The Forbidden City (The Dragon's Legacy Book 2) Page 32

  “Your face!” she exclaimed, doubling over with laughter. “Ah, brother, your face!” She straightened, giggling and dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes with her long red sleeves. “Not to worry, Jian Sen-Baradam. Very few assassins are as good as I.”

  “You are an assassin?” he asked. “I thought you were a—ah, that is…”

  “You thought I was a whore.” Her teeth were very sharp, indeed.

  “Ah, a comfort girl, yes.”

  “Oh, I offer men comfort, surely.” She swayed closer, so much closer Jian could smell her spiced breath. Her lips were plump and red as ripe cherries, and he could not bring himself to look away. “Though perhaps not the comfort they are hoping for.” She did that thing with her arm again, and Jian gasped to find two dagger-points pressed to his throat. “I offer the comfort of death.”

  He held very, very still. He thought she was joking, but his heart dropped down into his stomach just in case.

  “Now I know where the term ‘cold comfort’ comes from,” he told her. “How do you keep your blades so chill?”

  Giella laughed again, and twirled, and the blades disappeared. “Twilight magic, of course. My mother gifted them to me, just as your father gifted your sword to you. Your blade is still sleeping, unblooded. My children…” There was a flash of blue steel, there and gone before Jian could blink. “…are very much alive.”

  Jian gripped the hilt of his sword and frowned. It seemed to him unlikely that his blade would remain unblooded much longer.

  “As delighted as I am to see you, Sister,” he allowed, “surely you have not come here to discuss buildings, or blades.”

  “No, I have not, but the words I have for you are for you only, and where there are songs, there are ears.” Giella took a step toward Jian, and this time the boards wailed beneath her weight. “The sun is so hot, and my skin so delicate. I would bathe my feet in the sea. If you would be so kind…?”

  “Delicate, yes, that is exactly the word I would use to describe you.” He laughed and offered his arm, she laughed and took it, and together they walked down the step, continuing out and through the village, down the path to the wide, wide sea.

  * * *

  Jian stood with one foot in the sea, and one foot on land.

  “You are like a poem contained in a single character of script,” Giella said. “Very clever.”

  Jian nodded, pleased that she had seen and understood. He had felt thus since his return from the Twilight Lands, and indeed for most of his life. Half his soul was in the sea, and the other half had been dragged onto shore in some wicked net from which he could never escape. He said none of this, of course, knowing how much worse it must be for her, for Tsali’gei, for the other Daechen and Daezhu born and raised among the Dae, only to be abandoned to the world of men.

  A mist rose from the bubbling little waves at their feet. Giella stretched her arms out to either side and tipped her head back, eyes closed, mouth parted in a small and ecstatic smile as the sea wove a safe space about her children. There were voices in the mist—silver as bells, golden as a ram’s horn—and they were calling, calling, calling the children home. Jian shuddered as the mist closed over his head and he was seized with a sudden desire to charge into the water and swim for the Twilight Lands, to Yosh with the world of men and all its trouble.

  “You cannot,” Giella murmured, never opening her eyes. “We cannot. Our people gave us into this world for a reason, Jian Sen-Baradam, and we may not stray from that path until we have wrought our doom upon the lands of men.”

  Jian dug his bare toes into the sand, grounding himself, and willed the urge to pass.

  “What did you bring me here to discuss?” he asked. “Surely not the futility of our hearts’ desires.”

  She tipped her head up and looked at him then. Her dark eyes were full of reproach.

  “That was unkind.”

  “I am sorry.” And he was.

  “Now it is my turn to be cruel.” She tugged at her short poof of white hair and gave an exasperated sigh. “I do not usually like people, so I am not sure how to tell you this without pain, so I will just—”

  “Tsali’gei.” Jian knew. He knew, and sudden dread sucked the air from his lungs in a sour whoosh. He grabbed Giella by the shoulders and almost shook her. “She is dead. She is dead. Tell me she is not dead.” His voice broke into a roar. “Tell me!”

  “I am trying to tell you,” Giella snapped, wriggling free so that Jian was holding thin air and cold fog. “No, she is not dead, Jian. At least—”

  “By the sea,” Jian breathed, almost staggering as his knees went weak with relief. “By the sea, thank the dragon.”

