Rise of the Dragon Moon Page 5

  As voices quieted and people began to turn toward her, Toli’s mouth went dry. Her mother leaned back, her expression a strange combination of irritation and pride. Luca dragged Pendar down to his seat on the bench, and Rasca shuffled to throw more peat bricks on the fire.

  As Toli walked toward the main hearth, she struggled to focus over the loud rush of her pulse. The flames flickered, casting long shadows as she moved. She took a gulp of water when Rasca offered it and almost choked.

  You know this story by heart, she told herself again. There was no reason to be nervous … if she stuck to what she’d memorized. The problem was she couldn’t do that. Not now, after what the dragons had done. If it made her mother angry—so be it. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, willing her heartbeat to catch and slow. The children settled into their spots on the floor, pulling out hides and furs to wrap around themselves. Silence fell.

  “In the time when Ire—when our world was much warmer—when more than half the planet was covered with that thick, dark water called the sea, Nya grew tired of her father’s rules.” Toli drew out the name of their beloved moon—Neeeya—lifting her hands as if the Daughter Moon’s light poured down into her palms, warm and golden. “Nya grew tired of the cold universe, with its stars that sparkle but never answer.” She glanced at her mother. “There was only the water below her, and the Daughter Moon wanted someone to talk to that wouldn’t tell her what to do or how brightly to shine.”

  Toli struggled to imagine the might of the sea. She suddenly wanted her people to picture it with her. “Imagine the ice,” she began, straying from the story she had been taught. “Imagine the deep ice. How slick it is, and black, like an endless night that even Nya’s light cannot touch.”

  Some of the people smiled or nodded. She swallowed. “Well, imagine it could move beneath you like a living thing, all of it heaving upward. It could turn and swallow you whole in an instant. That was the sea—and it was all Nya had for company.”

  A boy at Toli’s feet had gone pale, his eyes wide. His full attention gave her confidence. “Night after night,” she went on, “Nya lost herself in dreams. She dreamed of us … of humans, and that she was one too, and she loved those dreams with all her heart. There, she imagined conversations, heard strangers’ hopes and fears—their tales of bravery and kindness, shared with her across great distances, until they were no longer strangers at all, but family. Then she would wake to find herself alone again.”

  Toli watched as the flames licked at the peat bricks like small, famished creatures. Her people had been telling this tale, the story of their birth, at this time of the year for as long as anyone could remember. The weight of it settled on Toli’s shoulders as the fire crackled and the wind howled outside the Hall.

  From across the room, Petal gave her a nod of encouragement, and Toli had a sudden flash of memory, of hunkering down with her sister, watching with open awe as the queen rolled out the story of their Queendom like a gift.

  She pitched her voice to echo in the rafters. “So in the season when Father Moon sleeps on the far side of Ire, Nya decided she would do something about her loneliness and make the creatures of her dreams.

  “She stretched her light down and planted her dream in the heart of the sea. She shone on it through the dark waters, night and day, sending it her love, showing it the way to the surface, where it could become. And just as her father was beginning to rise, the surface of the water split wide, and black rock rose up, a wide ridge bursting up toward the sky.”

  “The rock ridge that shelters our Queendom,” a little brown-skinned girl whispered, her voice tense, though even at her age, she’d heard the story many times before.

  “The very same.” Toli smiled at her. “And under that ridge rose a queen. The first queen of Gall. Her dark-blue eyes were the only reminder of that deep sea where she was born.”

  “The first Strongarm,” a boy with pink wind-burned cheeks called out. The crowd chuckled.

  “Yes. My ancestor. And after that, with each passing cycle of Father Moon, Nya made new souls to join the people, hiding them all from her father on an island of sand and stone under the black rock ledge.”

  Toli’s breath caught as her mind went blank between one heartbeat and the next. Her pulse began to race. She tried to look calm, racking her brain to remember what came next. To buy time, she shot a meaningful look around the fire.

