Saints and Monsters

Chapter

One

Morning begins with the cry of dragons. I sit up in bed, heart pounding as the first shriek pierces the air. Hunger laces the low, haunting melodies, rivaling only the wolves prowling the Winterwilds. The sea serpents’ wails return every year when the snow melts, dappling the mountains with green and a blush of fresh blossoms, when steam curls from the hot spring canyons, and when sticky-sweet chestnuts fill our kitchen . . . but this time is different.

I’m not ready to lose my sister.

Runa, I hiss.

My sister lies in the bed next to mine, her curved form longer, fuller than my own. Her forehead wrinkles and her lips pucker as if she’d just kissed a newt. Dreaming, again.

Runa?

My eyes flick to the ceiling before I swing my legs out of bed with a wince. Dull pain laces my spine, spreading to my hips. Seventeen, and I feel like an old maid with rheumatism. But pain won’t stop me.

Not today.

Runa has trained every day for the coronation on her twentieth birthday, because in Ezo, the firstborn daughter doesn’t simply inherit the crown, she earns it by facing a dragon. And I’m to be at her side, to be her courage when her heart fails. Papa always said I have enough courage for two hearts . . . though, he also said it was a shame for all that courage to be wasted on someone fragile.

A muscle twitches in my jaw as I attempt to bury those words, shoving them into a dark corner of my mind. My back brace lies open like a cracked oyster on the bedside table. I sling the form-fitting leather shell around my torso and strap it across the back. The wood-framed interior bites into my ribs, but I try not to notice it.

My fingers glide across the smooth deerskin, a brilliant white with lacquered cherry blossoms. Papa had it designed by the famed artisans in Thesia and engraved with protection charms. Not that it’d stopped me from falling down the stairs or crashing through a paper screen when my legs gave out at random.

I hobble to Runa’s bed, grateful we now share a room on the castle’s ground floor, and give her shoulder a sharp nudge. She rolls to the side, pulling the blanket to her pointed chin, and mumbles under her breath.

It’s time, I say with a huff. The dragons are here. Do you want to see them before the ceremony?

Tawny eyes fly open and a hand darts out to grab mine. Runa gulps, throwing off the covers. The boys say she’s pretty no matter what, and they’re right. Chestnut hair falls over my sister’s face in tussled heaps, sleep lines crease her cheeks, and shadows cup her eyes like tea saucers, but she’s still the most beautiful girl in Ezo.

Here? Wide brown eyes search mine, her hand bearing down on me like a vise grip.

Yes, if we sneak out now, we can get to the beach before Papa wakes.

A rueful smile cuts across Runa’s pink lips. You just want fish cakes.

I flash a grin and adjust the leather brace where it rubs beneath my left arm. Someone has to have their priorities in the right place.

Runa’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she sweeps herself off the bed and throws a robe in my face. Slubbed silk pools over my bare arms as I wiggle into the soft fabric cut from a single roll of beetle-brown silk, the same worn by our kitchen staff, which we had pilfered for disguises the previous day. Runa bites down on a clothespin as she rearranges the layers of her stolen dress and the white apron with the royal crest, a plum blossom encircled by a vicious sea serpent.

I’ve avoided looking at them every year, knowing this day would come, she says, tracing the embroidered serpent. I’d rather secure the kingdom with marriage instead of magic.

Trade you, I say, whisking a thick scarf from the wardrobe to cover my bright blue hair, the bane of my existence. My genetic ‘disorder’ as the physicians called it came with not only a bent spine, but painful weak joints, and telltale blue hair. At least you can choose your king after the coronation. I’m doomed to marry the Duke of Taiga.

Meera, you’re complaining about this? Runa plucks a sketch from beneath my mattress, admiring it with a dreamy sigh. He’s coming tonight, isn’t he?

I make a show of rolling my eyes and stuff the sketch into my apron pocket, away from her prying fingers. There’s no denying the duke is handsome, and he’d been kind when we met as children, but the fact is—I wasn’t given a choice. I don’t want a loveless agreement, to be shipped off to a fierce kingdom on the other side of the sea so Papa can get a better bargain on rice.

