CHAPTER NINE
‘YOU MEAN YOU’RE SECRETLY LISTENING in on what the rebel dragons are saying to each other so you can translate and pass it on to Wyvernmire?’
I sit with Marquis at the dining table, speaking quietly as the other recruits take their places for lunch. The air hums with discussions about work and the war, and I see Katherine and Gideon talking animatedly over their food.
‘Yes,’ I reply, sipping my soup. ‘And the Dragon Queen doesn’t want Wyvernmire to know about echolocation, even though it could help them both defeat the rebels.’
‘One of my professors mentioned dragon echolocation once,’ Marquis says, ‘but he said it was just a theory. The idea that an entire species came up with a secret code inside their heads for the purpose of fighting humans—’
‘Dr Seymour doesn’t seem to think it’s a weapon. And it’s not a code, not really. It’s a language.’
‘Whatever it is, it’s basically mind-reading,’ says Marquis excitedly. ‘Like some crazy primal advantage dragons have.’
‘No more of an advantage than our ability to talk via wireless.’ Atlas pulls up a chair next to us and I frown. How long has he been listening?
‘Of course it’s an advantage,’ I argue. ‘ We don’t have a wireless inside our heads.’
Serena and Karim join us at the table. Karim gives me a shy smile – I haven’t heard him speak yet and he blushes every time someone looks in his direction. Serena is not so discreet.
‘I’ve learned to fly planes, of course, but I never thought I’d find myself designing them,’ she says, her elbow grazing Atlas’s arm as she reaches for the bread. ‘And fighter planes at that. Aviation sounds like the most useful of the three categories.’ She looks pointedly at me.
‘Fighter planes?’ I say to Marquis, ignoring Serena’s stare.
‘Hmmm,’ Marquis replies through a mouthful of potatoes. ‘Knott has designed wings modelled on dragon flight. I suggested we incorporate a mechanical gizzard into the plane, to make it breathe fire.’
‘A mechanical what?’ says Sophie, sitting down beside me.
I sneak a surprised glance at her – does this mean she agrees to us working together?
‘It’s how dragons make flames,’ Marquis says. ‘They have several stomachs, like cows, and a gizzard, like chickens. When the food they eat ferments, it produces methane.’
Atlas raises an eyebrow.
‘Dragon gizzards are covered in flint-like scales,’ Marquis explains. ‘And dragons eat small rocks for digestion. So, when the rocks strike against the scales in the presence of methane, flames spark. It’s all ridiculously clever.’
‘And you think they’ll work?’ Atlas says. ‘These fire-breathing planes?’
Ralph walks into the room, his helmet under his arm, and everyone falls quiet. I’m shocked at how young he is. He can’t be any older than twenty-five. His pale skin shines against his dark hair and his eyes are lined with thick lashes. His prettiness is on a par with his cruelty. We eat in silence as Ralph makes himself a plate of food, eyeing us suspiciously, then leaves.
‘What are you doing in Zoology?’ Katherine asks Dodie.
Dodie and Atlas exchange a look.
‘Looking at reptile growth and development,’ Dodie says.
‘And dragon eugenics,’ Atlas adds coolly. ‘Lumens has asked us to research the subject in the library, although I’m thinking of refusing.’
‘So there is a library here?’ I say.
‘I think I saw one on the third floor,’ Dodie says, casting Atlas a worried look. ‘I’ll show you if you like—’
‘I’ll take you, Featherswallow,’ Atlas interrupts. ‘I’m actually going there now.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
A boy willing to disobey his category leader’s orders when his entire future is at stake is bad news. I want to stay as far away from Atlas King as possible.
‘Well, actually, I did promise Marquis I’d show him the tennis c—’
‘Karim knows where it is,’ Marquis says quickly. ‘He’ll show me.’
I stare from Marquis to Karim, who is turning a deep shade of beetroot. Atlas smiles pleasantly.
