Shadow Scale (7 page)

Abdo and Lars practiced linking minds outdoors over the next days, and they practiced a lot, fascinated by their own power. Queen Glisselda, Prince Lucian, and even Ardmagar Comonot would sometimes stand in the slushy courtyard, watching them. Abdo quickly learned to move the mind-net (as I had begun calling it) in a more controlled manner; for the Queen’s amusement he made wide bowl-shaped impressions with it in the melting snow, knocked icicles from the eaves, and caused doves to fly off the roof in panic. He took care not to hit the doves, I noted.

Glisselda sidled up to me as I watched. “Even if you fail to find any of the other ityasaari,” she said, taking my arm, “these two could do some good on their own.”

“That mind-net couldn’t protect this castle, let alone your city,” scoffed Ardmagar Comonot, who stood several feet away from us. In his saarantras, he was a short, stocky man with an aquiline nose and heavy jowls. He wore his dark hair slicked back against his head. “I calculate from its print in the snow a spheroid no more than fifteen feet across. They’ll be lucky to pull down one dragon at a time.”

“Every bit will help,” said Glisselda irritably. “They’ll be practiced enough to move it effectively, and the dragons won’t see it coming.”

“I can’t see it with these eyes, certainly,” muttered Comonot, “but I can’t vouch for my natural shape. Dragon eyesight is keener, and we can see into the ultraviolet—”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” said the Queen, turning her back on him. “If I say the sky is blue, he’ll explain to me that it isn’t!”

“I had meant to tell you, Your Majesty,” I said, sensing that it
was time to insert myself between the two of them. “I would like Abdo to travel with me. He can see the mind-fire of the other half-dragons, which would be immensely helpful in locating them.” Glisselda looked up at me; she was half a head shorter. “We’re already sending Dame Okra so you can use her Ninysh house as a base of operations. She can’t help?” Before I could answer, she gestured at Abdo and Lars, adding, “I’d feel better with these two here, in our arsenal.”

“My Loyalists won’t let the war come to Goredd,” interjected Comonot. “Don’t discount us.”

Glisselda’s face turned livid. “Ardmagar,” she said, “forgive me, but I have lost some faith in you.”

She turned on her heel and stalked back into the palace. Comonot watched her, his face inscrutable, his thick fingers absently toying with the gold medallions around his neck.

I shot a glance back at Abdo and Lars, still holding hands and laughing at discomfited doves. They wouldn’t miss us. I took the Ardmagar’s arm; he flinched, but didn’t pull away. We walked into the palace together.

At midwinter, Ardmagar Comonot had named me his teacher, a title of tremendous honor among dragons. It meant he ceded me some authority over him—specifically, the understanding of humans. If I told him he was doing something wrong, he was supposed to take me seriously. He’d consulted me a few times during this long winter, but he sometimes couldn’t see when he needed help. Sometimes I had to notice for him.

I didn’t mind; I’d been an intermediary for my uncle Orma many times, and this duty reminded me of him.

Comonot must have had some idea of what I wanted to talk to him about, for he came quietly up the corridor, our footsteps echoing on the marble floor. I led him to the south solar, where I gave the Queen her harpsichord lessons. No one used the room for anything else, and the walk gave me time to overthink what I should say. I sat on a settee upholstered in green satin; Comonot planted himself before the windows, looking out.

He spoke first: “Yes, the Queen is more annoyed with me than usual.”

I said, “Losing faith is well beyond annoyance. Do you know why?”

The old saar clasped his hands behind his back and wriggled his ringed fingers restlessly. “I sent Eskar and her mad scheme back to Porphyry,” he said.

I felt a pang; I had hoped to speak to her about Orma. “It was a bad plan?”

He shifted his stance, folding his arms over his barrel chest. “Forget for the moment that there is an ancient treaty in question and that the Porphyrians are touchy about it. Eskar failed to consider that sneaking up the Omiga Valley would avail us nothing unless the bulk of the Old Ard were fighting elsewhere. Her plan requires a simultaneous feint south by my Loyalists to draw enemy troops away from the Kerama.”

