Shadowed By Wings

by Janine Cross

  “Keep breathing,” Dono growled again, a heartbeat later, a lifetime later, the passage of time incomprehensible to me. But I obeyed. I breathed. Whether from obedience or the body’s natural need for air only, I continued breathing.

  So passed the night. Dono stood over me the entire time, and as my desire to stop breathing decreased, it was replaced instead with lust. I reached for Dono; he pushed away my hands and tried to ignore my indecent whispers.

  But toward dawn, his resolve broke and he coupled with me. Somehow, we ended on the stable floor.

  Fresh chaff had recently been forked into my stall, shin deep and smelling sharp and sweet, like bark stripped from a freshly felled sapling. The light stuff cushioned my back, gave my hips extra thrust. Clinging tight to me, biting my neck, Dono climaxed in my womb while featon chaff drifted down on our heads, much the way kaolin dust had graced us in our infancy, when we’d crawled about my mother’s feet as she’d worked at her potter’s wheel.

  Because my vulva was slicked with venom, Dono was soon transported on new wings of lust, venom induced, and he flipped me onto my belly and took me again, from behind. As he did so, he whispered my sister’s name like an incantation, evoking her presence so that no longer were only the two of us on the stable floor, but a third joined us, ethereal yet as tangible as an insatiable need.

  “Waivia,” he groaned. “Waivia.”

  That was my first time with a man, and I found Dono’s performance somewhat lacking compared to that of a dragon. No dragonsong did our couplings provoke in me, nor any whispers of profound, ancient thoughts. After a while, I begged Dono to desist.

  He did.

  And as I wept, he held me and began to talk of our childhood and himself. And Waivia.

  “She was mine, you know. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here today and she’d be alive.” He stroked my back absently as he talked. “When you stole my whip, you stole her away from me, Zarq.”

  With clarity and certainty, I suddenly realized that he despised me—and himself—for his past audacity in demanding inclusion in the dragonmaster’s apprenticeship, which had led to the anger of Temple, the ruination of our clan, and the subsequent sale of Waivia to mitigate a little of that poverty.

  I sat up slowly and wiped away my tears.

  “It wasn’t my fault, what occurred,” I said quietly. “Nor yours. Temple didn’t observe the Sa Gikiro rite, didn’t give our clan the restitution they should have for losing you to the dragonmaster.”

  I hesitated, then placed a hand upon Dono’s closest knee. “It’s Temple’s fault Waivia was lost to us. Neither you nor I are to blame. We were only children.”

  The moment I said those words, something dark and heavy lifted away from us both. I saw it lift. Dono sensed it and shuddered. The great black shape rose into the air, grew wings. It flapped ponderously across the courtyard, rising higher into the sky. As it rose, stars shone through its darkness like flecks of quartz at the bottom of a silty river. The wind from the dark shape’s wings feathered Dono’s hair and caressed my cheeks. It smelled like a river bottom, of things long rotted, of muck long out of sunlight. A dense, fertile odor, redolent of birth and death.

  We watched it go, Dono and I, though I think he saw it not, only sensed its leaving. But although his anger toward me and his own self-condemnation may have departed, I knew he still yearned for his first love. Waivia.

  The dragonmaster gave me many weeks to process the experience of being with his destrier and recover from venom’s giddy sting. At first, my training suffered from the intimate encounter with the old destrier and I shook badly for days. I stumbled often and my balance in the vebalu course was poor. Sunlight hurt my eyes; I was grateful for the approach of the Wet Season and the increasing number of clouds that smothered the sky.

  Though my fellow apprentices didn’t know the reason behind my ineptitude, they surmised that I’d suffered from something the dragonmaster had subjected me to and, thankfully, all but a few of them treated me as if I were a fragile egg they had no wish to break. The few apprentices who attempted to treat me elsewise were beaten by Eidon.

  As Dono wrestled with his own complex emotions, his treatment of me still vacillated between solicitude and anger. The passion we had shared together that night on my stall floor had not only renewed our childhood bond, but created something else, that feeling one experiences after having shared that vital, vulnerable part of oneself with a lover. And, too, after coupling with me while under the influence of venom, Dono had, in his mind, inextricably linked the memory of his first love to me. To some extent, I had become Waivia to him.

