Dagger of Bone

by R. K. Thorne

  In her bedroom, Lara lay in the dark and twirled the idea around in her head, like a crystal sphere that reflected the light this way and that as she moved it. The night had grown cold, but the furs and blankets heaped on top of her were more than enough to keep her toasty. The sweat on her brow wasn’t from the excessive bedclothes, however.

  She had to put it back.

  The presence of the blade beneath the bed tugged at her. She’d been so sure she had everything figured out. And then out of the blue—or the black, maybe—this boy had shown up. With his books and his poetry and his too smart eyes—and enough magic to unseat Andius. Perhaps no one knew yet, perhaps no one would admit it, but she knew. She had seen it herself.

  Eventually everyone else would too. He’d crush Andius at the Feasts of Contest, and he’d win the title of heir, and they’d go to give him the Dagger of Bone.

  And it wouldn’t be there.

  What had she been thinking? What had felt like rebellion at the time looked more like suicide on a long delay. There was no way out of this alive—or happy. What in all the dragons under heaven was she going to do?

  She’d screwed herself worse than anyone else had, except maybe Myandrin in dying, and that wasn’t his fault.

  Yes. Maybe she could sneak it back in. Putting it back was the only way. She’d right her mistake before anyone knew it had been committed. It would be like it had never even happened.

  She threw off the furs and sat up. Swinging her feet, she searched for her slippers. She didn’t know the guard rotations as well at night, or even exactly how far into the night they were, but how strict could they be? How frequent?

  What kind of fool would try to steal the clanblade, especially from within the house? They’d be relying on the perimeter guards to keep anyone truly dangerous away. She wouldn’t be surprised to find them asleep.

  Her clan wasn’t great at the guarding of things. But they usually had so little to guard anyway.

  She pulled a robe around her to stave off the chill and then knelt beside the bed.

  She sorted through the silk garments, neatly setting some aside and shifting others. The bag waited at the bottom. She grabbed it by the gathered drawstring at the top and stood.

  A dark, quiet laugh echoed in her skull.

  Her blood ran cold. No. No—it couldn’t be too late—it couldn’t have—

  The laughter echoed again, rasping and deep. Her mind was a cavern in which the sound echoed infinitely.

  She held the bag up at eye level and glared at it. How could it mock her pain, her naive hope that she could better her situation without inadvertently making everything much, much worse?

  “Don’t laugh,” she whispered.

  Face me. The words were barely a whisper on the wind, a tease so soft she wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined them.

  “No. I’m—I’m putting you back. I should never have—”

  She staggered as her vision was obliterated by—by something else. By darkness.

  A huge eye opened in her mind.

  The black of the pupil gaped, as large as she was, deep like a vast chasm she could tumble into and never reach the bottom. An iris of slate purple ringed the darkness. And at the farthest edge, a ridge of bone.

  Hello, daughter.

  Hello, she replied as calmly as she could.

  Luck to you, honored clanswoman.

  Luck to you as well. Even as bitter anger pumped in her veins, she knew enough to be polite to the Bone Dragon. Or was this the clanblade?

  We are one and the same. My soul is linked with the blade.

  She nodded and swallowed hard. Somewhere she could feel her body still staring at the eye-level bag that hid the dagger; the image was transposed in her mind over the great eye. She was experiencing them both simultaneously. It was dizzying. Terrifying.

  But most of all, it meant she was too late.

  Do not be afraid.

  I am afraid. I’ve made such a mistake.

  Be afraid of them, but not of me. I am your friend.

  She blinked. Friend? That’s hard to believe. How did one be a good friend to a dragon?

  Perhaps aunt is a better term? Godmother?

  You’re… female.

  Yes. And a friendly female. I saw your birth, you know. I know your father’s love for you. You have nothing to fear from me.

  I wasn’t supposed to take the blade, she confessed. I stole it.

  You seized it. The great dark voice almost held a tinge of… was that pride?

