“Young diplomats, welcome to the National Hall,” the commander said in a booming voice. This was a voice that rallied soldiers, that made speeches, that subjugated empires. “You’ll be spending every weekend here with me, sitting in on meetings, shaking hands with politicians, and writing an eventual paper on your ideas for the future of this great nation. By the time you leavemy mentorship, it is my goal that you will be fully prepared to go out into the world and represent Langley’s interests on a global scale.”
“Um,” said Elara.
“Oh, of course this does not apply to you, Miss Vincent.” The commander smiled wider. “It’s a standard speech, you understand.”
Elara glanced at Signey. Signey glanced at Elara.
“May I use the bathroom?” Signey asked.
The commander led them to the entrance of the gallery, then pointed Signey in one direction before leading Elara in another. According to her classes, Langley was an imperial republic with the commander as the head of state. The National Hall was home to the Conclave, formed by elected officials from each county and led largely in absentia by Director Mireya Warwick, the commander’s wife. It was also home to the Judiciary, the highest court in the Langlish Empire, and the current research department headed by the dracologist general.
It felt as if they wereallin attendance today, just from the endless conversations. But the doors that lined the hall were too thick for her to make anything out.
“Professor Smithers tells me you’re doing particularly well in history,” said Warwick, his arms behind his back as he paused in front of one of the doors. “What have you learned about the origin of dragon riding?”
Elara blinked. She’d learned far more about it from Faron astral calling her than she had from a week of classes, but she couldn’t very well say that. Was he asking her because he wanted to know what she knew? Or was he asking because he wanted her to know that he’d been keeping tabs on her?
“I know that the Langlish worship their dragons,” she began haltingly, “and that there’s a divine figure called the Gray Saint who’s venerated for being the first dragon Rider. I know that, according to legend, the Gray Saint’s disappearance is what led to dragons choosing two Riders instead of one, but I’m not sure I understand why. It seems to go against what I’ve learned so far.”
“We believe that the First Dragon emerged from the divine plane in the Cinder Circle.”
Elara filed away that title for later and consulted her mental world map. The Cinder Circle was located above Isalina; it was a ring of islands that were uninhabitable because of the active volcanoes that had created them. Their ever-shifting landscapes were formed and reformed by the constant eruptions; if a dragon were going to explode into the mortal realm, that would definitely be the place for it.
“From there, the First Dragon flew to the lands that would eventually become the Langlish Empire and faced the Gray Saint. They bonded, and they passed that sacred knowledge on to our people. But the Gray Saint…” Warwick chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “They say that he went mad. A dragon’s mind is so large, so alien, sovastcompared to that of a single human that, rather than intertwining, one soul consumed the other. Instead of tempering the First Dragon’s instincts, he embodied more and more of the dragon’s savagery. He became a tyrant instead of a hero, more monster than man. From his failure, dragons learned that they had to findtwosouls that shared the celestial material of their own, because one alone is too weak for a true partnership.Thatis why there are two Riders for every dragon.”
“Because the Fury affects the Rider instead of the dragon when there’s only one.”
Warwick made a thoughtful sound. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose you’re right.”
He opened the door into what looked like a laboratory, staffed with people who didn’t look up when they entered. Long tables were weighed down with the massive remains of dragons: tails that were four feet long, teeth that were the size of her forearm, rib cages large enough to trap a person.
“Here, we have dracologists studying the residual magic that powers dragon relics and the foundations of the bond,” said Warwick. “We’re hopeful that an answer to the Fury might be found among this research, and, since we have the Empyrean’s cooperation, I’ll leave you here to poke around. It’s not as though you’ll need the diplomacy lessons.”
Elara frowned, wary of leaving Signey alone with this man. But Warwick closed the door on her before she could say another word. The stench of cadavers hit her a second later, making her gag and lean against the wall. Her eyes teared up, but every time she blinked, the lab fell away and she was back on the battlefield. Soldiers scorched beyond recognition by dragonfire, pilots splattered across the pavement after falling from damaged drakes, people—children—screaming as they were trapped in burning houses. The scent of charred skin. The sour taste of her own vomit.
Pain lit up her cheek. She was back in the lab, breathing hard, black spots dancing in her vision. Before her, a dracologist studied her, their hand raised to slap her again. Elara’s cheeks were wet, and her chesthurt. But she was in a lab. She was safe—or, rather, as safe as she could get right now.
The dracologist studied her a moment longer and then presented a set of dragonhide gloves. “Activate them to help with the smell and then follow me. We have a lot to show you.”
Elara stared at the gloves, then at the dracologist, and then at the dissected pieces of dragons scattered throughout the giant space. Fighting the urge to gag again, she quickly slipped on the gloves. As soon as she thought of the putrid smell, she felt the hum of magic surrounding her hands, and it disappeared. Even after the hum settled, she could stillfeelthe magic, different from Zephyra and the bond, but similar enough that it felt like blending two colors to make another.
It was as easy as summoning had been. Easier.
The smile dropped from her face. She clasped her hands behind her back where she wouldn’t have to see the gloves, wouldn’t have to acknowledge that thought. “All right, I’m ready. Show me what you have so far.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FARON
FARON WATCHED THE SUN RISE OVER THE BEACH, SENDING RIPPLESof fiery red and wheat gold across the water’s restless surface. Renard Hall slumbered on the cliffs, but she had been up for hours. Her stomach grumbled at the reminder, begging for the relief of fried dumplings and scrambled eggs or Mama’s homemade flash out. All she had until the servants awoke was a bowl of guinep she’d found in the kitchen, and though the fruit was hardly the most filling breakfast, she steadily bit the peel, sucked at the sweet, jellylike pulp, and spat the inedible seed within back into the bowl. It was a mindless task perfect for her chaotic brain.
She hadn’t seen Reeve in days.
Without consulting each other, they had begun astral calling Elara on alternating days, Reeve using the servants to make the call and Faron using the size of the manor house to avoid seeing him. It was almost funny, how in sync they were when they weren’t speaking. No matter how often Faron told herself that this was exactly what she’d wanted, it was quiet. She hated quiet.
Footsteps crunched on the sand behind her. She didn’t turn around.
“May I join you?” Reeve asked, and she hated that, too, the hesitant way he spoke. As if she were some scared puppy, waiting for any rise in his voice to run away. As ifhewere some scared puppy who’d bitten his owner and expected to be rehomed. “If you’d rather be alone—”
