CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN MY DREAMS, GUARDIANS OF Peace pull Ursa from Mama’s embrace as she begs a cognac-drinking dragon to read her research proposal. Atlas presses me against a giant egg, his lips on mine. ‘Hollingsworth said I’ll pass my Examination if I kiss you,’ he whispers. Hands slide round my neck and when I look up, the face hovering above me is Sophie’s.
I wake with a start. The siren is droning and Katherine lets out a disgruntled groan. I sit up and feel for the knife under my pillow. It’s still there, and we’re all still alive.
Silver linings.
I dress quickly and traipse across the frozen forest floor to the glasshouse alone, glancing over my shoulder every few minutes. The wind is picking up, moving the treetops and blowing my hair round my face.
‘Morning, Soresten,’ I say to the Sand Dragon on guard outside the glasshouse.
He bows his head in response. ‘Good morning, recruit.’
He’s a warm tawny colour with a long snout and fine-tendrilled whiskers. His eyes are set so wide apart I’m not exactly sure where he’s looking. I think of the book I was reading before I found my invitation to the ball, then glance around. No one else is out here.
‘Soresten, do you mind me asking where you come from?’
The dragon blinks. ‘Lyme Regis,’ he replies. ‘I was hatched on the Blue Lias rocks in 1813.’
Lyme Regis is on the Jurassic Coast in Dorset, where hundreds of dragon fossils are found each year.
‘And Addax,’ I say hesitantly. ‘She’s also a Sand Dragon, isn’t she? Does she come from there, too?’
‘Of course,’ Soresten replies. His voice is gentle, almost soft. ‘Our mother hatched her several years later, but on Rùm that time, as there is less human disturbance there.’
Soresten and Addax are siblings, just like Rhydderch and Muirgen. So they do come from the same region.
‘My maxim,’ he continues, ‘reflects an encounter we had back then with a group of local humans who thought they might be able to catch and tame one of us dragonlings.’
‘What is it?’ I ask politely.
Soresten’s chest seems to inflate. ‘ Nullam dominum nisi arenam et mare. No master but sand and sea.’
‘That’s beautiful. And the encounter with those humans? How did that end?’
‘My mother ate them,’ Soresten replies. ‘One could resolve one’s problems rather quickly, you see, before the Peace Agreement.’
I nod, speechless, and pull the door to the glasshouse open. Soresten is still monologuing about relations between dragons and humans when I step into the warm, pulling off my gloves to stretch my cold-bitten fingers. Behind a wall of foliage created by Dr Seymour’s ever-growing plant collection, she’s talking to someone.
‘I have experience in these matters, as you know. The Freikorps posted me to the dragon battle behaviour regiment during my time in Germany.’
My stomach drops. It’s Ralph. What’s he doing here?
‘I have a degree in Dragon Behaviour and Biology, Guardian 707,’ Dr Seymour says, ‘and another in Firedrake Fight or Flight Theory. And, in case you weren’t aware, the latest version of the loquisonus machine is my invention.’
I peer through the leaves. Dr Seymour is standing at the makeshift coffee-making station, washing up yesterday’s dirty mugs. Ralph is sitting on the plush sofa, his gun slung lazily across his knees.
‘Of course, how could I forget Dolores Seymour’s brilliant career?’ he mocks. ‘How many men did you invite into your bed to get here?’
There’s the tinkling of smashing china in the sink. Dr Seymour’s shoulders tense as she turns round slowly, her lip curling in disgust.
‘Tell me, 707, why it is that you’re here at dawn, begging for my job, when we both know you’re too much of a liability for the Prime Minister to ever trust you with any of her combat strategies, least of all this one?’
Ralph jumps to his feet, seizing his gun, and I open the door to the glasshouse and slam it, hard.
‘Morning, Dr Seymour,’ I call airily. ‘Is there any coffee ready?’
