by NS Dolkart
She lowered her eyes. Had she been about to say “monsters?”
“Yes,” he said.
She went back to cutting. “What happened to them?”
“They lived in Ardis, and a priest of Magor killed them. That’s all I know.”
Phaedra nodded. “I’ve read about Magor; I’m not surprised His priests are warlike. He’s supposed to be the Sea God’s brother, Karassa’s uncle. The God of the Wild. His followers believe in the virtue of strength above all else, and they don’t consider killing to be a sin. In their teachings, no one has any inherent rights, they just have whatever respect they can gain from others through their strength of arms or magical power or what have you. They say that the women of Ardis –” she paused, embarrassed.
“Yes? What about them?”
She finished with the shears and sat down. There was something enchanting about the way she looked down at her lap. “Well,” she said, fiddling with the shears in her hand. “They say that the women of Ardis lie with more than one man in a night, and let the seed do battle in their wombs. Later, whichever man the child resembles is honored at their spring festival. A great man is supposed to be able to have his children carry him from his home to the temple of Magor without his feet ever touching the ground.”
“Huh,” Criton said. They were both silent for a time.
In the stories Ma had told him, the hero usually met a beautiful woman and swept her off her feet. Was that really what men did? He imagined lifting Phaedra off the floor and, and – he couldn’t do that, could he? Was it as simple as that? He had no experience at all, and something told him that any mistake would be catastrophic.
Phaedra broke the silence first. “I’ve read a lot about the Gods. Katinaras is my favorite. He disputes the notion of Godly kinship, which is interesting, but his finger-in-the-mesh analogy is pure genius. I can explain it to you some time.”
Criton said nothing. He was still wondering about Ma’s stories.
Phaedra handed him a razor and a bowl of water. “I’m ready. Were you here to talk to me about something else?”
“Oh, uh, yes.” What was he here for again? “Narky and I were talking about leaving Atuna, and I remembered you were telling me about this place – the Crossroads – and I thought, um, do you want to go there? Narky thinks the plague might follow us here. If you’re still planning on finishing your pilgrimage…”
Phaedra nodded, and he drew the blade away from her scalp. “I am. My career as a weaver can wait a couple of weeks, and I think traveling will clear my head. Narky could be right about the plague, too.”
She sighed. “I don’t know where Hunter is right now, but if we’re all going together, we should make him come with us. He was supposed to meet his father here. He’ll just waste away in this city unless someone pulls him out of it.”
They would all go together. The thought raised Criton’s spirits.
“I’ll find Hunter,” he said, standing up. “The rest of my hair can wait.”
It took quite some time to find him. The lord’s son was in none of the expected places. Criton finally found him harborside, standing near the customs house and staring silently out to sea as the ships came and went. He had shaved his head since Criton last saw him, but his appearance was otherwise the same. He was dressed for war still, with his meticulously polished armor glinting in the late afternoon sun. With his shield on his back and his hand resting on his sword hilt, he looked almost as if he was anticipating an invasion.
“Hunter?” Criton began, tentatively.
“Yes.” Hunter didn’t even turn his head.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Thinking.”
Criton took a deep breath. “About your father meeting you here?” he ventured.
Finally, Hunter’s eyes met his. “About my life. If everyone’s really gone, then I have nothing. I wanted to be Tarphae’s champion one day. I thought I would stand before an army, challenging the enemy’s best warriors, and I would slay them for the glory of my people. Now I have no nation to fight for. The king I would have championed stands alone on an island of the dead. I can’t even go back, because the plague might be waiting for me there. My life is pointless.”
Criton had no idea what to say in response, so he awkwardly changed the subject instead. “Isn’t it hot for you in all that armor?”
Hunter’s mouth twitched in what could have become a smile, but didn’t. “It used to be, when my father first gave it to me. Now I’m used to it.”
“Oh.” There was nothing for it but to charge ahead, blind. “The rest of us are going to leave Atuna,” Criton said. “Do you want to come?”
