The Dragon's Legacy Read online

  Mutai Gon-yu (The Mountains that Tamed the Rains): mountain range in Sindan

  Mymyc: one of the kin, mymyc live and hunt in packs. From a distance, mymyc strongly resemble black horses.

  Nar Bedayyan: a sea to the west of Atualon

  Nar Intihaan: a sea to the east of Sindan

  Nar Kabdaan: a sea east of the Zeera and west of Sindan

  ne Atu: member of the royal family of Atualon

  Nian-da: a ten-day-long festival in Sindan. Any child born during this time is assumed to be fathered by a Dae man during Moonstide, and without exception is taken to Khanbul at the age of sixteen.

  Nisfi: Zeerani pride

  outlanders: term used by the Zeerani to describe people not of the Zeera

  parens: heads of the ruling families in Atualon

  pride: Zeerani clan. Also used to describe all prides as a single entity.

  Quarabala (also known as the Seared Lands): a region so hot that humans live in cities far underground

  Quarabalese: of Quarabala

  reavers: insectoid humans that have been modified by the Araids; their bite is envenomed

  Riharr: Zeerani pride

  russet ridgebacks: large (five-pound) spiders that live in underground colonies. Harmless unless they are disturbed. Their eggs are considered a delicacy in the Zeera.

  sa: heart of the soul. An expanded sense of empathy and harmony.

  Sajani (Sajani Earth Dragon, the Sleeping Dragon): according to legend, Sajani is a diva (a female dragon) who sleeps beneath the crust of the world, waiting for the song of her mate Akari to wake her

  Salarians: citizens of the salt-mining city Salar Merraj

  Salar Merraj: city of the salt miners built upon the shores of a dead salt lake; the Mer family stronghold

  sand-dae: shapes made of wind-driven sand

  Shahad: Zeerani pride

  Shehannam (the Dreaming Lands): the otherworld, a place of dreams and strange beings

  shenu: a board game popular in the Zeera

  shofar (pl. shofarot): wind instrument made from the horn of an animal

  shofar akibra: a magical instrument fashioned from the horn of the golden ram

  shongwei: an intelligent, carnivorous sea creature

  Sindan: empire that stretches from Nar Kabdaan in the west to Nar Intihaan in the east

  Sindanese: of Sindan

  Snafu: patron divine of fuckups

  Sundering: cataclysm that took place roughly one thousand years before the events of this story

  surdus: deaf to atulfah

  Tai Bardan (Mountains of Ice): mountain range in Sindan, east of Khanbul

  Tai Damat (Mountains of Blood): mountain range in Sindan on the Great Salt Road, north of Khanbul

  tarbok: goat-sized herd animal, plentiful near rivers and oases

  touar: head-to-toe outfit worn by the Zeerani wardens: head wrap and veils, calf-length robe, loose trousers, all blue

  Twilight Lands: a land at once part of and separated from the world of Men; home of the Dae

  usca: a strong alcoholic beverage popular in the Zeera

  Uthrak: Zeerani pride

  vash’ai: large, intelligent saber-tusked cats. Vash’ai are kin, descended from the first races.

  Wild Hunt (also the Hunt): deadly game played by the Huntress, a powerful being who enforces the rules of Shehannam

  wyvern: intelligent flying kin

  yendaeshi: trainer, mentor, and master to the Daechen and Daezhu

  Yosh: name of the wicked spirit or deity that rules Jehannim

  youthmistress/master (istaza/istaz): Zeerani adults in charge of guiding and teaching the pride’s young people

  Zeera: a desert south of the Great Salt Road, known for its singing dunes, hostile environment, and remote barbarian prides

  Zeeranim: people of the desert

  Zeeravashani: a Zeerani person who has bonded with a vash’ai

  A LONELY ROAD

  The wind was born of a shepherd-girl playing her lonely flute. Nimble fingers that had once danced across smooth bone were lost to memory now, sweet young breath was long gone to dust and war and the tattered cloth of memory. But the sunlight was still the same, pouring across the Zeera sweet and rich as mead poured from a pitcher of gold.

  Born of song and longing and the magic of young girls, it swept across the soft yellow dunes, rousing them to song, raising an army of wistful little sand-dae that would die before they could become anything. They danced away what time was given to them, and died without regret.