Rice!

Anger heats my cheeks, but I lift my chin, endeavoring not to let it show. He is. But that’s hardly a concern. Princes and dukes are predictable and boring. You, my dear sister, will face a dragon and become queen by tomorrow morning.

I pry the window open, thanked by a fistful of damp, salt-licked wind and the sweet aroma of chestnuts roasting over a stove. A dragon cry splits the air, rattling the thin glass panes. I wince, one hand frozen on the cold glass while the other flies to block my ear.

"Saints, they’ve never been this close to shore. Not in our lifetime." Runa rushes toward me and peers out the window. Silver-gray cherry trees dot the castle’s pristine garden, each bud restraining a shock of pink. The lawn slopes into a steep embankment that leads to a rocky harbor and the ever-changing sea beyond.

I pull my hand away from the glass, cold radiating down my palm and setting my nerves on end. Papa will have heard it too. Let’s go.

We climb out the window, Runa letting me use her arm as a support. Together we crouch beneath the kitchen windows, all open and breathing fresh steam like sumptuous clouds in the morning air. My side pinches from the bending motion and a sharp ache fists round my spine. A constant reminder that I’m not what the kingdom of Ezo needs, not pure and worthy like my sister—not a proper living sacrifice to the dragons.

Near the kitchen window, a stern voice barks out commands followed by a chorus of mumbling maids and the clanking of iron pots. Woven baskets hang from the windowsill to collect discarded chestnut hulls and eggshells. Carefully, Runa plucks a basket from its hook and empties it. As soon as we pass the kitchen, I take the weightless basket and strap it to my back. A dull pain throbs against my backbone, causing me to wince.

Runa’s worried eyes scan my face.

I force a half smile, leaning against the wall with one hand cupping my wooden brace, and focus on my other senses, the ones not registering pain: the scents of fresh rice, honey citrus, and roasted marron puffing from the windows.

Good? Runa mouths.

I nod.

Together we scurry out the castle compound, a strong gust pushing at our backs as if the wind were on our side. I grip the straps of the empty kitchen basket, hoping the disguise will be enough to grant us one last day of freedom.

With a single glance at our brown kitchen robes, the guards wave us through the imposing gates. Dozens of kitchen staff will be crossing into town to fetch supplies for the coronation banquet tonight, no questions asked. Sharing grins, we break clear of the castle walls, crossing the deep canal that serves as a moat, and turn down an alley of zelkova trees shimmering green in the early morning light.

I whistle for the nearest rickshaw and lean against Runa’s shoulder. Anything you want to do on your last day as a free woman?

Runa takes my hand as we climb into the two-wheeled cart. You’ll see. She grins and calls to the runner. To the port, Yamashi Park.

A crowd bustles against the steep port wall of Silverwood Bay, children atop their parents’ shoulders, old men leaning on crooked canes, a twitter of young ladies fighting the playful breeze that tugs on their broad hats and billowing skirts. All of them stare down at the sea or walk the long cobbled path lined with colorful vendor carts—all come for the queen’s coronation and the dragons.

I check my scarf before exiting the rickshaw, careful lest anyone see through our disguise. My fingers curl around the port fence, a wooden rail separating the smiling onlookers from the scaled beasts below, as I pull myself higher for a better view.

What does everyone see in the wingless death?

Up and down the sea serpents writhe in the jade sea, a coil of metallic scales and fins. Rows of razor-sharp teeth tear into a giant elk sacrificed on their behalf before plunging it beneath the dark, churning waves.

I blanch, a chill snaking down my back, curving with my too-bent spine. It’s one thing to read about the sacred dragons in the holy testaments of the saints, quite another to see them this close in the wild.

A bone-white dragon turns. Its black eyes flecked in gold snap to mine. I match them with a steady gaze, a hard lump in my throat, and reach out for Runa. My sister’s knuckles turn deathly pale on the rails. They’re so cold.

Aren’t all serpents?

Do you think they’re lonely? Runa turns to me, the question in her eyes sincere. We humans have only one heart and suffer a great many things. How much pain must they feel with two?

