The Midnight Flight of Myrea Daw

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley – ”

Myrea Daw didn’t hear the rest of the Goldcoat’s proclamation because, at that moment, a hot, blustery wind came up from the dragon-yard, snatching his words away and threatening to take her tricorn with it. She clapped a hand on her head to anchor the hat in place and stopped in the road to watch the stranger on horseback.

Heedless of his own tricorn, which was not secure and like to sail off at any moment, the dolt was craning his neck like a small child, trying to peer between the rails of the worm fence that encircled the yard as if he could not work out what was happening.

His horse, who was paying attention, had begun to dance sideways and toss its head. The young man barely noticed. One hand maneuvering the reins to maintain minimum control, he fixed all of his attention on the yard.

How had he come so far without encountering dragons before? she marveled.

As much as she wanted to stay and watch this catastrophe unfold, she was due in the catacombs in a few minutes. She settled for calling to him, “You’ll be wanting a nosebag!”

He looked up in surprise, but made no move to dismount. She pointed to the horse, then mimed covering its nose with a bag filled with something strong and sweet-smelling to mask the scent of predator overhead.

The lubber was young, seventeen or eighteen at most, a similar age and lanky build as her older brother, Conrath. Even in the thin light of the waning moon, she could see that. White cross belts over a regimental greatcoat of mustard-gold, a saber sheathed on one side, haversack on the other, and a cockade pale against the black of his tricorn easily identified him as one of the Royal Prytanian Army. Or, as islanders had dubbed them, Goldcoats, who had slowly begun to occupy the islands in recent years without much explanation.

She watched him continue to wrestle his horse under control without actually removing it from the spot. What “Valley” was he referring to? As far as she knew, there had always been dragons in the islands.

Worse, what had brought this one ten miles up the rough and winding Ring Road from the City to the catacombs on a nondescript morning in late summer, two hours before dawn?

Wind and dragons were a part of life in the Ruldane archipelago, anyone knew that. At least, any Ruldani knew that. Ride past the busier yards and you might find yourself blown a little sideways or taking a puff of dust to the face. While the musky stink of dragonflesh might throw a horse into a panic, islanders took it in stride, sometimes literally, quick to bring their kerchiefs to their faces or brace their stances like sailors on a pitching deck.

In truth, dragons had long since forgotten how to hunt, having spent the last few centuries lazing about in catacombs and on ship decks. But, horses didn’t know that.

Two more dry blasts from the yard broadsided them and the horse whinnied. She glanced at the constellations overhead to check their progress and nearly yelped aloud. Land, she was in danger of running late! If there was any hope that Da might let her fly today, instead of asking her to remain underground to sort more mail and muck out more pens, the worst thing she could do was prove herself unreliable.

She turned up the road toward the flyers’ side entrance to the catacombs, a small door set into the rock just off the road. At night it was wrapped in shadows, marked only by a small lantern hung from a hook beside it, its light a pinprick from this distance.

She hadn’t gone five steps before his voice brought her to a halt.

“A moment there, you!”

Myrea turned back and asked what he wanted. Then there was no time.

The winds turned shear, the border trees heaving and swaying. The soldier shouted and sawed at the reins while his horse bucked and sped in tight circles. Another gust packed the tree limbs so that for a moment they lay flat as stacked wood. These winds were highly erratic: Myrea wondered if the dragon taking off was having trouble or about to crash right into them.

But then here she came: Tychore, an eight-year-old Cobalt at the peak of her vitality. Her scales were an exquisite brindle pattern, from deepest midnight blue to a translucent near-white, swirling along her back and sides. Long wings of soft slate-blue leather lifted her steeply clear of the treeline. A small, tapered head reached out eagerly at the end of its long neck, mule’s-ears plastered back against moisture aloft and eyes half-closed in an expression of pure joy.

A dragon’s takeoff was never what might be described as graceful, but once they got enough air under them, it was the stuff of poets. Tychore and her flyer, Mr. Ovyn Sord, a lawyer with pens around the corner from Da’s, beat over the trees, the fenceline, and finally over the two watchers in the road with one last rush. She glided past the ridge where the mountain’s rocky shoulders slumped a thousand feet down to the sea, banked sharply, rounded the headland to the north, and vanished into the dome of stars beyond.

The world went calm, noise and wind dropping off as precipitously as the cliffs did. Small sounds returned, and Myrea’s pounding heartbeat. The busy chatter of morning birds rose once again from the trees, and she could hear the distant shush of waves against the rocks far below.

Despite herself, Myrea stood transfixed, enchanted both with the takeoff and the stillness that followed. She’d spent three-quarters of her life around dragons, and still their everyday comings and goings were nothing short of magical.

She didn’t realize the soldier had gone until she heard the clop of hooves returning from the direction of the towering golden pines beyond the side-entrance door. Apparently, he’d taken the horse into the woods to calm it, an admirably wise move. The stallion still breathed heavily, but looked otherwise none the worse for wear.

The young Goldcoat seemed to have aged ten years in a handful of minutes. He rode taller in the saddle, his form returned and the childish wonder she’d glimpsed earlier replaced with a shuttered mask. He walked the horse at a dignified pace and reined in before her.

“Mr. Tanil Daw, pray?”

Myrea blinked, then quickly had to stifle laughter.

