Shadow Scale by Rachel Hartman
“Of course you do,” he said at last. “And I have to go home and help Selda, and this is how the world runs, pulling us apart over and over again.”
“I’m so sorry—” I began.
“Not for loving your uncle, I hope,” said Kiggs, drawing back and wiping my cheek with his thumb. “I’m not away yet. Walk with me to House Malou.”
We took the hill in silence, the callous breeze cavorting between us. The doorman recognized the prince and let us in; the empty corridors echoed as we walked. Kiggs had unpacked but little, so it took only a minute to gather his belongings. I helped him carry his chest to the atrium, where he paid a scullion to haul it the rest of the way to the ship.
We lingered in the street, emptied by the midday heat. I steeled myself for the goodbye that was drawing relentlessly closer, but Kiggs said in a voice almost comically grim, “I’d like to have seen the Bibliagathon just once.”
I knew of a nearby public garden with a view. I led Kiggs through the sweltering streets, up a slightly overgrown gravel path, and to the end of the garden, where the shrubbery parted and the Bibliagathon appeared below us, its dome gleaming in the noonday sun, its courtyards in cool blue shadow.
“It’s as big as a cathedral,” sighed the prince. “I’ll have to come back. Maybe we’ll come back together.” He lightly brushed my hand with his fingers.
“Orma and I used to dream of that,” I said. My throat tightened painfully, and I could only whisper, “Orma might not be Orma when I see him next.”
Kiggs gripped my hand tightly then. “That has been happening all around you,” he said quietly. “Not just to Orma. Jannoula has been altering the minds of friends. It must feel like the world is all on shifting sand.”
“Promise me you won’t listen to her or let her into the city,” I said. “Keep her out of Goredd altogether, if you can.”
“Of course,” he said, raising my hand a little, clasping it between both of his. “You know I speak for Selda, too. You have two stalwart friends on guard against her. Let that comfort your heart, as mine is comforted.”
I questioned with my eyes. He smiled, leaning in a little, and said, “Because I found you again. However strenuously the world pulls us apart, however long the absence, we are not changed for being dashed upon the rocks. I knew you then, I know you now, I shall know you again when you come home.”
And that was the last thing he said to me before he left. I could not bear to watch him sail away. When I returned to Naia’s, the emptiness in the harbor was palpable still.
It would be a week before Comonot and the exiles were supplied and ready to go. I sent the Ardmagar a note that very evening, informing him that I would accompany him to the Tanamoot. I got a reply within the hour—from Eskar—inviting me to a meeting at the Vasilikon the next day to discuss the logistics and timing of the dragon exodus.
That night, however, a Samsamese armada slipped silently into position around the harbor while Porphyry slept. The barricade, seen in the morning light, comprised some twenty-five ships stretched in a line between Porphyry and the island of Laika. This was more force than a meager boatload of knights merited. The Samsamese admiral came ashore and holed up with the Assembly in the Vasilikon.
Our meeting was postponed until the following day. I spent the unexpected free time with some of Abdo’s cousins, watching the flotilla from the seawall.
The next morning, as I crossed the Zokalaa, I saw the nuncio on the steps. I worked my way through the pressing crowds in front of the Vasilikon and heard him announce: “The Samsamese demand the return of their countrymen and burned ship; Mother Porphyry happily returns them. They demand the Goreddi knights, but Mother Porphyry harbors none. Now they ask for our ityasaari.”
That got my attention. I knew one person in Samsam interested in gathering ityasaari. I craned my neck, trying to see around coiled hairdos.
“Mother Porphyry denies this request!” boomed the nuncio, and the crowd cheered. “Citizens, we scorn this feeble Samsamese blockade. Our navy could crush them for their insolence, but we choose not to. The Assembly asks the citizenry for kindness and patience in these irritating times. There will be no disruption of produce from the Omiga Valley. Fisherfolk unable to work due to the blockade will be compensated.…”
This blockade would surely complicate Comonot’s departure. The exiles were supposed to take their natural form and fly up the falls of the Omiga, but it was hard to hide two hundred dragons taking off. Word would get back to Josef, and who knew what he would do with the information?
