The Dragon's Legacy

by Deborah A. Wolf

  In the dark, she could hear the rustle of fabric as Mattu Halfmask stepped close, smell the oil in his hair and, oddly, the sharp musk of a man’s fear. “Hafsa Azeina,” he whispered, so low she had to strain to catch his words, “whatever else I may be, I am not the enemy. Not your enemy, at any rate.” He dared touch her arm. “Tread softly, and with great care, Queen Consort. More blood has been spilled in this foolery than even you know.” He turned on his heel and strode away, white cloak fluttering behind him like wings.

  Hafsa Azeina started again toward Wyvernus’s rooms and was not surprised when the lights in the walls flared back to life. Nor was she surprised to find the halls now cleared of traffic.

  “Oh, hold on to your kilt, you old grouch,” she muttered. “I am coming.” One of the guards snickered, and she spun to face them. “You! Find someone else to shadow, or I will find something interesting for you to do. That means you, too, Davidian. Or do you fear for the safety of your liege, in the presence of one woman?” The ringing of boots on stone described their hasty departure.

  Perhaps they had not forgotten her, after all.

  The lights flickered again, and she knew Wyvernus laughed.

  She strode down the hallway and into his chambers like a queen, though perhaps not the queen he remembered. This queen had a vash’ai at her side, a song of death in her heart, and blood on her hands. The Queen Consort had come prepared for battle.

  * * *

  As it turned out, she had prepared for the wrong battle.

  The smell of his chambers curled about her in that first moment, stopping her in her tracks, stripping away too many of her defenses. Olive oil and lemon, smoke and fennel and mint. Strongest of all, weaving itself into the very fabric of her, the scent of the man himself.

  This man is my enemy, she reminded herself. The trap had been baited well, but she was no longer a princess bride, wide-eyed and trusting.

  He sat as he always had, in a low-slung chair carved of blackthorn and inlaid with ivory, a goblet of wine in one hand, watching the door and waiting for her. She looked at him, and her jaw dropped open.

  “Your hair,” she gasped. “What happened to your hair?”

  The Dragon King of Atualon threw his head back and laughed. He slapped his thigh, and sloshed wine upon the white fur rug, and laughed as if he had not spent half her life sending assassins to die at her hand.

  The Wyvernus she remembered had a shock of curly red-orange hair, as hopelessly wild and tangled as her daughter’s bright mess. This man’s scalp was smooth and bare as an egg. He set his goblet down on a low table, and stood to greet her, wiping tears of merriment from his cheeks. His cheeks…

  “You said you would never grow a beard.” It was a fine beard, too, bright as the hair on his head had once been, and with streaks of white at the sides.

  “This?” He stroked his face, still grinning. “This is not a beard, at all. The hair on my head moved south.”

  And so she found herself, weary and wary and smelling of horse and a long moons’ travel, face to face with the lover she had left behind so long ago. He set his wine down and stood, holding his hands out to her. She hesitated.

  So much blood.

  “Zeina,” he said softly. “Welcome home.” He took her hands in his, and pulled her close, and kissed her on either cheek. She closed her eyes and tugged her fingers free.

  So much stood between them. Murder and worse, betrayal and worse. What carnage they had wrought, the two of them, through the song and dance and the games they played. Here she was, and there he was, and a river of blood flowed between them.

  “You look tired,” he said. “Tired, and beautiful.” He said nothing of her wizard-locks, nor of her scars, nor of the look in her eyes. “Come, sit with me, have a drink of wine. Let us talk.”

  She let herself be led to the low chairs.

  “You look well,” she lied awkwardly as she took one of the chairs. Her chair, the one he had made for her, and laughably decorated with a bit of her failed embroidery. It had been a joke between them.

  Khurra’an padded over to stretch out by the fire. Wyvernus glanced at him, his face betraying neither surprise nor alarm.

  “I look old,” Wyvernus corrected her. “Old, and at least as tired as you are. Whatever else we do to each other, let us not begin to lie.” He picked up a small brass bell, and rang for a servant. “I had your chair put away the day you left. And I had it brought out this afternoon.”

