The Dragon's Legacy

by Deborah A. Wolf

  “He is.” Char smiled, tears flowing freely now. “He is a good boy. I will miss him.” She reached up a maimed hand and brushed at the baby’s soft cheek. “Goodbye, Sammai.”

  “Sammai?” Ismai was taken aback. “You named him after me?”

  “I could hardly name him otherwise.” A dark cloud passed before the moons. “Ismai… go. Do not look back, this time. It is ill luck for you.”

  “Jai tu wai, Char.” He laid his leg against Ehuani’s warm side, and his mare stepped out willingly.

  Warning or no, as he rode away he looked back and she was watching him. Shrouded in shadow, as always, but the moonslight kissed briefly upon her face. When she saw him watching, she raised her hand in a brief wave, and then she was swallowed by the night.

  * * *

  Ismai had often puzzled over the strange fact that the road home always seemed shorter than the way out. One could ride all day to get to a place, and then turn around, take three strides, and be back where he had started. This was not such a ride.

  For one thing, the babe—though he slept so deeply Ismai began to worry that it was an unnatural sleep or that the boy was ill—was heavy as a bag of stones. Ismai cradled him in the crook of one arm so that he could hold the reins in his other hand, and no matter how he shifted the boy’s weight, his arm alternated between icy cramps and burning knots of pain, and soon his lower back joined the red chorus. Fire blazed a path from shoulder to shoulder and flared brighter with every careful step Ehuani took. Nor did he dare to ask for a faster pace, so walk they did.

  The stars and moons were generous with their light, and the night was soft and warm. Ismai knew the way, so the path did not pose a problem. Neither did predators, lesser or greater. He heard no more of the bintshi’s deadly plaintive song, there was no roar or grunt or shriek in the night, and no tangles of refuse rose up from the desert with the fell laugh of a bonelord. Not even the sands sang.

  And the Zeera was never silent.

  So Ismai rode through the night with most of the muscles in his body on fire, and every sense strained to the point of pain as his ka searched the night sands for the source of disquiet. Every hair along his arms and on the back of his neck prickled with the cold breath of dread, and Ruh’ayya sang a low, whining song under her breath as they crept along. Ehuani, his skittish and hot-blooded horse, was the only thing in the Zeera that seemed untroubled by whatever it was. She stepped along at a sedate walk, flicking her ears occasionally in a lazy manner, and never once offering to pick up the pace.

  It was not the worst ride of Ismai’s life, but it certainly seemed the longest.

  Akari Sun Dragon had begun his courtship of the eastern sky by the time the three of them dragged into camp, footsore and road-weary. The camp was already ringing with the songs of forge and fire and industry, and the raucous mess finally woke the child from his slumber. The boy scrunched his face and wailed, announcing his outrage to the world. He opened his eyes—they were a greenish-brown and fringed with the softest-looking lashes—took one look at Ismai, and screamed fit to bust a bintshi, showing a fine set of two miniature teeth as he howled.

  Make it stop! Ruh’ayya winced and flattened her ears.

  How do you propose I do that? Ismai had brought Ehuani to a halt, but was not sure how he would dismount without dropping the now-flailing child. But the cries of an infant brought the camp to dead silence—and then to noisy life as every man there dropped what he was doing and hurried to find its source.

  How should I know what a human cub wants? Lick its nose. Lick its butt. Give it a teat… just make it stop. She crouched, showed her fangs in a hissing snarl, and with a lash of her tail she was gone. And it stinks!

  Ismai found himself once more the center of unwelcome attention. Tannerman Jorah took Ehuani’s reins and steadied Ismai as he threw a leg over his mare’s back and slid gracelessly to the ground. Mastersmith Hadid put a beefy hand on his shoulder to steady him as he tottered over to sit on a large rock at the fire’s edge. The smith shouted for food and water to be brought for Ismai, and a churra in milk for the child. The entire campful of men milled around for a few moments staring wide-eyed at the boy and the squalling child.

  It might have been funny were Ismai not wearied to the bone. He swayed where he sat, but held fast to Sammai, who was in no way grateful.

  Loreman Aaraf stepped forward and reached for the child. Ismai held the boy out, surprised at his own reluctance. He took a few swallows of water and a bite of flatbread as the healer unwrapped the furious infant and looked him over. He peered into the child’s wide and wailing mouth, rubbed the small ear between his leathery old fingers, poked his squishy belly, squeezed the dimpled knees and elbows, and finally ran his hand over the chubby half-arm, smiling a little when the boy poked him in the eye with it.

