The way Signey was watching her now—as if she were a trap—made their brief connection feel like a dream that Elara had been having. She cleared her throat and awkwardly wandered off before she could do any more damage to Faron’s reputation.
Or San Irie’s.
Elara was contemplating a second plate of roasted breadfruit when the wind breathed her name.
“Elara…”
She looked around, but no one appeared to be paying her any attention. Faron was at the queen’s side, surrounded by a crescent moon of Queenshield and a small pack of dignitaries. That had left all three tables of refreshments clear for Elara to put together a plate for her sister, who would want it once she was free of the demonstration. But now Elara set down the plate next to her own empty one, her skin tingling with awareness. The nearby curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the low rasp of her name seemed to ride those same currents, settling in her abdomen.
“Elara…”
She knew that voice. She’d heard it before, only a few hours ago.
“Elara… Elara…”
It felt as if she were the one being summoned. Was this how astrals felt when they were called?
A tugging sensation urged her forward, like a hook around her heart. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Instead, she felt buoyed by a purpose she had yet to define, drifting through the banquet hall on light feet. For once, the fact that no one ever looked at her worked to her advantage. No one stopped her as she slipped out. Even the Queenshield on either side of the double doors gave her nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment. She wasn’t needed in here.
But someone needed her out there. She just had to figure out wheretherewas.
Her body carried her to the eastern courtyard, lit by the flickering glow of the windows that gazed upon it from above. Like the other sides of the palace, it was home to bushes and palm trees, to flowers and cacti; unlike the other sides of the palace, it was also home to the main part of the Victory Garden. Beyond the gardenwas a cliffstone wall, and beyond that wall was the open ocean, held back by a private beach only the queen could access. Elara followed her calling into the trees, pushing branches and broad, flat leaves out of her way until she emerged into a clearing.
She bit back a scream.
Perched in the center of the clearing was a dragon.
The dragon was at least fifteen feet tall and as broad as a building even with her wings folded against her spiked back. She was a forest-green color that blended in with the plants. Her eyes were golden, bisected by catlike black pupils. Her snout curved up toward the sky over sharp ivory teeth the size of Elara’s forearm. Scales in a lighter spring green lined the dragon’s stomach.
Currently, her neck was bent toward the ground, her triangular head parallel to the grass. And standing in front of her was a girl.
No, not just any girl. It was Signey Soto.
Her hand rested on the snout of the monster as if this dragon were her pet. It probablywas, but that didn’t change the fact that the queen had decreed that all dragons were to remain on San Mala while the Summit was taking place to avoid the exact level of panic that pulsed through Elara’s body now. Whether Signey had called her dragon here, or she had flown over on her own, they were spitting in the face of Aveline’s rule—and it was only a matter of time beforesomeonesaw them from the windows.
Aveline would be a laughingstock. She’d have to launch a show of force, to prove that ignoring her words had consequences. It would be an international nightmare.
Elara had to handle this quietly.
She stepped back, but a twig snapped beneath her feet. Both Signey and the dragon turned to face her as one, a puff of smokeescaping the dragon’s nostrils. Elara froze there, her heart pounding in her ears. Maybe if she held perfectly still, the dragon wouldn’t be able to see her. Or maybe she had to play dead? Her mind had emptied of everything Reeve had ever told her, everything she had ever learned on the battlefield, everything she had ever read in a book.
“Go back inside,” Signey said in a waspish tone. “This doesn’t concern you.”
It took Elara a moment to realize that she understood her, even though the shape of her lips didn’t match the words that Elara was hearing. She wasn’t speaking patois anymore, but Elara still understood her, and she had no idea how that was even possible. Elarahadbeen taught some Langlish in school growing up, but Aunt Mahalet had refused to let her practice at home. Her grades had suffered, her chance at fluency slipping away, until one day Elara had thrown a rare fit.
“Why do youwantme to fail school, Auntie?” she’d whined. “Don’t you want me to learn?”
Mahalet had kneeled down until she and Elara were at eye level, as solemn as a temple ceremony.
“Being forced to learn the language of your oppressors is an oppression of the mind. They rewrite your history when you’re too young to know what you’re giving away, and before you know it, it’s too late to reclaim what you’ve lost,” she had said. “Patois is your island’s tongue, Elara. It’s yourheritage. It is the true expression of your heart. Don’t give it away.”
Elara now knew a few Langlish phrases, thanks to Reeve, but she wasn’t conversational, let alone fluent. Faron had failed the class entirely. And, after the war, Langlish had been removed from their curriculum.
But Signey was speaking it now. And Elara understood her perfectly.
“Hello?” Signey jolted her back to the matter at hand, to the darkened garden dappled by silver moonlight and the war beast in the center of it. “I said that you can go back inside. Everything is under control here.”
“Under control?” Elara found her voice to ask in patois. “Why isn’t this dragon in San Mala with the other two?”
