Trista convinced her eyes to refocus. Then she saw it: a tower, slumped, sticking out of the sand. She saw part of a wall, too, and now that she looked more closely it seemed a few of the dunes were actually roofs.
With protesting muscles, she sat up. “I—I can see it.”
She rolled to her knees and strained to get back to her feet.
“Maybe we can make it there before it gets too warm,” said Trista with a sparkle of new hope. “Let’s go. I’ll carry Dalkeira.”
Decan merely nodded. Trista pulled him up. Their moment’s rest proved enough for them to stand again, though Decan was swaying lightly back and forth.
“I can’t make that…”
“Yes, you can. You can hold on to me, okay? Now come on, before our feet figure out what we’re doing.”
Trista pushed the child into Decan's arms and guided him in the right direction. Her will to survive kept her legs moving, fueled by her newfound hope and curiosity. But as they got closer, reality and disappointment settled in. When they neared the tower and walls, it became clear everything had been deserted a long time ago. Parts of the stone structures were broken off. Of the tower, only the highest was still sticking out of the sand.
“A small city. Let’s find some shade and rest before we check things out. Maybe there’s something useful,” said Trista, refusing to listen to her own disappointment.
They managed to climb through a large V-shaped hole where part of the wall had corroded over time. The desert sand reached as high as the wall itself, burying most of the city’s buildings well beneath the surface. They sat in the shadow of the tower, away from the burning sun. Trista put Dalkeira down as softly as possible. Decan slid down beside the dragon, baby in hand, unable to stand any longer. Trista followed his example.
When Trista opened her eyes again, part of the day had slipped by.
“I think we fell asleep,” whispered Decan as he noticed his sister waking up.
Trista looked around. The shadow of the tower no longer covered her completely, making her feet uncomfortably warm.
“Only for a short while. The shadows haven’t moved much.” She looked at Decan and the small bundle stirring in his arms. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s still breathing. Besides that, I don’t know.”
Trista gave the baby a quick check, but did not take her from her brother’s arms.
“Do—don’t you think we should give her a name, or something?” said Decan.
“A name? I suppose you’re right, but I haven’t got the faintest clue what to call her.”
Decan looked at the little girl’s face as he held her, but offered no suggestions.
“We’ll think of something,” he said.
Trista gave a small nod. She passed him the last of their rations.
“Eat and drink something, okay? Even if it’s only a bite. I’ll go and have a look around,” said Trista.
“Be careful,” said Decan.
She flashed him a small smile. Her little brother was a shadow of his former self. Cheeks hollow, dark shadows under his eyes. Trista wondered what she looked like herself. Probably not much better. Her arms and legs felt thin. She could easily count her ribs, and her clothes were stained from sweat, sand and blood.
She put her hand on Dalkeira’s chest, which still slowly rose and fell. Dalkeira was almost gray instead of blue. The dragon’s tongue hung partly out of her mouth, while the membrane of her wings felt thin and fragile. Trista clearly saw the veins running through them. Inspecting the webs between Dalkeira’s claws, Trista noticed the nails were worn from walking through the sand.
Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this is where our journey ends, Trista thought tiredly.
No!
She forced herself to get to her feet once again.
Must not give up. Must do…something. I promised Mother and Father. Goddess give me strength…
Using the wall for support, Trista looked for anything that could be of use to them.
If there was a city here, it must have meant people—and water.
She wandered around as the sun continued to climb. Turning a corner, she tried her luck with one of the metal-barred windows, but it would not budge. Continuing deeper into the complex, Trista passed through a low passage, which was in fact a high ceiling from back in the city’s glory days. Trista wondered what had happened.
Did the sands simply swallow the city? Did the water run out? Were they attacked, conquered and abandoned? Where is everyone now? She would probably never know.
She climbed through an unbarred window. It had a high arch, but was not very wide. Inside, the room was pleasantly cool.
We can stay here for a while and rest, she thought.
There was not much to see on the walls. They were once colorful by the looks of it, but much of that had faded, their plaster peeled off throughout the years. Trista slid her hand along the rough wall as she moved across the room, until she tripped and fell. She saw a shiny edge sticking from the sand. It had been buried just below the surface. She dug around it with her hands and pulled out a platter of sorts. It had been polished to the point of near perfect reflection before the sands of time took their toll on it.
She used her shirt to clean the platter, restoring some of its shine in the process. Then she saw her reflection and froze. She did not recognize the woman staring back at her at all. Her face was even worse than Decan’s, skin peeling off her cheeks and forehead. Her lips had lost nearly all their color and her gums looked like they were pulled back. Startled, she felt her teeth and could have sworn she made them move. Her hair looked terrible. It was dry, almost hay-like, and the only way she knew it was hers was the characteristic red color. Trista had never cared much for being pretty, but the image staring back at her was disturbing. None of the strength she brought forth to keep going—to push herself and her brother forward—was visible in that shiny platter.
She let it drop from her hands. If she had not been so dehydrated, her tears would have freely flowed. Now, barely one tear formed in her eye. She felt broken inside, exhausted, not just from walking, but from keeping it together. This time, it was not so easy to talk herself back on her feet. She pulled up her knees and let her emotions flow out, even if her tears would not.
