Page 6

But it’s what he said—that word.

“Purpose,” I whisper it, trembling.

The Shaman has plans for me, and I don’t know what’s worse: dying here and now… or finding out what that purpose is.

4

RANI

“No,” Vapas reiterates.

The brothers, Khiara and Dilacs, cross their arms and growl their agreement with him. The three of them form a semi-circle behind me, daring the two Zmaj to make a move. Their tails rise arching like the stingers of a cavern scorpion, wings flaring half-open in warning. The tension burns as I take a small step forward.

“Please,” I say, keeping my hands clasped in front of myself, non-threatening. The word almost sticks in my throat. I am a Queen and saying please is not something I do, but then I am a Queen in Exile. I must do whatever it takes to keep my people safe. “This is not necessary. Surely the Al’fa will allow me an honor guard of my own people?”

“Orders,” the Zmaj on the left growls.

“Why not?” the other Zmaj asks, looking at his companion.

This one I know. His name is Chanka. He has a softer, more round face than most Zmaj, with a flat nose. His horns rise to sharp points that should make him seem more aggressive, but his face counteracts that. He has a half-smile on his face and shrugs, lowering his tail.

“We have orders,” the other Zmaj says, almost a hiss.

“Yes,” Chanka agrees. “To bring the Queen.”

I watch the two of them silent, waiting to see the outcome. Letting the situation play out and holding my tongue until I see how it ends.

“And no one else.”

“Really?” Chanka asks.

“You heard Za’tan,” the other says, harumphing, he makes a dismissive gesture at my warriors. “Why would we bring them near our Al’fa?”

“You think he worries about them? You’ve seen him in the tournaments. He’s Al’fa for a reason,” Chanka argues.

The other Zmaj’s wings rustle but he drops his tail which slaps loudly as it strikes the stone floor. He inhales sharply, glares at Chanka then shakes his head.

“If this goes wrong, it’s on you,” he says.

Chanka’s frown fades and he looks at me.

“You promise?” he asks.

“Promise?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

“No trouble. You promise?”

“I do,” I say, carefully keeping the smile from my face, though I feel it in my heart.

Chanka may be a Zmaj but he is one of the most earnest and trusting people I have ever met. In his easy trust, I see the fragile seed of a future that might yet bloom, if only I am clever enough to protect it. Which causes a chill to trail down my spine. If I fail in this, if I fail to secure the help of the Zmaj, my people will die. Or, if the Shaman accomplishes his goal and awakens the Paluga, all of us will be doomed and this world will end.

Chanka nods and his easy grin spreads over his scaly face. He turns and looks at the other Zmaj.

“See Ak’tral? She promised,” he says.

“Harumph,” Ak’tral grunts.

I file his name away. One thing I have learned in my life is to know everyone’s name. In my position, if I know their name it makes them feel special. Such a tiny thing to do, but for the person it means a lot. Or it did amongst my people at least. They always brightened, no matter how hard their troubles, they would straighten, square their shoulders, and beam with pride. For me it always seemed the least I could do to remember the name of those who surrounded me.