‘Vivien?’ Dr Seymour says. I can hear the relief in her voice. ‘Guardian 707 is here to give us a bit of extra … assistance.’
I step through the leaves.
‘I heard you were almost murdered last night,’ Ralph jeers. He stares at my healed arm. ‘Don’t you seem to be in the wars?’
‘Not as much as you,’ I mutter quietly, eyeing the cut on his nose.
How did word of Gideon’s attack get around so quickly?
‘That idiot went to Ravensloe in the middle of the night and told him what he’d done,’ Ralph says. ‘Said that you have rebel leanings and should be removed from the programme.’ He takes a step towards me. ‘Is that true?’
I stare up at him, trying to ignore the fear palpitating in my heart. The memory of the pain of my arm snapping still takes my breath away.
‘Gideon is a frightened little boy who feels threatened by the intelligence of the women he finds himself surrounded by.’ I look from Ralph to Dr Seymour. ‘We’ve met his kind before.’
The corners of Dr Seymour’s mouth twitch. The door swings open again and Gideon walks in, followed by Sophie and Katherine. He takes one look at us and bows his head, then sits down in front of a loquisonus machine. There’s a bandage round his head, holding a piece of gauze to the wound beneath his eye. He ’s the one who should be removed from the programme for trying to kill another recruit. If he’s still here, then Ravensloe must be getting desperate.
I take a seat opposite him and pretend to be engrossed in my logbook. My throat aches. The bruises on my neck look worse this morning, but I’ve concealed them by turning up the collar of my jacket. I hide my face behind my hair and stare at Gideon, at his red cheeks and freckled nose. Physically, he’s stronger than I would have given him credit for. But I know that mentally he’s barely keeping it together. Last night was his own stupid attempt at surviving. Did he plan on killing Katherine and Sophie after he got rid of me?
Sophie.
She’s talking in a low voice to Katherine, both of them casting nervous glances at Gideon. If I crack the dragon code, I’ll be leaving her behind. She doesn’t know it’s my fault she’s here in the first place. Is this the world’s way of telling me that it’s too late to make up for what I did in the summer? Is Atlas’s God up there laughing at me for thinking I could somehow avoid the consequences of that one reckless choice?
I slam my logbook shut, but Gideon doesn’t even look up. If I decipher echolocation, Sophie will spend her life at Granger’s Prison and Gideon and Katherine will go back to whatever hell Wyvernmire plucked them from. If I don’t, my family and I will die and Ursa will be orphaned. Whatever happens, I’ll have lost something I can never get back.
‘I need a break,’ I call across the room.
I don’t wait for a reply. I grab my coat and shrug it on as I walk back to the manor. I find a bathroom, splash my face with cold water and pull my collar down. My neck is a bluish-purple, with half-moon nail marks tracked across the skin. Will Gideon try to kill me again?
I wander through the corridors, walking in circles as last night’s events flash through my mind. What if I crack the code and win my category, but Marquis loses his? The thought fills me with dread. Is there no way to convince Wyvernmire to let us all go home, as long as we give her what she wants?
‘Featherswallow!’
I spin round. Atlas’s head is poking out from a doorway beneath the staircase.
‘Why aren’t you on shift?’ he hisses across the entrance hall.
‘I stepped out,’ I say. ‘The atmosphere in the glasshouse is … strained.’
‘I wonder why,’ he replies darkly.
He gestures to me and I glance around for any Guardians before crossing the hall and slipping through the door beside him. We’re standing at the top of a narrow staircase that leads down into a poorly lit basement.
‘Dodie and Dr Lumens are on a field trip,’ Atlas says. ‘He can only take us out separately now.’
The air is stiflingly hot and sweat beads down his forehead.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there last night when Gideon – when you—’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if you were.’ I smile. ‘Are you going to tell me what you were doing?’
He takes my hand and leads me down the stairs without a reply. The basement is huge, even bigger than the ballroom, and sectioned into different areas by the type of screens used for office cubicles. A metallic smell hits me, so strong I can almost taste it.
