The Dragon's Legacy

by Deborah A. Wolf

  Hannei swayed forward, and landed a weak and awkward blow to Sulema’s upper arm. The red-haired girl dropped to her knees and held up both hands, palms-out.

  “I yield,” she cried out. “I yield!”

  The day went silent, so silent Nurati fancied she could hear the golden scales of Akari Sun Dragon sighing as they caressed the soft blue sky.

  Then Sulema stood, and the girls embraced, and the crowd roared its approval.

  “Well played, Ja’Akari. Well played.” Sareta, the hardest woman Nurati knew, watched with tears in her eyes. “Young Sulema will be First Warrior after me, mark my words. She and Tammas are the future of the pride.”

  Nurati looked from her, to the red-haired cub of the she-daemon, and to the crowd, whose screams and ululations grated in her ears. She watched the dreamshifter and her apprentice slip away into the shadows.

  The child in her belly kicked as if she, too, sensed the danger.

  That red-haired she-daemon, become First Warrior? The dreamshifter’s daughter, mated to her own son? Not on my watch.

  Umm Kalthea, First Mother before her, had spoken these words: “A mother plants trees so that her children may have shade.”

  And if those trees are threatened by a vine, Nurati thought, she must tear it out by the roots.

  TEN

  The moons rolled over in their sleep. Sounds of merriment ebbed like the tides of the Zeera, flowing away into yesterday as the new Ja’Akari tucked their tents and belongings into the churra packs, making ready to ride out into the desert.

  The wind carried away the last bits of song and smoke, and girls who hoped to become warriors poured sand into the cooking-pits, just as she and Hannei had done this time last year. As she watched them from Ismai’s old hiding place beneath the arena, Sulema’s heart was heavy. She had waited for this, bled for this, wished for this her entire life. And now—in the last hours of the last days of her captivity—her mother’s past threatened to snatch it all away.

  It was not very warrior-like to cry about life being unfair, so she clenched her jaw and said nothing.

  She wore a warrior’s vest and trousers, and a proper shamsi hung at her hip. The sunblade had been a gift from Istaza Ani, and was one of a great many gifts given to her after she ceded the championship to Hannei. Had she continued the fight against a weakened opponent, she would have claimed an honor as empty and useless as a waterskin full of holes. As it was, even Umm Nurati had come to pay respect.

  After the fight Sulema’s mother had clasped her shoulder. Just a brief touch, no words, but she had given Sulema a look and a nod of approval, and those were worth more than all the water in the Dibris.

  She hated herself for that, for being so easily bought. A look. A touch. Pathetic.

  “Sulema Ja’Akari.”

  She jumped half out of her skin at the voice, spun so hard the shamsi banged against her thigh, and snapped a smart bow to the First Warrior. Sareta laughed, and held out one of a pair of drinking horns.

  “I thought I might find you here. I used to hide in these tunnels, myself, back when I was young. Would you share a drink with an old warrior?”

  “You are not old.” She took the horn gladly—to share usca with the First Warrior was an honor.

  “Do not argue with me, brat.” She raised her cup high in salute. “The way is long!”

  “Life is short!”

  “Drink!” They knocked back the usca together, and a warm glow settled around Sulema’s heart, loosing the grip of her disquiet.

  The First Warrior thumped her chest and grinned.

  “That never gets old, unlike us warriors. So, child, have you decided what you will do now?”

  Sulema cleared her throat and blinked back tears. The cheap usca available to younger warriors did not have the kick this stuff did. “Do?”

  “Istaza Ani assures me that you are not stupid, so do not pretend with me. Will you remain among your cousins?” The warrior gestured with her empty cup. “Or will you travel outland to sit at the feet of the Dragon King?”

  The usca had begun to burn. “He is not my king.”

  “No, but he is your father.”

  “So she says.”

  “She is your mother.” The First Warrior’s voice had a bite to it. “She would know.” She sighed, and took a step closer. “It is hard, I know. I understand how you must feel.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. You are trapped.” The older woman shook her head, and the morning sunlight kissed her silvered braids. “You wish to meet with this man, with your father, but you do not wish to be seen as an outlander among your own people. Above all else, you crave acceptance—and you fear being seen as disloyal.”

