The Dragon of Jin-Sayeng

by K. S. Villoso

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BLOOD WILL TELL

  I almost didn’t understand her question at first. It was so much at odds with the sort of man my father had been that she might as well have asked me if my father rescued orphaned kittens and embroidered dresses on the side. What I knew of my father was that he detested talk of the agan and mages. He was a believer in the old ways, which found magic beyond abominable—it was a transgression to the gods. This was, after all, the same man who beat Eikaro Anyu bloody for revealing his gifts and blackmailed the boy’s father in exchange for his silence.

  But before I could protest, I remembered the night of Agos’s death, when we had come in through the tunnels. I remembered the bottom of the stairwell, which lit up with agan -wrought runes as we passed, and the rusted cage once laced with spells. I should’ve known I had barely scratched the surface of my father’s lies.

  I stared at the gaping darkness at the bottom of the steps. It felt like staring down into a creature’s maw. “How did you discover this?”

  She bowed. “It was at Dragonlord Rayyel’s behest. Jin-Sayeng has lived in denial about the agan, and yet it is the very essence of life as we know it.”

  “Our gods forbade magic. Affected children were put to death.”

  She placed her fingers on her forehead. “A fallacy of thinking. Jin-Sayeng has been led astray. One way or another, we are all connected to the agan, Beloved Queen—everything that is living or was once alive. Those of us who train as mages can see the threads invisible to most. We hone our skill to manipulate it, to channel it like water where we need it, to etch spells on the physical world like ants embroidering on a giant fabric. You see why Jin-Sayeng’s ignorance is dangerous. You have few among you who can see the damages that can be caused by the careless.

  “My lord suggested I start with Warlord Yeshin’s study. If there is anyone who would have gotten a head start in this research, it would have been your father. The mad dragon that destroyed Old Oren-yaro and killed your brothers was made by a mage—a corrupted, unholy thing created by someone who knew better and chose to break the rules anyway. In the face of that, even a traditionalist like your father couldn’t remain in denial. And Lord Rayyel was right. More than right. Beloved Queen, I knew the moment I stepped through the doorway that mages had been here. The very foundation of this castle is steeped in spells.”

  “I know,” I said. “I saw them when we entered the castle from the tunnels. But I didn’t want to think about it. We have more problems here than the sort of builders my father chose to hire.”

  She pressed her lips together, choosing not to comment.

  “What’s down there?” I turned my attention back to the staircase.

  Namra gave a sheepish grin. “I haven’t explored that far, my queen.”

  “Why not?”

  She shuffled forward, leading me to the side. I watched as she approached the doorway, framed by the bookcases, and placed a hand on the wall.

  A flurry of arrows struck the column directly across us.

  Cold sweat dotted my forehead. I turned back to Namra, who had a streak of blood on her cheek. She wiped it away with a nervous chuckle. She looked like she was going to faint.

  “There was less the last time,” she croaked. “I was telling you about certain spells meant to keep intruders out. You’ve just seen one. I think if you want to know what your father is hiding, it’s best that you venture down yourself.”

  “Thank you, Namra, but I’d rather not.”

  Namra smiled. “The spells are reacting to me, an intruder. You, on the other hand—I believe you will be allowed to descend unharmed.”

  “You must be mad. Why by all the gods do you think I’d be so foolish?”

  “Your father built this,” Namra said simply. “He wouldn’t put up spells that would hurt his daughter.”

  I stared at her. Did I believe that? Had she asked me before I went to Anzhao City, I might have had a better answer. I swallowed. The darkness beckoned, bringing back memories of Yuebek’s dungeon. I imagined my father waiting below, arms folded, with that ever-vigilant, appraising look on his face. What’s the matter, child? Lost the throne, did you? Everything I worked so hard for, nothing but dust now. All because you couldn’t keep your legs closed?

  I closed my eyes, my senses whirling. Those, of course, would not be the sort of harsh words my father would’ve used—at least, not to my face. But he was more than capable of them. More likely he would simply lift his eyes and gaze at me long enough for it to be uncomfortable. And then, he would sigh. That sigh would feel like a knife in my gut, twisting, preparing myself for the onslaught of whatever judgment he felt like passing.

