“Hold on,” she said, voice cracking. “Hold on, Niclays.” She gathered him close. “I’m here. I’m going to stay with you. You are going to sleep in Mentendon, not here. Not now. I promise.”
A ringing drowned her words. Just before his world turned black, he looked toward the sky and saw, at last, the form of death.
Death, as it turned out, had wings.
The Pursuit was such an enormous ship that the waves hardly disturbed it. One could almost dream that it was not on water at all. Loth sat in its hull, listening to the commotion on the deck, all too aware that he was deep inside a nest of criminals. He dared not let go of his baselard, but he had doused the lantern, just in case. It was a miracle that no one had come down here yet. Tané had been gone for what felt like an eternity.
The wyrm—no, dragon—observed him with a fearsome blue eye. Loth looked staunchly at the floor.
It was true that this creature did not look, or act, like the Draconic beasts of the West, though it was just as large. The horns were not unlike those of a High Western, but that was where the similarities ended. A mane like riverweed flowed down its neck. Its face was broad, its eyes round as bucklers, and its scales reminded Loth more of a fish than a lizard. He still had no intention of trusting or talking to it. One glimpse of its teeth, white and razor-sharp, and he knew it was just as capable as Fýredel of tearing him to shreds.
Footsteps. He shifted behind a crate and gripped the baselard.
His brow was damp. He had never killed. Not even the cockatrice. After all this madness, he was somehow free of that stain—but he would, to survive. To save his country.
When Tané appeared, her breathing was labored, her footsteps wove drunkenly, and she was soaked to the skin. Without a word, she took a key from her sash and undid the first of the padlocks. Loth helped her heave the chains away.
The dragon shook itself and let out a low growl. Tané stepped back, motioning for Loth to do the same, as it lifted its head and stretched to its full and formidable length. Loth was only too happy to oblige. For the first time, the beast looked angry. Its nostrils flared. Its eyes were on fire. It splayed its toes, found its balance, and, with one great swing, smashed its tail against the side of the ship.
The Pursuit shuddered. Loth almost lost his footing as the floor quaked beneath him.
Shouts came from above. The dragon was panting. If it was too weak to break through, they would all die here.
Tané called out to it. Whatever she said, it worked. The dragon steadied itself. Baring its teeth, it slammed its tail again. Wood splintered. Again. A chest slid across the floor. Again. The shouts from the pirates were closer now, their footsteps on the stair. With a snarl, the dragon rammed its body against the hull, gave it a mighty butt with its head—and this time, water came roaring in. Tané ran to the dragon and climbed onto its back.
Mortal sin or certain death. Death was the option the Knight of Courage would have taken, but the Knight of Courage had never needed to get to the Empire of the Twelve Lakes as badly as Loth did. Abandoning all hope of Halgalant, Loth waded after the murderous wyrm-lover. Desperately, he tried to climb her beast, but its scales were slick as oil.
Tané thrust out a hand. He grasped it, tasting salt, and she hoisted him up. As he looked for something to grip, he fought to blot out the rising dread. He was on a wyrm.
“Thim,” he shouted. “What about Thim?”
His words were lost as the dragon clawed from its prison. In panic, Loth grabbed on to Tané, who had lowered her head and grasped the wet mane that surrounded them. With a last push, the dragon writhed through the gaping hole in the Pursuit. Loth screamed as they plunged into the sea.
A roar in his ears. Salt on his lips. A freezing slap of air. Pistols were firing from the decks of the Pursuit, the gun ports were opening, and Loth was still astride the dragon. It slithered through the roiling waves, avoiding every shot. Tané gasped out desperate-sounding words, hands still wrapped in its mane.
It rose, like a feather caught by the wind. Water streamed from its scales as it left the sea behind. Thighs aching with the effort of remaining seated, Loth tightened his arms around Tané and watched the pirates turn to specks.
“Saint have mercy.” His voice cracked. “Blessèd Damsel, protect your poor servant.”
A flare of light made him look west. Now the sails of the Black Dove were on fire—and suddenly, wyrms were flocking. The Draconic Army. Loth searched the dark, heart booming.
