by JD Monroe
The deserts of Adrahl concealed deep veins of silver and varastrin, a precious metal that twisted through the earth like a glowing stream. Prized for its magical properties, varastrin was in high demand. Traveling near the border invited attacks from the overzealous patrols of Agni to the southwest, as well as any opportunistic parasite who would risk their skin to steal the precious metal they brought in trade.
On their trip to the south, they had a contingent of five. Aryath and his cousin Khelath had come to represent House Silverbrand, while Pelah, her uncle Samketh, and a hired hand represented House Galesworn. As they rested near a river just west of Desh, they had been ambushed. Even in human form, the Kadirai were capable warriors. Within minutes, all six human mercenaries lay dead, while Khelath had taken a nasty gash to the ribs, and Pelah’s hired hand had a spear through his shoulder. It was nothing serious, though they’d been on alert as they finished the trek to Desh.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m told there is talk of war in Agni.”
Pelah snorted in derision. “There is always talk of war in Agni.” Aryath’s face flushed again. He had spent most of their journey feeling like he had stepped in shit and tracked it across Pelah’s path. “War is good for our families, is it not?”
His stomach lurched. “I suppose.”
Pelah’s eyebrow arched. “You suppose. Hmm.”
The dismissal in that small sound sent a jolt of unease through him. He could imagine his silver-haired grandmother Fevyri, the matriarch and shrewd business mind at the head of House Silverbrand, giving him a pointed, disapproving look at his weak answer. He lacked certainty, she always said.
Pelah’s uncle, Samketh, extended his hand. One of the serving boys scurried forward to deliver an ornate silver goblet. Without acknowledging the boy, Samketh brought it to his lips for a drink. “Peace is an idea for those who are blissfully removed from reality. Aryath, an-kadi, there has been much talk of marriage to bond our houses. With your sister’s initiation as a sister of Mara, that leaves you. My daughter Eleya would be the obvious choice for your hand. What do you plan to do to increase the wealth of our great houses?”
Aryath’s cheeks flushed. The dismissive term made it clear Samketh saw him as a naïve child. “I…well…” There had been hints, but he was not prepared to give up his life to go into the Galesworn house. The thought of becoming family to Pelah…it was enough to make him shudder.
“Yes, what exactly do you do for the fortune of House Silverbrand?” Pelah asked.
It was uncanny how much Pelah’s expression mirrored the stark disapproval his grandmother always wore. “I am skilled with the sword,” Aryath said, his tongue thick and clumsy.
“Forgive my lack of enthusiasm,” Pelah said.
“Now, child,” Samketh said. “Let the boy speak.”
Aryath bristled at the term boy. “I have spent several years under the guidance of my elders to learn how best to serve. The Skymother will guide me as she sees fit for the betterment of my house.”
Pelah laughed aloud. “A diplomatic answer. Bullshit, of course, but well said. Perhaps you do more for your house than you realize.”
“My cousin is too modest,” Khelath said, speaking up for the first time since they’d arrived. He glared at Pelah. “He is a skilled liaison with the clans of Edra, and the Vak in our city. Our great nation has changed, and my cousin has risen to this change. He is well-liked and skilled with communicating with our new allies. He simply possesses too much modesty to brag about it to you.”
Aryath winced. He appreciated the kind words on principle, but the intrusion made it look like he couldn’t speak for himself.
“Well,” Samketh said, giving him an appreciative nod. “Whether we like it or not, we must reconcile our Queen’s edicts in dealing with the lesser denizens of Adrahl.”
One of the women behind Pelah scowled as she finished coiling the thick braid around the crown of the dragon woman’s head. Her lips tightened into a thin seam, as if she’d locked them tight to contain the angry words behind them. She understood more Kadirai than she let on. Her eyes met his and darted away.
