Seraphina (32 page)

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 have 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.

B
y the time I arrived, Kiggs had debriefed the Queen and Comonot and had taken himself off to bed. I felt his absence like a punch in the stomach.

The Queen’s study reminded me of my father’s, though it had fewer books and more antique statuary. The Queen sat behind a broad desk, precisely where my father would have sat. Ardmagar Comonot took a thronelike chair near the windows; behind him, the sky was beginning to glow pink. They’d each brought a little entourage, who stood along the walls as if guarding the books from our grubby hands. We three miscreants were not offered seats.

I was relieved that no one had thought to notify my father. He would have been furious with me, but maybe that wasn’t obvious to others. Maybe they feared he’d turn his baleful lawyer’s gaze on them.

Orma showed no concern for my long absence, although he did sniff rather loudly when I drew near. He would notice I was bleeding. I had no intention of discussing it.

“One request,” said Orma, speaking first, way out of turn. “Excuse Basind from these proceedings. Allot his blame to me. He’s a newskin, inexperienced and singularly stupid. I am supposed to be teaching him; he merely followed my lead.”

“Granted,” said Comonot, raising his jowly chin. “Newskin Basind, go.”

Basind saluted his Ardmagar and left without so much as a nod to the Queen.

“Prince Lucian has given us his account of your encounter with the dragon Imlann,” said the Queen, frowning as she followed the newskin with her eyes. “I would like to hear your version, Maid Dombegh.”

I told all I could, underscoring our commitment to the peace and our desire to uncover the truth, the better to protect the Ardmagar.

The Queen listened impassively; Comonot seemed touched that we’d undertaken to measure this threat. One might almost have taken them for their opposites: Comonot the sympathetic human, Queen Lavonda the dispassionate saar. Perhaps those qualities were what had enabled them to reach an agreement after centuries of distrust and war. Each saw something familiar in the other.

“Maid Dombegh has committed no material violation of the treaty,” said the Queen. “I see no justification for holding her. Possession of a transmitting device is against the law, but I am inclined to overlook that, if she gives it back.”

I plucked the earring from the cord around my neck and handed it to Orma.

Comonot addressed Orma. “By rights, I should revoke your scholarship and travel permissions for your unauthorized transformation. However, I’m impressed with your initiative and your drive to protect your Ardmagar.”

Apparently I’d lent sufficient color to that part of the story. Orma saluted at the sky, saar fashion.

“I elect to waive your penalties,” said Comonot, glancing sidelong at the Queen as if to gauge her reaction to his magnanimity. She looked merely tired. “We shall discuss the best course of action at council. A lone malcontent poses little threat to me, thanks to the fine security of my hosts, but he is still in breach of treaty and must be apprehended.”

Orma saluted again and said, “Ardmagar, may I take advantage of this unexpected audience to petition you privately?”

Comonot assented with a wave of his thick fingers. The Queen and her attendants left for breakfast, leaving Comonot with just a small retinue of saarantrai. I made to leave also, but Orma’s hand on my elbow restrained me. “Would you dismiss your retainers as well, Ardmagar?” said Orma.

The Ardmagar complied, to my astonishment. Orma must have seemed particularly harmless, despite his notorious father.

“All in ard,” said Orma. “This involves the Censors, and I did not wish—”

“I do not see that your family could sink much further,” said the Ardmagar. “Quickly, if you please. I find this body gets irritable without its breakfast.”

Orma squinted without his spectacles. “I have been hounded by the Censors for sixteen years: relentlessly tested, monitored, retested, my research sabotaged. How much is enough? When will they be satisfied that I am all I should be?”

Comonot shifted warily in his seat. “That is a question for the Censors, scholar. They fall outside my jurisdiction; indeed, I am as subject to them as you are. That is as must be. Their neutrality keeps checks on us when we descend into the monkey mind.”

“There is nothing you can do?”

“There is something
you
could do, scholar: voluntary excision. I have one scheduled myself, almost as soon as I get back.” He tapped his large head; his plastered-down hair gave it the appearance of a seaweed-covered rock. “I shall have all emotional detritus removed. It’s unexpectedly refreshing.”

Orma dared not look disturbed; I hoped the little muscle working near his jawline was noticeable only to me. “That would not do, Ardmagar. They inevitably remove memories as well, and that would spoil my research. But what if I hunted Imlann down?” Orma seemed not to know when to quit. “Would that not prove where my loyalty lies, or put the state in my debt—”