Chapter 4
THE PLANE RATTLES AS IT HURTLES down the runway. I stare out of the window at Goranov’s hulking figure and marvel at the fact that I’m still alive.
And that I’m aboard a plane to Canna.
Wyvernmire sits in the row of seats across the aisle, watching me. ‘I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you.’
I feel my face flush hot as the sound of her voice brings more flashbacks – the dragon blood across her face, Atlas’s hand in mine, the cool orders she gave as he lay dying.
I want to close my eyes and forget but I can’t, because here she is in front of me, her face like porcelain, that vulgar dragon’s talon brooch pinned to her breast.
‘Likewise.’ I glower. ‘Shouldn’t you and Goranov be off building a nest somewhere?’
I sound like a petulant child, but I can’t help it. I hate her.
‘You’ve joined the rebellion,’ she says flatly.
I don’t reply. The plane vibrates as it lifts into the air.
‘What use have they for you?’ she asks. ‘Aside from having you author those silly pamphlets?’
‘Recruiting,’ I lie. ‘Rallying sympathisers for the cause.’
‘And who do you take orders from? Serge Hammond in North London? Ava Richmond in Kent? Tommy Coin in Manchester?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ I stutter. ‘There was a long chain of command. They never told me who was at the top.’
Wyvernmire glances out of the window. ‘The rebel leaders are unanimous in their determination to keep secret the identity of their faceless patriarch.’ She lets out a bitter sigh. ‘Such a waste of talent you are.’
‘Why are we going to Canna?’ I ask.
‘I plan to finish the war there. Mainland Scotland still belongs to the rebels, and the neighbouring island of Eigg is home to the headquarters of the Human-Dragon Coalition.’ Wyvernmire smiles. ‘The female Grey Wyvern often lies with her enemies before killing them. Did you know that?’
I jump at the mention of wyverns. All this time I’ve been desperate for Hollingsworth to send me to Canna, but now Wyvernmire is the one taking me there. Does she know about the Hebridean Wyverns? Does she know the rebels are looking for them?
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I say coolly. ‘You’re not worthy of your dragon-descended name.’
She smiles again. ‘General Goranov disagrees.’
‘You think you’re in power,’ I say slowly, ‘setting up camp near Eigg so you can defeat the rebels, but what if Goranov is letting you fly to Canna because the Bolgoriths want you out of the capital?’
‘Letting me?’ Wyvernmire gives a girlish laugh.
‘I know you believe that the Bulgarian dragons only came to my aid in order to tempt and entrap me, Vivien. And Bulgaria is powerful, of course, but the rest of Europe is human-run. If the Bulgarian Bolgoriths want to regain respect and legitimacy in the eyes of their neighbouring countries, they need the support of powerful humans. The support of the Empire.’
My heart sinks.
‘Besides,’ Wyvernmire says as clouds gather at the windows. ‘If Goranov is plotting against me, then you might prove useful indeed.’
I frown.
What does she mean?
‘It is outlandishly fortunate that you appeared on the airfield at the very moment I was preparing to fly to Canna. Some might call it suspiciously convenient. But I know the rebels would never have sent you to me. Like you told Goranov . . . you are their greatest asset.’
Her green eyes flash dangerously.
‘Perhaps it’s divine intervention. Atlas believed in that sort of thing, didn’t he?’
A visceral rush of grief shoots through me, like air on an exposed nerve. Wyvernmire sees it and lifts her chin, triumphant. I almost gasp at her cruelty, at the boldness with which she pronounces his name. I could double over from the pain of it.
‘Fuck you,’ I whisper.
A radio crackles to life. It’s coming from a duffel bag in one of the overhead luggage nets.
‘The battle for Britannia has begun, and on it depends the birth of her new age, free of corrupt Peace Agreements and political lies,’ says a muffled voice.
I freeze as I recognise it.
Serena?
‘Bulgarian Bolgoriths terrorise London and the nation’s dragons are being silenced.
Wyrmerian and Harpentesa are now illegal languages, as are the regional human dialects that built the United Kingdom.
Prime Minister Wyvernmire would have you believe that dragons want to rule us, would have our kinds segregated, while she invites a massacring species into our midst!
She would have you believe that friendship with dragons is perverse or dangerous.
But we, the Human-Dragon Coalition, tell you otherwise. ’
Serena’s voice is that of an educated First Class girl, smooth and reassuring. It’s not the voice one would expect of a rebel, and the Coalition knows it.
Language is a weapon, Vivien.
