The Last Princess of the Dragon Moon

Aya had put her wages beneath the sugar bowl because nobody at Sere Palace ever failed to notice an empty sugar bowl.

The folded pay chit kept the porcelain from rocking on its cracked foot. Six weeks overdue, three separate promises, and now the winter roster would close at sunset. If Steward Pell signed before then, she could send Tem the money for a new stove grate. If he did not, the kitchen at Reed Ferry would spend another cold month smelling of smoke while palace guests argued about whether honey spoiled the taste of mountain tea.

She lifted the bowl, checked the paper was dry, and tucked it into her apron. Beyond the service arcade, drums struck a marching measure. The vibration stirred the skin on a jug of cream.

“Don't pour that yet,” Bera said. “It'll split in the sun.”

“There isn't any sun.”

“Then it'll split out of spite.”

The laundry forewoman had brought fresh tablecloths herself because the flight court's tables had been measured by somebody who apparently believed cloth stretched when commanded. She stood with one hand pressed into the small of her back, inspecting Aya's cuffs.

“You stitched them?”

“Twice. First thread broke.”

“Pell won't reimburse that.”

“I know.”

Aya pulled her sleeves down over her wrists. The scars beneath them had never hurt, but other people's curiosity could cost money. Branching silver lines covered both forearms, as smooth as skin worn pale under a ring. Tem said they had been there when she was born. Pell called them an unsuitable distraction and made her wear full sleeves even at the boiling troughs.

Bera took a pin from her own collar and fastened Aya's right cuff more securely. “Don't let him charge you for the tea leaves if someone drops a cup.”

“I've been twenty-nine for four months. I know how to lose wages without assistance.”

“Good. You're ready for management.”

Aya laughed, and Bera's mouth softened before she went back through the laundry passage. A runner called for service. Aya arranged six cups, the sugar bowl and a squat kettle on her tray. She put the cream jug on the cart for the second trip. Nothing liquid belonged near a paper she might need to show a clerk.

The flight court opened beyond three shallow steps, broad enough for eight dragons to stand with their wings folded. Its paving slabs were scored by claws. On the far side, the imperial dais rose under a green canopy, with Empress Sevraine seated at its center. At fifty-eight, she had the upright stillness of someone who never carried her own chair. A printed eclipse announcement stood beside the steps: forty-nine days until the ceremonial alignment, provincial attendance requested.

Aya had washed the canopy last spring. Its pale underside was still blotched where rain had carried copper dust from the roof. From a distance, the stain looked like decoration.

The dragons had come in by the river gate. Aya could smell damp leather, hot mineral breath and the clean, sharp scent of scale oil above the horses' manure outside. Their riders stood at their shoulders while grooms checked the parade harnesses. Bright pennants hung from buckles that served no useful purpose. One red dragon repeatedly nudged a pennant out of its eye; a woman in a patched riding coat removed it despite an official pointing at his program.

Children from the provincial delegations stood along the inner rope. Their tutors had placed them there for a better view, directly beneath the space a dragon would need to unfold a wing. Aya noticed because somebody had to walk between them carrying boiling water.

Pell intercepted her beside the nearest service table.

“Tray higher.”

She raised it an inch. At forty-nine, the steward had a handsome waistcoat and the permanent expression of a man who had discovered a stain too late to blame the laundress.

“Higher. Her Majesty shouldn't look down into a kettle lid.”

“The kettle weighs seven pounds full.”

“The guests aren't interested in your difficulties.”

“You could inspect the lid here.” She held the tray steady. “And sign my chit before service ends.”

His gaze flicked to her apron. “Later.”

“The roster closes today.”

“I know when the roster closes.”

He reached across her to straighten a teaspoon. The metal corner of his inspection board caught her left cuff. When he drew it back, the seam tore from wrist to elbow.

Aya jerked her arm inward before the sleeve could dip into the kettle spout. Tea slopped onto the tray. She felt its heat through the wood.

Pell stared at the exposed silver lines.

“Cover yourself.”

“You've torn it.”

“Put that down.”

She was already lowering the tray when the nearest dragon moved.

Its foreleg lifted with a scrape that made the cups jump. Aya stopped. The creature was black along its back, with old bronze scars between the scales of its neck. Its head was longer than the laundry's worktable. One gold eye turned toward her arm, then toward her face.

The dragon placed a claw on the paving.

Three deliberate taps.

Aya waited for the groom to explain. Instead, the black dragon bent its front legs. Its breast lowered toward the stones, and the folded joint of one wing swung outward over the rope.

