“But, Koras-inby-kir,” the Convenor continued, “a glorious destiny awaits you—leading your troops on behalf of the twenty-two dragons of Air. I will give you two days to decide. Either swear allegiance or be the first of the holy sacrifices. Do you have any questions?”
Korda spoke at last. “Yes. How many cat soldiers are here in the Realm of Fire? Was the Air dragon we saw the only one that’s crossed the strands so far? Where is your base in Chend’th’nif? When and how do you plan to attack Farad’hil?”
Zishun’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, much bravery. Much spirit. Take her away.”
Day 4
Korda was being held in the same tower where Davix had been imprisoned. There had been no sign of her since her capture the previous day, and the mixed beings would reveal nothing of her fate.
After lunch, Davix was given permission to visit Tix-etnep-thon-dahé in the healing tent. On his way there, he passed Lok’lok-sur-nep-dahé. The Textiles Master was sewing some kind of ceremonial garment, decorated with bear’s teeth and bones. The garment was being recreated from a drawing in a coarsely bound book annotated in strange script. Davix looked over his shoulder and marvelled at the unknown language.
“Is that the Tongue of Air?” Davix asked the master who, lost as he was in concentration, yelped in surprise. “I’m sorry,” Davix said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Indeed, my nerves are fragile, D’gada-vixtet-thon.” He ran his fingers along the line of teeth, which rattled softly. “It is a terrible garment, though a beautiful one. I wish I knew what it was for. Or perhaps I don’t wish to know.”
It was cool in the healing tent. The Master of Atmospherics lay on a low cot with a blanket pulled up to his chest. His left hand was raised in the air, waving weakly as it had when Davix discovered him in the tower. The fingers danced like stiff grass in the wind, and the old man watched their dance in the way of an infant who doesn’t realize the limb is his own.
Davix took the dancing hand in both of his, as much to make contact as to stop this meaningless, heartbreaking motion.
“Master-da, how are you feeling today?” Tix-etnep-thon-dahé smiled with half his face, and Davix was not sure the old man recognized him. “You were right, Master. There is a rift in the Chend’th’nif. That is why the fog remains.” Tix-etnep-thon-dahé gave a high wheezy sigh which Davix could not interpret. “But Grav’nan-dahé was not responsible. We were wrong to blame him.” You were wrong, he wanted to say, aware of his anger. Davix was sickened by the way the two old men had spent the last quarter cycle standing over him, two puppeteers fighting for control of the strings. He let go of the old man’s hand, and it fell to the bedding, like a frog shot from the sky.
“Oh, Master-da,” Davix said. “What will happen now? Korda’s revolt failed. The balance is shattered, the future unknown.”
Tix-etnep-thon-dahé gave a mischievous half-smile. He raised his hand again, extending and relaxing the fingers as the hand climbed higher, like a wave on a lake. Like a wing.
“F-flaak…” he murmured through lips only half awake. “F-fly, Flak…” His left eye was clear and bright, turned skyward, though there was only the roof of the tent above. Davix, too, looked upward for a sign of hope.
When Davix returned to his desk, he saw that Lok’lok-sur-nep-dahé had finished the ritual cloak. It was displayed on the stage, hung on a T-shaped post. The cloak filled and billowed in the rising wind, as if animated by a malicious spirit. The white bones and gleaming, fearsome teeth that decorated the garment clattered in the breeze. Davix felt a sinister chill pass through him.
Day 5
It astonished Davix how quickly even the most terrible circumstances could settle into routine. The People ate their meals, slept, and prepared for the coming of their new lords. Was it really only five days since the cats attacked and the mixed beings betrayed them? It felt like a lifetime.
“Davix,” the former Prime Magistrate said as they finished their lunch. “Go bang the drum to commence the afternoon work shift.”
“No,” Zishun replied, standing. “We have holy business to conduct first.” Davix and Grav’nan-dahé exchanged worried glances as the quadrana located a small sheath of papers on his desk and reached into a drawer for a stone knife with a dark metal handle. He stepped forward, and his voice boomed across the courtyard.
“People of Cliffside, put down your bowls and stand, facing this way. Bring forth she whose glory awaits!”