None, I say, pulling my sister to the park fountain. In the center, a gray-green stone in the shape of a wingless dragon towers over us with antler-like horns and the claws of a lion, its color faded by time. The dual hearts pump more blood into their elongated bodies, I explain. Simple physiology. They may be immortal beasts, but they only deal with us to stave off war and bloodshed.

And to honor their promise to the first queen. She was only a little girl when the dragons fell from the sky during the Ashfall. Runa reaches out to touch the pedestal, her fingers lingering on the engraved poem beneath the dragon’s claws. An ancient script carves deep into the stone:

By scale and blade, the dragons’ oath is bound

A gift of the gods for a human queen

If worthy she is found

A heart for a heart to keep the peace

A life given in servitude for bloodshed to cease

Nothing but empty words etched in stone. Mother had survived the ritual, offering her life in service to the dragons, to be a good queen to both man and beast, but it hadn’t been worth the cost. Sure, her borrowed dragon magic had enriched the land, enlarged crops, and even sweetened water like golden honey. But like the queens of decades past, death came too young, too sudden. It was as if the dragon had stolen a piece of her. And magic has faded from the earth with every year since her passing until poverty now sinks its teeth into our kingdom.

The white dragon plunges its head into the waves, circling another beast to create a whirlpool of scales in shimmering gray, tide pool green, and palest bone. The festive crowd presses in, hugging the fence along the deadly precipice, eyes alit with wonder at the majestic, twisting serpents.

I trace the colorful ribbons of death weaving into the sea and my mouth goes dry like cotton and sticky spiderwebs. I could go everywhere with my sister, but not after today. The dragons that would grant her a piece of their heart magic would never find me worthy, not even to stand in their presence. Everyone knows what happened to the last cerulean princess with a crooked back . . .

Suddenly, two hands grip my sides and hoist me into the air. I’m tilted toward the sea, feet kicking and side smarting beneath the brace.

Put me down!

The hands relent immediately, and a dark-haired boy slips his elbow over the rail, a smile dashing across his lips. Not feeling reckless today, princess?

Bastian! My lips pinch into a firm line, though I’m sure my eyes betray me with a smile. My older brother leans against the rail with a carefree air, his long white shirt unbuttoned at the top and a rough seafaring coat loose over his shoulders.

He tosses a leather bag and catches it in his palm, zeni jingling inside. Did you miss me?

Glad you could join us. Runa’s eyes glimmer with pride at the well-kept secret. I see you got my message?

Bastian smiles, wide and ridiculously dimpled, wind-tousled hair sweeping across his eyes. Couldn’t miss my little sister’s big day. Are you nervous?

Please, I’ve still an afternoon to think about my blessing or my execution, Bastian. Runa smiles as if it were a joke, crossing her arms over the cliffside rail to hide the tremor in her hands. "I didn’t invite my siblings here to talk about that."

Saints, Runa, this tradition has been going on smoothly for decades. The dragons will accept you. Nothing is going to go wrong. Bastian jostles her elbow.

Runa sighs, tearing her gaze away from the dragons as they thread silver into the ocean waves. Tomorrow morning I’ll be facing a dragon, claiming a life-bond with it to prove that I’m the rightful ruler of Ezo. If I succeed⁠—

You will, I say, squeezing my sister’s hand. I have no doubt.

Runa forces a smile. I wish I had your confidence.

If I could take your place, I would, Bastian says, his voice earnest.

My heart lurches, wishing I could say the same.

Sometimes I wish you could. Runa shakes her head, face tilted toward the sea. The dragons would love you.

I do look worthy, don’t I? Bastian grins and runs a hand through his dark brown hair. He winks at a quartet of ladies down the railing, all of whom promptly blush.

Has anyone told you that you would’ve made an extraordinary pirate, Bas?

How do you know that’s not what I’ve been doing this past year? He waggles a brow. We all have our secrets, little sister.

Not me. Runa squares her shoulders and pushes off the railing. I’m where I want to be, whether the dragons accept me or not. Ruling the queendom, guiding it. It’s an honor to lead the maternal line in Ezo. The other nations depended on us once, and they will again. We will keep the balance with our abundant resources and peaceful example.