‘And so does our Swallow. She is working with you, rebels of Britannia! The girl who broke the Peace Agreement, who began the Battle of Bletchley, is resisting as we speak. If we can stand up to our Bulgarian enemy then our country will be reborn. But fail, and the whole of Europe will fall into its jaws. As you read the Academy’s newest Babel Decree article, remember this: banning languages will do more damage to our country than the fiercest Bolgorith. ’
Serena’s voice disappears into a long crackle.
‘How touching,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘They broadcast almost every day. It’s often the girl talking, although I’ve heard your cousin on there too.’
My heart jumps.
‘Marquis?’ I say.
‘Broadcasting from Eigg, no doubt, with the same arrogance found in your pamphlets.’
The thought of Marquis and Serena joining me in this small act of rebellion makes me want to weep.
A beetle crawls along the floor and I keep my eyes on it as it rubs its wings together.
They’re spotted like those of a Sandveld Sator, an African dragon I’ve only seen in sketches.
I don’t look up until the plane begins its descent.
A vast, sloping land stretches below us, glowing green and gold beneath grey, moody clouds.
It’s broken up by stretches of dark blue water and as the plane flies lower, we veer past tall black stones that reach up to touch the sky.
‘We’re landing in Bualintur, on the Isle of Skye,’ Wyvernmire says as my gaze falls on a small cluster of white houses in the distance. ‘I will need you to move quickly, do you understand?’
I nod, refusing to ask why. All that matters now is that I get to Canna. From there, I can only hope that I’ll be able to escape and find the wyverns. If that’s even possible without Clawtail’s journal.
The plane races downwards and we return to our seats as turbulence hits, the Scottish wind threatening to toss the aircraft, hitting the sides so hard it feels like a dragon is barrelling into us. I clutch the handle above me. The plane lands.
‘I thought Scotland was rebel territory,’ I say as the engine rumbles to a stop.
‘Hence the need to move fast,’ Wyvernmire replies, pulling her duffel bag down.
I climb down the steps into the cold highland air.
The long grass of the sand-filled field swishes against my legs.
Black mountains frame the horizon and beyond the field is a huge body of water.
I can see a small boat bobbing on it and at its edge, standing in the thin, drizzling rain, is a small figure and a dragon.
We hasten towards them, our boots kicking up sand.
The man turns to us first. He’s old with white hair sprouting out of his ears and large hands that smooth out the front of his waxed overcoat as he watches us approach.
‘Prime Minister Wyvernmire,’ he says with a Scottish accent. ‘Welcome to Loch Brittle. We only have a few minutes.’
He works quickly, pushing a small motorboat through the shallows into deeper water. Wyvernmire watches from the shore and I hear her questioning him. The dragon still hasn’t moved. She’s a Bulgarian Bolgorith, a reddish pink almost the same shade as Chumana.
Several small blue jewels, embedded above the talons of her left foot, glisten in the light. She’s young, I can tell by counting the white-tipped spikes on her face. I cast a nervous glance up at her as she stares out across the loch.
‘My condolences,’ she says.
Is she speaking to me?
‘Condolences?’
‘You’re a prisoner, are you not? Isn’t that what people here say, when something goes wrong?’
Her Slavic accent is strong, her pronunciation tentative and slow.
‘Commiserations, maybe,’ I say. ‘Condolences are for when someone has died.’
I immediately regret it. What if I anger her? The yellow canines protruding from the sides of her mouth are a clear indicator of what could happen if I do.
‘I thought you were a prisoner because you rebelled against your government,’ the Bolgorith says. ‘Am I wrong?’
I wonder how she knows I’m a prisoner.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Then I am sure many of your own have died.’
I open my mouth and close it, then nod as Atlas’s still face fills my mind.
‘My condolences,’ she says again.
I stare at the old man, knee-deep in the water, as he climbs on to the boat and pulls the cord on the motor. It bursts into life with a whine.
‘I don’t know why we didn’t just fly to Canna,’ I mutter.
‘And risk attack from Eigg or the dragons of Rùm?’ the Bolgorith says. ‘Britannia’s dragons will bring down any plane that goes near their nesting space. Eggs need quiet, you know.’
‘I do know, actually,’ I retort.
I feel a sudden rush of anger at this invader, who has decided to lecture me on the practices of British dragons while collaborating in my arrest and kidnapping.
‘But,’ I say, ‘you’d think the government and its Bulgarian friends would have more resources at their disposal than a dismal motorboat.’
A low rumble sounds from the dragon’s throat. ‘The government possesses plenty of superior boats in Mallaig, but it is rebel territory now. It is the closest part of the mainland to Eigg, where the rebel headquarters are, so of course it is armed with both human weapons and dragons.’
I have never even heard of Mallaig.