  Hafsa Azeina drew in a deep breath, and leaned forward. “Sulema needs healing. She has been bitten—”

  “Araid venom. I know.” Wyvernus smiled, and picked up his wine, and leaned back into his chair. “I will heal her, of course. She is my daughter, and my only heir. But what of you?”

  “What of me?” she asked. “I was promised amnesty. Or was that a lie?”

  “I never lie. I promised you amnesty…” A slow grin spread across his features. “But I never promised you freedom.”

  The trap snapped shut.

  TWENTY - SEVEN

  Leviathus took the stairs two and three at a time, forcing the door guards to scramble before him and his Draiksguard to jog along, clattering with every step.

  He had chosen his own costume that morning with no little care, knowing that this would be the day of their arrival. He wore a tunic of fine white wool embroidered in gold beneath his draikscale armor, battered from use but polished and sharp. The white-and-gold cape of ne Atu flared behind him, and he kept a spring in his step and a wide grin on his face no matter how his legs and his cheeks ached from the effort.

  He was tired, bone-tired, sore and worried sick about Sulema, but he was home, and that meant he had to be at his most alert. He wanted nothing more than to deliver his sister into their father’s care and collapse at her side with his belly full of food, but the heart’s yearnings laid easy paths for an ambush.

  He caught the arm of one of his most trusted soldiers, and pulled him close without breaking stride.

  “Thaddeus,” he said, “send mantids to the members of the Third Circle. I will have them attend me in the Sunset Chamber.”

  “Yes, ne Atu.” Draik Thaddeus touched the pommel of his sword. “Will Mattu Halfmask be attending as well?”

  Leviathus raised his eyebrows. The boy was sharp.

  “Yes, I believe he should. Good call.”

  “Shall I send food?” An insolent grin flashed beneath the snarling dragon’s helm. “Pemmican perhaps, and stale water?”

  “Food of a certes, soldier, but if I so much as smell pemmican I will personally feed your ass to the soldier beetles. Is that clear?”

  “Sir!” Thaddeus slapped his leather breastplate and dashed away.

  Someone bumped into Leviathus’s hip, nearly bowling him over.

  The attack has come sooner rather than later, he thought. He drew his short sword and pivoted…

  …and stopped short, sword point a scant hand’s width from the face of Hafsa Azeina’s small apprentice. The boy’s chest was heaving, but he did not so much as glance at the weapon.

  “The shadowmancer told his apprentice to tell me to tell you,” he said, quickly and quite out of breath, “that there is a problem with the horses.”

  “The horses? What problem is that?”

  “Your people are trying to touch them.”

  “My people are supposed to touch them,” he explained. “That is what they do. We have grooms to care for our horses, here in the city.”

  “Your horses. Not our horses. It is death for outlanders to touch the asil.”

  Leviathus rubbed at his face. He did not have time for hard heads or small minds, not this night. He turned to his third-in-charge.

  “Hekates,” he sighed, “I need you to go tell my father’s grooms to stop trying to touch the Zeerani horses, before someone gets killed and eaten.”

  Hekates hesitated. “Stablemaster Ippos…”

  “Probably looks like a suckling pig to a barbarian who has eaten nothi
ng but pemmican and moldy bread for so long. Take this.” He wrenched the signet ring from his finger, and handed it to the Draik. “This ought to shut the old windbag up. The Zeeranim are to be shown around the stables and pastures, and will be taking care of their own animals. Go! Go!” Hekates saluted and ducked away, and the boy turned to leave. “No, not you,” Leviathus said, and put a hand on Daru’s shoulder. “You come with me. Keep your eyes open…”

  “And my mouth shut.” The boy nodded.

  “Good lad. Can you keep up?”

  “I… yes.”

  Leviathus led the boy and the remaining guards through the hallways at a pace that was just short of a jog, and so they arrived at the Sunset Chamber well before the others. The chamber was richly furnished, and designed with an eye toward catching the last rays of sunlight. The western wall to his left was a series of narrow arches left open to the night breeze. On the eastern wall a masterwork of painted tiles depicted a shining Sun Dragon stretching his wings over a wide blue sea. From the ceiling hung a riot of red and gold magelight globes brought all the way from the Forbidden City, and a heavy stone table of white-and-gold marble dominated the center of the room. The far wall was dominated by a white marble fireplace in the shape of a dragon’s snarling face, but on this evening no fire was necessary.