  “At least not yet, Brother, but I have terrible news for you.” This time, she grasped his arms, and her grip was surprisingly strong. “Your wife has been secluded within the innermost circles of the emperor’s wives and concubines, but wherever women gather, women talk. It is well known by now that Tsali’gei has not had her moons-blood since arriving in the Forbidden City.”

  Jian sat down hard. Together they crouched, suspended between earth and sea, wrapped in an opaline shroud of twilight magic, orphans clinging to each other on a foreign shore.

  “She is with child,” Jian told the sea, wondering whether his father could hear. “My Tsali’gei is with child. I am to be a father.” The waves clutched at his trousers and robes.

  “Jian Sen-Baradam,” the Daezhu told him sternly, gripping him even harder, “your woman is with child, but you will never be a father. Not if that turtle-hearted Xienpei has her way. By now, she and the emperor both know.”

  “Wait,” Jian said, struggling to his knees. “Wait. Xienpei wanted this child to be born, else why—”

  “She wanted this child to be born,” Giella interrupted again, her voice as soft and implacable as a river’s song. “Because the blood of such a child holds much power. Enough power to grant the darkest wishes of her heart.”

  “Or the emperor’s heart,” Jian guessed, thinking of the blood pennies with which he had been gifted.

  “Heart of Illindra, Soul of Eth,

  “Blood of the innocent condemned to death.”

  Jian could not breathe. Fear for his child—a child about which he had only just heard, a child who had not yet been born—seized him in its jaws.

  “Long has the emperor wished to destroy the false king in Atualon,” the Nightingale sang, wrapping him in wings of sister-love. “He will most certainly reason that the blood of your child—and of Tsali’gei, your wife—might give him and his luminists the power they need to wage the war he so lusts after. And Xienpei wishes nothing so much as to replace the vile Karkash Dhwani at his side. Their lives will be the coin she offers up to him for that privilege.”

  Cold waves slapped at Jian’s hand, with which he was gripping his sword. Cold fog twisted its fist in his hair, dragging him to his feet. Cold were his heart and voice as he stood and made a vow that would see him dead—or the Forbidden City in flames.

  “Daeshen Tiachu will not have them,” Jian growled. “He will not have them.” Three times, making it true, “He will not have them.” Far away, across the waves, a horn sounded once, twice, three times.

  Make it so.

  The White Nightingale stood and faced him, dark eyes bright and predatory. She held out her hand, palm up. A twist of her wrist, a quick slice, and her palm welled with crimson.

  “Are you with us, Jian Sen-Baradam? Will you join your brothers and sisters in our fight against Daeshen Tiachu?”

  This time, Jian did not hesitate. He drew the sword his father had given him and ran his left hand down the sharp blade.

  “By my blood,” Jian vowed, “I will.” He clasped her bloody hand with his own, and the bitter salt of their lost innocence dripped into the ocean. Swirling, swirling, swirling, making it true.

  Blood and water and salt, Jian thought, staring into the water. It seemed to him that he had never seen anything so tragic, or so beautiful.
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  THIRTY-NINE

  Sulema sat on the Heir’s Throne, a smaller and simpler version of her father’s great chair, and looked down upon the matreons and patreons, mistresses and masters and other elevated citizens of Atualon. It seemed to her that she was spending too much time looking down at people these days, and that she missed the days when she was but a single warrior among many.

  She missed the tents and cushions of the Zeeranim. These damn wood-and-gold chairs were ridiculous. She wriggled her butt deeper into the embroidered cushions and grumbled. Behind her, above her, she heard her father chuckle.

  “You will get used to it,” he promised, “with time. If it is any consolation, this chair is much worse.”

  Sulema sighed and resigned herself to having a sore backside—at least, until she could figure out a way to escape this blasted place.

  The heralds rattled their little hand drums, announcing the arrival of the assemblage’s most anticipated guest, and Sulema sat up straighter as her heart turned over. Cassandre entered, robes of red and orange and palest yellow flowing behind her like streamers of silken fire, moonstones glittering in her hair and at her brow, the little belled slippers upon her feet, felted and turned up at the toes like the boots worn by Sindanese soldiers, chiming a merry little tintinnabulation as she strode down the wide aisle.

