by Janine Cross
“About time,” he growled. He gestured at the bamboo bull. “Now leap over that, hey.”
I flared my nostrils and stared at the bamboo bull, a hulking shadow in the oncoming dusk.
“Leap over that, I say,” the dragonmaster ordered.
“Yes,” I stiffly replied. “Komikon.”
I put down my bludgeon and checked that my vebalu cape was secure about my neck. Taking several slow, deep breaths, I rocked to and fro from the balls of my feet to my heels, poised to break into a run toward the fake bull.
I could do it.
I’d leapt upon the back of a kuneus plenty of times in Convent Tieron, using one of its closest forelegs as a springboard to launch myself atop the beast for grooming. I’d done so while debilitated from starvation, while plagued by the haunt’s will. I could certainly mount the stationary bamboo structure before me now, however much taller it was than the senile bulls I’d once served.
What remained to be seen was whether I could flip myself over it as the dragonmaster had ordered, in the manner that I’d often seen Ringus and the other servitors do.
Taking a deep breath, I started toward the hide-covered bamboo.
I approached it at an easy run. Several body lengths before the foreleg, I shortened my stride and quickened my pace. I leapt onto the leg and used the momentum of my run to spring myself upward to the dorsum.
Smack! My hands landed on coarse hide and the structure shuddered, and I kept my arms straight as my legs swung up into the air from behind me. My feet were high above me for the briefest of moments while I did a handstand upon the dorsal ridge, and then, using the momentum of my vault, I flung myself into the air.
It was like flying, a soaring freedom of spirit and body. For an exhilarating moment, I was weightless. The air and I were one. I felt as if leathery wings would erupt from my shoulder blades.
Then I began falling.
Arms flailing.
Thud.
I landed hard upon my back, and my head slammed against the ground with stunning force. I think I blacked out for several moments, because the next thing I knew, my head was cradled in the dragonmaster’s lap.
I felt viciously nauseated. The bamboo bull towered over me, undulating dizzily in my jarred vision. My head roared.
“Clutch Re’s Calim Musadish has been scheduled for three weeks from now,” the dragonmaster intoned above me, and his words sounded elongated and warped. “Three weeks, understand?”
Calim Musadish: Vale Ascension. The Temple-chosen day when a bull departed its Clutch for Arena.
Calim Musadish was always so well attended and the packed crowd in such a religious fervor upon seeing the holy splendor of Re revealed, that each year a clawful of young and elderly were trampled by the seething horde. Mother had refused to allow Waivia and me to attend a single Calim Musadish. Indeed, her graphic descriptions of how the unfortunate died under the feet of the frenzied pious instilled fear in all the women of my birth clan, and no children from Clutch Re’s pottery guild had ever attended the spectacle during my youth.
The bitter irony was that I now would be not only attending but participating in that same ceremony.
“Tomorrow we practice on this bull some more, hey,” the dragonmaster said grimly. “I’ll have no repeat performance of today. Hear?”
I could but stare giddily at the sky and shiver at twilight’s empurpled gloom.
NINETEEN
That evening, Waikar Re Kratt visited the dragonmaster and me in my stall.
He appeared suddenly, flanked by his personal guards, whose sinuous facial cicatrices were as barbarous and frightening as those of the two Cafar guards standing sentinel at my stall’s threshold. Outside the apprentices’ hovel, the nightly appearing daronpu continued his reading of a Temple scroll, his clackron-amplified voice booming over the entire courtyard and not missing a beat upon Kratt’s appearance.
The dragonmaster’s spine snapped straight as Kratt strode into my stall. I inhaled sharply and choked on the chunk of meat I’d been eating. Sputtering and wheezing, I quickly rose from where I’d been crouched on my haunches, eating from my tin food box. I stepped back several paces, deeper into my stall, pulse racing.
Kratt stopped before the dragonmaster. His magnificent indigo cape came to a swirling rest about him. He held a scroll clutched in one fist.
Kratt studied the dragonmaster for long moments, as if he were looking upon a particularly intricate work of ceramic art that he highly detested. The sweet, cloying scent of ambergris filled the air.