So I’m going to be alone with the rule-breaker.
‘Soph, do you want to come?’
‘Just because we’re in the same category doesn’t mean we’re friends again,’ Sophie says dryly.
‘Fine,’ I say, pulling my hair down to hide my burning cheeks.
I glance at Atlas and he jumps up. ‘After you.’
We climb the stairs in silence, and on the landing Atlas beckons me down a hallway.
‘You’re lucky coming here with two people you know,’ he says.
The hallway has large windows with a view of the forest. We cross it, and climb a second set of stairs hidden behind a door.
‘I didn’t come here with Sophie,’ I say. ‘I just knew her before.’
‘Did you have an argument?’
‘Something like that.’
We stop outside a set of double doors.
‘Featherswallow. That’s a dragon-descended name, isn’t it? When I heard it, I thought you were First Class.’
I shrug. ‘My family must have been once. And they must have done something to get demoted. Something cowardly.’
‘Why cowardly?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You know the legend. Britannia’s cowardly dragons, those who betrayed their own, lost their scales in punishment and were turned into swallows. My Uncle Thomas said that centuries ago men who went against the king had the word Swallow added to their family name, to single them out.’
‘I read a different tale,’ Atlas says softly. ‘Swallows were originally dragons who could speak every language in the world. But it weighed on them, being able to empathise with the stories of so many, so they asked God to relieve their burden and make them light and carefree. He turned them into birds, and gave them tails forked like a dragon’s tongue, to remind them of what they once were.’
Goosebumps rise on my arms. The swallows were linguists ? I’ve never heard that version of the legend before. Atlas smiles, holding the door open for me, and when I walk past him into the library I catch that scent again – peppermint and tobacco.
The library is small and dark and cluttered. There’s only one window and no one has bothered to lift its blackout blind. We set to work lighting the gas lamps and when I turn round I see books piled up on the floor, bursting from the shelves and stuffed into alcoves in the walls. There’s an upstairs section, accessible by a ladder, and I spot a small, round table and a few chairs up there. The air smells of damp paper.
‘What are you looking for?’ Atlas asks.
‘A book on the Scottish Isles,’ I say, peering closer at the spines of the books.
‘The Scottish Isles? Why?’
There’s a piece of paper tacked to the wall. I scan it until I find what I’m looking for:
Geography – Upper Level
I step on to the ladder. ‘I just think it will be a good place to begin.’
Atlas is right behind me, climbing off the ladder and into the upper section just after I do.
‘Do you always do more work than is required?’ He smiles at me, his mouth twitching.
‘Yes,’ I say without smiling back. ‘I like to get a head start.’
‘But I thought you were translating,’ Atlas says. ‘Why do you need a book on the Scottish Isles for that?’
I ignore him and peer up at the wall. It’s covered in old maps, framed and mounted in neat rows. My eyes follow the lines that represent islands, the quick pencil marks indicating mountains and rivers, until I see an expanse of land with nothing but three words in the middle.
‘Here be dragons,’ I read out loud.
‘They say some cartographers were too afraid to chart certain territories.’ Atlas comes up behind me. ‘Whenever they came across an unexplored area, they simply marked a warning on the maps they were drawing. It means they don’t know what’s there, but there are most definitely dragons.’
‘How do you know that?’ I say.
He grins. ‘How do you not?’
I turn away and run my hand along the books on the geography shelves. I’m surprised to see they’re arranged by country. After the Travel Ban was imposed, many libraries removed the books that focused on foreign countries and replaced them with texts about Britannia instead. But now I’m seeing spines with titles like Capital Cities of the World and Dragon Diaspora in Paris and its Environs . This must be someone’s private collection. I wonder who lived at Bletchley before the government requisitioned it. I find the section on Britannia and kneel to look at the lowest books.
Britannia, a Kingdom by the Sea .
British Territories: A Tale of Two Species .
The Book of Welsh Estuaries.
