Midnight on the Dragon Tower II

Up close, Yolanthe realised the walls were not bare. Glyphs similar to those she saw in Hilarion’s books ran in tight, interlocking scripts, with their light shifting subtly with the angle of view and giving the impression that the walls were quietly in motion.

Set into shallow alcoves stood statues of dead emperors and empresses, each rendered in a composite of materials: the faces carved from stone or shell, the robes suggested in lacquered pigment, crowns and ornaments formed from gold and gemwork. Their expressions were lifelike, formal but not identical. Each carried distinct attributes: a seal held at the chest, a scroll partially unrolled, a sword angled downward in restraint rather than threat.

“Charming family you have here.” Tahar stopped before a towering figure. “This one looks like my great-aunt after someone stole her cup of tea.”

Yolanthe bit back a laugh. The fake seal shifted against her ribs. “At least they’re quiet company.”

“Unlike some people,” Imran said, throwing him a pointed look. “Let’s go up.”

The spiral staircase led into a circular chamber. Light emerged from the walls, but also from clusters of carved glowing stones set at intervals. They were shaped like birds with folded wings perched along the curves of the chamber, or fishes arcing as if swimming through air and flowers in bloom.

The room was filled with objects which reminded her of the museum. Faded banners with unfamiliar crests hung from the walls. Glass cases held artifacts that she couldn’t even begin to identify.

Imran swept past rows of ancient weapons along walls, jagged obsidian spears, clubs studded with yellowed fangs, hooks carved from bone.

“That’s a megalodon tooth.” He tapped a serrated blade longer than her arm. “From when the sea serpents drove them into the shallows. And that—” He gestured to a gnarled staff. “That’s thunderbird bone. The sorcerers used it to call lightning.”

Yolanthe started walking between the displays. “Look—” The word escaped her before she could stop it. Within the nearest case, a crystal the size of her fist pulsed with inner light. As they drew near, figures sprang from its depths: courtiers in elaborate dress spinning through the steps of an ancient dance.

“The Midwinter Ball of 1524,” Imran said. His face lit with the same wonder as her. “The night three kingdoms became one.” The phantom dancers whirled past each other. “They claim the snow fell gold that night, and the wine turned to liquid diamonds in their cups.”

“Remarkable what people remember about parties where the wine flows freely,” Tahar drawled, but his eyes tracked the tiny figures with unconcealed fascination.

Yolanthe’s gaze caught on a cluster of stones floating in their case, dancing around each other in an endless orbit. “Are those—?”

“Sky-stones. The secret behind the old airship fleet.” Pride and something darker colored Imran’s voice. “Before the Ann Rinn, when magic slept.”

A harp stood alone in its case and started playing a melody when they came near. Beside it, pieces of jade and ruby slid across a chess board, playing out a game that had perhaps never ended.

“Magic isn’t sleeping anymore.” Imran’s words fell into the haunting music. He stood before a niche holding what looked like a simple mirror in a black frame, but its surface rippled like disturbed water. “It’s waking up. The question is, why now?”

“Why indeed?” She stepped back, pulse hammering. This was the mirror. Tahar’s hand found the small of her back, steadying her. The heat of his touch burned through her silk robes.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Some mirrors show more truth than we’re ready to see.”

“Shall we carry on our little visit. It’s getting late.” Yolanthe cut, scanning the casings.

In the center of the room, on a pedestal of white dragon bone, sat a box that took her breath away. It was relatively small, no larger than a loaf of bread, but every inch of its surface was inlaid with precious stones. Rubies, sapphires, and diamonds caught the light, scattering rainbows across the walls.

“The Imperial Seal,” Imran said softly. “You’ll be presenting this to me during the ceremony.”

Right next to it, the imperial crown sat on its velvet cushion: a plain circle of dragon bone, somehow more powerful for its lack of ornament.

“I’ll have to hold it in two days.”

Yolanthe came close and leaned. “Er… I thought it was a big thing full of gems? That’s what Emperor Huascar wears on all his portraits.”

Imran shrugged. “He got it specially made for him. If you remember the statues of the old emperors, none of them wears such a fancy contraption.”

“Understated elegance.” Tahar mumbled.

His attention caught on the box right behind and he went to it.