“South, as in all the way to Goredd?” I said.

“Correct. It is damned difficult to coordinate attacks at a distance, even with thniks.” He jingled his medallions for emphasis. They were devices for communicating at a distance, created by the quigutl, a lesser species of dragon. “Goredd might have to hold
out for weeks. You saw the damage a single, determined dragon did to this city.”

There was still smoke rising from that quarter of town a week later. But Comonot’s words didn’t add up to Glisselda’s reaction. I said, “If you merely pointed out a flaw in the plan with Goredd’s safety in mind, that shouldn’t have angered the Queen.”

His shoulders sagged; his forehead rested against the glass. “Eskar, arguing with me, brought up some … defeats I had failed to mention to the Queen before now.”

I inhaled sharply through my teeth. “Bad defeats?”

“Is there a good kind? The Old Ard have a new strategist, a General Laedi—some upstart I’ve never heard of—and he cheats most egregiously. He ambushes out of hatcheries, with no qualms about destroying the young. His ards pretend to surrender, then don’t. Even our wins are almost losses; Laedi’s forces keep fighting after they’re beaten, to maximize casualties.” Comonot turned to face me, looking baffled. “What kind of strategy is that?”

I was more perplexed by Comonot’s strategy for dealing with Glisselda. “Why would you keep important information from the Queen?”

“She is bright and capable, but she is also very young. She gets …” He made a swirling gesture, like rising smoke.

“Upset?” I offered.

He nodded vigorously. “She’s in over her head. That’s not criticism; I am, too. But that’s precisely it: I have enough to sort out without her emotions thrown into the mix.”

He began pacing. I said, “You need to regain Glisselda’s trust. May I make some suggestions, Ardmagar?”

He paused expectantly, his black eyes keen as a crow’s.

I said, “Be more transparent, first of all. Maybe she’ll be upset by your losses, but emotions pass. She will be more logical and clearheaded afterward, but she has to feel it first. It’s like the order of operations in an equation.”

Comonot pursed his thick lips. “She can’t skip that step?”

“Just like you can’t stop sleeping, even though it leaves you helpless and vulnerable for hours every day,” I said.

“I’m not sure I accept that analogy,” he said, but I could tell I’d gotten him thinking.

“The second thing you should do, and perhaps the more crucial: make a gesture of goodwill to reignite the Queen’s trust. Preferably a large gesture.”

Comonot’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “An aurochs?”

I gaped at him for a couple of heartbeats before it dawned on me that he meant not merely an enormous cattlebeast but food. He would make it up to Glisselda with feasting. “That’s a possibility,” I said, nodding slowly, my mind racing. “I was thinking something still bigger. Your war policy is outside of my bailiwick, and I’d never presume to advise you, but I think your gesture should be on that scale. You might go to the front for a while, or … or dedicate an ard to the protection of Lavondaville, if you can spare one. Whatever might convince Queen Glisselda that you care for Goredd’s safety.”

He scratched his jowls. “
Care
is possibly too strong a—”

“Ardmagar!” I cried, annoyed with him now. “Pretend.”

He sighed. “If I left the city, it would reduce the damage done by incompetent assassins. Certainly I wouldn’t mind facing this
General Laedi myself and ripping his throat out.” He gazed into the middle distance a moment, then focused on me again. “There is sense in what you say. I will consider what is best.”

That was my dismissal. I rose and gave full courtesy. He watched me solemnly, then took my hand and placed it on the back of his neck. It was a show of submission; a real dragon teacher would have bitten him.

After his practice with Lars, I approached Abdo about accompanying me on my travels. He was enthusiastic, but cautioned,
You’ll need to ask my family’s permission. I’m three years away from my Day of Determination
. I nodded, trying to affect worldliness, but he spotted my confusion and added,
Adulthood. When you decide how people will address you, and you choose your path into the world
.

