Heart's Blood

by Jane Yolen

  The dragons intruded loudly, sending black bomb blasts, yellow and orange fire shooting into his brain. He heard Sssargon shouting: "Wake! Wake! Wake!" There was smoke, coughing, anger.

  Fear.

  Jakkin woke, to find himself bound like an animal, his arms tied to a stick behind him, almost yanking his shoulders out of their sockets. He was pulled roughly to his feet. His head ached where something must have struck him.

  "Who?" he said aloud. But he already knew.

  Above, the dragons screamed, but they didn't dare flash fire down at his captors. They might burn Jakkin by mistake.

  "Watch," Jakkin sent to them. "Warn ..."

  He was suddenly clipped on the back of his head, and at the same time, a brutal sending—black and hard as iron—filled his mind. Then everything went dark. Not sleep. Just blackness.

  When Jakkin woke again, the dark was everywhere, not the blackness of night with the twin moons lighting the way, but a darkness unrelieved by any light in the sky. He remembered this darkness, but couldn't imagine why he was in it again. Nothing made sense. Besides, his skull ached, his teeth seemed to be loose and clattering together, and his knees hurt from kneeling on a stone floor.

  I'm in a cave. He tried to move, but his arms were still bound behind him. How did I get into a cave? But of course he knew.

  He sent out a tentative tentacle of color and it was immediately severed, replaced by a crackling that blocked out almost everything else in his mind.

  Trogs! But how they had found him and where they had taken him were beyond his ability to understand. His fingers were pins and needles. His arms felt yanked from their sockets. The crackling in his brain, added to the pain of the blow, made his head hurt so horribly, he began to cry. It was a silent crying, just tears crawling down his cheeks. Then he took a deep breath.

  Someone swatted him. "Do not krriah like a youngling!" The words came into his head; they weren't spoken aloud. Oddly, it was the very first thing a trog had said to him before. In the cave.

  His tears stopped at once and he thought angrily at his captor, "You folk aren't much on conversation."

  That earned him another swat, and more crackling, but he was glad of it. Anger would serve him much better than self-pity or fear.

  "Fewmet head!" he sent, along with an image of a great pile of stinking worm waste. That got him another blow.

  He smiled. Even if they couldn't see it, they would sense it. Sense it and know that he wasn't going to be cowed by them again. No more tears, no matter how much he hurt.

  First, he told himself, guarding that thought behind a quickly constructed wall of thought bricks, I have to figure, out how many trogs there are.

  Second, I must get out of my bonds.

  And third...

  He didn't know if there was a third.

  Suddenly he was pulled upright from behind.

  "GO!" The sending was a dark shout in his head, leaping over the thought wall. There was lightning along with it, which made his head hurt even more than before.

  He ignored it. "Whatever happened to please?" he asked out loud, expecting another blow to the head, bracing himself for it. But it never happened. So he repeated the question in a sending. And suddenly, there was a group chuckle in his head. Frantically he tried to sort them out, to count the voices. Maybe three of them? Maybe four?

  Someone behind him put a hand on his shoulder and Jakkin worked hard not to flinch.

  "Strong," came the voice in his head. "Good."

  And the echoing of three others agreeing.

  "Got you!" Jakkin whispered. Four of them. Maybe that's not so bad. I can handle four. With the dragon brood's help.

  Then his mouth twisted. Who was he kidding? These guys were all muscle. He remembered the first time he'd seen a trog, how astonished he was at how stocky they were, how broad-shouldered, how they could see easily in the dark caves.

  Well, he'd wanted to know how many of them there were. And now, for better or for worse, he knew.

  He suspected it was for worse.

  21

  THE TROGS started a fire in the cave, squatting in front of it. In the firelight, Jakkin recognized them. They were wearing eggskin loincloths and leather sandals. Hairy-chested, shaven-headed, they gabbled at one another mind-to-mind for what seemed like hours, the fire shining on their metal bracelets, their "bands." As they mind-spoke, their hands designed images in the air. It was as mesmerizing as it had been back in their own cavern.

