Chapter 19 #2
Atlas’s face appears in my mind. Is he still with Hollingsworth?
Does he truly believe that the wyverns won’t come to harm once the existence of their Koinamens is revealed to the world?
I think about the efforts he put into teaching the wyverns about Britannia, of the horror on his face when Aodahn’s egg died.
The Atlas I know wouldn’t be advocating for this if it meant hurting them, if he didn’t believe it was the right thing. Hollingsworth must have tricked him.
He still betrayed you.
I remember our conversation on the beach before we found Chumana.
Was any of that real? He let me believe his hesitation was about the priesthood.
So were his plans to leave that all behind a lie, too?
All this time I thought we were working as a team, but actually he was leading me by the hand like a gullible child.
‘Viv?’ Marquis says.
I turn around and they’re all looking at me.
‘We should join the wyverns.’ He points at Ruth, Jasper and Freddie. ‘They’ll come to Compass Hill once they have the Speerspitzes. All right?’
I look at them, at these three underfed, determined teenagers, and nod.
‘If any of you see a Guardian feeding his blood to Goranov, kill him,’ Marquis says grimly.
‘Our efforts should be concentrated on Krasimir,’ Daria growls. ‘He is the strongest.’
My stomach lurches. I can’t imagine any number of Speerspitzes bringing him down and Chumana must agree.
‘Only a dragon can kill him,’ she says.
‘But,’ Daria adds quietly, ‘a human could draw him out into the open.’
‘Like bait?’ Gideon says.
The Bolgorith nods, grinning again, and Ruth shrugs.
‘We’re good at being bait.’
I watch as Marquis, Gideon and Serena climb back up on to Daria’s back, settling awkwardly between her spikes.
‘We reconvene on Compass Hill,’ she says, her eyes unblinking.
I nod and climb on to Chumana. ‘It’s the one above Jasper’s Camp, where—’
‘Where you took it upon yourself to remind me of my sins?’ Chumana growls. ‘We know where Compass Hill is, human girl.’
‘Oh, yes, right.’ I pause. ‘I’m so sorry for what I said to you, Chumana.’
Her wings rise up on either side of me.
‘Chumana?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you and Hollingsworth let me believe Atlas was dead?’
Chumana’s wings fall.
‘I told you. Rita wanted you ready for revenge.’
‘And Atlas?’ I say quietly. ‘Why didn’t he write to me, do you think?’
Chumana pauses as Ruth, Jasper and Freddie back away. ‘I believe he was afraid he wouldn’t survive. He wanted to spare you the heartbreak of losing him again.’
My knuckles turn white as my grip on her scales tightens. ‘Too late for that.’
Chumana leans forward and then we are in the air once more, watching a flock of children emerge from the caves on Sanday.
I welcome the cold, clean air, letting it blow the smoke from my hair and clothes.
Peering over Chumana’s hot scales I see the sea, with Rùm and Eigg behind it, and I feel a wave of dread.
I hope that Ursa is somewhere far, far away.
We drop lower and I spot Compass Hill. I watch the wyverns land in disbelief.
Why have they agreed to fight? Will it make a difference?
Humans are joining them, climbing up the green slopes of the hill from both sides.
I startle, my skin prickling with fear as a dragon appears beside us, but it’s just Daria, stretched out like a majestic bird.
The tip of her wing kisses Chumana’s and butterflies dance in my stomach as the two Bulgarian Bolgoriths swoop across and beneath each other, their tails looping together in the air.
I flatten my body against Chumana’s as she dives, then glides, only for Daria to reappear at our height, her mouth open to reveal her forked tongue.
Gideon grimaces, letting out a scream I can’t hear.
Marquis and Serena double over in the wind, which blows so hard that I can’t even gasp for breath.
Clouds drift around us at the speed of motorcars.
Up here there is no war, no winning or losing.
There is nothing but the exhilarating, uncontrollable current of our own existence.
I lean in against Chumana and smile. We are no longer rebels or linguists or Bulgarians. We are simply a blur of pink in the sky. Four recruits and two dragons who are, in this brief, singular moment, as light and carefree as swallows.
Dragons are flying in over the bay with people on their backs.
There are so many humans that they must have come from all over: Eigg, mainland Scotland, London.
We hover over Wyvernmire’s camp. It’s empty except for a few Bolgoriths who are herding Guardians of Peace into the tents.
It’s happening just like Ralph said it would.