When I’d met Abdo at midwinter, he’d been traveling the south with his dance troupe, which included an aunt and his grandfather. His grandfather, as the senior family member, was the one I needed to ask. Abdo accompanied the old man to my suite the next morning, and I plied them with tea and cheese pastries and an impromptu oud concert. His grandfather, Tython, ate the pastry with one hand, holding Abdo’s hand with the other.

“I promise to take good care of your grandson,” I said, rising at last, and setting my oud in my seat.

Tython nodded gravely; his gray hair was plaited in clean lines, flush to his scalp. He patted Abdo’s knotted hair and said in slow, careful Goreddi, “I must speak at you with Porphyrian.
Excuse me.” He said something in Porphyrian to Abdo, who nodded.

I’ll translate
, said the lad, simultaneously signing at me with his eloquent fingers. I must have looked bemused, because Abdo clarified:
He doesn’t know I can speak in your head. I think he would be envious; I can’t speak in his
.

I understand some Porphyrian
, I said. Abdo pulled a skeptical face.

Tython was clearing his throat. “Abdo belongs to the god Chakhon, not once but twice,” he said, through Abdo’s translation. “First, all ityasaari belong to Chakhon.”

Even you foreign fools
, said Abdo. My Porphyrian was rusty, but I knew his grandfather hadn’t said that.

“Second, his mother is a priestess of Chakhon. Every fiber of him, body and soul, is owed to the god,” said Tython. “Abdo was born to be the successor of Paulos Pende, our most revered ityasaari priest. However”—here the old man bent his head, as if ashamed—“Abdo chafed against his duties and would not take them seriously. He fought with Pende, scorned his mother, and ran away.”

There’s more to it than that
, said Abdo, frowning at his grandfather.

Curious as I was to know Abdo’s side of the story, I was even more curious about the fact that there were ityasaari priests in Porphyry. How different from the Southlands, where we’d had to hide ourselves away.

“I have kept Abdo safe, in hope of the day he takes up the
yoke he was born to bear,” said Tython. “If you take him with you, understand what a solemn duty it is.”

Ta-da
, said Abdo, mushing his lips into a pout.
I’m a grave responsibility. Chakhon is watching
. His sarcasm made a thin veneer over his embarrassment.

“Chakhon is … the god of chance?” I hedged, studying Abdo’s expression.

The old man rose from his seat so abruptly that I feared I’d offended him. He reached out to me, however, and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. I glanced at Abdo, who explained dully,
He’s pleased you know Chakhon
.

It had been fifty-fifty, honestly, but it wouldn’t do to admit that, nor to have said,
I’ll take my chances
, as had immediately occurred to my troublemaking brain.

Tython stepped back, his creased face serious, and said in halting Goreddi, “Remember. A duty.”

“Abdo is my friend,” I said, giving Tython full courtesy. “I will keep him safe.”

The old man watched my elaborate flourishes with vague amusement. He said something in Porphyrian; Abdo rose and followed him to the door. I padded after, saying “Thank you” and “Goodbye” in Porphyrian.

Abdo’s astonished grimace gave me to understand that my pronunciation needed work. Tython’s face crinkled into a smile, however, as if he found me charmingly absurd.

I closed the door behind them, baffled by all this talk of gods. A twelve-year-old boy was surely a handful, no matter his origins.
A twelve-year-old boy who was the property of a god … what did that mean, practically? If he wanted sweets for supper and I said no, would Chakhon hear of it? Was Chakhon the kind of god who smote people? We Goreddis had Saints like that.

A loud knock at the door made me jump. Abdo or Tython must have forgotten something. I pulled the door open.

There stood Prince Lucian Kiggs in his scarlet uniform doublet, a flat leather pouch under his arm. His dark hair curled angelically; my heart stuttered a little. I’d barely spoken to him since midwinter, when we had recognized a mutual attraction and decided, by mutual agreement, to avoid each other. He was Queen Glisselda’s fiancé; I was her friend. That was not the only obstacle between us, but it overshadowed all others.

“Prince. Please, ah, come in,” I said, startled into speaking without thinking.

Of course he wouldn’t. I knew better than to ask, but he’d taken me by surprise.