The grassy field on the island had been transformed into a small stadium, with bleachers and banners, and a podium with eight chairs, two built to accommodate Claws. At the edge of the grove, pictures were set on easels, tapestries hung from poles, and tables laid out with glass and ceramic goods. Hands shuffled by with somber expressions. Being curious, Melissa approached. The items were not for sale. Each masterpiece embraced common colors and elements of design. This was Shorassa’s legacy. She wept.
Her scent memory told a story. This tapestry had hung by the water, in a cave near Seakeep, while that one rested in a grotto beneath a fiery mountain. A flowered dress smelled of the fields, and a vase once held flowers at a bakery in the city. Every piece had been torn from its home for a brief reunion with the brother and sister works of one creator’s hands. In all the caves of the Lissai, only her products among all the Hands had been sought out, only her vision of the world trusted and embraced.
As she joined the line, Melissa noticed a pattern to the artifacts’ arrangement. The oldest came first, as she could tell by the smallest deviation from perfection, followed by Shorassa’s later creations. This made it all the more striking that in their primary colors, they formed a rainbow. In life, she longed to be the Rainbow Bride, but in death, Shorassa summoned another to this world. Seeing all this, Melissa sensed that the young artist had always known, that the whole of her passion and planning and pain had been to welcome a stranger to her world whom she would never meet.
By the fading light, Melissa unpacked her supplies, kindled a consuming sadness in her loins, and spat sizzling jets of sorrow over a sheet of glass. She tossed colored powder in its reds and greens and blues, and the breeze wed with her intent to scatter streaks and whorls upon the surface. Hotter and hotter, and softer and softer, she lowered her claws and cut and scooped and tapped tiny impressions. She built up and flattened out, a tree first, then a rock, then a foot upon the rock, with toes pointed forward. A skirt rippled with tresses poured and patterned. Then came the arm raised high, pointing ahead. Shorassa arose, leading the way, always leading, not cut down but marching to glory, followed by the others.
Melissa’s flame was the only light remaining. Her last glazing lit a twinkle to the left, the glint of watching eyes. A woman in a black gown with a sky blue cloak and hood stood on the edge of the darkness, unmoving. The crowds departed; she remained. Melissa saw her among the mourners earlier but paid no notice. She pulled her cloak tighter, and walked forward. The glass had cooled, and the woman ran her fingers over the features of the finished Embraniss. No inch escaped her examination. When finished, she turned to Melissa, and stood half an arm’s length away. She clasped her hands together at her waist and tilted her head back to look up into the eyes of White Talon. She cocked her head one way, then the other, then her cheeks flushed with the first glow that presages the arrival of a smile, but the smile never came.
“Zocrita,” said Melissa.
“White Talon,” said Zocrita. She turned and left.
Melissa would face the Octojurata on the morrow, but she’d already been judged.
Chapter 19: Dangerous Words
April 12th. Hammerside.
Up and down, up and down, forward, back, poke, poke. “Ow!” said Callyglip. “Shoroko, can’t we quit this entranced terror and walk? We should be going to Four Rivers, not shuffling off to the Census Stone. Soon we’ll be surrounded by millions of hungry beasts, and wind up inside one lucky stomach.” He put his hand on his belly and groaned. “Why did I talk about food? We’ve got to stop.”
The two Hands sat none too comfortably astride Orokolga, who in her mesmerized state gave no notice. The only words from their golden mount were emitted amid hourly spasms punctuated by “Stop! Don’t eat him!” followed by a brief charge when the two Hands had to grab sharp nobs on her back with bloodletting grips to avoid bouncing off.
Shoroko held the flickering last half foot of a wax-tree branch in his left hand, and by its feeble light read a book from the ancient city. Hot wax dripped on his hand. He drew a hissing breath through his teeth and dropped the branch. Then he grabbed a new scion from the next tree, bent low and held it for the orphaned scorching torby walking beside them. The five-foot, spherical, stubby-legged, scaly, spike-covered, fire-breathing terror had latched onto Orokolga and was huffing to keep up with the much larger dragon’s sluggish strides. It accepted the branch, chewed off the leaves, and belched its thankfulness, setting a new torch on fire for Shoroko. “I’ll need Jessnee or White Talon to explain the science, but the map is clear. There is another ancient site in Menagerie besides the guarded one by the Census Stone. Maybe we can repair its door to Nehenoth and get answers.”
