Spine of the Dragon

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Elliel’s fingers played across her stomach, touched the taut skin, and she stepped closer to the lantern’s glow. She searched, but couldn’t see any stretch marks to indicate that she might once have carried a baby. But what if she had? Had she given up the child?

  Tears filled her green eyes. No matter how much she might want the answers, she would never know them.

  She blew out the lantern.

  24

  THE primary remembrance shrine in Convera towered seven stories tall, built of quarried marble that gleamed like the fresh, bright memory of a loved one. The shrine was the largest such structure in the Commonwealth, but even this monument could not adequately reflect the history of what the human race had accomplished on its own.

  At least that was what Shadri thought, and she had thought about it a lot.

  Each time the young woman entered the giant building for her daily work, humming and smiling, she paused outside to admire the beautiful statues flanking the open doorway, two ferocious lions of memory. The lion on the left roared to proclaim the glory of the lives preserved within, while the lion on the right looked contemplative, as if mulling over the legacies recorded here.

  Shadri greeted the silent lions as she did every day, then hurried inside the enormous structure. The fact that she was allowed to work in the remembrance shrine every day put a spring in her step and a smile on her lips. Her sixteenth gift day had been two months ago, and she had celebrated by spending an extra hour reading.

  Her heavy eyebrows often drew together as she thought of questions she wanted to answer. Straight brown hair, parted in the middle, framed her plain face. Her body was solid and a bit stocky, muscle not fat. She came from a family of workers and wore patched red skirts, the dye faded to a rusty brown, but they were clean and comfortable. She didn’t bother with embroidery, ribbons, lace, or frippery, because the last thing in the world she wanted was to be noticed. Shadri had a joy of learning and a bullish curiosity that made her happier than the attentions of any flirting boy.

  So much to learn, so much to study! The shrine held a wealth of names and history, each floor boasting archive rooms filled with packed wooden shelves. Shadri knew the maze by heart, and every time she turned a corner, another thing caught her interest. She already knew the legaciers and scholars in the remembrance shrine, but many had learned to avoid her persistent queries, especially Chief Legacier Vicolia.

  When she was just a young girl, Shadri’s father had also grown exasperated with his young daughter’s curiosity. “I just run a lumber mill! Why would I need to know answers to all those questions?” Now, at least, she was around kindred spirits in the great shrine. The legaciers, most of whom were women, devoted their lives to preserving stories, legacies, and names of those who lived in Convera.

  Entering the cool and imposing shrine, she heard the reverent whispers of patrons, researchers, and family members. They consulted with the staff legaciers, whose job it was to know where to find the name of every distant relative. Shadri delighted in watching the patrons’ faces as they found the record of a loved one.

  The marble walls had neat rows of chiseled names with birth and death dates. Shadri walked briskly past a father who stood at one wall, holding the hand of a little girl. With a finger, he traced the letters of a woman’s name in the marble. His wife’s, perhaps? “There she is, for us to remember.” His lip trembled, and the wide-eyed girl nodded slowly.

  “Long life and a great legacy,” Shadri said to them in blessing as she passed. She paused, letting her curiosity get the best of her. “What was she like? Tell me about her. Did she enjoy music? What was her favorite food?”

  The man grew misty-eyed as he talked about his first wife, how she made a honey and sunflower seed bread that no one could match, how she made up songs with nonsense rhymes and taught them to their little daughter. When he said this, the girl sang one of the rhymes she remembered.

  Shadri walked off, humming the rhyme to herself as she left them to their memories. She climbed the stone stairs and scanned the engraved names, row after row after row. When she reached the next landing, she admired one name boldly carved in letters an armspan tall. The man had paid a vast sum so that his name could be the most prominent in the shrine. MYRIAN BRUNT. Shadri blew a loose strand of brown hair away from her face. Everyone in Convera knew his name despite the passage of centuries, but it was not a true legacy, since no one remembered who Myrian Brunt was or what he had done. Just his name.

