“I am not a child,” she complained. Her tongue felt heavy, her bones gone to mush. “I am a warrior.”
“Then fight back,” the shadowmancer’s apprentice said. “Fight them, little warrior. Fight, or die.”
I will fight, she thought, and she meant to say it. But the dragon rose up from the singing mists, and carried her heart away.
EIGHTEEN
The sun was a thin yellow haze in the west by the time they reached the place where Ani had fallen. The wind had hidden much of the tale that had been written here, but there was still evidence of blood, a broken lionsnake plume, and cat tracks all around in a pattern of concentric circles that looked deliberate.
“I do not understand,” Leviathus muttered, as he let a handful of sand and dried blood sift between his fingers. “Why would they have taken her with them?”
“More likely something ate her,” one of the Mah’zula offered helpfully. “A wyvern, perhaps.”
“It would not have been the na’iyeh,” another added. “They only eat the living. There is too much blood here for your Ani to have survived.”
“Sssst, Anika,” Ishtaset chided. “Enough of that.”
“No, it makes no sense,” Leviathus insisted. “Where did the cat tracks come from? The vash’ai had abandoned the… Kha’Akari.” He used the term Ishtaset had taught him, indicating that his captors had been honorless renegades, and not true Mah’zula. “Unless… vash’ai do not eat people, do they?”
One of the vash’ai, a big queen so pale she was nearly white, whipped about and snarled at him. There was a sharp pressure in his head, a pop in his ears like the time he had dove too deep underwater, and surfaced too quickly. Two other males, smaller and younger, turned to regard him balefully.
You dare much, human, the queen growled in his mind. She had a voice like a bass drum.
“Forgive me,” Leviathus replied aloud, bowing low as he might to visiting royalty. “I am woefully ignorant.”
The queen lashed her tail once, twice. Very well.
He has pretty manners, for an interloper, he heard her tell one of the younger males. Let him live, for now. Leviathus realized that he had been holding his breath and let it out in a long, shaking sigh. Speaking to the vash’ai so had been wonderful. And terrible. And wonderful.
The Mah’zula were staring at him. Ishtaset blinked.
“You… hear them?” she asked.
“Yes. Is that not allowed?”
Ishtaset traded sidelong glances with another warrior. “Allowed? Not allowed? You have much to learn of the vash’ai, Outlander. Sadly, you will not have time to learn it. I have granted your boon, in return for the information you have given us about those who rode with Mariza Kha’Akari—” She spat.
Several of the other Mah’zula spat, as well, leaning well out of their saddles and scowling dark promises.
“—we have sought out your Istaza Ani, and she is not here.”
“We could track her…” he offered.
“We could,” Ishtaset answered, face as smooth as a sea-stone. “You could not, even were you not my prisoner. You would not hope to survive, especially with the na’iyeh on your trail. And you are my prisoner, ne Atu. As I said, I have granted your boon, and now you ride to Min Yaarif. Teika.” She turned. “Anika, you go with him, and Hayisha, as well… her Zeihat is a kahanna and will keep the na’iyeh at bay. The pod may not attack you once you arrive in Min Yaarif. They usually avoid large numbers of people.”
“Usually?” Leviathus asked. “Wait… are you not coming?”
Ishtaset quirked her lips. “Are you afraid you will miss me, King’s Son?”
Leviathus glanced at the women who had been named. Ishtaset had proven so far to be a woman of honor, and none of her warriors had so much as looked twice at him. When he had told them of his treatment as the hands of Mariza and her followers, they had expressed outrage and disgust. Yet…
“They will not harm you, Leviathus ap Wyvernus ne Atu,” Ishtaset said, and her voice was so soft, so understanding, that tears prickled at his eyes. “My warriors are true warriors, and the old laws flow through our veins. You will be taken to Min Yaarif, and there you will be ransomed back to your father. You are my prisoner, and you remain under my protection. My blood on it, Outlander.”
“And mine,” Hayisha agreed.
“And mine,” Anika echoed.
You are under my protection, the vash’ai queen informed him, as if that was the end of it. None may harm a whisker on your face while you are in my presence, little two-legs.
