“Isn’t it?” Namra asked.
“We don’t fear Yeshin,” the lordling replied. “If the Ikessars had been as foolhardy as he was during the war, we would have defeated him. But the nation comes first, and we dared not risk more people than we already have. The price for pride is steep, and we were not as heartless or ruthless as he was willing to be.”
He said we like these things have been drilled into him the moment he was born. She watched the way his face darkened as he spoke, the lines that have no right to be there deepening. Boy he seemed to be at first glance, but Namra suddenly realized that he must live in a different world altogether, that he wasn’t like the village children or her neighbours back in Bardes. Mere stories to her was a reality for him. She wondered what drove her father to serve such people.
“I’ve been allowed to pay my respects,” he continued. “Little as Warlord Yeshin may deserve it, he was still a warlord of this land, and we all have our duties.”
“So you said before,” she said.
They were quiet again as they follow a stream of water running back towards the cave. “Do…” the lordling began. “Do we seem strange to you? You said you grew up in Dageis.”
“Yes.”
His face tightened. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his information. “I apologize,” he managed, after a few moments of silence. “I forget sometimes that not everyone understands our politics.”
“I understand…that even though my father designed your sigil, that it must’ve been the proudest moment of his life, he wouldn’t speak of his time here to me. Best leave yesterday where it belongs, he likes to tell me. Liked,” she corrected herself, swallowing. She cocked her head at him. “You don’t smile much, do you?” she ventured.
He stared back at her, perplexed.
“I suppose that answers my question. Come,” she said, getting up. “Let’s take you to safety.”
The boy was not built for conversation and the silence returned. Namra turned to memories for company.
“What is an Ikessar?” she had asked her father during one of those long lessons, her hands stained with ink.
“They rode dragons before everyone else did,” her father replied, his face crinkling in that old smile of his, the one that even death, later on, couldn’t seem to erase. “So the first Dragonlord came from their clan, and then after.”
“But they’re not anymore. Mother said nobody rules Jin-Sayeng now.”
“Not exactly, my sweet. The civil war ended, you see, with nobody on the throne. Instead, both the Ikessar leader, Princess Ryia, and her enemy, Yeshin of the Oren-yaro, agreed to a joint rule between their clans: a betrothal between her son and his daughter.”
“Madness,” her mother broke in, stepping into the room with another jar of ink. “Two heads cannot rule as one. Jin-Sayeng will learn this was all a big mistake.” She shook her head. “And you’re filling the child’s head with nonsense. Is this really appropriate conversation?”
Her father laughed. “Not today,” he said, reaching out for her waist. “You’ll age before your time. And you know, they’re old stories. Nothing but old stories. We’re safe here now.”
“Safe? Maybe. But how long do we eke out an existence like this? And what about her future?”
“Now isn’t the time,” her father said. He got up, drawing his arms around her mother. “Let’s not argue, my love. We’re together. That’s all that matters.” Those words. Thinking about it now, they must have been his saving grace.
They left the tunnels and entered a small field. By now, the rain had stopped and clear rays of sunlight was dancing on the foliage. Touch-me-not plants shriveled as she passed them.
“Why did your family move to Dageis?” the boy broke in.
“Is that what you’ve been thinking about all this time?” She smiled. “Jin-Sayeng was at war. People were being killed left and right—even those who weren’t soldiers. Entire villages put to torch, and there was nowhere to settle. My father feared for our safety. He didn’t really want to leave. Dageis was incredibly lonely for him. But we couldn’t live here.”
“If your father was a mere banner-maker…”
It was almost an insult. She only smiled. “He wasn’t just a banner-maker.”
The boy gestured. “Travelling to Dageis is expensive. It’s months of travel at least if you go through Gaspar. If you take a ship—it would be more so. Most people wouldn’t be able to afford it, especially not in these times. What is your caste? Priest, soldier?” He narrowed his eyes. “No, lower. A scribe is noble work, but it doesn’t pay very well and if your father could have done better, he would have. Your family are commoners. How did you get to Dageis?”
She turned around to confront his accusations. But in that same instant, hands reached out from behind the trees to grab him. She screamed. The boy, on the other hand, remained silent, though his face had turned a shade paler.
“Namra,” she heard a voice behind her.
She turned and saw Aunt Margga, her face contorted in anger. There was a blade in her wrinkled fingers, a grasscutter. The black edge was dripping with what she could only assume was blood.
Namra barely had time to open her mouth when the earth was shattered with the sound of hooves. Armed soldiers were streaming from both sides of the hills. She recognized the Ikessar armour from one group—her father’s sigil, penned with his careful hand. The other was…
Oren-yaro. The very thought sent a stab of fear through her heart. She knew it from their sigil, the wolf’s head. Warlord Yeshin the Butcher’s people, the murderers who dared rebel against the Dragonthrone, and had no qualms about killing peasants to make a point. No one spoke, but somehow, deep inside her heart, she knew it was going to happen again.
The soldiers met in the middle of the field, blades drawn.