  Wix’s father, Belgar Walerian rose. Perhaps he sensed that she’d lost the thread, or perhaps he just wanted peoples’ eyes on him. His umber skin blended seamlessly into his shadowed beard and the embossed leatherleaf of his artist’s apron. The master carver called, “Our Nya was an artist like me!” He smiled and sat back down as several other carvers reached to pat his back.

  Thank goodness for his pride, Toli thought as the next part of the story rushed back. “A great artist,” she agreed. “She wanted no two of her people to look the same. She made some of us tall and thin as moonbeams, and some of us lumpy as tree conks. She made women and men. She used basalt, and sand, and shell. She chose shapes, and colors, and talents to suit each new soul.”

  “She gave you freckles,” Wix shouted to laughter.

  “And she forgot to give you sense,” Toli shot back, beginning to enjoy herself. Wix grinned.

  “Then she made the forest,” someone called.

  “Yes … yes, don’t rush me.” More laughter.

  “Then she made the forest, and filled it with creatures. Wide and green the trees were, they say, and tall enough to reach up to her in the night, as if she could take them into her arms. Nya was no longer lonely.”

  “Until Father Moon saw the people out hunting one day,” Wix called again from the back.

  “Humph,” Toli grunted, accepting a cup of water from Rasca. The old woman’s wrinkled face wore a wide smile.

  Toli looked around. “I think you’ve heard this story before,” she teased.

  Chuckles echoed from around the room as the children protested for her to continue.

  “Father Moon was very angry. He was so angry that he kicked Ire over—kicked over the world, and knocked it far out of its path, away from the sun and stars that were its family.”

  The room grew quiet with the weight of listening.

  “Denied the warmth of the sun, the wide seas of Ire froze, and the world Nya had made began to die. The trees didn’t want to un-become, and Nya showed them how to turn to stone—how to be cold on the outside, and hard, but full of life deep under the bark. The stonetrees were born. And she guided the people, showing them how to hide from the wind, where to dig the peat for their fires, and she sent them the giant leatherleaves from the stonetrees for our homes. But the planet still lay dying. It was too cold. There could be no life without heat.”

  Toli paused again, dragging out the dramatic finale to the tale. Her mouth twitched as the little girl reached out to grasp her ankle as she passed. “Then what?”

  Toli took a deep breath. Sweat beaded at her temples.

  As a child, she had believed every word, understood the Tithing as an answer to the Telling, and as a tradition that expressed the peoples’ gratitude to the dragons, and to Nya for providing them. But now—now she wasn’t sure she believed it, and worse, she wasn’t sure she could encourage others to believe it either. Nya wouldn’t have created something that could so carelessly destroy her own creations.

  “Go on,” the girl breathed.

  Toli swallowed and continued. “So Nya lifted the floor of the sea once more. She built the mountains—Dragon Mountain—and the force of her breath made it hollow. It became a path to the core of the world.”

  “And then she made the dragons,” a pale boy curled against one of the hearths whispered reverently. His mother, seated behind him, gave him a tolerant pat.

  Toli exhaled. She was supposed to agree—was supposed to talk about their beauty and fierceness, and say, “Yes, and then she made the dragons,” but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She
kept her eyes turned away from her mother, and said, “Made them. Brought them. Called them. Maybe the dragons know for sure. I don’t.”

  There were some whispers as her changes registered with her listeners. Some nodded. Others frowned. She heard one woman tell her husband not to worry—that it was the princess’s first time giving the Telling, and she’d get it right next time.

  Toli cleared her throat. Time to finish the Telling for another year. “From that day forward, Father Moon had a second name—the Dragon Moon. For when he rises, they wake, and the people must hide away under the ledge of stone. And when the dragons return from their travels and settle themselves in the heart of the Mountain, only then will the Dragon Moon leave his daughter and her people alone. Only then will it be safe once again to hunt the ice.”

  As the people rose and began to filter out of the Hall, a hand fell on Toli’s shoulder. She spun around.

  The Queen of Ire stared into her daughter’s eyes. “I’m not sure I liked what you did with the end, Anatolia, but the people seemed to like the way you included them.”

  “Are you … disappointed?”

