“I can bring you to the palace tomorrow, if that would be acceptable.” Soutan Mer glanced at Leviathus, and received a nod. “I can arrange the sale and delivery of your salt jars as well, and maybe even convince my mother to give you a fair price. Fairer than is her wont, at any rate.” He shrugged. “As many times as she has threatened to toss me into the Salt Lake, still she is rather fond of me, and I dare say she will appreciate my return. You desert folk seem to have a gift for returning lost things. Shall we?” He nodded to Leviathus, and left with the Zeeranim.
“Was that so wise?” Mattu Halfmask asked, rising from the bench.
“We had agreed that the gift was appropriate.”
“I am not speaking of pottery, ne Atu. I am asking whether it was wise to advise our enemies that they should go home and prepare for war. That is what they will do, you know, once they have thought about the cult of Eth and what that might mean.”
“Enemies? They are not our enemies.” Leviathus frowned. “I had thought to seek an alliance with them.”
“Oh, by all means, seek an alliance. Treat with them, trade with them, breed with them, if you feel so inclined. Atu knows, we need the children. But never forget this, Leviathus ap Wyvernus, ne Atu. We are the People of the Dragon.” He smiled, and tears ran down the crocodile’s face. “The world is our enemy. What is that word they use in the desert? Ehuani?”
“There is beauty in truth,” Leviathus agreed softly. The knife felt heavy in his hands. “Ehuani.”
The boy Daru gave a sudden shudder. He was so quiet, Leviathus had half-forgotten he was there. “Are you all right, child? Forgive me for keeping you up, I am sure you are…”
The boy looked at him, eyes wide and wild and dilated. “It is Sulema,” he said. “They are taking her to the Dragon King.”
“Now?”
Daru nodded. “Dreamshifter says you should come, right away.”
Mattu Halfmask had an odd smile on his face. “You had best hurry.”
“Hurry?” Leviathus frowned. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“Trouble?” Halfmask laughed, odd eyes glinting. “Your father, Hafsa Azeina, and that hot-headed sister of yours, all together for the first time in years… what could possibly go wrong?”
Leviathus grabbed a towel and ran.
TWENTY - EIGHT
The baths of Atualon, like everything else in this strange place, were so big, so magnificent, that neither the eye nor the mind could take it all in at once. It was, she thought, like the tale of Zula Din eating the lionsnake. Too big, too much. She ducked her head under the water—so much water—and resolved to conquer this strange new world as the hero of old had conquered her deadly meal—one bite at a time.
A chamber just for bathing, a pool of running water like a slice of river picked up and set in stone just so one person could wash away the dirt. It was wasteful, it was wonderful, and a little ridiculous. The blue and gold and red tiles, cut and placed just so, made a pretty picture of water beasts playing beneath the waves, and every other surface seemed to be of dragonglass or silver or some other precious thing. A statue of a woman sat at the end of the pool, one foot dipped into the water, a pile of linen towels and little bowls of soft soap cradled in her lap.
A lifetime of this, she thought, would make me as soft and useless as that soap. But I would smell very nice. How her sword-sisters would laugh to see it—and how much more pleasant it would be to share this with them, these bowls of fruit and bread and soft ripe cheese, a skin of avra, a horn of usca, a pretty man or three to liven things up. It was a pleasant thing to soak away the stink of long travel, but she missed the company of her sword-sisters.
Sulema was fumbling at her braids with her left hand, cursing roundly under her breath, when Saskia walked in. She, too, was freshly bathed, her braids still damp, and her eyes were big as a digger-owl’s as she looked about the chamber.
“Ai yeh,” she breathed, “all this for you? You could hold a sharib in here.” Her voice echoed oddly in the long, tiled hall, and she stepped forward to test the waters with a toe. “The water is warm. Ooo, the Mothers would love such a thing, can you imagine?”
“The Mothers are welcome to it,” Sulema answered. “My fingers look like dried dates.”
