Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(103)

“He’s been training you to unhook her. Can you help him?”

“I don’t know!” cried Camba, on the verge of tears. “I overthink everything, apparently. Anyway, you could unhook him, if only you would.”

“Wh-what?” I said.

“Pende said you have more natural ability than I do, but you’ve tied your powers up and won’t release them.”

Heat rose in my chest. “You think I could unhook everyone but just … won’t?”

Camba shook her head in frustration, her golden earrings jingling incongruously. “Of course not. But surely if you bound yourself, you can unbind yourself.”

I wished I could, I suddenly realized. I’d imprisoned my own mind-fire in a rapidly shrinking garden; it felt more constraining every time I visited. Alas, I had no idea how to dismantle it.

I exhaled slowly, grasping at straws in my mind. “My uncle Orma is the one who taught me to keep myself contained. I leave tonight to look for him; he may have some insight into how to undo it.” Assuming Orma still knew who I was. Saints’ dogs. “I’ll work on my own, too,” I added. “I’ll find the way to unbind myself.”

It was all bravado; I didn’t even know where to begin.

Camba nodded curtly. “You must hurry. Pende taught us meditations and tricks for resisting her. I can be a bulwark for the others—maybe I can unhook a few—but I don’t know how long we’ll last, especially if Jannoula has all of Paulos Pende’s education and ability at her disposal. She may be capable of much more than before.”

I glumly followed Camba back through the temple. Abdo was in the sanctuary, arms folded, gazing up at the statue of Great Chakhon. He turned at our approach, an unexpected spark of determination in his eyes. I did this, he said. I’ve got to fix it.

I knew just how he felt.



Naia took Abdo home. I lingered behind to speak with Camba, but there was little left to say. She promised to give Ingar my regards, and then she disappeared into the Zokalaa crowds, a tall figure in saffron silk.

With a heavy heart, I turned toward the harbor; I needed to fetch my things and meet Comonot and the exiles in Metasaari at sundown. Someone was shouting from the steps of the Vasilikon as I passed. I slowed, trying to see what was happening, and spied a familiar, awkward, skinny girl: Brisi, Ikat’s daughter. Four other younger-looking individuals stood with her in the shade of the pronaia, possibly more children of exiled saarantrai.

Brisi flapped her arms dramatically. “Citizens of Porphyry, I have words for you!”

A crowd began to accumulate; I maneuvered nearer, scanning for saar faces I recognized, finding none. Were these hatchlings here alone?

Brisi wore an open-fronted robe tied with a sash, the sort of thing Porphyrians wore to the baths. Behind her, her comrades began removing their tunics and trousers. The whole crowd stared, but no one made a move to stop them.

“My Porphyrian family, you need to know what is happening!” cried Brisi. “As we speak, the heads of the great houses are plotting to send the exiles back to the Tanamoot. Some of us have lived here three hundred years. We are your friends and neighbors, your co-workers and business partners. We are a worthy part of this city, and we’ve worked hard to earn our place. Don’t let them send us away!”

The crowd around me began to murmur incredulously. I couldn’t tell whether they believed Brisi or not. Of course, after this evening everyone would know that most of the exiles had gone.

“Furthermore,” Brisi cried, “we find ourselves suddenly in conflict with the Samsamese. Look how they have blocked our harbor. Are we going to permit this?”

The murmur changed flavor almost at once, but not the way a Goreddi crowd’s would have. In Goredd, we would have been immediately incensed at the idea of the Samsamese getting away with it. The Porphyrians, however, sounded more cautious.

“The Assembly has decided to wait it out,” someone called.

“Our navy is more than a match for them, if we need to engage!” cried someone else. The crowd nodded assent.

“Our navy,” scoffed Brisi, which was the wrong tone to take. Around me, people began to leave. “They can handle the Samsamese,” said the young saarantras quickly, “but why should they? Why should any of our people die when we have draconian resources at our disposal, an ard under our very noses, unappreciated and unutilized?”

The crowd went silent. She couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like, I thought.

Brisi untied her robe and cast it from her, and the crowd gasped. This dragon girl, tall as an adult, still had the body of a child. Brisi threw back her head and let herself unfold, neck elongating, smooth skin curdling, wings expanding, muscles roiling along her bones. The other hatchlings followed suit, like emerging moths. A wave of sulfuric wind blasted the crowd back a few steps, but the Porphyrians did not flee.

“You will return to your saarantrai this instant!” shouted a man in soft-mouth Mootya from the back of the crowd. Saar Lalo was shoving his way forward, toward the hatchlings. “You haven’t thought this through!”

I had never seen such large young dragons. Fine-boned, almost bird-like, they were full-sized. Lalo in his man-shape came up only to Brisi’s shoulder. She lowered her head, eye to eye with Lalo, and screeched in his face: “This is our city! We won’t leave. We intend to help our people.”