If you’ve a secret, Miss Perfect, the dragons will find it, Bastian warns, tossing his coin bag. What about you, Meera?

My siblings turn to me with anticipation, the sea wind ruffling their brown hair and tawny eyes that match, like siblings often do. Unlike me.

I shouldn’t say. You’ll laugh at me.

"I always laugh with you. Runa elbows me. Not that I can say the same for Bastian."

I raise my chin. Fine. I want to join the saints in the monastery. I envy their freedom.

A nun life? Runa’s mouth parts in surprise.

I nod. What else does this world have for someone like me? Most second daughters serve in the queensguard or on the council, but Father won’t even let me try.

You’re the first I’ve met who dreams of that life, Bastian says. "I’d promise not to tell any of the visiting princes, but it’s nun of my business."

I nearly choke on a laugh. "Tell them, please. I’d just as soon marry a dragon than the Duke of Taiga."

A few pedestrians further down the seawall whisper behind their scarves, eyes lingering on our little trio. Bastian tosses his leather coin bag again, but I snatch it from the air and stash it in my apron. Sailors and kitchen maids don’t display their zeni.

I nod toward the vending booths and lead the way. A sharp jolt of familiar pain rips fire down my leg, forcing me to hobble.

Runa’s at my side, the weak side, before I can protest and Bastian takes up the rear. Once she becomes queen, we won’t have these seaside strolls or mornings sneaking food from the kitchens. We won’t even share a room anymore. No one will be there when I fall. I bite my lip, turning my attention to the bright vendor stalls and the salt-damp air that cools my cheeks.

So, when did you arrive? I ask Bastian, trying to distract them from my limp.

Ship came in last night, he explains. Two days’ journey from Taiga. I actually rode with your duke. He’s not as bad as you think despite the rumors. He pauses for effect. But the dragons almost didn’t allow our ship in the harbor. Captain had to wave them off with harpoons and throw out a sacrifice to distract them.

Why? They’ve never blocked the harbor before. Runa’s voice turns sharp with alarm.

We’ve never had this many visiting diplomats, not in our lifetime, Bastian continues. Everyone wants to see if the magic is real. If the dragons are as merciful—or vicious—as they say. I’m sure it’s like this every coronation season. Of course, they don’t have the beasts in Taiga.

That’s because the duke had them hunted to extinction, I snap, suppressing a shudder at the thought of the sacred beasts’ blood leaking into the ocean, their hides sold for zeni and teeth for elixirs. "And it is unlike them to intercept the ships. The ancient texts say they never meddle in human affairs within the Enkai Sea, as long as the oath remains intact."

We aren’t living in your books, Bastian says, his voice unusually hard. The eight kingdoms are fraying.

The phrase hangs between the three of us almost like a warning. I notice he doesn’t correct me about the duke.

The books are always right. I lean toward the nearest stall where steam rises from a steel vat. Subtle spicy notes of clove, salt, and honey warm my face in a gentle cloud. I pull the basket from my back, setting it before the vendor.

I’ll take two pounds. I point to the round chestnuts turning in the drum. We can’t return to the castle empty-handed.

Where did you find these books? Bastian says, plucking a chestnut from the pan while the merchant’s back is turned. He skips it once in his fingers, hissing from the bite of heat. I’ve a hard time imagining Papa letting you into his library.

I raise a brow. The monastery has a library. I wasn’t joking about becoming a saint. They explore the eight kingdoms, find ancient treasures, even cultivate herbs and secret tonics. It sounds exciting.

Runa snorts and reaches for the bag as I pay the elderly woman, giving her an extra zeni for the nut Bastian had stolen. As if in repentance, he shoulders the heavy basket.

I lean into my sister, dropping my voice. I’m glad you brought us together again.

Someone has to look after you when I’m queen. I almost invited the duke. I mean, you keep his picture⁠—

I don’t need anyone to take care of me.

Not even me? Runa’s lips pout before splitting into a wide smile.

Not even you, I say, smothering the lines of my apron to avoid her gaze. I have to be self-sufficient; you taught me that. We’ve both worked hard to be worthy for this day. I . . . I just remembered. I need to get the last of the supplies. The saints make the most delicious butter.