When I reached Speaker Melaye’s office, Eskar, Comonot, Ikat, and other leaders of the saarantrai had arrived, but the meeting had not yet started. I drew Comonot aside and quietly told him my concerns. He scoffed. “Regent Josef wouldn’t tell the Old Ard we’re coming. Why would he help them?”
“It wouldn’t be to help them so much as to hurt you,” I insisted. “If dragons fight each other, he loses fewer Samsamese lives per dragon death. Even Josef couldn’t deny the logic of that.”
“Hatred is never logical,” said Comonot pompously. “He wants to fight dragons himself, not shift the war back to the mountains.”
Speaker Melaye was listening in. “If the Regent hears that Porphyry is friendly with dragons,” she said, “will he use that as a pretext to strike at us?”
“We’ll fly by night,” said Comonot, shrugging. “I’m not worried.”
I worried enough for both of us.
It wasn’t just the blockade that worried me, of course. Abdo was no better. I hated to leave, not knowing what would become of him, but there was nothing I could do for him if I stayed. There seemed to be nothing anyone could do.
Early upon the seventh morning of the blockade, a messenger brought a note from Comonot stating that we would leave at sunset. I handed the note to Naia at her accounting desk, and she straightened her spectacles to read it.
Before she could say anything, Abdo’s alcove curtain was whipped aside and Abdo, breathing like he’d just run up a flight of stairs, staggered out. Naia was at his side in an instant. I hung back warily, but could tell from the way he smiled at his auntie that he was himself.
How are you feeling? I asked.
Abdo pulled out of Naia’s embrace and wobbled unsteadily. She had me trapped inside my own walls; I couldn’t even sleep or wake without her say-so. But then suddenly she … she just left. I don’t know why. He shook his head, as though he couldn’t believe it. Her hook is still in me, and she’ll attack again, I’m sure. Can you take me to Pende, quickly, before she comes back?
A word of explanation to Naia, and we were out the door. Naia carried Abdo on her back, and we hurried toward the Zokalaa and the temple of Chakhon.
Upon the steps of the temple, Abdo made Naia put him down. He signed as well as he could with one immobile hand; she understood him. She nodded tearfully, kissed his cheeks, and said, “Go. I’ll be waiting right here.”
I hesitated, wondering whether he wanted me to stay outside, too, but Abdo took my hand and dragged me in after him. We passed the cacophonous bell ropes and the great statue of Chance, did our ablutions, and ate from the loaf (I had to chance it; I was praying as fervently as anyone in the place). Abdo began pulling me across the courtyard, but a priestess—her eyes closed—stepped into our path. Abdo froze at the sight of her. She took a step toward us, unseeing, as if the god guided her feet.
Is that your mother? I asked silently.
Abdo only gave me a remorseful look.
We reached Pende’s topiary garden. The priest was there, sitting cross-legged on his bench. Camba knelt on the moss in front of him; she turned irritably at the sound of our approach, but her expression softened when she saw Abdo. “By the twins,” she said, getting to her feet and extending a hand to him. “It is good to see you up and about.”
Even Paulos Pende could not look stern at Abdo’s approach; the corners of his mouth actually twitched upward, the shadow of a smile.
Abdo
“So you’re back,” said Pende, rubbing his wattle absently, his voice tinged with sadness. “You’ve pushed her aside; that took some doing.” He waited, sucking gravely on his false teeth, while Abdo gave some answer in his mind. “Unhooking others is not so difficult,” said Pende at last. “Unhooking yourself, as far as I know, cannot be done. If, through meditation, one could turn the mind to water, perhaps the hook might fall out on its own, but … it has never been tried that I know of.
“Camba,” Pende said, turning toward her, “tell me what you see.”
“I see the bare hook,” said Camba, examining the surface of Abdo’s head as if it were a map of the heavens. “The glow is faint, like a candle. She isn’t present.”
“Correct,” said the old priest. “And praise Chance for that. She’s got him on the thinnest of lines. I think you could release him, Camba. It’s your first opportunity.”