From the door of the nearest tower, two tall octonas and the brindle commander cat emerged with Korda, her hands shackled. She was dressed in a long gown of coarse grey cloth. Her hair was loose and had fallen to her shoulders. Davix had never before seen her without it tied tight on the top of her head. Korda was marched before them and up on the stage, where Zishun joined her along with two octonas and three cats.
Korda stood with a soldier’s bearing, staring forward, showing no fear. Zishun ordered her shackles removed and took the ceremonial cloak from its post.
“Spread wide your arms, Koras-inby-kir.” She hesitated a moment, then did as she was told. Zishun placed the cloak over Korda’s shoulders so that it hung down on all sides, cold and regal. The gruesome decorations glittered in stray flashes of sunshine that pierced the fog. Standing to one side of the stage, the cat commander licked his paw and began to clean himself.
“Hold her,” Zishun said, and the octonas each grabbed one of her wrists to keep her arms extended. Zishun pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket.
“Forgive my unfamiliarity with the ceremony, Koras-inby-kir. We all have much to learn about the customs of our new lords.”
Davix’s heart pounded. Despite his best efforts to marshal his emotions, he was pulled back to the hour, not six days past, when he had been the prisoner with bound hands. The memory made him nauseous and sweaty. But Korda did not flinch, even when Zishun lifted the stone knife and touched it to her forehead.
“Koras-inby-kir, you led an aborted rebellion against the twenty-two dragons who rule this realm. You are now offered two sacred paths to glory. You may publicly denounce your allegiance to the decadent dragons of Farad’hil and swear to bring your brilliance and ferocity to the service of the Twenty-Two…”
He brought the knife point down so it lay upon her breast. Davix reminded himself no mixed being could harm a human. Still, his breath caught in his throat.
“Or you may consecrate this stage with your blood, making of it a sacred altar for the worship of the Twenty-Two. This is an equally holy path, though I hope you choose the former. Great triumph awaits us if only we accept our new destinies.”
Had she already been told of this choice, Davix wondered, or guessed it? Because she didn’t seem surprised. Still, she must have been scared, for her face was ashen, and her voice betrayed the slightest tremor as she replied.
“My blood flows for clever Inby. It flows for wise Vixtet. My heart beats for Sur and for Renrit. My life is Queen Etnep’s life.”
Somewhere in the crowd, someone said, “Gracious is the world they built us.”
Only then did Korda raise her voice to the crowd, her cold soldier’s gaze turning hot. “And when my blood of Fire falls on your stinking altar, I hope it burns to the ground and takes you with it!” She spat at the feet of the Convenor. The cat soldiers snarled and took a step closer, but Zishun waved them back to their places.
He gave the smallest of nods to the octonas, who tightened their grip on Korda’s wrists and drew her arms to full extension. Zishun handed the knife to the cat commander, who let out a low, guttural laugh and brought the point back to Korda’s breast, this time pushing slowly through the material. She winced, and a small stain of red marked the spot.
“weaknessss,” the cat hissed.
Restless anger swirled through the crowd like cream in hot chicory as Zishun read from his paper, hissing words in the Tongue of Air, pausing occasionally to correct his pronunciation. Cat soldiers menaced the crowd with claw and spear, warning
them to stay where they were.
“Do something,” Davix hissed into Grav’nan-dahé’s ear.
“What would you have me do?”
“Say something!”
“And precipitate a slaughter? We must cooperate. For now.”
Davix’s voice notched a little louder. “Yes, you’re content to watch, aren’t you? Just like you were content to sacrifice me.”
Grav’nan-dahé’s voice also rose, from whisper to growl. “How can you compare the situations?”
“Can’t I? You claim to care about the People, but first you abuse your authority and now you abandon it.” Davix was aware they were drawing attention. He didn’t care. “You’re the one with all the words. Speak!”
At some point during this exchange, Zishun had switched to Tongue of Fire. “The Realms were born in blood, torn loose from Mother Earth and expelled into the harshness of the Realm of Sky. Since then, blood has been our lot—the blood of battle, the blood of sacrifice. O Twenty-Two! O Dragon Lords of Air! Take the blood of this warrior woman and let it feed your hunger for conquest and domination!”