In the ensuing chaos, the boy managed to escape his captors. Namra tore away from her aunt and after him, her legs faster than the old woman’s. She caught up with him at the riverbank. “They have horses,” she said, as soon as she got close. “We can’t stay out in the open. We won’t outrun them. I’m not here to hurt you!” she added to the look on his face. “Why won’t you believe me?”
“You…led me straight to them,” he gasped. Panic now laced his voice. “The Oren-yaro. They’ve come to kill me.”
“Why would they do that? Who are you?”
He shook his head. “I can’t…I’m not supposed to…”
“Namra!”
Margga’s voice cut through the wind like a hammer. Against her will, Namra found herself wilting. The old woman appeared at the end of the road, straighter than an old woman had any right to be. For a moment, Namra completely forgot this was her aunt. No. This was a wraith, come to swallow them whole.
A soldier appeared behind her, an Ikessar. “Step aside, grandma,” he warned.
Margga turned and stabbed him in the neck.
The movement was so smooth, as if she didn’t even bat an eye while doing it. Namra turned back to the boy. “Into the woods!” she cried. He recovered from shock long enough to obey. She came in right behind him. Together, they came tumbling down the slope.
Roots broke their fall. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him up, dragging him into the bushes.
She didn’t know how long they ran. They reached the edge of a small stream, bloated from the rains. Here, Namra paused long enough to grab another drink of water and to wash the sweat off her face. She turned to the boy. “You’re the prince, aren’t you?”
The boy nodded.
“Prince Rayyel Ikessar?”
Another nod.
“Well, that explains everything,” she said. She took another gulp of water. “You were off to meet her, weren’t you? Your betrothed. Except the Oren-yaro want you dead. They don’t really want you to marry their daughter.”
“That can’t be true,” Rayyel breathed at last.
“What do you mean by that?”
“There are many factions
throughout the land, and it’s no secret the rest of the Oren-yaro didn’t agree with Warlord Yeshin’s plans. This can’t be the official stance of their people. I haven’t been there. I haven’t met them yet. I can’t say for sure.”
“And yet you intend to go, anyway. Blindly.”
“For the good of the land…”
She came up to gaze at him, to look into his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asked, flushing.
“My father used to say you can tell a man’s intentions simply by looking into his eyes.”
“Was he a good judge of character?”
She laughed. “My mother would say no. He’s been cheated, multiple times. But he believed in it, anyway. Believed in the goodness of others. In hope, and in tomorrow. I think that’s why he never stopped loving Jin-Sayeng. He wanted us to go home someday, wanted there to be a future here for me.” She straightened herself and gave a wistful smile. “I don’t know if I agree, but I want to be that kind of person.”
They were interrupted by the sound of animals somewhere in the brush.
“They won’t be able to ride through the woods,” she said at last. “Come on. If we can get you further up the road…”
He placed a hand on the hilt of his belt, to the elaborate sword wedged through it. The very scabbard was etched with gold. “In case they catch up to us, can you fight?”
She didn’t answer. Behind them, where she had first heard the animals, the trees were still moving. Rayyel hadn’t noticed, and she thought it best not to alert him. She led him through the growth, one eye looking out for the dip in trees that marked the road, the other on the moving foliage. All the while, she wondered what her father would say. Not even a week in Jin-Sayeng and she was already knee-deep in its politics. He would’ve decided he wasn’t wrong in leaving.
But you’re also the one who told me you can never leave the past behind.
They reached the road. Up in the distance, a group of farmers passed by with buffalo-drawn carts, carrying produce over to the next town. Namra quickly plucked the circlet from Rayyel’s head and placed it in his palms. “Cover your clothes,” she whispered.
“I don’t—”
“Just trust me.”
He frowned, before tightening his cloak around his shoulders. It was covered in mud from all their traipsing, and from afar, he might’ve passed for a farmer’s boy. Maybe an uncommonly good-looking one. She bent down to take a handful of dirt and slapped it on his cheeks. He stared back at her, eyes wide, as if not quite believing the liberties she was taking.
“Trust me,” she repeated. She drew back for a moment. “Look at you,” she said with a whistle. “I think your princess wouldn’t want to marry you now.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t make such jokes. The fate of this land lies in…”
“Yes, I know. It’s a figure of speech.”
“From where?”
“From my head. Just play along.” She led him down the road to meet the farmers, who stopped the oxen. Namra came up to the driver. “Ikessar or Orenar?” she called out.
“Royals,” the farmer said, spitting. “A pox to them all!”
“Indeed,” Namra replied. “By any chance, where are you going?”
“The market down at the crossroads.”
“The one right at the border of the Ikessar and Orenar lands?”
The farmer laughed. “Bastards, both of them. You’re lucky if you only get taxed once and the Dragonthrone soldiers don’t ask for bribes. Still, there’s plenty enough travellers this time of the year, and the taverns are hungry for fresh goods.”
“Dragonthrone soldiers,” Namra repeated. “Ikessar soldiers. Well then, do you mind taking my cousin down that way? He’s a scribe with the Ikessars and got separated from my uncle. He’s a little daft—”
Rayyel opened his mouth.
“—and mute,” Namra added. “I promise he won’t be much trouble.” She all but shoved him forward.
