Given

by Nandi Taylor

  The pity on her face nearly undid him all over again. She reached over and stroked his stubbly cheek. “My Weysh, I’m so sorry.”

  “I hate this feeling,” he snarled. “It’s the most maddening thing, Maman, like . . . like . . .”

  “Like someone has stolen something you did not even know could be stolen.”

  “Yes.” Yes, that was it. Like life as he’d always known it had been suddenly and swiftly stolen from him for good. “Everything is different now. What about the future? My career? Now that I can’t smell, it’s as if I’m worth . . . less.” He stared at his hands, fingers hooked loosely together between his knees, as he struggled to articulate what he felt. “As if I’m not as important, or valuable, en? Do you know what I mean, Maman?”

  “Yes I do, and I also know you’re wrong. You’re still you, my heart. What’s more, you’re still a flying, fire-breathing dragon. I’m positive the army will find something to do with you.” She slapped his arm playfully, and Weysh knew he should reward her attempts at humor, to cheer him with a laugh or smile, but he simply couldn’t muster it. The mirth left her face, replaced by something hard and serious.

  “You listen to me, Weysh. No matter how others may look down on you, or try to tell you you’re somehow diminished, devalued, or incomplete, they are wrong.”

  There was fervor in her the likes of which he’d rarely seen, and it struck him, clear as a pealing bell, that she was speaking to herself as well. Her eyes went suddenly dull, and she slumped back into her chair, defeated.

  “Maman?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I always told myself I’d never treat my own children the way I’d been treated growing up and yet I should have protected you better. From the world. From Montpierre.” She said her husband’s name so softly Weysh practically had to read her lips. She inhaled a shaky breath. “I have not been a good mother to you, and I know I can never undo that, but from here on I want to be more supportive of you, of my child. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes,” Weysh said instantly, warmth tingling all though him. “I think I can understand, if only a little, how hard it must have been.” She took his hand again, and they sat just like that for a while, mother and son, while the morning birds chittered and chirped above.

  But at last Weysh broke the silence. “I think I’ll get going before Montpierre awakes. I’ve been through enough for one day.”

  Guilt and sadness crossed his Maman’s face like a shadow, but she said only, “Take care of yourself, my love. Shall I tell Sylvie?”

  Weysh shook his head. “I’ll let her know when I’m ready.” He stood and kissed his mother’s hand before letting it go. “Thank you, Maman. It was good to talk to you,” he said, and to his amazement he meant it. He never would have thought it possible, but he was actually leaving a visit home feeling better about himself. The knowledge that he would never smell like he used to was still devastating, but something was back, and pulsing under the despair like a heartbeat.

  Hope.

  32

  The season of rain has given way to the heat of summer, and Yenni breathes deeply. Home. The air smells of home—of tangy tamarind and sweet-spice and grilling crab. Of dust and soil and clay. And the people of the market sing, even as the women kneel and the men lie flat to the ground at their passing.

  “Here is our princess! Welcome, welcome, Princess!” The song is taken up, drowning out the calls of food sellers, the lowing of cattle, even the drums in the distance. They sing to Weysh too. “Oh praises, our dragon, our dragon has returned—oh! Our dragon has returned!” He is close, just behind and a bit to the left of her, never letting her out of his sight. The roads are wide enough for him to pass, as they are made to accommodate goat and cattle herders, donkey carts, field sphinxes, and fleet cats. The message of the drums mimics the voices in the market. Boom bam boom! “Our princess is here!” Boom bam bam boom! “Our dragon is here!”

  The royal market compound rivals the jungles and bao plains for places that own Yenni’s heart. Perhaps it is because she spends so much time here that her family has put so many resources toward it: soldiers to keep the streets safe, servants to keep the streets clean, carpenters and artisans to keep the streets beautiful. It is full of activity, with farmers and herders, fisherwomen and sailors bustling to and fro. They carry urns full of water or baskets of fruit or fish on their heads, though they quickly lower them to prostrate to her and Weysh. She touches the fingers of one hand underneath her chin and gives them a small bow, as is proper.