  Her brow furrowed. Is there a difference?

  There is.

  This is all a terrible mistake. I’ve just realized, I’ve got to put it back.

  I am afraid it is too late for that. There came dark laughter again.

  Don’t laugh at me, she grunted at the dragon.

  I apologize, Clan Leader.

  And don’t call me that.

  Why not? It is what you are.

  I can’t be.

  I say you can. Now draw me from the bag and face me.

  She yanked the neck of the bag open and drew out the blade. The room was nearly pitch-black save for a touch of moonlight, but somehow the blade managed to catch what it could and gleam viciously. The bone was cold and oddly reassuring in her hand.

  Good, the dragon purred. It suits you so. Look how it fits your hand.

  It did fit. It looked made for a small hand, like hers. But she shook her head. Only men are allowed to wield this blade.

  Only I determine who is allowed to wield it. The dragon’s voice rose to such a great thunder in her mind, Lara staggered again. I may have offered part of my soul to protect my people, but I am no slave.

  I’m sorry. It’s just… I thought… I didn’t take the blade for the right reasons. It was selfish. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. Before the eye in her mind, and in her real body, she fell to one knee, holding up the blade horizontal across her palms.

  The eye only blinked at her, cold and unfeeling. Wear your mantle, girl. There is no throwing it off. Certainly not with noble proclamations.

  She dropped her head, lowered her arms, and rose. Yes, great dragon.

  Call me Yeska. It is short for Yeskatoth.

  Her eyes widened. Of course. Yeska.

  Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, down to more important matters. You must tell the others you’ve claimed me.

  She gasped. But they’ll kill me.

  This did seem to give the dragon pause, as Yeska didn’t immediately brush off her claim. That may be true, she consented, annoyed. But if they do, I will withdraw my power from them—

  Didn’t you already do that, in my grandfather’s time?

  The great eye scowled. I will withdraw it even further.

  She pursed her lips. You’re bluffing. Can you even do that?

  Of course I can. Notice I am not withdrawing it from you. Yet. You can learn from their mistakes.

  To her surprise, she found herself clutching the blade to her chest. She stared down at its beautiful, softly curving edge and sighed. What a mistake. Perhaps she and Nyalin could have bested Andius and been truly happy. There wasn’t a good chance of that, but now she would never know.

  Put me back if you’re going to mope, said Yeska. And take me up again when you are ready to fight.

  A smile tugged at her lips at that sentiment, in spite of herself. I must admit, I do like your attitude.

  We will be friends.

  I could see us being friends.

  I know. I am usually right.

  I’m usually all up for fighting, but you know, it is the middle of the night.

  The best time to take an enemy by surprise.

  Now it was Lara who laughed. True. But are they enemies?

  It is debatable. Some of them are. If you would wear me during daylight—

  I would get to fight all right. To the death.

  No.

  She shook her head. Midnight is the time for moping. Perhaps tomorrow, Yeska?


  Sleep well, Clan Leader.

  Wincing, Lara murmured her thanks. The great eye faded from her consciousness, not entirely but enough that she could concentrate on returning the dagger to its makeshift home under her bed.

  She tossed off the robe, crawled back under the sheet, and pressed her fingers over her eyes to force back any tears. Tears wouldn’t change anything. Tears wouldn’t undo the imprinting or any of the choices she’d made. They wouldn’t bring back Myandrin, and they wouldn’t keep Da clan leader forever. Apparently, she’d already usurped that role.

  They were all going to be so, so angry at her when they found out what she’d done. And though she had thrown caution to the wind once before, she didn’t want to die.

  Unless… unless they couldn’t find it.

  Yes. That was it. She doubted Yeska would approve, but no objection sounded in her mind at the idea. If returning the thing wasn’t an option, she’d follow her other plan. She’d take a horse and ride out into the desert and bury the dagger in the deepest hole she could dig.