  Leviathus took his usual seat at the head of the table, his guards in a tight semicircle behind him and Daru seated on a low bench at his side. The servants appeared with food just as members of the Third Circle began to arrive. Mattu Halfmask was first, mismatched eyes snapping and angry in his crocodile’s face. Leviathus nodded to the patreons as they entered the chamber. He helped himself to food and wine, and made no move to stand.

  Loremaster Rothfaust, as was his custom, was last to arrive. The loremaster had leaves in his wild hair, and in his wild beard, and ink stained his fingertips. He took his place at the end of the bench, gestured to one of the comelier serving girls, who dimpled at him—Loremaster Rothfaust was ever popular with the ladies— and then nearly knocked the ewer of wine from her hands as he spread his arms wide.

  “Leviathus, my boy! Word in the kitchens is that you have succeeded in your quest. Our lost lamb, home at last! I have my apprentices setting aside the very best of this year’s hatchlings, and I will see to the selection and training of her mantid myself.” He took the proffered wine and smiled again at the girl over the lip of his cup. She blushed prettily and looked away. “Every one of us here is delighted to hear you have returned our queen consort to us. The girl—how is she? When might we meet her?”

  Leviathus arched a brow at the man. The loremaster had been close to Hafsa Azeina all those years ago, and doubtless had helped effect her escape.

  “My sister is at least as delighted to be here as we are to have her, Loremaster. But she has been ill, and needs to rest.” He nodded to Master Healer Santorus, who inclined his head gravely in return.

  “The girl needs rest, and quiet.” His voice rumbled like far thunder, and he beetled his brow at the other patreons. “And of course, Ka Atu will wish to spend some time alone with his daughter before you lot begin parading her about the city.”

  “Eh? What is this?” Ezio, his father’s Master of Coin, peered suspiciously about the table. “The girl is ill? Is she sickly, then?”

  Aasah spoke up from his seat nearest the head of the table. “Sulema ne Atu,” he spoke the title pointedly, “has grown up these many years among the barbarian Zeeranim. She is as hale as one of our prince’s soldiers, here. The girl was injured as she attempted a foolish quest.”

  Leviathus watched the shadowmancer’s face closely, and noted that Mattu did the same. Oddly enough, Yaela shook her head fractionally and a shadow crossed her smooth features.

  “The girl was very brave,” she said. It was the closest Leviathus had ever heard her come to disagreement with her master. “She battled a lionsnake alone. And killed it.”

  “Indeed?” Loremaster Rothfaust set down his empty glass. “Well, she will hardly be battling such beasts here in Atualon, where it is perfectly safe.”

  There was a moment of complete silence at that.

  Leviathus cleared his throat. “In the interests of preserving the peace and maintaining the safety of our city,” he said, ignoring Rothfaust’s snort, “we need to deal with the Zeeranim who have traveled so far to deliver my sister into our care. Many of them are seasoned warriors, while the rest are either highly respected persons or new-made warriors.”

  “Likely to cause trouble,” Mattu added.

  “Likely to cause trouble,” Leviathus agreed. “We need to host them, feast them, thank them, and send them on their way with full bellies and a suitable reward—and no blood spilled on either side if we can help it.”

  “No blood, and no seed.” Santorus scowled. “We have enough problems maintaining our population without an explosion of halfbred brats overrunning the city this time next year.”

  “Master Santorus.” Leviathus leaned forward. “The Zeeranim are my sister’s people. If you sharpen your tongue against them again, I will have it out.”

  The master healer spluttered. “I was simply—”

  “Out, Master. Either hold your tongue, or I shall have Draik Brygus hold it for you.”

  Santorus bowed his head and remained silent.

  “Very good. Now, as to their reward…”

  “Salt.” Yaela’s jade eyes flickered up to meet his, then found her hands again. “Forgive me, ne Atu. I speak out of turn.”

  “No, no.” He waved the apology away. “I would hear your words.”

  “The magic of the salt jars in Aish Kalumm has begun to fail. The water goes flat in three days and stale in ten.”