  He often found an excuse to place a hand upon my back, waist, or shoulder while instructing me on how to repair that which I already knew how to repair. When he could, he worked alongside me, grooming dragons, mending stone walls, scrubbing mangers. More than once when he brushed by me in close quarters, I felt the press of his erection against my rump.

  But, also, he could not forget that I’d chosen to perform bestiality rather than flee the stable domain, and this chafed him sorely. So while one day he might spar easily with me in vebalu and give me advice on how to better my reflexes, the next he would bludgeon me ruthlessly.

  Throughout, the dragonmaster watched me closely and questioned me each evening, hoping I’d had an epiphany during the day regarding what I’d heard while joined with his destrier. I could tell him nothing more than what I’d told him in his hidden stable: The dragons’ ancestral memories were a divine, enigmatic song that I could hear but not comprehend. His frustration with my unvarying response increased. I knew I’d soon be asked to lie again before his destrier.

  I looked forward to that night.

  “Harder!” Egg roared in my ear. It was my third time through the vebalu circuit that day, and I was parched, tired, and vexed by Egg’s boarish voice. And I hated that part of vebalu: scrotum rubbing. Eyes closed, I lightly rubbed my spreadeagled body upon the hide-covered bamboo sac.

  “Harder, harder!” Egg roared in my ear. “You have to make the thing move, hey! And don’t spend so long under there; you think Re’s gonna be standin’ still while you’re doin’ that? You have to get in an’ out, in an’ out, else you’ll get trampled!”

  With gritted teeth, I increased both the pressure I was exerting on the thing and the speed at which I moved. The whole structure rocked against my torso.

  “Better!” Egg bellowed. “Now, move on!”

  I lurched back to the balance bar for yet another circuit of the vebalu course.

  Ringus stepped in front of me, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” he said in a breathless rush. “Rutkar Re Ghepp.”

  I gaped at him, then followed the direction of his thumb with my gaze.

  My heart stopped, ran backward several beats, then rushed forward again. He spoke the truth: Rutkar Re Ghepp stood at the entrance of the gymnasium’s courtyard, clothed in a rich emerald waist shirt and slitted, fawn pantaloons. He was flanked by Cafar guards and chancellors.

  Rutkar Re Ghepp: Third Son of Roshu-Lupini Re, warrior-lord of our Clutch, and the would-be inheritor of Clutch Re if not for Waikar Re Kratt. Born from the loins of the Roshu-Lupini’s First Claimed Woman, Ghepp had appeared in the world long after the Roshu-Lupini had given up hope that any of his roidan yins, his claimed women, would ever produce a living son.

  All infants conceived by the Roshu-Lupini had died during childbirth, understand, regardless of which roidan yin bore the child. The Roshu-Lupini had tried to solve this tragedy by claiming more and more women, but after his fourteenth roidan yin produced yet another stillborn boy, he turned his back upon all his claimed women and took his pleasures only with the best ebanis. Then, unexpectedly, his favorite ebani—a blue-eyed Xxelteker woman exquisitely trained in the arts of pleasuring men—conceived a child by him. Although any child an ebani accidentally bears with her claimer is legitimate, such a child is traditionally regarded as far lo
wer in status than the children begotten from the claimer’s household roidan yins. The Roshu-Lupini made an exception to the cultural norm and declared that should the babe not only survive birth but be born a boy, he would regard the child as his legitimate heir.

  Waikar Re Kratt was born several months later.

  Overjoyed by his success, the Roshu-Lupini again took himself to the mating closets with his roidan yins, and a second son was born to him nine months later, a child who, tragically, died of snakebite at age two. Undaunted, the Roshu-Lupini continued to vigorously service his women, and seven years after Waikar Re Kratt’s birth, Rutkar Re Ghepp was born from the womb of the Roshu-Lupini’s First Claimed Woman.

  And here Ghepp stood, in the dusty coarseness of the vebalu yard, demanding audience with me.

  “You stink,” Ringus said, jerking my attention away from the bayen lordling. He pointed a slender finger toward a cistern in the far corner. “I’d wash first.”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, addleheaded. “Yes.”

  Ringus pursed his slim, sweet lips, then came to a decision. “I’ll fetch the dragonmaster. In case you need him.”