  Behind the master painter came a veritable palette of apprentices, each veiled head-to-slipper in a single color so they seemed a living rainbow flowing behind their mistress. They bore between them a narrow wooden stage, and upon this stood the much-anticipated portrait of Sulema Sa Atu, taller than the girl herself and covered in a drape of demure white. A corner of the painting’s frame peeked out, a sly wink of gold, and Sulema grinned despite her misgivings. She rather dreaded her father’s reaction to the painting—he had wanted her to be made in his image, not her own—but still she felt the thrill of anticipation.

  Cassandre came to an abrupt halt before the thrones so that her robes swirled about her feet in a puddle of color. The apprentices stopped more gradually, lowered the painting with a great deal of care, and two of them took hold of the white cloth.

  “Master Painter,” Wyvernus intoned, “we have given you this task, to create for us a likeness of our precious daughter.”

  Cassandre dropped to one knee, head bowed, but not before catching Sulema’s eye with a saucy wink.

  “Yes, your Arrogance.”

  “And have you completed this task to our satisfaction?”

  “Only you may be the judge of that, your Arrogance,” she replied. “It is my deep honor to present to you”—here she paused for yet more dramatic effect—“Sa Atu, the Heart of Atualon, the Dragon’s Legacy…” She gestured, and her apprentices whipped the white cloth away with the grace of long practice, “Sulema ne Atu, first of her name.”

  Sulema gasped and sprang halfway from her chair, both hands covering her mouth. The portrait was stunning, it was—

  “Ahhhh,” Wyvernus breathed.

  —it was all wrong. Cassandre had painted her like one of Atualon’s high ladies, in silk robes of gold and white which gleamed pearlescent in the faux dawn. The golden rays of Akari Sun Dragon kissed her hair, unbraided and flowing down her back. Her cheeks were flushed, lips slightly parted, and in her hand she held the Orb as a child might hold a favorite toy.

  I have been betrayed. Sulema settled back into her chair, aghast. I thought she was my friend. I thought—

  Cassandre caught her gaze and raised a saucy brow. Trust me, her eyes said.

  “Perfect,” Wyvernus enthused. “Well done, Master Painter. We are well pleased, indeed. What do you say, Daughter?” His hand fell heavy and warm on her shoulder and gave a squeeze.

  Sulema blinked as the portrait swam before her eyes, as if it were a reflection in the river. Another image lay behind the first, bright and true, of herself as a warrior, standing straight and proud—and free—beside her Atemi. Her eyes were harsh as gold coins, mouth set in a hard line, and her shamsi was half-drawn as if she would challenge her viewer to a fight.

  She blinked again, and the glamour settled itself. Once more a ne Atu of Atualon gazed out at her, placid and sweet.

  Magic, she thought. Powerful magic indeed, to fool the Dragon King. If he were to suspect…

  “It is beautiful,” she agreed, reaching up to place her hand over his warm grip. The Dragon King gave her shoulder another squeeze, and a small tug to one of her braids.

  “Perhaps you should wear your hair like that,” he suggested. “And you should smile more. It is a shame to hide such a beautiful smile.”

  “Yes, Father,” she agreed, smiling in truth as she saw the true Sulema Ja’Akari swim to the surface once again, grim and gorgeous. “You are right, of course.”

  He sees only what he expects to see, she realized. He has never seen me, at all.

  In the king’s blindness lay her chance at escape.

  * * *

  She stood in front of her portrait in the Hall of Dragons, long after her father and his courtiers had parted. Let them think her vain, as much as they thought beyond their own illusions. This portrait was her way out. She could feel it.

  Saskia cleared her throat to warn of Cassandre’s approach, but Sulema had heard the master painter’s belled slippers chiming three hallways down. She leaned forward, so close her nose almost touched the portrait. Though it was masked by the smell of oils and pigment Sulema caught a faint whiff of… sweat and horse. A small thrill ran through her.

  “Well?” Cassandre’s voice was low and amused. “Is it perfect, your Radiance?”