  “If we paid them in salt jars…” Rothfaust mused. “Sweet water is life in the Zeera. Life for life.”

  “Life for life,” agreed the Master of Coin, beaming. “Fifty salt jars should…”

  “One thousand.”

  All heads turned to Mattu.

  Ezio spluttered. “One thousand salt jars? One thousand! Do you know how much…”

  Mattu held up one hand. “The Zeeranim have raised a daughter of Ka Atu as one of their own. Fed her, clothed her, and by all accounts loved her. At the very least, they seem to have been able to keep the girl alive. Think on this—if the girl is echovete, Ka Atu will have his heir. If the Zeeranim have saved Sa Atu, the Heart of Atualon, they have saved us all. I say anything less than one thousand salt jars is an insult and unworthy of Atualon.”

  Well, that was unexpected. Leviathus pursed his lips and listened to the labored breathing of the boy beside him. “Have some food,” he whispered under his breath. “Have some wine. Do not fear—it is well watered.” His own pitcher was, in any case. That which he had served to the patreons was less so. The boy reached obediently, if timidly, toward a platter of rainfruit.

  “The salt jars are failing everywhere.” Rothfaust spoke to the ceiling above them.

  Aasah turned to him. “What is this? I have heard no such thing.”

  “I am fond of the kitchens.” The loremaster patted his belly. “So they are fond of me. I hear things. The jars in the kitchens and the market no longer keep water sweet, and the new firings are… flawed. They come from Salar Merraj blackened, or cracked, or malformed, and sometimes they give the water a bitter taste.”

  “It is true,” Ezio mused, “that the price of the jars has risen steeply of late, and there are not as many to be found. The Salarians tell us that production is slowed, or that there has been some damage to the kilns…” He shrugged as the others stared at him. “I thought they merely sought to drive up the price. Those salt folk are notorious thieves and hagglers.”

  “How much more this gesture will mean to the barbarians, then.” Aasah purred. A strange smile played about his mouth, and the stars in his skin glimmered. “One thousand salt jars. I agree.” He held up two fingers of his left hand, calling for a vote. The patreons raised their hands one by one, save Ezio.


  “It is agreed that Atualon will pay one thousand salt jars to the Zeerani prides, in accordance with law and custom,” Leviathus said. He held the Master of Coin with his eyes.

  Ezio sighed and bowed his head. “As you say, ne Atu. I do wonder, though, how delivery of such a large shipment of pottery into the Zeera will be managed. The king does not maintain roads farther south than Bayyid Eidtein.”

  “I have full faith in you and in your magic, Master Ezio.”

  The old man sighed again. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  Master Santorus tapped his wineglass hesitantly against the table. “If I may…” He fiddled nervously with the fruit on the platter before him. “It occurs to me that the failure of these salt jars may be a symptom of a weakness in atulfah. My blood mages have been complaining to me for some moons now that some of their treatments are less efficacious. Particularly those cures needing a little song and dance.” He spread his hands wide. “I have not noticed any difficulties in my own work, and had dismissed the complaints. But now…” He shrugged.

  Leviathus turned toward the shadowmancer. “Have you noticed anything amiss?”

  Aasah’s face was inscrutable. “I have not. But then… my magic comes from a different source than yours. Perhaps it is a regional failing.”

  “Perhaps it is a passing thing, like the seasons…” Ezio suggested.

  Yaela smiled at that, just a flicker of emotion, the flash of teeth beneath still waters.

  Rothfaust banged his glass down so hard that Leviathus winced.

  “Salt magic is failing. Blood magic is failing. My mantids become wilder and more unmanageable every year, and they darken earlier. I have heard this song so many times that I cannot get it out of my head… can you not hear it? Are you all surdus?”

  The loremaster stopped short and sucked his breath in, flushed from his fantastic beard to the roots of his unruly hair. “Ah, Leviathus, I am sorry…”

  “Are we all deaf?” Leviathus held his hand up for silence. “No, wait. I shall have to think on this some more. My father tells me that more and more children are born without ability to hear the song every year. Loremaster, what do your books and scrolls have to say on this matter? What songs do your little mantids sing to you? Surely these things have happened before.”