A Brief History of the Beginnings of Scotland.
The Viking Isles.
The Hebrides: Exploring Scotland’s Islands.
My hand stops. I pull out the last book and bring it to the table. While I flick through the pages, I watch Atlas out of the corner of my eye. He’s engrossed in the politics section, his lips moving silently as he reads. His white collar is still poking out from beneath his uniform. Why does he insist on keeping his own clothes?
Something catches my eye on page 265.
The Hebrides comprise more than forty islands extending in an arc off the Atlantic west coast of Scotland. However, most of these islands are uninhabited. The Small Isles, which include Canna, Sanday, Rùm, Eigg and Muck, used to be home to humans and dragons alike. Rùm has been used as a hatching ground for British dragons since the twelfth century, but officially became dragon-only territory upon the signing of the Peace Agreement in 1866. Dragons claim that hatching season is disturbed by human activity, therefore plane routes are no longer directed across the islands. When the Peace Agreement was signed, the government requisitioned the neighbouring islands of Eigg and Canna for official purposes. A total of 360 inhabitants were moved to the mainland.
If Eigg and Canna are government-owned, then whatever Dr Seymour has to do with them must have been sanctioned by Ravensloe. But how are those places linked to dragon echolocation?
Rùm has been used as a hatching ground for British dragons since the twelfth century.
I imagine a grassy island covered in dragon nests, eggs the size of bowling balls sheltered by leathery wings.
‘Find anything interesting?’
Atlas leans over my shoulder and I jump.
‘Not really,’ I say, slamming the book shut. ‘But thanks for bringing me here.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I turn round to look at him. He smiles, his lips raising on one side to form a dimple in his cheek. This time, I can’t help but smile back.
Who is this boy?
‘So why were you put in Zoology?’ I ask. ‘I mean, what did you do before?’
‘I bred horses,’ Atlas replies.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Horses are quite different to dragons.’
Atlas smirks. ‘They are. And they were never meant to be my career. My mother got me a job working in the stables of a lord, and he decided I had an eye for good bloodstock.’
Hugo Montecue’s father breeds racehorses for the First Class families of Sandringham. It’s a complicated job, requiring the study of genetics and veterinary sciences. To say it’s an unusual career for a Third Class boy would be an understatement.
‘So you don’t mind the genetic selection of desirable characteristics in horses, but you’re against it when it comes to dragons?’ I say.
I don’t know why I want to provoke him, but it works.
His lips purse. ‘Like you said, horses are quite different to dragons.’
Suddenly I can’t meet his gaze. I’m being rude, despite the fact that he volunteered to show me the library.
‘It was Father David who got me books on equine physiology,’ he says gently.
And now he’s being kind enough to continue the conversation.
‘Father David?’
‘Lord Lovat had a priest living next to the chapel on his estate. He became a bit like my mentor, I suppose.’
I nod. I really want to know how a Third Class horse-breeder mentored by a priest came to be at Bletchley, but I can’t say that in case he asks me a similar question.
I made a deal with a criminal dragon to save my rebel parents and broke the Peace Agreement in the process , I imagine myself saying.
Perhaps not.
‘So you’ll go back to the estate, if your category succeeds?’
Atlas shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve been a seminarian for the past year.’
‘A semi-what?’
‘A seminarian. A priest-in-training.’
I try to mask my surprise by clearing my throat, but inhale some dust from the book and end up coughing so hard that tears stream down my face.
‘Wow,’ I croak as Atlas’s mouth twitches again. ‘So Father David really got to you.’
Atlas lets out a deep laugh. ‘Why do you look so horrified?’
‘I’m not!’ I exclaim, trying to appear neutral. ‘I just didn’t expect you to be a priest.’
‘Priest-in-training,’ he corrects me. He points to his collar. ‘Didn’t this give it away?’
Of course.
‘I just thought you were sentimental about your old clothes,’ I say weakly.
