Queen Of The Great Underworld

8

“And that girl? Her name is Gerel.” Yarrow motioned over his shoulder, where the girl was tearing through a small loaf of bread. “She used to be a warrior. You don’t want to know what she did.”

I shivered. Taking the mace was a great honor. Every Kyhani woman or man I’d met had boasted about the warriors in their family. Children. Cousins. And everyone could trace their lineage back to some famous warrior or another, often a Drakon Warrior: a dragon rider.

“But if you behave here, we might be able to help each other. Just think about it.” Yarrow grinned and walked away to pass out the rest of the food.

After a few minutes, the cellblock was empty, save the prisoners. I swallowed back a sharp cry as I dropped toward the sack of food.

My hands shook as I reached inside. One packet of dried meat (three small strips). One leather container of liquid—water, I hoped. Half a loaf of hard bread with nuts and banana slices baked into it. And one apple; it had four bruises and two holes in the pale green skin. I’d never eaten an apple that might have had worms, but I was hungry. I took a bite.

And then I spit it onto the floor.

The fruit was bitter, sharp. The texture was off too, all soft and slippery. I gagged and spit until the taste was out of my mouth.

Across the hall, Gerel shot a disgusted look, like I ought to love rotten apples. Then she pressed herself onto her stomach and began a series of push-ups. The rhythm of her faint grunts ticked away in the back of my mind.

How could this be my life? I wished I were eating dinner at home, with Mother criticizing my performance in lessons, Father lost in his own work, and Pookiecomplaining about all the things she complained about. I wished I were in the dragon sanctuary.

But wishing wouldn’t help. I dropped my eyes to my food bag once more. The apple was inedible, but the bread might be all right. It was hard and dry, but I forced down a few chalky bites before a lump stuck to the back of my throat and I started to choke.

I dumped the apple and the bread down the sewage hole. A little hunger wouldn’t hurt me; I’d fasted before, though never without a decan of preparation.

Gerel was still doing push-ups, fiercely ignoring me. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine . . .

How was I supposed to survive this?

Mother’s voice echoed in my head: “Everyone loves a beautiful girl. Use that.”

But Yarrow was my jailer. Aaru couldn’t see me. And Gerel didn’t care. My one advantage wasn’t much of an advantage right now.

BEFORE

Ten Years Ago

A MAN TRIED TO KIDNAP ME ONCE.

My memory of the attempt itself faded rather quickly. Self-protection, perhaps. Rather, it was the moments after that stuck:

1. Doctor Chilikoba, with sun-darkened skin and smile lines, as she explained my injuries to my parents. “The cuts won’t scar.”

Cuts. Because I’d been shoved into my display case of tiny dragons. Mother was relieved. “It would be a shame to permanently damage that perfect face.”

2. My sister Zara, her pale pink dress glowing against her deep brown skin. “That boy.” She motioned at the gardener’s son. “He saved you.”

“Isn’t he Hartan?” I’d thought everyone from Harta was a pacifist. Harta hates harm.

The boy caught us looking and dropped his eyes.

3. My parents, explaining that the attacker was a Bophan man who’d once owned a business on Harta. His business had done nothing but ship Sparrowproduce away from Sparrowfarms, and the newly established government had decided not to work with him. His company had folded and he lost everything. He blamed the Galadriel Treaty for granting Harta its independence.

“To a lot of people, you are the Galadriel Treaty. If someone doesn’t like it—”

They didn’t like me. I’d always been told I should be proud of the Galadriel Treaty, though I had nothing to do with it. For me, the treaty had always existed: Harta was independent, the Fallen Isles were united, and dragons were protected.

“Life was different before,” Father said. “Some people miss those days.”

4. The gardener’s boy, who had dark eyes filled with cleverness.

“What’s your name?” Father asked.

“Jan.”

“Why did you help Galadriel? That man could have killed you.”

“It was the right thing to do.” Jan glanced at me. “And she smiled at me once. Said she liked my lala flowers.”

He’d planted a thick rainbow of them, white flowers in the middle forming the silhouette of a dragon. “They’re my favorite,” I whispered.

“Would you do it again?” Father asked. “Protect Galadriel?”

Jan was only nine or ten, but he seemed older. Wiser. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”

5. That night, I assessed the damage of the attack.

All my glass dragons were broken. The metals were fine, but some of the stones had chipped.

Nine shattered. Fourteen disfigured.

Mother hadn’t mentioned the cost, but she’d been thinking about it. Even though I wasn’t smart enough to add all those lumes, I knew it was a lot.

She was upset about the injuries, too, especially the ones on my face. Father had decided to enroll me—and Jan—in self-defense classes, and Mother had mostly been worried I’d begin to look rough.

In the dressing room, I stood before the triple mirror. Seven small cuts marked my face. Forty-three marked my neck and shoulders. Five gashes had earned bandages.

For hours, I counted and recounted. When the sun peeked above the sea, I walked back to bed. One, two, three . . . Twenty-five steps from the mirrors to bed.

After that, the numbers lived in me.