The Dragon's Legacy

by Deborah A. Wolf

  “Your successes are mine,” she had explained to him as they dined together that evening, “as are your failures. I never fail, Daechen Jian.” Jian had nodded as the lashai poured another cup of salty tea. He could almost feel the muscles flex beneath his fur as he reached for it. He was almost surprised that he held the delicate porcelain with a man’s hand instead of powerful black claws. He did not need Xienpei to tell him that this tea had been made with seawater. It was good.

  From that time forward, Jian had grown in strength and skill as quickly as a toddler learning to walk. His muscles grew heavy and lean under the harsh hands of the combat and weapons tutors and the watchful eyes of the kitchen staff. On Xienpei’s instructions he was fed generously on meat, fish, or fowl at every meal. Before a turning of the small moon he could run from the front doors and up the spiraling stairs of the tower without stopping once. By the turning of the big moon he could run back down, as well. His hair grew sleek, his skin glowed with health, and Jian began to hope he might survive the Yellow Palace.

  Xienpei had ordered that he be taught the gentle arts as well—script and poetry, music and dance. This last he performed gracefully enough if he was allowed to move slowly, like a bear, and his singing voice was a bear’s as well, low and growly and coarse. He was no more apt with any of the wind or stringed instruments they tried him on, so finally they settled on the skin drums, which suited him well. It was a pleasant change to sit cross-legged in a quiet corner with the heavy drum in his lap, and feel the wood shiver and rumble at his touch.

  As he became more and more proficient at the tasks his yendaeshi set him, and more pliant to her commands, Jian was allowed some small freedoms. No longer was he to be observed as he bathed or slept, nor required to keep his hair cut short to the shoulders, and he was allowed the freedom of going barefoot as had been his preference for as long as he could remember.

  Best of all, if there was time left in the day after his chores and lessons and punishments were complete, he might be allowed to go for a walk outside the palace. When he went to the river he was always accompanied by Xienpei, and a pair of lashai with short bows. He was also made to understand that if ever he tried to escape, Perri would share in his punishment. Even so, Jian looked forward to these outings with an eagerness that shamed him. The smallest flawed pearl may be precious to a man who has no other treasure.

  The moons tossed and turned across the sky, lean and full and lean once more, and as one moon bled into the next Jian found that he was sleeping through his nights and performing through his days like a bear trained to the chain and the whip and the beastmaster’s sharp voice. As his body adapted to this new life, so did his mind, to the point that he shied away from all thought of home or escape, and hardly flinched when one of his yearmates was beaten for some minor infraction or shortcoming.

  Sometimes a boy’s place at the table would sit empty for a day or two, and sometimes his chair would be removed altogether. Jian kept his eyes to his own plate and said nothing. The sun shone just as brightly either way.

  * * *

  He reached the bottom of the river and twined his arm about a thick strand of serpent grass, anchoring himself against the current. The mud was cool against his skin, the river stones smooth and soothing as small hands massaging away the day’s hurts.

  He let the water have its way with him, tossing him this way and that, playful as a child with a new toy. He looked down, away from the surface and the sunlight and the land creatures, and for a moment allowed himself to imagine that he was at the bottom of the sea. A curious pike emerged from its home underneath an old hollow log and hung suspended in the water, face-to-face with him, its sleek body undulating, red-and-green fins twisting this way and that as it held itself in place and studied him.

  Eventually it lost interest and swam away in search of a meal. He closed his eyes and turned his face into the current.

  “Jian,” he whispered, and felt his name turn to bubbles and be washed out to sea. “Jian.”

  He stayed as long as he dared. When he surfaced, Xienpei was not alone. Naruteo was there, hands bound behind him with a leather thong. He was collared as well, and a sturdy lashai at each side held a leash. The look he shot Jian was pure venom. Another of the yendaeshi stood beside Xienpei—Jian recognized the bald man who had laughed at them as they were culled, and his breath caught. As if she scented his fear, Xienpei turned to him and smiled.

  “Now you see, Tsa-len? My boy can be trusted. He is a good boy. Is that not right, Daechen Jian?”