There was always a master.
The High Western announced its presence with a jet of fire. It winged above the Black Dove and smashed through one of its masts with its tail.
Valeysa. The Flame of Despair. Harlowe had said she was near at hand. Her scales, hot as live coals, seemed to drink in the fire that now raged across the fleet. As her followers swarmed over the listing Pursuit, she let out a roar that shook Loth to his bones.
Tané urged her dragon onwards. The Rose Eternal was in sight. If they descended now, Valeysa would certainly mark them. If they fled, Thim would be on his own. Loth thought his stomach would drop out as their mount arced into a graceful dive.
Thim was in the crow’s nest. When he saw rescue coming, he scrambled even higher, to the top of the mainmast, and crouched there precariously. As it passed, the dragon scooped him up with its tail. He shouted, legs wheeling, as it yanked him from the Rose Eternal.
The dragon was on the rise again, toward a mantelshelf of cloud. It moved through the air as if it were swimming. Thim crawled painfully up its body, using its scales as handholds. When he was near enough, Loth reached out and helped him clamber on to its neck.
A shriek raised every hair on his arms. A wyvern was flying after them, spouting flame.
The dragon seemed as disturbed by the threat as it would be by a fly. The next jet of flame came so close that Loth smelled brimstone. Thim cocked his pistol and fired at the creature. It screamed, but kept coming. Loth squeezed his eyes shut. Either he was going to fall to his death, or he was going to be cooked like a goose.
Before either thing could happen, a powerful wind came from nowhere, almost unseating them all. The howl of it was deafening. When he could peel one eye open, Loth realized that the dragon was breathing the wind, as Draconic things breathed fire. Its eyes glowed welkin blue. Cloud smoked from its nostrils. Water beaded on its scales, only to be caught up and scattered like rain.
The wyrm screeched in rage. Its hide steamed and its jaws gaped open, but its flame was quenched, gusted back into its throat—and at last, the wind folded its wings and sent it tumbling toward the sea.
Rain battered Loth’s face. He spat water. Lightning flashed as the dragon entered the clouds, victorious, draping itself in fog as it ascended.
That was when Tané keeled to one side. As she fell, some merciful instinct made Loth snap out a hand. His fingers snared the back of her tunic, not a heartbeat too soon. The dragon growled. Breathing hard, Loth scooped Tané close, and Thim hooked an arm around them both.
Tané was lifeless, head lolling. Loth checked that the case was still on her sash. If it came undone now, the jewel would be forever lost to the sea.
“I hope you know how to talk to dragons,” he called to Thim. “Can you tell it where to go?”
No reply. When he looked over his shoulder, Loth saw that Thim was staring in wonder at the sky.
“I am seated on a god,” he said, moonstruck. “I am not worthy of this.”
At least somebody saw this nightmare as a blessing. Loth steeled himself and addressed the dragon.
“Well met, great dragon of the East,” he tried, shouting over the wind. “I don’t know if you can understand me, but I must speak to the Unceasing Emperor of the Twelve Lakes. It is of the utmost importance. Might you be able to take us to his palace?”
A rumble went through its body.
“Hold on to Tané,” it said in Inysh, “and yes, son of the West, I will take you to the City of the Thousand Flowers.”
63
East
When Tané woke, she found herself looking at a window. The sky beyond was pale as bone ash.
She lay in a canopy bed. Someone had dressed her in clean silk, but her skin was gritty with salt. A bowl of embers sat nearby, casting a lambent red glow on the ceiling.
When she remembered, her hand flinched to her side.
Her sash was gone. Seized by dread, she scrabbled through the quilts, almost scalding herself on a copper bedwarmer, only to find her case on a stand beside the bed.
The rising jewel glistened inside. Tané sank into the pillows and held the case to her chest.
For a long time, she remained in bed, imprisoned in a doze. Finally, a woman came into the room. She wore layers of blue and white, and the hem of her skirt touched the floor.
“Noble rider.” She curtsied to Tané with clasped hands. “This humble one is relieved to find you awake.”
The room swam. “Where is this?”