A little boy in a yellow sash leaned forward to touch it.

“Back,” Aya said.

He did not hear over the drums. The red dragon behind the black one began to lower itself too. Another followed. Harness chains slid against scales. The tutors watched the dais, as if instruction might arrive from that direction in time.

Aya set the tray on the paving behind the service table. The kettle rocked; she caught its handle, planted it flat and shoved the hot tray beneath the table where feet would not find it. Then she went to the boy.

“Come away from the rope.”

He looked offended. “My father said we could stand here.”

The wing joint descended another foot. Aya put a hand between the boy's shoulder blades and pushed him toward the arcade. His tutor caught his sleeve.

“That whole line needs to move,” Aya told her. “The wing can't see where their heads are.”

The tutor looked up. This time she understood. She gathered two children by their sashes and called for the others. Aya lifted the rope off its hook to widen the gap. A girl dropped her souvenir flag and tried to turn back; Aya scooped it up and handed it over without stopping her.

By the time the last child reached the arcade, all eight dragons had lowered their heads.

The drums faltered into scattered blows, then stopped.

Aya stood beside the unhooked rope with a torn sleeve hanging from her elbow. Across the court, guests rose from their chairs. Someone knocked a glass against the stone balustrade. It broke with a small, ordinary sound.

The black dragon's eye remained on her. There was no heat on her skin beyond what the kettle had left. No voice spoke inside her head. She wished something sensible would happen, such as the groom telling her where to stand.

A man came around the dragon's shoulder with a sword drawn.

She recognized Prince Riven from the coins and from the parade linen bearing his riding crest. The coins did not show the uneven dark patch in his eyebrow or how his nose had healed slightly crooked. He wore plain flight armor under the ceremonial shoulder sash, and his boots carried pale mud from the aerie path. He looked younger than the empress and older than the boys who tried to impress kitchen workers with stolen wine. Thirty-four, the jubilee notices had said last month.

His sword was level with her waist.

Aya stepped back, hit the rope post and stopped herself from falling by gripping it.

“Don't come closer.”

He halted. His gaze moved from her face to her forearm, then returned with such concentration that she glanced behind her to see whether somebody else stood there.

“Where did you get those marks?” he asked.

“I've always had them.”

“Your name.”

“Aya.”

Pell hurried forward. “Service register three hundred and seventeen, Highness. An irregular worker. I warned her about displaying—”

“I asked her.”

Pell closed his mouth.

Aya took the pay chit from her apron with her free hand. It shook, which annoyed her more than she had room for. “That's the number. I have a name.”

Riven did not look at the paper. Something in his expression had changed, and she could not decide whether he was ill or furious.

“You were there,” he said.

“At the laundry? Yes.”

“At the gate.”

“I came through the service gate this morning.”

The woman who had removed the pennant approached from the red dragon. “Riven. Your sword.”

He seemed to notice it then. He lowered the point, though he kept the weapon in his hand.

“Nessa, keep the court clear.”

“Children are clear. The dragons aren't attacking.”

Aya looked past him. Eight enormous heads rested close to the paving, riders standing beside slack reins. If this was a trick, it involved more creatures than she could imagine persuading with kitchen scraps.

“What do they want?” she asked.

Nessa studied the black dragon, then Aya. “I don't know yet.”

Riven said, “I know you.”

Aya's stomach tightened. She had endured that sentence from men outside taverns, though never with an imperial court watching. “I haven't met you.”

“You put a knife into me.”

His voice carried. Pell stepped away from her as if accusation might rub off on his waistcoat.

Aya looked at the sword again. “I have never stabbed anybody.”

“A different life.”

She heard a chair scrape on the dais. The empress had risen, one hand resting on the canopy post. Aya could not read her expression at that distance.

Nessa moved to Aya's side. She did it without touching her, leaving enough space for a choice about where to stand.

“This isn't a place for questions,” she said.

“Then let me finish my work,” Aya answered. “The kettle's under that table. Nobody should kick it.”

Riven looked toward the table, and for one moment his attention was on the thing she had actually done.

Then he turned to the guards at the arcade.

“Take her to the parade armory. No restraints. I will question her there.”

“I need that signed,” Aya said, holding out her wages.

No one took the paper. The guards came forward, and the black dragon lifted its head just enough to watch them.

Aya folded the chit along its old crease. She put it back in her apron before following Nessa toward the armory, because losing proof of what she was owed would not improve this day.