The Dragon's Legacy

by Deborah A. Wolf

  “If she survives…” When she survives, he thought stubbornly, “I suppose she will meet her father and then return home. She is Ja’Akari.”

  “She was Ja’Akari, Ismai. She is the daughter of Ka Atu, and the Dragon King has no heir. He has only the one son left to him, and that son is surdus… deaf to the song of sorcery. He cannot wield atulfah, and so he can never be king. Do you really believe Ka Atu will simply allow this daughter of his to leave, to ride off again into the desert firing arrows into the sunset? After he has spent so many years and so many men searching for her?

  “Istaza Ani told me once, and this was years ago, that Hafsa Azeina had killed more than a hundred men to keep her daughter hidden away. A hundred men, and all of them sent by Ka Atu to seek this girl out and force her return. Does it sound to you as if Sulema will be free to leave? Once she reaches Atualon, boy, she is lost to us. Best you think of her as lost to us already.”

  “But the dreamshifter is so powerful,” Ismai said, stunned. The world tilted beneath his feet. “Her mother will keep her safe.”

  “Keep her safe? Boy, have you been listening? Ka Atu is like the Sleeping Dragon in the old stories, powerful enough to crack the world open and destroy us all. His daughter will be Sa Atu, the Heart of Atualon, a sorcerer-queen. It is no longer a question of how to keep Sulema safe from her father. Now it is a question of how we will keep the world safe from Sulema.” He squeezed Ismai’s shoulder and then let his hand drop away. “I am sorry to tell you this, ehuani. I rather liked the girl, myself.”

  Ismai stared for a moment, then turned and walked slowly to where his sword lay, half-buried in the sand as if it meant nothing to him. He picked up the blade and looked at it for a long time, watching sunlight ripple and dance upon the bright steel, the swirls of color that drew the eye in. It was a beautiful sword, sweet to behold and balanced in the hand, and he felt shame for the way he had behaved earlier.

  “You should spend some time with your vash’ai,” Hadid said. Ismai looked up, startled. “What?”

  “New Zeeravashani are expected to spend some time alone getting to know one another. Perhaps you and Ruh’ayya should walk out for a day or three. Your brother would tell you as much, but as he is not here…” The big man nodded. “No camp, no chores, no jealous looks, hey? And no hammering for a while? Just a short walk, mind you. Practice your forms while you are gone, that will make Istaz Aadl happy.” He unfastened a large leather bag from his belt and tossed it to Ismai. From the feel of it, the bag was mostly full of food and waterskins. “You have had many changes in your life, in a short amount of time, and I daresay you have much to think about. I, myself, find it much easier to think when I am not surrounded by other people.”

  I would like that. Ruh’ayya had ceased insulting Mastersmith Hadid with her bath and was sitting straight, ears perked forward with interest. I would like that very much. We could hunt and would not have to share the meat.

  Ismai nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat.

  The smith began to turn away but stopped, a slow grin spreading across his coarse face. “We are not far from Eid Kalmut, you know. The Valley of Death. When I was a boy, I was hot to ride out and see the ruins, but of course we were forbidden. I suppose no one has thought to tell you that it is khutlani?”

  “No,” Ismai sheathed his sword. “But if it is forbidden, I promise I will not—”

  “Ah-aat!” The smith held one hand up in warning. “If no one has thought to tell you a thing is forbidden, you can hardly be faulted for doing it. I do not want to know your plans, boy. So, go, spend some time with your vash’ai. When you come back to us, you will have to leave all this boyish nonsense behind. You will dedicate yourself to your training, and we will find you a horse of your own, and you will be Ja’Sajani in truth. You understand this.”

  Ismai nodded.

  “Good. Then go, be a foolish boy one last time. When you return, perhaps you can tell me tales of the Valley of Death.” The mastersmith of the pride winked, and then he turned and strode away.

  Valley of Death? Ruh’ayya yawned and stretched, digging her long black claws into the sand, and then she shook herself and showed her tusks in a pleased smile. That sounds promising.

  “You are a very strange cat,” he told her. He loosened the cords that tied the bag shut and looked inside. It held maybe three days’ worth of fish-and-jiinberry pemmican, which was his least favorite food in all the world, two fire bundles, and several wax-stopped waterskins. He would be sleeping under the stars with little food in his belly and no tent, no bedding, no companionship besides an enormous saber-tusked cat who had never promised not to eat him.

