Natalie Yacobson: Dragon’s Empire – 5. Society of Shadows

I paused, glanced at the disk of the moon high above the rooftops, and remembered Rose standing on the stage. How beautifully and well she had delivered her speech. Camille had written my speech in a way that would have suited him, as well as any of the magical creatures. There was no one in the streets; no one would have heard me, except some fairy wishing to oblige, but hiding in an alleyway for now. In a whisper, I repeated Camille’s poem, the stranger’s answer to the Marquise’s question, «Who are you?

And someone in the dark alleyway responded to my whisper with a muffled, understanding laugh. Only one bandit could greet another with such a meaningful laugh. I looked around, but saw no one.

I did not bother anyone in the palace. Why wake the king? He would be sure to talk me out of my dangerous undertakings, or offer his help. I ignored the door, used the second-floor window, sat down at the table in the king’s study, wrote a short letter to the king, and sealed it with the king’s seal. At least, that way it would be clear to everyone that only the heir could leave such a seal, but to make sure His Majesty did not confuse anything, I stuck a tiny imprint of my seal-ring, which the king had probably already noticed on my hand a long time ago. At any rate, it was better than the dragon’s claw print on the envelope.

I had to stop by the tailor’s shop, which was late special for the king’s successor. I ordered dresses for Rose there, and promised that I’d come pick them up some night. It was a strange order for a prince who was considered unmarried. The proprietor understood me in his own way and, just in case, introduced me to some pretty girls who were seamstresses. Who wouldn’t want their daughter or niece to be a minion? The dragon inside me laughed angrily, but I myself felt only embarrassed, and now I did not come for my things until nightfall, when the whole staff of workers was already asleep. The lamp in the window behind the curtains let me know that the owner himself was still awake.

I took the parcel and the motley hatbox, explained that I was in a hurry to see the lady, and was glad when the door closed behind me. At least the only person in all Viniena could confirm that I had a mistress waiting for me at night, and not a demon to whom I had sold my soul.

I should have hurried back to Rose, but I glanced at the moon, which had already moved in the sky to the left over the spires of the city, and remembered another scene from the play, the Marquise asking something about birth, youth, dawn, and the dragon in the form of a cavalier mysteriously answering and revealing my past in the words:

In Camille’s opinion, Sabrina could not believe such a frank confession. What could she think of an attractive young man but a pretender who had decided to play the demon for some reason? I could still hear her answer from Rose’s lips:

I shook my head, as if I were trying to clear my mind. I should hurry home, not read someone else’s poetry. Before Rose had opened my eyes to the fact that the author was talented I had found the play to be a very offensive piece of writing.

Feeling someone’s light breath on the back of my neck, I turned around. The figure leaning against the wall of the tailor’s shop seemed so familiar that I didn’t even wonder who it was.

«Since when do you dress up in dresses?» someone asked me with a sneer, though no one’s lips moved, and the words sounded as if only I could hear them. Even if a passerby had been around right now, he wouldn’t have heard anything.

«They’re for a girl,» I answered aloud, not thinking that if the observer hadn’t really asked me anything, he might find my words strange.

«Are they for a girl?» It was either an echo or a chuckle. «Do you mean to tell me that some girl who lives with you can live long enough to try it all on?»

The words came out, and again it was unclear whether they were spoken aloud or only intruded into my consciousness.

«Come!» I commanded, not out loud, but mentally, so that no living creature could resist the order, but the figure did not emerge from the darkness, but instead dove deeper into it and disappeared around the corner of the house.

I could see no one in the murky alley, but I was somehow certain that someone was beckoning me to follow. It was awkward to run after someone with the boxes in my hands, so I put them by the base of some building, figuring I’d come back for them later. Even if someone were to pass by, they would not notice the rolls of dresses or the motley hat-cards. Outsiders could not see what no longer belonged to their world, but to me, just as passersby could not see the house I had bought in Lara, though they knew it was not torn down, but stood somewhere nearby in tantalizing proximity to them.

Who to follow if I could hear no footsteps or anyone’s panting breaths and exhalations nearby, and they must have been, considering that someone was running away from me with the speed of an arrow fired. No one’s footprints could have been left on the uneven paving stones, but I was walking like a treaded path. If I had called someone after me, even my soles would have left a deep trail of fire on the cobblestones. No one might have called me this time. Maybe it was just a faint premonition of danger, the kind that sometimes arises only in clairvoyants, somewhere in the strong, wired net of various dragon instincts.

I didn’t have to choose my direction; my feet led me to the square, to the very spot where I’d picked up Sylvia’s dead head. Was it dead? The clear and obvious question in my brain would have alarmed anyone. What if, even severed from her body, it was still alive, and when I took it out of the cambric wrap that replaced the shroud, her dead lips would move slightly to warn me of something.

There was only one tarred torch burning in the square, a tiny orange with a red core, visible from afar. There was a foul, stinking smoke from the flame, but it was beyond anyone’s sense of smell, for there was nothing around, and the torch itself seemed to be hanging in the air above the scaffold, without a stand or holder. Was the square empty? No, it only seemed so. The human eye could not distinguish what I saw, a mass of dark, graceful silhouettes exquisitely draped in black velvet and moiré. There were only shadows, indistinguishable in the darkness. Only the light at the center of the pandemonium of shadows was discernible, and the blessed night sheltered everyone else, even the torch-bearer who had brazenly climbed onto the platform. Night was their favorite time.

At first I watched them, leaning against the facade of the palace, with its dark windows overlooking the square. In contrast to them the dapper green tones of my clothes and the bright emerald folds of my cloak in pleasant contrast to the gold of my hair immediately attracted attention even at a distance, but I remained long unnoticed by any of the society of shadows. They were too engrossed in what the torch-bearer, Charlo, was saying to them. Or rather, he wasn’t speaking at full voice, but addressing the crowd in a hissing, almost inaudible to the human ear, but I could hear him and his companions all right.