As the woman secured the braid, Pelah gave an exaggerated yawn. “We should depart,” she said. “If we leave now, we can reach Auran-Kahl by midnight. They will be better suited to care for Jaros than this…charming village.” She stood and stretched. Her dark blue tunic skimmed her thighs, leaving her long legs bare. The swirling green tattoos of House Galesworn covered her arms from spine to fingertip. Pelah was undeniably pleasant to the eyes, but the woman intimidated him too much to call her attractive.
Aryath and the other men followed her lead and stood. With the regal bearing of a queen, she waited for them to approach. After Khelath bowed, Aryath approached Pelah. She squeezed his forearm with an iron grip, as if she needed to remind him one last time of her dominance. She brushed a kiss on either cheek, surrounding him in a spicy-scented cloud from the hair oil.
“Safe travels,” she said. “May the Skymother’s light shine upon you, and the winds of fate always take you true.”
“And to you,” Aryath said.
He and Khelath waited silently as the two Galesworn dragons finished their wine and left the bathhouse. When they had gone, he sat back on the cushion and released a heavy sigh. With Pelah gone, the room felt larger, the air freer. It was only in her absence that he realized his stomach had been rolling in waves the whole time he spoke to her.
As soon as he slumped back to his cushion, the petite Vak woman began rubbing his shoulders again. He turned and shook his head. Her eyes went wide. “That’s enough for now.”
She frowned. “Not good? Hurt you?”
He spoke only a smattering of Chari, the language of the Vak. The women had a far better grasp on his language than he did theirs, but he wanted to make up for his fumble earlier. “Very good. Thank you. We want…talk alone.”
She smiled at his halting speech and gestured to a golden cord hanging from the wall. “Call for me if you need.”
“Thank you.” The woman gestured to the other attendants, who hurried to clean up the discarded goblets and the basket of ornaments they had brought for Pelah’s hair.
When they were alone again, he turned to Khelath. “I hope that our dear matriarch does not ask how things went.”
“Things went fine,” Khelath said. “Pelah Galesworn is difficult, to put it politely. Everyone knows that, including Fevyri.”
Aryath loosened the cloth around his waist and stepped into the steaming bath. The hot water enveloped him in its pleasant embrace. White flower petals floated on the undulating surface, sweetening the thick steam that wafted around him.
They would begin their flight home in the morning. While the trip out to the outpost had taken them nearly two weeks because of the heavy cargo, they could make it home in two days of hard flying. The dusty simplicity of Desh made him miss the comforts of home, but he was in no hurry to return to the sharp-eyed scrutiny of his grandmother.
Everything would have been easier if not for his sister’s divine calling. Until five years ago, his older sister Aniya was in line to inherit the mantle of House Silverbrand. But Aniya had been called by the sacred healers of Marashti. Though it was a sign of divine favor upon their house, Aniya’s acceptance of the call had meant she could no longer bear a title or power. Much to the chagrin of his grandmother, his mother Sunetiri had been cursed with only sons after Aniya, meaning the responsibility of heading House Silverbrand would someday fall upon Aryath’s unprepared shoulders.
Aryath had spent his entire life in Aniya’s shadow, which suited him fine. Even as an adult, he’d shadowed his aunt Telani, who navigated sticky trade deals and diplomatic tangles with the grace of a dancer. He was happy to provide support and to carry a sword when needed, but it was different when he was responsible. And if he couldn’t even speak to Pelah Galesworn without making a fool of himself…
Even with the tension of dealing with Pelah, he’d enjoyed spending time wit
h his cousin. Khelath was a few years older, and they were cut from the same cloth. And thankfully, Khelath knew that there was sometimes value in peaceful silence. In the absence of the Vak attendants, quiet formed around them like a low-hanging mist.
His head drooped, and he jolted awake from the gentle doze pressing in on him. Stretching his legs under the water, Aryath leaned against the warm tile and closed his eyes.
A metallic ting broke through the quiet. Aryath’s senses went into high alert and he whipped his head around. The red silks hanging in the doorway at the far end of the room fluttered. He caught a glimpse of a leather-booted foot just as something sharp bit into his neck.
