The Dragon's Legacy

by Deborah A. Wolf

  Daru, the dreamshifter’s apprentice, came into the light alone. Sulema’s heart skipped into a trot, and then to a canter, as his dark eyes wandered wide and dreaming among the girl-children of the pride. She held her breath as his gaze found hers and held, as he took a step forward…

  …no, please Atu, no…

  …and then the little shit winked at her before turning away. The dreamshifter would take no new novitiate this year.

  By the time the Ja’Akari came for her, Sulema had taken hold of her fear and throttled it into submission. She stood proud as they tore away the plain tunic that marked her as a child of the Shahadrim, as they painted her face to invoke the protection and ferocity of the great cats, and—finally!—as they cut away her sunset braids. Gladly she took her clothes and cast-off hair, and smiled as she fed them to the fire. The stink of charred hair was an offering to the pride, and sweet. She would have stayed to watch it blacken and burn, but a hand gripped her shoulder and turned her away.

  Beaten-gold eyes peered out at her from beneath a pale crown of tangled locks, like a wild thing staring into the world from another place. They burned, with or without the fire they burned, and though they peeled back the layers of her soul, somehow never seemed to see her. The words, when they came, were as empty and cold as unsung bones.

  “Sulema Shahadri.”

  “There are no Shahadrim here.”

  “Sulema Ali’i.”

  “There are no children here.”

  “Umm Sulema.”

  “There are no Mothers here.” She lifted her eyes to that fiery stare, willing her heart to courage. “No mothers at all.”

  The dreamshifter’s eyes flickered, in pain or fury or through a simple trick of the firelight. She heard Khurra’an growl as the dreamshifter raised her cat’s-skull staff and touched Sulema’s forehead. It felt, oddly enough, like a kiss.

  “Who stands before me?”

  Sulema straightened her shoulders. She was taller than her mother, now, if only by a hairsbreadth.

  “I am Sulema,” she answered. “Sulema Ja’Akari warrior of the Zeeranim.” Then she held her breath, because the dreamshifter had the power, in that moment, to deny her heart’s desire. One word, and Sulema might be sent, not to the warriors, but to the dreamshifters. Those rare individuals who could hear the songs of sa and ka were rarely allowed to choose any other path in life, and Sulema knew herself to be gifted.

  Or cursed, depending on how you looked at it.

  Hafsa Azeina gave the tiniest shrug, as if it were of no matter to her at all. Her eyes were already on the girl behind Sulema.

  “I see you, Sulema,” she intoned, “I see you, Ja’Akari. I see you, warrior of the Zeeranim.” She raised her staff high, and brought the end of it down upon the ground. Khurra’an threw his head back and roared, a sound that made the bones of her feet tingle where they met the earth, and several of the vash’ai added their great voices to his. She had been found worthy. Sulema’s heart sang in her breast. Almost, it seemed, the heart of the world sang out an answer, a rumbling song of welcome from the very ground beneath her feet.

  She felt a faint tickling at the back of her mind. A voice, at once unfamiliar and beloved.

  I come, Kithren, he said to her. I come!

  The vash’ai roared again, and the moons bathed the desert in silver light, and all was right in the world.

  It was done.

  * * *

  “What happened?” Hannei asked. “I heard the vash’ai roaring. They hardly ever do that when a warrior is raised. I do not know whether I should hug you, or hate you. They say when that happens, a warrior is always chosen Zeeravashani.”

  “It was nothing,” Sulema replied, and then ruined it by grinning. Humility had never been her strength. “Is there mead? I am so thirsty I could drink moonslight.”

  “There is mead, and usca, and food. The fast is over.” Hannei’s brown eyes sparkled in the firelight. “The fast is over, Sulema, it is all over. We are women now. Warriors!”

  Sulema reached a tentative hand to the bare skin at her temple, shorn even as Hannei’s was shorn. Tomorrow they would oil the skin with sisli, and braid their remaining hair into warriors’ plaits. Tomorrow they would don the traditional garb of Ja’Akari, and fight for honor before the eyes of the First Warrior. Tonight, though…

  “Tonight, we are women.” The words were strange in her mouth, bitter as red salt, sweet as jiinberry wine. “Tonight, we are warriors!”

