Sea Dragon Heir

by Constantine, Storm

  THAT NIGHT, VALRAVEN CAME to Varencienne’s bed. At dinner, he’d told the family he would be leaving for the south in the morning. This nocturnal visit would be his last for now, perhaps forever. As he knelt between her splayed thighs, unbelting his robe, Varencienne thought of the things Pharinet had told her earlier that day. She tried to imagine the boy who’d gone crabbing on the beach, but if he lived in Valraven now, he was deep in hiding. She let him do as he wished, but as he rose from the bed, she said, “Do you like going away on campaign? Are you looking forward to going back to it?” He looked at her with naked surprise. It was, after all, the first time she had ever spoken to him on these occasions. “My sisters have been filling your head,” he said in that mild way he had that now infuriated her because it was so exclusive. She sat up in the tangled bed. “It has nothing to do with that. I just wondered.” For a while he looked at her, perhaps thinking he did not like this new, talkative aspect, yet he did not leave her immediately as she’d thought he might. “We all have our duty, Varencienne. I’m sure you understand that.” His words made her flush. This would not work; she had been mistaken. Her confidence sank, and she lay down again, staring at him. In a strange sort of way, she felt he was now familiar to her, but of course he was not. The image she had of him was Pharinet?s, not hers, the image of a boy who no longer existed. Perhaps it would help if she could bring herself to call him ?Val,? which was a name his loved ones used, but she could not. She still shrank from addressing him personally. “You know my brother, Bayard,” she said. “Pharinet told me he came here once.” Valraven’s eyes seemed to turn to obsidian. She had angered him, clearly. “Some time ago,” he said. “Will you see him when you return to your unit?” “I don’t know.” He smiled tightly, showing her that he did not want to smile, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. No tender, parting words for the new wife. Not even a polite “good-bye.” He just used her and left, irritated because she wanted to talk to him. Pharinet did not know him at all. She was in love with a fantasy. After a few moments, Varencienne hurled herself from the bed, stumbling, striking her knee on the floor. She clawed her way into a dressing-gown and then, with her knee still burning, ran across the room and yanked open the door. Beyond, the corridor was silent and empty, starshine coming down through the skylights. All was stillness. She imagined Valraven might have folded himself up into a shadow and flown away, the moment the door had closed. What would she had done if she’d found him there? She shivered, but it was not that cold. She found herself downstairs, padding through the great hall. The banners shifted restlessly on the walls, and overhead, a monstrous candelabrum of wood and iron swayed in the invading wind. Particles of sand sifted across the floor. She left footprints in them. Outside, the wind seemed warm. She walked in a daze, like the ghost she’d always dreamed she could be, out through the castle walls, through the sleeping village around it, towards the sea. Nobody challenged her or tried to stop her, and she could not stop herself. Her heart raged with conflicting feelings; humiliation, anger, injustice. The waves were a roar ahead of her, throwing themselves at the land. It was like someone angry banging their head against a wall, again and again and again. The foam, as it slithered down the sand, would be bloody. Then, as if the journey had been completed in an instant, she was sitting on the cold, hard shore, watching the grey waves heave and wrestle with the impassive rocks. The tides were senseless; all that energy expended in the endless crash and rise. Why didn?t the sea stay calm and temperate, always at the same level, flowing evenly around the rocky spikes and caves? The sound of it filled her head. She stood up and yelled, ?Stop it! Stop it!? but her voice was a tiny, useless squeal. The waves were like the ragged, lacy wings of a swarm of great beasts that battled beneath the surface. She could see their snouts breaking through, blowing out spume. They could march on splayed claws towards her and then they might bow their weed-crowned heads at her feet, or else devour her in fury. Perhaps the choice was hers. She felt full of tears, but could not weep. Energy raged about her body, so that she had to run down the beach, her nightgown flapping, her hair a pale banner on the wind. Croaking out dry sobs, she began to climb onto the rocks that were continually