The Forbidden City (The Dragon's Legacy Book 2) Page 42

  Sealing all their fates.

  The black arrow heard. It understood, and in its wicked dark heart it wanted nothing more than to do as it had been asked. It glowed with a fell, dark light, then it twitched in her hand, and pulled.

  This way, it whispered in a hideous little voice. Thissss wayyyy.

  “Yes,” the dreamshifter agreed. “Let it be done.” She dropped the image of her body and became a shadow, a shadow of herself with murder in her heart and an arrow in her hand. She rose up, up, into the strange flat sky…

  …and flew.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Wake up, little mouse. Wake up and live.

  Khurra’an’s voice sunk its tusks into Daru and dragged him, screaming, from a sleep so deep not even the Huntress could have found him. He jerked awake and cried out in pain and fear to find himself bound shoulder to knee with some sort of thin rope. It clung and burned his skin, and seemed to clench like the coils of a snake as he struggled.

  His head was muggy with too-hard sleep, and Khurra’an’s scornful laughter still clutched at the back of his neck, so it was some time before he could wake enough to calm himself and stop flopping around like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

  “Pakka!” he cried out, his voice tremulous and soft, a weakling laid out for the shadows’ supper. “Pakka!” She did not answer, but the shadows did. They crept forward, eyes shining red like moonslight on blood.

  At lasssst, they hissed, at lasssst.

  “Have you learned nothing, boy?” Dreamshifter’s words fell against his ears hard as stones. “In all your years with me, nothing?”

  “Stop your sniveling and act, boy!” He could see Ani frowning at him.

  Help me, Daru. Hannei’s voice was last. It sounded as if she had been crying. Help us, we are lost.

  Daru’s heart turned to hot stone at the thought of Hannei’s tears. He stopped fighting against his bonds—like spiders’ webs, he thought with disgust—and drew as deep a breath as he could manage.

  “I am coming, Hannei,” he promised. “I will save you.”

  How will you save her, little mouse? You cannot even save yourself.

  Khurra’an’s voice was more real than the others in his head, and that gave him pause. Was the vash’ai speaking to him in this world, then, and not through the Dreaming Lands?

  I will find a way, he answered, pushing the thought out as Dreamshifter had taught him. I will.

  Find your way home, then, little mouse. The great sire laughed. I will be waiting for you.

  With that, he was gone.

  Out of the dragon’s belly and into the vash’ai, Daru thought ruefully, but the conversation—dream or no—served to still his mind. He gathered up his thoughts and his wits like a farmer harvesting jiinberries, and rinsed away the foam.

  First things first, he thought. Do I know where I am? He blinked in the dark. Yes. All those years of training with Dreamshifter, all the nights spent finding his way back to his own body, had not been in vain. He knew precisely where he was in space and in time, which was something. His heart warmed a little as he thought of Dreamshifter’s approving smile, there and gone again, quick as shadows.

  Second things second. If Daru was to save Hannei, or the exceptional children, or even himself, he was going to have to do it on his own. He was not certain he wanted to save the children, though, as those butt-heads had gotten him caught in the first place. Still, he should probably at least try.

  I can do this, he realized. I can do this. His lungs cleared as he imagined Ani’s approving nod, and he took a deep breath. I am stronger than they know.

  You are stronger than you know, Hannei chided. In his mind’s eye she looked up to him, and not the other way around. In his dreams he was whole, and unafraid, an older, stronger version of Daru.

  Struggling against the spider-rope did more harm than good, and though he still wore his knives, he could not reach them. Nor could he reach the rope with his teeth, though he tried mightily, tucking his chin down on his chest as far as it would go and sticking his tongue way out, as if that would help.

  “No good,” he said aloud, then he sucked air through his teeth in alarm as one of the shadows darted forth to sip at his breath. The result was a faint whistle—wheeeee—and the shadow jumped back in alarm. Aha, he thought.

  Wheee-wheee-wheeee, he whistled through his lips, and the shadows retreated until the dark was just dark-dark, not stifling-death-dark.