  Gusts rattled and knacked through the desiccated branches of a blackthorn, startling a hare so that she dashed from cover and fell to a hawk’s talons. The story of their battle was painted in blood, and the hawk rose from her masterpiece, screaming in triumph.

  The morning was rank with night’s dying, and hare’s breath, and the song of silenced girls. Though Theotara was past caring about omens, and though it did not matter this day whether she rode toward the shadows or toward the light or down the throat of a dragon, she caught her breath at the sound of the hawk’s scream. This in turn caused her oft-mended left leg to twitch so that her faithful old mare shuffled and stumbled a bit to the east. The old woman shrugged and changed her course.

  When all roads lead to death, she supposed, one might as well ride toward morning.

  As their path changed, so did the wind. It sang to her of death, a song of blood and fire. Zakkia tossed her fine head, sucked in a lungful of air, and let it out again in a long and thoughtful snort. Years past, the war-bred mare would have pranced and danced and fought for her head at the scent of death. Years past, the woman would have laughed and roared a challenge and plunged them both into the heart of whatever trouble lay ahead. It was a wonder either of them had lived so long.

  They had drawn close to the Bones of Eth, a place of murder and ambush. Raiders had been known to pass this way, bent on taking captives for the slave markets. Perhaps she might find a few of them nearby, and rid the world of their filth. One last battle under the sun, and then she could fade away like the sand-dae. Theotara smiled, and turned to her true companion, her one love, her breath-and-blood.

  Shall we join the dance, my Saffra’ai?

  But Saffra’ai was dead. He had gone ahead down the Lonely Road and left her all alone. The grief came crashing down once more, and its weight was staggering. Her soul reached out in vain, like a warrior groping for a severed limb.

  Zakkia wandered a bit, head nodding low. The dream-milk tea they had shared would give them three days of false life, and a gentle passage into sleep. This was the second day of their three-day journey… soon they would rest. Theotara and Zakkia had served pride and kin and herd, and none living would breathe a word of reproach if they turned aside from whatever peril lay ahead.

  After a hard life, did they not deserve an easy death?

  Theotara laughed at the thought and urged her mare on. One might as well bid the stars in the night sky to cease their shining, as well bid the hawk not take the hare, as ask an old warrior to turn her back on danger. Even on the last day of her life.

  Especially on the last day of her life.

  Mutaani, she thought. There is beauty in death. Every warrior mouthed these words, but Theotara had finally come to understand them.

  As they drew closer to the Bones, Theotara was not surprised to see carrion birds. She should have seen them earlier, damn her dim eyes. Damn the weakness that trembled in her hand. And damn whatever danger lay ahead if it thought to feed on her stringy carcass. She still had enough teeth to chew her own meat, enough strength to draw a bow and wield her sword. The sands of the Zeera would lie cold and silent before Theotara Ja’Akari was frightened off by a pile of rocks.

  Even this pile of rocks.

  The Bones of Eth was a lonely place, a shadow-stone set in gold. Nestled in the burning sands, it seemed to offer relief from the sun, a place to rest one’s weary bones. The traveler might look at the spires of rock and wonder w
hether there had once been a city here, before the Sundering, perhaps, when this land was cool and verdant. They might wonder why, when the road was so long and respite so fervently desired, travel-weary animals would balk and scream and bolt at the sight of the twisted stone columns. A wise traveler would heed the warnings of her four-legged companions and avoid the Bones altogether.

  Yet wise travelers, like old warriors, were rare as rain. The wise stayed home and grew old, while the foolish became travelers, or warriors, and died young.

  She drew her sword. Perhaps Saffra’ai was waiting for her beside the Lonely Road. Soon, she promised her heart’s companion. Soon.

  The air between the Bones was not simply cool, it was aware. The rocks shimmered and danced like a mirage on the horizon, and the ground shuddered at their touch. Theotara urged her unhappy mare between the red-and-black banded pillars of stone that thrust up from the flesh of the world like the tormented legs of a monstrous spider. A chill caressed her spine as she passed through the scant shade. This earth, these rocks, had drunk deep of rage and blood and they were thirsty for more. She could feel death, smell it in the air, hear it in the desert’s hot breath as it hissed through the Bones.

