Especially not when I know better.
He wants to stop the deportation and take the throne, but the Prix de Guerre is only part of the show. It is Le Trépas pulling all the strings. And Le Trépas was last seen at the plantations.
I gaze up at the moon. The night is young; there are hours before dawn. And while Nokhor Khat is half a day away by air, the plantations are much closer. With any luck, I could be back before the champagne runs out.
Galvanized, I set off into the night—this time, away from the party. Passing through the village, I come to the paddies. The souls of frogs leap into the water as I cross the berms. In the shadows, it is hard to tell exactly where Fontaine died; the shadows hide the gore, and the mud has flowed back over the scar of the blast. But I can still smell it—the gunpowder. The blood.
“Come,” I whisper, and out of the dark water, the bony head of my dragon rises.
I keep an eye on the distant village, but no one notices us out in the field. I climb up on her back, wrapping my hands around the bones of her neck as we slip away into the night.
Chapter Three
Applause will always be my favorite feeling, but these days, flying is a close second. It isn’t just the wind in my hair or the thrill of speed, but the way Chakrana unrolls below me. The velvet jungle, the silver thread of the river, the souls glittering across all of it—the fabric of the landscape is a sequined gown on the lush body of my country. I wish others could see her as I do now.
But amid the gleam of soullight, I keep an eye out for a lightless void, for a patch of darkness. For Le Trépas. I can’t shake the thought I’ll catch sight of him with every passing bend in the river.
Traveling south, the jungle gives way to plantation estates as we pass into Le Sucrier—the rich fields around the Riv Syr that the Aquitans claimed for sugar. From the air, I can still see the outlines of the berms that used to divide the fields into paddies when rice was planted here. Now, cane stands like soldiers, stiff and stately and tall enough to harvest.
The Audrinnes’ house is easy to spot from a distance. Outside the famed architecture of Nokhor Khat or the woven banyan temple of the Maiden, it’s the grandest building I’ve seen. The pale structure sits at the end of a long drive flanked by mimosa trees, lined with columns and archways over a wide veranda and fronted with a curved cul-de-sac. On the nights the Audrinnes hosted our shadow plays, fine families from nearby estates would pull up in stately carriages, spilling out onto the steps, and the air would buzz with laughter and anticipation.
Of course, I was more familiar with the servants’ entrance at the back. We would make our way through the bustle of the kitchens, carrying our fantouches and our instruments unseen to the stage in the great room. Now the house is quiet, the only movement the wind in the grass and the souls drifting by. I am so used to their light that it takes me a moment to realize the lamps in the great room are burning.
Instantly I crouch over the dragon’s neck, as though to hide. Foolish—as if anyone watching wouldn’t notice the dragon herself, silhouetted against the moon. But as we pass over the house, nothing stirs except the dead.
Then who lit the lamps? Could the Audrinnes have been spared? Somehow I doubt it. Their estate is by far the largest in the area, and very hard to miss. I circle one more time, trying to get a better view—or to see if there are corpses in the fields. But the sugar could easily hide a body, even if it was standing upright.
I am banking for another pass when I see the horses. They stand on the wide drive: two matched mares, pale as cream. Monsieur Audrinne had them shipped all the way from Aquitan to pull his wife’s carriage. Now they wander free to roam—or to be eaten by an enterprising tiger. There is no way Madame would let them loose. Not if she was still alive.
The horses flee as we drop lower, their white tails streaming like flags of surrender. The servants’ entry is closest, but I steer my dragon toward the curved driveway at the front of the house.
In a clatter of bones, the creature lands, long claws gouging clods from the packed dirt. I throw my leg over her ridged back and slide to the ground. My dragon sniffs the air—or pretends to. After all, there is no flesh on her hollow skull, no lungs in the sinuous cage of her ribs. But her soul contains her memory, her habits . . . her instinct. As she lowers her head, she shifts on her claws, uneasy. I scan the estate, but there is no movement aside from the wind in the leaves and the clouds gliding across the stars. “Shh,” I murmur to the dragon. “Stay.”
At my command, she hunkers down as though to hide, this great beast with bones that gleam in the silver starlight. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised she is nervous, out here in the open. But as far as I can see, we are alone except for the souls and the horses.
I start toward the wide stairs. There used to be a Chakran porter stationed at the heavy mahogany doors, to welcome Madame’s guests to the show. Tonight the doors are shut tight, and the polished wood is marred by paint. No . . . blood. It drips, thick and clotted, across the paneled wood, in a