  “My queen,” Namra continued, breaking my thoughts. “You grew up here. You’ve been in this room before. Has your father ever forbidden you from venturing to that corner?”

  “He’d rather I didn’t touch his things with my dirty hands,” I said. “He never forbade me from doing anything here.”

  “Did he seem oddly protective? Concerned?”

  “No. Just annoyed.”

  “Because he would never hurt you.”

  That’s a lie, I thought. But I bit my lip and took a step forward. To hell with it. Yeshin’s scheming had already doomed me. One foot in the funeral pyre—I might as well throw my whole body in. I grabbed the lantern from the wall and strode down the steps, not even stopping to see if I had triggered anything. Arrows could’ve been zooming above my head for all I cared.

  Somehow, I reached the bottom in one piece. Runes glowed along the walls.

  “Are you alive, my queen?” Namra called.

  “Thank you for your concern, Namra,” I said wryly. “I’ll let you know in a moment or two.”

  “I’ll be waiting right here.”

  I smirked. The priestess had a glorious sense of humour, though it wasn’t obvious to the naked eye. She must’ve developed it since she’d started travelling with my husband. Sit beside a man like that long enough, you’re bound to find ways to amuse yourself. I saw a hook on the wall and stood on tiptoe to hang the lantern.

  I heard a clink. Blue light flooded the room. To my horror, I saw the walls begin to shift and the floor to rotate. The passage behind me disappeared.

  I didn’t even have time to call for the priestess. I stood at the doorway of a cavernous hall, with ceilings that seemed to stretch to the skies. A single chandelier hung below the rafters, swaying slightly. The hall was lined with arches, with sconces on every column. The stale air in my father’s study had disappeared.

  I walked forward. The torches lit in flames as soon as I passed them, an effect that sent chills up my spine. I tried to ignore the feeling of dread by focusing on my surroundings. Red carpet, rimmed with gold, lined the floor. Each step felt like sinking into mud.

  I reached what appeared to be the middle of the room, where the ceiling gave way to a glass-covered dome, held up by metalwork in the shape of petals. Sunlight pressed through the glass, still tainted with blue. Beyond, on the horizon, mountains rose like jagged teeth, capped with white. It looked nothing like the low-lying hills and rice terraces around Mount Oka Shto nor anywhere near Oren-yaro. If anything, it felt like I was looking through the window in the Sougen.

  I turned away from the ceiling. Up ahead, the light revealed a single throne, carved from thick kamagong wood. Snarling wolves circled the base. A crown sat between the armrests, with two golden links falling on each side and more wolves engraved along the surface. Their eyes were inlaid with clear jewels. One last wolf stood above the others, embodied with a steely gaze that seemed to bore a hole into my soul.

  My mouth felt dry. A throne and a crown fit for a king—for an Oren-yaro Dragonlord. Did my father have this throne room made in the event he won the War of the Wolves? He had always been two, three steps ahead. Perhaps he was so sure of victory he couldn’t help himself. He never liked Shirrokaru, but the great hall in Oka Shto was small—it made sense to have a proper throne roo
m built. And it made sense to have it hidden away after my betrothal to Rayyel, because such a throne and crown, designed with symbols of the Orenar clan, were presumptuous enough to result in another war.

  I picked up the crown. It was lighter than it looked. I turned it around and felt an odd lump in my throat. The crown couldn’t have been made for my father—it was too small, delicate. A woman’s crown. I placed it on my head.

  It was a perfect fit.

  An ironic smile flitted over my lips. I turned and seated myself on the throne, my fist on my chin as I gazed at the empty hallway in front of me. Specks of dust floated along the blue sunlight like quiet courtiers, drifting between the shadows and my vision. For a time, I felt like a true queen—one who didn’t need to pander to the warlords, who ruled because I wanted to, not just because I had to. A true Dragonlord, exactly as Yeshin would’ve wanted.

