The Quarabalese girl, Yaela, began to protest. They had been on the river for days, they needed quarters and baths and food, in that order. Surely the prince would care to refresh himself first. Introductions could wait.
Leviathus glanced at her, and Aasah touched her shoulder, and she retreated into a stony and cat-eyed silence.
Nurati and the Mothers swept the shadowmancer, his apprentice, and the rest of their guests toward Aish Kalumm in a storm of grim hospitality that would not be denied. Hafsa Azeina turned to Leviathus.
“This way,” she said. “She is in the Youths’ Quarter.”
Leviathus surprised her by waving the Draiksguard off, and they surprised her by leaving without protest.
Bold, she thought. Bold and foolish.
Where did he learn that, I wonder? came the voice of Khurra’an.
Hush, she replied. You did not stay in the tent, did you? The vash’ai, wary and unpredictable around strangers, had been asked by their kithren to remain in the city while the two-leggeds attended to human things. But Khurra’an was a king, and a cat besides, and he did not play by the rules.
I am hunting, he told her, and she could feel his vast amusement.
Hunting what? she dared ask.
He did not answer.
They walked along the river’s edge together, Hafsa Azeina and the boy grown to manhood. The steps to Beit Usqut, the Youths’ Quarter, were so rocky and steep that one had to be young and foolhardy—or part goat—to attempt them. Hafsa Azeina went first, feeling Leviathus’s eyes boring into her back with a thousand unasked questions.
“I was starting to wonder whether we would make it this far upriver,” was all he said. “We lost two of our ships and a handful of boats to the river beasts.”
“I am surprised you did not lose more than that. The kin are angry. You will not be able to return by river, you know. Your boats and your magic will have the serpents in a frenzy for at least a moons’ turn. You will have to travel overland.” Hafsa Azeina turned her head, grimacing as the scab along her new wound stretched and tore. “Did you have trouble with wyverns?”
Leviathus shook his head. “Serpents, mostly, I think. We lost a few during the night, so it is hard to say for certain. We heard a bintshi on the third night, and some of our men went overboard before we could get them to plug their ears. You say the kin are angry? Is that why we saw so few barbarians?”
“Barbarians? Mind your tongue, boy, these are my people now.”
“Your people.” She heard him chuckle—he did not realize she was serious. “All right, then, your people. Still, I had expected to see more of them. Until we reached this place, we had seen only a few stragglers and fisher folk along the river.”
“The Zeeranim have never recovered from the Sundering, Leviathus. The people you see here are all that remains. A remnant.”
“The Sundering? But that was so long ago… surely the effects would have faded with time?”
“What did you think happens when empires collide? When the world burns, what happens to the people?” She shook her head. “For what? So this man or that man can sit in a golden chair, and wear a golden mask, and hope that one of his children might live long enough to watch atulfah kill him. The people will never recover, not in a thousand years, not in ten thousand. Now the Dragon King turns his thoughts toward the Zeera once more. How many will die this time, do you think?”
“This land has made you bitter.”
“The world has made me bitter. This land suits me well.”
“Come back to Atualon,” he said, as if she had not spoken. “The orange trees are just starting to blossom, and the ginger as well. Do you remember how we used to walk together, before the city was awake? You would pluck down the ginger blossoms for me to taste, and tuck the flowers into your hair until you looked like a Twilight Lady from the pages of a story-book. You would hack off a bamboo shoot and we would roast it with soft-shelled crabs, right there on the beach, and you would give me a taste of wine.” He looked at her with the same wide eyes that had gotten him out of so much trouble when he was a boy.
“Our vineyards have grown, Zeina,” he continued. “We have a new master gardener from the northern isles, and with his modern techniques… I have been helping him with this new variety, we call it Purple Rain, the grapes are big as plums and so sweet they explode with sugar if you harvest them an hour late. We will be tasting the first wine from these grapes this year. Wait till you try the brandies!” His grin was infectious. “And the cheeses! We had so much pomace it was coming out our ears, so we got desperate and started feeding it to the goats. Now the city smells like a winery, and in the morning when the smell of wine and fresh-baked bread mix with the breath of the sea… the air in Atualon is as good as a feast anywhere else.”
