Kyros Valen's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

Kyros stood at his window after dark and studied the road to the mill. Torches burned at the tavern. A dog barked near the well. The dragon slept in his coat pocket, warm against his ribs. He had to move her tonight, but any drunk on the lane would see a lump squirming under his coat and want a closer look. The mask he had built for two winters would not survive a closer look. He thought about a cart. A cart meant a rented mule and a witness at the stable. He thought about the river path. The river path passed the washerwomen's shed, and they worked late. Every route he pictured ended with someone's lantern swinging toward his chest. He took the dragon out and set her on the table. She stretched her wings and chirped. He put a finger to her snout. "Quiet," he whispered. "Please." She licked his knuckle. He pulled a crate from under his bed. Inside was a child's toy he had bought last month for a plan he had not finished thinking through: a model of a crystal palace, teal and lavender, the size of a lantern, sold at the market as a novelty for rich children. The facets glowed faintly on their own. He had bought it because the glow could hide a shape inside it, and because no one in this town would question the cruel offworlder carrying an ugly, expensive trinket home. He pried the base loose with his knife. The inside was hollow. He lined it with a scrap of wool from his sleeve. He lifted the dragon and lowered her in. She fit. She curled around a lavender spire and blinked up at him through the crystal. From outside, the glow of the walls swallowed her outline. She looked like a shadow inside a lamp. "Don't hum," he said. "Not one sound until I open this." He walked out with the palace held at arm's length, like a man carrying something he despised. On the tavern step, two men turned to look. He met their eyes and sneered. "A gift," he said. "For a woman who won't get it." One man laughed. The other spat. They went back to their cups. No one followed him past the last house. The road to the mill opened dark and empty ahead of him. The dragon stayed silent inside the glow. He reached the cellar door and went down the steps. He set the palace on the dirt floor beside the half-finished lamps. He opened the base. The dragon climbed out onto his palm and pushed her head under his jaw. He had moved her. She was here. But the cellar was still bare wood and cold stone, and the woman in the green shawl knew his face, and now a toy that glowed on its own sat in a room that was supposed to be secret.