“Don’t suppose this holds anything interesting?” He tried to lift the lid. It didn’t budge.

“Only the tooth-blade of the First Emperor.” Imran pressed his palm to it, and the box sprang open with a sound like distant wings.

The sword within looked... old. Simple. The blade was a dull white, unmarked by any ornamentation. The hilt was wrapped in well-worn leather, showing the imprints of countless hands that had wielded it before.

“This is the ceremonial sword?” Yolanthe asked, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice.

Imran nodded, carefully lifting the weapon from its case. “Not quite what you expected, is it? But look closer.”

As she peered at the blade, she realized that what she had taken for dull white metal was actually... “Is that a tooth?” she asked incredulously.

“Dragon tooth,” Imran confirmed. “From the very same dragon whose bones form this tower. It’s said to be unbreakable, and always sharp, though not as heavy as you’d think.”

“May I?” She held out her hands before she could stop herself. The urge to touch it, to hold a piece of her ancestor’s history, overwhelmed her caution.

Imran’s fingers brushed hers as he passed the blade. “Careful. It’s sharp.”

The sword was indeed light, as if it had been made of air.

“Here.” She thrust the sword toward Tahar. “Your expert opinion?”

He took it with a warrior’s reverence. The blade sang as he moved through forms, his body flowing like smoke.

“Old-fashioned styling,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s expected from a relic. Though I wonder how dragon tooth holds up against modern weapons. Gunpowder has a way of changing the rules.”

Something dark flickered across Imran’s face.

“We may find out sooner than any of us wish.”

Yolanthe turned towards the seal. How to distract them? “Can I feel its weight?”

He picked up the box and handed it. “If you want. Nothing to get excited, anyway.”

She mockingly lifted it, then gave it back to Imran, trying to disguise her trouble. “I thought it would be heavier.”

“Just don’t misplace it.” Tahar mumbled.

Yolanthe heart froze. Was it some sort of oblique allusion? But his gaze was locked on four masks hanging on the other side of the room. He strode to them, eyes wide.

“Those are the Soul-Speakers.” he pressed his hands against the glass. Seven masks gazed back, wood and silver shapes twisted into faces caught between human and beast, their eye-holes dark with old magic. “My clan’s greatest treasures. Stolen four centuries ago on the orders of your thrice-damned ancestor.”

Imran closed the seal box lid with a clack and dropped it back on its stand before following Tahar to the display. “Emperor Darien the Just would never—” Gone was the careful diplomat, replaced by a boy defending his blood. “He restored temples, rebuilt cities, gave justice to—”

“Justice? Is that what you call sending thieves in the night to strip our temples? These masks guided our people through the Dark Times. They let us speak with our dead, seek wisdom from—”

“They’re probably replicas.” Imran’s words tumbled out too fast. “The imperial mages could duplicate any—”

Tahar pressed his forehead to the glass. “I grew up with their images painted on every temple wall. I learned their names before I learned my own. That’s Blood-Singer.” He pointed to a red mask shaped like a snarling cat. “Night-Walker. Bone-Whisperer. Storm-Heart—”

“My ancestor kept detailed records of every—”

“If my people knew these were here...” Tahar’s fingers curled into fists. “The war would have started generations ago.”

Their voices faded as Yolanthe’s eyes locked on the box. She glanced back. Tahar and Imran were locked in their argument, pain and pride bleeding into every word.

Her mouth went dry. Could it truly be so simple? She reached for the box, fumbling with her shirt with the other hand. The lid yielded to her touch like a flower opening to the sun. Her pulse roared in her ears. She made the switch and lowered the lid. The box clicked shut. Had it always been so loud? She spun toward the arguing men, but they remained absorbed in their old grievance.

“Enough.” she called, hoping her voice didn’t betray her. “Imran, Darien might have been just to his people, but what about the others? He took us the Gutha province for its silver mines, remember? Tahar, I have always heard that he welcomed a whole clan of Meralese who had to flee their country with some sacred artefacts. They are House Bissa, now. The past is the past. We’re what remains.”

Tahar’s jaw clenched. Imran’s shoulders slumped. They both turned to her, and she forced herself to meet their eyes. “What about your machine, Imran?”