‘Gideon told Ravensloe that I have rebel leanings,’ I say as I stare around at the mess of old books and scattered paperwork.
‘You? Rebel leanings?’ Atlas snorts. ‘You’re the biggest rule-follower I know.’
‘Says the boy who won’t even kiss a girl because of some rule .’
He falls silent and I bite my tongue. Why did I have to bring up that humiliating incident again?
‘What do you do down here?’ I ask. ‘And why is it so bloody warm?’
The different sections run all the way to the other side of the room. I walk down the aisle between them, peering round each screen. Some cubicles are filled with desks and books, others with glass cases full of artefacts – a fossil, a large yellow canine and something that looks suspiciously like dragon dung. One has a cabinet filled with row upon row of tiny wooden drawers, each with strange labels like M arigold balm – use for burns . There’s a box next to it with several tiny wooden dragons poking out of the top. I recognise the craftsmanship immediately, my hand rising to touch the swallow beneath my shirt.
‘Where did you learn carpentry?’ I ask Atlas as he follows me down the aisle.
‘My dad taught me before he died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I pick up a dragon and pretend to study it closely, in case he needs time to compose himself. But when I turn to face him again he’s looking at me intently.
‘You’re holding that little piece of wood in your hand almost as lovingly as you do all those books you read.’
‘I’m admiring a miniature masterpiece!’ I retort.
Atlas smiles. ‘So am I.’
The air is suddenly so hot I can barely breathe. I put the dragon down.
‘Don’t say things like that,’ I say bluntly. ‘Not if you can’t act on them.’
His eyes drop to the floor. ‘You’re right. Sorry.’
I keep walking. As I near the opposite side of the room, the metallic smell gets stronger.
‘What is that?’ I say, covering my mouth and nose.
Atlas has stopped inside another cubicle and is shovelling coal into one of several small coal-burners. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and the dark hair of his forearms glistens with the humidity. My neck prickles with heat and I pull off my jacket, and tie my hair up. I keep walking until I reach the final cubicle that spans the whole width of the room. A platform has been mounted across it, covered in grass and rocks and sand. It looks like someone has dumped the contents of a beach here. Scattered across the sand are several mounds of dried ferns, feathers and some loose bits of charred grey coal.
‘Atlas,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘What’s this—’
Something moves inside one of the mounds. I take a step backwards. Is it a rat? The ferns shake vigorously, sending feathers flying into the air. It’s too big to be a rodent. The movement stops and a long green tail pokes out of the mound. I turn to look at Atlas as he comes up behind.
‘I hope that’s not what I think it is.’
He doesn’t joke or say something clever. His face is sober and unsmiling. The tail disappears and a small snout takes its place. The dragonling creeps towards me with its belly to the floor. Spikes run along the length of its back and, when it lifts its head to sniff the air, I see two horns protruding from under its chin. I stare, barely daring to breathe. This Western Drake is only a few days old.
‘That shouldn’t be here,’ I say, my voice shaking.
Atlas lifts the lid off a barrel and reaches inside. The smell fills my nostrils, overpowering. The barrel is full of raw meat. He throws a piece on to the platform and the dragonling lets out a squawk and pounces on it, its wings lifting it momentarily into the air. Two more dragonlings appear out of nowhere and jump on to the first one, shrieking as they fight over the piece of meat.
‘Why not?’ Atlas says.
Is he really asking that question? I stare at him as he tosses more meat, cut up into chunks, and then some tiny stones that the dragonlings lick up off the floor. He opens one of the burners and shovels a spadeful of hot coal on to the platform. The first dragonling sniffs it once, then collapses on to the smoking heap and curls up, resting its snout beneath its wing.
I crouch down to look at it. I’ve never seen one this small. Its scales are as tiny as fingernails, shimmering with different shades of green and blue and brown as if they haven’t yet decided what colour they’ll be. The horns beneath its chin means it’s a male. Where did he come from and where are his parents? The other two snap at one another, their pronged red tongues slick with blood.