  Perfect.

  Perfect, Ruh’ayya agreed.

  He shrugged the bag onto his shoulder, reached up to ruffle the soft fur behind Ruh’ayya’s jaw, and they set out to the north and east, toward one last great adventure.

  * * *

  The sky was wide and blue, blue as the robes that billowed and flapped about him like a bird’s wings in the thin wind, drawing cooler air up and against his skin. His new boots, still bone-white, shuffed softly against the sand. His muscles were sore, but it was a good sore, the kind of ache that comes from being young and hale and pushing the limits.

  Without warning Ruh’ayya swatted him, claws-in, and sent him rolling down a steep dune. He tumbled ass-over-touar, limbs flailing. He lost his headdress, he lost his bag, and any semblance of dignity that had been left to him as well. When he finally came to rest at the bottom of the dune, face planted firmly in the sand, butt-high and with his legs splayed, Ruh’ayya laughed at him in his head and took off running, tail held high in an invitation to play.

  What could he do but spit sand, collect his belongings, replace the touar as best he could, and give chase? His legs pumped and burned as he tore up the next dune after her, the air burned in his lungs, and he roared with vengeful laughter.

  They were Zeeravashani. The world was theirs.

  Ours, agreed Ruh’ayya. She paused, poised at the top of the next dune, tail still dancing. But only if I agree to share it with you. Then she was gone again.

  They played like this for some time, Ismai never quite able to catch the taunting young queen. They ran laughing from the noise and stink and demands of humanity, from the weight of other people’s minds as they looked on and thought, Too young, too foolish, too lucky, too loud. There was only the sky, and the Zeera, and Ruh’ayya who loved him.

  A shadow passed overhead, and for no reason he thought of Sulema. It was as if she ran with them, and felt so real that it seemed she would be waiting for him with a skin of pilfered mead in one hand, two drinking-horns in the other, and a smile wide as the sky. Ismai was suddenly overwhelmed by the certainty that she was waiting for him, just ahead. But when he reached the top of the next rise and stopped, chest heaving, there was only Ruh’ayya.

  Of course he had imagined it. Just as Mastersmith Hadid had imagined that she might ever pose a risk to her own people. “Now it is a question of how we will keep the world safe from Sulema.”

  Ismai snorted, and removed his touar and shook it free of sand before rewrapping it as best he could. It was still lopsided, but at least it sat firmly where it should. Keep the world safe from Sulema? She was a terror to the kitchens, and a headache to Istaza Ani, but she was a danger to no one.

  Ruh’ayya jogged up the hill and shook herself so vigorously that sand stung his eyes. You are thinking of your mate?

  Sulema is not my mate.

  If you say so. She showed a bit of tusk. He stuck his tongue out at her. We should hunt. I am tired of dead fish and stinking fat. I want meat, red-blood meat squealing and hot.

  “Za fik,” he swore aloud, disgusted with himself. “I forgot my bow!”

  Oh, however will we hunt without your puny bow? she mocked. Surely we are doomed to die. We should lay down right here and let the buzzards eat our guts. Ruh’ayya stretched, extending her proud black claws and showing every inch o
f gleaming white tusk. Or you could find a watering hole so that we can hunt.

  Ismai shook his head at her, grinning. I could… if I wanted to.

  She blinked her great shining eyes at him and waited.

  He let his eyes unfocus and allowed his ka to blossom in the desert heat, unfurling like the petals of a blackthorn rose. He could feel Akari Sun Dragon looking down upon them, could feel the thrum of the desert song, he could feel Ruh’ayya blazing like a fire, and he could feel water, water and life, not too far to the east. An oasis, though not much of one by the feel.

  Ismai came back to himself slowly, and set out at a slow jog toward the oasis. Ruh’ayya trotted along with him, sometimes to one side or the other, sometimes bounding ahead a short distance, and now and then dropping behind. This last trick made the hairs at the nape of his neck prickle.

  Would you stop that?

  She laughed in his mind again, but quit her teasing and came up to run at his side.

