Petra K and the Blackhearts (15 page)

I suppose it was my own fault for finding myself where I was. If I had “played along” from the start, as Bianka suggested, I am sure I would have been treated as an equal by the Youth Guard. If I had been more generous in my judgment of the Blackhearts, they might have accepted me as one of their own, instead of treating me like a strange, foreign cousin. But I had no choice but to be Petra K—and if that meant being alone, then that is what I would accept.

When we arrived back at the Pava Youth Guard Facility, they had to tear Sytia from me, then carry her off over the shoulder of a large Boot officer. I was surprised that I was not taken from the cart as well, for more time in the Dream Chamber. Instead they closed the back door, pulled the hatch down, and we continued on our way. It was not long before I discovered that I was being taken toward the Palace. Then, the gated walls to the Palace itself were thrown open, and the cart was driven onto the grounds. There we stopped, and I was pulled out, lifted over a shoulder, and carried through a small back door of the great building. I was delivered to a room, then pushed inside. After the officer’s footsteps receded down the hallway, I flew at the door, only to find it locked. When I realized I would not escape that way, I turned and looked around myself. There was no window, but there was a soft, well-dressed bed. In fact, it was the biggest bed I had ever been in, with pillows like a small mountain range across the head. Moreover, there were fresh-cut scarlet tulipan in
a crystal vase, and a bottle of juniper-flavored soda water on the nightstand. I drank the soda greedily. After some time, I lay my head down and fell asleep.

L
ATER, WHEN
I
WOKE
, I found a new clean dress on the clothing rack. Mine had become so ratty, there was nothing to do but accept the offering and put it on. But just who was offering it?

It was then that I heard a distant singing. Not that of human voices, but that of dragonka. I went to the door to better hear. Yes, there was a chorus of dragonka somewhere in the Palace! I twisted the knob, only this time I found it open. Out of the room I crept. Down the hall I snuck, toward the sound of the dragonka song. Soon I came to a door. The charm of the chorus was coming from behind it, so I pushed it open. I discovered that I was outside, and it was the dead of night. The autumn Pava air was cold and unmoving, as if petrified by the dragonka song. I started in the direction of the sound. As I wandered I realized I was in a sprawling garden. It was no doubt Archibald’s private space: there were great lavendula plants straining toward the moon (unlike most flowers, they lived off moonlight), and winter
violettas
bursting in glowing, radiant purple. The moonlight gave everything a silver sheen like a fading photo still.

Down a side path I strode, drawn by the noises. Entering a huge courtyard revealed their source. I had come upon the greatest collection of dragonka I had ever seen. Some were restrained from the neck with leather collars, flying about in frustrated circles; others (smaller ones and kiš-dragonka) were kept in large pens and great heated glass terrariums. Some had burning, translucent bellies, which lit up the night, little orbs of wonder. I had never seen anything like it. The spectrum of colors was fantastic: every shade and type imaginable was held there. At my approach, their excitement grew. One—a small umber-red pup—raced up my shirtsleeve, desperate for attention. Others buzzed in the air, executing magnificent tricks, hoping I would notice them.
Tiny muses of kiš-dragonka burned luminescent in the night like fireflies, creating spectacular patterns in their confinement. I held the red dragonka that had jumped on me until it calmed.

Soon the melody of the dragonka song began to have an effect on me. Such was its charm that I didn’t even feel myself go under—it just happened, as the song filled the garden—sudden and fluid, soft and numbing, like a scentless poison gas had been released in the air. First I concentrated on the feeling of contentedness that blazed in me. Then the song stoked the ember, fanning it until it grew and seeped into every part of my body. Just then I could see the words, even though the dragonka sang no lyrics: there was a kind of poetry everywhere—in every mundane piece of garden furniture: every rotten memory of betrayal and hurt had an integrity restored to it, every piece of grass and weed patch was ablaze with intricate design, and even the air—even its invisibility—was instilled with a unique prism of light. The notes of the song bounced around in my body, and I gave myself up to them totally. Feelings traveled though the air like spirits. There was happiness in front of me like an old doltish clown guffawing in my face; there was sadness, weirdly impish and charming, a black cape flying behind it like a flag. Then I was overtaken completely by the charm of such a huge dragonka chorus.