“She’s to enter Arena,” he finally said, voice soft and toxic.
Confusion passed over the dragonmaster’s face. “I know it.”
“Today the Ashgon issued the Bill. Her name is on it.”
The Ashgon: the titular head of the Malacarite branch of Ranon ki Cinai, and the sacred advisor to the Emperor. Every year, the Ashgon’s Bill stated which apprentices, from what Clutch, would perform Abbasin Shinchiwouk. The number of times each apprentice would be required to enter Arena, and the hour at which each Clutch bull would perform, was also included on the document. Egg had lectured us at length about the Bill, stressing that the names a Clutch dragonmaster presented in advance to the Ashgon helped the Emperor’s sacred advisor decide whom to include on his holy statement of reckoning.
The Bill, reprinted by the thousands, helped spectators lay wagers and Clutch overseers form alliances and increase their wealth and status during the eight days of Arena.
The dragonmaster now looked angry in his confusion. “So her name is on the Bill, despite my recommendations otherwise. We expected as much.”
“Ah, but the Ashgon has given the Bill teeth, Komikon. Look for yourself.” Kratt extended the hand that held the scroll.
The dragonmaster looked from the rolled parchment to Kratt, then back again. It was illegal for a Mottled Belly to know the hieratic arts, even a half-breed piebald like the Komikon.
Pursing his lips, he came to a decision, took the scroll, and moved outside a few feet, that the rising moon’s light might help him read. I’d underestimated the breadth of both his skills and his courage.
“At the bottom,” Kratt said. “Beside the Ashgon’s seal.”
The dragonmaster unrolled the scroll to its full length and with a mighty scowl read the paper.
He looked up. “It says here that a Clutch forfeits eight years of the right to perform Abbasin Shinchiwouk if a Bill-listed apprentice doesn’t show.”
“Yes, Komikon,” Kratt drawled. “It does state such.”
“Since when has this been the law?”
“Since the Ranreeb informed the Ashgon of my knowledge of a certain Temple fortress hidden in the jungle, I imagine. Since I kidnapped two of the women they’d imprisoned in that secret place.”
The dragonmaster shook the Bill angrily and a muscle below his left eye began twitching. “Apprentices fall ill, get wounded. A fifth of the names on this won’t appear at Arena because of either illness or desertion! It’s always the way.”
“And substitutes will be found for them.”
The dragonmaster stared at Kratt, then swung his gaze upon me.
“But no substitute could ever be found for her, hey-o! The Ranreeb knows what she looks like, and her eyes bespeak years of venom use. No rishi has such eyes.”
“Clever man,” Kratt said quietly, acidly.
“The Ranreeb expects his assassin to be successful. He means not only to have the Dirwalan Babu murdered here, in these stables, but he means to ruin you as well in the process.”
“For permitting the deviant to enter my stables, yes,” Kratt murmured, and his voice dropped lower and his eyes turned upon me. My heart stilled. “For knowing about the rite, and guessing what knowledge I might glean from a woman who performs such.”
“You’ll station more guards here,” the dragonmaster said. It came not as a request, but an announcement of fact.
“Yes.” Still, Kratt’s blue eyes impaled me.
Sweat trickled down the insides of my arms. “More guards, to protect not only her, but every single apprentice within these walls. Eight years without entering Arena would ruin me, Komikon. No Clutch could survive such.”
The dragonmaster cursed and spat on the ground.
“But I’ve really no fear of her dying while in my stables, have I?” Kratt murmured. He looked from where he’d been studying me to the dragonmaster. Steel entered his tone. “Because she’s the Dirwalan Babu. Isn’t she, Komikon? The Skykeeper’s Daughter?”
“You know it,” the dragonmaster replied shortly. “You’ve twice seen the bird appear in her defense.”
“Yet it didn’t rescue her from that fortress.”
“She couldn’t summon it in her state! There are boundaries, limits; the otherpowers of the Realm are structured by certain laws.”
“Are they?”
“Think you the Realm is a bottomless lode for any to pillage at will?”
“Or perhaps,” Kratt drawled, and again he looked at me, “perhaps that bird is no Skykeeper. Perhaps this deviant is merely a demon disguised. As that faithful daronpu outside insinuates.”