  “I would never betray the people!”

  “I know this, child. I have seen you struggle with this your whole life, with the thought that you are not one of us.”

  Ehuani, she thought, but the word stuck in her throat.

  “You are one of us, Sulema, you are Ja’Akari to your bones. It is true that you do not have a warrior’s hair,” and here she reached to tug at Sulema’s copper-red braids, “nor a warrior’s eyes. There is too much cream in your coffee. You are spotted like a churra.”

  Sulema felt her freckled skin heat with shame.

  “But you see nothing, Ja’Akari. You fight this battle with your own shadow. Everyone else can see that your sa burns with the light of a true warrior. I name you Ja’Akari, under the sun I see you, Sulema. Warrior of the Shahadrim. True daughter of the pride.” Her brown eyes burned fierce.

  Sulema bowed her head. “Thank you, First Warrior.”

  “Ha, brat, do not thank me yet. I have a task for you, and a gift, and I am not sure which is worse.”

  Sulema looked up, wiped the tears from her face with the back of one hand, and waited.

  “The task will not be to your liking. I would have you go to Atualon with this red-headed stud of a brother of yours, and meet your father.”

  It was the last thing she had expected to hear. “I do not understand.”

  “You heard me right. Meet your father—Ka Atu, the king of Atualon, the man who wields the power of atulfah. The man who sings to the Sleeping Dragon. It is time for you to open your blind eyes and see what lies before you, Sulema. The dreamshifter says you are this man’s daughter, and I believe her. They say you can learn to wield this power… that you could become his heir. Sa Atu, the Heart of Atualon.”

  “I do not wish to become this, this Sa Atu.”

  “Do you think I care what you wish?” The older woman’s smile belied her words. “Think, child. You would be Sa Atu… and what else?” She reached up and tugged at one of her own braids.

  Sulema blinked. Oh. “I would be Sa Atu… but I will also be Ja’Akari.”

  “Just so. Yes.” The First Warrior nodded, pleased. “You could learn how to use atulfah, the most powerful magic this world has ever known…”

  “Learn this magic… and bring it home to the people.”

  “A fine gift, would you not agree? A gift to the people, worthy of a great warrior.” Her voice fell to a near whisper. “As great a warrior as Zula Din. Greater, perhaps.”

  “You think I could do this thing?” A new dream, an impossible dream, gripped her. Sulema could hardly bear to breathe, she wanted it so.

  “I know you can. I have been watching you, remember? I know you, Sulema, better than the youthmistress knows you, better than your cousins or that boy Tammas. I know you better by far than your mother does.”

  “Is this the gift, then? Or the task?” Her head spun. What was in that usca?

  The First Warrior laughed. “This is your task, Ja’Akari, though I am pleased to find you willing. As for your gift, it is this: three days to yourself, and a word of advice. No warrior is complete until she is Zeeravashani. Go now, and find your kithren.”

  “Find my… but the vash’ai chooses the warrior, never the other way around.”

  The First Warrior winked.
“That is the common belief, yes. But like many common beliefs, it is not… quite… the truth. The vash’ai are always close to the Madraj this time of year, seeking the best, the boldest of our warriors for their young. You are already in the best place, at the best time… now, you have only to prove yourself worthy.”

  “Hannei is champion. Should she not be accepted first?”

  “Human titles mean nothing to the vash’ai.”

  “I do not understand what you expect me to do, First Warrior. We are leaving with the moons, and if the vash’ai are not impressed by fighting…” Her voice trailed off at the other woman’s slow smile. “What would you have me do?”

  “Seek out the Bones of Eth.”

  Sulema blinked. “The Bones of Eth?”

  “Umm Nurati tells me that the Bones of Eth have become infested by a lionsnake. A very young, very small lionsnake. The wardens have been complaining that it poses a threat to the eastern herds, and that the Ja’Akari have not yet killed it. It would only take a small party, they say. Two warriors… three, at most. One, if she were bold and foolish enough. But of course, I will not send a single warrior to this task. Only an exceptional warrior could hope to kill a lionsnake by herself. Such a warrior would surely find favor with the vash’ai.”