  Footsteps echoed from the other end of the hall. I didn’t shift from my seat, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel an odd mixture of fear and anticipation at the thought that I might see my father’s ghost again. Queen or not, in his presence I was reduced to a child of seven.

  So I didn’t know if it was disappointment or relief that rushed through me when the figure appeared and it was only a servant. A woman, short of stature, with black hair bound at the nape of her neck. She looked startled. I pretended I didn’t feel the same way. “You—what are you doing here?”

  She made no motion to pay her respects, not even to bow slightly. Which meant that even with the throne and the crown on my head, she didn’t know me, which was odd.

  “I should be asking you the same thing,” she finally said, gathering courage. “You’re not supposed to be here. No one is.”

  “Ah,” I replied. “Except you?”

  She fidgeted, hands in front of her belly. I narrowed my eyes. She could be anywhere from my age to her late forties—there was a timeless quality to her complexion that made it difficult to tell in the blue-tinged darkness.

  “Do you live in the castle?” I tried again. “Else there must be a tunnel that connects this place to somewhere.”

  “There is no tunnel,” she said at last.

  “You’re lying,” I replied. “Your eyes dart away when you speak.”

  “It’s not a lie.”

  “Well, then—”

  “My queen!” a voice called from the end of the hall.

  The woman turned to run.

  “Hold on—!” I cried, reaching for her. But the priestess appeared from the shadows and when I turned, the servant was gone. I blinked, feeling a cold sensation in the pit of my stomach. It was as if I had been dreaming and now—only just now—woken up. I couldn’t even recall the servant’s face. Trying to revisit the last few moments felt like trying to vomit on an empty stomach.

  “Is everything all right, Beloved Queen?” Namra asked.

  “How did you bypass the wards?” I asked, trying not to think of the servant.

  “Here.” She handed me my shawl. “There was blood on it. Yours, I assumed.” She glanced at my bandaged arm, injuries from seven days ago. Only seven days. Gods.

  I took the shawl and settled back into the throne. “Welcome to my court, lowly vagrant,” I said out loud, trying to gather my senses. The cavernous hall swallowed my voice. “If you play your cards right, you might get to keep your head.”

  “The Bitch Queen.” Namra stared at the throne.

  I didn’t know whether to tell her about the servant or not. Something about it didn’t feel right. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said distractedly.

  “The throne? Or the title?”

  I smirked. “The throne is lovely. Magnificent, even. But the title! I’ve always thought it was a thing of beauty. Acknowledging my father’s prowess and insulting him, all in one breath!”

  “My understanding, my queen, is that it’s meant to insult you both.”

  “I can see why Rai keeps you around,” I said.

  She gave a small bow. “Coming from you, I will take that as a compliment.”

  “I just called you a vagrant.”

  Namra smiled. “You’re right. I shall retract my statement at once.”

  “I haven’t been queen long enough to know, truly, whether people are responding to my reputation or my father’s.”

  “With all due respect—six years is substantial even within the context of the Dragonthrone’s history. Many sovereigns have found themselves succumbing to poison or assassins within the first. As you said, you have been here… long enough.”

  Long enough that you shouldn’t really blame those before you. I leaned back against the throne and took the crown off my head. I placed it on my lap and turned it so that I was looking at the wolf again. The she-wolf, the bitch. Did my father commission a craftsman to make this after the war? Or was he so arrogant he knew all about the child in his young wife’s belly before she was born? I wanted to throw it on the walls, but it was too pretty and I would feel bad if it broke.

  “How do you think Ryia will react if she learns of this?” I asked.

  “Not well,” Namra admitted. “I’ve heard stories.”

  “I believe she was fond of upside-down crucifixion. But maybe she’ll have something more special for me. Death with bamboo spikes, perhaps.” I cleared my throat, my hand momentarily drifting to my belt. My sword wasn’t there, but I had a dagger that would serve me well if needed. “You serve Rayyel because your father served the Ikessars.”

  “My queen?”