  As much as Yenni enjoys the farmers and fishmongers market, the best is yet to come. High up on the palatial hill, right beneath her home, the artisans converge. Instead of buckets of crabs and bundles of bananas, the stalls and shops are hung with hundreds of reams of colorful fabric, woven in prints that tell the story of their history. Figures with no faces represent the Sha, and above hang masks of imps and elephants and even dragons. The entrance to the artisans quarter is marked as the dusty road turns to deep green tiles. The clucking of chickens recedes to be replaced by the high cries of blue and green peafowls. The shouts of foodmongers fade to murmurs of civilized bargaining—though no one has ever bargained with her. Most artisans push their wares on her free of charge, much like the woman before her.

  She has rich, dark skin that shines, and her gown and head wrap are of a matching pattern of green and yellow. She kneels before Yenni, holding out a sculpted figurine. It is a naked woman, carved of heavy wood and painted a deep brown-red, overlaid with a pattern of white flowers, and Yenni knows her instantly as Mother Ya—Mistress of Storms.

  The figure is surprising, as few worship Mother Ya any longer. Young women of her tribe are encouraged to build relationships with Mother Shu, the facilitator of love, or Mother Ye, who protects babies in the womb. But, oh, how Yenni is drawn to this figurine. She runs her fingers along the smooth wood, lost in the pattern of delicate white flowers. So entranced is Yenni that it is a while before she notices—under the distant singing, soft bargaining, and pounding drums—that Weysh is growling.

  Yenni spins around. “What is it?” Weysh is crouched low on the tiles as if ready to spring, and all of his sharp teeth are bared. No one is singing now, and the drumbeat has changed to something faster, urgent.

  “War!” they cry. “Attack! Attack from above!”

  The sky, once clear and blue, is now fully, impossibly, crowded with sleek, black war sphinxes.

  The Shahanta Sky Fleet.

  Weysh roars and, flapping his great wings, takes to the sky.

  “Weh-sheh, no! They have arrows!”

  The Shahanta may not have the population or the political heft of the Yirba, but everyone knows of their sky fleet. They are rigorously trained, all female, and attack with bows and fire runes. They have always filled Yenni with fascination, but now they fill her with fear. White focus runes are painted across their eyes, and they wear caps with tall white horns, in honor of their dragon kin who died three hundred years earlier. But dragon kin or not, they train their bows on Weysh, their focus runes glowing.

  Weysh screeches and lets out a beautiful plume of fire, sending their mounts scattering. People scream and dash around Yenni as her eyes trail Weysh. The sky archers regroup quickly, but by the time they do, Weysh is above them. Acting on some signal Yenni cannot catch, the women fire all at once, sending a volley of arrows into the sky. Weysh pulls his wings close and dives, dodging them, then spreads his wings wide again and veers for the nearest cluster of archers, blasting them with fire. They fall, burning, from the sky.

  Deep, booming war cries vibrate in Yenni’s chest and make the ground tremble. Foot soldiers charge up the market road. Yenni gasps. They wear Gunzu battle attire—shields and short spears, and little in the way of armor. Their chests are bare and they wear animal fur wrapped around their arms, legs, and waists, as if to say that excessive armor is unnecessary for a proper
warrior.

  One soldier grabs a trembling cloth seller and stabs him through the middle.

  NO!

  Yenni’s spear is in her hands and she twists the mechanism, extending it. She pulls on her speed and focus runes, feeling the warmth of them on her arms and legs, across her eyes, and she rushes the soldiers. They do not expect her. Yenni thrusts around the first man’s shield, stabbing him in the side. She darts back, whirls, and slashes the throat of another. She pierces the back of a third, flares her strength runes, and pulls her spear free, making him scream. She sweeps the legs out from under a fourth attacker and stabs him through the middle even as he is falling to the ground. She knocks away the short spear of a fifth man and stabs him in the chest. But now she has lost the element of surprise, and the Gunzu warriors’ runes are glowing. She runs.