“They sent me to fetch you. As if I were an errand-boy.” Saskia tossed her head. “But it is good that these outlanders do not see you looking so weak and pale. These wounds should have healed by now, and have you been eating? Here, let me help you with your hair.” She knelt by the edge of the pool and began undoing the tight braids.
“Thank you,” Sulema said, and she meant it. “This business of having one good arm is horse shit. Dreamshifter tells me that this Ka Atu will be able to draw the shadows from my wounds, and then I will heal faster.” She wriggled her fingers at the end of her cast, wishing she could take the blasted thing off and scratch. The itch was worse than the pain, sometimes. “It has been so long since I danced the forms, I will likely fall on my face.”
Saskia finger-combed Sulema’s hair loose, and began to scrub at her hair with the soft soap. “He may heal the bones, ehuani, but will he be able to fix all that is wrong with you?”
Sulema went very still. Her mouth wanted to ask, What do you mean? but her warrior’s heart knew that the question would be a lie.
“You cannot hide such things from your sword-sisters, Sulema Ja’Akari.” Saskia’s voice was soft, the words heavy with regret. “You do not sleep. When you do, you cry out with nightmares. I, myself, have watched three times as you nearly fell from your saddle. Waking, you are lost in dreams, and your eyes move back and forth, watching things that are not there. I have seen this.”
“Everyone knows?”
“Only your sword-sisters, ehuani. Never would we betray you.” Saskia dunked Sulema’s head under the water once, twice, three times, rinsing the soap from her hair, and then began the task of braiding. “But, Sulema, you cannot be broken and remain Ja’Akari. You know this.”
“I know this. You worry about nothing.”
Saskia said nothing, but helped her from the pool. Sulema snatched up a towel and dried herself awkwardly with one hand, waving away the other girl’s offer of assistance. The Dragon King will heal me, she thought, stubbornly. He owes me that much. He will heal me, and I will ride with the Ja’Akari once more.
But she did not speak the words, for fear they would taste like a lie.
* * *
Dressed in clean warrior’s garb—not the clothing that had been laid out for her, silly stuff fit for Mothers or invalids—Sulema followed Saskia through a warren of wide hallways, with high, arching ceilings and rounded doorways set with heavy wooden doors.
Sulema delighted in the doors, the narrow windows of colored glass, the bright tiled murals, but most of all the dragonglass fortress itself. Though the black stone seemed opaque, it glittered in the early sunlight and seemed to glow as she passed, lit from within as she padded silently behind Saskia.
Welcome home, the walls seemed to say.
I am just visiting, she assured them.
She ignored as best she could the crowd of people who followed in her wake like serpents behind a fishing-boat. Dragon-faced guards like those who followed Leviathus around, women in bright robes that dragged on the stone floors behind them, men in short kilts that showed a shocking amount of leg, and a girl in a funny hat who clutched a large wooden box and panted in her efforts to keep up with the adults. Sulema had to pee, but she had no idea where the latrine pits might be dug, or how to get outside, and she had no desire to relieve herself in front of an audience.
“Where is Atemi?” she asked instead.
“There are some nice pastures here, on a low hill. Most of our warriors are with them,” Saskia replied. “These outlanders keep trying to touch our asil… and no person in her right mind would want to sleep under so much stone. It feels as if the entire mountain might come down on us at any moment.” She glanced up at the high ceiling with a sh
udder.
“I am sorry to be such trouble.” Truly, it shamed her that so many would leave their homes and their lives just so that she might meet her father and be healed. One warrior did not merit disruption of an entire pride.
Saskia shot a sympathetic look over her shoulder. “You would do the same for any of us.”
Ehuani.
They came at last to a pair of wooden doors tall enough for a wyvern to enter without ducking its head, and a pair of gold-clad soldiers in short kilts and helms more ornate than any she had yet seen bowed them into what seemed a very great hall. A long carpet of red and thread-of-gold, flanked by the Draiksguard, led to a high dais where Sulema’s mother was seated beside a bald man in simple robes of white and gold, a thin circlet of gold upon his brow.
