by CK Dawn
Men streamed back along the walls. They were retreating.
The one at her feet tried to crawl away.
“Sheesha! Come!” she called and the zirichak thumped and scraped his way over. Long ago, Romain had drawn the bones of the creature for her so she could learn them by heart. Their wings were like hands but with one less finger and much bigger and spread out. When they walked it was as if they were on their elbows with their forearms and fingers pointing upwards. It wasn’t elegant.
They had back legs, of course, and sometimes they went up on those alone—usually when threatening or mating.
“If you try to run away, I will let Sheesha eat you,” she said and he froze on the ground. She stopped banging the bell, having succeeded in what she was attempting, and went to Sheesha, walking him closer to the prone guard.
“Throw your sword away,” she commanded.
He gripped it tighter.
“Sheesha, speak!”
And the zirichak let out an intense squawk, which was a version of the sound he used when complaining but the guard didn’t know that. It wasn’t her fault that despite being told not to teach Sheesha tricks, he learnt things very quickly.
The sword skittered across the roof.
“And your knife.”
It went in the other direction.
There was a thunderous roar from across the castle and the Zirichak Tower was lit almost like daylight. The tekrak had started its burn. Of course she had seen the swarms of tekrasa crossing the skies in spring and fall. Usually they were mere dots, so high did they float, but at night they descended to earth and their roots dug into the soil so they could feed.
In places where crops grew, the farmers and villagers would come out into the fields to destroy the destructive plants. Each tekrak had a tube at one end, effectively the rear, and they propelled themselves by generating a fire that shot out. It was their magic. They had to be killed because their fire could destroy the crops.
The ones that landed in the castle couldn’t root anyway, and they were easy to get rid of. But when they took off in the morning the roots came up, their bodies—now bloated with gas—lifted them into the sky, and their fire tubes drove them away in their swarm.
But this tekrak had a fire tube that shot a flame almost the length of the protective wall. It moved with incredible slowness, a leviathan of the air.
Kantees turned her attention back to the guard. “I want your cloak.”
His hands fumbled at his neck.
Sheesha pulled at the reins and shrieked at the tekrak as it floated across the courtyard, ropes dangling from the basket. She could even see inside. A man, in the robes of a patterner, stood holding what looked like ropes. His eyes were closed. Soldiers looked back at her and one barked orders.
The tekrak accelerated. Sheesha dragged her up as he rose on his hind legs and beat his wings, threatening the monstrous plant.
“No, Sheesha!” she called at him but he wasn’t listening. She clung to the reins. Romain had told her a zirichak could not go aloft if someone held the reins. So she clung to them swinging and twisting as Sheesha pulled her off her feet.
The tekrak filled the sky and roared overhead. She saw a door open in the side of the basket from which a man with a bow leaned out. The roaring of the massive fire tube drowned out all other sound. But when she saw him loose three arrows in quick succession, she was terrified he was aiming for her or, even worse, at Sheesha. Then the tekrak went over them. And she felt no pain, while Sheesha continued to screech his defiance at the monster.
Heat and flame roared across them. Sheesha squealed and curled up into a tight ball. Kantees thudded to the ground and rolled over.
The wash of heat was gone almost as quickly as it arrived but it left behind a disgusting stench that made the bile rise in her throat. The flame tube lit the top of the tower with its eerie blue light. Raising her head she saw the three arrows, planted in the body of the guard she had overpowered.
They could not stop for him, but they would not let him remain alive to reveal any secrets. Hard-hearted as it seemed, she understood the logic.
Kantees went to Sheesha and flung her arms around him, burying herself in his feathers. It was partly to comfort him and give him something familiar. But it also meant she could keep warm, since she did not desire to wrap herself in a cloak wet with blood.
As she clung to his warmth, a cold certainty crept through her. She was in trouble.
It was true that she had saved the castle, they would not be able to deny it, but the fact remained that she had ridden Sheesha. And the law was the law. There were so many stories where slaves had done something wrong in the effort to do the right thing and were punished regardless of the balance.
She had ridden a zirichak in defiance of the law. The punishment was death.
But what if they never found out?
The castle was coming alive. Sounds of shouts and arguments floated up from the courtyard. There were armsmen moving on the walls opposite. She did not know if she had been seen but perhaps if she could get Sheesha back into his eyrie they might get away with it.
The trapdoor rattled. Even Sheesha jumped.
“Sheesha, come on,” she said and grabbed the reins. With the excitement over, he moved without haste. She yanked at the reins to make him move faster. It didn’t work. Once he reached the outside edge of the tower she mounted and dug her heels in.
He spread his wings, hopped up onto the wall, and dropped over the side. This time she was ready for it, and happy since it took them out of sight instantly.
The ground rushed at them. She allowed Sheesha his head and barely a man’s height from the ground he snapped his wings out into horizontal flight, careening across the ground.
The entrance to the eyrie faced the courtyard but if they came in fast from the far side they might not be seen. As she arched him away to the south, she glanced to see if the tekrak was still in view but she saw nothing. The bright glow in the sky could just as easily be another star while the false dawn of the second, larger moon called Lostimal glowed on the horizon. Unlike the dull red of Colimar, Lostimal was white.