Hunter looked back at the sea and paused in thought. “You’re the only countrymen I have left to fight for,” he said finally.
“I don’t think there’ll be any fighting,” Criton told him. “We’re going to an abbey.”
They set out late the next morning, traveling southwest along a well-worn dirt road. Phaedra sold much of her luggage before they left, and now traveled with a pack slung over her shoulders. Even so, she was a very fast walker. Criton had never walked so far before, and he soon began envying the others for their shoes. Bandu didn’t have any either, but her feet were hard and callused, and she didn’t limp when the pebbles dug into them. He considered letting his feet revert to the scaly claws he had been born with, but then everyone would see. It was bad enough that Phaedra knew – he was lucky she hadn’t denounced him.
Four-foot limped along beside, occasionally baring his teeth at Narky. Apparently, Narky was not yet forgiven for teaching Bandu how to burn a wound.
“A wolf shouldn’t travel on the roads,” Narky told Bandu. “What if we run into some other travelers? Remember what happened on the boat?”
A short argument ensued, and they were all quietly relieved when Bandu agreed to take Four-foot and follow some distance behind them, staying off the road.
“You walk, we hunt,” she said darkly, and when Phaedra asked if she would get lost without them, replied, “Four-foot can smell you.”
Whatever he had hoped, traveling only made his thoughts darker. This was what Ma had wanted for him: a life outside her house, going wherever he must to find the dragon kin that he longed for. In Ma’s stories, the hero usually had a long and arduous journey on the way to fulfill his final goal. Criton’s journey was only just beginning, but he felt it couldn’t get much worse than it already was. His mother was dead – wasn’t that arduous enough?
He walked in a haze, even as the scenery should have fascinated him. The birds, the trees, the sounds and smells of the country – all were unfamiliar to him. He felt he ought to learn about these places, even though he didn’t terribly care. Ma would have expected it.
They entered a forest whose scent was pleasant, if a little overpowering, and he decided to ask his companions about the trees. Thus he learned from Hunter that they were called guardian trees, and that the finest warships were made of their wood; he learned from Narky that they poisoned the ground for fruit trees and tukka trees, which were harvested for gum; and Phaedra told him a story about a soldier long ago who had transformed himself into a tree so that he could forever guard his love. His head filled with new information, Criton refrained from asking any more questions.
Another mile, and the road ran beside a brook, with a fen on one side and the woods on the other. It was a charming spot, really, with all the mystery and romance that lack of visibility can bring. It reminded him of how Ma used to let him look out the window on foggy days, so that he could imagine that the mist concealed his real father coming to reclaim his son.
A man stepped out of the woods in front of them, raising a hand to halt their approach. He was a tall man in his twenties – about Criton’s height, in fact – with a long sword at his side and a grim expression on his face. Half of his upraised arm was covered with a tattoo of a boar.
“Right, then,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “Let’s have your we
apons on the ground first, then your valuables. Nobody makes any trouble, nobody dies, yes?”
There were some other men visible now as well, two in the fen and three in the woods, standing with bows ready. Narky swore and put down his crossbow, but Hunter hesitated. He was clearly considering fighting his way out of this. Criton shook his head.
When he was still a boy playing at dragon-finding, Ma had used to laugh and warn about bandits on the road. Something about the way she had said it made him imagine the bandits as grinning buffoons who could never really stop a boy with dragon’s blood and a dream. But these men were not buffoons, and they were not grinning. This was their livelihood. Criton’s haze of mind was gone, and every muscle in his body longed for this fight, but his mind prevailed. How could a few boys whose beards were not yet full grown even consider resisting them?
There was a sudden bark from behind, and Phaedra screamed. The bandits turned their heads, which was enough of an opening for Hunter to attack. In an instant he was charging the woods, sword and shield in hand. It was too late for caution then. The thought made Criton’s heart leap with a vicious joy. He looked to the fen and found the men there backing away from Four-foot’s onslaught, their arrows already loosed ineffectually and their faces showing panic.
