The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1)

by G. L. Breedon

  “I might have the dream once or twice, but not every night.” Kadmallin looked back to the road. “I’m not that suggestible.”

  “Do you have a better explanation?” Sketkee wondered at her own experience of the dream. She still had not shared that with Kadmallin. It troubled her too greatly. Rakthors did not dream. They might see arbitrary images while asleep, but not the way humans did. A rakthor experiencing something resembling a human dream suggested a brain failing to function properly. If her mind had been corrupted by some illness, it might affect her judgment in waking matters as well.

  “And the star?” Kadmallin asked.

  “New stars appear in the night sky,” Sketkee replied. “This is a known fact.”

  “Well, I’m not as worried about why the dreams occur as what might happen next.” Kadmallin placed the distance magnifier to his eye again. “If it’s seers behind the dreams and the star and not some … what did you call it once … some deviant natural phenomenon, then those seers may have plans for even more inexplicable events.”

  Sketkee considered this. Her focus on using the pilgrims as a surreptitious means of reaching the Forbidden Realm, and hopefully unlocking the secrets of the artifact, had led her to largely ignore the dreams, the star, and the events set in motion by them. She had experienced the dream, but she saw no causal relation between it or the new star and the artifact and so spent little time considering its impact on her plans. However, if seers, human or otherwise, lay behind the dreams, they might eventually take actions that disrupted her goals even more than the theft of the artifact itself.

  Among the many peoples of Onaia, only rakthors did not normally possess the ability to use The Sight. In Sketkee’s many years of schooling, she had studied the various explanations for this difference. Natural philosophers had dissected the brains of the different peoples to compare them, finding a significant variance in the structure of the rakthor mental organ. While all the brains held two discrete halves, human, wyrin, roagg, and yutan brains appeared structured from three distinct areas, whereas the rakthor brain possessed two. Some philosophers speculated that this explained the lesser people’s difficulty with rational behavior, as the sections of their brains required for it were atrophied to provide space for less useful tissue, likely those dealing with what these peoples called feelings. It seemed possible that this area of the brain, this feeling part of the organ, allowed humans and others to perceive reality in the way necessary for The Sight. Only a few rakthors throughout history had learned to mimic this perception and alter the nature of reality with their will. Unfortunately for the annals of natural philosophy, no one had been able to preserve the brains of these rare individuals for study.

  Sketkee personally suspected, based on her extensive time spent with the lesser peoples, that this unique flaw in their brains allowed them to make leaps of cognition that rakthors rarely did — making use of what the humans called imagination. The lesser peoples all created stories of things that had not happened, revolving around people who never existed. The rakthors did not do this and found no need to. The stories of history, of real people and real events, were far more interesting and useful to study. While the humans and other lesser peoples frequently embraced wild speculation, rakthors followed a methodical approach to understanding the world. She believed rakthors were simply too rational to create the frame of mind required to see what did not appear to the eyes, which from what she had gathered, seemed essential to The Sight.

  “Dust.”

  Kadmallin’s voice refocused Sketkee’s attention on the crossroads and away from philosophical ruminations on the natural mental differences between rakthors and the lesser peoples.

  “A wagon. One driver and five men in the back.” Kadmallin handed the distance magnifier to Sketkee.

  She watched the wagon approach from the north, making certain to shield the lens of the distance magnifier with her hand. She did not want to alert the members of the rendezvous to her presence through the glint of sunlight on glass. All five men in the wagon wore hooded cloaks. That the buyer might wish to conceal her or his identity made sense, but why the effort to protect the faces of the guards?

  She followed the progress of the wagon until it came to a stop near the trees enclosing the crossroads. The driver stepped from the wagon and the four guards climbed out of the back, removing a small wooden chest with a large lock. Sketkee frowned, seeing now that her plans were indeed to be upturned by random events.

  “What do you see?” She handed the distance magnifier to Kadmallin.

  “Those are rakthors in that wagon.” Kadmallin waved the sight glass away. “I don’t need to be any closer to see that. They do not move as humans would.”

  “No, they do not.” Sketkee watched with her bare eyes as the merchant, followed by four of his guards carrying the artifact in a chest, walked to meet the buyer beneath the leaves of the trees.

  She raised the distance magnifier to her eye again, but the density of the foliage prevented seeing what transpired under the branches of the four trees. A minute passed and both parties exited the tree cover, each carrying a different wooden chest. The merchant and his guards climbed back in their wagons and urged their horses into motion, rolling ahead along the road toward the western forest. The buyer and accompanying guards waited until the merchant train left, then removed their hoods as they mounted the wagon and drove southward.

  Sketkee raised the glass to her eye. Five rakthors sat in the wagon as it passed under the trees and down the southern road. The presence of rakthors disturbed her. Then she caught a clear sight of the driver, and her disturbance became dread.

  “Who are they, do you think?” Kadmallin shielded his eyes against the sun as he watched the wagon.

  “I know who they are.” Sketkee sat the brass distance magnifier on the ground. “The driver is the rakthor who originally found the artifact before I stole it.”

  To continue reading the Philosopher story arena follow this link.

