Circle of Shadows (Circle of Shadows, #1)(64)
And because the residents of Tiger’s Belly avoided him, Daemon made quick progress to the grain silos. They bordered the edge of town and the farmland, rising like a forest of cylindrical towers from the ground. Amazingly, the silos were largely untouched by the ryuu. Perhaps because they didn’t think taigas would be hiding inside.
The Society’s local command post, however, was a different matter. It was a manor made of black stone, large enough to house the majority of the taigas who were stationed in this region, although there were probably some smaller safe houses farther out in the country for warriors when they were on rotation there. The manor had probably been impressive a few hours ago, but now its black rice paper windows were blown out from the force of ryuu-controlled wind, and the wooden roof had been torn off unceremoniously, like a toupee ripped rudely off a gentleman’s head. Daemon winced at the humiliation of the once grand building.
But this was not why he was here. Even though all the taiga warriors were gone, their dragonfly messengers were hopefully still alive. If they were, Daemon could send a missive to the Citadel to let them know what had happened and where the Dragon Prince planned to hit next.
Daemon stepped through the space where the front door had been, careful to tiptoe around the debris. He was 99 percent sure the ryuu were gone, but he’d be quiet, just in case.
He slipped through the entryway. Upstairs and in the back of the manor, there would be living quarters, but here on the ground floor, Daemon passed by meeting rooms where the sliding doors had been torn off their tracks, meditation spaces with the reed mats wrenched from the floors, and a dining room where the tables had splintered when they were hurled against the walls.
Finally, he found the communications office. There ought to have been terrariums full of dragonflies here, trained to deliver taiga messages throughout the kingdom. This was how the command posts throughout Kichona communicated with the Citadel every morning, and vice versa.
Unfortunately, the ryuu were not stupid. As with the previous posts, all the terrarium tanks before Daemon lay in pieces on the floor, the glass slivers interspersed with charred dragonfly bodies.
“Daggers,” he swore. Had it really been necessary to incinerate helpless insects? He growled under his breath. Growing up with wolves meant he was particularly sensitive to the treatment of animals, dragonflies included. Daemon kicked at the lone desk in the room, throwing quiet caution out the window. There was nothing here but destruction anyway.
He let out a long, frustrated exhale. He was trying his best, yet it still wasn’t enough.
Daemon couldn’t stay in the communications office. Not with the dragonfly corpses all over the floor. He stormed out into the hall.
But now what? How would he get in touch with the Citadel? It would take too long to find a horse and ride it all the way back to the capital. By then Prince Gin would have taken at least another target or two, and the size of his army would near the critical mass needed to overwhelm the Society.
If only a single dragonfly had survived.
“I’m an idiot!” Daemon tore through the manor and into the kitchen. Broomstick had told him a while ago that there were always backup dragonflies kept in a separate location at every post, in case disease or heat stroke or something else happened to the squadron in the communications office. It was not common knowledge—only those who worked on receiving and dispatching messages knew—but a small contingent of dragonflies were kept in a frozen, suspended state inside a special icebox in the kitchen.
Daemon threw himself into the walk-in icebox. His teeth chattered within seconds, but he methodically searched each shelf and drawer. There were hunks of frozen beef still in crates. Tubs of peach ice cream, probably made from fresh fruit and milk from Tiger’s Belly farms. And giant, frost-dusted blocks of ice. But no dragonflies.
The hair on his arms now frozen stiff, Daemon stumbled out of the icebox. He paused for a moment to allow himself to warm a little.
Then he tackled the shelves of pots and pans, tossing each one aside with a clang when he found nothing there. Next, the cabinets full of plates and bowls, which he only sort of tried not to break in his hurry. Then he dug headlong into the pantry of dry goods, leaving clouds of flour and slashed bags of rice in his wake.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there isn’t a backup set of messengers.
Daemon leaned against a workstation in the center of the kitchen, the weight of the day pressing against the countertop.
It gave way behind him. He jumped up, away from the workstation.
Part of the countertop had unlatched and slid open to reveal a secret compartment inside.
Ice. And a small crystal box.
Daemon whooped and pumped his fist. Then he lifted the box carefully out of its frozen chamber and took off the lid.
Wisps of cold floated out. They evaporated and revealed six dragonflies lying on beds of blue satin edged in gold, small soldiers honoring Kichona’s colors even in slumber.
As the warmth of the room thawed the dragonflies, their tiny legs began to wiggle. Their wings fluttered, rasping against the satin.
Daemon smiled at them as he carried the crystal box back to the communications office. He hated to go in there again, but he needed the miniature scrolls and needle-tipped pens that the taiga dispatchers used to compose messages small enough for the dragonflies to carry.
When he arrived, he set the box down on the desk and quickly found the supplies he needed in the top drawer. He secured the miniature scroll onto a board with fasteners designed to hold its corners down. At the edge of the desk, a magnifying glass on a long brass arm stood waiting to be called to action; Daemon extended it so it was positioned directly above the scroll. Then he began to write with the dispatcher’s pen. It was no easy task. Dispatchers needed not only impeccable penmanship but also a steady, detailed hand, for each letter was no bigger than half a millimeter.