  “Ja’Akari!” Hannei laughed, and drew back her arm, and slapped Sulema with her open palm so hard it set the stars in the sky to dancing.

  “Ja’Akari!” She hit back, a solid blow, so that Hannei made a face and spat a thin stream of blood.

  The girls shared a grin. It was the last time either of them would allow herself to be struck and not answer with death.

  “Come, Sister, let us get to the feast before the food is all gone.” Hannei held out her hand.

  Sulema met her friend’s grasp, and they twined their fingers together. “To Yosh with the food. What I need now is…”

  “Mead!” They finished together and set off toward the fires at a half-run, hand in hand, an entire lifetime before them.

  Saghaani.

  There is beauty in youth.

  TWO

  “It is a good day to die. It is an even better day to live.”

  Ani loved the Zeera, but it had never loved her back.

  She had taken in sand with every breath, every mouthful of food or drink, sucked the grit in through her very skin. By now she was doubtless more sand than woman. But no matter how much of her blood she might pour into the desert, it had never welcomed her home. She was a dark stranger, lost in a golden land under a golden sky.

  She had been born into a Dzirani caravan, one of the clans that used to wander along the Great Salt Road. In better days— if those dispossessed by Iftallan can be said to have had better days—the Dzirani had been known as far south as Min Yaarif, as far north as Atualon, and to the east beyond myth-lands of the Daemon Emperor.

  Though her mother’s brother had named her “Beauty,” her face would never have caught at the heart-strings of a king, or even the purse-strings of a fat salt merchant. Rather than feed another worthless mouth, her father had sold her to the desert barbarians for two bags of salt, one red and one white. A fair price for a plain face. She did not remember much of her father’s people beyond the pretty painted wagons and the great blunt-horned ghella that pulled them, the smell and taste of fish from the mountain streams, and her mother’s cries on the day she was sent away. Young Ani had sworn on the stars, a different one each night, that one day she would find her mother again and they would be made whole.

  Young Ani had run out of wishing-stars long ago. Istaza Ani, youthmistress to the pride, had no time to spare for foolish dreams.

  Though the Zeera had never welcomed her, the Zeeranim had. She loved them, loved her life and her place in it. She was valued despite her barren womb and her failure to bond with a vash’ai. In many ways she was less of an outsider than the woman she sought now, the most powerful dreamshifter in the Zeera, who had once been as close to her as a sister. That friendship, much as her youthful passions, had faded with the years. One could love the fire, but never come too close. Never embrace it.

  Ani was a woman of muscle and blood and bone. Her strength and comfort lay in things of the physical realm—horses to ride and tarbok to hunt, enemies to conquer and men to love, men to conquer and enemies to love. She loved her big red stallion, her worn bow, the whisper of finely woven linen against her legs as she walked. Spiced mead and smoked meats. Things she could touch, and taste, and smell. The world was dangerous enough, to her thinking, without adding to the mess by meddling in the affairs of dreamshifters and dragons.

  As she turned from the hurry and bustle and laughter of Hajra-Khai, the spring festival, the wind slapped her face. She wiped grit from her eyes and walked toward the river Dibris, swollen and
sluggish from the first spring rains. Whenever the people gathered in numbers greater than three, Hafsa Azeina would pack her tent and seek solitude. After that incident with the snakes Ani had given up lecturing her friend about the dangers of being alone.

  For appearances’ sake, Hafsa Azeina kept a tent of her own. She wore the robes of a respected woman, and gems upon her fingers, and treated any guest to fragrant teas and sweetmeats. Ordinary things, as if she were an ordinary woman, but Hafsa Azeina was no ordinary woman. She waded through the people’s dreams like a jiinberry farmer in shallow waters, plucking the ripe fruit of fertile dreamings. Some of this harvest was hoarded for later, some was sold at market, and some—Ani was certain of this last, though she had never asked outright—some of the dreams were eaten fresh, staining the lips and fingertips and the soul of the woman who ate them with their dark, sweet juices.

  Overlooking the muddy banks of the river was an area left dark and bare by last year’s cooking pits. Still rank with the smells of old fat and charred flesh, likely to attract scavengers and predators when the winds blew out of the south, it was the least desirable site one could imagine wanting to claim. In this place Hafsa Azeina had made her camp.