  I can do something about that, too, he realized. Goat-brained idiot. He opened his dreaming eyes. The shadows were still there, of course, but they had drawn back a little at the sound of his harsh music, and drew back even more to see the dreamshifter’s apprentice remembering.

  “I am no easy meat,” Daru reminded them, and again he began to whistle. It was a simple tune, a sleeping-song, a lullaby that Hannei had sung to him when he was little, and not expected to live. He had thought her beautiful even then, and his love for her had been a light for him in dark hours. It was the best magic he knew. He closed his eyes as he whistled, imagining as he did so that she sang to him:

  Look to the stars, little one,

  Do you see me smiling at you?

  Listen to the wind, little one,

  Do you hear my voice?

  Feel the wind, little one,

  Do you remember my touch?

  Though I am long away, far away,

  I will come home to you,

  I will come home to you,

  I will come home.

  Daru filled his lungs with darkness, and sent it out into the world as magic so pure and bright and powerful that the shadows fled from that room. To his dreaming eyes the song painted a picture, of a striking young warrior stroking her moon-round belly and singing. She looked up and saw him, and her smile was wide as the midday sky.

  Little one, she sang in his dream, and dimples showed at the corners of her mouth. I will come home, I will come home… I will come home across the Zeera.

  Though he did not know why, Daru’s heart squeezed so painfully in his chest that the breath failed him at last. His music faded, and his magic, and the vision faded with them slowly, slowly.

  It was just a dream, he thought, choking on a sob. Just a dream.

  Ah, but love is a dream worth having. It was a new voice, feminine and strong as the stars. That startled Daru so that he stopped weeping.

  “Who is there?” he asked, for that voice—the Dreamer, as he thought of her—had not been born of his own imaginings. “Who are you? Will you help me?”

  There was no answer but a warm feeling around his heart.

  No, wait. Ow! A hot feeling across his chest, and his belly too. Daru tucked his chin down again and stared with his dreaming eyes in disbelief. His mother’s knives were glowing red hot, white hot, blue hot, and if he listened very closely he could hear the faintest echo of her voice, singing to him from their sharp little hearts.

  Now if only I could—He wriggled against the spider-ropes, hoping the knives might burn him free. If I could just—It was no use, he was caught fast and the knives were fading again into sleep.

  “Oh, come on,” he yelled in sheer frustration. “Shit! Fuck!” At this rate, his tongue was going to be sharper than Istaza Ani’s.

  “Peeeee-oh!” The answer came from deep in the tunnels. “Pip-pip-peeeeeee! PEEEEE-OH!”

  “Pakka!” Daru shouted, heedless of the shadows or the Nightmare Man or whatever had spun the webs that held him tight. “Pakka!” He saw a dim glow in the darkness.

  “PEEEEE-OH!” she shrieked again, her bright light illuminating the little room as she came around the corner. She danced midair, so happy to have found him, swooping and swirling till Daru’s head spun.

  “Stop!” he laughed. “You are making me dizzy. Oh, Pakka, you came back!”

  We will come home, his knives sang in their tiny little metal voices. We will come home. We will come home across the Zeera.

  “Pakka, can you—?”

  Befor
e he could finish she lit upon him and began chewing through the rope, making unhappy little noises at the taste. Snip-snip-snip went her sharp, clever little mandibles, and in no time at all his arms were free. Daru drew one of the knives, the one that was carved to look like an owl, good for seeing in the dark, and cut away the rest. Then he sat for a long moment. The darkness was not so dark to his dreaming eyes, and he breathed.

  I am grateful, he told the stars, though he could not see them. For breath, for life, for my good friend Pakka. Thank you.

  You are welcome, that strange voice replied, warm and approving. Daru shook his head, sheathed his knife, and called Pakka to him. There were enough mysteries in his life already, he decided, without chasing this one down. At least for the moment.

  “A little light, if you please,” he said. Pakka chirruped, and settled herself primly on his shoulder, and glowed like one of the moons come down to keep him company. “Thank you.” He reached into his pocket for his bird-skull flute, and sighed with relief to find it unbroken. “Shall we dance?”