The humans are being imprisoned. If Wyvernmire gassed the wyvern tunnels to get to me and the loquisonus machine, maybe she knew the Bulgarians were about to turn on her.
Maybe she was trying to escape. That would explain why there’s no sign of her on the beach.
Chumana roars as she reaches Compass Hill. ‘Rita Hollingsworth! It seems not all rebels are party to the same secrets.’
The Hebridean Wyverns back away as Chumana and Daria land.
Cindra stands at the front of the group.
It’s smaller than before and I feel a rush of grief for the wyverns lost. Abelio isn’t among them.
We stand feet away from Hollingsworth, small but imposing in her green uniform and leather boots, her hair gathered by a black ribbon.
Atlas is by her side and when I meet his pleading gaze, I feel both a reluctance to leave the warm shelter of Chumana’s body and a rushing desire to be caught up in his arms. I ignore him as I climb to the ground.
‘I am relieved to see you, Chumana,’ Hollingsworth says.
‘Do you greet me with more lies?’ Chumana snarls.
‘Not lies, Chumana. Just delayed truths.’
‘The Koinamens will be left to the dragons, will not be tampered with, will not even be spoken of. Those were your words, uttered to the dragons that joined the Coalition,’ Chumana says.
‘And why did you join that Coalition?’ Hollingsworth replies.
She stands like a soldier at ease, staring up into Chumana’s great, spiked face.
‘To extinguish a corrupt Peace Agreement. To abolish an unjust Class System. To ensure that dragons and humans can live together peacefully, without one trying to dominate the other. We are a single battle away from achieving these things, Chumana, with the wyverns’ help.
But without it, the Coalition simply doesn’t have the numbers for a victory. ’
‘So you begin your so-called peacetime with the exploitation of dragons,’ Chumana hisses. ‘History repeats itself.’
Hollingsworth glances at Cindra. ‘It isn’t exploitation if they agree. Vivien, would you care to introduce me?’
Dread floods my body. Chumana looks like she might be about to breathe fire, or worse, abandon us altogether.
A flash of blue.
Aodahn has scuttled forward. He casts a nervous look up at Chumana and then his head turns to Atlas.
‘This is about the Smuainswel, is it not, dear one?’
Atlas stares at Aodahn as if he’s seen a ghost.
‘Are you Abelio?’ Hollingsworth asks.
Aodahn shakes his head. ‘I – I am Aodahn,’ he stutters. ‘This is Cindra.’ He gestures with his wing to Cindra, who takes a step forward.
‘Abelio refuses to remain above ground,’ she growls at Hollingsworth. ‘Who are you?’
‘Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics and leader of the Human-Dragon Coalition,’ Hollingsworth replies as Aodahn’s eyes widen.
‘You may not remember me. It was such a long time ago.’ She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a silk handkerchief, which she unfolds. I crane my neck to see what’s inside.
A ring.
‘This belonged to June Clawtail. My mother.’
From the private papers of Patrick Clawtail
Marguerite is now seven, tall and grey-eyed and coltish, so different to the soft, supple baby we brought to live with the Hebridean Wyverns.
She knows no human children, and does not understand what a strange sight it is, her playing with the wyvernlings.
Yesterday, she told her mother and I that she was hatched from an egg.
‘Neamroque’ (my own spelling) was the word she used.
I believe the Cannair for ‘egg’ translates literally to ‘heavenly rock’, born from the Gaelic ‘neamh’ (Heaven) and the Anglo-Norman ‘roque’ (rock.)
I sometimes amuse myself with these small etymological games, reflecting on how the wyverns might spell certain words if they recorded their own grammar on paper.
But what interests me a great deal more these days is the ‘neamroques’ themselves, and, well, the promise they hold.
The eggs, with their pearly sheen, that sit in a great nest down on the beach, bathed in the heat of flame and sunlight, are a promise of a future on Canna.
A future for Cannair and the Gaelic that cradled its beginnings.
I know how fortunate we are to be here, living secretly among dragons, when so many islanders were torn from their homes.
I watch my wife and child, jumping the waves, Canna’s sun settling like gold around the shape of their bodies and catching in the soft spirals of their hair as if to bind them here forever.
The Hebridean dusk turns the sea lavender and the abandoned stone houses stark against the horizon.
The music of oyster-catchers and crooning dragons mixes with the silence of a tongue that once told of sea and isles.
The basalt columns reach up to kiss the heavens.
Neamroque.
Such a heavenly rock is Canna.