  “Thank you,” I said, heart pounding, and turned and walked quickly to the cistern.

  What could Ghepp possibly want with me?

  Ghepp was rumored to be a thoughtful, predictable man, somewhat staid in habit. Like many Clutch Re rishi, I thought he’d make a far better Clutch lord than Kratt, whose sadism and impatience had already caused misery and death for many in our Clutch.

  Seeing Ghepp standing there, in the vebalu courtyard, suddenly made me aware of my vengeance vow to ruin his brother. In the daily swarm of activity as an inductee and the ever-increasing anxiety over the approaching day of Arena, I’d completely forgotten my ulterior motive for joining the dragonmaster’s apprenticeship.

  Being abruptly reminded of something so profound as that mad ambition filled me with unease. It had been pleasant to not be preoccupied with ruin and social revolution for awhile, to just enjoy each day’s successes and battle each day’s failures and feel like I belonged and had clan and home once more.

  Hastily, I splashed water over myself, then shook off the excess water much as a cur does. Taking a deep breath, I started toward Ghepp, dodging the servitors who grappled each other along the far side of the gymnasium.

  I could feel their eyes following me as they wrestled.

  Dressed in his ivy and fawn silks, Rutkar Re Ghepp was a startling figure in the vebalu yard’s drab surroundings. He stood flanked by two men garbed in the heavily embroidered blue and red gowns of Cafar chancellors, and on either side of the chancellors stood Cafar guards, resplendent in short skirts and plastrons of steel-studded black leather.

  I came to a stop before Ghepp, and, as custom dictates for a woman, stared at his boots. They were made of a soft leather I’d never seen before, a suede from some jungle-caught creature perhaps, or an Archipelagic or Northern beast that I would never lay eyes upon. I could smell the opulence of the chancellors, a perfume-and-pomade scent that was so intrusive that it was a bitter taste upon the tongue. One of the chancellors breathed heavily through his nose, as if he suffered a blockage. A fire ant ran over my bare foot.

  “What is your purpose here, in the stables of my father’s Clutch?” Ghepp murmured.

  I raised my head, couldn’t help it, and met the steady gaze of his canted chestnut eyes. His dark hair was slightly tousled above his slender brows, and his full lips, centered below high cheekbones the color of fine aged ivory, were slightly parted. His was a beautiful face, one many a woman spun romantic fantasies about, and many a man, too.

  “I want to be an apprentice, Bayen Hacros,” I replied.

  “Women don’t apprentice. Women don’t serve dragons.”

  “Onais serve dragons. I’ve been circumcised by a holy knife in the manner of those women.”

  “I’ve heard my brother use that argument against the Ranreeb and our Daron.”

  Of course he had. I dropped my eyes. “Yes, Bayen Hacros. Forgive me.”

  His soft suede boots shifted. “So you wish to be an apprentice. You wish to serve Roshu-Lupini Re’s dragons.”

  “Yes, Bayen Hacros.”

  “To one day become dragonmaster of this Clutch?”

  Blood roared in my ears.

  “Do you see yourself one day as dragonmaster of Re’s estate?” Ghepp asked again.

  My head lifted higher than it should have. “I mean to survive Arena and survive it repeatedly, and I mean to bring glory to Re in the process. Yes, Bayen Hacros. I will become dragonmaster.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “A great ambition, for a rishi via.”

  “I am no ordinary rishi via.”

  Though he didn’t look skyward, I saw what flashed through his mind: the Skykeeper.

  “No,” he murmured, “you are not.”

  Several heartbeats passed. We stood so close, I could see a minuscule cut on his jawline, where a servant had carelessly nicked him while scraping away stubble that very morn. I stared at that tiny cut in skin so smooth it reminded me of the taut muscles beneath the pale yellow pelt of a wangiki deer.

  “And why become dragonmaster?” he finally said. “What need has a Clutch and a bull of a female dragonmaster?”

  I studied him from under the fringe of my dark hair. I decided to risk it, then, encouraged by his calm mien, his gentle beauty, his captivating, canted eyes that glowed like polished chestnuts streaked with gold.