  To continue reading Sketkee’s storyline follow this link.

  THE PHILOSOPHER

  KADMALLIN

  THE LIGHT of the twin quarter-moons washed across the valley, forest trees looking black against the pale gray of the open fields of summer wheat, the stones of the small castle glowing near white beneath the luminescent orbs. Kadmallin leaned against a tree as he raised the distance magnifier to his eye, as much to steady his hands as to rest his weary back. They had tracked the rakthor buyer and his guards all day and well after sunset. The buyer, a rakthor ambassador named Viktik, entered the castle outside the small Tanshen city of Tsee-Jowdee shortly after sunset. An hour later, Kadmallin and Sketkee stood at the edge of a nearby forest observing the stronghold and discussing their options, which had diminished throughout the day’s journey. Once they had realized that five rakthor, four of them armed and well-trained guards, transported the artifact, it became clear they could not hope to attack them en route. However, neither Kadmallin nor Sketkee anticipated the destination to be a fortress.

  “A castle with high walls and a moat.” Kadmallin lowered the distance magnifier. “We would have had better luck trying to take them on the road.”

  “Particularly as an embassy will undoubtedly have more than four rakthor guards.” Sketkee took the brass tube from his hand.

  “I thought there were only two embassies in Tanshen.” Kadmallin looked at the castle again. He’d assumed Viktik leased it from a local tahn. Normally, rakthors tried to rent space where they were safe from attack by locals who took them for lizard demons. An embassy posed greater problems. It would be staffed almost entirely with rakthors.

  “I believed so as well.” Sketkee raised the glass to her eye. “Viktik seems to have expanded the Tanshen mission. You can see the rakthor ambassadorial flag on the south tower. It would only be flown above an embassy.”

  “You said Viktik was the Punderra ambassador.” Kadmallin swatted away a mosquito. It must have rained earlier in the day. T
he forest smelled earthy and damp, and the insects seemed more than usually plentiful.

  “Viktik discovered the artifact while ambassador in Punderra, but resigned his position upon his return to the Sun Realm.” Sketkee lowered the distance magnifier and frowned. “He has evidently managed to obtain a placement here in Tanshen. I doubt he had the political connections to oust Ambassador Gakkat, which means he must have taken a posting of lesser status.”

  “Which means he came here to hunt you and the artifact.” Kadmallin shook his head at their continued stretch of bad luck. “And the only reason he would know to stalk you is if he had discovered the artifact had been stolen and replaced with a fake.”

  “Your reasoning is sound.” Sketkee did not sound happy about the accuracy of his reasoning. Then again, while one could easily tell when a rakthor happened to be displeased, discerning more positive states of mind took a great deal of skill and experience.

  “How do you think he discovered the imitation?” Kadmallin asked.

  “The most likely explanation is that he attempted to steal the artifact himself.” Sketkee turned away from the castle toward Kadmallin. “Once he realized a replica replaced the original artifact, he would no doubt suspect me as the culprit, and once he discovered my departure for the Iron Realm, he followed. The important question is whether he pursues me secretly, or at the behest of the rakthor Central Governing Committee.”

  “And we should hope he acts on his own, because the Central Governing Committee will not stop at the recovery of the artifact, but will likely seek your capture, if not your death.” Kadmallin sighed. “If he is acting on his own, he may stop looking for it if it disappears again, while the central committee will merely send more rakthors to hunt you if you regain the artifact.” He hated rakthor politics. So much of this journey with Sketkee made him question his decision to join her on it.

  “You are stating the obvious again,” Sketkee said.

  “It helps calm my nerves.” Kadmallin looked away from Sketkee and back to the castle as the two fell silent.

  They didn’t seem to have many options. Even if they could somehow manage to leap the moat and scale the walls of the castle-embassy, they had no way of knowing where Viktik stored the artifact. They could wait until he left, presumably to head toward the coast and eventually back to the Sun Realm, but he would likely travel with at least as many guards as he had when retrieving the artifact, potentially more. They could not risk attacking them. They might hope to use the same trick Sketkee had played on the bandits and poison them, but it seemed unlikely. From his years of experience in rakthor politics and anatomy, they did not poison as easily as humans. He pondered the possibility of inciting a town or a militia to attack the potential rakthor caravan in transit, but doubted it would work. The most probable result would be a lot of dead humans, a few dead rakthor, and an artifact just as impossible to recover.

  He looked up at the sky as he considered the problem, seeing a streak of light flash across the mosaic of constellations above him. The stripe of light shot past the constellation of Sunat Sange, the Punderra god of jests. A meteor. Another fiery line cut across the stars composing the constellation of Ginjurati, the goddess of love and devotion. As he watched, thin wisps of light smeared the sky, a meteor shower flying over the castle. The juxtaposition of falling streams of fire and the Goddess Ginjurati reminded him of another sky on another summer night when embers rained down to touch the earth.