The voice of the daronpu in question rolled around the courtyard like the distant thunder of a fast-approaching storm.
“Perhaps certain advisors in Cafar Re are correct: This woman is not Celestial sent, but kwano hatched.”
“She is the Dirwalan Babu, I tell you,” the dragonmaster growled.
“Then why can she not understand dragonspeak any better than an ordinary woman, hmm?” Kratt’s voice turned flinty. “Why does Caranku Bri of Lireh’s Yenvia also reluctantly admit to having experienced dragon-tongue hallucinations while in the Ranreeb’s fortress?”
“Jotan Bri,” I gasped. I’d wondered all along what had become of Misutvia but had seen no way to get an answer. Now that I had one, I didn’t like the answer whatsoever.
The bead on the end of the dragonmaster’s chin braid quivered like an enraged hornet. “I’ve heard many a boy blather nonsense while in venom’s grip. It means nothing.”
“Does our Dirwalan Babu here understand dragonspeak better than they? Tell me, Komikon: How many times has she lain before your destrier since her return? How much have you learned about hatching bull eggs from this deviant?”
“I’ve not had her perform the rite; she needs to conserve her energy to survive Arena! After Abbasin Shinchiwouk, she can lay before the destrier day and night till we solve the dragons’ riddle!”
“I see.” Barely restrained fury was audible in Kratt’s voice, was visible in his flushing cheeks. “So you don’t believe she’s the Dirwalan Babu, do you, old man? For if she were, you’d not fear she’d die in Arena because of how debilitated she is.”
“I told you, the powers of the otherworld are governed by certain laws!”
“Laws that only you are privy to, it would appear.” Kratt stabbed a finger in my direction. “Get her to lay with the destrier tonight. I’ll renounce you if she dies without revealing the riddle’s answer to me. Temple will have your head on a pike.”
“But—”
“Do it,” Kratt ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. “I can repair my relationship with the Ranreeb yet. I’ve not gone so far that I can’t recover, having first tossed him a scapegoat for my temporary madness of permitting this dragonwhore into my stables.”
“I’ll not be your sacrifice!” the dragonmaster cried. “We’ll have the answer, I tell you. She’s the Dirwalan Babu; you’ve seen the Skykeeper!”
Kratt held up a hand to silence the dragonmaster. “See that you learn the dragons’ secret, old man.”
With a swirl of his cape, he stormed out.
For long moments, the dragonmaster and I stared at each other, both of our chests moving quickly, shallowly. I jumped when he broke the spell of stillness by striding over to me.
He gripped one of my biceps hard. His split nails dug into my skin.
“Stay here,” he hissed into my face. “I’ll be back at midnight.”
“You’ll take me to the destrier, as Kratt orders?” I was revolted by the ill-concealed eagerness in my voice, and I cringed at the sharp image of Ingalis that sprang before my eyes.
“Whore,” the dragonmaster spat, and he released me, spun on his heel, and stalked out of the stall.
I crouched on my haunches and hugged myself to still my violent shivering.
It was not just my anticipation of once again experiencing the divine grace of dragonsong that rattled me, understand. It was the forces gathering against me, building to a frothing crest, that filled me with dread.
The rage of Temple. The resentment and hostility of my fellow apprentices. Kratt’s determination to learn the dragons’ secret. The dragonmaster’s plans to free the Djimbi. The rapidly approaching date of Abbasin Shinchiwouk. My still-weak body. My stubborn determination to never strike an apprentice down to save myself.
And now, like a great, dragon-prowed ship cresting this formidable wave, was the knowledge that I could have my revenge against Kratt. I could ruin him, as I’d once vowed. Despite the storm-mass of forces gathering and colliding like a thunderhead about me, I saw a way that I could achieve that long-held ambition of mine. Instantly.
Kratt himself had inadvertently told me how to destroy him.
I could disappear.
The new law the Ashgon had woven into his Bill held the means to fulfilling my vow of vengeance against Kratt. Eight years without entering Arena would ruin me, Komikon. No Clutch could survive such.
