create distance.

I am aware of every inch along my side where we touch.

“We were admiring your dancing,” Duck tells us, grinning.

All around the hall, men and women are getting up to waltz. Annie rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

“No, really. Loads better than my brother.”

“Congratulations on your dad’s poetry prize,” I tell Lotus.

As I speak, I feel Annie’s fingers find mine again, roll them into hers on our knees beneath the table, and a feeling like dizziness comes over me. Hours left. And we’re still together, and she’s smiling. Smiling while she holds my hand.

“Thanks,” Lotus says. “It’s been a long time coming. My dad had a bit of trouble finding patronage for his poetry after the Revolution.”

At Duck’s look of confusion, Lotus draws a finger across his throat.

“Dead patrons don’t pay well.”

I can barely hear him, mesmerized as I am by Annie’s hand in mine. How long has it been since Annie touched me like this? Surely it was never like this, her fingers twining with mine as though she wanted to feel every line and burn scar with the tips of her fingers, a blush creeping up her cheeks as if she feels my gaze on her and it brings heat to her skin—

Could it possibly be this easy, this simple?

Lotus cocks his head, lowers his voice, and leans forward conspiratorially. He jerks his chin behind us. “Are you listening to this?”

The faces at the neighboring table are indistinguishable in the semidarkness, but their loud voices are unmistakably those of freshly graduated Lyceans, speaking in Dragontongue.

“You’d want him as the next Protector?”

“From the riders in the Fourth? Yes! Why, who would you pick?”

Annie’s hand has stilled in mine, her smile frozen.

Lotus sits back, looks between me and Annie, and tips the wineglass to his lips like he’s settling in to be entertained. Duck, whose Dragontongue has always been weak, looks mostly confused.

I begin, tentatively, to run my fingers over Annie’s stilled hand, tracing the calluses on slender fingers, the trails of smooth scars across her palm. Like I’m willing it back to life. Back to me.

It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s just like the dancing, please—

The boy’s voice says: “Not Power sur Eater, because he’s always been such a cocky ass—Cor sur Maurana maybe, but honestly . . . probably Lee sur Pallor. Especially if he wins Firstrider.”

My hand stills, too. Holding Annie’s, frozen.

“A slum rat?” the girl’s voice scoffs.

“Did you see him doing the Medean just now? Or have you had a class with him? He doesn’t act like a slum rat. Practically looks like a Stormscourge.”

The last line is an afterthought that the boy seems to think nothing of. But Annie’s whole body stiffens. And then her hand comes back to life at last.

She separates her fingers from mine and returns them to her lap.

The happy-dizzy feeling dies.

I reach for my glass with the hand no longer holding Annie’s and begin to drain it.

You think it ever could stop mattering?

The next thing the boy says makes me freeze mid-swallow.

“Anyway, better than a former serf. I mean, it’s a good sob story, sure—I’ll grant she’s a poster child for the Revolution—”

Annie’s eyes flare wide as we hear their scandalized snorts of laughter. She begins blinking rapidly, her bare shoulders going up and tightening at the sound. Lotus looks down, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead; Duck’s eyes travel between the three of us, his brow furrowed.

“What have you got against serfs ruling?” the girl teases.

“Nothing, I’m just not convinced it’s a qualification . . .”

The conversation moves on; some of the graduates in the party are getting up to dance. Annie lifts her head like one waking from a dream. And then she seems to realize her body’s position in space and that her side still touches mine. She shifts an inch sideways on the bench. Though it’s a slight movement, the distance that suddenly separates our bodies feels like a chasm. There’s a charge in the air between us, as if Annie is tensed for any attempt on my part to cross it.

Then Duck, who barely speaks Dragontongue, and whose only understanding of what’s happened comes from what he’s read in our faces, gets to his feet and extends his hand to Annie. The hair he slicked back in the boys’ washroom a few hours ago is sticking up at the back in spikes.

“Dance with me?”

Annie lifts her eyes, wide and over-bright, to his face.

“You don’t like dancing.”

“I’d like dancing with you.”

But still she hesitates, and with a slight shift of her head, her face angles toward mine. As if my presence informs her answer. An old desire wells up within me, its pain so familiar, it returns like exhaustion.

I would give anything to ease the hurt on this girl’s face. Anything.

“You should go,” I say. “You’ll have fun.”

Annie’s eyes are wide beneath dark lashes as she searches my face. Then she nods.

She rises, takes Duck’s outstretched hand, and follows him to the floor.

There’s silence after they’ve left us; Lotus still seems a little embarrassed. He clears his throat and claps his hand on my shoulder.

“Still, good news for you, isn’t it? The Golds’ favor.”

I watch Annie’s smile flickering, laughing unwillingly, as Duck tries to dance. The pain is slowly receding from her eyes. I hear myself say: “Yeah.”

There’s darkness for a time after that. I’m aware of the night continuing, of Lotus’s wandering off to visit with his mother and father, and of my sitting alone on the edge of the hall, unable to summon up the energy to leave. Annie is still dancing with Duck.

You thought she could be happy with you? That she could ever forget?

“There you are. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“What are you doing here, sitting alone in the dark?”

Cor and Crissa have taken seats on either side of me, Cor punching me in the arm. He follows the gaze that I’m too slow to retract.

“My brother’s a horrible dancer,” he observes.

Crissa looks at Annie and Duck, then turns to me, and puts her hand on my knee. “We’ve been talking, Cor and I. Have you been training for the Firstrider Tournament?”

I rouse myself. “You mean in all my free time?”

“Ha-ha. We wanted you to know—we’ll train with you.”

I look from one of them to the other, shadows in the candlelight but their faces turned toward mine, their bodies angled inward. Suddenly the only thing that matters is that they’re here, on either side of me.