There were several more screams.
The leader of the bandits ran toward Criton, Narky and Phaedra, sword raised. It wasn’t clear whether he meant to kill them or take them hostage, but Criton did not wait to find out. He drew in a deep breath and imagined that the man was his Ma’s husband. Flames leapt from his mouth. The highwayman threw up his arm to shield his eyes, and when he dropped his arm again, blinking and trying to find his assailant, Criton tore his face off.
The man’s screams were horrifying. Narky stared, and Phaedra was sick.
“What in the Gods’ own…?” was all Narky seemed able to say.
Criton didn’t answer. He was trying not to be sick himself.
Soon Hunter returned, his sword still clean. “They ran,” he said, and then stopped short when he saw what Criton had done to the bandit leader.
They were all staring at him now, demanding an explanation. Criton suddenly felt that he had so much to answer for, he didn’t even know where to start. He had killed someone, someone who had been alive just a moment ago. And it had come far too naturally to him.
His claws dripped blood. “My family is descended from dragons,” he said.
Ma had always told him to hide his true nature from others, so that he wouldn’t be persecuted in the outside world. What would they do to him, now that they knew what he was?
He could see Hunter trying to decide whether he still counted as a countryman to defend, or whether he was a dangerous monster to be slain. He had apparently not decided yet when Bandu arrived, surveying the bodies and looking pleased with herself.
“Now you are glad Four-foot is with us,” she said.
“Yes,” Hunter said, and turned his head toward the wolf. The hero of the morning was busy feasting on one of the fallen men. Criton’s hands might be covered in blood, but for the moment he was forgotten.
Thank the Gods for that.
9
Bandu
After that, nobody objected to Four-foot’s company. He and Bandu were welcomed into the pack, and they all traveled together toward the abbey, which was apparently just another word for a big den made out of stone. Bandu did not think she would ever understand why people needed all these different words for the same few things. Four-foot’s kind never wasted their time finding new ways to say the same things.
Poor Four-foot. His cut was swelling, and she didn’t like its color. Was it supposed to do that, after they burned it? She didn’t know, but she hoped the abbey people would. What would she do, if Four-foot died? Her memories from before she met him were vague and disturbing. Just thinking about losing him made her feel more sympathetic toward Phaedra, who had already lost her own Four-foot.
The others had been awfully surprised about Criton’s scales and sharp hands, and now they seemed to have decided to pretend nothing had happened. Bandu wondered how they had failed to notice it all to begin with. They weren’t very perceptive people.
They were being just as blind now, ignoring that angry crow. It had been following them for some time already, ranting about some slight it had received. Bandu did not think the crow’s anger was directed at her, but she couldn’t be sure. She left it a piece of the dried meat that the others had bought for their journey. Even if it wasn’t mad at her personally, she could at least be courteous.
The abbey, when they reached it, was a very large den with one of her kind’s stone gardens to one side. A man came out of it to greet them as they arrived, blessing them in the name of his God. Bandu did not know much of the Gods, though she remembered a big man who had once prayed for guidance. Was it her father? He had been crying, but the next day his expression was hard as stone. Bandu did not like the Gods.
Phaedra spoke to the abbey man, and Narky told him about Four-foot. The man looked concerned. He came closer, reaching out his hand for the wolf to smell. Four-foot seemed to like him. Bandu relaxed.
“I am Brother Gedrel,” the man said. “May I look at his wound?”
Four-foot licked Brother Gedrel’s hand, and Bandu nodded. While he inspected Four-foot’s side, Narky spoke. “You’re not dressed like any priest I’ve ever seen.”
Brother Gedrel only smiled and said, “I am not a priest. Priests are leaders, those who can pray and give sacrifices on behalf of others. A friar is but a man who has renounced worldly pleasures and dedicated his own life to the service of his God. I pray and sacrifice as any other man would, and command no greater authority.”