  A chill wind rippled over his skin, and Jian repressed a shiver. He bowed his head low.

  “Yes, Yendaeshi.” His legs and feet were covered with mud from the river, and Jian was painfully aware that he stood naked before the others.

  “I prefer to raise mine up with a bit more spirit.” The bald man chuckled. His voice was smooth as a cat stalking its prey. “Toughens them up, eh, boy?” Jian heard the slap of flesh on flesh, and Naruteo’s grunt of pain.

  “Yes, Yendaeshi.”

  “I will wager that my Jian is as tough as your… boy… any day.”

  Jian held his breath as a cold sweat broke out all over his body. He had heard rumors of the yendaeshi pitting their charges against one another, in fights to the death.

  “Oh? What will you wager?”

  “I will wager this jade pendant against that ruby of yours.”

  “Ah, Xienpei, I am disappointed in you, wagering baubles when we have fine young flesh to hand. Perhaps what they say is true… you are losing your edge.”

  Jian heard Xienpei hiss at the insult. He felt the fear coiling in his belly, rising up his throat like a snake…

  …and he let it go. Just like that, he let it go, breathed it away into the mud and the wind and the river. What would be, would be, and if this day ended with his body dumped into the river and borne out to sea, so be it.

  “So you say. What would you have, then?”

  “My boy against yours, for training rights. My boy wins, I take yours. Your boy wins, you get this one.”

  “I have no use for your land-locked bullock. I want the girl.”

  “Ah.” The man laughed. “So it’s a matched pair you want, is it? I am delighted to find the rumors of your demise are… premature. So be it. My boy against yours, for the girl. You!” he barked at Naruteo. “Strip!”

  “Jian!” Xienpei snapped. “To me, now.”

  Jian trotted quickly to stand before Xienpei, dismayed at the sight of his muddy bare feet near her immaculate gold slippers. She lifted his chin with two fingers and stared straight into his eyes. Hers were as bright as a child’s at a festival. He had never seen her so animated, not even at the winnowing.

  “Jian,” she whispered. “Daechen Jian. This is your moment, do you understand me? Your day. Do you wish to live?”

  “Yendaeshi?” His thoughts moved slowly, as if his head was clogged with mud from the river.

  She slapped him hard enough that he tasted blood. “What are you? Are you a piece of shit washed up by the sea, or are you Daechen?” She slapped him again, snapping his head to the side. “Are you a corpse rotting on the beach? Or are you Issuq? Live?” She slapped him a third time. “Or die?” She raised her hand again. “Live?”

  Jian reached up and trapped her wrist in his hand. He was strong, he realized, strong enough to snap her little bird-bones with a simple twist. He stared into her face, daring her to strike him again.

  “I will live,” he growled at her.

  Xienpei smiled at him and wrenched her hand free. “Then fight, you little bastard. Fight, and win, and I might just let you live.” Swift as a serpent’s strike she grabbed him by the shoulders, and whipped him about, and gave him a strong push just as Naruteo, unbound and naked, staggered toward him.

  Then he understood.

  Their eyes met. Naruteo’s face twisted into a mask of rage, eyes small and red as a bull’s, and Jian felt his own bloodlust rise in answer. As the other boy bellowed an
d charged, head down, Jian roared a challenge and ran to meet him. They collided with a bone-jarring crunch. Jian was lifted off his feet, but twisted away and landed upright in the mud at the river’s edge. He roared again and held both arms out as if to embrace his enemy as Naruteo shook his head, turned, and charged again.

  The river sang in his blood and the wind sang in his lungs, and Jian twisted, snarling, as Naruteo closed the distance in three short strides. Power exploded in his chest, his back, his legs and he struck toward the enemy with his hand open, fingers splayed like claws, fully intending to knock the other boy’s head from his shoulders. The blow connected with a satisfying crunch and Naruteo spun with the force of it, slipped end over end, and flew backward into the river with a splash. He bellowed and thrashed, trying to right himself.