“You don’t have time for that—”

“We’ll make time. We want you to win, Lee.”

It’s surprising, after an evening of being told variations of this from old men of the Janiculum, how different it is coming from Cor and Crissa. A vote of confidence from within the corps that I hadn’t realized that I needed.

“I’d . . . really appreciate that. Thank you.”

The music changes; a new set has begun. The sound of highland pipes is filling the hall with a pounding rhythm; the violin has become faster, playful. It’s the kind of melody that was never played, never wanted, at the balls of the old regime. Annie, about to quit the floor, has her hand seized by Rock. I watch her protest halfheartedly, laughing, then allow Rock to lead her in a few bounds back into the center of the floor. Most of its occupants are younger, alumni among the youngest generations of the Lyceum, cheering with enthusiasm to begin a different kind of dance. Around the hall, older faces are looking on with thinly disguised disapproval. But those dancing don’t notice.

Annie and Rock have begun mimicking each other with shouts of delight, their fingers twined together as they lean back. Annie’s hair falls free of its pins and tumbles down her back, but she hardly seems to notice. The highland rhythm is so powerful that it seems to catch you in your stomach, take hold of your legs, so that even seated all you want to do is move your feet. There’s a swapping of partners, and now Annie dances with a lanky, straw-haired ministry official who beams as he swings her outward; and then she’s back in Duck’s arms.

Crissa takes my hand, squeezes, and I look at her. Her dress, blue as the Medean, exactly matches her eyes, and her hair glows warm and gold in the candlelight.

“I think it’s time we took you for some fresh air,” she says.

ANNIE

Duck and I walk back to the Cloister in the early morning, when the sky is no longer quite so inky black. Duck hums the last song, his coat swinging over one shoulder; I hold my shoes by their heels on the hooks of my fingers, the marble of the Palace walkways cool beneath my aching feet. Duck’s voice echoes in the deserted courtyard.

“Can you believe we live here?”

The courtyard smells of cold stone and the cool water that burbles in the fountains. Columns along the arcade rise to vaulted overhangs above us, where tendrils of ivy hang silhouetted against the stars. Distantly, a gull cries.

“Can you believe we ride dragons?”

He rounds on his heel, takes a few steps backward. “Can you believe I just danced?”

I laugh aloud.

“And not too badly, by the end,” I grant.

This, I realize, must be what giddiness feels like. Like escape. As though for a few short hours, as I danced until my hair fell from its pins, I left behind every bitter thought that haunts me and was free.

Most of all the memory of Lee’s hand in mine, the rush of old comfort thrilling with new danger—and his face when I pulled away. Like I’d just pulled him apart.

We’ve reached the Cloister garden. The rippled glass of the solarium glows orange, a fire lit within: We won’t be alone when we enter. I reach for the door handle, and Duck takes my hand, pausing it. I turn to him.

“Oh. Not so fast.”

He pulls me back to him, and as I realize what is about to happen, I freeze.

And then, with dizzying speed, a hundred small incidents click into place like a narrative whose common thread I did not, until this moment, let myself see.

Oh, dragons. How did I not know this was coming?

“Duck, I don’t . . .”

He stops, too.

For a moment we continue to stand close, frozen, and I feel the threat of an end rise over us: an end of something that could have started and that I was almost certain I did not want; and worse, more terrifyingly, an end now to what we already had.

But then Duck takes a half step back and lights a smile. And even if it’s not quite as easy as his usual smile, it’s close. Crinkling his eyes, spreading across his square face.

“Hey. It’s—okay, Annie.”

The lingering uncertainty as I take in the strain around his eyes: Is it?

“Let’s go in?” I ask.

That’s when the alarm bells begin to toll.

LEE

Early morning, Cor is asleep. Crissa and I are beside him on a deserted part of the Outer Wall where we had, originally, decided to climb for a view of the city. The fire that we’d lit has gone out. The stone is cold, Crissa is warm, and the wineskin that we were passing back and forth is long empty. I feel like I’m moving in and out of a dream. In the dream, her hands are in my hair, mine are around her waist, and her mouth is on mine.

Is that what it felt like for her, dancing with Duck? I wonder. Did she feel free and forgetful with him, like this?

Whenever I rouse from the dream and remember why it’s something I shouldn’t have, the conversations begin again.

“Crissa, this isn’t—we shouldn’t—”

Even in the near darkness, I can see her lips parting in a smile. Our faces are so close, I can see stars reflected in her eyes. “We shouldn’t what?”

This time I’m the one to answer by pulling her closer, by bringing us both back under. Because though I sense, dimly, a future of guilt spreading out on the horizon, it still feels a long way off. And in the meantime, Crissa’s lips have opened mine with need.

We break apart when the bells begin to toll. Crissa groans, lowers her face onto my shoulder, her hair still spread across us both. As I recognize the bell’s tones, the blurred world snaps back into focus.

“How is it already morning?” she asks.

“Those aren’t striking the hour.”

Crissa stills. And then she places a palm on the flagstones to push her weight off mine. The chill of the morning invades the space between us. The east is pink below a sky rippling with low-hanging stratus clouds; a single beacon has lit on the northern tower of the Inner Palace; below it, the alarm bell rings. Beside us, Cor is stirring, wincing from the noise.

Cold dread rolls over me, dousing any lingering warmth from wine.

I knew it. I should have said something. I shouldn’t have let us take down our guard—

Crissa and I get to our feet as one and turn our sights out, over the sleeping city. A trail of beacons mounted on dragon perches have lit through the neighborhoods, vanishing in the distance of the lowland plains, leading to the north coast. A trail of light leading to the source of alarm.

The bells are rhythmic, tolling in the patterned code we were taught to interpret as children but have never since had reason to use.

Dragons. Attack.

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