  Ismai was winded by the time they came within sight of the oasis—not much more than a puddle in the sand flanked by a few blackthorn bushes, really—and dropped the bag from his shoulder onto the sand. He dug out a waterskin and took a long pull at it. Perhaps the water at this place would be sweet and he could refill the skin, perhaps not. He would not be away long enough for it to matter, in any case.

  Ruh’ayya’s ears swiveled forward and she tensed, her body fairly humming with excitement.

  Meat! She dropped to her belly, haunches wiggling as she prepared to launch herself downhill. Ismai followed the line of her stare, and his heart leapt like a stag.

  Wait! Wait! That is not meat. That is a horse! Not just any horse, either. She was a dream, a vision, shimmering in the air before him as pale and perfect as a shell at the river’s edge. She raised her head from the water, ears flattening along her neck and then pricking forward again, poised for flight. Ismai looked at her and understood, after all these years, what it meant to love a horse.

  But it is not your horse, Ruh’ayya protested. She is young, she is tender, she is sweet! Then the vash’ai glanced up at him and blinked, and her tail sank to the ground. Oh, scat and offal. Very well, if you must have her, you must. It will be interesting to watch you try to catch her, at any rate. She relaxed, sinking fully onto the sand, and folded her paws beneath her chest, eyes shining with amusement.

  Ismai shouldered his bag again, not wanting to lose it, and took a deep breath, trying to loose the tension in his gut. His hands were shaking and his mouth was as dry as if he had caught an accidental glimpse of Sulema bathing again. He slowly unwound the upper belt from his waist and knotted one end into a simple halter, and then, heart in his mouth, he began the long, slow walk down to the water.

  The little mare lifted her head immediately and followed his approach with her enormous dark eyes. She was gray, the color of smoke against the sky, or river-foam among the willows. Her body was limber and sleek, her legs like a dancer’s, her mane and tail a rippling waterfall of silk.

  Enough, Ruh’ayya complained. There is no excuse for bad poetry.

  “Ehuani,” he breathed. Beauty in truth. So would he name her. “Ehuani.”

  The mare absorbed him with her eyes, flared her nostrils and drank in his scent. She was not afraid of him, that much was apparent.

  “Ehuani,” he named her three times. He closed the distance between them slowly, letting his eyes remain soft, his intentions clear. I would never harm you, beautiful one. She was a pale moon in a pale sky, glowing with the promise of spring. She was…

  She was very clear about her intent not to be caught by a stripling boy, flatterer or no. Ehuani—for that was her name now— flagged her tail disdainfully before wheeling and trotting away with a toss of her head that reminded him exactly of Sulema’s reaction, that one and only time he had approached her with a stammering admission of love.

  Ruh’ayya brushed past him, shoving him with her shoulder as she passed and nearly knocking him down. Well, what are you waiting for? She laughed. Let us go catch your horse.

  The mare led them on a merry chase. Had he not already spent one half of his energy at his morning’s training, and the other half playing with Ruh’ayya, it would have been exciting. As it was, the excitement soon gave way to miserable, teeth-gritting, scowling exhaustion and even a little irritation as Ehuani played her game with obvious enjoyment.

  She was no wild horse—she was too well groomed, well fed, and too obviously not afraid of either of them for that— but neither was she compliant. She would stand for a bit, allow them to approach, flick her ears forward at Ismai’s outstretched fingers, and then she would be off again, bucking and kicking and squealing as if his offer of friendship was deeply insulting.

  Still, every time the mare stood still it was for a little while longer, every time she let him near it felt like this time when he reached to touch her, his fingers would not brush empty air still swirling and warm with her scent.

  In this, too, she was like Sulema.

  Finally, just as Akari Sun Dragon turned his thoughts and his gaze toward the western horizon, Ehuani allowed him to touch her. It was a whisper, the slightest brush of her velvet lips and the tickle of her whisker against his outstretched palm, but the sight and smell of her so close, the heat of her breath against his palm, the promise of touching such beauty gave Ismai the heart and energy to continue.

  He turned to Ruh’ayya with a grin. His touar was falling off one side of his head, the bag of food and waterskins weighed him down as if he was carrying Mastersmith Hadid across the Zeera, and the shamsi had bruised his hip and thigh so that it felt as if he had lost a sword fight with his shadow. But he was so close.

