Page 72 of The Flame King's Queen

“Here’s one I was working on earlier. It’s not very good, and I’m sorry it’s not much of a wedding present for you and your husband. I won’t finish it if you don’t like it.”

In his hands, he cradles a wooden sculpture the size of two of Zabriel’s fists.

“It’s our dragons,” I exclaim. “It’s Scourge and Esmeral. How did you capture them so perfectly?” Scourge has his wings curved protectively around Esmeral. She’s stretching up to press her head lovingly against Scourge’s jaw. The Maledinni don’t speak about being “in love,” but if they did, they would say that this carving depicts two dragons in love.

The carving isn’t finished yet, but he’s already begun to carefully etch their scales and refine their pointed teeth.

“Do you like it?” Dad asks uncertainly.

“It’s wonderful. Zabriel will love it too. It looks just like them.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’ve spent all the Dragon Games studying them so I get their looks just right.”

I grow misty-eyed looking at them, and thinking about Dad returning to Amriste by himself. “Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?”

Dad pats my hair. “Don’t cry over your old dad being all alone in that cottage. I have a whole village to look after me, and I will look after them. I want people around me who have known me all my life. If I lived anywhere else, then I would be truly alone.”

22

Zabriel

Competition days are some of the most rewarding I’ve had since becoming King of Maledin. It makes me indescribably happy to see the people and my fellow dragonriders enjoying themselves. Isavelle has taken a relaxed step back from the events now that she feels she’s proven herself, and now she’s just enjoying being the guest of honor as a proud and beloved spectator. Though she and Esmeral don’t compete, many people in the crowd still wave their colors.

After five events, Stesha and I are leading the board, with Sundra not far behind. The wild dragons are still in the competition, which surprises me. I thought they would have eaten their riders by now. Rhan, in particular, does well on Ragdyn.

As we near the final events, I can feel rivalry crackling between myself and the dragonmaster. Exchanges and compliments such as “Good skies to you,Ma’len,” and “Nilak flew beautifully,” are spoken automatically as we fiercely assess each other and the state of our mounts. Dragons can sometime lose energy or determination if they are in front of noisy crowds day after day. Pavel’s dragon, Lethis, isn’t enjoying all the cheering, and Auryn seems more and more irritated by all the flapping banners, but Scourge shows no strain and neither does Nilak.

Unlike many of the others, our dragons seem to thrive on all the attention, Scourge with stoic pride and Nilak with the haughtiness of a dragon finally receiving the adulation she feels she deserves. Her head is lifted proudly, her best talons are forward. She gleams from her snout to the tip of her tail. I wonder if the dragonmaster gets any sleep between polishing her scales. Scourge won’t let me touch his scales with a polishing cloth, and black doesn’t show the dirt much anyway, so I mostly spend my nervous energy between events pacing around the castle.

As I make my rounds of the various courtyards and lonely corridors late one afternoon, I realize eventually that I’m not alone. It’s not unusual to pass soldiers or castle workers, but I have the strange feeling that the same person has been watching me for the past hour. It’s a woman, and she’s standing in shadow with her hands clasped demurely in front of her. She has draped a thin, gauzy veil over her features that falls all the way to her knees. Her clothes are very fine, or at least they once were. They’re embroidered with gold thread but seem faded and slightly crumpled. I wonder if she’s a visiting noble who wishes to speak with me but she’s nervous to approach the king.

“My lady, if you wish to speak with me, you may step forward. Or are you lost?” I call to her.

She gazes at me in silence, or at least I think she does because I can’t make out her eyes through that gauze and the shadows. There’s something both familiar and ominous about her, and as she continues to stare at me, a shiver goes down my spine.

I approach her warily. “Do I know you? Who are you?”

The woman turns slowly and walks away, her clothing rustling like dead leaves. I should continue on my way and tell the guards to look out for a woman acting strangely within the castle. At the door into the corridor, she glances over her shoulder at me. There’s something odd about her silhouette through that veil. It’s entirely too gaunt, and her figure is painfully thin and fragile, but somehow still maddeningly familiar.

I approach her, peering through the gloom for a clearer look at her. “Who are you?”

“Zabriel,” she whispers, and her voice is dry and scratchy. Slowly, one of her hands appears from beneath the veil and reaches for me. A skeletal hand.

I feel my stomach vanish from my abdomen. I can’t move a muscle as that bony white hand slowly approaches my face.

“You let me die, Zabriel,” she whispers.

These are her clothes. It’s her sweet voice that is whispering to me from a dry, ravaged throat. “Mother?”

Her bony hand touches my cheek, and she feels as though she’s made of ice. “I died, and you forgot me. You have all forgotten me. You abandoned me even before I was dead.”

My chest feels tight with grief and guilt. The former queen puts her bony hands around my throat and starts to squeeze. Her sharp, icy bones cut into my flesh, and my windpipe feels as though it’s being crushed.

I seize her wrist and try to pull her off me, but her strength is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

“Help me, Zabriel. Help me,” she cries, as if she is the one being choked and not me. Green light burns in her empty eye sockets.

“You’re not real. Emmeric made you,” I choke out.

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