A Dragonbird in the Fern Read online

  A Dragonbird in the Fern © 2021 by Laura Rueckert. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition

  First Printing, 2021

  Book design by Jake Nordby

  Cover design by Sarah Taplin

  Cover images by lady-luck/Shutterstock

  Flux, an imprint of North Star Editions, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (pending)

  978-1-63583-065-1

  Flux

  North Star Editions, Inc.

  2297 Waters Drive

  Mendota Heights, MN 55120

  www.fluxnow.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my mom, who believed when I didn’t.

  Chapter 1

  My shoulders stretched the silk of my split-skirted zintella dress as I wrenched myself up to the highest branch that would still carry my weight. A mother dragonbird in the

  rainbow-colored nest above cawed and flapped her wings in an attempt to drive me away. If only one of her feathers would flutter down to me. I stilled, waiting until the long-tailed, kitten-

  sized bird stopped panicking. But time was running out. I’d need to get the feather straight from the nest.

  The iridescent blue and green bird dove down at my face then hovered, battering me with its wings. I couldn’t risk injuring her or the ritual wouldn’t work. My sister had been murdered nearly three months ago, but already she was making her presence—and her anger—known. The Servants of the gods said successfully completing the ritual wouldn’t drive Scilla’s ghost away, but it could lessen her power . . . at least for a time.

  With every day that passed, her humanity receded further. Two days ago, while paying our respects at the memorial stone, my older brother Llandro and I had both yelped from the sudden jagged scratches on our arms. A scratch was harmless for now. But we all knew the stories, knew it wouldn’t remain that way. Hopefully, completing the ritual would give Father time to release Scilla from her anger, release her from this world. And keep the rest of us from permanent damage—or worse.

  But only if I did my part first. I curled into the tree trunk, pressing my lips together to avoid a mouthful of feathers. As gently as possible, I brushed the dragonbird away, and she landed just out of reach.

  “I won’t hurt you or your babies. I promise,” I muttered as she hopped frantically along a thick twig.

  I didn’t quite trust the branch not to splinter below me, so I circled the trunk with one arm and groped up into the overly large, prickly nest above my head, praying for the sensation of one of those long, beautiful feathers against my fingertips.

  Dry grass . . . twigs . . . fluffy down. That wouldn’t do. The mother bird screeched at me. One egg, then two. A silky length! My heart sang even as my arm muscles cried out. I plucked the feather from the nest and hugged the trunk with both arms, subjecting my eyes to the danger of the dragonbird’s beak for only a blink. One brilliant, clean feather.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. Now we had a chance.

  I made my way down the tree faster than I should have, skidding my palms along the bark when the dragonbird shrieked and dive-bombed me. My satchel waited at the base of the tree with the other components meant to persuade the gods to shield our family from an earthwalker’s deadly rage. Scilla’s ghost hadn’t done much more than make her presence clear so far. But even children knew that peace wouldn’t last long.

  Carefully, I set the feather into the bag and trudged up the hill to the memorial field. Neat rows of stones, one for each of our ancestors, stood here, smoothed by centuries of winds off the ocean. I rounded the field to stand before the only stone that was new and sharply chiseled: my sister Scilla’s. I clasped my hands, brought them to my heart, and moved them up to the sky in the Commitment to the gods. “My heart in your hands.”

  The collections of shells were still more or less neatly stacked on top of Scilla’s memorial stone. The stack created by my little brother Zito was more of a loose pile. Despite the passage of time since we’d stood on the aft deck of the royal scritarra at sundown and returned Scilla to the sea, Gio, the wind god, hadn’t managed to knock over our offerings to ease her spirit.

  A salty breeze rose up the hill from the bay. A pod of dolphins swam, cresting two at a time. I wished I were in the water now, the waves rocking me like when Scilla and I had learned to swim as small children. The wind blew again, weakly, and the sweat from my climb began to dry. But here in the memorial field, the gentle breeze couldn’t hide Scilla’s presence from me. A brush against my hand, a whisper against my neck. Back and forth. Pacing, restless. We needed protection before her power and anger grew.

  One by one, I removed the objects from the satchel. First, the pearl my oldest brother Llandro had wrested from the sea. That was for the god of water. Next, the cup of dirt Father had brought back from the site of Scilla’s murder, for the goddess of earth. Mother had clipped the crisp yellow flowers that followed the sun with their heads for the sun goddess. Finally, I retrieved my part of the appeasement: the dragonbird feather for Gio, god of winds. Feathers from other birds were easier to come by, but Scilla would know how special the dragonbird feather was and that it was from me. I prayed it would make a difference.

  I placed the objects at the base of the memorial stone, lined up in the order of power each god possessed: the pearl; the bundle of flowers; the feather, stabbed into the earth so it wouldn’t blow away; the cup of dirt. I bowed my head.

  Please help Scilla. Please slow the darkness engulfing her heart. Give us time to find her murderer.

  As the Queen of Azzaria, Mother was busy governing, with Llandro by her side like always, learning all he could for the day when he would become King. Father’s first priority was the investigation into Scilla’s death, so I’d volunteered to make the offering. The rest of the family would arrive later to pray. For now, my lone requests felt so pitiful, so weak. If only someone could do more. Even the gods had limits when murder touched a person’s heart.