  “A fine Zeerani boy, though I have not heard tell of such a child being born among us,” he declared at last, handing him back to Ismai as his apprentice arrived with a bowl of warm churra milk, yellow and thick with sweet fat. “Half an arm will hardly slow that one down, I am thinking. He wants feeding—” he wrinkled his nose as the other men chuckled “—and changing, but for all that he is as healthy a child as we could wish. What tree might you have plucked this fine, fat fruit from, Ismai Ja’Sajani? For I have never heard that such a tree grows in these parts.”

  Ismai dipped a corner of bread into the milk, and let some drip into the child’s mouth. It did not take much coaxing for Sammai to latch onto it and cease his bawling. Indeed, the roundness of his belly was soon explained as he gummed and gobbled his way through Ismai’s breakfast. “No tree, Loreman Aaraf. The boy was given to my care by a friend of mine. A girl.”

  Mastersmith Hadid lifted both brows at this. “Girl? What girl? Is the child hers, then?” He looked closely at Ismai. “Is he yours? You have not been here long enough to have fathered a child! And where is his mother?”

  Boraz Ja’Sajani folded both arms across his chest and scowled fiercely at Ismai.

  “Boy?”

  Ismai sighed and shifted the child, who was making a happy mess of the last bit of milk-sopped bread and who indeed stank like a three-day-dead lionsnake. Perhaps worse.

  “Her name is Char. She is young, and wounded, and very shy. I had hoped to talk her into coming back with us to Aish Kalumm…” He broke off at their stares. “What?”

  “Char? Charon?” Aaraf gaped open-mouthed at him, and took a half-step back. “Charon of Eid Kalmut?”

  “She lives there, yes. She has no people… what?”

  “You met the Guardian,” Hadid whispered. The smith’s eyes were wide and white as a spooked horse’s. “The Guardian of Eid Kalmut.”

  Istaz Aadl took a half step forward, and drew his sword. “That is no infant… it is a fell spirit of death.”

  Ismai curled his body protectively about Sammai.

  Ruh’ayya roared, not far away. I come. Another vash’ai roared an answer to her challenge, and a third.

  “You will not harm this child.” Ismai glared at the youthmaster, though he could scarce keep his eyes from the man’s shamsi.

  Istaz Aadl bared his teeth. “You insolent—”

  Jasin stepped forward and stood between Ismai and the youthmaster. After a moment, Hadid did the same. Aadl shot them both a dark look, but lowered his sword.

  “I was abandoned by my people and bought from the slavers’ ships,” Jasin said. He met Ismai’s eyes, and nodded.

  “Many of our children are found or boughten,” the loreman agreed. “The Zeeranim do not harm children, Aadl.”

  “How do we know this is a child?” Istaz Aadl demanded. “No one has ever spoken to the Guardian and come away untouched. How do we know this is not some fell spirit come to kill us all in our sleep?”

  Just then, the boy looked at Ismai, and smiled, and made the strangest face. The silence of the Zeera was split by a terrible noise, and a worse smell. The silence lasted a heartbeat more, and then the entire camp erupte
d in laughter.

  “Ai yeh,” Jasin groaned. “Not even an evil spirit could smell like that.”

  “Za fik,” Ismai gasped. “Za fik!” He held the cooing, grinning, stinking infant as far away as his arms could reach.

  Ruh’ayya bounded, teeth bared, into the circle, and then stopped and sneezed.

  “Well, Aadl, I believe that answers your question.” Hadid laughed and slapped the shorter man on his back. Aadl still scowled, but he sheathed his sword.

  “I still say the child is ill luck.”

  “Time will tell,” the big smith answered with a shrug, “but I believe we can agree that this is, indeed, a child. Also that young Ismai Ja’Sajani here may have the changing of it. After that, who knows?”

  “I will take the babe to Aish Kalumm,” the loremaster offered. “My apprentice and I need to gather river-herbs in any case, and we can take the milk-churra with us. Would you care to accompany us, Ismai Ja’Sajani? The boy was given into your care, after all. What say you?”

  Ismai held the baby closer, ignoring the stink, and stroked his soft brown cheek. Sammai grabbed his finger in one fat hand and waved his stump triumphantly, screeching.

  Nice fangs, Ruh’ayya laughed.