If I didn’t show up at Arena, if I somehow got past my guards and fled the stable domain forever, the Ashgon would refuse Kratt permission to enter Arena for eight years. With only unfertilized eggs being laid upon Clutch Re, his herd of egg layers would be decimated. He’d be financially ruined. His political alliances would crumble.
Why, then, did delight not rush through me? Instead of plotting escape, why was I racking my brains to figure out how I might remain in these stables? Was I truly enslaved to venom? Was it solely for want of divine union with a dragon that I remained?
No.
I couldn’t then put into words why I wanted to remain, but I can now.
Home.
I wanted a home.
Orphaned, outcast, and haunted, I craved a sense of belonging. I hungered for love and acceptance. The nine-year-old child who had watched her father murdered, who had been evicted by her clan, and who had been abandoned by her mother over a mad obsession now wept for want of a welcoming hearth.
And so, as darkness descended and the stars came out as hard and sharp as quartz and the chanting daronpu left the stable domain until his return on the morrow, I racked my brains to determine how I might stay in the stables, how I might again win the grudging respect of my peers. How I might secure for myself a place I might call home.
So enwrapped was I in desperate thought that I didn’t notice the music until it eclipsed my mind like a finespun cloud that was both hirsute and silky. A green feeling slowly began pulsing through me, a raw, sappy feeling fluorescing with budtime, seedtime, dew, and youth. The stronger the sensation grew, the more it altered; I became buoyant, supernal, belonging to a higher world. I was lured and goaded by the sweetening infusion, a sound that both incited and soothed.
As I stared, eyes fogged, at flagstone, my flesh began pricking with latent memory. The sensation was akin to when one has sat too long in a still position, and then, upon moving, blood rushes painfully back into stifled limbs.
Djimbi chants. I was hearing Djimbi chants.
I felt a sting, then, down in my groin. Heat that titillated and seduced. Need that was suddenly incendiary.
Daronpu Gen loomed over me.
At once, the enchantment shriveled and I snapped back into the present.
Behind Gen, both my Cafar guards stood at the threshold of my stall, swaying, moaning, and lovingly handling themselves beneath their leather-and-mail skirts. Their eyes were closed, mouths slack.
Daronpu Gen shrugged. “Best Djimbi charm I know, what-what. It’ll do; it’ll do.”
“Why are you here?” I gasped.
His expression turned dark. “Come to take you away. I don’t like the way events are turning, not one bit.” He flicked a mosquito from my shoulder. “Something is amiss; I can’t see a clear picture.”
“Amiss?” I croaked. My heart had begun pounding as fiercely as it had at Kratt’s appearance.
“The prophecy, blood-blood,” Daronpu Gen said. “I thought that it foretold your appearance in Arena: Zafinar waskatan, bar i’shem efru ikral mildron safa dir palfent. The Dirwalan Babu is present the day the efru mildron clash, on the field-soon-to-be-marked-by-talon-and-blood. But I think now that perhaps my interpretation of those words is wrong.”
Efru mildron: those of great strength, intellect, and importance. Efru mildron: the colossals. I’d heard the phrase used by Djimbi before, when, during my stay in Convent Tieron, we onais had illicitly done trade with a passing tribe. The Mottled Bellies had used the phrase indiscriminately, applying it to both the senile bulls in our care and the ever-absent Temple wardens who had ruled Tieron life.
“Is that what dragonmaster apprentices are called then, in this prophecy?” I asked, struggling to grasp what he was saying. “Efru mildron?”
“I’d assumed the reference was to the bulls fighting.”
“But bulls don’t clash in Arena. Not with each other.”
“No. They don’t.” His tangled eyebrows created sharp angles upon his brow. “As you can see, my interpretation of the passage is unclear. So you’ll come with me now; it’s no longer safe here for you. The Komikon has informed me that Kratt disbelieves you’re the Dirwalan Babu, and Temple means to have your death.”
I felt beads of sweat forming on my upper lip.
“So, Babu, we leave. You and your Skykeeper will wrest Temple from the Emperor’s hands not at Arena, but at some other place and time, on some day yet to come.”
I swallowed.
“No.”
His eyes turned as large as plums. “What?”