  “They say you killed a lionsnake by yourself, once. When you were young.”

  “Do they? I do not listen to gossip. It is almost always wrong.” The First Warrior touched the plumed headdress upon her brow and grinned, and Sulema caught a glimpse of the young scoundrel she must have been. “It was two lionsnakes. This is one of the reasons I was named First Warrior.”

  Sulema’s heart danced at the possibilities.

  “The gift I give you is this, Ja’Akari, as a reward for an honorable fight. Three days to yourself as the people prepare to return to the villages. Your horse is in the easternmost pasture, and there you will find weapons and supplies enough for a short journey. Ride to the Dibris and go fishing, if that is your pleasure, ride south and do a little tarbok hunting if you prefer. Or you could ride to the nearest oasis and take your ease.

  “These three days are your gift. I will not tell you what to do with them… and for once, I will not tell you not to do anything stupid.”

  The First Warrior put her hands on Sulema’s shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks, as warriors had done for years beyond count. “Akari be with you, warrior.”

  “And with you,” Sulema replied.

  She could hardly believe her luck.

  * * *

  Sulema knew the Zeera as she knew her own body, the rise and swell of it, every mood and season and scar. She understood the desert as she could never quite understand people. When she was riding her mare across the golden sands she felt in place and at peace as she never did when she sat near the fire with her peers, telling stories and matching wits and eyeing the eligible young men. When she was younger, she had liked to pretend that the Zeera was her mother, that Akari Sun Dragon was her father, and that she was beloved of them both.

  She and Hannei had ridden to the Bones of Eth and back many times in the past—as a dare when they were younger, out of boredom or the need to escape Istaza Ani and her endless lists of chores when they were older. The path was so familiar they could have found their way on a moonless night, were it not for the threat of greater predators.

  Today, she was the predator. Today she left the games of childhood behind and became a woman, no matter what her mother might say.

  The shrill cry of a raptor snatched at her attention. She looked upward, shading her eyes against the midsun, but it was only a bird after all, a large hawk of some kind with the sunlight filtering through his tail feathers. They were close, then.

  Sulema whooped as Atemi surged up the dark side of a particularly steep dune, her mare’s hindquarters bunching and flexing as she surged upward. As they came again into the sunlight, she could see, off in the distance, the dark and dangerous wound in the world that marked the Bones of Eth. The small specks that floated so lazily above the stone columns would be buzzards, but that larger speck might well be a wyvern. She had best keep an eye on that one, then, because if she could see a wyvern it had surely been watching her for some time.

  The Zeera shimmered in the late heat. As she drew nearer to the Bones she could make out the twisted and ugly shapes of the columns rising from the ground like the legs of a dead spider. There were a lot of buzzards—something big must have died recently— and, yes, the larger shape was a wyvern. A small one, half-grown but deadly enough. The wyvern trumpeted, a high and pretty note nowhere near the deep bass rumble of a fully grown greater predator, and plummeted out of sight.

  Atemi tensed from neck to tail and protested with a little buck. But the presence of so many scavengers was a good sign. It meant the lionsnake had killed recently, and a lionsnake that had gorged would be easier to kill. Sulema gripped her bow tight, clenched her jaw, and drove them both on.

  The wind shifted, and the air burned with the thick stink of a lionsnake. Atemi bucked to a halt, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling, sides heaving slick with sweat. Sulema slid free of her trembling mare and gathered up her weapons. Atemi roared a little through her nostrils but stood still as she had been trained. She would not bolt.

  Maybe.

  Then again, Sulema had been better trained than to hunt a lionsnake alone, and yet here she was, fitting a trembling arrow to a trembling bow, with an unblooded sword at her hip. Killing a lionsnake or two by herself had seemed like a good idea when her belly was full of usca.

  The First Warrior has done this, she reminded herself. Twice. This is what I must do if I wish to become Zeeravashani. I am a warrior.