Camba’s face held a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty; she narrowed her eyes, studying Abdo’s hair knots as if looking for just the right one, and the uncertainty grew. She met my eyes briefly, and I wondered whether we harbored the same doubt: Abdo had struggled with Jannoula for weeks, so how could he be bound with the thinnest of lines?
“Father,” said Camba in a hushed voice, “I’m worried that this connection is more complicated than it appears. Is it possible for Jannoula to disguise—”
“Chakhon’s knees, child!” cried Pende, gripped by the sudden wrath I had seen before. “This is why I should be training Abdo, not you. He wouldn’t hedge and hesitate and overthink. He would see instinctively what to do, reach in boldly, and—” The old priest gesticulated wildly, too irked to explain; Camba pursed her lips and lowered her eyes, clearly embarrassed.
“Come closer, Abdo!” cried Pende, and Abdo knelt before him. Paulos Pende placed one hand on Abdo’s forehead and one at the nape of his neck, just as he’d done to Ingar, and then slowly spread his fingers, pulling Jannoula out of Abdo’s mind. Once again, I saw only Pende’s bony hands, which mimed crumpling something and raising it above his head. I braced myself for the thunderclap I knew would follow.
It never came. Pende lowered his hands, his eyes vague, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. Camba and I exchanged a perplexed look. Paulos Pende gave a startled mewl like a kitten, pitched backward onto the mossy ground, and began to seize.
Camba rushed around the bench and dropped to her knees beside him. I helped her roll the priest onto his side so he wouldn’t choke. I tried to unfold Pende’s legs, but he thrashed and kicked uncontrollably. Abdo sat frozen, staring in horror.
It seemed to go on forever, but the mind storm, whatever caused it, finally burned itself out. Pende lay limp and unconscious, but breathing evenly.
“What happened?” I asked in a squeaky voice.
Camba shook her head; a lock of hair had come loose and curled down in front of her eyes. She didn’t answer me, but muttered to herself, “No. Impossible. Not Pende.”
It’s my fault, said Abdo in my head. I looked up sharply; his face was gray.
“He unhooked Jannoula from your mind, and then what happened?” I asked.
Abdo’s head bobbed, as if it were too heavy for his neck. He didn’t unhook her all the way. She fooled him. She’s still got me.
“Oh, Abdo,” I whispered, but he wasn’t finished.
He pointed a trembling finger. And she’s got him, too. She’s outmaneuvered us all.
Two novices helped Camba move Pende to his cell and lay him on his low bed; I followed. The temple sent for a physician, none other than Ikat, the leader of the exile council, mother of Brisi. She took Pende’s pulse, raised his eyelids, and palpated his sack-like throat.
“His pupils don’t respond to light. For someone this old, a stroke is likeliest, but we can’t be sure until he wakes. I’ve brought analgesic powders in case he has pain,” said Ikat, her calmness a balm.
As she began explaining the doses to one of the novices, Camba pulled me out of the room and closed the door.
“We are in terrible trouble,” Camba said quietly, folding her arms. Another priest hurried toward Pende’s cell; Camba waited until he closed the door to speak again. “If Jannoula does succeed in seizing his mind completely, she will try to use his power. None of us are safe from her then.”
“She had so much trouble controlling Abdo,” I whispered. “Do you really think she can bend Pende to her will?”
“It’s impossible to tell, unfortunately,” said Camba. “We all resist her to different degrees. Pende was good at keeping her out, but what defenses does he have once she’s breached the walls? He’s so old. You’ve seen how he can barely control his own temper.”
“He’s been training you to unhook her. Can you help him?”
“I don’t know!” cried Camba, on the verge of tears. “I overthink everything, apparently. Anyway, you could unhook him, if only you would.”
“Wh-what?” I said.
“Pende said you have more natural ability than I do, but you’ve tied your powers up and won’t release them.”
Heat rose in my chest. “You think I could unhook everyone but just … won’t?”
Camba shook her head in frustration, her golden earrings jingling incongruously. “Of course not. But surely if you bound yourself, you can unbind yourself.”
