The Dragonstone

by Dennis L McKiernan

  * * *

  “A sharing?”

  “Yes, Aiko, a sharing.” Arin glanced far ahead to where Egil rode. “When I am with Egil I do not feel as if I ‘surrender,’ but as if I share instead. Each of us cares for the other’s need—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually—and we are both fulfilled.” Arin rode a moment in silence, then said, “Do not take me wrong: one need not be in love to crave a physical sharing—honest lust will drive one to the heights of desire, and slaking that desire most wonderful. But without love there is no lasting contentment…pleasure, yes; tranquility, no. Lust without love is that way: full of fire and passion, but empty of serenity when quenched.”

  Ferret shook her head. “As to the physical part, in my lons experience there was no pleasure, no caring involved…only force and brutality, only violence.” She gritted her teeth in memory.

  Arin looked at her in dismay. “A man did this to you?”

  Ferret nodded.

  “Does he yet live?” growled Aiko.

  “No,” replied Ferret, her voice grim.

  * * *

  “For the first time in my life,” said Delon, sighing, “I believe I am truly in love. Yet Ferai seems to withdraw whenever we begin to get close.”

  “Adon,” said Egil, “that’s not the case between Arin and me.”

  Burel looked at Delon. “Perhaps it is something in Ferret’s past which pushes her away.”

  * * *

  Arin sighed. “Ferai, thou must try to accept the past for what it truly was: the man who forced thee was an uncaring, savage animal interested only in its own immediate gratification. There was no love involved, not even sharing. There are many like him in the world. Yet, there are uncounted more who are gentle and caring. Egil is one such. So, too, I deem, are Burel and Delon.

  “And thou, Aiko, thou shouldst set aside this notion of surrender. When thou dost finally take a man into thine embrace or unto thy bed, it will be thou who wilt choose, thou who wilt say yea or nay, and should he be an uncaring beast—”

  “He will not survive,” growled Aiko.

  Arin smiled. “Ah, yes. But should he be gentle and loving and caring, then it will be no surrender but a glorious alliance instead.”

  * * *

  “I think Burel is right, Delon,” said Egil. “Something untoward may have happened to Ferret in the past. Yet any fool can see she cherishes you…or at least this fool can see such. You must be nothing but gentle with her, and perhaps her inclination to withdraw will fade.

  “And you, Burel. Aiko is indeed a warrior without peer. You must treat her as no less. But as Delon says, she is also a woman. If you love her and she loves you, there will come a time when you two will become lifemates, soulmates, as have Arin and I, and that void you’ve felt with other women will be filled at last.”

  * * *

  “No invasion? No surrender?”

  Arin shook her head, No.

  “Hmm.” Aiko looked speculatively ahead at the men faring westward on their camels. Then she sighed, and as if reluctant to admit any kind of weakness, she said, “I have absolutely no experience in this at all, Dara.”

  “None of us do at first, Aiko,” replied Arin. “I will help thee all I can.”

  “And my experience is all bad,” said Ferret. “Too, I am frightened.”

  “Oh, my child, thou must set aside thy fear. It will not be easy, for given thine experience thou wilt need the most courage and trust of all, yet thou couldst not have survived on thine own if thou didst not possess grit. As to the trust, that can only come with time and gentle touch, yet it will not come at all if thou dost take no risk.”

  * * *

  And so they fared westerly, three males in the lead in deep conversation, three females trailing a distance after in gentle dialogue as well, and in between rode an old man who snorted, “Lovers and would-be lovers, bah!”

  * * *

  They came into Aban on the seventeenth of December, just after the setting of the sun. Once again they made their way to the Golden Crescent inn. And on this night as Egil and Arin arranged for a room of their own, Aiko stepped to Burel and, looking him in the eye, said through her silken veil, “Will you share my room?”

  As Burel stammered out his reply, Delon caught Ferai’s gaze with his, and she looked long at him, but in the end she said, “I will sleep alone.”

  Egil made arrangements through the innkeeper to sell the camels back to the stable from which they had come, and then, as Arin arranged for hot baths for all, he and Alos made their way down to the docks to see to the state of the Brise.