“This is the City of the Thousand Flowers, and you are in the home of His Imperial Majesty, the Unceasing Emperor of the Twelve Lakes, who rules beneath the gracious stars. He who is pleased to have you as his guest,” the woman replied with a smile. “I will bring you something to eat. You have had a long journey.”
“Wait. Please,” Tané said, sitting up. “Where is Nayimathun?”
“The shining Nayimathun of the Deep Snows is resting. As for your friends, they are also guests in the palace.”
“You must not punish the Westerner for breaching the sea ban. He has knowledge I need.”
“Neither of your companions have been harmed,” the woman said. “You are safe here.”
She retreated from the room.
Tané took in the ornate ceiling, the nightwood furniture. It was as if she were a rider again.
The City of the Thousand Flowers. Ancient capital of the Empire of the Twelve Lakes. Its palace was home not only to the honored Unceasing Emperor and the honored Grand Empress Dowager, but to the Imperial Dragon herself. The dragons of Seiiki looked to their eldest for guidance, but their Lacustrine cousins answered to one ruler.
Her thigh was throbbing. She pushed back the sheets and saw that it was bandaged.
She remembered the Seiikinese man, clad in robes of mulberry red. Another scholar who had run from his fate. He had called her the descendant of the long-honored Neporo.
Impossible, surely. Neporo had been a queen. Her descendants could hardly have ended up in a fishing village, scratching out a living in the farthest reaches of Seiiki.
The servant returned and set down a tray. Red tea, porridge, and boiled eggs with a helping of winter melon.
“I will have a bath filled for you.”
“Thank you,” Tané said.
She picked at the meal while she waited. The Unceasing Emperor would not have her as his guest for long when he found out what she was. A fugitive. A murderer.
“Good morning.”
Thim was in the doorway, clean-shaven, wearing Lacustrine clothing. He lowered himself into the chair beside her bed.
“The servant told me you were awake,” he said in Seiikinese.
His tone was cool. Even if they had worked together on the ship, she had still stolen it from his crew.
“As you see,” Tané said.
“I wanted to thank you,” he added, with a dip of his head, “for saving my life.”
“It was the great Nayimathun who saved you.” Tané put down her teacup. “Where is the Westerner, honorable Thim?”
“Lord Arteloth is in the Twilight Gardens. He wants to speak to you.”
“I will come when I am dressed.” She paused before saying, “Why did you sail with people from over the Abyss?”
Thim furrowed his brow.
“They are not only raised to hate fire-breathers, but our dragons,” Tané reminded him. “Knowing this, why would you sail with them?”
“Perhaps you should ask yourself a different question, honored Miduchi,” he said. “Would the world be any better if we were all the same?”
The door closed behind him. Tané reflected on his words and realized that she had no answer.
The servant soon returned to take her to the bath. With her assistance, Tané rose from her bed and limped into the next room.
“There are clothes in the closet,” the servant said. “Will you need help to dress, noble rider?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Very well. You are free to explore the palace grounds, though you must not enter the interior court. His Imperial Majesty desires your presence in the Hall of the Fallen Star tomorrow.”
With that, Tané was alone again. She stood in the shade of the bathing room and listened to the birdsong.
The bath was brimful with hot water. Tané slid her robe from her shoulders and unwrapped her thigh. If she craned her neck, she could see the stitches where someone had sealed the bullet graze. She would be fortunate to avoid a fever.
Bird skin stippled her arms as she lowered herself into the bath. She sluiced the salt out of her hair, then lay in the water, tired to her bones.
She did not deserve to be addressed as a lady, or given fine chambers. This peace could not last.
When she was clean, Tané dressed. An undershirt and a black silk tunic, then trousers, socks, and snug cloth boots. A sleeveless blue coat, trimmed with fur, came next, and finally the case on a new sash.
Her heart stumbled when she thought of facing Nayimathun. Her dragon had seen the blood on her hands.
Someone had left a crutch by the door. Tané took it and stepped out of her bedchamber, into a passageway of latticed windows and richly paneled walls. Painted constellations glinted at her from the ceiling. Dark stone paved the floors, heated from beneath.