  Whenever her work duties allowed it, Shadri would pick a volume from the shelves and study the recorded lives, the accomplishments of countless generations. She was pleased with what humans had done after being abandoned by their creator race. She didn’t think that wreths had ever paid much attention to science, discovery, or history. Humans, though, kept track of everything … well, at least people like Shadri did.

  New parents would pay to have their baby’s name written in the archives, but the legaciers’ greatest business came when families paid to memorialize a lost loved one. Trained chroniclers would write down brief biographies for the vast archive. For a fee, they would chisel a name on one of the stone walls of the shrine, or for a lesser fee, they would write the names in fine calligraphy in the permanent books.

  Long life and a great legacy … Such a wonderful blessing to give someone! Every person deserved to be remembered, and Shadri did her best to remember them all. Her people had done rather well for themselves, even if no gods watched over them.

  Wooden study tables had benches to accommodate many scholars. The day was bright and the windows were open to let in sunlight; candles would be brought out for people who wanted to read into the night. She herself was one of those. The legaciers were used to seeing her at all hours.

  In the back of the room, a team of scholars recorded extended family trees that marked the branchings of marriages, children, stepchildren. In red ink, they indicated known wreth bloodlines, descendants of half-breeds, bastard children born when the ancient race had taken human lovers.

  Shadri considered the interconnected family lines to be like the roots of trees in a giant forest. She herself was just one tiny twig … and her twig would end, unless she ever married and had children. Someday, when she was older, she supposed that was another thing she would have to learn. For now, she scared off most boys when she pestered them with questions about their work, their apprenticeships, their games, their trades or crafts.

  On her way to her duties on the upper floor, she picked up some books from the patrons’ table and returned them to their proper places. The chief legacier entered the room and skewered Shadri with a disapproving glance. Vicolia, a stern and haughty woman, held a prominent position that gave her a sense of inflated importance. “Why are you wasting time with those books? It’s not your job.”

  Shadri patted the volume’s spine to make it even with the others on the shelf. “These were left out on the table by a patron. I returned them where they belonged.”

  “It isn’t your place to do that.” The woman huffed. “Now I need to have a real legacier make sure you haven’t gotten it disorganized.”

  “It’s not disorganized,” Shadri said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “How are we to be sure? We don’t let unqualified people touch the records.” Vicolia kept her voice low so as not to disturb the other patrons. “Shadri, your behavior is growing tiresome. I’ve indulged you these past months, and I admire your dedication to studying, but I’d rather you spent the time doing your proper work. Up on the top floor you’ll find your buckets of water and scrub brushes. You left them there last night, because you didn’t finish the job.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Shadri lowered her eyes and tried to slip past; she had indeed gotten distracted before completing her duties.

  “When you finish polishing the windows up there, you can do the next floor down. The shelves of the main archive require dusting, and the underground levels need more sweeping than usual. See to it.”
>
  “Yes, ma’am,” Shadri said.

  “Our last cleaning woman wasn’t so distractible,” Vicolia muttered. “Now, don’t disturb the patrons as you get about your chores.”

  Shadri continued up the steps, dreading the amount of sweeping, scrubbing, and cleaning that lay ahead of her, but at least she would be among the books, in the company of the names carved in the walls, and surrounded by history.

  25

  IN the Utauk camp Adan tried to fall asleep under the stars. Penda’s arm was loosely draped across his chest as she snuggled close on their soft blankets. Xar roosted on a low shrub nearby. The reptile bird snorted and wheezed in his sleep.

  In the crisp air, Adan could smell the smoke of campfires and hear the low music of a stringed instrument being played more for meditation than entertainment. He could still taste the flavors of the spiced meal he had eaten in Shella din Orr’s tent.

  Wide awake, he absently stroked Penda’s long dark hair, enjoying her beauty in the starlight. He pondered the sheer trust she and her father had shown by bringing him into the Utauk secrets. Their people had an unbelievable trove of information and a network of spies and observers that no one else noticed.