  Her mother’s brow furrowed as she exhaled. “Every teller has their own way. In any case, you’d do a fine job leading the Tithing, I’m sure. We could ride together out to the Tithing ground. Once the ceremony is over, we could return to the Queendom together. Pendar would stay to see it received. Are you sure you won’t even try?”

  Toli’s heart thunked at the flash of sadness in her mother’s face as she shook her head.

  “Very well, then.” The queen moved past her toward the door.

  “Mother, wait. I just—”

  The Queen’s profile was stern, cold even, as she paused in the shadow of the half-open door. “I have duties to attend to, Anatolia. One day you’ll come to understand what that means.”

  Then she walked away, and though their Queendom was small, Toli couldn’t help wondering if her mother was out of reach for good.

  Our people cannot exist without the dragons. Neither can we know them. They are like the ice in that way. Vast. Unyielding. Dreadful.

  Yet over time, we may learn.

  Of the dragons’ many ways, we know they value strength and loyalty over all else. To show uncertainty, or fallibility, is to deserve nothing, and less than nothing. It invites dishonor, and even death.

  The idea is flawed, but perhaps it is this unbending belief—this inner strength—that makes their scales so beautiful, and strong.

  —From the journals of Queen Larat (great-great-grandmother to Queen Una)

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The nighttime chores were winding down when Toli noticed Spar had returned. She paced awkwardly just inside the doors of the Hall, her hands tucked behind her back. Her mentor caught sight of her and came to a halt with a grimace that was almost like a smile.

  A stab of alarm cut through Toli’s exhaustion. Spar never smiled. Perhaps her mentor’s disagreement with the queen earlier that evening had finally broken her.

  Toli hurried over. “What’s wrong?” She couldn’t be certain, but it might have been the first time she’d ever seen her mentor’s teeth. The sight made her jaw ache. “Spar? What’s going on?”

  Her mentor held something out to her. “It’s your birthday gift. I know it’s late, but I was saving it for after your first hunt—”

  Toli didn’t take the gift. Her chest tightened. “No.”

  Spar shifted, her shoulders tensing. “No?”

  “I don’t deserve it! I caused a stampede! I failed.”

  Spar exhaled. “We all fail, Anatolia.”

  “And that day, with Father—” she whispered.

  Something unreadable passed in Spar’s eyes. She shook her head. “Even terrible mistakes have roots and reasons. Making them doesn’t mean we get to give up.” Spar took Toli’s chin in her calloused fingers, lifting her face so she had to meet Spar’s sharp amber gaze. “You don’t give up.”

  Toli’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She gave her mentor a stiff nod.

  Spar released her chin. “Take it from me,” she said, holding up her burned hand. “Your life can change faster than the weather, Anatolia.” She held out her gift again. “You should look like the queen you will one day become.”

  Toli gave a weak smile. “What is it?”

  “It’s camouflage,” Spar explained, shaking out a white cape. Toli stared as the soft white folds shifted and fell. “Happy belated twelfth birthday, Anatolia.”

  People came and went, preparing to close up the Hall for the night. Every one of them cast soft, knowing looks as they passed. It seemed Spar’s gift had been a well-kept secret.

  Toli reached out to take the cloak from Spar’s burn-scarred hand. It was white rabbit fur, soft and warm on the inside, the outside covered in white dragon scales, rare as ice melt and gleaming in rainbows. There was only one white dragon she’d ever heard of—the Dragon-Mother.

  “Where did you get these?” Toli breathed, lifting the feather-light cloak. The scales were warm and smooth under her fingers.

  “I collected them—from the forest and the ice.” Spar paused. “It took a few years. The Dragon-Mother doesn’t leave the Mountain often.” She gave a soft chuckle at Toli’s expression. “Don’t look so shocked. Even the Mother molts, just like the others. So you like it, then?”

  Toli nodded, whirling the cloak so it settled onto her shoulders. She pulled the hood over her head. The weight of the scales kept it up. “It’s perfect,” she breathed. “I’ll never be seen in this. If the queen lets me hunt again, I’ll be able to sneak up on anything.”

  Spar’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the idea—eventually. Until then, it will help protect you—keep you hidden.”