  Fire and destruction whiz by on the edges of her vision. Her beloved market is up in flames.

  I did this. Mercy, Almighty Mothers and Fathers, I did this.

  Where are the Yirba soldiers? Where are their fleet cats and swordsmen? Their sky force? What is her brother doing? She must get to the palace.

  Yenni’s speed runes give out when she is almost at the top of the hill. She stops right before the wide walkway—tiled and lined with coconut trees—that leads to the main palace compound. Screams and war cries accost her from below, but ahead the palace seems cold and empty, ominously silent. She takes only one step before an anguished, screeching cry cuts through her, leaches all warmth from her. She snaps her head up. Weysh’s wings are riddled with arrows, and he is falling from the sky. Above, the Shahanta Sky Archers are singing a low song of mourning and loss.

  Yenni does not think, only runs, pulling vainly on speed runes that have faded away. She must reach him, must protect him.

  I did this.

  Weh-sheh. Weh-sheh!

  “WEH-SHEH!”

  The sound of her own shout woke Yenni from sleep. She took a deep, ragged breath and sat up in her bed, clutching the sheets. Bed. Sheets. Cresh, this was Cresh. She summoned a lantern and tethered it in front of her face, checking her palms by its light. They were the same as they had been when she checked before sleeping.

  Yenni let out a relieved breath. Three weeks had passed since she received her mother’s letter. In that time her mother’s rune had grown stronger while her father’s faded once more. However, armed with her mother’s explanation, Yenni wasn’t nearly as anxious as she could have been.

  But what a dream! Oh Mothers and Fathers, was it simply a cruel culmination of her worst fears over the last few weeks, or was it a warning?

  Despite her sister’s insinuation, she had yet to receive anything from Natahi ka Gunzu, and she wasn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps he was waiting until she returned home to make his move. Or perhaps—but there was no way he could know about Weysh.

  Was there?

  Across the room her spear leaned against her armoire, glinting in the lantern light.

  Yenni slipped from bed, full of nervous energy. She needed to work off this restless feeling. First she drew on her runes, using the rune hymns both as a means of magic and worship. Her song for pain ward was also of praise to Father Ba, who listened to the fears of men and women. As she sang to infuse her speed runes, she sang to Father Sho, the divine hunter. And as she sang the hymn for strength, she venerated Father Gu the warrior.

  An image from her dream suddenly flashed through her memory—the figurine of Mother Ya. Yenni paused—to dream of the Sha could be a very good omen, or a very bad one. What could it mean that she had dreamed of Mother Ya? The temperamental deity was known to conjure furious winds and lightning, and her anger resonated with Yenni’s own simmering frustration. So on the backs of her hands Yenni drew wind runes, and though it would likely make her people cringe, she offered up her wind hymn to the Mistress of Storms.

  When she was satisfied, Yenni changed into the half-shirt and pants of her battle uniform, grabbed her spear, and made for the training sands.

  The night sky hid behind a veil of clouds, and the moon was a shy, shining crescent that peeped out only occasionally to glint off Yenni’s spear. It was quiet but for her sandals scraping the sand and the thud of her spear as it hit the wooden dummy. Her voice echoed in the silence with every little yell and grunt. It felt good to train. Though her problems were nothing she could confront with a spear, the weight of it still felt comforting in her palms.

  Yenni spun, bringing her spear around, and whacked the shaft against the dummy’s side, practicing a blunt attack, but her hit landed a little lower than she’d intended. Frowning, she backed up to try again . . .

  . . . and gasped as a quick, sharp pain zipped through her abdomen. The warning rune flashed bright white on her bare stomach. She glanced up. Darts of steel came flashing at her.

  Yenni dragged on her speed and focus runes. Her arms were a blur as she twirled her spear, the air echoing with metallic pings as she deflected the darts.

  Yenni crouched low and brought her spear before her, heart thudding. She squinted into the entrance to the training ground, but the lantern she’d anchored above the training dummies did more harm than good in this case. Outside its radius of light it simply created deeper shadows in which her attacker could hide.