She stopped at that, and turned to face him. Best to put an end to such thoughts before they could take hold.
“What of your neighbors? Do they feast as well in Eid Kalish, in Salar Merraj? Or does the Lady of the Lake look upon your laden tables with hungry eyes? Greed, lust, envy: these things are wont to stir the heart of the dragon to waking. Any child knows this.”
“Ah me, Issa, has your heart grown as dry as the desert? It is good that I am here. You need to lay down that staff and have some fun before that frown cracks your face. We could pack a loaf and a skin of wine and sneak off to spend the whole day fishing. And… my sister, Sulema… she could come too. Any sister of mine must love to fish.” He looked like a boy of six again, and Hafsa Azeina wavered. Sensing victory, he pressed harder. “Come home with me, both of you. Learn to smile again. You would be safe in Atualon, Zeina. She would be safe.”
“Safe, in Atualon? Have those responsible for the deaths of the ne Atu been found, then? Have their heads been soaked in honey and set upon a shelf? I had not heard. There is also the minor matter of a price on my own head. A thousand bricks of red salt, last I heard. I am hardly inspired to confidence.”
Leviathus grinned with delight as he shrugged a satchel from his shoulder and handed it to her.
“Ka Atu offers amnesty to Hafsa Azeina, Queen Consort of Atualon, and to her daughter Sulema an Wyvernus ne Atu. On one condition only: that they return home to him. To us.”
She took the satchel and opened it. Inside was a pair of heavy scrolls sealed with wax and the king’s signet. The long-forgotten smell of him curled out of the bag and caressed her cheek. Home. Hafsa Azeina closed her eyes, and turned away lest the longing burn her to a cinder.
“Zeina.” He spoke the words she had dreaded for sixteen years. “Why did you leave?”
“I had no choice.” It was a lie. There was always a choice.
His voice was so soft. “You left me behind.”
Just like that the years melted away and she was a young concubine, a young mother, abandoning the child of her heart in a desperate bid to save the child of her flesh. She had made a choice, and he had paid the price.
Silly humans. Khurra’an rumbled in her head. Life is pain.
Life is pain, she agreed. Only death comes easy. Nothing good ever came of opening a sealed tomb.
“Come,” she told the young prince, and turned away. “We are nearly there.”
The last twisting passage of the path was nigh vertical, and narrow enough that Hafsa Azeina’s shoulders brushed against bare gray stone. Mosses and fungi had been allowed to grow on and about the rocks. The footing was slow and treacherous, a natural defense against enemies. She stepped quickly across the smooth stones set into the very top of the cliff, and then turned to watch him. Leviathus clambered to the top, a bit slimed with moss and rock mold but not in the least out of breath.
He looked down at his ruined clothes with a bemused smile, and then glanced at her.
“Satisfied?”
A smile slipped through her resolve. “You will do.”
Akari Sun Dragon filled his wings with the desert wind and soared high and brilliant above the glittering white buildings of Aish Kal
umm. Hafsa Azeina led Leviathus along a path under the trees so carefully planted and tended by the Mothers: sycamore and mulberry, lotus fruit and sandalwood and sant. The trees were a valuable source of fruit and shade, and this time of year the ground beneath was littered with fallen blossoms. The vash’ai loved them, loved to rub against the bark and doze in the shade, and were liable to attack any human who thought to fell a tree for its wood.
Many a beloved friend had been interred in this place and remembered in marble and granite, carvings so skillfully wrought and so tenderly cared for it seemed a pride of vash’ai dozed in the dappled shade. Here a great black-maned sire stretched out full on his side, there a queen lifted her head to stare across the water, perhaps thinking to rouse her pride to the hunt. A younger male, ruddy mane spare and disheveled, lay curled in deep sleep. A wreath of palm leaves and flowers had been laid at his head, and the ground there was scorched. Someone had recently made a burnt offering, someone who mourned their heart’s friend.
Hafsa Azeina averted her eyes from the proof of another person’s grief.