  The damage would still be done, but no one would be able to link it back to her. And then there might be some other future without death or exile as the only options. Maybe even one with poetry in it. And naps.

  She went over her plan again, and again, and didn’t really notice the quiet, dark laughter that growled through the corners of her mind as she drifted off to sleep.

  Nyalin woke with a jolt. He wasn’t in his “closet,” which was an improvement, but he did have the bed to himself. Smoke’s morning stretches and yawns were painfully absent. The small, warm bundle was not in its usual spot tucked behind his knee or near his shoulder. But he twisted to a seat at the side of the bed, stretched, and felt amazingly refreshed, if very alone.

  When things settled down, maybe he could bring Smoke here with him. She’d like this room. Or he could get another cat. None of this was forever.

  He washed his face in the washbowl, the last hints of his dark mood carried away with the water. He began his first morning as a member of the Bone Clan and dressed like it. The sand-colored linen crossover was crisp and comfortable, if shorter than he was used to. The Bone crossovers were shorter than most clans—with the whispered joke that perhaps they couldn’t afford more fabric—but he immediately liked the way it moved, the way it felt. It’d be far better in a fight. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to test that out.

  There was a heavy sleeved cloak too, and he pulled the chocolate-colored garment on against the morning’s chill. And now breakfast.

  While he could have sustained himself on Dalas’s stash, maybe he ought to try to make it last a month, as Lara had suggested. Setting the carefully tied pastry bundle on the shelf by the books, he took the stairs back down to the kitchens.

  The place was even more packed than the night before. A river of people ran in and out from the kitchens, rushing away with something in hand. A few ate at the trestle tables, but most bustled out, heading to work or class or he knew not what.

  He drifted and stopped off to the side, observing it all. He wasn’t even sure where to start.

  The kitchen itself was separated from the main hall by reddish stone archways a few feet higher than a person. Shelves filled the arches, and cooks and bakers slid food onto them almost as quickly as people scooped it up. The actual entrance to the kitchen was on the far side, around a short corner, but no one really needed to go there if they weren’t going to cook or wash or stoke the fires. All the food was readily at hand.

  And so much of it. What would this all cost? This was the poorest clan, but he could never recall Elix spending so much on something like food for average clan members.

  Maybe they weren’t average clan members, but all working for the clan leader. If that were the case, for all he knew, the food could be half their pay. Or all of it.

  Cutting his way through this chaos and out with something to eat was not going to be easy.

  His eyes caught on a baker with a bushy gray beard and brown cap at the far end of the food shelves. The man was blowing and waving his hands over a loaf of bread that was rapidly collapsing. Nyalin shifted closer to him.

  The baker glanced up. His eyes were crinkled with laughter, a surprising bright blue. “Looks like another failure. What do you think?”

  Nyalin shrugged. “Is it edible?”

  Half the man’s mouth crooked up in a smile. “Certainly.”

  “Then certainly no more than half a failure. If that.”

  The baker grinned, then held it out to him. “Care for half a failure for breakfast?”

  “If you’ve got anything to go with it.”

  “I recommend the boiled eggs, if you want to grab something and get away from the madness.”

  “Is it always this crazy?”

  The baker shrugged. “I’ve only just started. But no one seems particularly fazed.” He glanced at his colleagues, then back at Nyalin, tilting his head.

  “I’m new here too. Do you know the way to the library?” Nyalin asked. There was about an hour before class started, so he had some time to start on his research. Aside from his room, there was nowhere else he could imagine going anyway.

  “Oh, that’s easy. You passed it just after the stairs—but it’s to the right, not the left you took to come here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take some eggs and fallen bread then.”

  The baker grinned, tipped his cap, and held out a basket. “Come back tomorrow. Maybe I’ll do better on the next one.”

  “Goddesses bless things in numbers of two, don’t they?”

  “Yes. We shall hope I don’t need four. Or twenty.”