  “You are horrible,” Sulema replied. She laughed, and turned to hug the other woman. “I love you. I would ask how you did it, but I can hardly draw stick people in the sand. Only…” she bit her lip.

  “Yes?” Cassandre’s smile faltered, and a quick scowl flashed across her face. “Is there something wrong with the painting?” “There had better not be,” her voice warned.

  “No-oooo,” Sulema said, “but there may be something wrong with me. I do not feel any different. I see myself as I would be—free, and proud, and whole, but I do not feel any different,” she repeated. “I am still wounded, and ill. I—I cannot help myself, much less my people. How do I go from this”—she tugged at her gold and white robes—“to that?” She pointed with her chin at her warrior’s portrait.

  “Ah, my dear,” Cassandre took Sulema by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. “I have done what I can, but I am only the artist. The painting is complete. I have put my magic into it, as well as your blood, sweat, and tears. Your task is to put your heart into it, and then you will realize its full potential. This painting holds no power, nor will it, until you believe in the dream yourself.”

  “So it is all up to me, now.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sulema sighed.

  “Well, fuck.”

  * * *

  Sulema remained long into the night, even as the moons chased each other from window to window down the length of the great hall, even as Saskia, muttering her discontent, leaned her back against a wall and drifted into the not-sleep of a warrior on guard.

  She stood before the painting until her legs ached, and then she sat crosslegged on the dragonstone floor until her ass was numb and her spine a column of fire. She could see her true form revealed, could feel that this was her portal to freedom, but she could not see her way in. Even if she could enter the painting, would she be able to take anyone with her? Mattu and Matteira, she knew, would be in terrible danger, the moment Pythos returned to Atukos. She would take Saskia, as well, and her mother—

  “What are you doing?”

  Sulema jumped at the sound of Hafsa Azeina’s voice. She had not heard her approach.

  “I—” She turned, but there was nobody there.

  “Open your dreaming eyes, child.”

  “Oh.” Sulema tried, tried harder, and her mother’s image, pale and wan, stood beside her. “I am…” S
he stopped, unsure how much she should reveal, even to her mother.

  “Ahhhh, now, this is magic.” Hafsa Azeina’s form flickered, and she stood just in front of the portrait. “Very interesting. I have heard of—” She stopped and turned to face Sulema. “So you would use this magic to escape?”

  “Yes,” Sulema admitted. “I know you would teach me dreamshifting, but—”

  “This is a very good idea, Sulema. I do not have time to teach you to dreamshift to the point that you might escape Atualon.” Her dreaming form wavered again and stood close to Saskia. “And the price is too high to pay.”

  Sulema glanced toward Saskia. A sword sister was as trusted as one’s own self, but this…

  She need not have worried. Saskia stood slumped against the wall, eyes closed, mouth open, caught in a dreamshifter’s web. She turned once again to her mother.

  “What price?” She stared at her mother’s flickering form. “Hold still, you are making me dizzy.” Sudden realization dawned. “Do you speak of… whatever you did, when you stole me away all those years ago?”

  “Yes.” Her mother hovered, disconcertingly, a hand’s width above the floor. “We were betrayed. The people who had promised to deliver us to freedom planned, instead, to take us to Min Yaarif and there ransom us to the highest bidder. I could not allow that to happen, and I was no warrior. I did a terrible thing, paid a terrible price, to get you away from them.”

  “What?” Sulema whispered. “What did you do?”

  “Are you certain you wish to know?”

  “Yes.”

  No.

  “I…” Hafsa Azeina’s dreaming body winked out for a long moment before reappearing. “I killed my Basta, my kima’a, and ate her heart. I became—”

  “Annu,” Sulema whispered, horrified. “Dream eater.” The stuff of nightmares.

  “Yes,” her mother answered in a calm voice. “The demon Annubasta, eater of dreams, able to travel the Dreaming Lands in the flesh.”

  Dream eater. Sulema tried very hard not to cringe away from her mother.

  “You can see how this is a better way,” Hafsa Azeina continued as if she did not notice. “You do not become a demon, and your father—and his shadowmancers—are far less likely to suspect that you might try this. Atukos is warded against your dreamshifting, you know.”