  The breeze had died in the rising heat, yet the dreamshifter’s tent still shivered like a dreaming beast, its painted hide twitching and glinting as it napped in the sunlight. The indigo spidersilk tent, smaller than most, was embroidered in thread-of-gold and thread-of-blood with fantastical creatures and scenes. Kraken and kirin, wildling and wyvern crowded together chaotic as the script on a bonesinger’s skin. Above them all, coiled round and about the roof of the tent and watching her with eyes of lapis, the gold-and-green scaled form of Akari Sun Dragon searched for his lost love.

  As always, Ani made a small sign against ill fortune as she neared the tent. Hafsa Azeina had been a friend to her these many years, but the youthmistress would sooner wrestle a lionsnake than sleep beneath those disturbing images. Her sleep was fitful enough of late without wyrms and wyverns clawing their way into her dreams.

  Ignoring all the glittering eyes, she gave the visitor’s bell a shake and ducked through the doorflap. The dreamshifter’s tent was surprisingly roomy inside, though much of the space was occupied by the black-maned and massive hulk of a vash’ai. He was an older cat, his black-and-silver dappled coat faded to a pale gold, and heavily scarred.

  “Khurra’an.” She bowed respectfully. “Hafsa Azeina.”

  The sire curled his black-tufted tail at her dismissively, and the white eye spots on the back of his round ears did not so much as twitch. Khurra’an had perfected the art of arrogance.

  Hafsa Azeina sat cross-legged and cloaked in shadows on the far side of the tent, a scattering of wood and blades and small pots all around her. Her head was bowed over some project, masses of pale locks hiding her figure and face. When the dreamshifter finally looked up at her, Ani could scarce repress a shiver. The woman’s hands were stained with blood, and the great golden eyes were fierce.

  “Istaza Ani.” She had the faraway voice of a person who sings in their sleep.

  “Dreamshifter.” Ani forced a smile. “You are not dressed for Hajra-Khai.”

  A strange expression played about the other woman’s mouth, like sunlight on cold water. “I need to restring my lyre.”

  “Ah,” Ani said, and for the first time noted the loops of fresh intestine in a basket of water, gray and gleaming, ready to be scraped clean. Well, that explained the smell. “Nobody I know, I hope.”

  That smile again. “I think not.”

  “Sulema was very brave at her ceremony.”

  “Sulema is always brave.”

  “I hear that Hannei and Saskia were made warriors, as well. Not that there was ever any doubt. Nurati’s girl, Neptara, was claimed by the artists’ guild. I did not see that coming—I hope she is not too disappointed. And I hope Sulema can learn to control that hot temper of hers before it gets her into too much trouble.”

  The dreamshifter bent over her work again. “It is past time Sulema learns control. She is a grown woman now, not a child, and the dragon is waking.”

  “Children’s tales,” Ani replied, watching the woman work. Her cat’s-skull lyre was propped in a corner next to the blackened staff, tools of the dreamshifter’s trade. Deadly as swords, in their own way, and as beautiful. “Sajani will sleep till the end of time.”

  Hafsa Azeina glanced up at her. “You should listen to children’s tales more often. They hold more truth than you know. There is a restlessness in the land, you have said as much yourself. The people’s dreams are darker, and tempers run hotter. We lose warriors and wardens with every ranging. Not three moons past, the Nisfim lost Hamran and his apprentice, and their strongest warden as well. They rode out in pursuit of slavers and never returned.”

  “The slavers grow bolder because Atualon and Sindan eye one another and think of war. The kin grow bolder as the spring brings less rain each year, and there is less prey for them to hunt. These are natural things, surely.”

  “And the dragon is not?” The dreamshifter reached into the water, brought forth a coil of intestine, fixed it to the board in front of her. “She would have woken completely during the Sundering, but for the magic of the Atualonian queens and kings. Her dreams are as restless as your own, Youthmistress. We have only three dreamshifters now to protect all the prides, though a score would scarce be sufficient if the Dragon’s dreamings rouse the kin. I do not believe for a moment that a handful of slavers could have bested Hamran. No… dark dreams gather in the shadows of Jehannim. Things are only going to get worse.”