Atlas laughs again as I brush the rest of the dust from the cover of the book. Aren’t priests wrinkled, judgmental old men? Atlas has glowing skin, muscular arms and a smile that is difficult to look away from. He returns my book to the shelf and I glance at the stubble on his cheek and the dark curl at the nape of his neck.
‘I thought priests followed strict rules,’ I say, instantly regretting it.
‘Are you suggesting I don’t?’ He tilts his head playfully.
Is he flirting with me? Am I being flirted with by a priest ?
In training , I correct myself.
‘What do priests even do ?’
‘Lots of things. But mostly they seek God,’ Atlas replies. ‘Isn’t that what we’re all doing?’
‘I don’t believe—’
‘Recruit Featherswallow!’
I spin round. Ralph is standing in the doorway to the library, his gun slung over his shoulder. When he sees Atlas standing next to me, his eyes narrow.
‘Your services are required downstairs, but it looks like you think you have better things to do.’
‘My services?’
‘Do I need to remind you two that you are here to work ?’ He glares at us. ‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Researching,’ Atlas replies quickly. ‘Recruit Featherswallow needed some reading material.’
‘ Featherswallow should be downstairs making herself available to any superiors who might be in need of her … assistance.’
He sneers at me and I stand up. I climb down the ladder slowly.
‘I was under the impression that the Guardians of Bletchley are here for our protection,’ Atlas says from the upper level. ‘So shouldn’t it be you assisting Featherswallow, Guardian 707?’
My feet touch the floor and my face burns at Atlas’s daring. I turn to Ralph.
‘Who is asking for me? Is it Dr Seymour?’
‘What were you doing together?’ he says instead of answering my question. ‘You’re from different categories.’
‘Atlas showed me where the library is.’
‘You’re not supposed to be sneaking around—’
‘We’re not,’ I say. ‘He was just helping me—’
‘I’ve a mind to have you punished!’ Ralph spits. ‘Both for interrupting a Guardian and for disobeying Bletchley Park protocol.’
Atlas jumps off the ladder, his face twisting with anger. ‘She wasn’t disobeying anything—’
‘And you’ll be going to isolation – once for lying, and again for being a Third Class rat!’
‘You can’t do that—’ I shout, but my words are cut short as Ralph’s hand comes down on the back of my neck.
I twist in his grip, but his hand squeezes tighter. He’s strong, stronger than I would have imagined.
‘Don’t give me an excuse to slap you a second time,’ he whispers in my ear.
My nails scrape against the back of his hand as my vision blurs with rage. ‘Get off me, you bas—’
His grip loosens suddenly and when I look up Atlas has Ralph in a chokehold against the wall. The door to the library slams open and Professor Lumens appears.
‘ What is going on in here?’
Atlas lets go of Ralph and he lunges towards him, pointing his gun.
‘Recruits disobeying the rules, Lumens,’ he spits. ‘This one –’ he jerks his head towards Atlas – ‘just attacked me.’
‘You liar,’ I breathe.
Professor Lumens holds up his hand. The Head of Zoology has a white beard and is carrying a briefcase under one arm. He looks from me to Atlas, whose hands are balled into fists. Two red spots have appeared on his cheeks.
‘Did you attack this Guardian, boy?’ he growls.
‘He put his hands on her—’ Atlas begins.
‘So you attacked him?’
‘He was defending me!’ I say, but Lumens ignores me.
‘Apologise,’ he tells Atlas.
‘What?’ Atlas snarls. ‘This Guardian just manhandled a woman and he should be fired—’
‘Apologise, recruit,’ Lumens says coldly, ‘to Ralph Wyvernmire.’
I freeze.
Wyvernmire?
Guardian 707 is related to the Prime Minister?
Atlas stares at Lumens for a moment, then turns to Ralph.
‘I apologise,’ he grunts.