Thank you, great queen. Leviathus bowed again. She had not eaten him the last time. Be certain that I will return the favor, if ever I may. One never knows.
Even so, little fa’ar. One never knows. The queen twitched her tip of her tail again, and those enormous yellow eyes laughed at him.
“As for myself”—Ishtaset drew her sunblade and held it before her—“I have sworn an oath to protect and serve my people. These Kha’Akari dress themselves as Mah’zula, they ride asil.” Several warriors growled at this. “By that alone have they earned their deaths. I and mine will purge these pretenders from the Zeera, then I will ride to Aish Kalumm, the Outlander-style city built in the heart of the Zeera.
“It is plain that the Zeeranim, the true children of Zula Din, have lost their way,” she continued, “and need to be guided back to the true path, so they may ride once more for the glory of Akari Sun Dragon, and live lives of truth under the sun. I swear to do this thing, or die in the attempt.” She kissed the flat of her sword, just as the sun flared bright and dove beyond the horizon.
“Ehuani,” her warriors echoed. “Ehuani.”
“Ehuani,” Leviathus whispered. It seemed to him that in the dying light the sands were bathed in blood. The king’s son who had set sail to bring his sister home would have been horrified at the thought of a bloody purge, but Leviathus had been broken and forged anew. He imagined Mariza’s riders mown down like so much wheat, a feast for wyverns and crows.
The thought made him smile.
NINETEEN
With her father the Dragon King, Sulema attended the Sulemnium’s maiden spectacle. High above the fray they reclined on cushions of gold and white, surrounded by courtiers and guards, servants and Baidun Daiel, the warrior mages who served Ka Atu.
She had never endured such loneliness as she did on that day, watching her sword sisters play in the sand while she sipped spiced goat’s milk and pretended to smile at her flatterers. The King’s Gallery overlooked the spectacle grounds, and the curtains had been drawn back to let in the morning sun and the cool salt breezes. It had been built of quartz-of-gold, and roofed in golden tiles. Golden spidersilk lanterns from the Forbidden City drifted gently about the roof, waiting for night’s first breath to set them aglow.
For all our fear and hatred of the Sindanese, she thought, we do love their magics. It was a beautiful scene, and a beautiful day, marred only by the stench of illness that clung to her like perfume.
“You do not look as if you are enjoying yourself,” her father chided. “Is something wrong?” He sat in an enormous wooden chair, a scaled-down and simplified version of the Dragon Throne.
“No, your Arrogance,” she answered, painfully aware that they were not alone. “I only find myself tired from my studies.”
“Aasah works you far too hard,” he answered, patting her hand, but then he winked. “It builds character.”
“Just what I need. More character.” For appearances’ sake she smiled and turned back to the festivities. It was, she had to admit, truly spectacular.
The grounds of the Sulemnium had filled as fools and acrobats, fighters and beast-handlers swaggered onto the arena sands in turns and displayed their most dazzling skills with beasts and fire, with throwing-knives and high wires, with song and dance and martial cunning. Banners had been hung from doorways and balconies all around the arena, proclaiming this troupe or that tribe. A yellow serpent for the Snake Dancers, whil
e a black mymyc on a red background advertised Matteira’s fools. The unmistakable dagger-tusked form of a rampant vash’ai, gold against a blue background, announced the presence of the Ja’Akari.
When the few Ja’Akari who had remained in Atualon demonstrated a game of aklashi, the people of Atualon leapt to their feet in thunderous applause. Sulema noted, with some amusement, that no few of Atualon’s noble ladies had taken to wearing elaborately beaded vests, the laces of which were left decorously and—in the eyes of the ever-disapproving parens—dangerously loose.
How she longed to join her sword sisters. She sipped the milk, which she hated, and glared over the goblet’s rim at her father.
Ka Atu had surprised her by dressing as a warrior-king. Granted, he still looked fine for an old man, decked out in red silk and bright golden scale, and the sight of his strong calves still caught the serving women’s eyes. Yet he was taking a risk, for the very last thing any of them needed was to witness a weakened king, wound up by the sights and sounds of combat and determined to join the fray.