Outside, she beheld a courtyard of such immensity that it could have housed a shoal of dragons. Lanternlight burned through an ashen mist. She could just see the great hall, raised on a terrace of layered marble, each tier a darker shade of blue.
“Soldier,” Tané said to a guard, “may this humble one ask how to find the Twilight Gardens?”
“Lady,” he said, “the Twilight Gardens are in that direction.”
He motioned to a distant gateway.
It took an eternity for her to traverse the courtyard. The Hall of the Fallen Star loomed above her. Tomorrow, she would be inside it, standing before the head of the House of Lakseng.
More guards directed her through the grounds. Finally, she reached the correct gate. The snow had been shoveled from the courtyard, but here it had been left untouched.
The Twilight Gardens were a legend in Cape Hisan. At dusk, they were said to come alive with lightflies. Night-blooming flowers would sweeten the paths. Mirrors stood here and there to direct the moonlight, and the ponds were still and limpid, the better to reflect the stars.
Even by day, this retreat was like a painting. She walked slowly, watched by statues of past Lacustrine rulers and their consorts, some of them accompanied by young dragons. Each consort held a pot of creamy yellow-pink roses. There were season trees, too, dressed in white for winter, reminding Tané of Seiiki. Of home.
She crossed a bridge over a stream. Through the fog, she could see pine trees and the shoulder of a mountain. Walking between those trees for long enough would take her to the Lake of Long Days.
Nayimathun was coiled in the snow on the other side of the bridge, the end of her tail swirling through a lotus pond. Loth and Thim were deep in conversation in a nearby pavilion. Tané collected herself. When she was close, Nayimathun huffed cloud through her nostrils. Tané laid down the crutch and bowed.
“Great Nayimathun.”
A low growl. Tané closed her eyes.
“Rise, Tané,”the dragon said. “I told you. You must speak to me as you would to a friend.”
“No, great Nayimathun. I have been no friend to you,” Tané raised her head, but there was a stone in her throat. “The honored Governor of Ginura was right to
exile me from Seiiki. You were on the beach that night because of me. All of this happened because you chose me, and not one of the others, as your kin.” Her voice quavered. “You should not speak kindly to me. I have killed and lied and served myself. I ran from my punishment. The water in me was never pure.”
The dragon tilted her head. Tané tried to stay facing her, but a rush of shame made her drop her gaze.
“To be kin to a dragon,” Nayimathun said, “you must not only have a soul of water. You must have the blood of the sea, and the sea is not always pure. It is not any one thing. There is darkness in it, and danger, and cruelty. It can raze great cities with its rage. Its depths are unknowable; they do not see the touch of the sun. To be a Miduchi is not to be pure, Tané. It is to be the living sea. That is why I chose you. You have a dragon’s heart.”
A dragon’s heart. There could be no greater honor. Tané wanted to speak, to deny it—but when Nayimathun nuzzled her as though she were a hatchling, she broke. Tears dripped down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around her friend and shook.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Nayimathun.”
A contented rumble answered her. “Let go of your guilt now, rider. Do not spend your salt.”
They stayed like that for a long time. Shudders racked Tané as she pressed her cheek against Nayimathun. She had carried a nameless weight on her shoulders since Susa had died, but it was no longer too heavy to bear. When she could breathe without weeping, she moved her hand to where Nayimathun had been wounded. A metal scale now covered the flesh, engraved with wishes for healing.
“Who did this?”
“It no longer matters. What happened on the ship is in the past.” Nayimathun bumped her with her snout. “The Nameless One will rise. Every dragon in the East can feel it.”
Tané dried her tears and reached into the case. “This belongs to you.”
She held out the rising jewel in the palm of her hand. Nayimathun gave it a delicate sniff.
“You say it was sewn into your side.”
“Yes,” Tané said. “I always had a swelling there.” Her throat felt tight again. “I know nothing of my family, or why they would have put it into my side, but on the island, one of the Pursuit’s crew saw the jewel. He said I was the descendant of . . . Neporo.”
The Priory of the Orange Tree Page 68