I turn to leave, but Runa catches my hand.

Worthy doesn’t mean perfect. Her tawny eyes bore into mine.

Easy for her to say with a body that listens and a heart the dragons would kill for.

I’ll be back in a blink, I say, my voice softening. Why don’t you and Bastian fetch the vanilla for the custard?

We shouldn’t part ways unprotected, Bastian says, falling in step with us. Take my personal guard. He cups his hands to his mouth and imitates the cry of a white-eyed warbler.

A shadow moves beneath the awning of a bakery, blending into the dark wooden walls and thatched roof. The figure’s clothes shift color, mottled by sun and shade, until he stands an arm’s length away. He’d been so still, I hadn’t even noticed him.

The man nods toward Bastian, his dark brown eyes darting up from the cobblestones beneath us. A callousness in his gaze, coupled with black hair cropped like a foreign soldier, throws his youthful face into confusing lines.

Jey, keep watch over Princess Meera, Bastian instructs in a whisper.

Her safety is my life. The man slams a fist over his heart.

It most certainly is not, I correct him, pulling a golden chain from inside my tunic and stringing it around my neck. Mother Ema will protect me.

A charm? Bastian arches a brow.

I point down the street that wends around the bottom of the cliffside and loops a trail up the small forested mountain creeping with homes and shops. An old woman in white knotted silk with a thick periwinkle-blue robe bends over a stand, weaving amulets and selling carefully wrapped butter. "A saint. You find them at the monastery. Perhaps I shall become one when Runa becomes queen. I prefer their protection."

The shadowed guard nods, a spark of admiration in his eye. But Runa and Bastian give me no such look. You’re serious? Bastian says with an exasperated huff. I think Father and the duke would have something to say about that.

I raise a brow, daring him to remind me of my arranged marriage again. Come on, the entire market is enthralled with the dragons right now. No one will pay attention to a hobbling maid.

Runa sighs. You won’t be long? Just to get butter from the nuns, right?

I nod and flash a smile before cutting to the nearest side alley. Blessed Saints. I need to be alone. Before the dragons consume part of my sister’s soul. Before I’m to marry a handsome duke and move across the sea to a rival kingdom—to Taiga. Before my world dissolves at the whims of people stronger and more whole than me.

I eye the bright blue awning of the nuns’ stall ahead. Maybe they can protect Runa’s heart from the beasts and grant her success. I’d searched their library for clues, a secret wisdom, the history of the dragons’ oath—and nothing.

But I could ask.

One. Last. Time.

Chapter

Two

My legs burn like fire as I crest the top of the hill, heart-hammering. Banners pop in the breeze, each one displaying the name of a traditional shop from the eight kingdoms, come to display their best wares for the coronation festivities. Wood sculptures beneath a vibrant green tarp for Thesia, honey jars in exotic flavors under Taiga’s crimson tarp, even a sword stand from Ezo’s own Sorachi mines.

The saints greet me with wind-chaffed faces and a low bow that suggests they know who I am beneath the disguise.

Sisters, I breathe through a smile, my lungs aching. I’ll take two butter sticks.

The older nun wraps two bars of brilliant golden butter and places them in a bag, tying it closed with a ribbon. There you go, dear. Did you only come for butter? Her knowing eyes shine.

I open my mouth and close it, before daring my question. My sister, Runa. Is there a way you can help her?

Does she need help? The question is calm, thoughtful.

I falter. I-I think so. She’s afraid about tomorrow.

A clatter of metal sounds behind us, drawing the nuns’ attention. Shouting erupts followed by a slew of curses as a smack echoes across the market—the sound of leather on flesh.

It’s urgent, I press, leaning across the saints’ table and dropping my voice. Is there a way to guarantee the dragons will accept her?

The eldest nun eyes the commotion behind me, and I glance back at the ruckus. Fists swing beneath the sloping banners, one smashing a tureen of candied yams, which now roll about the cobblestone. The nuns light a prayer censer and a wisp of milky smoke laces the breeze, then they bow their heads and begin to chant.