  “Char said there were slavers,” he said slowly. “Slavers in the Zeera, come to steal our children. I say… not on my watch.”

  “Slavers,” Hadid growled. “Not on my watch.”

  “Not on my watch,” agreed Jasin. His fingers were white where they gripped the hilt of his shamsi.

  “I think the loremen should take Sammai to the Mothers, but I would like to stay and hunt for any remaining slavers.” Ismai played with the infant’s tiny, tender fingers. “I would see their blood upon the sand.” He felt foolish even as he said the words, a boy playing at being a man, but it was what his mother would have wanted him to do.

  More—it was what he wanted to do.

  Makil Ja’Sajani, near the back of the group, raised his shamsi high, so that it flashed in the light of the Sun Dragon.

  “Ja’Sajani.”

  “Ja’Sajani!” One by one, the other wardens raised their swords in silent salute. Mastersmith Hadid folded his massive arms across his chest and nodded.

  Istaz Aadl was last. He looked at Ismai for a long moment, his face unreadable, before pointing his sword first at Ismai and then toward the sun.

  “We may make a warden of you yet,” the youthmaster said, and then he grinned. “If we can keep you from falling off your horse.”

  THIRTY - FOUR

  “I do not think this is the time or the place for this fool spectacle to be held. Atualon is on a knife’s edge as it is—between rumors of the king’s ill health, the threat of war from the east, and an influx of barbarians with barbaric ways, you could ladle tension from the air and eat it as a soup. Add a few dozen Ja’Akari to the mix—shortly after they have lost their First Mother, mind you—a few foreign sorcerers, and Matteira’s rabble-rousers… the whole city may go up in flames.” Hafsa Azeina pinched the bridge of her nose. “I say it is foolishness.”

  Loremaster Rothfaust spread his hands wide. Luli, his sunshell-colored mantid, peeked from beneath his beard, tilted her buggy little face at them, and chirruped. “Yet here we are, and here they are, and it is up to us to make sure the spectacle proceeds smoothly.” He reached up and patted his little pet, and smiled around the room. “It is the will of Ka Atu.”

  “It is the will of Ka Atu that I speak on his behalf on such matters, that he may devote more of his time to ensuring the safety of us all.” Indeed, she saw how exhausted he was at day’s end, and wondered how the stubborn old goat had managed by himself for this long. “The Council needs to spend more time working to support his efforts, and less time worrying about song and dance. Have you forgotten the threats that face us even now? Do you think the Daemon Emperor and his generals spend their days frolicking and throwing flowers to a troupe of fools?”

  “Would that he might,” Loremaster Rothfaust muttered into his beard. “The world would be a better place if there were more fools and fewer kings.”

  The Third Circle was breaking fast together in the Sunrise Chamber. Hafsa Azeina, as queen consort, had commanded—not asked, commanded—that they attend her here before dawn, and tempers were sharp. She accepted a mug of coffee from a servant girl with a nod of thanks. Rothfaust took one as well, and winked at the girl over the top of the mug. The only patreon to decline the treat was Santorus, who made a point of sticking his nose in the air and making a snide comment about “foreign drink.”

  It was too early for this nonsense.

  “This is wonderful stuff. Wonderful!” Ezio enthused. He inhaled the coffee’s steam and rolled his eyes. “I have no idea how we ever managed without it. My reckoners thrive on the stuff. Marvelous! Have we worked out the trade agreements yet? I dare say this would smooth the edges even of the Daemon Emperor. What need for war, when one has coffee? And you say it is made from beans? Astonishing!”

  “That explains it, then,” laughed Mattu Halfmask. “Beans for the bean counters.” Today he wore the face of a spike-horned stag with antlers in spring velvet.

  Yes. Definitely too early.

  “I, myself, was rather looking forward to the diversion.” Aasah smiled as he spooned honey into his coffee. “We of Atualon should greet all others with open arms.”

  “And closed purses, eh, Ezio?” Mattu grinned at the older man’s cross look. “I see that you take your coffee as you take your women, Shadowmancer. Speaking of dark and sweet, where is your little apprentice?”

  Aasah set his mug down with a click. His face had gone dangerously blank.

  “Yaela is none of your business.”

  Mattu opened his mouth again, but Hafsa Azeina cut him off with a short motion of her hand.

  “Enough, Halfmask. If you want to die in pieces, may I suggest you sign up to fight one of the bear dancers? It would probably be an easier death.”