  “Things always grow worse, when kings and emperors join the dance.” Ani frowned. “The Sindanese emperor will not rest until he holds the world in his hands, and the moons in the sky as well. And the drums of war have ever been the heartbeat of Atualon. Ka Atu would see us all burn before he ever bends knee to Tiachu. But what has that to do with the dragon? We are to Sajani as ants in the shadow of a warrior, you have told me so yourself.”

  “Yet ants may sting, and draw unwanted attention to themselves. Ehuani, old friend, we should turn our minds from such things lest we do the same. Leave the war to warriors, and the dragon to her dreams.” Hafsa Azeina smiled and stretched her back. “Why have you come here today? Surely not for tea and gossip. Or did you come to help me string my lyre?”

  Ani glanced toward Khurra’an, whose eyes upon her had grown suddenly sharp. Knowing that the vash’ai could smell fear did nothing to soothe her nerves.

  Ah well, she told herself. It is a good day to die.

  “Umm Nurati called a secret meeting of the Mothers last night, and the Mothers just informed the Ja’Sajani and Ja’Akari. If I had known earlier, I would have told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  There was no way but to say it straight. “Do you remember last year, when those Atualonian men came down the river seeking news of a white-haired woman and a red-haired girl? Then they… disappeared?”

  The dreamshifter’s eyes went flat and hot. “I remember.” She squeezed a handful of gut.

  “Nurati sent an envoy to the Dragon King, in secret. Hafsa Azeina, he knows about you. He knows about Sulema.”

  Ani had been a hotheaded young warrior when old Theotara had returned from the Lonely Road, carrying a woman over her shoulders and a child in her arms. That young outland mother, though untrained in dreamshifting, had somehow killed an entire gang of slavers with magic and transported herself, her daughter, and their wagons deep into the desert. But Ani knew, because they had shared a room in Beit Usqut, how Hafsa Azeina had cried herself to sleep for love of the man whose wrath she had fled.

  The first bounty hunters had arrived before that year was out. Men from Eid Kalish in bright silk cloaks, wearing knives at their hips and handing out coins and sweets to the children. “Tell us what you know,” they had coaxed, to no avail. “A moon-haired woman, a flame-haired girl. The Dragon King is very generous to his friends.
”

  The men from Eid Kalish had disappeared, too. Nor had Ani to wonder what became of them. She had, in fact, helped her friend feed their corpses to the river-beasts.

  Ah, to be young again.

  “She sent an envoy. To Ka Atu. How long ago was this?”

  “Moons ago, I suppose. Too late to do anything about it, certainly.”

  “We shall see about that. And about this… treachery.” Hafsa Azeina pushed away the bowl of guts, and stood. “Are the Mothers still at the Madraj?”

  “Dreamshifter, it is too late for that. I believe she only told the Mothers when it became apparent that her envoy had been received, and now we know there has been a reply.”

  The dreamshifter bared her teeth. “I will stop her.”

  “Would that you could. I tell you, it is too late. A runner has come from Nisfi. Ships have been sighted on the Dibris.”

  Hafsa Azeina went still as dead water. “Ships. What kind of ships?”

  “Dragon-keeled ships with striped sails. Half a score, by scout’s report.”

  The dreamshifter’s eyes glittered, cold and hard as a viper considering her next strike. When she moved it was so quick and unexpected that Ani stumbled half a step backward, but the other woman simply stooped to pick up the basket full of guts. When she straightened again, her face was a frozen mask.

  “So. Ka Atu would stir from his throne. He would reclaim what he sees as his.” She brushed past Ani and paused at the mouth of her twilight tent, silhouetted against the bright bite of the sun. “How long until they are upon us?”

  “The runner was swift. We have a few days, at most.”

  “I will speak with Umm Nurati, and then I will speak with the Mothers. The people must make ready to greet the king of dragons.” As she slipped out into the day, Ani let out the breath she had been holding.

  It was a good day to die, of course. But it was a better day to live.

  Khurra’an padded past her, a mountain’s rumbling whisper, bone-and-shadows bulk reaching almost to her shoulder, silent as death in the night.