Great, they’re praying. They won’t talk to me again until the fighting stops.

I push out from the butter stand and step toward the fray. Today is about changing destinies. Mine—and Runa’s.

The first man is a blacksmith with broad sweeping shoulders and long, shaggy hair. Blood streams from a cut on his brow, but he wipes it with the back of a coal-stained hand and holds his arms up to block his opponent.

The other man is a lanky blond lieutenant bearing the Taigan crest, dual dragons fighting in a blaze of fire. The black suit, black hat, and sharp gold buttons of the Imperial soldiers are hard to miss. He lights a cigarette with one of the new flame canisters as if bored. Where’s my dagger? he growls.

I already told you, the blacksmith says with a ragged breath. I don’t have it.

Wrong answer. He swings at the blacksmith with a feinting punch and then hammers him in the side on the next blow. A bloodied cough spurts the ground.

The nuns pray louder.

Enough, I shout, snatching a frying pan from the nearest vendor, still hot and dripping with batter. No one’s going to stand between me and getting answers from those nuns. Clear out, now.

The blacksmith leans, doubled over, one arm gripping the bar of his shop to keep himself upright.

The lieutenant sneers. I don’t take orders from kitchen maids.

I glance down at my apron, forgetting my disguise. Saints, I should’ve thought this through.

My foot taps in rapid-fire rhythm with my thoughts. I can’t outrun this man, and if I reveal myself as the princess . . . I gulp. I’d rather face this man’s fists than the whispers of the crowd and Papa’s wrath on the eve of the coronation.

I’m not ordering you as a maid. I’m calling you out as a girl who has more guts than you. I throw the pan in his direction, and it clatters against his arm, blocked by a swift move.

A dark scowl clouds the lieutenant’s face as he brushes off the newly charred spot on his uniform. He drops his cigarette and steps toward me, an angry tic in his jaw.

I swallow hard and dart behind the nearest shop counter, praying the queensguard intervenes soon.

In here, a small girl whispers. The urchin points to a trap door inside the pop-up vendor cart, inching the wooden hatch open for me to crawl inside.

Thank you. I nod, wedging myself into the makeshift hiding place, a small storage hold between piles of raw yams and charcoal. Go to the baker at Yamashi Park and ask for Prince Bastian. He’ll help.

The shop girl’s eyes widen. She gives a sharp nod before shutting the door behind me. Footsteps pound outside, followed by an angry roar.

I know you’re here. The lieutenant’s greasy voice spills through the wooden cracks. Come out or we’ll have another sacrifice for the serpents, and it won’t be a deer this time.

A terrified squeal sounds outside, and I push my face toward a crack in the makeshift cart. The lieutenant holds a hot tong to the shop girl’s quivering throat. She claws at him with charcoal-stained hands, her feet barely touching the ground.

Boiling saints.

Stop! I crawl out of the booth on hands and knees, standing slowly, my eyes never leaving the dark, murderous leer of the lieutenant.

It’s always easy to find the trash, he purrs, sniffing the little girl’s hair. It all smells the same. He hurls the child aside with a flick of his wrist and then brandishes the hot metal.

The shop girl scurries down the hillside alley, and I fix the man with a glare fit for a beast, even though my legs quake. I only hope the girl remembers to fetch Bastian. I raise my hands tentatively as the man steps closer with the iron. My back brace hits the booth, and my throat goes tight.

A sizable crowd circles us, murmuring, and a few collect the fallen goods from the merchant’s cart. I sorely wish I hadn’t dismissed Bastian’s guard. Where is the queensguard? Shouldn’t they be patrolling this side of the harbor?

I should end your miserable life right now.

I gulp. But should you? The penalty for manslaughter is quite high in Ezo.

Yes, but you’re just a kitchen maid. He leans forward, hot tong still in hand and a short sword belted at his waist. A pretty one at that with those blue eyes and smooth skin.

Heart racing, my eyes dart to the beaten blacksmith and his tools littered on the cobblestones. An anvil, hammer, chisel, anything to help me defend myself. No one in the crowd meets my gaze, offers to kick a weapon toward me, or