She turned to look ahead. The town of Beedun’s Ford had already passed behind them, she was not concerned about that. The town would be asleep at this time and would know nothing of the fight at the castle.
Just as she had done before, she brought Sheesha round in a tight turn and headed him back towards the castle. As Lostimal rose, this side of the structure was bathed in its white light, which was inconvenient but unavoidable.
She had been into the town during feast days and the times when she had gone to fetch for the masters, and had thought it was big. Somehow, from the back of a zirichak it did not seem quite so large. The Beedun ran through it, splitting off the miner’s quarter from the rest. The river was milky—the colour it had as it flowed from the mountains—but now it looked red like blood, reflecting the light of Colimar, though Lostimal would soon take over.
The old ford was in the north joining the miner’s quarter to the old road, but bridges spanned the river now and the ford was only used by the miners’ wagons because either the bridges were too narrow or the cargo too heavy.
And then she was past it and following the rising land. Sheesha beat his wings in deep powerful strokes. She pulled back more and Sheesha gained even more height. The Zirichak Tower was coming at her. She knew the height of the eyrie; she thought she even recognised her window. She pulled Sheesha to the left to stay in shadow and out of the light of Lostimal, at least until the last moment.
Which arrived in the blink of an eye.
As she turned Sheesha round the curve of the tower she came into full view of every person on the walls and in the courtyard. She prayed to the Mother no one would look up at exactly that moment.
Sheesha did not require guidance now. Although he entered the eyrie at a sharper angle than usual and came to a crashing halt inside thumping into the bales of hay. The hay wasn’t
for eating since zirichasa ate meat, but provided warmth and something to sleep on, like a nest the wild animals would make for themselves.
Kantees unbuckled herself from the seat and slid to the ground. Her legs gave way again and she was freezing but she forced herself to the eyrie doors and closed them. She could not decide whether fast or slow was better. Fast because it got them shut or slow because they would not attract attention.
In the end she just did it at the speed she usually did.
Sheesha was already curled up into a tight ball and probably asleep. His breathing was unhurried. More than could be said for hers, as she was panting.
Was that real? Had she really just ridden Sheesha across the sky and saved the castle? It was like being a hero from a story. Except she would be a hero strung up on a gibbet if anyone else knew what she had done. Although that was a very sobering thought, the excitement refused to leave her. And so did the cold.
It was also forbidden to sleep with the zirichasa. One reason was that they might decide to eat you in the night. She had never heard of that happening except in Romain’s stories. The other reason—probably the real one, she now realised—was that they did not want the zirichak to form too strong a bond with their keepers, who were always slaves. And a slave might get it into their head that they could ride.
And she had. She had not fallen off.
“Kadralin cannot fly,” Romain had said. “We do not have the skill, and we do not have the command. That is why we are slaves and the Taymalin are the masters.”
Not true. She had flown and she had survived—and she had loved it.
She shivered and looked at the compact form of Sheesha. What did it matter if he ate her? After all, in the morning she might be arrested and hanged. Why avoid one risk of death when another was just as likely?
She walked over to Sheesha and petted his neck, saying his name quietly. She leaned her weight on him and as he moved slightly, a space opened up under a wing and she pushed into it. With her head against his chest, hearing his breathing and feeling his powerful heart, she closed her eyes. His wing dropped down to cover her and she slept in his warmth.
Three
The next morning the castle was in uproar. From the eyrie Kantees could hear all the shouting and the arguments. Armsmen marched down to the town. The house patterner, with a retinue, was sent to the Jakalain Circle so that he could summon a patterner path and send messages.
After tending to Sheesha, who was tired and irritable—just as she was—Kantees descended to the kitchen in the base of the tower. No one looked at her in any way other than the usual. But there seemed no time for talk.
Libbibet, a middle-aged Kadralin woman who ran the servants’ kitchen below the tower, was serving as usual and put a couple of spoonfuls of porridge into Kantees’ bowl. But instead of her usual expression of merriment and a kind word, her face was serious and her lips pressed together in concerned silence.
Kantees had already decided—after discussing it with the irritable Sheesha, who had failed to offer any advice—that she would pretend she knew nothing. She did not think anyone would have recognised Sheesha in the dark anyway. Even with the light of Lostimal, it only seemed bright because it had been so dark before.
“What’s the fuss?” said Kantees.
Libbibet paused, her hand poised with the third spoonful hanging over Kantees’ bowl. She glanced around as if she did not wish to be overheard.
“Lord Jelamie has been stolen away,” she hissed. “Raiders in the night.”
Kantees was as shocked as the woman. Jelamie was barely seven. He might be a precocious little tyrant, but to be taken from one’s family by force? Kantees was doubly shocked because she had seen what had happened, though she did not remember seeing anyone carrying a child.
But she could say nothing.
“Why would someone do that?”