  * * *

  “We couldn’t find any Yilan Koy on any chart that Alos and I bought,” said Egil, freshly scrubbed and seated at supper, the first hot meal any of them had had since setting out from the Temple of the Labyrinth six days past. He turned to Burel. “It was Yilan Koy, right?”

  Burel nipped another mouthful of shish kebab from his skewer. He chewed slowly, thoroughly, and finally swallowed and then said, “That’s what my mother said. My father sailed from Yilan Koy somewhere along the coast of Kistan.”

  “This would go well with ale,” said Alos as he plucked up a gobbet of lamb that had fallen onto his plate. Like all the others, the old man was clean again. It hadn’t even required any urgings from Aiko for him to take his bath, for as he had said, he “needed to get the red out.”

  As Arin reached for the steaming rice, she said, “Perhaps it is shown on thy charts by another name.”

  “True,” replied Egil. “Yilan Koy sounds like no common name I ever heard. And the charts we purchased are written in the common tongue.”

  “Damned hard to find, too,” grunted Alos. “We had to pay a pretty penny to get ones we could read.”

  She turned to Ferret. “Mayhap our scholar at the archives can translate for us.”

  Ferret nodded but did not speak, seemingly occupied by her food instead, though she consumed little.

  * * *

  That night, Ferret watched as Arin and Egil retired to one room, and as Aiko and Burel stepped into another. Delon stood across the hall and softly said, “Goodnight, luv,” then he entered the room where Alos was, leaving Ferret in the corridor alone. She sighed and stepped into her chamber and softly closed the door behind.

  Removing her veil and bandoliers, she fell backward onto the bed and stared up at the stucco ceiling, with its stipples and dimples and rough texture holding all patterns and none. Finally she roused and doffed her boots and leathers, and poured clear water from the pitcher into the basin at hand and washed her face.

  Toweling off, she blew out the lantern and fell once more to the bed.

  As she lay and stared into the darkness above, through her window she could hear noises from the city outside: people passing to and fro, the occasional sound of an ired camel, horses’ hooves now and again, muted conversation and laughter.

  Unbidden, images of Delon came into her mind, echoes of words said, visions of him riding and walking and sitting and singing, fragments of melodies…words from Arin: When thou dost finally take a man into thine embrace or unto thy bed, it will be thou who wilt choose, thou who wilt say yea or nay…no invasion…thou wilt need the most courage and trust…it will not come at all if thou dost take no risk…Ferai, thou must try to accept the past for what it truly was…for what it truly was…set aside thy fear…it will be thou who wilt choose…it will not come at all if thou dost take no risk…risk…risk…

  The pale yellow light of a rising gibbous moon came creeping in through her window, and in the soft radiance again she got up and washed her face in cool water, and then lay down once more.

  Still, images of Delon came unbidden to her mind, and she lay in her bed, her lips afire from the memory of his kiss, her loins and breasts burning, her entire body aflame…

  …risk…

  It was near mid of night when she at last arose and padded across the hall to tap on Delon and Alos’s door.

  * * *

/>   The next morning, when Alos awoke he found he was in the room alone.

  CHAPTER 58

  Delon stood on Ferai’s balcony, singing bliss to the world at large, and people in the street below paused in wonder at the lyrical joy in his voice, though they understood not a word. And in the chamber behind him, soundly asleep with a smile on her face, lay the subject of his rhapsody.

  And across the hall and down, Arin and Egil lay together and held hands and listened to the paean and smiled, for although they knew not for certain the cause of such gladness, they could not help but suspect.

  And beyond their own balcony and down in the enclosed courtyard below, steel skirled on steel as two warriors practiced stroke and counterstroke, while shocked servants and guests stared in disbelief, for although one was a man good and proper, the other was of all things a female, and surely this bordered on blasphemy, or so the Fists of Rakka would say. But none suggested this to the woman, for she was entirely too formidable, and a person would have to be a camel-brained fool to even dare whisper to her such words.

  And above them and alone in his bed, a one-eyed old man fell back to sleep while songs of love and steel sang all ’round.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Arin, Aiko, Ferret, Delon, and Burel made their way to the archive. When they arrived, once again Delon took station at the entrance, while the others went all the way in. As they approached the central desk, the scholar looked up and smiled, and then his eyes widened. “Burel,” he breathed. The ‘âlim leaped up from his station and rushed to Burel and embraced him and kissed him on the cheeks, a string of Sarainese tumbling from his lips.