“Good luck,” Saskia whispered.
“He is just a man,” Sulema whispered back. She did not want to face this alone.
“I fear no king of men,” her sword-sister answered, “but your mother scares the lionsnakes out of me. I think I hear Istaza calling my name.” She slipped away.
“Ah, I am not too late.”
Sulema turned toward the newly familiar voice, unable to fully conceal her relief. “Leviathus!” Her brother stood beside her, damp-haired and looking as if he had dressed in haste, flanked by a panting and disheveled Daru. Thank you, she mouthed to her mother’s apprentice. He shrugged and blushed.
“You do not think I would leave you to face this walk alone, do you?” Leviathus offered his arm.
The way was not as long as it had seemed, with an ally by her side. As Sulema approached the dais, her mother and the man seated next to her both rose. Hafsa Azeina stepped down to meet them, her face, as usual, unreadable. She took Sulema by the hand—her uninjured hand, and when was the last time she had done that?— then turned to face the man who stood above them all.
Sulema held her breath. Judging by the room’s silence, she was not the only one.
The man descended slowly, never taking his eyes from her face.
Those eyes, Sulema thought, and her heart was pierced through. I know those eyes.
“Ka Atu,” her mother said in a voice that betrayed nothing, “This is Sulema an Wyvernus ne Atu. Your daughter.”
The man stood before Sulema. He reached a hand to her face. He touched her.
“Of course she is,” he said. He pulled her away from her mother, and her brother, and he enfolded her in a warm embrace. “My daughter.” Then he held her at arm’s distance, hands strong on her shoulders, face wreathed in a warm smile and a beard as red as her own hair. “My daughter!”
The room erupted in cheers, and for the second time in as many moons Sulema saw fear in her mother’s eyes.
* * *
Sulema had been walking forever, ever since she had broken free from the web. How long ago was that? Moons, years, lifetimes? The path she walked stretched out farther than she could see or imagine with her tiny human mind.
Khutlani, child, your mouth is too small to speak of such things.
The sharp rocks cut her feet. They were bleeding, and the path behind was slick with her blood. But the path before her was stained red too, and Sulema was sure she had never been this way before. Had she? She knelt to touch the ground, and as she did so realized that the path was carpeted with the red robes of battle-mages.
Baidun Daiel. Sleepless. Soulless.
The thought was not her own, and she looked about for its source.
Azra’hael?
That one is long gone, the voice chided. Gone down the Lonely Road. Do you not see his tracks?
Sulema pushed aside one of the red cloaks that obscured the path, and jerked her hand away, startled, to see the gold mask beneath. Masks… thousands of them, laid side by side, end to end, like cobblestones of gold. Though no eyes stared at her from behind the masks, though they had only a mere suggestion of a mouth, she was certain that behind each was a person, screaming forever. She tugged the cape back, stood, and walked on, trying not to think of the faces beneath her feet. The road wound ever on and on, and she had to see it to the end, no matter how it was paved.
Then he was there, just a few steps before her, golden cloak rippling in a breeze she could not feel, hands clasped behind his back. He spoke without turning.
“Are you my daughter?”
“Are you my father?” she countered. “Truly my father?” She closed the distance between them, every step an agony.
“Tell me, child. What do you see?”
Sulema took her place at his side, and the breath caught in her throat. She stood at the very summit of Atukos, at the mouth of the living mountain. Below her, before her, stretched a great lake of magesilver, still and pretty as a mirror made of dreams, so wide that the far shore was a jagged shadow. The hot breath of a living dragon poured up toward them, bubbles breaking the surface and lingering like misty little ghosts dancing upon the bright surface.
“Tell me, child,” he said again. “What do you see?”
She looked down. Clouds were reflected upon the surface of the lake, and trees, and the exposed flesh of Atukos. The sun swam overhead, but though its warmth lay upon her shoulder like a hand, she saw nothing of herself, not so much as a shadow.