‘Are they orphans?’ I ask.
Atlas shrugs. ‘Doubt it.’
I feel my face flush with anger. ‘If they’re not orphans, then were they stolen?’
‘Wyvernmire had them delivered last night by someone attending the ball,’ Atlas says. His eyes darken as he watches the coals smoulder, white-hot, beneath the body of the sleeping dragonling. ‘I was here settling them in when Gideon attacked you.’
‘Who delivered them?’
Could it have been the German Secretary of Defence, or Lord Rushby, or that Bulgarian prince?
Atlas just shrugs again.
‘You seem … unconcerned,’ I say.
‘Doesn’t matter what I think,’ he replies callously. ‘If these dragonlings help Wyvernmire win the war, then who cares where they’re from?’
I suck in a breath through my teeth.
‘But who do they belong to?’ I ask. ‘Rebel dragons?’
Atlas nods once. ‘Taken from some nests in Scotland before the rebels drove the army out.’
‘They’ll come looking for them,’ I say. ‘The parents.’
‘Perhaps.’ His indifference is unnerving.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ I ask.
‘Gain their trust,’ Atlas says. ‘Study them and record how fast they grow.’
‘But they won’t grow!’ I explode. ‘Not the way they’re supposed to. This isn’t their natural habitat, for one, and dragonlings need their parents to learn how to fly, to breathe fire, to speak! Surely you haven’t agreed to this?’
When he looks at me, his gaze is cold.
‘Do you think I have a choice? We have to win the war, don’t we? Isn’t that what you’ve agreed to?’ He shakes his head and slams the door to the coal-burner closed. ‘You’ll crack the code and give it to Wyvernmire. And for what? So she can fly like a dragon, hunt like a dragon, talk like a dragon? Why do you think she wants to do those things? It’s so she can control them, so she can control us!’
So he doesn’t agree with all this. He’s just trying to provoke me, to get me to admit that Wyvernmire isn’t who I thought she was.
‘You shouldn’t have shown me this,’ I say bitterly.
Atlas stands up straighter. ‘Why not? It’s made you angry, just like I thought it would.’
‘Oh, so I’m one of your experiments, too, am I?’ I say furiously. ‘Tell me, Atlas, was my reaction to your satisfaction? Does my anger meet your expectations?’
‘Featherswallow,’ he says, ‘you knew what we were doing down here, didn’t you? My category’s called Zoology, dammit!’
‘I didn’t expect Wyvernmire to have you doing things that go against the Peace Agreement,’ I hiss.
‘The bloody Peace Agreement again,’ he says, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Was finding out that Wyvernmire feeds children to dragons not enough for you? Here you are, blaming me because you can’t bear the thought that you were wrong about her . That your whole life has been built on a false belief system.’
I let out a hollow laugh. ‘A false belief system? That’s hilarious coming from someone whose faith is as prehistoric as the dragons he studies. You stand there, acting all pious, but you go around breaking Guardians’ noses and . . . and—’
‘And what?’
I dare myself to say it. ‘I saw the way you looked at me when I wore that dress. You’re a hot-headed, impulsive hypocrite!’
The silence between us burns.
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘If I was as impulsive as you say, Featherswallow, I’d have kissed you ten times already.’
I freeze, swallowing my next retort. I feel so furious I could breathe fire. But to my utter disgust, something inside me softens.
‘And now you mention it,’ he says, ‘I’ve always thought of my faith as dragonlike. Thanks for reminding me.’
‘You … I … you’re not making sense,’ I splutter.
He shakes his head and wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘I am hot-headed, angry – livid, actually. And I’m glad you are, too. Honestly, sometimes I feel like nothing gets to you. You’re always so … unreadable.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Unreadable?’
I all but begged you to kiss me yesterday . How more readable can a girl get?