Past midnight the tree cover gave way to moonlit fields. Callyglip spotted a distant glistening. “I see the Bittersweet River. Shoroko, the ford’s north, and the city’s south. We’ve got to get off and walk. Orokolga is no use to us now, nor we to her. When the stone lets go of her in a few weeks we can get together.”
Shoroko answered by stuffing the book into the sack and withdrawing another. The call of the Census Stone did not override all instincts. When they reached the water’s edge, Orokolga knelt to drink. One very exhausted, twice as thirsty torby trotted up a minute later, tumbled down the slope and splashed into the water. Loud gurgling commenced.
The men dismounted and drank, too, keeping one eye on the golden dragon, who any moment could resume her unrelenting stone-ward trek. Their vigilance was rewarded when her expression returned to its determined, glassy aspect. They hopped from a rock along the bank onto her back and waited.
Orokolga’s head shot up. Her ears stood erect. Her head jerked around and she spun south. “I accept your summons!” She broke into a gallop. That was the end of Shoroko’s reading.
Callyglip looked behind. The torby whined and pawed the ground. It tried to follow, but the call of the stone dragged it northward. With whimpering cries, their temporary companion disappeared, once again alone and afraid. It would soon rejoin its herd. Not so Orokolga.
It took everything for the two men to hold onto the racing dragon. When the gallop slowed to a trot, Shoroko asked, “Can you hear us again?”
“Yes,” said Orokolga.
“Why are we going south?”
“I have been summoned! After six hundred and five migrata enslaved to the stone’s call, someone pronounced a weightier invitation.” Was it a trick of the moonlight, or was her hide glowing faintly in tune with her excitement? They rode south until dawn, and the first sight of the city. They had been summoned, but by whom?
* * *
Melissa munched on homzhash and a sugary, long-grained porridge called glish, which left her thirsty. She left the cave planning to fly to the river. Vedarran sat on a rock outside, sipping tea and reading a law book. The olissair scanned the city below with her telescopic vision and spotted a commotion. “Something’s up by the gate. I’m flying down for a look.”
The old farmer set down his cup. “If you see my daughter, tell her they’re about to move your contraption from Makri’s to the island. Metookonsen wants to make sure it isn’t a weapon or a trick. We’re all going over within the hour.”
“And Soorararas?” said Melissa.
“He has the liosh. Jessnee wanted to test it with the plates and do a trial run of the machine to see how well it separates the liosh, but there’s no time. Everything has to be monitored by the court, and the officials won’t assemble until noon.”
“So we don’t know if this works, and won’t get a chance to calibrate the water circulation in the cooling tower,” said Melissa. “I’ve gotten poor results with better equipment and days to make adjustments. I hope you and Olsurrodot have better luck working the law, because working the science might fail.”
Vedarran picked up his book again. “The law will interpret the testimony, and the testimony will show you killed Shorassa. If that machine doesn’t convince the Octojurata you did so because you were poisoned, your only hope is that
they trust your word. Have they reason to doubt your integrity? They’ll look for one, and if they find you haven’t plowed a straight furrow, no procedure or motion will save you.”
Melissa leapt from the hill and glided toward the gate, hoping for a distraction to take her mind off Vedarran’s words. During daylight the city gates were normally open; they were shut. She flew over the walls and landed outside. It was Shoroko! Alive! Her heart pounded. She couldn’t get closer because of the crowd. Shoroko walked alongside the Golden Dragon, sack in hand, while Callyglip sat on the creature’s back. Boys pulled free from their mothers’ hands, ignoring their warnings and running near to see. “Mauw, it’s got to be safe. See, even Callyglip can ride it.” They waited until the dragon looked the other way, then snuck up to see how close they could get. After a suitable pause, Orokolga swung her head back in their direction and growled, sending squealing kids back to their mothers, only to repeat it again and again.
One bold girl would not be outdone. She tiptoed from behind and wrapped her arms around the golden tail. Swish, swish. She got the ride of her life, but refused to be dislodged. Flip. Orokolga jerked her tail up, the girl did a somersault and landed right side up, seated behind Callyglip. She raised both arms, gave a big whoop, and shouted, “Again! Again!” before slipping down the tail like a slide and stomping the ground for effect.