  Her heart skipped as she heard something besides the pockpock-pock of Zakkia’s hooves on stone. A hopeless sound, weak and lost, faint as the last wisp of smoke from a dead man’s campfire. The cry of a human child.

  Theotara resisted the urge to rush in. More than one of the greater predators could mimic that sound. She closed her eyes and allowed her ka, the breath of her spirit, to roll out from her body, prodding and poking at the land around her. She felt the chill regard of the Bones, and the small, warm lives of the carrion birds. She sensed no other humans, no greater predators, nothing that might be a threat to herself.

  She opened her eyes again and frowned. Something had happened here, perhaps very recently, but whatever danger there had been had passed them by. Zakkia seemed to agree. Her ears swiveled this way, and that way, and then she reached back to nip at her rider’s foot.

  Theotara nudged her horse’s teeth away and scowled, shading her eyes against the sun as it rose above the Bones of Eth. There, in the farthest and darkest corner of the clearing, was a huddle of painted wagons of the type used by merchants along the Great Salt Road to the north. She brought Zakkia down to a slow walk and as they drew nearer she could see, scattered among the broken wagons, the still and bloated forms of pack animals. One of the carrion birds lit, wings outstretched and screaming with glee. Theotara sheathed her sword. She could hardly do battle with rocks and buzzards.

  They had missed the battle, but she could still hear the piteous wails of a human child. There was work to be done. “If you cannot slay the enemy,” she had often told the younger warriors, “then save the living. If you cannot save the living, soothe the dying. Send their spirits off with a drink, a song, and fragrant smoke.

  “And never forget to loot the bodies.”

  Theotara sighed, lifted a stiff old leg over the back of her stiff old horse, and slid to the ground, grunting at the hot little needles in her knees. She could have done anything she wished with her last three days. She could have ridden down the road to Nar Kabdaan, and let the red petals of a dying sun blossom before them as they shared the last cup of tea. She had always wanted to stand before the sea, to smell the salt air and listen to the waves. She had heard that the sea sang a lovely song. That the water stretched farther than your eyes could see.

  It would have been glorious.

  The old warrior left her mare to doze in the sunlight and flapped her bony arms at the fat red buzzard that hissed at her and spread his wings. She sucked her teeth and sighed. The buzzard’s meal had, until recently, been a brace of churrim, spotted and sleek and fit. Stronger, hardier, and ornerier than horses, churrim were valuable animals. These were no more than so much spoiled meat, their graceful limbs and delicate ears broken and torn. They were not long dead, either. If she had ridden a breath faster, if she had arrived an hour earlier…

  If she had wings, she might fly to the sea.

  She turned from the slaughtered beasts and studied the broken wagons. Small, bright houses they were, all of wood and with little doors and oiled-hide windows, red lacquered roofs that reminded her of the jiinberry farmers’ broad, pointed hats. The wagons’ narrow wooden wheels were made for hard-packed roads, not for the soft singing and ever-changing sands of the Zeera. The wandering Dziranim were gone, long gone, to dust and sung bones… and yet here were their heavy wooden wagons, as if they had dropped out of the sky.

  How had they come here? Where were the people that had driven them? The smell of fresh death was heavy, and she could see a thick splattering of blood and hair and other bits. By the looks of it, someone had had his head smashed open on the side of the nearest wagon. She could all but hear the wailing spirits of the newly slain, but there were no bodies. Even a dreamshifter left bodies behind.

  There it was, then. Magic.

  Theotara felt the hair at her nape prickle. She crept closer, wishing with every step for the sharp wisdom and sharper teeth of her Saffra’ai. As she drew near, she could see what damage had been done to the beautiful wagons. Gashes and gouges such as a lionsnake’s claws might leave, or those of a larger wyvern. One of the wagons had had its roof smashed in, and the slender wooden wheels had been crushed to bits. There was an odd metal-and-sulfur smell that reminded her of the Uthraki hot springs, and the least damaged of the wagons was burning. A thin trickle of smoke breathed forth from the smashed door, and from this wagon came the sound of a crying child—if it was a child, and not some bit of fell sorcery.