In the meantime, Decan was somewhat recovered. After eating a few bites, he gave some water to the baby in his arms. Looking at the dragon, he felt a mixture of worry and annoyance. He was still angry at her for giving up. He did not want to admit it, but after venting all his frustrations, he felt a lot better. He had come to realize none of this was Dalkeira’s fault, just like his sister said. Somehow, he had focused all his own anger and fear on the dragon, simply because she showed up at the same time everything started happening. He had been shocked—furious—about Rudley the goat, but Trista was right: the three of them were all they had. If they did not trust and take care of each other, they would never make it. So he wanted Dalkeira to survive as much as he wanted himself and his sister to live.
The baby in his arms made some protesting noises.
“And you too, of course.”
Decan took the water bag and gave the baby another sip. Then he moved closer to Dalkeira. He tilted her head and let some water drip in her mouth. Her tongue made the slightest of movements. He shook the bag, judging the amount of water in there. There was not much anymore, but Dalkeira really needed some right now. Carefully, he poured more water in the dragon’s mouth, and this time he saw her swallow.
Dalkeira slowly opened an eye, trying to focus on Decan’s face.
Where am I? Are we still in the desert? She had trouble forming her thoughts. She felt Trista somewhere nearby, but she was not happy. Has something happened?
Her senses were all garbled. Her eyes would not focus and the taste of warm water lingering in her mouth was barely noticeable. She concentrated on the only sense that seemed to be somewhat functioning. She smelled the sand; she would never forget that smell, ever again. She s
melled something more solid, too. Dried clay, or some type of stone. It did not have the salt smell of the coastal cliffs, but more a sweet edge to it. But there was something else. Something just outside the range of her nose. She tried to lift her head, sniffing the air.
“Easy. Just stay still,” said Decan.
Dalkeira was so tired she almost gave in to the simple suggestion without objection. But then her nose caught it again: a brief whiff, an odor floating through the air. It was very faint, but the urge it unleashed inside Dalkeira was strong. Once more, she tried to sit up.
“Don’t move. Please, you need to rest,” said Decan again.
It was no use talking to the boy; he could not hear her, and she did not feel as if she had enough energy to call out to Trista. The only thing she could do was look Decan straight in the eye and softly shake her head.
Decan let out a sigh.
“Fine. What is it, then?”
Carefully, the boy put the baby down in the shade, tucking the canvas around her to make sure she did not roll over. After that, he helped the dragon get to her feet.
Once upright, Dalkeira took another sniff of the air. Her mind was driven by blind instinct now—not active enough to register what she smelled, but pushing her to go find it nonetheless. She took another deep breath, and another, and suddenly her thoughts fired up. She knew this smell.
Water!
And not the stale water from the bag either. This was fresh, running water, she was sure of it. She sniffed again, this time moving her head to get a sense of direction. She flicked her tongue out, tasting the air, then slowly walked away from the tower’s shade.
Behind her, Decan quickly checked the baby was okay before he followed her toward the center of what might have been a square. There, Dalkeira wobbled back and forth. She held her head high and low; swiveled it from left to right while breathing in deeply through her nose.
She was certain there was water, but she had trouble pinpointing where. It was not behind one of these walls, but it did not smell far off.
No, not far away, but blocked. Hidden, thought Dalkeira.
She crossed the open space near the tower again and suddenly stopped to sniff the ground.
Here!
Without hesitation, she started digging with her claws, moving sand and then gravel away. Instantly, the smell got stronger.
“Trista! Something is up with Dalkeira! I think she smells something!” shouted Decan behind her.
The spot where Dalkeira was digging grew larger and larger. The dragon pushed the sand away like an animal gone mad.
“What is it? What are you looking for?” Decan closed in to get a better look.
Dalkeira was now in full frenzy. Her entire body screamed for fluid. Her nose directed her downward, into the ground. Her claws dug deeper and deeper. She noticed the sand slipping away, like there was a hole beneath the surface, and refocused her efforts upon that exact spot.
“No! Stop,” Decan called.
Decan saw the sand shift. But having missed the maelstrom that morning, Dalkeira paid no attention to it. Decan jumped forward to pull the dragon back, but it was too late. This was not a slow-streaming maelstrom; loud cracks and rumbling echoed hollowly beneath their feet. A pit roared into existence and before either of them could react the ground swallowed them whole…the desert finally got its meal.
Chapter 19
Scarred
“Corza? Are you awake, sweetie?”
The bed creaked as he rolled onto his other side. He flinched. Fresh cuts made his skin stick to his nightshirt, making his entire back burn. Old tears had dried on his cheeks. He hated the salty taste of them. He always tried to hold them in so as not to agitate his father any further. But the belt had torn into his skin right from the start, and the pain had become unbearable.
Soft footsteps on the hardwood floor approached his bed. Outside, the night bell rang. He pulled the blanket over his chin until only his eyes were visible. He was not in the mood to talk, not even with his mother. He stared out of the window; the dark palace was barely visible against the blackness of the mountain. Those who lived there seemed untouchable.