“Happy to help,” the farmer said, whistling to his children. They made room for Rayyel in the wagon. Frowning, he clambered up and wedged himself between them. From afar, he really did look like one of them.
She waved at him and watched as the wagon disappeared at the bend. And then, drawing a deep breath, she returned to the woods, trying to retrace their steps. Her eyes glanced over the horizon. The trees were still now, almost unbelievably so. Even the wind should at least brush against them.
She heard a creaking sound and turned. Margga’s hand descended on her shoulder like a vulture’s claw.
“You foolish child,” the old woman hissed. “What got into your head?”
She had been thinking of all the ways she was going to retort back. Instead, she found herself dropping her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she managed. This was still her father’s aunt. Still family. In Jin-Sayeng, family was sacred.
“Playing with the Ikessars, like you haven’t learned your lesson. Just like your father. And what did that get him, in the end? Nothing but sorrow! A dead daughter, and then he dies alone later on…? Was that worth betraying us for?”
“What are you saying?”
Margga’s eyes softened for a moment. “Ah, he never told you. Of course he wouldn’t have. His real child died in the war. You? He found you days later and took you home. A handkerchief, that’s what you are. A handkerchief to wipe his grief away. You’d think you would be more grateful.”
Margga told her everything on the long road back. Of how they had all lost people in the war eleven years ago—all of Margga’s sisters, her husband, her own children. Namra’s father’s trueborn daughter was lost in the village in that same raid. They didn’t even know who ordered it—Ikessar, Orenar, one of the others? Who knew? It didn’t matter. And she told him of the two or three-year-old child her father later found: an orphan covered in blood and excrement, a twisted changeling from a nightmare. How he, still hysterical himself, half-mad with his own sorrow, had brought her home, anyway.
She had no memory of this. But the story unlocked the images in her mind, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that her father would have picked her up the moment he saw her. That was the kind of man he was. She couldn’t even stop thinking of him as her father, even though she had no reason to doubt Margga’s words. Her life had started with him. And the woman she called her mother—her mother, she had loved Namra, too. Loved her still.
“Look at this one,” they would tell each other on those cold winter nights in Dageis, twirling her around, holding her between them with nothing but warmth and acceptance. “Isn’t she the most beautiful child?” We’re together. That’s all that matters. Words alone couldn’t take that away from her. Words alone couldn’t change what had been. Even before she’d left, her mother had taken her into her arms, tucking the strands of her over her ear as she whispered those promises of comfort.
“I will send for you,” she had repeated, insisting. Now Namra understood the layer of desperation in her voice. Her whole life they had wanted her to understand that she was not—had never been—a replacement. They were all survivors, finding ways to build a life between the shadows of what was taken from them.
Garbled conversation in the distance broke through the haze of her thoughts. She looked up to see the Oren-yaro soldiers joining them, their voices low and angry. She caught sight of one of them pointing at her. Margga shook her head, her own voice angry. A traitor, like her father? She caught that much. She didn’t understand what that meant—if her father was hired by the Oren-yaro first, or was one of them. But she could see from the anger on their faces, could see that they saw his decision to work for the Ikessars as an affront. She wondered if they were going to kill her.
“Where is he?” the soldiers asked, coming up to her. There were only three of them. The others were nowhere in sight.
She took a deep breath. “He’s safe now. Isn’t he supposed to be marrying your warlord’s daughter?”
“He is,” a soldier said. “We wan
ted to escort him back to Oren-yaro ourselves. You can never be too safe anymore.”
“It didn’t look like it. It looked like you were killing his men. You’ll have to forgive him for coming to the assumption that you, too, are here to kill him.”
The soldiers glanced at each other before grinning. “Come now, girl. That’s some stretch of imagination there. It was the Ikessars who attacked us first. If anything, what they did was a declaration of war. We’re kind enough to ignore it. The princess will still want to see her prince whole.”
“I was there. You attacked their retinue first. You—”
“Hush,” Margga brought in. She placed a hand on Namra’s shoulder before turning to the soldiers. “You can see how the demon prince has frightened her. Those Ikessars don’t understand how patient we’ve been. He fooled you, didn’t he child? Pretended he was on your side and then ran off at the first opportunity? They do that, you know. Tell them now.”
Namra stared at her in shock. The change in her voice was palpable. She turned from her to look back at the soldiers, whose swords, she realized, were drawn. She thought she saw a glint at the edges of their blades.
“Oh…” she started, suddenly realizing what she was looking at. “Run! Run now!”
In that instant, the dragon’s roar shook the sky.
The soldiers panicked. They were in dragon-lands, in Jin-Sayeng. They rode dragons here. But it was clear that they had never seen one before. One dashed towards the road and was immediately burnt to death. He was still in flames when the creature reached out to grab him by the neck, crushing his bones with one snap.
They watched in horror as the dragon began to swallow the man, its wings beating the air with every crunch. Blood sprayed between its teeth.
Two soldiers came charging it; it turned and swiped them with its tail, knocking them into the trees. Their battered bodies stopped moving almost immediately.
Namra realized she and Margga were alone, and that there was nowhere to run to. There was a hill behind them, too steep to climb. The dragon stood in front.
The Dragonlord's Call Short Story Collection Page 2