  Scilla’s impatience weighed down the air around me. Her questions from beyond were shivers on my neck. Why hadn’t we figured out who her killer was yet? Why hadn’t we brought them to justice?

  I imagined her imploring, Do something, Jiara. Save me from an afterlife as an earthwalker.

  With one finger, I brushed back a few stray strands of my hair Gio had begun to play with. There was no time for games. Not now. Not when a murderer was on the loose.

  Until now, Scilla’s spirit had remained with her memorial stone on the hill. It wouldn’t be long before her demand for answers grew and she invaded the town or the palace, haunting Mother and Father and Llandro and me, and someday, when Scilla had lost the remaining traces of humanity, even little Zito. Father and Llandro had stopped visiting the memorial stone with Llandro’s first scratch. Perhaps they were hoping she’d forget them. They’d come to pray later today as part of the ritual, but after that . . . some people said it was better to stay away, to avoid drawing the attention of a ghost.

  What must it be like for an earthwalker? Trapped in our world but separate from us, loneliness, anger, and helplessness filling their hearts until they had
no choice but to lash out, hurting those they loved?

  “Jiara!” called a voice from down the hill. Between the memorial field’s rustling palm trees and the bustling city with its almost two hundred canals far beyond, a short, wiry boy raised both arms above his head and waved.

  I stood, brushed loose blades of grass and tiny chips of bark from my zintella dress, and waved back. “Be nice to him, Scilla,” I murmured, turning to the light tickle on my left arm. “Don’t forget. He’s still young.”

  Everyone said you couldn’t reason with an earthwalker, that even trying just focused their attention further, but how could I not talk to her? She was my sister. Just because she died, it didn’t mean I stopped loving her.

  Zito was the surprise baby, an unexpected gift from the gods, and ten years younger than the next youngest—me at seventeen. He bounded up the steep slope as fast as he could. His grin slipped from his face, and his hands moved in the Commitment as he stared at Scilla’s memorial. Out of breath, he huffed, “May you dwell in peace, Scilla.” He glanced down at the treasures near the base of the stone and whispered the names of the gods. “My heart in your hands. Please help Scilla.”

  I nodded at him. My throat tightened as the tickle moved to my neck, but Zito turned to me as if he hadn’t felt anything. “Jiara.” He huffed again. “The Bone Eaters are here.”

  “Zito!” He wasn’t supposed to use the somewhat offensive term for the Farnskagers, potential allies to the north. At least no one was around to hear the mild insult, and due to distance and lack of trade, hardly any of them spoke our language. But I shook my head because he must have heard wrong. “They aren’t expected for another two weeks.”

  Zito held both hands over his head, shaking an imaginary staff or spear, like the Farnskagers did when they were trying to impress their enemies with a war cry. He opened his mouth and waggled his tongue in what was supposed to be an intimidating growl. Despite the sanctity of the memorial field, his bright eyes were so silly a little laugh escaped my lips.

  “Mother said they read the date wrong.” His face had sobered, but now his tongue was outstretched again, and I shook my head.

  How could the Farnskagers read the date wrong? The trip here took two weeks by carriage. Wouldn’t they be especially careful to time it correctly? Especially when the visit involved their monarch?

  As eldest princess of Azzaria, Scilla had been engaged to Raffar, the Farnskager king. Paying his respects was an obligation he couldn’t avoid. But he should have waited until the date specified in Mother’s missive, until the Time of Tears was over for us. This was Scilla’s time to dissolve her bindings to us and to move on to the afterlife. It was also our three months to mourn. Only now, toward the end, were we supposed to begin bringing ourselves back to thoughts of our normal lives, to begin thinking of how to let go. The king was here too soon.

  For Zito’s benefit, I tried to shake off the weight of my sorrow. I snatched at his still outstretched tongue.

  “Hey!” he yelled with a laugh, stumbling backward between Scilla’s and Grandfather’s memorial stones.

  “Where are the Farnskagers now?” I asked.

  “Resting in the east wing.”

  I nodded. Father would have had the rooms readied immediately. But Zito had hiked up here to the memorial field for a reason. “And?”

  “Mother wishes to speak with you,” Zito said, his words muffled by grubby hands protecting his tongue from my fingers.

  Especially with foreign guests here, as the ruling monarch, Mother would be busy. I couldn’t leave her waiting. I dropped a hand to Zito’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  With a last glance at the memorial stone and our offerings to the gods, I followed my little brother as he scampered down the hill as fast as he could, his arms flailing in the air. My eyes turned from the crowded city and its bustling canals to the tranquil, sparkling bay. Considering the appearance of the foreign delegation, it would probably be the last calm any of us would have for weeks.

  Goodbye for now, Scilla. We’ll find your killer, and you’ll have eternal peace.

  I promise.

  __________

  Queen Ginevora of Azzaria, the ruling monarch and my mother, sat at the ornate desk in her office. Her hands lay flat on the polished mahogany desktop where countless contracts had been signed and sealed. Where laws had been written. Where criminals had been condemned or pardoned.