Lumens gives a satisfied nod. ‘Is there a particular reason for which you find yourself in this library, Guardian 707?’
Ralph pulls himself up to his full height.
‘Recruit Featherswallow’s translation services are required in the grounds, yet when somebody was sent to get her she was nowhere to be found.’
‘Well then, I think you’d best be going, don’t you, Miss Featherswallow?’
Professor Lumens winks at me and I nod.
‘I’ll see to it that she gets to the right place,’ Ralph says, laying a hand on my shoulder. I shrug him off.
‘Actually, Guardian 707, I thought I heard you threatening punishment to these recruits?’ says Lumens. ‘Perhaps we might decide on Mr King’s together?’
I slip out of the door and run downstairs before Ralph can catch up. My whole body is shaking. Is Ralph really related to Wyvernmire? No wonder he acts like he owns the place. I remember the force with which Atlas slammed him against the wall. Ralph won’t forget that and Atlas … he could get into serious trouble. What if he’s demoted? A shiver of fear shoots through me as I try to imagine where demoted recruits go. I’ve only been here for a day and I’ve already drawn attention to myself. I knew I should have stayed away from that boy.
But he defended you.
Stop it , I tell myself.
My only goal is to crack the dragon code and go home to Ursa, and I’ll never do that if I let myself get distracted. Or if Wyvernmire’s Guardian relative decides to make my life a living hell. I reach the entrance hall and head for the front door. Ralph said I was needed in the grounds. There’s a Guardian motorcar waiting at the bottom of the steps. The Guardian behind the steering wheel winds the window down.
‘Vivien Featherswallow?’
I nod.
‘We have an unexpected visitor. Get in.’
I slip into the back seat and glance up at the third-floor windows of the house. I can’t see the library from here, but I hope Atlas isn’t in too much trouble. And that Professor Lumens is as diplomatic as he seems.
The car drives through Bletchley Park, past the lake and then on to a dirt road that runs through an expanse of grassy fields. Who is the unexpected visitor and why are they waiting all the way out here? As the car rolls across the grass, three huge shapes come into view through the windscreen. My heart leaps.
Dragons.
Several Guardians are already parked in the field and the dragons – two juveniles and a larger one – are bleeding from their flanks. The smaller ones are blue and purple, and the third is black with horns protruding from its face. It’s huge, even bigger than Chumana. I feel a flutter of nerves as I look at the thick blood oozing down the dragons’ scales. Something has gone wrong. The car comes to a stop and the Guardian turns round to face me, his face white.
‘Out you get, then.’
Out you get? I peer through the window. The other Guardians are waiting inside their motorcars, too. I open the door slowly and step out. The grass is so long it almost reaches my knees. A low growl vibrates beneath my feet. Everyone, including the dragons, is staring at me. Finally, the Guardians get out of their cars, clutching their guns tightly. Relief floods through me as I see a familiar face through an open helmet. It’s Owen, the Guardian who picked Marquis and me up from the station.
‘Hello,’ he says to me grimly.
I nod at him, my eyes on the dragons. The black one is looking at me through slitted eyes, its mouth slightly open to reveal canines the length of my finger and a red, double-forked tongue. Its talons are crowned with feathers, like Chumana’s.
‘This dragon flew across the Channel several hours ago and circled over Bletchley,’ Owen tells me. ‘Our patrol dragons – Muirgen and Rhydderch – put up a good fight until they realised the guest comes in … peace.’
I glance at the smaller patrol dragons.
‘This Bolgorith seems to have come from Bulgaria,’ the blue dragon – Muirgen – tells me in English.
I freeze. A dragon from Bulgaria? But those dragons don’t have anything to do with humans. Not since they wiped out Mama’s entire country in three days. I exchange a horrified glance with Owen.
‘We have been unable to communicate with him,’ Rhydderch says.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say slowly. ‘You’re dragons. You speak several languages … How can you not have a single one in common?’