But the feeling ended as soon as it began. There was somebody there, watching me in the garden.

“D
O YOU LIKE MY COLLECTION
?” asked a voice, sleek and icy as frost on my neck. The voice brought me out of my delirium, instantly and shockingly. I turned around. There was Archibald the Precious, silently observing me, his pale skin shining in the moonlight.

“It’s incredible,” I answered.

“The one you are holding is the pup of a Newt Ball champion. A Javanese emperor offered me an island off the coast of
his country in exchange for him. But there is no amount that would convince me to part with him.”

“Aren’t all dragonka forbidden?” I asked.

“These are safe,” he said. “Because they were born after the fever outbreak. They are clean.”

“The others are clean too,” I countered.

“No,” he said. “That is not true.”

“This whole dragonka fever thing is a lie!” I said.

“I brought you here to play, not to argue with me,” Archibald said, suddenly flushed with anger. “People think I am quite cruel, but as you can see, I have taken their welfare upon myself. I provide for them, I feed them in the way they are accustomed to. And all I ask is that they are available to me, for play. It is not a big request, is it?”

“And what about the ones that disappear. Where do they go?”

“Sacrifice is involved. A culling. That, after all, is how we arrived with these creatures. You see, we have a plan to
perfect
the dragonka. To elevate them beyond the point of pure beast. Can you imagine a dragonka that isn’t finicky about its diet? That follows orders? That is no trouble at all to keep? Not to mention the military applications of such a beast.”

“No. And I don’t want to,” I said.

“Well, it is not for you to concern yourself with,” he said.

Archibald was dressed in his uniform. He seemed so adult right then; it made me fearful. His face had a metallic sheen, like he had been bled dry and pumped with mercury. There was something inhuman about Archibald. Also, he appeared unsurprised by my appearance in the garden. I realized then that I had been expected, if not led to this place.

“Why was my door left open?” I asked.

“Because I wanted you to see,” said Archibald. “I wanted you to discover everything for yourself.”

“But why? Why didn’t I go back to the reeducation facility?” I asked.

Archibald went over to the tank with the kiš-dragonka in it and put his hand to the glass. They appeared curious, buzzing around his fingers as though they were flower pistils from which sweet pollen could be collected—then they dispersed in a flurry when they realized their mistake. Archibald appeared to regret the deception, one that he looked to have practiced before. He withdrew his hand and turned back to me.

“Because I wanted you to see what I am offering,” he responded evenly. The dragonka that had slithered around my neck had fallen asleep. “He likes you,” said Archibald, taking a small key from his wrist and releasing the beast from his collar. “Bring him inside where it is warmer. There is something I want to show you.” Archibald began to walk toward the Palace. I followed, with no more thoughts of spirits or emotions, the dragonka snoring quietly around my neck.

We went into a large double door that looked out on the gardens. Inside, I found myself in a sumptuous room filled with soft pillows on the floor and automatons resting up against the walls. Crystal mood shards glowed on a table, which also held an army of toy soldiers, mid-battle, waiting to be directed. Other toys were hidden in the far reaches of the dark room, out of my view.

“Welcome to my room,” said Archibald expansively.

“Wow!” I exclaimed.

“Shhhh,” he hissed. “They will hear.”

“Who?” I asked, but Archibald just shook his head, not wanting to tell.

“We can play, but we have to do it quietly,” he said, taking the small dragonka from my neck and holding it up to view it in the moonlight that shot through the window.

“OK,” I said, deciding it was better to humor him until I found out why I was here. Perhaps it was the dragonka charm, but the effect of the Dream Chamber had worn off, and I felt like myself again. Archibald had better watch out. “What should we play?”

He shrugged his shoulders, as if to invite me to present an idea.

“Don’t you remember me?” he finally said. “That night in Jozseftown. You gave me a quince from your bag, even though you needed it for yourself.”