A group of giggling maidens waved at Callyglip. One tossed him a loaf of bread, which he caught, bowing graciously. “I tell you, he’s grown. And what’s he riding? So brave.” Another said, “I think his father’s in town. You should have your father talk to him.” A third said, “Did you hear? Cally took down a Claw with one arrow! And he discovered an underground city full of treasure. I bet he’s rich now.”
Melissa scanned the crowd and spotted Thedarra, the only person not staring at Callyglip and the dragon. She was combing her hair and staring at Shoroko. Enough eye candy for you, Darra. “Thedarra!”
The woman turned and pushed through the crowd toward Melissa.
“Your father says we’re all heading over to the island,” said Melissa. “He wants you to join him to start the interviews.”
“What about Shoroko?” said Thedarra.
“I’ll let him know where we’re going,” said Melissa. “Oh, I see someone is bringing Fear. You’d better get a head start since you’re walking.” The olissair cleared a path and approached Shoroko. Before she could speak with him, the gates opened and Metookonsen and Ecraveo appeared, flanked by Lofty K'Fuur and Olsurrodot.
“Jumping down a hole to rescue me was noteworthy,” said Ecraveo to Callyglip. “But your entrance today? Spectacular. I’ve misjudged you.”
“Impressions aside,” said Metookonsen, “your golden steed, though the talk of legend, has never set foot in our city. We do not mean to be inhospitable, but with such,” he waved his hand back and forth to indicate its size, “we must take precautions.”
“Will you accept my promise to do you no harm?” said Orokolga.
Most Hands gasped. “It can talk!” Metookonsen and Ecraveo were the exceptions.
“Promises are welcome,” said Metookonsen, “when the one making them is known.”
“I will vouch for Orokolga,” said Shoroko, stepping forward. “She led us safely back to the surface, and rescued White Talon from the Osh Pits some days ago.”
“I appreciate your introduction, Shoroko,” said Orokolga. “However, I need only go to the place I have been summoned. No cause to alarm this city unnecessarily with my presence. I feel the one who called me is near. Reveal yourself and the task you have appointed for me to complete. However base or lofty, I accept, in gratitude for being freed from the imprisoning call of the stone.”
This caused Metookonsen’s eyes to widen, and his head to look around. Summon a legend known to hide in lonely, inaccessible places? Summon a creature none suspected capable of reason? When Olsurrodot stepped forward, Metookonsen expected the elder Claw to be equally surprised. He was wrong.
“Thank you for answering my summons,” said the aged Olsurrodot. “I called for the unnamed Grantor to send us an agent of true justice, and you, whose name we also do not know, have come. Citizens of Four Rivers, honored jurors, Lord Metookonsen, our eighth juror has arrived. Behold the Juror of the Migrata, the voice of Providence.”
While Metookonsen, Ecraveo, Olsurrodot and Lofty K'Fuur hurriedly convened a meeting back inside the city to debate the legality of seating Orokolga, Melissa filled Shoroko in.
“Back home we decided I’d represent our family and sit as Juror of the Hours.” said Shoroko. “That makes you, me and Makri versus Metookonsen and Ecraveo. Skandik will follow the mood of the crowd and won’t cross Metookonsen without a good reason, but he is an honest man and open to persuasion.”
“K'Fuur?” said Melissa. “I nearly choked when he was chosen as seventh juror.”
“I don’t know. Red and White rivalry will sway him one way, while Claw pride pushes him the other. We must appeal to his loyalty to his race without alienating Skandik. Olsurrodot had better handle that part, because Vedarran will make a mess if he tries. He’s smart, but even less subtle than his daughter.”
“Which leaves the golden one,” said Melissa. “What do we know of Orokolga?”
“Not much. She’s been alone for millennia. Her desire for friendship could sway her to side with whichever race is likeliest to reciprocate.”
“Claws? She resembles the Lissai more than humans.”
