CHAPTER SIX

ELARA

UNREST SPILLED THROUGH THE STREETS OF PORT SOL, MAKING Elara nervous as her squad rode into the capital. Faron had told her stories of the reconstruction—buildings restored, houses reoccupied, flowers replanted—but it was still hard to look at everything without seeing flame and ash every time she closed her eyes. People clogged the roadways, many of them holding signs that made their anti-Novan sentiments clear, and, though she didn’t see evidence of the riot that had called them here, she could see why the officers had been worried.

Port Sol was a powder keg. It would only take an ember for it to erupt.

Reeve had encouraged her before they’d parted, without even mentioning that she’d been clinging to him as if he were the last buoy in a turbulent sea. “This is your dream,” he’d said. “This is yours. Don’t let them take it from you.”

It was only his support that had kept Elara from quitting the Iryan Military Forces the second she failed to become a drake pilot, from returning to Deadegg with her tail between her legs to pack for Port Sol. Ending up here anyway, after the Queenshield astral called for extra security in the city, was the kind of irony that only the gods could conjure. Apparently, security detail was a job for green cadets, not experienced soldiers or newly chosen drake pilots.

Everything looked different from horseback, and not just because Elara so rarely rode horses. She could see above the brown-skinned crowds in the streets to the buildings that blocked her view of the crystal ocean, buildings that had been razed to the ground the last time she had been here. Cement and scalestone, iron gates and shuttered windows, thatched roofs and verandas shaded by palm trees. Overlooking it all was Pearl Bay Palace, sitting atop a short rise generously described as a hill, built in the style of the great houses the Joyan nobility had left like fingerprints across the Iryan countryside: a stone base and plastered upper stories, balconies that wrapped around the second floor, a double flight of stone steps that led to the front doors, panoramic views of the sea.

Faron and Reeve were somewhere inside, preparing for the first night of the Summit. Elara wondered if they could sense her closeness.

“You could be in there.” Cherry, another drake pilot reject, pulled up her horse alongside Elara’s, her chestnut hair styled into side-pinned coils. “And instead, you’re out here with us. I’ll never understand you, Vincent.”

“That’s the real reason we’re no longer together,” Elara said, because enough time had passed that it was mostly funny. “I don’t want to benefit from my sister’s status for the rest of my life. I want—”

“To make your own mark on the world, I know.” Cherry rolled her eyes. “I just think that, with your talents, mind, and heart, there are so many other ways to make that mark. Why would you want to go back to war?”

Elara opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Cherry was an only child; she didn’t understand the twin pillars of love and resentment that made up a sibling bond. Elara didn’t want to go back to war, but when her sister’s reputation loomed so large that it spanned the world, she couldn’t match that with a quiet life as a teacher or a santi.

Unwilling to have this argument again, she turned in time to catch a glimpse of Port Sol Temple, a massive, one-story structure with an understated elegance compared to the ostentatious palace, glass sunrooms on either end reflecting the light in rainbow prisms. Commander Gavriel Warwick had burned it to cinders during the war, but it was another thing that had since been restored. If she got closer, however, she was sure she’d see nothing but blackened soil around it, lifeless earth like the patches all over San Irie, killed by dragonfire.

They rounded a corner onto a path that fed into the city center, an intersection of various streets and shop-lined sidewalks that met at a square packed with market stalls. A vendor with a machete chopped the top off a bright green coconut before handing it to a little girl. Bunches of yellow and green bananas spilled out of someone’s cart, next to a cart with cherries, next to another cart offering bags of fresh-caught shrimp. Port Sol Temple overlooked it all, an attentive lover of the colorful minutiae of Iryan life.

“Get out of here, you Langlish whelp!”

Commotion in front of one of the corner shops made Elara draw her horse up short. A scrawny man, tan skinned and gray haired, was shoving a boy to the ground in front of the store. The boy clutched something close to his chest, barely managing to hang onto it as he hit the pavement. His red-brown hair was haloed by sunlight as the Iryan man stood over him, but, even from only the back of his head, Elara would recognize this boy anywhere.