  With that, Daru played his bird-skull flute. His knives heard, and sang of longing, while Pakka chirped and chirruped and lit their way. The shadows danced behind them, not daring to get close, but hungry for that music. He knew their dark hearts, just a bit. Music cut all the way down to their core. It made them feel. How could he deny them that, when it cost him so little?

  He could not.

  So he did not look back, and neither did he stop. Daru played his music and danced his way up the tunnels and out of the belly of the dragon. As he passed the passage that would lead to the Chambers of the Exceptional Children, Daru paused, music faltering in the cold, dark breeze that seemed to breathe down that fateful path. There was nothing he could do for them today, but—

  “Worry not,” he whispered into the darkness. “I will find a way to help you… somehow. I swear it.”

  The shadows giggled at his innocence, but it seemed to Daru that the Dreamer, whoever she was, approved.

  He ducked through a little round doorway and could see a faint light ahead. He could smell the fresh air, and oh, how his belly grumbled when he realized he could smell air wafting thick and warm as soup from the kitchens.

  Almost there, he thought, and his soul wept. Almost there.

  A shadow bigger than all the rest stepped into the tunnel ahead of him, barring his way to freedom. Daru yelped, his bird-skull flute shrieked, Pakka bit his ear in fright, and the shadows nearly ran up his tunic before they realized that he had stopped.

  “Stop,” it commanded in a voice so deep and resonant it made Daru’s broken arm ache. He heaved a sigh and nearly collapsed, so overwhelming was his relief. This was no greater shadow after all, but the Loremaster of Atualon.

  “Bones and ashes, I am so happy to see—”

  “Stop,” the Loremaster said again. His eyes were dark as the night sky and, it seemed to Daru, as sorrowful. He held out one hand as if he would push Daru back down into the belly of the dragon. In his other he held something strange and wonderful.

  Like the Bones of Eth, Daru thought, curious despite his pain and weariness and the strangeness of everything. If they were shrunk down so that a man might hold them.

  “What?” he asked.

  “What what?” Loremaster Rothfaust echoed, and he smiled through his great beard, though his eyes were still sad. “What am I doing here? What am I holding? Or perhaps you mean to ask, what are my plans for you?”

  “All of those, I suppose,” Daru answered. He slipped the bird-skull flute into his pocket, and Pakka peered out from behind his ear.

  “Pip-ip,” she scolded.

  “Ahhhh,” the Loremaster breathed. “What a lovely friend you have there.”

  “Thank you,” Daru replied, but all he could think was how strange it seemed to be talking to another person as if the past few days had not happened, and as if nothing were amiss in this place and time. He wondered if the Loremaster had any food about him, and if Dreamshifter had sent the man to look for him. The thought of Hafsa Azeina set his pulse to racing.

  “If you will please excuse me, Loremaster, I must—”

  “No,” the Loremaster shook his head slowly, “you must not, young man.”

  Daru began to tremble, then, and the corners of his vision started to go dark, his limbs grew weak and watery.

  No, he told the shadows. No, he told his body. Not now. No. And for the first time in his life, the shadows obeyed. His vision cleared, his knees stopped shaking, and he drew a whole breath. “I have to go,” he insisted. “I have been lost in these tunnels for… a long time. Dreamshifter must be looking for me.” Even as he said the words, a longing to see his mistress clutched at Daru’s heart so that tears were wrung from his eyes.

  “She is not,” the Loremaster replied. “I am afraid, dear boy, that the only one who has been looking for you… has just found you.”

  Nobody was even looking for me. Daru closed his eyes against a pain greater than the ache in his arm. I was lost and all alone, and nobody cared.

  “They care,” the Loremaster said softly. “The great minds of the land are turned to more important matters at the moment, that is all. What they think of as more important, in any case. And this is a good thing.”

  “Good?” Daru all but shouted. Pakka squeaked. “Good? My people have forgotten me. They might have left me to die… how is that good?” His voice broke, and he hated it. He hated the Loremaster for telling him what he did not want to know. He wanted, very much, to hate Dreamshifter for not caring enough to look for him, but he burst into tears instead.