Kings were no more than men, after all, fragile of will and prone to act rashly in the heat of the moment. The simpering sycophants batting their cow-eyes at him did not help. Sulema watched her father’s chest swelling as he sat straighter still under the gaze of admiring females. My father is a man, she thought, and women want him.
Ewww…
Nor was this interest limited to women. No few young men cast their eyes down in his presence, apparently hoping to whet an appetite for more than wine, or bread, or sweetmeats.
One stood out from this adoring gaggle of courtiers. Half a head taller than any other in the room, the young man had a shaven scalp oiled to a mirror finish, and had dressed himself in a scrap of yellow silk like that worn by the shadowmancer. He had darkened his skin with fragrant oils and dyes, and every inch that Sulema could see—which was most of him—had been covered in delicate tattoos in an attempt to imitate Aasah’s intricate spider-webbed scarring. From what she had been told, it was typical of Atualonian fashion to emulate the dress, talk, and even beliefs of peoples from foreign lands.
Sulema wondered what the king’s shadowmancer thought of this upstart boy’s tattoos, and shivered. That man was a web in which she did not wish to become entangled.
Wyvernus caught her eye, and Sulema saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Watch this, he said, mind-to-mind. Sulema tensed, not yet used to having someone intrude upon her thoughts. Ka Atu turned to the young courtier, who seemed to grow half a hand taller under his king’s gaze. Yet the king did not return his shy smile.
“Young Claudus,” he said. “You are one of Matreus Bellanca’s boys, are you not?”
“Yes, your Arrogance.” The young man swept a graceful bow.
“And I see by your appearance that you also follow the dark arts of Quarabala. This pleases me, for I have need of a strong young shadowmancer. I am of a mind to present the emperor in Sindan with a trained wyvern, and Aasah assures me that he is too old and much too busy to undertake such a dangerous quest. You are up to the challenge, are you not?” He smiled like a vash’ai sire, all tooth and slow cunning.
“Your Arrogance…”
“You are a shadowmancer, are you not?” The courtiers drew in closer, attracted to the smell of blood in the air. “You look the part of a shadowmancer, you dress the part of a shadowmancer, so you must have the powers of a shadowmancer. Do as your king commands.”
“But, but… your Arrogance, forgive me, but…”
“But, your Arrogance,” Wyvernus mocked, and his eyes flashed bright red. “But, your Arrogance. I do not believe I am familiar with this protocol. Matreus?”
A large woman in robes of gray and blue, with tiny silver bells sewn along the hems and a net of flowers holding up her mass of silvering curls, stepped forward and bowed.
“Yes, Ka Atu?”
“If I asked you to slit this one’s throat, would you do so?”
“Yes, Ka Atu.” She bowed again.
“And would you stammer and bleat ‘but your Arrogance’ at me, like a sheep?”
“Certainly not, Ka Atu. Though I believe I would expect you to pay for a new dress, if I got this one all bloody.”
The assemblage chuckled obediently. Sulema did not share their laughter. Her heart went out to the ridiculous young man, who was trying to blink away tears of shame and fury. However, the Dragon King was not finished.
“There, Claudus, now you see how I expect things to be done at court. If I ask you to do something unreasonable, for the love of the Dragon, simply do it and then afterward try to swindle expenses out of my Master of Coin. Claudus of Atualon, I name you shadowmancer and to you I give this quest. Travel to the Zeera, or to whatever distant lands you deem fit, and return to me with a menagerie fit for the emperor in Sindan. A thousand churrim white as sea-foam. A single asil mare in foal. A young wyvern trained to obey a human handler. In return, I give you life.” He sighed, as put-upon as any parent of a wayward teenager. “If you cannot do this simple task for me, perhaps Matreus Bellanca can find me a more willing—shadowmancer—from among her many boys.”
The young man went stiff all over. “Your will be done, Ka Atu. If I have your leave…?”
“Yes, excellent idea. Leave. Leave, all of you.” He waved a languid hand to disperse the small crowd of moneyed and influential citizens. “Not you, Sulema, dear. You stay.”
Sulema blinked. It had not occurred to her that she might leave. Things had turned… interesting.
“You stay, too, Davidian. And… Saskia, is it?”