being drenched in spray. They were a hard, black tongue poking out into the sea that she was driven to walk, scramble and jump along. If she fell, the waves would grab and kill her, but she would not fall. The feelings that raged and crashed within her would keep her safe. Tonight, she felt as strong as the sea itself. It was not calling to her, as before. She felt quite apart from it, even despised it. This was Valraven’s beach, the senseless waves were his. They were like a physical expression of all the humanity dammed up inside him; natural feelings that had found a way to wear the obstruction away, so they could pour out and engulf and drown. Sometimes, a greater wave would come pouncing up and collapse upon her, and she would be thrown down onto the sharp wet stone. Her hands and feet were cut, her nightdress and gown heavy and torn about her body. She knew she should feel cold, but her body was numb. Eventually, she reached the far end of the promontory, where there was a narrow ledge above the tumbling waves. Here, she pressed her back against the wet, barnacled rock, her arms spread along it. The tide was going out; she was not in that much danger. She would stand here and watch it leave, show the sea how unafraid she was. Then she saw it; a wave that was not a wave. It rose up, and did not fall. It continued to rise, spreading itself out in a lacy fan that resolved into tattered wings. There was a long neck, like the skeleton of a viper, delicate and coralline. The body was agile and pale as shell, the limbs fragile and clawed. It was ruffed with a frill of white weed, and it uttered a great, honking cry, tossing up its equine head. Ancient fishing nets were caught about its body, hung with curtains of deep-sea weed. There were spars of broken ships caught in them, and pale objects that might be human bones. Soft anemones bulged like jewels from the creature?s hide. It was monstrous yet beautiful, like Valraven: full of indifferent power. It had white, cats? eyes, the size of fists. Was this a perigort? It did not look like a bird, yet it had wings. No bird could ever be that big. It lunged towards Varencienne where she stood frozen against the rock. Hovering before her, it thrust out its dripping muzzle and she gagged on a strong stench of brine and fish. The great head turned to the side, examined her through one unblinking eye. Its breath was cold, smoking. Varencienne could not scream and was beyond feeling terror. The creature hung motionless before her for perhaps only a second and then reeled away with unnatural speed, up into the sky. Her back was arched against the rock; she felt her thighs hot and damp from the terrified release of urine. Her body ached and blood ran down her arms, the cuts stinging fiercely. She could not get back to the castle. She would die here. A sob bubbled out of her constricted throat. She called out in her mind, “Pharinet! Pharinet!” The creature might come back, or a different one rise from the insane turbulence around her. But this time, there was no Pharinet to pull her back to safety. She had only herself. Do it, she said aloud through clenched teeth. Move. Quickly. Now. You got here, now get back. Slowly, she edged around the rock, her legs insubstantial beneath her. She crawled back towards the beach, falling and scrabbling, determined not to cry. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Now she must be brave enough to finish the adventure. When she reached the sand, she collapsed into a ball, pressing her head down between her knees, her arms reaching out ahead of her along the shore. Every muscle in her body was burning with cold and exertion. But she had won. She had faced the power and returned to land alive. She rolled onto her back and lay with her knees arched, her feet planted firmly on the damp sand. A soft ripple of laughter came out of her. She had never felt so strong. It took some time to find Pharinet’s sleeping chamber. She found the sisters’ quarters fairly quickly and then she had to open door after door. When she found her quarry, she slunk into the room like a predator, then knelt dripping beside Pharinet’s bed. The woman looked vulnerable in sleep, her jaw slack and sagging. Varencienne reached out with icy hands and s
hook her awake. Pharinet jumped up with a start, her eyes round with terror. She did not seem to recognize who knelt there. ?I saw it,? Varencienne hissed. ?It came up out of the sea.? Her fingers were flexing before her like the bony claws of the beast. The fear went out of Pharinet’s eyes. She wiped sleep-tangled hair from her brow. “You are a little fool,” she said. “Hand me my robe.”