  “And yet you still call me queen, while showing more disdain for the woman you’re supposed to be serving. Rayyel isn’t the head of the Ikessar clan, not while his mother is alive. I’m still not sure what to make of you, Namra.”

  She bowed again, low and deep. “My father served the Ikessars because he believed theirs was the way to achieve peace. Your father, unfortunately, didn’t inspire such confidence. But…” She craned her head to the side, folding her hands together. “My father changed his mind before the war ended. The Ikessars hid behind pretty words, but their actions were just as merciless. Warlord Yeshin, at least, did not pretend to be something he was not.”

  She sounded sincere. I removed my hand from the dagger and gestured at the throne room. “I beg to differ.”

  “He never hid his nature. You and Dragonlord Rayyel are the same—you have honesty within you, rare traits for people in your position. My father wanted peace for this land. I do, too. I believe the best way to achieve that is to put it in the hands of those who want the same thing.”

  “You choose to judge intention, rather than competence?”

  She gave a grim smile. “Competence can just as easily mask corruption.”

  “I do not disagree. Yet if these metrics of leadership are all we have left, we’ve sunk very low, indeed.”

  “Perhaps. But to me, you remain queen, just as Lord Rayyel is Dragonlord, uncrowned or not.”

  “Such simple honesty is as deadly as naivety. Was your father a soldier?”

  “A banner-maker,” she corrected.

  “A banner-maker,” I repeated with surprise. “With a daughter skilled in the agan. In an attempt to remove you from my father’s bloody rule, he brought you to Dageis to save your life. And what do you do? You return to save that wretched land in his memory.” I tapped the crown, petting the wolf’s head. “It is difficult to shake that shadow off of you, isn’t it? We are forever our fathers’ daughters, whether we like it or not.”

  Namra stared at me in silence. It was the first time I’d ever seen the priestess startled. I wondered how deep of a chord I’d struck. Maybe it was always easier for me—I who had grown up torn between terror and the desire for my father’s approval. I cleared my throat by way of apology and got up, returning the crown to the throne.

  “Can we go back the way we came from?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied. She stared at the dome. “This is a strange place. The runes are different… Zarojo-make, if I’m
not mistaken. Cruder than what I’m used to.”

  “This doesn’t seem very crude to me,” I said, indicating the arches.

  “Perhaps crude is a bad word. Inelegant? Superfluous?”

  “Give me some credit. You’re not talking to Rayyel here, priestess.”

  “The secret entrance, the wards, never mind the inconvenient trek up the west wing and through Warlord Yeshin’s study… this was never meant to be a proper throne room for receiving one’s subjects.” Namra strode up to the nearest column to scratch the stone. She lifted her thumb to show me blue flecks of what appeared to be sand. “This entire place was agan -wrought. More than that—the spells are unsophisticated, scattered. Look at those two.” She pointed at a rune, before drifting down to another.

  “I’m a poor judge of these things, priestess, but they look the same.”

  “They are.” She gave me the impatient look of someone who expected a better reaction, and then realized too late that I had a child’s understanding of her world. She jabbed the second rune with her finger. “They cancel each other out.”

  “If you say so.”

  “This entire chamber was built as an exercise, such as mage-builders often engage in when they’re in training.”

  “Mage-builders?”

  “We call them that in Dageis. They’re mages who go on to study with builders. Steeping a structure with spells is not as simple as making scribbles on the walls. You are, after all, imbuing inanimate matter with connections intended for the living, so that they can naturally channel the agan on their own. If you want the spells to hold up, to last, you begin from the ground up, right into the very foundations and material. That’s how mage-builders often go on to create elaborate structures that can’t be achieved by builders alone. They make airships, too, and roads and bridges that span impossible lengths, and…”

  “I get the idea.” I touched the wall. The surface was warm. I wasn’t sure why, but for some reason, I got the impression that it hummed. Not a vibration, but a sound reminiscent of the rumble in my father’s chest when he sang me lullabies. It felt alive. “So somebody was out here practicing their spell-making ability and created this rather… unsubtle place. Are the throne and the crown also agan -wrought?”