Reeve.

Elara’s heart climbed into her throat as other shoppers began to turn. She clambered down from her horse and elbowed her way through the throng, ignoring their curses, the surprised cries of her squad behind her—anything and everything but the boy she could no longer see. Unbidden, her mind flashed back to the last time she’d found Reeve in a circle of people, in the schoolyard, his dragon relic hanging useless beneath his shirt. The relics, crafted from the remains of dead dragons, allowed their wielders to do some form of magic, weaker than that of a dragon Rider and limited by how much power was left behind by the beast it was made from. But, instead of using the weapon he wore around his neck, Reeve had allowed himself to be shoved around by Iryan students who’d needed an outlet for their rage and grief.

She knew part of him thought he deserved things like this. She knew he didn’t regret his choices during the war, but he still saw the ghosts of his dead countrymen every time he closed his eyes. His nightmares, his guilt, his trauma were different, but she had connected with the sorrow in his eyes that matched her own.

But those were angry kids in a schoolyard. This was an angry adult, provoked by the Novans who slept mere miles away. She saw Reeve as he must appear through this man’s pained eyes: a Novan child walking these streets as if they were his home, seemingly indifferent to the damage his people had caused theirs. And not just any Novan, but a Warwick, whose family had destroyed parts of the very city he now strolled through.

A wrathful cloud hung over the island as the Summit began. Anything could happen.

And as she shoved at someone who shoved her back, nearly sending her off her feet, Elara realized that she would never reach Reeve in time. Not without magic.

She drew on her summoning, and the astrals of her aunts cut through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, ready to help. As always, when they appeared, she had two options: use the power, the raw energy, of their souls to craft whatever her mind could come up with, or send them to accomplish a task for her in exchange for a subsequent ride in her body. Most summoners used the latter for astral calls, but Elara reached for Vittoria and begged, Protect Reeve.

Her other two aunts disappeared, and Vittoria soared over the throng like a blinding bird of prey only Elara could see.

By the time Elara made it to the shop, her aunt had created a shield between Reeve and the man, one that had stopped him short. This close, she could see that the man’s eyes were lined with silver. A tear ran down his cheek and disappeared into his beard, which he wiped away impatiently. Like the man, Reeve could not see the astral who stood sentry above him, but, for once, it wasn’t just because of the nature of Iryan magic. Reeve was staring at the pavement, his legs drawn up to his chest as if to make himself as small as possible. This vulnerable display only made the man angrier.

“It’s too damn much,” the man grumbled, harsh voice thick with more tears unshed. “We just attained our independence, and now they’re all back, swarming like mosquitoes hungry for blood. I don’t want his money. His very existence is an insult. Look at him.” The man gestured down at Reeve. “Playing the victim after everything they did to us. My wife would turn in her grave if she knew I’d sold to this—this spy.”

“Reeve Warwick is a child under the protection of the crown,” Elara told him gently as Aunt Vittoria withdrew her shield and disappeared to let Elara handle this.

She understood; she really did. Elara knew from her friendship with Reeve that Iryans did not feel grief the same way as the rest of the world, but they did feel it. Astrals were impressions of the people who had died, incorporeal memories. Summoning her aunts for magic could not replace the feel of a hand ruffling Elara’s hair, the nudge of a hip to move her out of the way in the kitchen, the warmth of a midday hug. For all its benefits, summoning was also a reminder of all the things they’d never have again, thanks to the war, and so of course she understood the bitter edge of this man’s despair.

But Reeve had not caused these wounds. No one had to thank Reeve for doing the right thing five years ago, but they didn’t have to hurt him, either.

“I know you’re angry. I’m angry, too,” she continued. “I wouldn’t dare tell any of you how to process that pain when I’m still trying to myself. But this—attacking him just because he’s here—is something you would regret. That’s not who we are. That’s who they are.”

The man stared at her as another tear spilled down his face. Then he spat at Reeve and stormed back into the shop.