  “Oh, they will remember, young dreamshifter, and they will come looking for you, but you will be long gone. Long gone, and far, far away. This is a good thing, a very good thing for you. Because you are in Atukos, young man, and Atukos is no place for an exceptional child such as yourself.”

  Daru stared, open-mouthed. “You know?” he asked. “I saw them. In the Downbelow, in the belly of the dragon. I saw them.”

  “Then you know.” Loremaster Rothfaust stroked his beard with his free hand. Daru’s eyes darted again to the strange thing that rested upon the man’s outstretched palm. It really did look just like the Bones of Eth.

  “What is that?” he asked finally.

  “This?” The Loremaster brought the strange miniature close to his face, and smiled at Daru through the thin, twisted pillars. “This is your door out of here, my boy. Have you ever wanted to see the stars?”

  How did he know? Daru thought, so startled he forgot that he was supposed to be crying. “What?”

  “Come, Daru, it is time for us to leave this place. It is not your fate to wear a golden mask, to have your magic drained by this Dragon King, or by any king. There is a much kinder fate in store for you, kinder and greater than even you might imagine.” He held out his free hand. “Come with me, and I will show you.”

  A kinder fate. Daru wiped his tears on the back of his good hand, and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No thank you. My fate is here.”

  Without warning the Loremaster pursed his lips and blew upon the miniature Bones of Eth. They began to spin, slowly at first, but then faster, throwing off little red sparks as they did so, and opening like the petals of some weird and exotic flower. Daru gasped as the air between the petals darkened and opened with a crackling pop and a smell like burnt metal.

  It is a door, he thought in panic, like a door to the Dreaming Lands. He tried to back away, to run away.

  “I am sorry, child,” the Loremaster said, as the darkness opened up to swallow them both whole. “I am so, so—”

  “No,” Daru cried, “I have to help Dreamshifter. I have to help Hannei.” But it was too late. The world beyond the door had been flung open, and he was pulled through and up, and then he was falling, falling, falling through the song and dreams of an alien sky.

  Or was he flying? The stars were singing to him, welcoming him home.

  He was flying.

&nbs
p; FIFTY-FOUR

  She found him in the mountains, in a corner of the Dreaming Lands that was nearly devoid of life, if not charm. It was a lonely place, the loneliest she had ever seen, all bare rock and scorched earth and the jagged ends of dead trees thrusting up through the flesh of the earth like broken bones.

  The wind sang, even here, and the light shone, and she could see why he had chosen this as his heart’s home. It was lonely, yes, and sorrowful in its loneliness—but there was power, and a kind of stark beauty that was almost love.

  It is the perfect home, she thought, for a wyvern.

  For a king.

  The golden wyvern had dug his cave into the side of a sere and pitiless peak, leaving a dark hole staring from the ashen precipice like the jealous eye of a blinded king brooding over the lands he had claimed. He lay upon a narrow ledge barely wide enough to accommodate his bulk, curled round and round himself and seemingly asleep. As she drew nearer, the dreamshifter could see that the golden wyvern—kima’a of the Dragon King—was bound as Sulema was bound—as she herself was bound—by magic and by choice.

  The wyvern’s bonds had been grown and nurtured and strengthened through debt and obligations in the waking world, as well as by those who held claim to his heart. Here was the white-hot chain of Akari Sun Dragon, the dragonglass links of Atukos. Strands of the Web of Illindra and the Shroud of Eth—no surprise there, as he had long had dealings with the shadow-sorcerers of Quarabala. Vines of green and gold, webs of intrigue and the shadowy, sticky stuff of lies held him fast in sleep even as they held him in life.

  As she drew nearer, the dreamshifter’s song faltered as in the waking world she caught her breath—nestled and imprisoned within the wyvern’s coils lay the white fennec, small and forlorn in this terrible place, trembling in the wyvern’s shadow. The wyvern was bound to his daughter, tied by bonds of loyalty, of love, of treason and deceit, and of blood.

  Her chest tugged painfully, and Hafsa Azeina looked down in surprise to see strands of moonsilk reaching out, yearning toward the great golden being that lay before her.