I wished I could, I suddenly realized. I’d imprisoned my own mind-fire in a rapidly shrinking garden; it felt more constraining every time I visited. Alas, I had no idea how to dismantle it.
I exhaled slowly, grasping at straws in my mind. “My uncle Orma is the one who taught me to keep myself contained. I leave tonight to look for him; he may have some insight into how to undo it.” Assuming Orma still knew who I was. Saints’ dogs. “I’ll work on my own, too,” I added. “I’ll find the way to unbind myself.”
It was all bravado; I didn’t even know where to begin.
Camba nodded curtly. “You must hurry. Pende taught us meditations and tricks for resisting her. I can be a bulwark for the others—maybe I can unhook a few—but I don’t know how long we’ll last, especially if Jannoula has all of Paulos Pende’s education and ability at her disposal. She may be capable of much more than before.”
I glumly followed Camba back through the temple. Abdo was in the sanctuary, arms folded, gazing up at the statue of Great Chakhon. He turned at our approach, an unexpected spark of determination in his eyes. I did this, he said. I’ve got to fix it.
I knew just how he felt.
Naia took Abdo home. I lingered behind to speak with Camba, but there was little left to say. She promised to give Ingar my regards, and then she disappeared into the Zokalaa crowds, a tall figure in saffron silk.
With a heavy heart, I turned toward the harbor; I needed to fetch my things and meet Comonot and the exiles in Metasaari at sundown. Someone was shouting from the steps of the Vasilikon as I passed. I slowed, trying to see what was happening, and spied a familiar, awkward, skinny girl: Brisi, Ikat’s daughter. Four other younger-looking individuals stood with her in the shade of the pronaia, possibly more children of exiled saarantrai.
Brisi flapped her arms dramatically. “Citizens of Porphyry, I have words for you!”
A crowd began to accumulate; I maneuvered nearer, scanning for saar faces I recognized, finding none. Were these hatchlings here alone?
Brisi wore an open-fronted robe tied with a sash, the sort of thing Porphyrians wore to the baths. Behind her, her comrades began removing their tunics and trousers. The whole crowd stared, but no one made a move to stop them.
“My Porphyrian family, you need to know what is happening!” cried Brisi. “As we speak, the heads of the great houses are plotting to send the exiles back to the Tanamoot. Some of us have lived here three hundred years. We are your friends and neighbors, your co-workers and business partners. We are a worthy part of this city, and we’ve worked hard to earn our place. Don’t let them send us away!”
&
“Furthermore,” Brisi cried, “we find ourselves suddenly in conflict with the Samsamese. Look how they have blocked our harbor. Are we going to permit this?”
The murmur changed flavor almost at once, but not the way a Goreddi crowd’s would have. In Goredd, we would have been immediately incensed at the idea of the Samsamese getting away with it. The Porphyrians, however, sounded more cautious.
“The Assembly has decided to wait it out,” someone called.
“Our navy is more than a match for them, if we need to engage!” cried someone else. The crowd nodded assent.
“Our navy,” scoffed Brisi, which was the wrong tone to take. Around me, people began to leave. “They can handle the Samsamese,” said the young saarantras quickly, “but why should they? Why should any of our people die when we have draconian resources at our disposal, an ard under our very noses, unappreciated and unutilized?”
The crowd went silent. She couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like, I thought.
Brisi untied her robe and cast it from her, and the crowd gasped. This dragon girl, tall as an adult, still had the body of a child. Brisi threw back her head and let herself unfold, neck elongating, smooth skin curdling, wings expanding, muscles roiling along her bones. The other hatchlings followed suit, like emerging moths. A wave of sulfuric wind blasted the crowd back a few steps, but the Porphyrians did not flee.
“You will return to your saarantrai this instant!” shouted a man in soft-mouth Mootya from the back of the crowd. Saar Lalo was shoving his way forward, toward the hatchlings. “You haven’t thought this through!”
I had never seen such large young dragons. Fine-boned, almost bird-like, they were full-sized. Lalo in his man-shape came up only to Brisi’s shoulder. She lowered her head, eye to eye with Lalo, and screeched in his face: “This is our city! We won’t leave. We intend to help our people.”