“Khelath!” he snapped, slapping at his neck. His fingers came away bloody. Fear and anger flooded him, overwhelming him with paralyzing indecision.
His cousin surged out of the water, leaping clear of the shallow pool and landing easily on the side. Khelath had just landed on the slick tile when he staggered back with a shout of pain and splashed into the water. A thick black bolt protruded from his chest. The sight of blood spreading in the water broke Aryath from his paralysis.
Plunging underwater, Aryath released his hold on his dragon form. Crackling heat exploded through him from the base of his spine, erupting in tiny explosions up each vertebra. He focused on the crackling spark of magic, thinking faster, faster, as his skeleton broke and reshaped itself. As soon as he felt the peeling, stretching sensation of his wings forming, he surged out of the water and let out a roar that reverberated off the walls. Water exploded around him as he unfolded his wings and flared them outward.
A chorus of surprised shouts echoed off the plaster walls. His sharp gaze swept across the bath house. A dozen figures in dark clothing spread in a triangular formation in front of the door. The warm glow of the lanterns reflected in flickering beams off a dozen drawn blades.
Aryath drew a deep breath and called on the lightning. The spark filled his chest, then exploded forth like he was exhaling pure energy. Electricity enveloped two of the attackers and sent them flying backward into their companions.
The charcoal-colored dragon was Aryath as much as the man was, but things were much simpler this way. He did not care what these men wanted, who they were, where they came from. The first bolt to draw blood had sealed their fate. They attacked him. They would die.
As he unleashed another volley of lightning, one of them aimed a heavy crossbow toward him. His sensitive ears caught the subtle creak and snap of the mechanism as it released another bolt. He ignored it and lumbered forward; a tiny bolt would do nothing to him in his massive form.
Sharp pain lanced through his neck, pouring liquid fire into his veins. He recoiled, shaking his horned head as the searing sensation spread into his throat. Another snap of a crossbow sounded, and something pierced through his wing.
He swept his tail over the tile, catching the two closest attackers and sending them flying. He relished the choked sound of pain as they hit the stone wall and knocked the wind out of their lungs. A third ran toward him with a sword brandished. Aryath raked his claws across the man’s chest, tearing through his clothing like paper. The metallic smell of blood bit into the humid air and drowned the floral perfume.
No one had spoken yet, so a murmured word from one of his attackers caught his attention. As he turned back, a flash of movement caught his eye.
One of the dark-clad intruders was female. Her face was uncovered, and her pale blonde hair gleamed in the low light. She held a silver globe close to her face, a small flame flickering near her lips. With a grunt of effort, she lobbed it at him. He ignored the tiny weapon, lunging for her and preparing a deadly barrage of lightning.
The globe landed on his back, but instead of bouncing off his armored scales, it exploded. It felt as if he’d fallen into one of the Silverbrand forges, with white-hot flames and molten metal enveloping him. He roared in pain, trying to get away, but the flame clung to him. The lightning evaporated from his grasp as waves of excruciating pain buffeted him.
As he staggered back, another thick bolt went through his wing. It was attached to a thin cord that snapped taut, ripping through the thin membrane of his wing like parchment. Flame seared into the open wound and overwhelmed his senses with an agony he had never experienced in his life.
With desperation and pain warring for supremacy, he fell onto his side, a spasm rocking through his form. It had to pass, it was just pain.
But it didn’t.
The burning only got worse with each painful thump of his heart. He couldn’t hold onto the dragon, not as something burned through his hide and into his flesh. As if it wasn’t bad enough, the tether went taut again, and the wing tore completely away from the strong flight bone. He retched, letting out a choked growl, and the world went white as all his senses left him.
The people of Desh would think nothing of the tawny cat trotting down the alley. If they’d spotted her at night, or if she had been full-sized like the wild sand cats that prowled the desert beyond the city walls, they might give her a wide berth, but she looked like an oversized house cat. Down in the market, a small child had tried to feed her a bit of fish. Shalina al-Tahni did not accept scraps of food, even from adorable toddlers. One had to have a sense of pride. She did, however, venture close enough to let the tyke scratch her back before darting away.