  “A dragonmaster has power, Bayen Hacros. The status of a Clutch is determined by the dragonmaster’s performance each year in Arena.” My voice dropped, went hoarse. “I would use that power to elevate those I feel are deserving of advancement, and depose those whose cruel natures I feel only threaten the prosperity of a Clutch’s populace. My womanhood grants me the vision and scope that another apprentice, who is driven only by glory and fame, lacks.”

  His beautiful eyes never wavered from mine. “You assume much, rishi via.”

  “I have a Skykeeper at my command, and I make those assumptions with the confidence of having that creature as my ally.”

  He studied me some more, then looked away and stroked an earlobe, from which protruded a rigid teak earring, spiral carved in the shape of a dragon’s tail. To either side of him, his chancellors remained impassive, though they watched me closely. The Cafar guards who stood sentinel a short distance away watched none of us, but kept a vigilant eye upon their surroundings. They were pretending to be deaf.

  “One of our great tale spinners has said that nobility without virtue is but a fine setting without a gem,” Ghepp finally murmured, as if to himself. He looked at me again. “You would agree, it seems.”

  “I do.”

  “My brother risks much by succoring you in my father’s stables. Clearly he has not heard your views.”

  I licked my dry lips, tried to speak past the unsteady pounding of my heart. “I’ve not expressed my views to anyone until this moment.”

  “You take a risk expressing them now.”

  “The person who risks nothing and does nothing is nothing.”

  “You are rishi. You know nothing of politics. You know nothing of duplicity and scheming. You have no subtlety.”

  “I’m rishi; I know of hardship and loss. Strength alone knows conflict.”

  A smile played briefly upon his lips at our exchange. “Temple looks to execute you, oh-clever-and-courageous deviant.”

  I took a shuddering breath. “If I fail, then my failure will be but a challenge to others. But I won’t fail. I have perseverance, the Scroll of the Right-Headed Crane, and the Skykeeper on my side.”

  We held each other’s gazes for a long moment. Then he nodded, once.

  “This has been a most interesting conversation. I’ll be watching closely what becomes of you.” He tapped his lower lip thoughtfully with one finger. “Very closely.”

  He turned and gestured to his retinue, and they swept from the gymnasium j
ust as the dragonmaster stormed into it, Ringus by his side.

  As the dragonmaster stopped at the doorway to let Ghepp pass, he bowed. The bow was perfunctory; Ghepp barely acknowledged it. The two men disliked each other, clearly.

  After Ghepp’s departure, the dragonmaster strode to my side, scowling and tugging his chin braid in agitation.

  “What did he want?” he demanded.

  I frowned, shrugged, and answered truthfully, “I don’t know, Komikon.”

  “What did he ask you?”

  “Why a woman would want to be an apprentice.”

  He gnashed his teeth. “And your response?”

  The dragonmaster’s bristling anxiety gave me pause. I prevaricated somewhat. “I told him the Skykeeper guided my actions.”

  The dragonmaster grunted and his shoulders twitched. He looked toward where Ghepp had exited. “You realize it’s in his best interests that Temple execute you, yes?”

  My blood ran cold.

  “How so?” I asked, as coolly as I could.

  “Temple won’t grant governorship of Clutch Re to Waikar Re Kratt if they can find lawful grounds for executing you, despite the Scroll of the Right-Headed Crane,” the dragonmaster snapped. “They’ll appropriate the inheritance of this Clutch to Ghepp instead, on the grounds that Kratt succored a deviant and permitted her into his stables. Make no mistake; that man there”—and he stabbed a calloused finger in the direction Ghepp had left in—“is no friend of ours.”

  Of course. I hadn’t thought of that. With a sinking heart, I realized that Ghepp had been right: I was naïve; I knew nothing of subtlety and politics.

  It now remained to be seen what would become of my impulsive conversation with Kratt’s scheming brother.

  “You’re to come with me, hey,” Dono muttered, standing before me.

  It was dusk and we were all sprawled outside the apprentices’s hovel, stomachs full of gruel and limbs heavy with fatigue. I was sitting with Eidon’s crowd of favorites, mulling over Ghepp’s visit and my rash disclosure to him. Dono had entered our ranks without care; he and Eidon had an unspoken truce between them in regard to me, since Dono treated me well most days and since the dragonmaster had favored him as my escort for my last mysterious appointment to see him.