  Other Utauk travelers had reported mysterious rumors from the north, maybe manifestations of the wreths. A different faction of wreths? Were they the mortal enemies that Queen Voo had warned about? Adan wondered if King Kollanan had seen any cause for alarm up in Norterra. The young man had already written his father about the sandwreths, but his uncle Koll might need to be warned. What if those other wreths had already swept down from the ice-locked vastness to attack Norterra?

  Lying there awake, he felt a chill. Taking the danger seriously, he decided to waste no time and just ride north himself to see Kollanan face-to-face. He could reach Fellstaff in five days, if some of the Utauks would show him the shortest way from here. That would be much faster than returning to Bannriya, preparing an expedition, writing letters and sending couriers, and then setting off again. He would just go. Somehow, he felt the Utauks would applaud the decision.

  By her steady breathing, he could tell that Penda was sound asleep against him, feeling safe in his presence and among her people. Looking up at the stars, Adan saw a yellow streak overhead, the quick whisper of a shooting star, and he thought of those times with his father on the gazing deck of Convera Castle, pondering the many other worlds the wreth gods had created.

  For thousands of years humans had settled the war-torn continent, restoring the natural beauty even if the magic had been weakened. But what if sandwreths from the arid wasteland and frostwreths from the north wanted their land back? What if they intended to enslave humanity again, as they had done before? Voo had suggested an alliance, but could he trust her?

  Adan had to do more against this mysterious danger. He would talk with Kollanan as soon as possible.

  * * *

  As the sun rose, the Utauk camp revived. Cookfires crackled to life to heat water for morning tea. Shella’s nephews made a pot of honey-sweetened porridge, and Hale Orr cradled three bowls, somehow balancing them all as he offered one to Adan and Penda. From the bags under his eyes, Adan could tell the older man hadn’t slept much either. Judging by his straight back and firm expression, Hale seemed to have come to a conclusion of his own.

  “I need to stop sitting around adding fat to my bones, dear heart,” he announced to Penda. “Although I enjoy the comfort of my quarters in Bannriya Castle, I can’t just ignore what is happening in the world. This is too important, and I haven’t finished building my legacy.”

  Penda held her bowl of porridge, but didn’t take a bite. “What do you mean?”

  “I need to take a journey to get some answers. Cra, I can do my part! I’m not an old man yet, and I think I have another journey or two left in me.” Holding the bowl of porridge against his chest with his left forearm, he used a wooden spoon to scoop up a mouthful. “I’m going to Ishara. I’ll find an Utauk trading ship and sign aboard.” He mused. “With my family rank, they may even make me merchant captain.”

  Adan knew Utauks could travel with immunity, even if tensions were high between the Commonwealth and the new world. “Why go to Ishara? What do you expect to find there?”

  “I want to see if there are any rumblings about the wreths over there. We need to know.”

  “Wreths were never part of Ishara,” Adan said. “They fought on this continent.”

  “And they nearly destroyed it,” Penda said, then changed her tone as a thought occurred to her. “Cra, magic is still strong in the new world! What would stop the wreths from going there?”

  “We need to know.” Hale Orr scuffed the tip of his boot on the ground, making a divot. “I’ll come back and report whatever I learn.”

  “And you’ll report it to Starfall as well, since he’s part of us, our family, and our tapestry.”

  “As we agreed, dear heart.”

  Adan cupped the bowl of porridge in both hands. The cooked oats and honey smelled delicious. He confessed, “I made a similar decision myself last night. I intend to set off for Norterra to warn King Kollanan. If the frostwreths are as bad as Queen Voo warned, he needs to know.”

  Penda turned to him in surprise. Xar flapped his wings and burbled, as if telling Adan to leave right away, and good riddance.

  Hale cautioned, “I wouldn’t trust Queen Voo, either. Remember what the wreths—all wreths—did to us in ancient times. They created us and used us as pawns and playthings. They bred with us, enslaved us, and tried to destroy the world. No Utauk—no human—should celebrate their return.”

  Adan nodded. “I don’t disagree with you at all.”

