‘Perhaps it’s divine intervention. Atlas believed in that sort of thing, didn’t he?’
A visceral rush of grief shoots through me, like air on an exposed nerve. Wyvernmire sees it and lifts her chin, triumphant. I almost gasp at her cruelty, at the boldness with which she pronounces his name. I could double over from the pain of it.
‘Fuck you,’ I whisper.
A radio crackles to life. It’s coming from a duffel bag inone of the overhead luggage nets.
‘The battle for Britannia has begun, and on it depends the birth of her new age, free of corrupt Peace Agreements and political lies,’ says a muffled voice.
I freeze as I recognise it.
Serena?
‘Bulgarian Bolgoriths terrorise London and the nation’s dragons are being silenced. Wyrmerian and Harpentesa are now illegal languages, as are the regional human dialects that built the United Kingdom. Prime Minister Wyvernmire would have you believe that dragons want to rule us, would have our kinds segregated, while she invites a massacring species into our midst! She would have you believe that friendship with dragons is perverse or dangerous. But we, the Human-Dragon Coalition, tell you otherwise.’
Serena’s voice is that of an educated First Class girl, smooth and reassuring. It’s not the voice one would expect of a rebel, and the Coalition knows it.
Language is a weapon, Vivien.
‘And so does our Swallow. She is working with you, rebels of Britannia! The girl who broke the Peace Agreement, who began the Battle of Bletchley, is resisting as we speak. If we can stand up to our Bulgarian enemy then our country will be reborn. But fail, and the whole of Europe will fall into its jaws. As you read the Academy’s newest Babel Decree article, remember this: banning languages will do more damage to our country than the fiercest Bolgorith.’
Serena’s voice disappears into a long crackle.
‘How touching,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘They broadcast almostevery day. It’s often the girl talking, although I’ve heard your cousin on there too.’
My heart jumps.
‘Marquis?’ I say.
‘Broadcasting from Eigg, no doubt, with the same arrogance found in your pamphlets.’
The thought of Marquis and Serena joining me in this small act of rebellion makes me want to weep.
A beetle crawls along the floor and I keep my eyes on it as it rubs its wings together. They’re spotted like those of a Sandveld Sator, an African dragon I’ve only seen in sketches. I don’t look up until the plane begins its descent. A vast, sloping land stretches below us, glowing green and gold beneath grey, moody clouds. It’s broken up by stretches of dark blue water and as the plane flies lower, we veer past tall black stones that reach up to touch the sky.
‘We’re landing in Bualintur, on the Isle of Skye,’ Wyvernmire says as my gaze falls on a small cluster of white houses in the distance. ‘I will need you to move quickly, do you understand?’
I nod, refusing to ask why. All that matters now is that I get to Canna. From there, I can only hope that I’ll be able to escape and find the wyverns. If that’s even possible without Clawtail’s journal.
The plane races downwards and we return to our seats as turbulence hits, the Scottish wind threatening to toss the aircraft, hitting the sides so hard it feels like a dragon is barrelling into us. I clutch the handle above me. The plane lands.
‘I thought Scotland was rebel territory,’ I say as the engine rumbles to a stop.
‘Hence the need to move fast,’ Wyvernmire replies, pulling her duffel bag down.
I climb down the steps into the cold highland air. The long grass of the sand-filled field swishes against my legs. Black mountains frame the horizon and beyond the field is a huge body of water. I can see a small boat bobbing on it and at its edge, standing in the thin, drizzling rain, is a small figure and a dragon. We hasten towards them, our boots kicking up sand. The man turns to us first. He’s old with white hair sprouting out of his ears and large hands that smooth out the front of his waxed overcoat as he watches us approach.
‘Prime Minister Wyvernmire,’ he says with a Scottish accent. ‘Welcome to Loch Brittle. We only have a few minutes.’
He works quickly, pushing a small motorboat through the shallows into deeper water. Wyvernmire watches from the shore and I hear her questioning him. The dragon still hasn’t moved. She’s a Bulgarian Bolgorith, a reddish pink almost the same shade as Chumana.
Several small blue jewels, embedded above the talons of her left foot, glisten in the light. She’s young, I can tell by counting the white-tipped spikes on her face. I cast a nervous glance up at her as she stares out across the loch.
‘My condolences,’ she says.
Is she speaking to me?
‘Condolences?’