  Toli studied Spar’s face. “You mean if the dragons attack again.” An image of her father turning toward her with wide eyes flashed in her mind, and Toli paused. Spar had never said a word to her about it, and now here she was, giving her the most beautiful gift she’d ever received. She struggled to get enough air to speak. “After everything that’s happened, I thought you might have given up on me.”

  Spar’s focus sharpened. “No. I haven’t. And from now on, whether you’re hunting or not, I expect you to wear it.”

  “I will! I love it. Thank you.” Without thinking, Toli did something she had never done before. She threw her arms around Spar’s neck and hugged her tightly. The hunt master gave a woof of surprise. The black scales of Spar’s armor were cool against Toli’s skin, and for an uncertain moment, she thought she might have made yet another grave mistake.

  Several uncomfortable seconds later, Spar gave Toli’s back an awkward pat. Toli let go, her cheeks burning.

  Spar cleared her throat. “Go on. The queen is staring, and your sister looks like she’s about to burst.”

  Toli looked around the Hall, only spotting her mother after Spar pointed her out. She stood in the shadows at the back of the Hall, in conversation with Rasca.

  Spar moved away to talk with the last of the hunters where they stood at the doors of the Hall. Petal rushed up to Toli’s side. She brushed her palm down the soft fur side of the new cloak. “Toli, you look beautiful!”

  Toli grinned.

  Petal’s fingers were so pale they almost matched the smooth white dragon scales along the edge of the cloak. “It’s even more beautiful than I thought it would be.”

  Toli looked up. “You knew about this too?”

  Petal giggled, her delicate blue gown rippling in the light. “Sorry.”

  Toli looked over at her mother. When she looked back again, Petal was watching her. “Come on,” her sister said, moving toward the back of the Hall.

  Rasca watched them come, and when the queen turned and saw them, her mother reached out to touch one of Toli’s long braids. Her eyes were sad. “I miss your father too, Anatolia. Like Ire misses the sun—but missing him changes nothing.”

  There was a sharp pain, like something in her snapped clean through, but
before Toli could think of anything to say, she felt the queen’s attention shift, and looked up to see her staring after Spar as the doors closed behind the hunt master. “I know you’re angry with me, Anatolia. And I don’t expect you to come to me, not for help or—for anything really—at least not for a while.” She scoured Toli’s face. “But I want you to steer clear of Spar for a while. Give the hunt master some space. If you need advice, about anything—I want you to listen to Pendar. Let Spar be.” She pushed Toli back a step, gripping her shoulders and pinning her with her fierce star-blue gaze. “Swear it.”

  Toli squirmed but gave a stiff nod.

  “Say it.”

  She glanced at her sister’s somber expression, then back to her mother. It took a moment for the words to creep across her teeth into the room. “I’ll listen … to Pendar. I promise.”

  “Good.”

  Then their mother swept from the room, leaving Toli holding Petal’s hand in the middle of the empty Great Hall.

  Toli hung her head as the doors swung shut behind the queen. The gift from Spar had been a brief gleam of hope, but her mother would never let her hunt again, which meant she would never learn how to defend her Queendom the way Spar had that day when she killed the dragon. A bitter gust of wind ripped through the open door into the room, stealing the breath from Toli’s lips.

  Petal put one hand on her arm. “Spar will be okay, Toli. I promise. I’ll help get the herbs for the balm she needs and…”

  It wasn’t just Spar. It was everything. Toli didn’t trust herself to answer. She tried to be calm and confident for her sister’s sake, but her face felt tight. “I think I just need some fresh air,” she said, cutting off Petal’s assurances.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No! I just … I need a few minutes alone.”

  “Okay,” Petal whispered, taking a step back.

  I’m always disappointing someone, Toli thought with a pang of regret as she left the Hall. If Petal is smart, she’ll just keep her distance.

  The air outside was thin and bright with the smell of snow coming, but she knew the cold would be worse beyond the wall. Toli shot a grateful look up at the thick black ridge of rock that jutted out over the Hall and the scattered homes. It protected the whole Queendom from the worst of the wind.