  “Show yourself!” she yelled, but no one answered; there was only the croak of a nearby toad. Very well, she still had a trick or two, but she would save her best for last. Yenni shuffled in the direction of the entrance corridor. Pain lanced her stomach again, and she dove and rolled behind a dummy. Darts sank into the wood with a thud, thud, thud.

  “Coward!” she shouted. Fear and anger churned in her chest. Who was attacking her? Why? She had to get to the entrance.

  The dummies were spaced out in rows. There was another one a few feet away, beside her, but she needed to move forward. Yenni pulled on her speed runes, ran, and dove for the dummy diagonally to her right, and the darts passed so closely she felt the wind of them on her arm.

  She huddled with her back to the dummy and her spear held close, and peeked around the wood. There was one more row left, and then about ten paces of open space to the entrance, through which she would have to defend herself.

  Once more she tugged on her speed rune, and winced when she felt how weak it was. A glance down showed that the paint was almost completely faded. She’d drawn it with Devon’s mixture, intending to save her own for the dangers of town, and it wasn’t nearly as potent. She had to move now or she’d be stuck.

  She rolled and scrambled for the dummy diagonally left, darts whooshing right past her ear. She regrouped, took a deep breath, and charged.

  The darts came instantly. She spun and ducked and twirled, darts pinging off her spear. But she was slowing down, and there was still a good distance to go. Shocks of pain zapped her stomach, and another volley of darts came. She ducked and dodged and whirled her spear but one got past her and sliced her thigh. She cried out and gritted her teeth, drawing on pain ward to soothe the sting, but she wasn’t close enough to the entrance—she couldn’t use her wind runes just yet.

  She yelled and made one last desperate charge for the corridor, taking another slice to the side, and one to her bicep. She was almost there when a dart bit into her shoulder. She screamed and jerked back, but praise Father Gu she held on to her spear. Surging her strength and pain ward runes, she dashed forward. A volley of gleaming darts flew right at her, threatening to pierce her in ten places.

  Yenni stopped short and slammed the butt of her spear into the ground, grabbing it with both hands. Her wind runes faced the corridor and she dragged on them, releasing a fierce blast that sent most of the darts scattering, but also sent some of them spinning haphazardly back the way they’d come. As she’d hoped, it took her attacker by surprise. She heard a shout come from the corridor, but over the screaming wind it was difficult to tell if it was male or female.
/>
  Yenni pointed her spear forward and dashed up the steps, ready to skewer whomever she found at the top. But when she burst into the corridor she found it empty.

  She stood panting and sweating and bloody. The coward had run off, but Yenni doubted this would be their last encounter.

  It seemed that someone wanted her dead.

  33

  Weysh paused with his hands in his hair, blinking through the downpour. He strained to hear over the water spattering against the porcelain of his tub. Was that knocking? Who could be calling this early?

  “Source-drawn rain dry up and cease.”

  The rain stopped and evaporated from his tub, his body, and his hair, returning to otherspace. His shower disrupted, Weysh grabbed his silk sleep pants from the bathroom floor and pulled them on. The knocking started up again as he jogged down the stairs. It sounded urgent. If only he could smell who it was—no. No, it did no good to keep dwelling like that. He would know who was at the door when he opened it, like so many others.

  It seemed to take an eternity to reach his front door, but at last he murmured the spell to unlock it, then yanked it open.

  “What—Yenni!”

  She threw her arms around him.

  She let out some kind of oath in her language. “I would have been here sooner, but I had to redraw my speed runes.”

  “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but what in the world are you talking about?” Weysh gently removed her arms and stepped back to look at her. “KINDLY WATCHER!” he shouted. “Why are you all cut up?!”

  He gripped her and turned her this way and that, examining her injuries—four that he could see. Some of her blood had even smeared onto him.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t have time to tend to my wounds.”

  “I . . . what . . .” Weysh closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and breathed deeply, fighting his racing heart and the panic that made his skin tingle with cold. Yenni was here, alive, in his arms. That was all that mattered.