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CHARLIE

E ven from outside, we heard the screams.

I’d seen plenty of widows come to the airbase to clean out their husband’s lockers after they’d gone down, and there could be no mistaking what those wails meant. Still, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when the massive, brass doors to the throne room swung open.

The room itself was enough to inspire wonder. Its vaulted ceiling rose so high I could barely see it. The walls and columns were made of the same shining, milky-colored stone as the exterior and were cloaked in vines, making the palace seem more like a living thing than a building. On a dais at the rear of the room stood a single throne, also carved of white stone, with a huge, glowing blue gemstone in the shape of a star set atop it. Perhaps a hundred people filled the vast space: knights in gleaming armor and colorful cloaks, bookish scribes in robes of various hues bearing scrolls and quills, beautiful courtiers in fine tunics and ornate dresses…

And at the center of it all lay an enormous dragon.

My breath hitched and I reached reflexively for the place at my belt where my sidearm would normally have hung, but it wasn’t there.

That was okay. I saw now that the massive beast wasn’t moving. Its limbs sprawled limp upon the slate floor and its tattered wings had contracted around its body, like the legs of a dead spider. Its head sat cocked at an unnatural angle, the huge globes of its eyes staring, unseeing, into the world. They still glowed orange, as if lit by a fire within, but already they seemed to have glazed over with the sheen of death.

Laid out next to the creature was a comely, raven-haired woman in dark leather armor and a cloak the color of blue sky. On her right hand was a long, leather glove with an orange gemstone set in its back. An empty sword sheath lay at her belt. Her face was paler than morning fog, her lips blue as delphiniums. And her hazel eyes, like the eyes of the dragon, stared, sightless, at the vaulted ceiling above.

“Paemalla,” Princess Essaphine whispered—confirming what I’d already guessed. This was the feared lead dragon rider who had ravaged our squadrons for the past two years. Who had downed over a hundred planes. Who had ripped my friends from the skies. Eddie. Bruce. Dora—and so many others. She was the one the Times had dubbed the Terror of the East, who our president had named our number one adversary.

And I’d killed her.

There’d be another medal for me back home, a free drink waiting at every bar in the country, and probably a parade—if I could just make it back to claim them.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel the confetti falling in my hair and hear the Army band playing a jaunty march. But here, the mood couldn’t have been more somber.

As if to underline my thought, a wail split the silence, and I saw a woman kneeling next to the dragon rider’s body. Paemalla’s mother, the queen? No. A woman stood at the foot of the dais, near the dragon’s head, arrayed in a glittering golden dress with armored plates at the shoulders and a delicate, jeweled crown upon her head. Her dark hair matched that of the dead dragon rider save for a few additional strands of sliver—and I remembered, Paemalla was the queen’s niece.

So that had to be Queen Synaeda. Sorceress. Tyrant…

While the kneeling woman sobbed, the queen stood perfectly still and silent, though the look on her face betrayed just as much grief as if she’d been screaming in sorrow.

I could steal a blade from one of these knights. Charge her. Kill her. I’d be the greatest hero who ever lived, I thought. Except I wouldn’t live for long...

With a sigh, the queen shifted her gaze from the dragon and the dead young woman to us.

“Essaphine,” she called. “Where have you been?”

The princess stepped forward and gave a perfunctory curtsy.

The one called Ollie nudged me and I followed his lead and bowed.

“We rode south, mother, searching for Paemalla,” Essaphine said. “I see you found her…”

“A Skrathan search party found them washed up north of here,” the queen said.

Both mother and daughter looked to the woman I had killed.

“It was the Silver Wraith?” Essaphine asked, as if reading my thoughts.

“Who else?” the queen said, her voice was low and venomous.

“He’ll pay!” the girl on the floor said, sitting up suddenly. Even on her knees, I could tell she was tall. She wore the same leather armor and sky-blue cloak as Paemalla, but her armor was the gray of a cloudy sky rather than the black of a stormcloud, like Paemalla’s.

“Peace, Laynine,” the queen said. “There will be time for revenge. For now, there is a dragon who must be returned to the fires.”

She approached the monstrous beast and placed one hand on its snout. I had never seen a dragon except in the heat of battle. Seeing it so still and so close, with its glittering scales, glinting claws, intricately-veined wings and massive, muscled body—even I had to admit it was a wonder.

“Farewell, brave Horban,” the queen said. “May the fire that birthed you welcome you once more.”

With a loud clang and a grinding sound, the far wall of the room suddenly began opening up like a set of double doors. In strode at least a hundred warriors on horseback. Chains were attached to the dragon’s limbs, and in moments they were dragging the beast out of the room, leaving nothing behind but a trail of thick, dark blood—and the dead girl.

As the dragon departed, I glanced around and saw that everyone had their hands pressed to their mouths as a sort of salute. Every pair of eyes glittered with tears.

“Poor Horban,” Princess Essaphine said, her voice warbly with sorrow.

The one called Ollie took her hand and squeezed it.

As the dragon was dragged away, the court fell into procession behind it, filing out the massive double doors. The mourning dragon rider—Laynine, apparently, joined the procession and exited as well. Only a few remained behind—the queen, a dozen guards, a few courtiers, and us.

At last, the queen’s sharp gray eyes fell on me. “And who is this?”

In their mourning over Paemalla and her dragon, everyone seemed to have forgotten me. Suddenly, I drew the focus of everyone in the room.