  Jian did not wait, but threw himself on his opponent and pinned him on his back in the shallow water, kneeling on the other boy’s shoulders and grabbing him by the throat. He ground his teeth, peering through a red curtain of fury and blood as Naruteo choked and gasped, flailing like a fish dying on the end of a harpoon.

  “Enough!”

  The river rushed in his ears as he pressed Naruteo’s head back, back into the water. The other thrashed and fought, bloody foam at his mouth washing away and eyes bulging in fury—but his struggles grew weaker, and Jian knew he had him. Power surged in him again, blood and victory, and he bared his teeth as he pushed his advantage, pushed Naruteo’s face beneath the water.

  Someone pulled at him, struck at his shoulders and his face and the back of his head, seeking to deprive him of his prey. Jian snarled at them and tightened his grip. His enemy’s struggles grew feeble. Just a moment longer…

  “ENOUGH!” Xienpei’s voice lashed at him, and Jian fell back, shuddering and breathing hard. Hands reached past him to drag Naruteo from the water, and he snapped at them.

  “Enough, Daechen Jian. Back, now.” Her hand was at his shoulder, pulling him away. Jian allowed himself to be led, though he growled at them through his teeth. She cuffed him on the side of his head, almost fondly, and he subsided.

  The river called to him, its voice soft and sorrowful. He sat back on his haunches and let the cool water wash the mud and blood from his fur.

  Fur?

  As the lashai and the bald man dragged Naruteo’s limp form from the river, Jian brought his hands up before his eyes. His hands, not a sea-bear’s claws as he had imagined, a man’s hands covered in mud and blood. Naruteo rolled over on the beach, retching up water and groaning. Jian almost sobbed in relief.

  I am a man, he thought. A man, not a beast.

  Xienpei stroked his hair and murmured to him in a low voice. “There, there, my good boy. Shhh, let it go.” He did not look up, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “You did well today, Daechen Jian—I am pleased. Very pleased.” She patted his shoulder and then walked along the river’s edge to the other yendaeshi, who stood over Naruteo with a murderous scowl.

  She did not bother to look back.

  THIRTY - ONE

  “Are you ready?”

  “I have some questions.”

  “Good.” Wyvernus smiled across the low table at her, his teeth very white in the moonslight. “Ask me anything you like. This is a test, nothing more, and a very simple one at that.”

  “That is all?” Sulema frowned at the silk-covered mounds between them.

  “That is all.”

  “This is magic?”

  “Very small magic, yes. I already know you are echovete—you used to scream your head off when you were a baby and I was working—but I need to determine how strong you are, and how your power balances out between sa and ka.”

  “Will it be anything like dreamshifting?” She had experienced a taste of her mother’s magic, and wanted none of it. The fox-head staff she had banished from sight, if not from her mind.

  “No.” The chamber rang with his denial.

  She wanted to squirm like she had as a child and Istaza Ani was teaching maths—but he had said she should ask him any question that came to mind.

  “I thought you wore the big mask to work magic?”

  He smiled at that. “This is just a small magic, as I said. Very small. I do not need the Mask of the Sun Dragon—or the Baidun Daiel—for something like this.”

  She took a deep breath. “All right, I am ready. What do I do?”

  “I will sing a note, and when I tap the table, you tell me which bowl feels most alive to you.”

  Sulema blinked, and Wyvernus laughed at her surprise. Then he closed his eyes and began to sing.

  The Zeeranim are very fond of music. The desert sings as the dunes swell and recede to the pull of the moons, the warriors sing as they ride out to the hunt, young Mothers sing to the children they hope to bear. They sing of life, and death, and all the little moments in between… but Sulema had never heard anyone sing like her father. His voice rose into the air, lifting her spirits up to the moons, a single note clear and sharp and bright as the sword at her waist.

  This one, she thought, and reached out without hesitation to touch one of the covered bowls. She could not have said how she knew, any more than she could have explained the difference between red and blue, or hot and cold. She just knew.

  Wyvernus let the note fall away, and smiled.