  Jakkin dozed, woke, dozed again.

  It was the second or third time he woke that he realized what was going on. They were waiting for dark. They weren't going to move—or move him—until night, when they'd have little chance of being seen.

  Of course.

  He sent a little mind fire at them, red and orange, upbeat, even perky. "I need help standing. Help going outside to relieve myself. Something to eat."

  They ignored him.

  "How about my arms unbound for a minute. Someone to talk to. Maybe a joke? A song?" Anything to remind them he existed.

  They ignored him.

  He tried to listen in on their mind conversations. They seemed to be using some kind of code. Or dialect. He heard "Bonds"and "Dark-After." They repeated "Great Mother"a good many times. The rest was beyond him.

  It was then that he remembered Makk, the leader of the trogs, saying, "One day go to place of Bonds and throw them over." Meaning one day the trogs would rise up and attack the civilized humans, like the nursery folk and the folk in the cities. Not that the trogs could win such a war. Nursery folk had stingers and knives and fighting dragons they'd trained who could breathe fire at will. City folk had trucks, copters, stingers, and guns. The rebels had explosives, or at least they'd had such things a year earlier. But all the trogs had were sticks and some forged metal weapons. Any battles would be bloody but awfully one-sided. Still—if the trogs burned buildings at night, many of the civs would die in the cold of Dark-After. He closed that image out of his mind lest he help the trogs make a plan.

  He tried again. "Make water? Eat? Unbind my arms?"

  Still they ignored him.

  So he began to think about why the trogs were here, now. Why they'd tracked him. Certainly, finding me hasn't been any simple chance encounter. And once he started thinking...

  "Great Mother," they'd said not once but many times. That was their name for any female dragon who gave birth. The dragons they worshipped and then killed in order to nestle their own babies in the dragon's egg chamber. Auricle had been one of their Great Mothers, gravid but not yet ready to lay her eggs. And we saved her from that bloody worship. He supposed the trogs had tracked him by his sendings out in the oasis and wanted him to take them to Auricle.

  Fewmets! How could they think he'd ever do such a thing?

  Except—he could hardly feel his arms now.

  He had to pee so badly that he was afraid he'd ruin his leather pants.

  Hunger stabbed at his belly and he wondered where his bag of fruit had gotten to. And the tea.

  But he could still be strong. If he had to. And, he reminded himself, he had to. Trogs respected strength.

  What if I tell them that I understand their anger? That I know they're upset that Akki and I rescued—er, stole—one of their Great Mothers. And probably not too happy that we were able to get away from them by swimming the underground river. They probably fear we'll expose where they live. I could explain...

  But no sooner had he thought this than one of the trogs left the fire, came to him, yanked him up, took him to a corner, undid his bonds.

  "Make water. Have food. Sleep more. Soon we move."

  So, they'd been listening to him. That's not good. He quickly constructed a wall of thought stones higher and thicker than the bricks, with one loose stone he could remove when he had to speak to them or listen. It was imperative that he keep them out of his mind the rest of the time. He and Akki had worked hard at such walls when they'd been captive in the caves.

/>   Then, as if he'd not taken any time at all to make the wall, he did as he'd been told. After all, there were four of them and only one of him. Explanations, excuses would have to wait.

  ***

  AFTERWARD HE SLEPT again, dozing fitfully, always waking with a start, his hands bound behind him once more. By the time the trogs were ready to leave the shelter of the cave, Jakkin figured he'd slept away an entire day.

  Well, at least I'm all caught up on my missed sleep!

  The last time that he woke, it was to find that his hands had been unbound without his noticing.

  He sat up, rubbing his wrists. He removed the loose stone in his thought wall and sent, "Thanks," on a small gray cloud. There was no response from any of the trogs, so he slammed the loose rock back into the wall.