Princess Essaphine gestured to me. “We found him on the cliffside path, waterlogged. He claims to be a bard?—”

“Reporter,” the one named Ollie corrected.

“Reporter,” Essaphine went on, “From the enemy. He says Hoatan sent for him and his plane went down in yesterday’s storm.”

“What say you, Hoatan?” the queen asked.

A portly man with the same long braid and dark blue robes as Ollie swept forward, tugging thoughtfully at his graying, wispy beard.

“Have you any papers?” he asked me.

With a nod, I dug the papers out of the flight bag and offered them to him. I glanced at the princess and found her watching me with interest—as one might stare at a caged animal in a zoo. The rest of the court watched me as well, with what seemed to be varying degrees of hatred and disgust. An awkward moment passed, and I grew increasingly nervous as the man studied the papers. At last, he gave a curt nod and offered them back to me.

“Everything seems to be in order. Kitty Rowley, is that correct?”

“Call me Kit,” I said, forcing a smile.

“An odd name,” the princess pointed out.

“It was my grandfather’s,” I said. “He… loved cats.”

The queen and the old eunuch exchanged a glance. As their silence stretched, I replayed my words in my mind and dread washed over me. He loved cats? Why had I said that? What the hell had made me think I could be a spy?

“Well,” the queen said at last. “I can see we have much to learn about the customs of your people, Mr. Rowley.”

Hoatan nodded, and several other courtiers in the room followed his lead. I managed a weak smile, and sighed with relief.

“As we discussed, Your Majesty, he is one of the enemy’s greatest reporters,” Hoatan said. “When we show him our mighty dragon holds and reveal to him how great and beautiful our kingdom is, he will go back and convey to his people the folly of battling a kingdom as grand as ours.”

The queen’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps…” she said. “That may have been your original plan, but Paemalla’s death changes everything.”

The queen’s gaze bored into me, as cold as that of a hawk.

“Let me kill him for you, my queen,” a voice said. Everyone turned to see a tall, powerfully built young man striding toward us with one hand on the silver hilt of his sword. He had long, green hair and was arrayed in the leather armor of the dragon riders. He knelt before the queen.

Princess Essaphine rolled her eyes. “What bravery,” she said. “Braimar is willing to kill a skinny, tied-up scribe.”

I glared at her. “Skinny?”

“…While my sister’s true killer, the Silver Wraith, flies free,” she finished.

“I’ll kill him , too,” the young man declared. “And lay his head at your feet, Princess.”

Good luck , I thought, though the fire in the young man’s eyes gave me pause.

“We will not kill a man sent to us by our own request,” the queen said, and the tension that had built up in my chest unscrewed itself enough for me to take a full breath. “But we could use him to send a message.” She walked up to me and traced a finger along my jaw. “Return him with that handsome face of his disfigured by dragon’s breath.”

“My dragon would happily take off his arm,” the one called Braimar said. “Essa found him. Let the two of them match.”

The Princess gave him a look that could have melted steel—a look, I thought, that contained the sort of intimate hatred reserved for siblings—or lovers. Before I had too much time to wonder about their relationship, or to worry about my fate, Hoatan stepped forward.

“Your majesty, I urge you, let him go unharmed. His descriptions of your wisdom and mercy will further our cause far better than harming him would.”

The queen glared at me for a moment longer, her lips quirked to one side in thought. Finally, she sighed.

“Fine,” she said. “But who will be his escort? I won’t have this foreigner wandering my court unrestrained.”

“Your Majesty,” Hoatan began, “I would be happy to?—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I won’t have you taken away from your duties.”

“Give him to me,” the one called Braimar said, giving me a cruel smile.

“Certainly not,” the queen said. “I trust Hoatan’s wisdom. I will not have him harmed.”

“The Gray Brothers, then,” Hoatan said. “I’m sure Prelate Kortoi has someone who would?—”

The queen ignored him, looking instead to Essaphine. “You,” she said.

The princess’s eyebrows went up with surprise.

“You found him,” the queen pressed. “You will be his keeper while he is among us.”

“Absolutely not,” the princess said, her voice lowering. “Mother, Paemalla is dead. I am the eldest now. You know what that means, what duty requires me to do.”

“Yes, daughter,” the queen said. “And I also know what the outcome will be.”

I thought I saw the queen’s gaze shift to the stump of Essaphine’s maimed arm. Fire kindled in the princess’ eyes.

“You would give up on me so easily, mother?” the princess asked in a whisper.

The queen returned her glare, but said nothing.

The princess’ jaw clenched, her lips quivering. “I must train,” she said. “I have no time to play nursemaid to some poet!” She spat at my feet, then wheeled and stormed out of the room.

When the door had slammed behind her, both the queen and Hoatan looked to Essaphine’s companion, Ollie.

“Handle her,” Hoatan said.

Ollie gave a bow. “Of course.”

Hoatan gave me a polite nod. “Welcome to our court, Mr. Rowley. I’m sure you will find the experience eye-opening.”

I returned the nod. “Thank you for your hospitality,” I said.

The queen eyed me once more.

“Put him in the Northern tower. And get some clean clothes on him,” she told Ollie, eyeing me with a disdainful frown. “He looks like a rat washed out from the sewer. And let me offer a warning to you, Mr. Rowley. I welcome your presence in my kingdom, but mind yourself. I would not cross a dragon in their time of mourning.”

With a flutter of her hand, we were dismissed.