  “Good luck then. Thanks.” Waving and accepting the basket, Nyalin followed the baker’s directions toward the library. Sure enough, it wasn’t far. He pushed open the heavy wooden door.

  Huh. It was mostly empty, despite its central location. Only one young man sat inside reading. His wild blond hair stuck out in a variety of directions, like Lara’s, although his only fell to his ears. His wave to Nyalin was surprisingly friendly, but he returned to his book, thank the goddesses. Nyalin was happy to leave the man to his reading and just look around.

  He poked his way through the sections and found the collection surprising and diverse. There were many books he didn’t recognize, and while there were more than a few he’d like to indulge in, he stuck to the tomes discussing magic.

  After gathering five promising ones, which was more than he’d dared hope he’d find, he stopped. He’d been planning to abscond with them and get some reading in after class. But he didn’t actually know if he was allowed to remove the books from the library. He set them aside on a window seat near the young man and nodded to him. His new clansman responded with a smile.

  Well, maybe there were two or three people he could actually be friends with in this clan. He pushed through the doors again. Now that he was outside of Elix’s myopic control—and out of his comfort zone—who knew what could happen? This could be good for him in more ways than just magic.

  From the stairwell windows, he checked the angle of the sunlight that shone down into the atrium. Nearing seven, although he hadn’t yet heard the quieter gong that would sound on the hour. Students were already gathering on the platform.

  Ready or not, it was time.

  “Do you want me to frighten her, perhaps?”

  The door had barely opened before Zama began to speak, sweeping into her studio like a tornado trapped in a dark glass bottle. He’d certainly made himself right at home.

  He wore a handsome black coat of brocaded silk with a high collar. The garment flowed over his dark tunic almost to his knees. He’d rejected the crossovers she’d offered, as they were not the fashion where he came from, but he had no problem with wearing black. The color seemed to calm the servants after his sudden appearance. Or frighten them into silence about it. He paused near the fireplace, spinning and propping an elbow on the mantel, the image of a dashing young gentleman.

>   Except for the unnatural glitter of silver in his eyes, of course. And the centuries captured in his slight crow’s feet.

  Unira shrugged. “I’m not sure Vanae is worth it.”

  “But I want to be of service to you.” His voice was tinged with mockery. Her silver-eyed demon polished his nails on his chest and faked a yawn in a vicious imitation of the woman. Then he grinned at Unira. “She’s failed how many times with Linali’s son?”

  The way he captured the likeness of a woman he hadn’t even met before was a little disturbing, but the way he actually listened when she talked more than made up for it.

  His dark voice had an unnatural roughness and roll, like thunder through dark skies, and it never ceased to send a little thrill through her. Of fear or delight, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps they were the same for her, where he was concerned.

  What he said was true, of course. As far as investments went, Vanae had been a terrible one.

  “Surely there should be some recompense,” he purred.

  “I love it when you use those fancy devilish words on me.” She picked up a rag nearby and wiped her hands, hoping he’d come closer. “More, please.”

  “Later. She sent us a message. But it hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “How could you know about it then?”

  “I have my ways. I thought you might like to catch her early and unawares rather than prepared and waiting. Especially if I’m to frighten her.”

  “Of course. Well.” She paused. “Do you want to frighten her?”

  “I do.”

  “I can frighten her just fine on my own, you know.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Did he actually need her permission to do something, or did he just like to get it? So far, she hadn’t been inclined to deny him anything. “I suppose frightening her is only fair recompense for failure.”

  “Repeated failure, wasn’t it?” he pointed out, one clawed finger jabbing in the air. He grinned and clicked his teeth together, fangs bared.

  “You’re a quick learner.” Smiling to herself, she set down the rag and the clay model and stood.

  One corner of the studio held a mirror and an armchair. She’d originally installed them for using herself as a model in the mirror, and for taking breaks in the chair. But it was also very handy for reaching out, both figuratively and literally.