Slowly, the sounds of market life swooped back in, vendors calling for people to come over, buyers arguing the price of fruits and vegetables, horse-drawn carts clopping along with packs of people inside. Despite the unrest, most seemed content to ignore the Langlish boy in their midst rather than pick a fight. One man broke away from the crowd and offered Reeve a cloth handkerchief to wipe his damp face. Reeve murmured his thanks, but the man just tipped his hat and moved along. A woman offered Reeve a cup of water, and she blended into the throng without a backward glance when he shyly refused. In her place, Cherry and the rest of the squad rode in.

But they were too late. Reeve was all right. For now, everything was okay.

Elara whirled on him, and he winced. “I’m sor—”

“Why are you here right now?” she snapped, punching him in the shoulder. Behind her, Cherry had dismounted from her horse, but thankfully, she didn’t dare approach. “What are you doing outside Pearl Bay, let alone without the Queenshield? You don’t exactly blend in here.”

“You enlisted,” he groused. “I wanted to send you a gift.”

He opened his arms enough for her to see that what he had been carrying was a bag full of ripe mangoes. Her favorite fruit. She could only get them when they were in season and only when out-of-town vendors set up in Deadegg Square on market day. And he had risked his life just to send her an entire bag of them, freely available in the capital.

“Oh,” Elara said. “You complete ass.”

“You’re starting to sound like your sister,” Reeve said with a smile in his voice. Then he ran a hand through his hair, the smile dropping. “I really am sorry. I know that everyone is hurting now more than ever with the Summit going on. I should have sent someone else to buy them or something. This is a safe place for this community, and I invaded it, no matter my intentions. I’m sorry for putting you in this position.”

“Are things that bad? In the palace?”

His next smile was a brittle thing. “Let’s just say I was only thinking of how the walk to the market would clear my head. But I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

They met in a hug. Reeve’s arms around her, his heartbeat steady in her ears, was a comfort she hadn’t even realized she’d needed. He was her best friend, the one who knew all the parts of her that she hid even from herself, and he’d believed in her before anyone else. She started shaking, seconds away from crying over Valor’s rejection, and she could feel him shaking, too, as if he craved this simple affection.

And then she heard her name.

“Elara.”

She didn’t recognize the voice, deep and yet clearly female, but it formed her name again as if it were something to be honored. And then it spoke:

“Don’t cry, little one.”

Elara yanked back from Reeve to look around the square.

No one was paying attention to her. No one was close enough to have spoken to her, no one but Reeve, who was watching her in confusion. And yet she was sure that she’d heard…

Elara Vincent. A ball of light appeared before her, speaking in Queen Aveline’s voice. An astral call, though she was unable to see which relative of Aveline’s was delivering the message. It has come to my attention that you have arrived in Port Sol. Please come to Pearl Bay immediately. I will notify your superior officer.

As quickly as the light had appeared, it was gone. Elara could not channel someone else’s ancestor, so it had gone to collect its taste of life from Aveline. Aveline, who had already discovered she was in the capital. Aveline, who had somehow discovered she’d enlisted.

Aveline, who would probably kill her when they saw each other.

Now it was Elara’s turn to wince. “Can I have one of those mangoes? It might be the last thing I ever eat.…”

Reeve and Faron were not allowed to come with her, though not for lack of trying.

When Faron was pried from Elara’s side, she informed Aveline that she would be waiting right outside the audience chamber and glared until the twin doors closed. The queen weathered this without comment or expression, but Elara could tell that she was annoyed. She had spent her thirteenth year surviving the impossible with this woman. Under those conditions, it had been difficult for Elara to ignore that she felt about women the way Aveline felt about men or the way her sister felt about no one at all. Queen Aveline had been Elara’s first love, and though she was long over it now, she had spent enough time studying every line and angle of the queen’s face to be able to read her.

Those dark eyes traveled to meet hers, and Elara blurted, “How did you find out I’d enlisted?”

“I am the queen of this island,” said Aveline incredulously. “Did you think you could enlist in my army and I would not be notified? I expect this sort of behavior from Faron, but I was under the impression that you were more mature.”