  Stupid, he told himself. Saying thanks to my captors marks me as weak. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

  The trogs were busy stamping out the fire. Jakkin watched as they scattered the ashes throughout the cave. It would do no good trying to run. He didn't know the cave turnings, and they could see better in the dark than he could. They also knew which way they'd come in. He'd just get lost and make them so mad that when they found him, they'd probably give him a beating. Better to let them lead him outside. He loosened the stone again.

  "Out." The sending was short, curt, followed by a black lance winging toward him by way of punctuation. "Now."

  He wondered how long they'd been ordering him out. He'd have to remain ready, leave the little stone out more often. But Jakkin at least had had enough sleep. The trogs would have had to remain on guard. Perhaps he could wear them down.

  He let them lead him out into the night. With his mind wall up, and the trogs on the alert, he didn't dare try to send to the dragons. Four of them were female and the trogs might consider them a trade. No, he couldn't chance that. And, besides, the dragons no longer seemed to be anywhere around.

  The Rokk

  22

  THE MAZE of streets in The Rokk were easier to walk through than drive, for many were signposted ONE WAY. Other streets—which she'd walked along on her own the last time she was here—were much too small to be driven through.

  On the narrowest streets, the sand-brick houses leaned precariously across the road, so close to their counterparts that the householders could watch their neighbors eating, and—it was said—could even count the number of lizard eggs going down a gullet.

  It was not yet sundown, hours before the Dark-After chill would cover the city. Still, the bars and stew houses were already open for business, light spilling out of their windows and open doors. Men staggered along the roadway or propped themselves up against a convenient wall to drink some more. Backlit, women in baggerie windows signaled to their lovers. It was said in The Rokk: "Only the cold stops the drinking and bagging, though only the drinkers pass out cold."

  Golden drove the streets with an easy expertise, hardly ever looking straight ahead. As a passenger, Akki only had to close her mouth and remember. And remember she did: the streets, the avenues, the alleyways, the wynds, the dead ends.

  Suddenly the twists and turns evened out. Now the truck was on the broad avenue that led directly to and around Rokk Major Pit.

  Or what was left of it.

  Akki held her breath. She hadn't seen the Pit since the explosion that had killed so many. Once it had been a proud, domed arena, towering over the city. It had looked, as Jakkin had said, like an enormous dragon's egg. But what would it be like now?

  The car went around one final slow bend in the avenue.

  "Aaaah." Akki breathed in, then out, unable to say anything. At the very least, she'd been expecting a giant hole, a great nothingness. But the Pit was a jumble of rocks and bricks, and twisted planks that pointed accusing fingers at the sky. "I thought it was being rebuilt."

  "No," Golden said. "Nothing has been done to the site yet. That will happen as soon as the election is over."

  She got her breath back. "Why the wait?"

  His smile was not comforting. "After the bodies were pulled out, identified, buried—and as a senator representing The Rokk, I went to more burials than I can count—then the arguments began. The rebels were rounded up. The worst were sent offplanet, to penal colonies run by the Federation. Those considered re-educable, we kept in prison here or, if we felt they'd benefit by freedom, we set them free. Then the Federation declared its embargo. More arguments. About whether building the Pit again made sense with no visitors allowed."

  His face had turned sour during this recitation, but he didn't stop talking. "An election was called. And then no one wanted to start something that a pack of new senators might immediately turn their backs on." Now his voice was low, without inflection. It was impossible to guess his real feelings about the restoration of the Pit. "So far, it's just been a waiting game. But we've been collecting donations, funding building plans in secret. There will be a new Major Pit. It will help convince the Federation to cancel the embargo. I'm just not sure when we will start."

  The wreckage seemed to burn itself into Akki's eyes; she couldn't look away.

  "But now..." Golden stopped, took a breath, then went on. "As the bonders like to put it, 'Dragon time is now!'" He gave a quick wrench of the wheel, and suddenly they headed away from the site, into the heart of the city, into the maze of streets.

  Akki didn't look back. She didn't have to. She could still see the broken site in her mind. She was pretty sure that they hadn't needed to come that way to get to Dr. Henkky's house, and she wondered why Golden had brought her there.