  Then he saw the way.

  Ruh’ayya, O my beauty, he cajoled, if you would angle off to the side and drive her toward that tangle, I could come at her from this side, slowly, and I think this time she would not run away…

  Tangle? What tangle? She narrowed her eyes as he pointed.

  Due north, beyond the tangle of brush and bones, he could just see the dark line that was Eid Kalmut. Za fik, no wonder he was so…

  BONELORD!

  Ruh’ayya pinned her ears and screamed, bringing herself up into her shoulders so quickly she almost stood on her hind legs.

  Bonelord? His brain stopped still. It was as if he had been turned into a solid lump of stupid. Bonelords are children’s stories. There is no such…

  The air was rent with a hiss, a whisper of wind in the reeds at first, then the cries of birds, the whistling of all the tea-kettles in Aish Kalumm come to a boil at once. The tangle of bones began to shake and grow as something shook itself free of the desert sand, something so big and so utterly wrong that Ismai’s mind shied from it as Ehuani had shied from the touch of a rope.

  The mass thrashed and grew, an oasis of carrion, a forest of bones, and then a cavern opened in its side, tall enough for a man to walk through without ducking, wide enough that four might walk abreast. The cavern stretched wide, and wider still, and then emitted a bloodcurdling shriek thick with hatred and despair. The cry brought Ismai’s heart to his mouth, and tore the veil from his mind.

  The thing emerging from the Zeera was big enough to swallow a herd of tarbok. It was long and flattish in shape, like a leech, and covered all along its length with bones and branches and entire rotting carcasses. Ismai saw the hips and legs of a man, the tusked skull of a vash’ai, the long, delicate ribs of a huge lionsnake.

  Run! Ruh’ayya screamed.

  Run, agreed his mind. But his body refused to answer. His blood ran cold and slow as the river after a killing rain.

  Then Ehuani screamed, a silvery cry ringing out against the horror, and thundered past the thing’s gaping maw. The bulk of the thing twitched and twisted, bones flailing and waving about like willow trees in the wind, and it turned to follow her. Its flat sides rippled across the desert in an oddly graceful dance as it moved with a speed that belied its size.

  Ismai dro
pped the bag, drew his sword—though it was shorter than any but the smallest teeth in that stinking, gaping maw—and ran downhill screaming at the top of his lungs, ready to die in defense of a horse that wanted nothing to do with him.

  Stupid boy! Ruh’ayya snarled in his mind. This way. He saw at once what she was about and angled his path to meet hers. This way would take them to the west a bit and then north again, hugging the midsection of this line of dunes, and bring them to the very mouth of Eid Kalmut just in time to die. Stupid, stupid, she repeated. But she ran beside him nonetheless, tusks gleaming red with the dying of the sun.

  His boots pounded sand as they curved upward, around, and down. The dunes flattened out as they reached Eid Kalmut as if they wanted nothing to do with the Valley. He tucked his elbows and ducked his head, lungs screaming, heart pounding, legs burning like iron on the smiths’ anvils as they raced to cut the bonelord off and then—

  Ruh’ayya disappeared in front of him with a flick of her black-and-bronze tail. She stretched out above the Zeera, swift as thought, brave as thunder. Ismai’s heart flew with her and he slowed—how could he ask her to do such a thing?—but Ehuani screamed in fear, rising up on her back legs and thrashing the air in terror and defiance as the bonelord raised its bulk high in the air above her, emitting a thin wail of bloodlust and victory.

  Ruh’ayya came to a skidding stop between the mare and their doom, hackles raised all along her spine, mouth gaping to reveal her beautiful, deadly tusks, and she yowled a cat’s death-song, terrible and wild and proud. Ismai sprinted to her side, one last mad dash, and then lifted his sword and shook it full in the face of death.

  This close, he could see bits and chunks of rotting prey clinging to the rows of hooked and inward-curving teeth, could see a cluster of eyes bright as a beetle’s just above the apex of its gaping maw, and most of all, he could smell it. Worse than offal, worse than latrine pits, worse than a week-old corpse. It smelled of disease and rot, of unclean death and the musk of endless terror.