The girl nodded, beet-faced and mute.
“Excellent. Lovely lass. Friends with my Sulema? Be a sweet girl and guard the steps, would you? At your ease, if you would. Here.” And he tossed a cloth-of-gold pillow from the benches to the Ja’Akari. “And you. You… Thaddeus! Bring food, a great deal of it. Red meat on the bone. Fruit, cheese, wine, whatever you can find that cannot outrun you. Make sure that girl is fed, too.” He pointed to Saskia. “She is too skinny.” The Ja’Akari clutched the pillow to her midsection and fled to her post. He managed to keep a stern mein until they were alone, then he grinned broadly.
“A tamed wyvern?” Sulema shook her head. “An asil mare in foal? You will find a thousand tamed wyverns before you find one warrior willing to sell you her horse. And a thousand white churrim? In all my life, I have only ever seen one white churra. Where do you expect him to find a thousand of them?”
“In the same merchant’s stall as the trained wyvern, no doubt,” he replied. “Oh, come now, you have to admit the little cockstrut begged to be humbled.”
“Perhaps he wishes to emulate his king. Ka Atu, the man who, I hear, plans to challenge the Daemon Emperor in his own city.” She sighed. “Father—”
“What, my daughter?” he said. “Are you going to tell me that I should not ride to Sindan at the head of my army?”
“I had thought to, yes.” Sulema nodded, then nodded again to the servant who came at a half-run bearing food. It remained where it was set, untouched. “Are you certain, ah, your health—”
“How about you, General?” Ka Atu turned toward Davidian, who stood stiffly nearby. “Do you think I am too old, too feeble, to wage a war? What would you have your king do?”
“What ever is your will, Arrogance.”
“And if my will is that you should burn a village? Murder your own family?”
The man swallowed hard.
“Even so, Arrogance.”
“You see what a ruler has to put up with, Sulema?” he said, turning back. “Oh, do not look at me like that, either of you. I have no intention of making the journey to the Forbidden City.” He picked up a skin and filled a glass of wine, then held it up so that the light shone through, draping a bloody mask across his face.
“Davidian, leave us. Take that young woman Saskia out there to watch the performers warm up for tonight’s festivities. And do feed her.” The Imperator General bowed,
clutching fist to mailed chest, and left in a swirl of golden cloak and injured male pride.
“There, you see? I send them on glorious quests, and they sulk. I try to take care of them, and still they sulk. More and more I feel like Father of Time in the old stories, him with a thousand children all crying to be first.” He shot her a look. “You eat, too, Sulema. You are so thin you hardly cast a shadow. Oh, and stop fussing at this old man. I will not be riding out to wage war upon the Forbidden City. Not today, at any rate. It suffices that the Daemon Emperor hides in his palace, behind a wall of victories long forgotten.”
She frowned at him, and picked up a piece of flat bread. “You will not be riding to Khanbul? Then why let the people think it is your intention?”
“Why not?” he replied. “They need a new bone to chew on, and even this wonder of a spectacle will lose its savor before long.”
“So the rumors are…”
“A diversion.” He nodded. “Yes, the spectacle, the Forbidden City, nothing more than diversions for the citizens of Atualon… pretty boys and girls dressed in finery and playing with new toys, as the house burns to the ground and their father lies dying.”
Her frown turned to a scowl. “You are not dying today, Father.” Indeed, but for the bald head, he looked much as she remembered him from the night she fled Atualon.
He stood. “Daughter… look at me.” An expression of impatience spread across his face. “No, look at me. With your dreaming eyes, as I know you have been taught.” Wyvernus spread his arms wide, opening his ka wide as well. Sulema concentrated, and with some effort was able to open her Dreaming eyes. What she saw through them made her gasp.
Wyvernus had told her his sa had always been weak, even for a man. His intisallah, the heart’s fire, gave off a thin and ruddy light that glowed a little ragged about the edges. But his ka, his soul’s fire, burned so low she could hardly tell it was there at all, save for the occasional hiss and flare of a dying fire the color of burnt blood. Even a dead man, she knew, should show some spark, some sign that the man had once lived and loved, but Wyvernus’s intikallah lay dead and cold as rocks.
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