“Beautiful,” Leviathus whispered. “I would never have imagined this place would be so beautiful.”
As she led him deeper into the Mothers’ Grove, the stone vash’ai they passed became older, worn with wind and time and grief. More of them depicted aged companions with battered tusks and an air of deep wisdom about them. The great cats, like their human companions, had lived longer lives in ages past. Many of these older statues wore wreaths about their necks, though the humans who loved them were also long dead. Some, in the olden style, sat or crouched or reclined upon slabs of white marble.
They passed one sire in his prime, all white gold and bronze dapples, his black mane and striped legs so exquisitely detailed it seemed he would lift his head and roar at them.
The statue lifted its head and roared at them.
Leviathus yelled and scrambled backward, tripped over a stone tail and landed hard on his backside in a pile of flowers. Hafsa Azeina put her hands on her hips and turned to glare at Khurra’an, now sitting upright and letting his mouth hang open, displaying his tusks in a cat’s-grin of victory.
“Was that really necessary?” she asked aloud for the boy’s benefit.
No. But it was entertaining. Khurra’an grunted, pleased with himself, and shook his mane out before padding over to watch Leviathus pick himself up. Whose cub? He smells like your she-cub.
Same sire, different queen. Aloud she said, “Khurra’an, sire of the Leith-Shahad, under the sun you see Leviathus ap Wyvernus ne Atu, cub of Ka Atu, Dragon King of Atualon.”
Leviathus bowed deeply to the sire of the Shahadri pride. “My kill is yours,” he intoned, and Hafsa Azeina could feel him pushing his thoughts outward in a clumsy attempt at shaaiera. She shot him a sharp look, and he smothered a grin.
So, she thought, the young cub has been reading old books. That was interesting.
Khurra’an took his time in stretching, and then padded over to her, butting his enormous head under her throat in an affectionate display of possession. This one is arrogant, he thought, a good strong cub for the pride. I approve.
Leviathus’s eyes were as big and round as mangoes. He had gone very still at the big cat’s approach. “Magnificent,” he breathed. Then he quoted, “O golden king of the Zeera, how I tremble at your might.”
Khurra’an purred. I like him.
Hafsa Azeina shook her head. “You quote poetry as well? I am not familiar with that line. Whose words are those… Kibran’s?”
Leviathus flushed red from his neck to his hairline.
“Yours? I would not let the girls here know that you are a poet, ehuani. You would not survive three days.”
“‘Ehuani’?”
“It means ‘beauty in truth.’ The Zeeranim are not fond of lies. Or of liars.
“I will keep that in mind.” Leviathus was still transfixed by the vash’ai, who had begun sniffing and rubbing against the trees. “Where did you get him?”
Khurra’an stopped in his rubbing, and shot the boy a look of contempt.
“We found each other.” Hafsa Azeina smiled at the affronted cat. “On a dark and bloody day, he saved me.”
We saved each other. The voice was soft with remembered grief.
“But that is a story for another day, perhaps.” They had come to the edge of the grove, and were walking now through a miniature forest of calf-high saplings fussed over by a tree-nurse. Hannei stood guard at the gate, eyes heavy-lidded. Hafsa Azeina knew that the girl’s attitude of boredom was an artful sham.
“Ja’Akari!” she snapped. “Het het!”
Hannei jerked to attention. “Aho!”
“Sulema itehuna?”
“Aho!” Hannei affirmed.
“Maashukri, ya Hannei.” She turned to Leviathus. “She is here. Stay close. The streets of Beit Usqut are no place for a man to walk alone, especially during Ayyam Binat.”
“I would be pleased to guard his backside,” Hannei murmured. Leviathus turned to her, mouth hanging open. The young woman stood guard still and proper as if she had not said a word, though her eyes shone and dimples played at the corners of her mouth.
Hafsa Azeina snorted. “As I said… not safe. Now, stay close.”
Khurra’an rumbled as they passed the guard, and she nodded to him. “Sire.”
