‘Why not suck Ralph dry, then?’ Gideon says.
I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
‘Because Ralph is a replenishing source,’ Serena says slowly.
‘Canna isn’t exactly bursting with humans to eat,’ I say. ‘The children here have too many tactics to avoid the dragons now. And like Marquis said, perhaps there’s something abouthuman blood that makes it stronger when it’s taken from someone who’s still alive.’
I remember the way Goranov licked Ralph back at Canna House. Now it makes sense.
‘But why would Ralph give his blood to—’
‘Because Goranov has promised Ralph everything,’ I say. ‘His life when the Bulgarian dragons eventually destroy Wyvernmire and her government; power when they imprison or eat any human who opposes them; and status when they eventually run Britannia the same way they do Bulgaria.’
I try to imagine a country where humans are not only a dead food source but a live one. We keep walking and I can’t ignore the twinge I feel at leaving the massacred rebels behind. They – the dragons – are the strength of the rebel army. How can so many of them be dead? I wonder what their names were, where they were hatched. How many more are we going to lose? My heart sinks. We were supposed to stop this.
It rains as we reach the graveyard where we hid from Krasimir. I stuff my cold hands into my pockets, glancing at the names etched into the small rocks left in place of headstones for Canna’s children.
John, Peter, Josie . . .
Ivy grows across them, stretching its leaves out over the ground so that I almost miss the flash of emerald green beneath them. I stop. Lying on one of the graves is a long, stiff piece of cloth woven in threads of green and gold. It’s tweed, worn from age or the elements and stuffed with several large, browning scrolls of paper.
As Marquis and Serena tread a path in the grass and Gideon and Atlas wander from grave to grave, I kneel by the tapestry and pull the ivy away. A shock shoots down my spine as I read the words stitched across the tweed. How did I miss this last time?
Patrick Clawtail, 1827–1866.
‘But . . . he’s not supposed to be buried here.’
Gideon turns to look at me. ‘Who?’
I gesture to the grave.
‘Aodahn said the government never left a body. So what’s he doing here?’
Atlas’s eyes widen. ‘That’s Clawtail?’
‘With a memory tapestry on his grave?’ says Marquis.
I look at him, then back at the grave. ‘But how . . . ? The wyverns couldn’t possibly . . .’
‘They must know he’s buried here,’ Serena says.
‘But why would Aodahn lie?’ says Gideon.
‘The grave is probably empty like the rest of them,’ Marquis says.
I crouch and run a finger down one of the scrolls. The paper is thin and brittle. When I try to unfold it, to read a memory of Clawtail’s life, it disintegrates in my hand. I reach for the one that is fresher, still white, and begin to read.
‘It’s written in English, not Cannair,’ I say.
Beneath a sky taut with stars and bullets, Patrick cradles his daughter Marguerite, who has been shot. He begs the wyverns to help her. He has discovered their secret and knows what it can do. It is the last thing he will ask of them, as government Guardians storm the island, and they know it. So they gatheren masse, wing-to-wing, around the girl and let Patrick witness what no human has seen before: the healing of a child through an ultrasonic dragon language. On the day Patrick dies, Marguerite lives. This is how he will be remembered: a linguist who trusted in the power of language, even the kind he would never understand, until the very end.
I stare at the memory scroll. This is impossible. I scan the words again.
An ultrasonic dragon language.
‘This was written by a human, not a wyvern,’ I say slowly.
Marquis takes the note from me and looks up with a frown. ‘Dragons can’t heal humans with the Koinamens. That’s why Chumana had to give Atlas her blood to save him.’