  Burel smiled and hugged the man and kissed him in return and murmured, “Khûri Ustâz.”

  Aiko’s tilted eyes widened. “You know this man, saia no hito?”

  Burel nodded, saying, “He is”—Burel glanced about to see if any of the patrons were listening; none were, yet Burel lowered his voice—“another keeper of faith.” He turned to the scholar. “Khûri Ustâz, let us go where we can speak.”

  The ‘âlim nodded and, motioning to Delon, led them back to the same chamber he had previously used. Once again Delon took station at the beaded curtain.

  Inside, Burel said, “Khûri Ustâz, I would have you meet my companions: Dara Arin of Darda Erynian, Lady Ferai of Gothon, and at the door stands Bard Delon of Gûnar. And lastly, let me present my kalb w nafs, Lady Aiko.” Burel turned to his companions. “My friends, this is Khûri Ustâz, a priest of Ilsitt.”

  As the ‘âlim acknowledged the introductions, he said, “I have met all these before, Burel, though I did not know their names.”

  As he came to Ferret, she said, “No wonder you knew how to tell us where to find the temple, though your instructions weren’t very clear.”

  The priest-scholar smiled and shrugged. “You could have been agents from the Fists of Rakka, though I am glad you are not.”

  Then he turned to Aiko and looked long at her and finally said, “So you are Burel’s kalb w nafs.” It was a statement and not a question. Then without warning, he stepped forward and embraced her.

  Perplexed and wary and merely tolerating the ‘âlim’s embrace, Aiko looked up at the grinning Burel. “What have you told him?”

  “That you are my heart and soul.”

  The scholar stepped back and nodded. “Kalb w nafs: heart and soul.” Then he turned to Burel. “My boy, I never thought to see you beyond the compound’s walls. You must tell me what brings you here.”

  * * *

  “Yilan Koy,” said Arin. “They are Kistanian words meaning ‘Serpent Cove,’ or so said the scholar-priest.”

  “Serpent Cove, Serpent Cove,” mumbled Egil, scanning the charts he’d brought from the Brise.

  “Here,” said Alos, jabbing a forefinger down to one of the parchments.

  Egil rotated the chart ’round to the place where Alos had pointed. The map showed an inlet, long and narrow and sinuous. “Hmm. Yes. Shaped like a snake.” Then he looked up at the oldster. “That was quick.”

  “When I heard the common name, I knew where it was,” growled Alos, “for I’ve been there. And let me tell you, it’s no place for an honest man.”

  Egil’s eye widened. “You’ve been to Yilan Koy?”

  Alos nodded. “The cove as well as the town in the viper’s throat…if there’s ever been a worse den of thieves, I’ve yet to see it.” Then he glared with his white eye at Egil and Arin. “I swore when I was there if I ever escaped that pit I’d never go back.”

  “What wast thou—?”

  “Delivering a shipload of pomegranates,” snapped Alos, before Arin could finish her question. “Cap’n Borkson took on that damnfool cargo in Chabba because no Hyrinian dhows were in port at the time, and because no others would haul it. ‘They gave us a pilot and triple fees,’ the cap’n crowed…the more fool he. We barely made it out of there with our hides.”

  “Why so?” asked Ferret.

  “Because once we’d been there, that meant we knew the way in.”

  Burel looked down at the chart. “The way in?”

  “Why d’y’ think it’s called Serpent Cove?” Before Burel could respond, Alos pointed his finger to the mouth of the inlet and answered his own question: “Not only does it look like a snake on the chart, but there’s rocks like serpent’s fangs barring the way. This whole coastline’s that way—for league upon league in either direction there’s jagged stones to hole any hull that comes near. And as to the rocks, the fangs ‘cross the inlet, tricky they are, and not just anyone can sail past ’em. I’d say there are no more dangerous shoals lying in any of the waters throughout the whole wide world.”

  Delon looked at the long narrow cove on the map. “Hmm. They don’t show up here.”

  Alos snorted. “Any chartmaker that’d scribe it so would have his throat cut.”