The streets of Beit Usqut were indeed treacherous. They had been laid out as a labyrinth, intended to draw invaders into the heart of the quarter and their death. Young women strode about in the manner of young vash’ai, assured of their place in the pride and definitely on the hunt. The second time one of them had laid a hand on him, Leviathus turned to Hafsa Azeina with such an expression of horrified confusion that she burst out laughing.
“Did I not warn you of Ayyam Binat?” she chuckled. “You had best take care. These girls are fresh from seclusion and deep into the hunt.”
“Do I want to know what they are hunting?” He edged closer, and Khurra’an gave an amused grunt.
Young females in heat can be dangerous, he suggested helpfully. It is best to simply give in to their demands before the claws are unsheathed.
A short and busty young warrior stopped dead in her tracks and raked the boy up and down with her eyes, hands fiddling with the laces at the front of her vest. He scooted by nervously, and her grin would have done a vash’ai queen proud.
Hafsa Azeina swallowed her laughter. “All I will say is this… if one of these girls offers to cross swords with you, run. Run away as fast as you can.”
Khurra’an turned his sunset eyes toward her, great forehead wrinkling. If he runs, they will give chase.
I know. She grinned. Shahad will be rolling in red-headed cubs this time next year.
Leviathus could not have heard the exchange, but he glared at them both.
“Ah! Here we are.” She paused at an arched entrance. “Are you ready?”
Leviathus took a deep breath and nodded.
They stepped through the wide arch and into an open courtyard, and Leviathus blushed at the sight of several young women bathing in the central pool. As one, they turned toward the newcomers. An image came to her mind of a fat tarbok parading before a pride of young queens, and Hafsa Azeina smiled.
The tarbok stands a greater chance of survival, Khurra’an purred. This one does not even know he is being hunted.
They crossed the courtyard and climbed the narrow stairs to the third level, where the rooms were smallest and least open. They stopped midway down the hall and Hafsa Azeina raised her hand to knock.
Khurra’an roared.
He used his indoor voice, a very small roar, but it was still loud enough that she covered her ears and glared at him in reproach. Leviathus staggered three steps back, arms cartwheeling, and almost ran into the opposite wall before clapping his own hands over his ears. His eyes were enormous.
“Do that again!” he yelled.
Hafsa Azeina glared at the vash’ai. Was that necess
ary?
Khurra’an let his jaw drop open and huffed a cat’s laugh between his tusks.
Doors all along the hallway banged open, and young women in various stages of undress spilled into the hallway. Perhaps a third of them were armed, and every one of them was dangerous. Leviathus lowered his hands slowly and his eyes darted about, seeking escape, but there was no escape to be had. Finally he settled for standing very still, eyes straight ahead and staring at nothing— especially not at the shapely and very naked Lavanya standing so close she could have reached out and touched him with her knife.
Lavanya smiled at him, opened her mouth, and then noticed Hafsa Azeina at his side.
“Dreamshifter.” Her bow was deep, her voice set to carry. “Ina aasati, ehuani.” Still bowing, she backed into her room and closed the door with a faint snick.
And snick, snick, snick, bang, snick… the hallway was empty.
Leviathus glanced at her and raised his brows.
Yes, she wanted to tell him, they fear me. As should you. As should every living creature, save one.
Khurra’an twitched his tail.
My apologies, she amended, save two.
The door before her opened slowly. Sulema stood framed in sunlight, though its golden glow could not match her for radiance. Her braided hair was flame, her eyes beaten gold, she was lean and tawny and strong. She wore a pair of loose linen trousers, and her muscled torso was slick with sweat. Her eyes flashed as they lit upon the tall youth, and away again, dismissing him as a threat.
In one hand she held a heavy quarterstaff, bound at each end with cold iron and battered from long use.
Those eyes, so like her mother’s, revealed nothing at all. Not anger for the interruption, and certainly not pleasure. Sulema shifted her grip on the staff and executed a bow so correct it was just short of insulting.
“Khurra’an,” she said, and then, after a short pause, “Mother.”
When no invitation was forthcoming, Hafsa Azeina made an effort to swallow her irritation. “Sulema Ja’Akari. May we come in?”
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