  Mother’s eyelids were closed, like they always were when she meditated on difficult decisions, so I watched her for a few seconds. Her hair was still shiny black, twisted in the complicated, elegant hairstyle of a married monarch. Under one of her fanciest embroidered sapphire gowns, worn only for special occasions, her frame was strong and her heart healthy. It would be a long time before Llandro, her eldest child, would need to take control of the country.

  Mother inhaled a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Jiara.” Her smile for me fled far too quickly, and her gaze moved strangely, hesitantly to the floor.

  “What is it, Mother?” I asked. “Is there a problem with our guests?”

  She shook her head and motioned me to the desk. “Your father had someone take care of their elephant birds and had their luggage brought in. They’re resting from the journey.”

  Resting. An image, like one out of my dreams: Raffar, the young Farnskager king, only a couple of years older than me, lying on his back in a verdant field, his eyes closed, his tattoos waiting to be traced by my fingers.

  Mother clasped her hands together with a quiet clap, stopping my wicked thoughts. “We must talk about your future.”

  Nodding, I exhaled and perched on the edge of her desk like thousands of times before. My future was clear and meaningful. In a few months, when I turned eighteen and was of proper marrying age, I’d be officially engaged to Duke Marro Berdonando Riccardi from Flissina, up near the northern border. With the Loftarians, our biggest enemies, only fifty miles away from Flissina, it was important that Mother strengthen our ties to the northern people and show them how important they were for our nation. Only last week, there’d been an attack—six dead. I’d be far enough from the violence to be safe and close enough to support those affected by the contested border. Mother would deal with our enemies, and I’d make sure our people knew they hadn’t been left alone.

  As for Marro, my future husband, he was . . . acceptable. Whenever he visited, he had a book in his hands. He answered questions politely when I asked, but never pestered for my attention like some others who sought to ingratiate themselves with the ruling family. Mother and Father expected me to be nervous, but Marro was a good man. Even my best friend Pia said so, and she took a long time to trust people. Marro’d probably never be the type to paddle the northern rivers and lakes with me or to hike through the forest to reach our remotest villages, like I dreamed of doing. But he’d surely support me in my efforts to improve morale and gather whatever messages or worries needed to be sent to the queen.

  Muffled footsteps rushed past the outside of the office, and I stowed my daydreams in the back of my mind. Instead of launching into her thoughts, Mother remained quiet, her gaze on the polished dark wood floor. Her brow furrowed, and my heart constricted. Something wasn’t right.

  “Did something happen to Marro?” I asked. His palace was nowhere near where the border skirmishes usually took place, but . . .

  Mother raised a hand. “Marro is fine. But it seems he should not be your husband after all.”

  My mouth opened, as if words should come out. But what could I say? Marro was . . . pleasant. But that was all.

  “I’m not going to Flissina?”

  “No.”

  I waited for some kind of emotional reaction from within myself, but I must have used it all up on Scilla. More than anything, I’d miss the idea of hours on the water, rainbow-colored birds preening in the trees and the locals showing me their villages and homes.

  Mother caught my eye and smiled at me, trust shining in her eyes. She must
need me elsewhere even more than in the north. I knew my duty. And I knew my parents would never subject me to a future in agony, married to a man who’d mistreat me.

  “What is it?”

  “You know how dangerous the Loftarians are to our northern towns, and especially the eastern coast.”

  I nodded, but it still made no sense. If she spoke of Loftaria, Marro would still be the perfect choice. Unless—

  No. Mother couldn’t want me to marry a Loftarian. They’d been attacking us for decades. Or had she begun peace talks in secret? Was she considering giving up one of our provinces after all, as they demanded? If they had direct access to the coast, they’d leave us alone. But what would happen to the people who lived on the land we’d have to sacrifice?

  And how could I survive life in Loftaria when I didn’t know the language? My vocal cords were paralyzed.

  Mother steepled her fingers as she watched me. “Our planned alliance with the Farnskagers was not only important for Azzaria’s defense, but also for port usage, fishing, and trading. They’re eager to take advantage of this season’s winds.”

  That was understandable. It must be awful to live in a country without access to the sea.

  “They need our ports, and we need their assistance should Loftaria ever launch a full-scale attack on our northern border. A strong alliance with Farnskag would be such a threat to the Loftarians that they probably wouldn’t dare raise their weapons again. Not when it would mean war on three-quarters of their borders. And not after they were so soundly defeated in the last war with Farnskag.”

  Mother’s political details tumbled through my head. Farnskagers. Loftaria. Alliance.

  Farnskag.

  Their king was here, in this building. Supposedly to pay his last respects to Scilla, his dead betrothed.

  My heart pounded at the two-year-old image of him in my mind. The tattoos. The dark leather instead of our colorful muslins and silks. The choppy language that had earned him and his countrymen the name Bone Eaters, as if they had fish bones caught in their throats. His broad shoulders. The unexpectedly warm eyes and full mouth. The impossible look that had passed between us that one time, just before Scilla’s engagement . . .