‘Bulgarian dragons don’t—’
‘I know,’ I interrupt Owen. ‘Bulgarian dragons haven’t taught their young human languages since the Massacre of Bulgaria.’ I stare up at the Bolgorith. ‘But you were born before that,’ I say in Bulgarian. ‘You must speak Bulgarian, at least.’
The dragon’s lips pull into a grin.
‘The question is,’ he replies, ‘why do you?’
‘My mother is from Bulgaria,’ I say coldly. ‘Her family was murdered there.’
‘How unfortunate,’ he says. ‘I am Borislav.’
‘How can I help you, Borislav?’
I switch to Slavidraneishá, Chumana’s mother tongue. Now Bulgaria’s official language. Borislav lowers his head until it’s level with my face, unable to mask his surprise at me speaking a dragon language, too. His neck is the length of a motorcar, spiked along the top and the bottom.
‘It is unusual for a human to speak multiple tongues,’ he hisses. ‘Where did you learn?’
‘At school,’ I reply. ‘In books.’
‘Of course,’ he snarls. ‘You humans insist on recording our tongues in your inky scrawls.’
‘It’s so we can pass them down.’
‘I had forgotten how bad you are at teaching your offspring to speak,’ Borislav replies, shaking his head so that several Guardians jump back in alarm. ‘Dragonlings learn at least three tongues in their first year of life.’
‘And yet here you are, unable to converse with your own species without a human translator,’ I reply coolly.
Borislav roars, rearing backwards with a terrible screeching sound as his tail hits a tree. The Guardians raise their guns as splinters of wood rain down on to the cars.
‘What did you say to him?’ Owen bellows as Muirgen and Rhydderch snarl.
‘English is a slothful language, one I refuse to speak. And your patrol dragons are juveniles, still unlearned in the tongues of the East,’ Borislav spits. ‘It is a weakness akin to their so-called peace with humans.’
My heart thumps loudly in my chest. For a moment, I thought the Bulgarian dragon was about to kill me.
‘What do you want me to translate?’ I ask.
Borislav gnashes his teeth, his tail still swinging from side to side. ‘Tell Wyvernmire that the dragons of Bulgaria agree.’
I relay the words to Owen.
‘Agree to what?’ Rhydderch growls in English.
I turn to ask Borislav, but Owen speaks first.
‘That’s all we need, Vivien.’
Rhydderch’s eyes narrow. I look at him, then up at Borislav. What have the dragons of Bulgaria and Wyvernmire agreed to? And why doesn’t Rhydderch – who serves Queen Ignacia – seem to know?’
‘Tell the dragon that Wyvernmire thanks him for travelling all this way,’ Owen says. ‘And remind him that his hunting must be restricted to wild animals until he has crossed British borders.’
I translate and Borislav lets out a laugh.
‘You tell your superior that I feasted on two of his colleagues when flying over London this daybreak.’ His eyes swivel in their sockets to look at me. ‘We don’t obey human rules – your Prime Minister knows that.’
Borislav’s wings unfold suddenly, stretching across the field and knocking the mirror off one of the cars. After a few thundering steps, the dragon launches himself into the air. We watch in silence as he soars upwards, circling over the field a few times before disappearing into the clouds above the forest.
‘Someone get me Ravensloe,’ Owen says. ‘Now!’
Muirgen and Rhydderch have moved closer together and are conversing quietly. They don’t seem to understand anything more about this encounter than I do. But why is that? The question circles in my mind as Owen opens the car door for me and the Guardian drives me back to Bletchley Manor. If all dragons speak echolocation, then why weren’t the patrol dragons able to communicate with Borislav when they saw him in the sky? I decide to ask Dr Seymour about it, because there’s already an even bigger question pressing on me.
Why is Wyvernmire talking with the Bulgarian dragons, the most ruthless dragons in Europe? And if the Dragon Queen is Wyvernmire’s ally, then why did her dragons look so surprised?