  THIRTY YEARS AGO

  RUST-ORANGE WHEAT bent and shed its kernels in the swift passing of the runner dashing through the darkness. Kadmallin breathed deeply of the cool night air, hunched low to the ground as he ran through the field. As he approached the first house of the small town, he stopped and knelt, pulling the mask up over his face, tugging at the straps to hold it tight. As he stood and entered the road, the ears of the mask drooped, the trunk dangling down, the tusks of white bone glowing in the pale light of the stars.

  The elephant god, Tathee, strode down the road and stopped at the edge of the town. The people of the town gathered in the streets between the houses, looking upon the man in the elephant mask, their eyes milk-white, their faces pale, their interest absent. They turned away and continued to do as they had before the interloper’s arrival — shuffle aimlessly across the ground, limbs stiff with the effects of the illness that possessed them.

  Kadmallin checked the straps of the mask again, the scent of lavender and cinnamon and rosemary filling his nostrils. The flowers and herbs stuffed in the trunk of the mask were said to purify the air before breathing. He doubted it worked, and had heard that the illness moved through touch, not breath, but he did not desire to take the risk.

  He walked past the afflicted, checking the faces, hoping not to recognize anyone, praying to be wrong in his assumptions. The illness — the Living Death, the healers called it — struck quickly, moving from village to town as easily as a merchant traveling from market to inn. Twenty towns in the region had been stricken in the last month, leading the local rhaga to issue a quarantine and purge of all the infected locations.

  The illness took several days to reach full bloom and most did not notice its effects at first. Those afflicted began to forget things in the first day — names of loved ones or where they had placed things. In the second day, they became confused about who they were, who others might be, and where they lived. On the third day, they started to have trouble using their limbs. Walking became difficult, their arms too heavy to lift. This effect of the illness saved many by limiting the spread of the sickness. On the third night, the poor souls with the disease did not sleep, and by the dawn of the fourth day, they were as walking corpses: eyes glazed over and pus-white, their bodies meandering aimlessly, their minds faded into oblivion, never to return.

  To touch the infected brought the same death not long afterward. Whole towns, whole territories, could become populated with living corpses within a week. The afflicted could live on in this way for days, sometimes weeks, their constantly emaciating bodies no longer needing food or water the way they once did. Their minds still retained instinctual desires, and they would eat if they stumbled upon food, drink if they fell into water, but eventually, they became motionless and expired. The dead rarely exhibited aggression, the danger of them resting more in their ability to spread the plague that took their minds and lives with such speed. They could not be treated. Even skilled seers could not heal the illness after the second day. Only one remedy existed, one possible course of action to restore balance to nature.

  Kadmallin moved among the tottering cadavers — minds dead, but bodies still in motion — making certain not to accidentally touch one, or let any bump into him. He looked from face to face, ignoring the shambling deceased who had been men or children mere days before, sparing his attention for the women. He passed an open window to one of the houses. Inside, he glimpsed motion. A carrion-like village woman bumped against the wall, her nose smeared with dried black blood, unable to get out, trapped in the clay brick house, incapable of knowing how to open the door.

  He turned away. The standing dead woman did not possess the face he sought. Hope began to kindle in his heart. Maybe she had fled before the sickness came. Maybe she had left the village on some errand that took her far away. Maybe she…

  She stood staring at the ground as he turned the corner of the street.

  Kadmallin stopped, coughing on the suddenly too pungent odor of cinnamon and clove and rose and lavender and a dozen other scents. He steadied his breathing and approached her cautiously, leaning forward to see her face more clearly. Her oyster-pale eyes caught sight of his face and lifted to follow his motion as he stood straight once more. The dead did not understand what they saw, but their eyes tracked movement nonetheless, a vestigial reflex from a time when their minds once functioned.

  She raised a hand toward him, and he stood back, just out of reach. She lumbered forward, and he continued to retreat until he bumped into the wall of a house. W
ith a panicked start, he leapt to the side as the dead woman walked into the wall of the home, bouncing back from the impact, then continuing forward once more, only to bounce back in an endless cycle.

  Kadmallin stepped back, fighting the urge to rip the elephant mask from his face and wipe away the tears that streamed down to dampen the flower petals and herb leaves beneath his nose. He had promised to protect her. To protect them. He had sworn to her that he would always…

  Kadmallin turned aside. He had failed. When he had promised to return after he left with her father’s merchant caravan a month prior, it never occurred to him she might not be alive for that homecoming. Had he stayed, he might have…

  Had he stayed, he would have died. He would be stumbling around the street beside her, a mindless corpse still animated but empty of life. He would have shared her fate. That had always been his intention regardless of the circumstances.

  A part of him wished still to share her fate. To yank the mask from his face. To go to her. To embrace her. To let the illness gather in him and carry away the pain and sorrow and remorse to leave him a husk to be consumed by the coming cleansing. She would not have wanted that. Would have wept at the notion of such a meaningless sacrifice.

  Fire pierced the sky in a thousand flames. Kadmallin ducked beneath the awning of the house as the flaming arrows sank from the black night to strike the roofs of the homes, the bodies of the dead ambling in the street, and the open ground of the lane. It had begun. The cleansing fire. The only way to ensure the illness did not spread: burn it out. Torch town and townspeople alike.