‘Last night someone tried to kill you and you barely said a word.’
I let out a nervous laugh.
‘And when Ralph broke your arm I don’t think I even saw you cry.’
I shrug, remembering the sound of bone snapping.
‘I should have known it would take something like dragons to get you fired up.’
He’s right about that. Taking dragonlings from their parents goes against everything the Peace Agreement is supposed to stand for. Against the whole reason we’re fighting this war in the first place.
‘What do you mean,’ I say softly, ‘about your faith being dragonlike?’
Atlas clears his throat awkwardly. ‘It feels … prehistoric sometimes. It’s resilient, like dragons are, and people are often scared of it.’ His hand slides into his pocket, and I know he’s feeling for his prayer beads. ‘But somehow it’s always been there, even when I’ve tried to cast it aside. And then there’s my church back in Bristol. It’s got spires like horns, and stones like scales, and inside there’s this burning sacred heart …’
I run my finger along the scaly head of the sleeping dragonling as Atlas’s cheeks turn pink.
‘It’s all part of some older creation, one that most people have moved on from. I know that – I’m not blind. And yet here I am, studying the Church and dragons, both dinosaurs still very much alive.’
The dragonling splutters a tiny flame.
‘Ow!’ I wince.
The flame has burned my finger and it immediately starts to blister. The two other dragonlings, still playing, pause. The first cocks its head. They both turn to look at us with their bright black eyes and then they stare at each other again. One of them gives a little shiver that vibrates up its wings.
‘I think they’re communicating,’ I whisper as I crouch down.
‘What?’ Atlas says. ‘You mean … telepathically?’
‘Sort of.’
The third dragonling opens his eyes, looks at the others, then rolls over and goes back to sleep.
‘The first two are closer,’ Atlas says, bending down beside me. ‘Taken from the same nest. But the other one keeps to himself.’
The nest-mates peer at the sleeping dragonling, getting so close that their snouts almost touch his hide, but he doesn’t stir again. I wonder if they’re trying to talk to him, but surely he would react if they were? Wouldn’t it be impossible to sleep if someone was speaking to you inside your own head?
‘Would their nests have been close by?’ I say. ‘In the same area?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Atlas says. ‘They came from the same hatching ground in Inverness. They might even have been neighbours.’
So, if the three dragonlings come from the same region and learned whatever echolocation dialect their parents spoke to them before they were hatched, surely all three should understand each other? Unless my theory is wrong and the dialects aren’t regional …
I stare at the two nest-mates – siblings – and Mama’s face flashes through my mind.
The dialects may not be regional. They could be—
Understanding dawns on me slowly, like the sun rising.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, standing up.
‘Oh … okay.’
Atlas follows me as I stride back towards the stairs, my mind connecting the dots so fast I can barely keep up. I pass by one of the open burners and pause. Inside, nestled among the hot coals, is a dragon’s egg.
Atlas’s face falls. ‘It came with the dragonlings. I don’t think it’s going to hatch.’
‘Of course it’s not,’ I say, my hand on the bannister. ‘It needs something only a dragon can give.’
Atlas frowns. ‘What’s that?’
I turn round at the top of the stairs and look down at him. His shoulders are slumped and his face tight, as if simply being here weighs on his every bone.
‘Echolocation,’ I say. ‘A dragonling won’t hatch from its egg unless it hears its parents’ calls.’
And the truth, the missing piece of the puzzle, is suddenly there before my eyes. I know what Mama was trying to say before Hollingsworth cut her off. She wanted to prove that each dragon family speaks its own dialect. And the same is true for echolocation. The Koinamens isn’t a war weapon and it’s certainly not a dragon-made code. It’s a language containing thousands of others, each one sacred, each one unique to a different dragon family. The reason that Soresten and Addax, and Muirgen and Rhydderch, speak their own dialects isn’t because they’re from the same region. It’s because they’re related.
The echolocation dialects aren’t regional.
They’re familial.