  The old woman did not fear death, but she had never liked magic.

  Theotara stilled herself body and mind, closed her eyes, dug her toes into the sand through the worn, soft leather of her favorite sandals. Again she allowed her ka to unfurl like the petals of a blackthorn rose, like the supple stretch of a waking cat, like the kiss of dawn on the last long day. She opened herself to the feel of things: the buzzards filling their bellies with dead meat. Beloved Zakkia, her familiar spirit now flaring with brief, false life, now spluttering like a campfire burned down to its last embers. Her own spirit, crippled and broken, bleeding from a wound that would never heal. Half a soul weeping in the dark.

  Saffra’ai, my love, I cannot do this alone…

  She tore herself away from the truth of her own grief. There was work to be done.

  She reached her ka into the sky above, and felt nothing. In the sands about her, nothing. In and around the three crushed wagons, she discovered half a score of new ghosts, angry but impotent. In the fourth wagon…

  A small and bright life. Human. Wounded.

  No, there were two lives.

  No… one. One small candle, burning against the dark.

  Then again, two. One bright flame, and one falling into shadow. A living child, a dying adult.

  Theotara opened her eyes and grimaced as the vertigo hit, staggered a short step before shaking it off and walking toward the smoking wagon, where a child lay weeping in terror and grief because her mama would not wake up. Outlanders, no doubt, thin of blood and unlikely to survive a single day in the desert. Here they were, three days’ ride from Shahad, she with but a day to live. Theotara had no hope for herself, and less to offer another. A scant mouthful of water, the dubious honor of her company along the Lonely Road.

  And here I thought you a warrior. The thought was old and hollow, as if it had traveled a long way to reach her.

  She jerked to a stop, heart stuttering in her chest. Saffra’ai?

  Where there is life, there is hope. Did you not teach me that? Foolish human.

  Saffra’ai, beloved…

  I will wait for you, Kithren. A cat’s laugh, more felt than heard. For a while, at least. We will face the Lonely Road together… but first you must save the child.

  Then he was gone.

  Theotara crossed to the burning wagon and wrenched o
pen the broken door. A small face peered up at her, pale and streaked with soot and tears. A child with hair as red as sunset, and next to her an unconscious woman with hair of moonsilk, both of them looking as if they had been dragged through a slaughter pit. Soft-skinned outlanders, and though that woman was not dead yet she looked to be well on her way.

  Where there is life, there is hope. She looked at the child, and thought of the long road to Shahad. The woman might be dying, but the child was alive… and so, come to think of it, was she.

  Where there is hope, there is room for foolishness. Her heart, still beating, urged her to folly.

  A FALSE HOPE

  “We should go no further,” Hamran said, pulling up his sleek dun stallion. “These lands are outside our borders.” Indeed, they had ridden so far from the river that Kemmet imagined he could feel the hot breath of Jehannim upon his face.

  “Are you afraid of a few slavers?” Duna Ja’Sajani asked, pulling the veils of his blue touar down from his face and grinning at the dreamshifter. “They invade our lands every day. It is time we invade theirs.”

  Hamran met the warden’s grin with a cool stare. He had been the dreamshifter of Nisfi for a score of years, and the scorn of Duna Ja’Sajani held no fear for him. “We have lost their trail,” he pointed out, “and Ja’Sajani duty ends at the pride’s borders. We should turn back and let the Ja’Akari take up the chase, if they will.”

  “Lost the trail?” Duna leaned from his saddle and spat. “How do we know you have not simply lost your courage, old man?”

  “Kemmet says they are gone, and he can track a hawk on a cloudy day. His ka is that strong.”

  Kemmet shrank into his saddle, pinned by the stares of two powerful men. “They are gone,” he agreed.

  “Gone how? Gone away? Gone to ground? Gone fishing? Men do not simply disappear.” Duna shot a sideways look at Hamran. “Or are these slavers all dreamshifters, able to slip into Shehannam?”

  Kemmet shrugged. “They are gone, is all. I do not feel them on the wind.” He felt something, or thought he did, but did not give voice to his uncertainties and fears. This was his first time accompanying the dreamshifter on such an important task, and he did not want his master or the Ja’Sajani to decide he was too young for such responsibility.