  I could ask, but could I trust his answer? As always, Golden's motives seemed unclear. To everyone. Maybe even to himself. Dr. Henkky had told her—warned her—of that often enough a year ago. Obviously she hadn't listened. So, Akki thought angrily, I'm listening now.

  And then they drove past streets Akki knew well.

  Now the sun was starting to set, though it was still high enough to reflect crazily on the mirrored windows of the city. The windows made the mazed roads even harder for anyone to keep straight. That mirroring had all been done on purpose, back when the city was built. The Rokk was meant to be a labyrinth, the only maps in the possession of the wardens and masters. Any convict trying to escape was soon lost in the maze. And if not found by Dark-After, the escapee would be a dead man. Or woman.

  "I'm taking you to my house," Golden said. "Number seventeen."

  "That's not where I'm planning to go," Akki told him.

  "That's where you're meant to be. Henkky has moved into it. There's an entire basement I never used that she's turned into a hospice. Treats patients there as well as at the baggeries."

  "So she's in on this, too?"

  "She knows you're coming, and that's all. I told her we have to call you by a different name in the beginning. To keep the real you anonymous, in case there are still people out there after you."

  "Like Colonel Kkalkkav?"

  "Oh, not Kkalkkav anymore. Like a lot of people ashamed of bonder names, he's taken a new one. Calls himself Calli now."

  She laughed. "Of course he does."

  "And what will we call you?"

  "Whatever you like. Though there's no guarantee I'll answer to it." She made a face at him.

  ***

  THEY DROVE on in silence.

  After about fifteen minutes on a long street, Golden pulled the truck up in front of the place where his house squatted. It was one of several gaudy three-story buildings set about by paving and dirt squares in which spindly spikka trees fought for life. The trees were visibly losing that fight, their leaves brown and curling.

  "I'll leave you here, Aurea. That's a Feder name, by the way. It means 'golden.' Do you like it?"

  She figured he'd picked out the name even before he'd rescued them in the mountains. Had it all ready, just in case. So she ignored him until she got the cab door open.

  Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "Aurea. Nice touch." Then she hopped down, h
er satchel in her left hand, the hatchling in her right. She left the door open, which meant Golden would have to lean far over to close it.

  That, too, is a nice touch.

  He called out, "Number seventeen. You can't miss it. Senator Golden sends his regards."

  She didn't turn around but called back, "I'm sure he does."

  As she walked on, she heard the cab door slam, the wheels squeal on the roadway, and then Golden was gone.

  23

  FOR THE FIRST time in hours, Akki was breathing easily. She hadn't realized how tightly she'd been holding herself in. Now her step developed a swing. She almost felt like singing. Sending the little dragon a rainbow of colors, she received a rainbow back.

  She thought about going elsewhere, finding another place to stay. But who else did she know in The Rokk, really, and if Henkky had a hospice in the house, she might have other supplies as well. Or at least could tell Akki where to find what she needed.

  If only I knew.

  The number seventeen had been splashed like dragon's blood across the gaudy yellow door of the fifth house. The number reminded her of her father: Big and red-faced, bigger than life, and bigger than death, as well. They'd not always gotten along, more like two hatchlings in a stall fighting for dominance. But in the end, before he died, she'd grown to like him, to understand him, even to love him.

  There were sudden tears prickling in the corners of her eyes, and she stood still for a moment in order to fight them back. She was not going to greet Dr. Henkky weeping.

  When at last she had control of herself, she set the dragon on her shoulder, its tail curled around her upper arm. Then she banged her knuckle on the door, right above the seven. The reverberation was loud enough for everyone on the street to hear.

  Be anonymous, she reminded herself.

  Just then, the door was flung open and she walked in.

  The person at the door was no one she'd seen before, a girl about her own age but about a foot taller. She got the impression of dark hair, brown skin, slim, muscular arms, a solemn closed-down face. The girl sketched a quick curtsy.