The mood in Desh was peculiar. People seemed suspicious, even fearful, as they hurried about their business. And for some reason, they kept stealing glances up at the empty sky. Now that she was prowling in her cat form, she could smell acrid fear mixed with a hundred different varieties of sweat. But when she got away from the crowds in the market, she caught a hint of something rotten. It could have been a heap of garbage out of sight, but there was something unsettling that she couldn’t pinpoint.
Regardless of the source, a stench in the street was an issue for the good people of Desh to deal with. She was here long enough to rest, replenish her supplies, and continue the trek north to Auran-Kahl to find work.
Shalina darted down the narrow alley and leaped up to the windowsill on the back of the inn. She’d left her window open just enough to fit her feline body through on the way in. Squeezing through let her rub her back along the window frame, one of the divine sensations of her feline form.
Once she was inside, she padded to the door to inspect it. The latch was still secured, and her room smelled just as she’d left it.
With a deep breath, Shalina began the transformation back into her human form. It felt like dragging a knotted rope through her nostrils; not impossible, but viscerally unpleasant. Her front feet expanded, the golden fur disappearing into copper skin that stretched over the misshapen digits. Her weight was off-balance as her front half turned back into a human woman while the back still clung to its small cat form. With a groan of effort, she forced the bottom half of her body into human form. When it was over, she felt as if she had sprinted the length of Desh’s main street at high noon. Her chest heaved as she lay prone, her sweat-damp cheek pressed to the gritty floor. Every inch of skin itched like mad.
She had never been able to transform smoothly, and probably never would. Another fine gift from the dragons who had stolen her childhood. But it was a waste to feel sorry for herself. Grabbing the rickety bed frame, she hauled herself up with a series of popping joints righting themselves.
After bathing with the basin of water, she took a bottle of uren-vakhan oil from her bag. Removing the cork released a heavy, earthy smell. She poured a coin-sized dollop of the thick oil in her hand and patted it all over her skin. The expensive oil was a relief on desert-dry skin, but she bought it because its strong scent overpowered the distinct smell of the Edra, the shapeshifters she called her kin. Even to another shifter, she would smell human, if overly perfumed.
Shalina quickly dressed in layers of linen, covering the lower half of her face with a veil. Many of the denizens of the smaller border towns dressed this way to protect themselves from the blazing
sun. And she would never say no to an additional layer of secrecy. It suited her fine to blend in with the crowd.
With her scent concealed and face covered, she left the small inn and walked back into the busy streets of Desh in search of information. The main road through town doubled as a market. The wide street was lined in canopied stalls selling an assortment of produce, grain, and fabric items. It was pleasantly noisy, with chattering shoppers and raucous birds calling from the rooftops. The midday sun bore down with a vengeance, unfettered by clouds as it blazed in a pure blue sky.
“Okan ia sol!” a small voice called. Shalina was surprised to hear her native tongue. The voice belonged to a small boy standing in front of a sloped table. Glistening knots of golden dough sprinkled with nuts were displayed neatly on the table. The sweet smell made her mouth water.
His mother leaned over and patted his head. “In Chari, my sweet,” she corrected. “Pastries and fruit.”
The boy frowned but repeated the words after his mother. It was a shame. The human tongue lacked the pleasant rhythm of Edra.
“Your Chari is very good,” Shalina said in Chari as she approached their table. Even among her kind, she did not want to reveal her true nature. “How much for the pastries?”
“Four coins apiece. Three for ten,” the woman said. Her cream-colored scarf was loose, draped over wavy reddish hair.
“I’ll take three,” Shalina said. She handed the coins to the boy, who eagerly passed them to his mother and fetched a pair of wooden tongs. While the boy picked out pastries and wrapped them in a piece of rough cloth, Shalina turned to his mother. “Can you tell me where your supplies come from? I’m looking for a caravan traveling north.”