The mattress bobbed slightly as his mother sat down.
“Son, he doesn’t mean it. You know that, right? It’s just the drink in him. Your father has had a rough week, with losing the warehouse and the increased taxes and all.”
Corza squeezed his eyes shut to counter a new set of tears and pulled his cover higher. Taxes? That was the reason his back lay open?
His other scars had not even healed yet. Last time it was a spilled drink. Before that, a fight he picked with his older brother, who had his own dirty ways of torturing him thanks to the great role model their father was. Besides, was their family not one of the wealthiest in the city? He was certain his father would find a way to make up for his losses.
His mother’s hand slid under the blanket and scratched through his hair.
“You’re my special boy. You know that, don’t you?” said his mother, her hand continuing to stroke his hair. “You’re my strong boy. Stronger than you think.”
His mother slipped under the blanket with him. Her smell comforted him as she wiped away his tears.
“You’re becoming so big already. Before long, the ladies of this city will stand in line for a chance to impress you.”
“Girls don’t like me much. They’re mean. They say I look worse than the skeleton soldiers. Smell, too,” said Corza softly.
“They’re just jealous. You shouldn’t allow them to hurt you like that, ever.”
Corza instantly stopped moving. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.
Does she know?
“What’s wrong? Is there anything you wish to tell me?” his mother asked lovingly.
Corza kept his gaze locked on the palace outside. He did not know how to explain it. He knew what he had done was wrong. His mother had explicitly told him not to. But it was just a kiss, and not a good one at that. It had been cut short, interrupted when the tip of his tongue almost got bitten off. It was not until he ran upstairs and Corza saw his brother enter the hallway—laughing—to give the girl a coin that he knew why.
“It’s alright, my sweet boy. You don’t have to tell me. Your brother already told me everything,” flowed his mother’s voice. “He saw you. You and that maid—Freya. And I don’t blame you. It’s more than normal for a boy your age to be curious. But you don’t need them, Corza. These girls are only interested in your fortune, your power. The family name. She tries it with both your brothers and I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried it with your father, too. But she’s a hard worker and her tolerance for pain is quite high.”
The night's shadows hid his mother’s smile.
“But she doesn’t see you as special. Not like I do.”
His mother kissed his ear. Her hand trailed down his neck and arm and slipped inside his nightshirt to run along his chest. He felt nauseous, and not just from the pain. His entire body became rigid. He tried to fight it, but it was like his entire body was paralyzed—except down there.
“You don’t need any of them, my sweet boy. They’re all whores. Trying to screw their way to the top,” whispered his mother. “You have me, don’t you? You’ll always be my special little boy.”
“Mother, please, my back hurts.”
“I’ll be careful. Just lie back and try to relax. Let your mother take care of you the way you always like.”
He turned his gaze back out the window to the dark palace. She had been like this ever since his eldest brother was forced into the army. He knew there was nothing he could say or do to stop her. Out there, in that mysterious place, the Stone King sat on his throne. Corza bet there was no one in the world who could hurt the Stone King, or make him do anything he did not want to.
The bed creaked from his mother’s movement. Corza tried to ignore the agonizing stabs in his back. He hated his body for not listening to him; he hated his brother for setting him up; and he ha
ted Freya for going along with it. But most of all, he hated not having any control over what happened to him. He just wished everyone would leave him alone.
A shudder ran through his mother’s body, announcing the end of her special time. Corza bit his lip and fought back the tears. She sat back and slid to the edge of his bed.
“I love you so much, my handsome boy. It frightens me sometimes. The world out there is big, and not much of it is good. I think you father tries to toughen you up, but I just don’t see it. You’re such a soft boy. Kind. Gentle. I want to keep you like that…with me,” said his mother, now with tears of her own filling her eyes. “Soon, they’ll come for you. Perhaps it will be some girl; some woman. You’ll think you’re in love, but it will be nothing like we have. Or perhaps the army will claim you. They’re talking about another law for households that have more than one boy. How are you going to survive in such an environment?”
A strange look came over his mother’s face. She bent over and picked something up from the floor beside the bed.
“But fear not. I’ve found a way to keep you safe, my sweet, sweet Corza. The army and girls won’t bother you after this. I just had to enjoy it one last time. I wish I didn’t have to, but it’s a necessary evil if we want to stay together, you and me. And you want that too, don’t you?”
His mother did not expect an answer. She rarely did.
Nervously, Corza sat up straight. Something in the woman’s hand shimmered in the moonlight.
“Wh—why did you bring those, mother?”
Without a word, his mother moved on top of him, this time with her full weight. He could not move even if he wanted to. With her back toward his face, she forced his legs open.
“Don’t worry, I’ve spoken to the eunuchs at the eastern gate. They’ve assured me you’ll still be able to live a rich life,” said his mother as she opened the scissors. “But this way you won’t have to worry about any of those nasty things out there. You can stay with me, my sweet, sweet boy. Forever.”
Wavebreaker Page 37