Only five years ago, she would have given anything to hear those words. Now that she was eighteen, and Aveline was twenty-two, it felt like disappointing an older sister. “Your Majesty, this was always my dream. You had to have known that.”

The queen sighed, and it was a familiar kind of sigh. The kind of sigh made by those who had been exhausted for so long that it had become part of their personality. The kind of sigh that had only gotten deeper and longer over the years as tiredness built in San Irie’s young queen.

And even standing on the dais, her hands clasped before her, Aveline looked so young. Her smooth skin, the color of black milk tea, her big black eyes shaped like walnuts, her thick curly hair that fell down her back and framed her oval-shaped face—all of it gave her a childlike quality, but there was no color on her full lips, no jewelry decorating her round, pierced ears. She wore a diadem, a silver one that circled her broad forehead and disappeared into the shadows of her hair, but that was her only adornment. Elara could blink and see Aveline as a seventeen-year-old again. She seemed to be drowning under the weight of that crown.

“What’s going on?” Elara asked. “Faron alone can’t make you sigh like that.”

Aveline laughed, though it was more a puff of air. “If I may be frank—”

“Please.”

“—it is the dragons.” Aveline lifted the front of her golden dress, which hugged her curves and fanned out around her legs, and descended the dais stairs. “The Langlish, yes, but the dragons. I thought I was clear that each guest was allowed a small retinue, including guards. I thought there would be only one dragon, the commander’s dragon. Instead, I am trapped in the position of seeming weak for not preparing for this loophole to be exploited, or cruel for sanctioning this so soon after the war. Every time I think I have a handle on ruling, I am proven laughably wrong.” She paused at the bottom, taking a deep breath. “Sorry to—”

“No, it’s all right,” said Elara quickly. “I can—I’m happy to listen.”

There was such a long silence that Elara could practically feel Aveline worrying that she’d said too much to the wrong person. But her need to vent eventually outweighed her need to keep everyone at a distance.

“The Summit hasn’t even begun, and I’ve already been asked twice if I’m willing to loan out the Empyrean for independent contracts like a mercenary. I’ve been promised a trade agreement only if I agree to a marriage. He brought a ring with him already, so confident was he that I would accept and cancel any other negotiation. And I’ve been reminded countless times that I’m at least fifteen years younger than any other ruler in this building or in Nova. I’m irritated, I’m tired, and I’m playing political games with people who were born studying the rule book.” Her eyes were flaming coals as they bored into Elara. “The last thing I need is any more surprises from you or your sister. Everything has to go perfectly, Elara. I need to know that you’re going to be where you say you are. That you’re going to be who I think you are. At least until the end of this week.”

Guilt flared to life in her stomach. “Aveline, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t.” Aveline’s hands came to rest on Elara’s shoulders. “If you want to stay enlisted in the Iryan Military Forces, I support you. Please don’t mistake this for disapproval. I think you are more than capable of doing anything you put your mind to, and I’m well aware that it is selfish of me to ask you to pause that dream for me and your sister. But if you want to serve this country, to serve me, then here is where you’re most needed.”

Elara was silent, tears gathering from the simple belief in Aveline’s eyes. Would she still have that faith if she knew that Elara had wanted to become a drake pilot and failed? Would she still think Elara capable if she said no, turned around, and returned to her squad in the city?

Watching her sister, taking care of her sister, protecting her sister, protecting people from her sister… maybe it wasn’t a paying job or the calling that she would have chosen. But she was good at it, and people depended on her to be that person. The mature one. The reliable one.

Maybe she could pause her dreams for a little bit longer.

Elara reached up to place a hand on Aveline’s wrist with a reassuring smile. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Aveline said, practically sinking with relief. She was an inch taller than Elara, but in that moment, they felt like equals. After all, who else could reassure the queen of an entire country just by existing? “The Queenshield outside will show you to your room. I’ll have your clothing sent up.” Aveline took a step back, her hands once again clasped before her, and raised her chin without a trace of emotion left behind. “I will see you tonight, Miss Vincent.”

Elara dipped into a bow. “Yes, Your Majesty.”