  “Very good,” he said, “and very fast.” He reached to draw away the silk, and laughed when Sulema recoiled. The silk had concealed a very old bowl, reddish-brown with age, made from a human skull inlaid with silver and precious stones. “Come now, you will hurt poor Yoric’s feelings.”

  “Yoric? The poet? You knew him?”

  “Alas, not well. Ah, you should see your face!” He laughed, and his laughter was as beautiful as his song. “Ah! I am teasing you, child. These bowls are ancient beyond knowing. Their owners are long gone to dust. A king simply does not have time to go about lopping off people’s heads, just to make bowls.”

  She found herself laughing along with him, and as they were revealed one by one the row of jeweled skulls grinned too, enjoying their game. Rob’s head was full of rocks, Natan full of air—not empty, her father had chided—Jonnus held cinders, Tracia a live mouse that scampered away as she was revealed, and Olivia was full of… dead spiders. Sulema shuddered when her father stuck his finger in the bowl and stirred them around, and found herself thankful for the morning’s fast.

  “Ugh, spiders.”

  “Oh, these are not just any spiders. Look.” He picked one up between thumb and forefinger and held it entirely too close to her face. “See how it glitters in the moonslight?”

  “Almost like metal.”

  “Almost like metal, very good. The Araids use blood magic to fuse flesh to metal, and so turn an ordinary spider into a weapon.” He dropped it back into the bowl with a clink, and wiped his hand on the front of his robes with a grimace. “Fell things.”

  “Ew. I had never imagined there could be anything worse than spiders.” At her father’s laugh, Sulema pointed to the last bowl, larger and more misshapen than the last. “And that one?”

  “Ah yes, I saved the best for last. Last test, and tell me true if you sense anything. Most people cannot, so do not feel bad if you feel nothing.”

  “I am Ja’Akari,” she assured him, stung. “My words speak only truth.”

  “You are Atualonian,” he replied, “so that will likely change. Now, listen.”

  He closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath, filling his chest, his belly, tilting his head back and letting his shoulders fall loose. Sulema expected his powerful voice to bellow forth like her mother’s shofar, but the sound that rolled over his tongue and into the deep night was the slightest call, the softest cry, the last sad notes of a shepherd girl, playing her lonely flute.

  No man could ever make a sound like that, she thought, stunned. A dragon, maybe, but not a man.

  The bowl on the table sang back.

  “I hear it,” she whispered, and might have wept for loss w
hen Wyvernus let his song die away. For it had been a song, a whole song in a single note. “I heard it.”

  “You heard it.” His voice was as rough as a warrior’s after battle. “Of course you heard it.” He drew back the white silk to reveal a skull white and smooth as polished alabaster, crowned with a pair of small and delicate antlers. “Amrit il Mer,” he named her, for surely no man’s skull could be so beautiful. He reached into the bowl with both hands and drew forth a delicate orb, a globe fashioned of rose-colored rock and set with jewels. “This, my dear, life. No echovete can hear it unless they are powerful— very powerful—in sa. Yet you were able to hear the masculine ka as well. Truly, you are exceptional.”

  The globe held Sulema’s attention. She was seized with the desire to snatch it up, to claim it as her own. “What is it?”

  “It is life. The resonance of life, to be more precise. See, it was fashioned from red salt and white, and turned to stone by some art we no longer possess. This is our world as Akari Sun Dragon might see it. Look here.” He turned the globe over in his hands and traced a line where the pink salt was nearly white, and tapped a tiny chip of onyx. “This is us, this is Atualon. This is Nar Bedayyan, and this little vein of lapis is the Dibris, and right here? That is your City of Mothers.”

  “Ai yeh,” she breathed, and reached for the globe.

  “Aat-aat, not yet, you are not ready for this yet, my girl. This stone has power all her own, power even I do not fully understand. But this, right here, this is what I wanted to show you.” He pointed to, but did not touch, a scorched and broken area not as wide as the palm of his hand. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Quarabala?” she guessed.

  “Clever girl. What caused this damage, do you think?”

  Sulema frowned and looked from the globe to his face, though it was not easy to look away from the stone. “Surely whoever made this fashioned it so?”