He nodded at the cat commander, who raised the knife high, ready to plunge it into Korda’s heart, and that’s when Grav’nan-dahé stepped forward.
“Stop! You creatures of chaos, you living violations! You will not kill this woman.” Davix, despite having encouraged this intervention, was suddenly terrified for the old man, who continued in a high, tight voice. “You will not sully the realm of the Five with your unbalanced devotions.” He turned to the People and raised his arms high. “Hear me, beloved children of Etnep! Do not submit! If they kill Korda, if they kill me, do not submit!”
The cats were headed his way, and Davix felt ice flow through him. Grav’nan-dahé was about to die, and it was his fault for goading him. And why? Because Davix wanted revenge on him? He couldn’t stand by and watch. He lurched forward and raised his own arm, intertwining their fingers.
“Step back, Davix!” Grav’nan-dahé told him, almost pleading. But Davix stood his ground.
Zishun spoke behind them, his voice calm and clear. “Grav’nan-dahé, D’gada-vixtet-thon, the ceremony cannot be interrupted. Return to your place, or I will not restrain the cat soldiers.”
Everything slowed. It seemed to Davix he had ample time to consider his life. With startling clarity, he looked back at all the turning points that had led to this moment—sending Rinby’s data to Farad’hil, defying Grav’nan-dahé to be with X’risp’hin, daring to open his heart to love—and in no case could see how he might have acted differently. Were these truly decisions, or had he acted the way he, Davix, must act? Maybe he had stumbled on the meaning of destiny: to truly know yourself and then be true to that knowledge in your actions. Davix was not the person who could let Grav’nan-dahé die alone, so he stood with him. And if this was to be the end of his life, then it was the only way events could unfold.
Davix gripped Grav’nan-dahé’s hand. His teacher was no longer a semi-god to him, but an ordinary, flawed human. He looked at the People, and they returned his look, anger or sympathy in their eyes. Standing among them, as they had always stood, were the mixed beings, creatures of honour and power whose lives had always represented the balance and harmony of the Realm of Fire. Their betrayal was unbearable.
“Do not throw away your lives for nothing,” Zishun said to their backs. “Surely you must see…”
The voice stopped abruptly. Had the Convenor run out of lines to read? In his peripheral vision, Davix saw a strange movement. He turned to watch an octona tip sideways and fall to the ground. Then, in the middle of the crowd, a quadrana crumpled and vanished among the People. Then another. Like a rain that starts with scattered, single drops and then cascades into a downpour, the mixed beings began to collapse. Their eyes rolled back in their heads, their knees buckled, and they all fell dead.
Davix spun around to face the stage. The octonas holding Korda had released her, one dead at her feet, the other on its hands and knees, gasping for breath. Korda threw off the cloak and moved to the front of the stage, staring out into the courtyard in surprise.
And in that moment, Zishun, the last mixed being standing, grabbed the knife from the confused brindle cat. He shouted, “My life for Air!” and staggered toward Korda, bringing down the knife. But Zishun couldn’t overcome the discipline of his blood. At the last second, he turned the blade, and it plunged into Korda’s shoulder instead of her heart, as he fell dead on the stage.
Chapter 41: A Game of Cat and Mouse
Farkol-dahé was pacing back and forth in front of the dead deer, waving his hands around like he was conducting the Realm of Fire All-Star Band. “You have no right! This creature was mine! I am your superior!”
“Honourable one,” a worried octona murmured. “Be careful of the hem of your gown.”
I almost laughed as Farkol hopped backward, only just avoiding dragging his fancy outfit through the puddle of blood. Yes, I know it wasn’t funny, but life-and-death tension does weird things to me, okay? All the cats other than Translator had chased the poor deer around and around the compound before the calico cat finally jumped on it and tore out its throat. The killer cat was all pumped up after that, carrying the little drooping body around over his head to show off to the other three soldiers, licking at the blood that dripped down his arms. When Farkol and the mixed beings arrived and starting yelling, the calico dropped its kill and marched off in a huff.