“Where am I?” she asked, puzzled. “Father, where am I?”
Akari Sun Dragon stared back at her. His eyes were molten bronze and copper, and his teeth swords.
“You are home, Ja’Akari,” he answered, and Sulema screamed as his breath melted the flesh from her bones.
The dragon seized her in his great talons, and Sulema could feel the bonds that held her to the world, to the people, to life, snapping and withering at his touch. She screamed again as he raised her high above his head and tossed her back down the mountain. The red cloaks were burned away, and the screaming gold faces rose to meet her.
She fell.
She died.
* * *
“Is it done?” Her mother’s voice, cool as the river on a hot day.
“It is done.” Akari answered with the voice of a man. “I have loosened the Araids’ hold on her and frozen the venom within her blood. She should recover much of her strength now, with rest and care and a great deal of food.”
“Will she ever truly heal?”
“I cannot be certain. I was able to put the Arachnist’s magic into a deep sleep, but it lies dormant within her blood.”
“When can I take her home?”
“Oh, my dear.” The man’s voice was wearied beyond the reach of sleep, but he laughed. “Did you not hear the dragon speak? Sulema is home. You are both home.”
Sleep now, came the voice of Akari. Little Ja’Akari. I am well pleased with you. Sleep.
The moons chased each other round and round the Web of Illindra, and she slept.
* * *
The first thing Sulema felt was her head—it felt as if the dragon was trying to hatch from inside her skull. The second thing she noticed was that her skin itched as if she had fallen asleep on a nest of ants. The third was that Akari Sun Dragon was prying at her eyes. She opened them.
“How do you feel?” The voice swam up through her mind like the bubbles of dragon’s breath.
“Ung,” she answered, and made a face. Her mouth tasted as if something had crawled in there and died.
“Here.” A cup was pressed into her hands, and she drank. Coffee.
“I love you,” she croaked, blinking a crust of hard sleep from her eyes. Then she saw him. The Dragon King. “Oh…”
“I love you too, Daughter.” His smile was fond, and mischievous, and made him look years younger. “How do you feel?”
“Like the sheep’s head in a game of aklashi. After it has been given to the vash’ai to eat. And shat on by a horse.” Then she realized to whom she was speaking, and her face flushed hot with chagrin.
“Ah, you are your mother’s daughter.” The Dragon King laughed, a great full laugh from the belly, and slapped his knees. “Delightful girl.” He
held out a hand, but stopped short of touching her. “Do you mind?”
She shrugged. Was she allowed to say no to a king?
He touched her arm, now free of its cast, and then the pulse at her throat, and finally his fingers pressed down upon her forehead. It made her feel dizzy for a moment, and stars danced before her eyes, but when he drew back, the king—her father—looked well pleased.
“Very good,” he told her. “Better than I had hoped. You will need food, and you must drink as much water as your belly will hold, and sleep as much as you can.”
“I have not been able to… oh.” She had slept. And she had dreamed.
“As I thought. Your sleep had been stolen from you, and your dreams, and replaced with… well. There will be time for that later, when you have had a chance to rest, and to eat. And perhaps another cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please,” she said, and he laughed.
“Oh, you are your mother’s daughter. And mine, too. My daughter.” He picked up her hand and cradled it against his chest. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me everything.” His blue eyes were warm as an oasis at midsun, and as welcoming. “I want to know my beautiful daughter.”
The dragonglass walls glowed with warmth and welcome.
The trap snapped shut.
TWENTY - NINE
The dreamshifter had been fighting with the outland patreons again. Daru could see it in the way she let her hair fall in a tangled mass over her eyes, and in the quick, angry movements of her hands as she stripped flesh and tendon from a large bone.
He had seen her do this before, return from Shehannam with bone or hair or hide, loops of purple-gray intestines, skulls with flesh and fur still attached. The skulls were the worst—some of them came from people. Hafsa Azeina would strip the bones clean, and then close them up in a box filled with sand and flesh-beetles, and later she would boil them and do… other things.
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