Libbibet leaned forwards conspiratorially. “They say it was Slissac returned.”
Kantees had to fight back the words of denial. It had not been the almost legendary lizard people. She knew it was just Taymalin. But she could tell no one.
“I wouldn’t believe that,” she said. “Whenever anything bad happens it’s always the Slissac that are blamed and no one has seen one for a thousand years or more.”
“Children get stolen away in the night by them,” said Libbibet. “For their monstrous patterns and ceremonies.”
Kantees just shook her head and looked down at the spoon still suspended above her bowl. “Can I have that, then?”
Libbibet slopped it down. “You may scoff all you like.” And then she went off into the Kadralin tongue, which Kantees had never learnt because she had been bred and born in slavery and use of the Kadralin tongue would earn any slave a lashing.
Kantees moved away and went to one of the benches reserved for the keepers. Old Romain was there, as was Galiko, who helped Romain look after the older zirichasa that no longer flew races. He was simple but had a good heart.
“Where are the others?” she asked as she sat on the bench and put down her bowl.
“Called to the grand hall,” said Romain. “To be interrogated until they reveal the truth.”
Kantees hid her nervousness with a spoonful of porridge.
“Am I not to go?” she said, thinking that with the house patterner gone off to the ley-circle, she would not be subject to any magic that might force her to betray the truth.
“Later” was all Romain said.
She nodded and applied herself to her breakfast to avoid further conversation.
“The race in the next ten-day has been cancelled,” said Romain. “Sheesha will not be required.”
“Is it true Jelamie has been stolen away, as Libbibet says?” she asked.
“It is true,” said Romain. “The Lady is distraught and has taken to her rooms. The master is in a dangerous mood and it would not do to cross him.”
“Look, Sheesha crapping in the middle of the parade of winners wasn’t my fault.”
“You embarrassed our masters,” said Romain. “And he isn’t one to forget.”
She knew better than to talk back to Romain but she didn’t think a zirichak doing its business in a parade was on the same level as having one’s child stolen away. No matter how embarrassing it might have been at the time. And she had been punished, although not even Romain with all his experience had any guidance to offer on how to stop an excited animal pooing in public even if it did offend the sensibilities of some of the more elite of the masters.
Kantees certainly didn’t blame Sheesha. He had just come third in an important race and he was excited.
“And they came in the night?”
“Riding a monstrous tekrak by all accounts,” said Romain.
“Flyer beaten by a flyer,” said Galiko. It was barely more than a mutter but Kantees heard it and stared at him. Galiko went on eating his porridge using a tiny spoon that he kept with him. He would not use one of the big spoons so it always took him a long time, but no one got angry.
“Why was I not called with the other keepers?” she said to Romain.
“They sleep together. You are separate.”
They were all male and had a dormitory off the eyries of the yearlings. She cared for the only racer the Jakalain had; there would be no more unless they bought in new stock or until the yearlings matured. And she was a girl.
The Jakalain had only begun to keep racing zirichasa at the request of the heir, their much older son, Daybian. The tower had been there but unused. The boy who had been stolen away, Jelamie, was just the spare to inherit, in case something happened to his elder brother.
“You should present yourself at the hall before midday,” said Romain as he got up. He glanced over at Galiko, as he always did, and sighed at the boy’s slowness. “Gally!”
The boy beamed. “Romain, sir.”
Kantees felt it was impossible to be angry with such innocence, though Romain often was.
“We must win
ch new hay to the old ones,” said Romain, speaking loudly and slowly as if Galiko were deaf and stupid. “Hurry up breaking your fast.”
“Yes, Romain.”
Galiko went back to his porridge and took another slow spoonful.
The stool Kantees was sitting on scraped as she pushed it back and moved across to sit opposite Galiko.
“What did you mean about a flyer beating a flyer?”
“Gally is stupid. And Gally is slow,” said Galiko not looking up from his own food. He took another small mouthful, sucking the spoon clean.
“No, you’re not,” she said. “Gally is clever and Gally is quiet. And”—she glanced around to make sure no one was close—“if Gally saw anything last night that might get someone into trouble then he has to keep his mouth shut.”
His gaze flicked up to meet hers for a moment and then slid away.
“Gally, please,” she said quietly. “If you tell them, they will hang me.”
He frowned into his porridge. “Kill Kantees?”
“Yes, kill me.”
He sat up and put his hand on hers and squeezed it. “Don’t want Kantees killed.”
“Neither do I.”
He grinned at that. “Gally keeps secrets,” he said. “Gally keeps lots of secrets.”
“Really?” she said. “Like what?”
“Romain loves Kantees,” he said.
She imagined, for a brief moment, kissing the face of the old man, laughed, and then realised this was not the time and turned it into a cough.
“Yes, well, Gally,” she said. “That’s a secret you can keep to the end of time because it’s certainly not true.”
He squeezed her hand and nodded.
“Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked because then it’s not a secret.” She hesitated. “So, if someone asks about last night and my secret, you won’t tell them, will you?”
He shook his head and let go of her hand.
“Promise me, Gally.”