  His mismatched eyes crinkled. “I was hoping to die in my sleep.”

  Hafsa Azeina held out her empty mug, and the servant girl hurried to fill it. “You may yet.”

  “What exactly are we here for, might I ask?” Ezio smiled as a pair of young boys brought platters of fruits and goat’s-stomach cheese. “Ah!”

  “To discuss this spectacle, for the most part. I share the concerns of our beloved Issa.” The loremaster smiled at Hafsa Azeina’s nod—they had discussed this beforehand. “Much as I, too, have been looking forward to the entertainments, perhaps now is not the time. The daughter of Ka Atu is but recently returned. Perhaps a sober celebration in her honor would be more appropriate. We might wait on holding any celebration at all until she has fully healed from her wounds, and until our, ah, honored guests have departed. There have been incidents…”

  “If those desert sluts would not walk around with their breasts bare—” Santorus began.

  “Desert sluts?”

  Every man in the room shot to his feet. Mattu Halfmask was the first, Hafsa Azeina noted, and Santorus last to rise. She remained seated and kept her face cool, though her heart leapt like a stag to see her daughter’s face flushed with health and fury.

  “Desert sluts?” Sulema asked again. She wore a gold circlet and the white-and-gold robes of the ne Atu, and the angry glare of a pissed-off female. She walked to stand beside her mother, feet planted shoulder-wide, fingers rubbing absently at her newly mended arm, wide mouth in a hard line. “Surely you are not referring to my people, Patreon… Santorus, is it?”

  Leviathus followed his sister into the chamber, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Santorus has never approved of foreign women and their wicked ways.”

  “Or Atualonian women, with their wicked ways,” Mattu agreed, and drained his cup. “Or women at all. Good morning, ne Atu, I trust you slept well?”

  “The messenger was slow to tell us of this meeting.” Leviathus stopped just behind Hafsa Azeina’s chair, lending her his tacit support.
r />   “He was bribed.” Sulema’s eyes fairly glowed with outrage.

  “I trust you showed him the error of his ways?”

  “I set him to cleaning churra pits.” Sulema threw herself down on the bench beside Hafsa Azeina, and took a cup of coffee from the blushing servant boy. “What is that horrible smell?”

  “Goat’s-stomach cheese, ne Atu.” Ezio smiled beatifically at her, and pushed the tray closer. “Try some… it thickens and cools the blood, eh, Master Santorus?”

  The healer nodded, eyes still shifting away from the daughter of Wyvernus.

  “It stinks!” She wrinkled her freckled nose.

  “My sister has the sensibilities of a princess,” Leviathus said. “She prefers to break her fast on spiders’ eggs.”

  “Spiders’ eggs!” exclaimed Rothfaust. “What a horrible thought!”

  Sulema and her brother shared a grin, and Hafsa Azeina was surprised to feel jealousy stab her heart. She cleared her throat and waited for the men to turn their eyes back to her.

  “We were discussing the spectacle,” she tried again.

  “It will be wonderful!” Sulema enthused, suddenly bright as the sunrise that had begun to flood the chamber. “Leviathus was telling me about it… it was his idea. There will be fighting, and races, and magic… and dancing bears! He says none of the Atualonians have ever seen Ja’Akari fight. The healers say my arm is fit enough for light sparring, and Saskia has agreed to dance with me—”

  “What?” The smile was wiped clean from Leviathus’s face. “Wait, no…”

  “Ne Atu, fighting in the arena like a common slu— like a…” Santorus spluttered to a flummoxed halt. “It is not seemly. No!”

  Loremaster Rothfaust sat back and stroked his beard, saying nothing, though his eyes were suspiciously bright. Luli peeked out at Sulema, waved her delicate antennae, and trilled sweetly.

  Hafsa Azeina sighed and reminded herself that it was unqueenly to punch a man in the nose, even if he was an idiot.

  “No?” Sulema stood, every inch of her radiating affronted pride. “No. You old men tell me I cannot do this thing. That it is not seemly. I am Sulema Ja’Akari. I will dance the swords if I choose, and I will wear what I choose to wear. I will fight naked if that is my desire. I will take a hayatani.” The girl looked straight at Mattu Halfmask as she said this. “If one wagging old tongue dares touch my name, it will be wagging its way into the soup pot. Brother, would you care to walk in the gardens with a desert slut? I believe I have had my share of these windy old men and their stinky cheeses.”