  5

  DRAGON PRIESTESS

  “WHAT DID YOU THINK you saw?” Pharinet asked. They were in her small private room, strewn with her clothes, and tea was brewing over the fire. Varencienne was shivering now, wrapped in a cloak of Pharinet’s. “I’m not sure. A monster.” She rubbed her numb fingers together. “I’ve heard it before, I think. At night. What is it? It seemed to know me.” She described as much as she could remember of what had happened. “I called for you, Pharinet, but knew you could not come to me. I had to rescue myself. It was very important.” Pharinet sighed and sat down on a couch. “What you have seen is impossible,” she said, “yet perhaps not. Can I confide in you, Ren? What I have to say is a secret of Caradorean women.” “Of course you can confide in me,” Varencienne said. “I will never speak of it to anyone.” “Well, what you described sounds like a sea dragon, or the memory of one.” “A sea dragon.” Varencienne paused, frowning. “It seemed very real, not a ghost at all.” “Whether real or not, it came to you, and that in itself is remarkably significant. It looked upon you, Valraven’s wife, but did not mark you for good or bad.” “Mark me?” “You are what we call a ‘sea wife’, the wife of the Dragon Heir,” Pharinet said. “The sea dragons are ancient elemental creatures, but the legends tell us they are banished from this world. Your family was responsible for this, many years ago.” Varencienne leaned forward. “Tell me about it.” At the end of the story, when Pharinet described how she became a priestess of the dragons, Varencienne sensed there was more, but perhaps that would be revealed in time. She reached out with a cold hand and touched Pharinet’s fingers, which were laced on her lap. “Thank you. I know now that you trust me. Pharinet smiled uneasily. “It’s not that difficult. I believe your family knows more of these legends and their implications than we do.” “Really? Why do you say that?” Pharinet shrugged and went to the fire to busy herself with the kettle, which was now puffing steam into the room. “Just a feeling.” “I knew from the moment I came here that I would find magic in Caradore,” Varencienne said. “Don’t look so dreamy. The dragons aren’t sweet, fairy creatures. They take lives and sanity.” “You speak as if from experience.” Pharinet sighed and shrugged. “You could say that.” “Will you not tell me about it?” “It is very late at night, and I’m tempted, because the dark encourages us to speak our hearts, but no, little Ren, don’t drag my sad songs from me. Some things are best forgotten.” Varencienne knew that whatever those things were, Pharinet had far from forgotten them. “That day, when you took me to the sea, I had a feeling that you knew something about me or recognized something within me. I heard you talking with Everna while you thought I was asleep. Can you at least explain that?” “Everna and I have slight differences in our beliefs. She is a traditionalist, and is quite happy to keep the old ways alive. But they are just like little plays, meaningless ritual. I think the dragons, and other elemental beasts like them, are symbols for the life of the world. I think humans have become estranged from that power, to their detriment.? She handed Varencienne a hot mug. ?Drink that. You need some warmth in you.? “You haven’t answered my question.” Pharinet sat down again, and took a sip of her tea. “These are not the easiest concepts to describe. I believe that my brother, Valraven, still carries a vestige of the original power, and that his wife—you—are, or can be, the channel for that.” “You’re saying you believe I can bring the dragons back.” “Nothing quite that dramatic. I think between you, you could bring that element alive again in Caradore. Magravandians are fire people, which can be seen as the opposite of water. But both are essential.” “What effect will that have?” “I don’t know. Maybe a tiny shift in people’s hearts, to instigate a greater change.” “The downfall of the empire?” “I would not expect you to conspire in that. Maybe we have to look at things on a smaller scale. Valraven needs to come home, in a spiritual sense.” “What does he think about all this?” Varencienne had a feeling he would not believe such things. “Val does not know everything,” Pharinet said carefully. “He does not want to. The little he does know has led him to believe that meddling in ancient magic is dangerous and foolish. He thinks it is all a delusion adhered to by people who are hungry for temporal power.” “He isn’t the man you want him to be,” Varencienne said. “He is a creature of the imperial army. I can see that. I can sense it. He has no warm feelings for anything or anyone. You cannot shape a person like that into a spiritual leader.” “He wasn’t always that way,” Pharinet said. “Life has changed him.” They were silent for a while, then Varencienne said, “Do you think I was meant to come here?” Pharinet did not answer immediately. “I’m not sure that matters. You are here, and you obviously have an affinity for the land. I think you love Caradore, because it can give you freedom of a kind you’ve never experienced before. You seem to me to be a wild and joyous creature but those aspects are contained. I see the potential for release.? “I think I was meant to come here,” Varencienne said, “but for myself, not Valraven, or you or an old legend. Part of me was already here.” Pharinet smiled into her tea. “It really is very late. Drink up, and go to your bed. We can talk about this again tomorrow.”