“You’d think, but I sense she holds a grudge against the Browns.” Shoroko gave Fear a pat. “Did you miss me?” He hopped onto his steed’s back and took up the reins. “I’ll see you when I get to Market Isle. Hard work ahead. K'Fuur won’t like having a juror seated higher than him any more than Metookonsen liked being demoted by K'Fuur. Orokolga’s position is not certain.”
What was certain was that Melissa didn’t want the conversation to end. As her desire trotted off, she argued with herself about whether she’d ever be able to say those three dangerous words: I love you. What do I even know about him? She trotted down the road leading west and launched herself. He loved his sister enough to ride hundreds of miles and face a dragon to avenge her, enough to put aside vengeance when he saw a way to save her. He keeps his word. He’s brave. He didn’t kill me. He must’ve let Cally ride the dragon in alone to make the kid look good in front of the ladies. If only SHE paid attention… Melissa curved eastward and flew over Hammerside. She overtook Fear and glided, watching from above. I’ll do it. Yes, I will. When Shoroko ducked into a shop, she circled, talking up her courage. An eternity later, he emerged and resumed his ride. I’ll do it now. Now. No now. Okay, after the road forks, where there are no people on the street. He passed the fork.
“I LOVE YOU, SHOROKO!” she roared.
Down below, Fear whinnied, snorted and shook his head. Only then did Melissa realize she was speaking quaggan. I doubt Freud had a word for that. She circled again and descended a hundred feet. This time. This time.
The street rounded a bend, and there she was. Shoroko called to Thedarra, helped her up, and they rode toward the ferry together, her arms around the place another’s arms ached to be.
* * *
Shoroko dismounted before his favorite armament shop, haggled for a new bow, quiver and arrows, paid and left, feeling less naked. Back on Fear, he trotted down the mud street. After a few blocks, the lane emptied. He saw a shadow dance across the street and up and down the walls of the houses. He looked up, but the sun made it impossible to see. Seeing what cast the shadow wasn’t important. He knew. On the flat ground the shadow looked unmistakably lissine. But on the awnings, curved walls and shutters, the shadow bent and twisted. It shifted its shape and he beheld the sad girl with long hair, straight and tall, reaching out her hand, beckoning.
But how? How could he come to the place where her true form lay imprisoned? How reunite her spirit and its original fleshy home? Why allow himself to be drawn into an impossible af
fair? What did he know about her, anyway? She risks her own life to clean up other people’s messes. She tells the truth even when it can cost her everything. And she surrenders her freedom when she can easily escape because she believes in justice. Your face, your heart, why couldn’t one be ugly? Whatever you do, don’t tell me. Don’t tell me or I will never be able to stop. Don’t say those dangerous words or I will be yours forever.
The road forked and he went right, toward the docks. A loud whinnying startled Fear and nearly knocked Shoroko off. He peered into alleys and up the street, but no other quaggas were in sight. Fear bobbed its head and grinned, looking back over its shoulder at its rider. A blue glaze frosted Shoroko’s eyes and his ears tingled. The echo of the whinnying rattled around in his head. The feeling matched the one he had when carried by the rukh, as its caws and cackles became clear and understanding lit his brain on fire. Meaning hid within the words, a message for him. Think, think.
He passed an alley, preoccupied with the almost understood message. It infuriated him. Needing quiet, he stopped. He put his fist on his forehead, and pounded. It wouldn’t come. He heard rustling and turned. In the shadow of the alley three men stood with their backs to him, shoulder to shoulder. It didn’t look right. He slowly drew his bow, pulled out an arrow, strung it and waited. The men stood still.
“Turn around and step out of the shadows where I can see your faces.” He pulled back on his bowstring. “Slowly, or I might get startled and let go.”
The men bolted into the alley’s shadows. They’d been standing as they were to hide their catch, a woman slumped on the ground. Seeing she was safe, Thedarra bounded to her feet and ran to Shoroko, who helped her onto Fear. She sobbed quietly but would not speak.
“Shall I pursue?”
“No. Let’s get to the ferry.” Thedarra wiped the tears from her eyes. She put her arms around him and held on tight as a moroshticle.
Shoroko dug his heels into Fear’s sides and they broke into a gallop. When his anger at a friend’s brush with death subsided, he turned his mind back to the words. This time, understanding came.
A Most Refined Dragon Page 19