Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(127)

Beneath the statue hung a plaque with an inscription:

When he lived, he killed and lied,

This Saint who lies submerged.

The ages passed, the monster died;

I ripen, I emerge.



I could not read the name of the Saint; it was obscured by moss.

In the darkest corner of the shrine, so still he might have been a second statue, Abdo sat cross-legged, his hands upon his knees and his eyes closed. Someone—woodcutters? travelers?—had taken him for a meditating pilgrim and left him bread and a dish of fruit and a cup of water. I nearly wept with relief; I wished I had arms to embrace him with.

Of course, that would have disturbed him. Even my gazing at him might break his concentration. But what was he doing? Disconnecting himself? Could Jannoula move him when he was like this? He’d been moved here from Porphyry, somehow, but he wasn’t in the city with the others.

I recalled the vision-dream again. Maybe Abdo had found a way to show me he’d escaped. But could he move without drawing her attention? Could he stop concentrating long enough to eat that bread and fruit? Did he ever sleep?

I wished I could have checked on Pende, but I had unfastened his mind-fire from my garden.

I will find the way to help you, friend, I whispered, terrified of distracting him, but needing to let him know that I saw him.

I may have imagined it, but the corner of his mouth quirked slightly into the shadow of a smile.



If the sun was setting over the marshland north of the city, it was setting on our camp. It was high time I got out of bed. Kiggs and I would be heading out once the moon set. I stretched stiff limbs, emerged from the tent, and went in search of the prince. I could hear dracomachists training in a field, so I turned that way.

And stopped short. A dragon sat in the field, his scales rusty in the sunset. I had spent the last month among full-sized dragons, and still the sight of one so close to my home struck fear into my bones.

This one only feigned hostility, taking on the new dracomachists six at a time. He feinted right and dodged left, evading fighters’ bristling polearms, then spit fire—a small jet, nothing like what he could have done. Fighters cartwheeled out of the way, evading the burn. The dragon extended his wings and beat them furiously; it was hard to take off flat-footed, but there was no way for him to get a running start with so many sharp implements aimed at his chest. He couldn’t take off vertically, either: one crafty dracomachist had sneaked up and pinned down his tail.

The other dracomachists stood around the field, watching. Sir Joshua Pender, whom I’d first met as Sir Maurizio’s fellow squire, paced back and forth, lecturing on what they were seeing, the mistakes being made. Prince Lucian Kiggs and Sir Maurizio leaned against the low stone boundary of the field, talking quietly. I approached them.

“I’m not glad of this war—far from it,” Maurizio was saying, “but still I am deeply moved, watching this. I’ve practiced this art since I was a child, and I took it on faith that the moves had purpose and were worth preserving.” He shook his head, awed. “Until Solann volunteered, I’d never seen our dracomachia used against a real dragon. I feel vaguely bad about finding it so beautiful.”

I’d reached the wall. Kiggs turned to look at me. “Did you get some rest?”

“Not enough,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Did you know the Porphyrian ityasaari are here?”

His brows shot up. “I never saw them arrive. But does this mean … Jannoula succeeded in bringing all the half-dragons together?”

I thought “succeeded” was an uncharitable way of putting it, considering that I was the one who’d failed. I squinted against the sunset’s glare. “She dragged them here against their wills, but not quite all of them. She doesn’t have Abdo.”

Jannoula hadn’t brought Pandowdy in, either, now that I thought about it. Maybe she’d found him as repulsive as I had, or maybe she couldn’t move him. How was a limbless slug to get to Lavondaville under its own power?

Sir Maurizio was unbuckling a weapon from his waist; he wrapped the straps around the scabbard and handed the whole thing over to me. I drew the unassuming antler hilt, revealing a wickedly sharp dagger.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“Just in case,” said Maurizio, keeping his gaze affixed to the dracomachists in the distance. “I’m a military man, raised by knights since I was seven years old. I realize this tends to bias me toward a certain kind of solution, but I want you to have the option.”

“The option to kill her?” I asked, trying to hand the dagger back.

Sir Maurizio didn’t take it. He pointed up the meadow at a pair of dracomachists near the wall who were hitting each other with their fireproof gauntlets instead of listening to Sir Joshua’s lesson. “See those two?” said Sir Maurizio. “The tall one’s Bran; his brother’s farm was near our cave. The short one, Edgar, is really a lass. There are several female dracomachists here. We let them imagine they’ve fooled us; we can’t afford to turn able-bodied recruits away. Edgar is Sir Cuthberte’s grandniece, or some such. I’ve known her since she was a baby.”

I watched them horse around. They were no older than me.

“These are the people who will be dying,” said Maurizio quietly. “Make sure you weigh them on the scale of your considerations, won’t you? And keep your options open. That’s all I ask.”