All right, his mistake was understandable, she could admit that. She wore the flyer’s “brigs,” a short-tailed suit of wine-red osnabrig that she had found in a trunk one day and never put back. It did not include skirts, but its leggings did tuck nicely into her knee-high dragon-boots. Her woolly black curls had been tamed back into a thick braid running down her back, which he probably hadn’t seen. Coupled with the tricorn on her head and a complete lack of anything resembling womanly curves on her wiry frame, Myrea’s profile did match his closely enough, minus the military gewgaws.

Being mistaken for a lad was commonplace and didn’t bother her in the least. It was miles better than being treated like a girl. Being mistaken for Da however – now that was a new one.

“It’ll be my father you’re looking for,” she told him. “I’m Myrea, his daughter.”

He touched the brim of his tricorn, a minimal gesture. “Miss Daw. Yes, I guessed as much. Could you direct me to him, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Lieutenant-Colonel Eddick Laine, aide-de-camp to General Lott.”

“Regarding?”

“An urgent message from the General. That’s all I’m at liberty to share. I’d be grateful if you could take me to your father with all haste, as time is of the essence. Do you think you could manage that?”

“My father is a professional postal-flyer, not an errand-boy for the Crown,” she said, hearing the bite in her own words. “How much compensation can he expect, then?”

Laine’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl. “Have a care with your tone, Miss Daw. It is a representative of the Crown that you address.”

No payment then. She felt the familiar lava beginning to boil in her own belly that had already spilled out the mouths of so many of her fellow islanders, landing them in gaol or on some blacklist. Da hated the army’s presence in the islands too, but he thought that harrying trained warriors was foolish in the extreme, and said so. She agreed but didn’t care. This cub needed to be shown that the Ruldani would not be intimidated.

She touched her own tricorn in a gesture of minimal respect, mimicking his. “I thought you lot had your own couriers. In fact, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

To his credit, Laine didn’t rise to the bait, instead responding coolly, “When our deliveries run overland, yes. However, I fear this horse can neither fly nor sail, and I cringe at the thought of trying him, hence the request for your father’s services. To his King, may I remind.”

“You have ships and dragons both.”

“Still and all.”

A stalemate! They remained locked there, mounted soldier and grounded flyer, leveling resolute gazes at each other like drawn rapiers across the brief expanse of road between them. Laine’s horse snorted and stamped, calling out this foolishness for what it was.

As much as she delighted in needling him, she knew that delivering a message from General Lott was inevitable, as were whatever orders would come with it. Da could not refuse, and she could not cause him to. Conveying Laine’s orders from General Lott did not amount to handing over the islands to the naval and aerial superpower that was the Kingdom of Prytania. This messenger was not the King and she did not speak for her native archipelago.

Still, it rankled.

Then, two things occurred to her: one, that diplomacy was not in her future; and two, if she had any intention of becoming a postal-flyer and prove to the entire world, or at least to her father, that she was capable of handling difficult situations, then she might start with this one.

Myrea Daw, First Female Inter-island Postal-Delivery Services Flyer of the Ruldane Islands. Or something short enough to fit on a sign.

Established today.

She hoped.

Tilting her chin up with a neutral if not quite pleasant look, she explained, “He’s in the catacombs preparing his fleet for the day. However, if you leave the message with me, I’ll see that it is received and delivered promptly to the intended recipient.” She drew herself up tall and straight. “This I swear upon my honor as a Daw and a postal-flyer. Our flyer’s Oath will not permit us to betray you.”

Laine gave an indulgent smile, as if she were a child galloping around on her stick-pony pretending to fly a dragon. “I appreciate your dedication, but I have orders to put it directly into his hand myself.”

“As flyers, we are already charged with delivering the post unmolested and expediently, on pain of having our commission revoked forthwith and possible imprisonment. By definition, sir, you may trust me.”

Never mind that she hadn’t actually sworn the Postal-Flyer’s Oath yet, being both too young and a girl. She’d sworn the Oath to herself when Conrath swore to the Crown a year ago. For her, it was as good as done, and she meant every word of it.

“This isn’t a request, Miss Daw.”

“Very well, but I –”

“Imminently, Miss Daw.”

“I was going to say, very well, but I must warn you. The catacombs are not for the faint of heart. Those caverns assault every one of the mortal senses, upset the sense of direction and celestial progress, and can cause overwhelming regret in many, even madness.”

His brittleness melted around the edges, and he looked almost eager. Myrea deduced that the life of an aide-de-camp must be very tedious. “You make it sound like a battlefield. I think I can handle a cave.”

“You cannot bring your horse down there,” she added.

“I’m also quite skilled at walking.”

“What Valley?”

He paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“Earlier you said, ‘There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.’ What Valley?”

“Ah, that. I was thinking of my childhood home in Prytania.”

She waited for him to go on, but nothing more was forthcoming. She cleared her throat. “Very well. You’ve been warned. Please follow me. Hastefully,” she added with a backward glance over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry – hastefully?”

“When you meet Tanil Daw, you will understand. It means, ‘with all haste,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Laine. Post-haste, if you prefer. With a will – ”

“Thank you, Miss Daw, I get the idea. Now direct me to the stables, please. I fear I must see these catacombs for myself.”