  It is a good day to die.

  Another, treacherous thought tickled the back of her mind.

  I should have gone fishing instead.

  Sulema stepped gingerly and winced, wishing she had worn boots instead of sandals. Her feet were tough as old leather, but za fik the sand was hot out here. She stepped into the shadows, hoping the ground would be cooler underfoot. It was not, though a shudder of cold air sliced through her, raising chillflesh along her arms and tightening the skin at the back of her neck. As she walked between the black-and-red striped rocks, the air thickened and cooled. It stank of old death, and new.

  The wind picked up, twirling the sand-dae into a mocking little dance around her feet, daring her just one step closer to death. There was a strange quality to the air, the breath of a scent or the faint note of a song she could almost remember, or the ghost of an old warning. She moved deeper into the shadow of the Bones, lifting her head as a tarbok might as it scented danger. There was something here beyond even the threat of greater predators. Something wrong.

  This was a very bad idea. For a moment, her mind cleared and she shivered. I should go. I should go now. She shifted her weight, intending to turn and leave, and forget whatever madness had driven her to such a place.

  A vash’ai roared nearby.

  Help me!

  The voice in her mind, weak and full of fear, was the same voice she had heard at the ceremony. Sulema quit thinking and ran toward its source. The air snapped shut behind her as she passed through the Bones and she stumbled, blinking, into the thin sunlight. There, in the far and darkest corner of the clearing, huddled a young vash’ai, black and gold as a statue passed through fire. The straggling wisps of a mane and bright tusks marked him as less than half-grown. His throat and chest were splattered and stained with bright blood, as was the sand all around. One foreleg canted outward at an awkward angle, and he snarled in defiance at a pile of tumbled rocks, old bones, and debris.

  He looked at her, into her, and his thoughts were the last sweet notes of a lost song.

  Help me, Warrior. Kithren. You are mine. Mine. Help me…

  Ah, she could feel his heart pushing the blood through her veins, a stout heart and true. Warrior-poet, true friend, a song of tooth and claw. He was her light in the dark, she was his, they we
re…

  Ware, Kithren. Ware the lionsnake!

  No sooner had the thought touched her mind than the pile of debris shifted and the broad, plumed head of a lionsnake reared high in the air, blocking out the sun. Its mouth gaped wide, showing row upon row of inward-pointing teeth, glistening as venom welled from their needle tips to hang in long, viscous strands. The beast scrabbled at the mouth of its lair, claws like black scythes scraping against bone and rock as the beast hauled itself into the clearing on two long, muscled limbs.

  Sulema gaped in shock.

  This was no small hatchling, but a red-wattled old bitch of a grandmother snake. The tattered and faded crest of plumes stiffened and shook, and venom-sacs along her jaw swelled. She drew breath in a long, rattling hiss, and shrieked.

  The young warrior cried out, nearly dropping her bow as she clapped her hands over her ears and remembered, belatedly, that the lionsnake was related to the bintshi. Its cry might not be deadly, but it hurt. The vash’ai snarled, but it was a weak sound, a dying sound. He flattened himself against the rocks as the lionsnake kneaded the sand beneath her claws, head weaving to and fro and eyes narrowed as she hissed in pleasure, anticipating the kill.

  Istaza Ani is right, she thought. It is a good day to die…

  Silently she stepped from the shadows, nocked an arrow and drew in a single, smooth movement, and shot the old bitch in the face.

  …but it is an even better day to live.

  Her hand was steady, and her aim true. Sulema’s arrow shot straight through one vulnerable eye—tip, shaft, and fletching— and put out that fell and ancient light.

  The lionsnake screamed, jaws gaping and snapping shut as her head whipped about, seeking the enemy who had dared to wound her. The ruined eye dripped ichor as she screamed again, clawing at it, snaking her head back and rubbing the wound along her armored hide.

  Then her good eye found the small warrior standing alone upon the sand. She froze, and let a long, slow hisssss. Sulema saw the pupil snap shut like a cat’s, saw a protective membrane slide over the eye. There would be no second lucky shot.