“That was you? What were you doing in Jozseftown at night? Alone?”

“I do that sometimes,” he said. “It is a secret I keep from
them
. I sneak out at night, looking for somebody to play with. But nobody ever asks. It can be so lonely here.”

“What did you want to show me?” I asked.

“Come, I will take you,” he said. And with that, Archibald the Precious took me by the hand, and together we strolled through the darkened corridors of the sleeping Palace. He was silent as we walked, which was good, because I was mesmerized by the wonders of his home. I had never seen such a well-appointed corridor: one could have made a comfortable home in it alone, with lounge chairs and velvet-covered walls. Paintings of past royalty lined the way, interrupted by Kina cisterns and vases. Eventually we came to a door, which opened onto a spiral staircase. We had to go one after the other to descend, Archibald having grabbed a lit candle from the hallway. When we got to the landing, he opened another door that led to a dark, dank smelling place. We were in the basement of the Palace now.

“What’s down here?” I asked.

“My study.”

We entered a room that appeared to be some sort of laboratory. On the walls were illustrations of enormous hearts in various state of dissection, and in beakers tiny organs bobbed about in bubbling water.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Hearts,” he said. “We tried growing them, but it didn’t work like we wanted. You need a body for the heart to serve, or
else it won’t grow. Hearts die if they don’t give life to something else. It is kind of contrary, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“But my real playroom is through here.”

“Can I see?” I asked.

“No. That place is private and off limits. Besides, I think you have had enough excitement for one night. Let’s go back upstairs.”

“But I thought you wanted to play,” I said, still curious about what else Archibald was hiding.

“I did. But it is late. I’m sleepy now,” he said. “We can continue the tour tomorrow.” We turned back, went through the laboratory and up the stairs.

“I am not sure I will be able to sleep,” I said.

“Try this,” Archbald said, and drew from his pocket a small metallic contraption that looked like the motor to a music box. He wound the tiny crank. When released a slight humming came, then the faint sound of dragonka singing in chorus. I had never seen or heard anything like it before.

“It will help you sleep,” he said, putting the song box in my hand. That should have ended my first day at the Palace, but it didn’t.

I
CRANKED THE DRAGONKA SONG BOX
, listened to its tune, and fell asleep easily. But in the middle of the night I was startled awake again. Though I couldn’t see anybody, I knew I was not alone in the room. “Who’s there?” I called, but got no response. I lit the bedside paraffin lantern with quivering hands, but it revealed no living being. Before too long, I cautiously closed my eyes. It was then that I sensed the presence again. I sat up, and felt a chill overtake me, though no breeze blew. But a gust
had
passed through me, like there was a lit candle in my heart that something was trying to blow out. The feeling was at once warm and
clammy cold, provoking within me a powerful feeling of sorrow. I felt tears come to my eyes, and sadness like none I had ever felt before. “Petra K,” a familiar voice said. I held my head back so as not to cry, then before I knew it the feeling was gone. I cranked the song box and was asleep again in moments.

I
woke up early the next morning with the sun shining through the gossamer curtains. It took me a moment to realize where I was. It is not every day you wake up in a palace.

No sooner did I rise than an aged woman in a maid uniform came gliding into the room with a cart loaded with breakfast food: poppy-seed rolls, honey challah, roast pumpkin wedges, and cured hams, with more juniper-flavored soda water. I ate heartily; it had been so long since I’d had a proper meal. The maid watched over me as I gorged myself, and when I had finished, she helped me dress, then escorted me from the room, through the Palace and out into the garden, where Archibald was already waiting. His face brightened at my arrival. The young dictator was happy to see me.

“I am so excited,” he said. “I have such a great day planned for us.” He clasped my hands in his. I immediately felt their coldness. It was like holding hands with a corpse.

“Did you eat well?” he asked.

“Very,” I said.

“You can enjoy such meals anytime you want.”

“Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure,” he said shyly. I wondered if he had ever had a real friend.

“Is it just you and the dragonka here, then?” I asked.

“And the Ministry of Unlikely Occurrences,” he said. “It was really their idea to perfect the dragonka.”