‘More Bolgoriths,’ Marquis breathes.
‘Have you gone insane, Featherswallow?’ Atlas snarls, grabbing my arm as Marquis wrenches me towards the caves by the other.
‘Three beats, not two,’ I mutter.
My heart quickens.
‘It’s not Bolgoriths.’
Shadows drop across the sand and the hazy light of the dragonfire is momentarily extinguished as hundreds of dragons surge from behind the cliffs. And then they’re everywhere, pouring in from Sanday, from behind Compass Hill, from across the sea.
‘That’s . . . that’s a Double-winged Sapphira, a Spanish dragon!’ Marquis shouts. ‘And an Austrian Solar-tail.’
I shake my head. That’s impossible. We don’t have those species in Britannia.
Two British Sand Dragons reach the beach and wrench a Bolgorith from the air, twisting its neck before it hits the ground. They’re followed by a dragon with a long yellow mane.
A Pyrenees Python?
I see a flash of pink and my stomach plummets, because I know what I’m seeing is impossible. The dragon soars through the torchlight and I realise that I’m not looking at Chumana, but Daria.
‘Foreign aid,’ she purrs as she lands beside me. ‘Bolgoriths reallyarethe most hated dragons in Europe.’
I watch as a Western Drake fights beside a Vermeil Viper, and their tails lock together to protect an Italian Tortoiseshell from a lethal Bulgarian blow. They’re from different cultures, speak different languages . . . but solidarity like this doesn’t need translating.
We reach the cave as Europe’s dragons join forces with what is left of Britannia’s troops. The moon is high, its white light bursting through the dragonsmoke. The Bolgoriths are outnumbered, fleeing in droves, and I see Daria and Aodahn bring one down together, their scales glittering in the pearly night. Atlas turns to me, his face creased with exhaustion. I take his hands in mine.
‘I’m not going to Bulgaria,’ I breathe.
He laughs quietly. ‘No, Featherswallow, you’re not. You’re going home.’
My shock turns to sobs as I try to hold myself together. Atlas wipes a smear of blood from my cheek and kisses me. Wyverns and dragons soar along the silvery coastline as the Bolgoriths retreat. The sea shimmers in the moonlight. I think of Clawtail’s last description of the island, an ode to his home before he was killed.
Such a heavenly rock is Canna.
I scan the cave, lit by the fires flickering outside. My eyeslinger on each bleeding rebel and I’m unable to stop myself from counting, from searching for missing faces. I can’t see Hollingsworth anywhere. Wyvernmire is sitting against a wall, her head in her hands. The noise outside is deafening as I sink down beside her, dizzy with exhaustion. I glance at Atlas and Marquis, watching the last of the battle from the mouth of the cave, then at the Prime Minister.
‘How did you know what the wyvern echolocation could do?’ I ask her.
She looks up. ‘My nephew worked it out. We knew you were looking for wyverns, and when Atlas refused to give him the loquisonus machine in Canna House, he put two and two together.’
‘He knew before I did, then,’ I mutter. ‘But why did he tell you?’
‘He thought that if I gave the information to Krasimir, he might keep me alive. He was right about the Bolgoriths turning against me. I should have listened.’
I glare at her. ‘Ralph tried to save you, then. You always underestimated him. If you hadn’t, perhaps he wouldn’t have become who he was. Perhaps he wouldn’t have killed Chumana.’
Wyvernmire stands up, brushing the dust from her trousers. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps I underestimated you, too. Rita Hollingsworth certainly did.’
I shake my head. ‘She knew exactly who I was.’ I get to my feet. ‘But I’m going to rebuild myself, Prime Minister. I don’t want to be a brasstongue. I think I’ll give the languages up for now. Without them, I can be someone new.’
Wyvernmire gives me a look of surprise. Then she jolts forward, her eyes widening in shock.
‘Prime Minister?’
Wyvernmire staggers sideways, a small flint knife sticking out of her lower back. I pale as Ruth steps out from behind her.
‘Help!’ I shout as Wyvernmire collapses.