  A sparkle of mirth shone through the concern in the older man’s eyes. “My son-in-law is a wise man.”

  Penda was still waiting for explanations. “That’s a long journey. Did you intend to take me with you, without asking?”

  “No, I need you back in Bannriya. Yes, I have advisors, ministers, and delegates, but I want you to watch over the people in my absence. You’re good at that.”

  Penda sniffed. “You plan to send me home to manage the kingdom on my own?”

  Her father chuckled. “You can do it with one eye closed, dear heart.”

  “Of course I can, but I did not give Starfall permission to go.” She straightened her back and faced Adan. The ska fluttered his wings as if to reassure her that he at least did not intend to leave. Her expression softened, and she lowered her voice. “But I dreamed that you would be far away, so when I woke up I knew you were going. I just didn’t know why or where. I will miss you.”

  His heart ached and he wrapped her in a hug. “I’ll be back quickly, I promise. Why would I ever want to leave you?”

  “Why indeed? Make sure you’re back in time to see our child born.” She glanced at her father. “Both of you.”

  “That is a promise I intend to keep,” Adan said.

  “Me, too,” Hale said. “The beginning is the end is the beginning.”

  26

  IN his sunlit chambers in Convera Castle, the prince finished a portrait of one of the many potential brides offered to him. Once again, Conndur was disturbed by what he saw, but didn’t know how to express his unease. He and his older son had not been able to communicate well since Lady Maire’s death.

  Mandan seemed satisfied with his work, as unsettling as it was to his father. The young man used a narrow brush and bright white paint to add his signature. Mandan of the Colors. When painting, he never used the title of prince. In this, he was an artist, and he was unquestionably skilled. The idealized portrait of his mother that hung over his bed proved that.

  He stepped back with a critical smile. “I’ve captured Lady Surri quite well, don’t you think, Father?” He seemed eager for praise, but his voice also held a hint of taunting.

  “I recognize Lady Surri, no doubt about that,” Conn agreed, trying to keep his voice neutral. He was certain her noble parents would not appreciate the depi
ction. There was nothing specific about the portrait that anyone could fault, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why the painting disturbed him so much.

  Mandan had accurately portrayed Surri’s narrow face, blue eyes, pert nose, and wavy brown hair that fell to her shoulders. When her father presented her at court, she had indeed worn those pink ribbons in her hair, as well as a string of saltpearls given to her as a gift by their neighbor Lord Cade. Surri did have a wash of freckles across her cheeks, but in Mandan’s painting they looked like flecks of mud on her fair skin. The small mole high on her left cheek appeared far larger and darker in the portrait than it really was. Her lips should have curved in a contented smile, but somehow they looked twisted. Her features were ever so slightly wrong.

  Conndur had thought Surri was quite pretty when he first met her, but obviously the prince was not impressed. “So you won’t reconsider her as a potential wife, then?”

  “I’m afraid not, Father.” Mandan sighed and set his brush and paints down. “There was no spark, and I found her company tedious. She isn’t the right woman for me.”

  He glanced toward the portrait of Lady Maire, her rich red hair, her pale skin, the protective expression in her sea-green eyes. Conn had seen the beauty in the woman back when he married her, and had felt the sting of her loss after her suicide. But Mandan still saw his mother as an unrealistically perfect woman, which meant that no bride would ever measure up.

  Frustrated with his son’s pickiness, Conn couldn’t help but remember his own arranged marriage with Maire, even though they had never felt any particular spark. He said with a hint of exasperation, “You’ll be konag someday, Mandan. You need a queen. Among the ones offered to you, find one you can tolerate.”

  “You’ve said that many times, and Utho has told me as well, but I’m not ready to give up on true love yet.” Mandan looked at the portrait he had just completed and sighed. “Lady Surri will be disappointed, as will her parents, so I’ll give them this lovely portrait as my way of repaying their consideration.” He stepped back, locked his hands behind him. “The idea that they would offer their daughter is a sign of great respect. We should be happy with that.”