“What good is that, then?” Narky asked.
Gedrel laughed. “I do not know. What more can a man hope to gain, besides the favor of his God?”
“I don’t know, how about a wife and children, and power and respect, and some money to wash it down?”
The friar did not reply to this. Phaedra looked as if she could have punched Narky.
“He means no harm,” Hunter said, putting a warning hand on Narky’s shoulder.
Narky shrugged the hand off. “Don’t tell me what I mean.” But he was quiet after that.
Brother Gedrel finished inspecting Four-foot’s side and stood up. “We can do our best, but I’m afraid it doesn’t look good. To burn a wound is not enough: one must keep it clean after cautery. Perhaps even more than before it.”
Bandu looked at Four-foot and began to cry. “He will die?”
“I can’t know for sure,” Brother Gedrel said, “but, like I said, it doesn’t look good. We’ll do our best.”
Phaedra put her arms around Bandu, and Criton came too, more timidly. Bandu knelt and cried into Four-foot’s fur, while the new members of her pack closed around her.
“Please live,” she whispered to him, and he whined at her distress. “My kind are not enough.”
They stayed with the friars for many days, while the weather grew hotter and Four-foot grew weaker. His cut turned black, and its bad color grew outward. He was in pain, she knew, but she could not end his life, much though the others urged her to. The friars had a drink that they made from flowers to take the pain away, and when Four-foot could no longer lap it up on his own, Bandu sat with his head in her lap and gently poured it down his throat.
He died with his eyes open. Bandu’s pack mourned with her, even though they had been afraid of him at first. She was grateful for their company. The friars offered to bury Four-foot in their stone garden, but that was not the way of his kind. Instead, Bandu left him out for the angry crows and the other animals to feast on. The others in her pack were shocked, but they let her have her way. Narky said it was too hot to dig holes anyway.
Phaedra asked how she had met Four-foot, but she could not remember. That made her cry again. It felt as if, with Four-foot gone, Two-foot’s memories were slipping away too. She did like the
name Bandu though, and she was glad she had chosen it. It meant that she would carry Four-foot’s heartbeat with her forever, which was what Phaedra would have called ‘appropriate.’ Nobody else knew why she was called Bandu, and that was also appropriate. Four-foot’s heartbeat had been a secret that only she knew about, and she wanted it to stay that way.
The day after Four-foot died, Brother Gedrel left them. He said only that he had stayed too long, but Phaedra understood what he meant. She explained to them that the Brothers of Gedrel’s order never stayed in one place for more than a year or two, but went from holy place to holy place in between larger voyages. Gedrel had been in charge at the Crossroads not because he was smarter or stronger or older or better than the others, but because he had been there longest and would soon be leaving. After he was gone, Brother Tanatos was the head of the friars. Bandu did not like him as much. He spoke more, and listened less.
Criton talked to Brother Tanatos a lot. He asked very many questions about some kind of things called dragons, and Brother Tanatos always gave him long answers. Those answers clearly bothered Criton. He seemed especially sad when the friar said the word, ‘Extinct.’
Phaedra seemed to understand everything, and she didn’t mind explaining. Bandu was glad to have her. Phaedra used a needle and thread to make Bandu’s new coverings fit better, and Bandu agreed to practice her speech with her. If she couldn’t live in the forest with Four-foot anymore, she would have to learn how to speak better.
Phaedra did not really like it here, Bandu realized. Not anymore, anyway. She wanted to like it, but she didn’t. The trouble was that Phaedra loved to learn new things, and she knew too much about this place already. She took to pacing around the little building, restless and bored. Bandu thought that people who loved to learn should not be so good at it. It would last them longer that way.
Bandu did not know what she would do without Four-foot, but she knew that staying here would not bring him back. If Phaedra was done here, that meant it was time to go.