  Now Egil’s one good eye fixed Alos’s. “But you know the way in.”

  “Of course I do; I’m a helmsman, ain’t I? —Now wait a moment here. I said I’d never return, and I meant it!”

  * * *

  They reasoned with Alos the rest of the day, but the old man was adamant: he would not go back to the cove, and that was final.

  As eve drew upon the land, Burel and Aiko retired to the courtyard, where again they drilled at swords, the big man now using a long, curved blade Aiko had selected for him that very morning from an obsequious arms merchant nearby. The kowtowing dealer had called it a sayf, but Aiko named it saber. It was rather broad bladed and had an ivory hilt with a hooked silver pommel that partially curved around the back of the hand. When sheathed, the weapon was meant to be carried in front, slung by a strap from two rings on a broad band high around the neck of the black scabbard, yet Aiko arranged for a belt which could be fixed across the back or secured around the waist. “But this is a weapon meant to be used from camelback,” had protested the merchant, adding an “if you please.” But Aiko had replied, “Where we go there will be no camels.”

  And now in the courtyard she and Burel stepped through stroke and counterstroke, while dark-eyed men stood in the shadows and glared at the unveiled yellow woman and her red-headed outlander man, the cloaks of these disapproving observers bearing the sigil of a clenched fist.

  * * *

  The nighttide swept over the land, and Egil and Arin bade all good night and, holding hands, headed upstairs for their bed. Somewhere above, water splashed in the bathing chamber and a big man laughed and a female voice called out, “Bukotsomono!” but laughed as well. In the lanternlight of the veranda, Ferret, uncertain, glanced at Delon, and he smiled and gently took her hand and kissed her fingers and whispered, “I love you, my sweet Ferai.” Tears trembling on her lashes, she clasped him to her.

  * * *

  Dawn came to Aban, and once again Alos awakened to the sound of singing and the skirl of steel on steel. Groaning, he rose from his bed and stumbled to his balcony. Below, Aiko and Burel were practicing, and even more
dark-eyed strangers watched the drill, stirring and muttering among themselves.

  “Hoy!” yelled Alos. “We’re trying to sleep up here.” Not waiting to see what his shout accomplished, the old man lurched back to his bed and fell asleep once more.

  * * *

  After another day of fruitless discussion, at last Egil sighed and looked across at Arin. “I suppose we’ll just have to attempt it on our own, Dara. I mean, Alos is determined he’s not going back.” Egil turned to the oldster. “You’ll have to tell us all you know about the town and the cove, especially about the way to get past the Serpent’s Fangs.”

  The seven sat in long shadows at evening meal on the veranda, the last of the sun nearly sunk, the western sky orange, the eastern deep violet.

  “Can’t we make anchor elsewhere and go in overland?” asked Delon.

  “That’s a damnfool suggestion,” barked Alos.

  Ferret reached out and took Delon’s hand and glared at the oldster.

  But Alos ignored her and stabbed a finger at the bard. “Didn’t you listen when I said the whole coast is fanged in that region? For decades of miles upshore and down it’ll pierce any hull, sink any ship whose captain is fool enough to sail nigh.”

  Arin also reached out and took a hand—Alos’s. “We cannot and will not force thee to guide us safely past the shoals. Yet heed, I deem that this is why thou art a one-eye in dark water, for this is thy hidden purpose in the rede. And without thee, we shall fail.”

  Alos looked down at the small hand gripping his, and then at the Dylvana. With his chin atremble he opened his mouth to say something, but at that very moment, Khûri Ustâz strode quickly onto the porch and, staying in the shadows and glancing left and right, hissed, “Burel!”

  Burel looked up, but before he could say aught, Ustâz said, “The Fists of Rakka, they’re coming to get you and your kalb w nafs, Lady Aiko. Blasphemers, they name you both. They come to punish you, to batter you to death in the public square.”

  Aiko growled and leapt to her feet. “If they want a fight, they’ll get it,” she sissed through gritted teeth, then turned to Burel and snapped, “Swords,” and started for her room, all others springing to their feet to follow, all but Arin and Alos, the Dylvana standing and calling out “Wait!” while the old man shrank down in his seat.