Translator was hanging out in front of my cage, which was where he’d spent most of his off-duty time since I’d arrived. I wouldn’t call it friendship, but we were the two nerds no one talked to, so we needed each other. It was hard to get him to open up about his life, although he did like to brag about his kids. When it came to his wife, he was more guarded. He called her a loyal and fierce mother, but he never said he loved her or missed her. I think he did, but those were the kinds of airy words that could get you beaten up by the other cats.
He appreciated it when I said she sounded brave.
“But what are you guys, anyway?” I had asked one long afternoon, after he got bored listening to me recount boy band relationship rumours. “Why are there big, talking, two-legged cats in your realm?”
“As the dragons of Fire needed the mixed beings, so our dragons needed their own army. Cats from the Realm of Earth were augmented, shaped slowly and in great agony until the design was complete. The feline martyrs are much revered.”
Every story from Air included pain and glory.
I lost track of the days, but it felt like a week had gone by in that cage. Mostly I was ignored, which was fine by me. Even before the killing of the deer, the atmosphere had been growing tense. The Air dragon had not been seen in days. Farkol-dahé had no idea what was going on in Cliffside or Farad’hil, and his pep talks to the troops were less and less convincing. Maybe it was this lack of leadership that made the cats grow so bold and rebellious. That and a shortage of fresh meat.
Farkol screamed at the cats. “You are savage and undisciplined!” Their reply was a chorus of threatening growls.
The black-and-white cat finally got sick of Farkol’s rant and bounded up to him, claws raised, hissing and spitting in the tongue of Air. Farkol’s eyes went wide, and he and his underlings took a nervous step backward.
“Translator!” Farkol called in panic as the cat continued its pissed-off, spit-hiss symphony.
Translator was no fool. He didn’t want to get in the middle, so he shouted his translations without leaving his place by my cage.
“The black-and-white says, ‘We do not follow orders of fruit-eating philosophers.’”
Farkol actually stamped his foot. “Tell this cat he should run a comb through his greasy hair!”
I could already see the situation was going to devolve quicker than a YouTube comments thread. Translator repeated this reply in the sibilant, snarly Tongue of Air. Judging by the cat’s furious reaction, he should have softened his words a bit.
&n
bsp; “You will all be meat beneath our claws,” came the translation of the furious black-and-white. “We will slash your soft bellies like we did your deer.”
But fierce as the cats were, the mixed beings were not to be messed with. All over the compound, octonas and quadranas drew weapons except Farkol, who stepped behind one of the burlier quadranas. Up on the cliff face to my left, the one and only bidahéna at the camp gave a frightening call, which translated to: “Prepare to fall, low creature!” The bidahéna spread her wings and pulled back the string of a huge silver bow, ready to let her silver arrow fly.
I felt sick. I could practically see the big “Collateral Damage” sign hanging over me and Translator.
The black-and-white cat hissed an answer. “No, Fire-fool. It is you who will fall.”
And you know what? The cat was right. As if the power had been cut in the wacky animatronic Hall of Dragons, every mixed being collapsed to the ground, dead. The cats stood frozen for a minute before they dared approach the bodies, kicking them, at first experimentally and then with gusto.
I was in shock. What could have killed all the mixed beings? Was this slaughter happening everywhere in the Realm? What about Tiqokh? But I didn’t have time to think about it, because suddenly we were in the middle of a full-on cat victory party, and that’s one party I’d advise you to skip. With a sickening crack and splat, the black-and-white cat cut off Farkol’s head with the quadrana’s own sword, and before you knew it, it was being tossed around like a gory basketball. They all looked sickeningly happy for a while, but then a fight broke out between the calico and the black-and-white, complete with that kind of angry mewing cats do before they pounce on each other.
“What’s happening?” I asked Translator, the hairs on my arm standing up.
“A struggle for power, Kras-pa-han. We are in great danger. Wait here.”
He ran off, leaving me defenceless. I crouched in the darkest corner of my cage, which wasn’t all that dark. Several cats gave me the once-over as they ran by, and I swear they were sizing me up for a stew.
The Dubious Gift of Dragon Blood Page 29
