Page 13

13

ESSA

R ohree brought the enemy poet to the stables shortly after dawn. He’d been handsome when I met him at first on the road, but he looked far better now, washed and combed and dressed in a proper Maethalian tunic and cloak rather than his strange foreign clothing. I still felt like a crumpled piece of parchment after yesterday’s fall. The healers had looked me over and assured me I’d suffered no serious damage—although the bruises, they said, would be mighty. Still, under the stranger’s gaze I couldn’t help but feel oddly self-conscious, as if I were broken in some way I wasn’t quite aware of, and I brushed a strand of hair out of my face nervously.

He smiled and bowed.

“Your majesty,” he said in that low, strangely-accented voice, all choppy consonants and oddly stretched vowels.

I laughed at him. “Do you think you’re talking to my mother?” I asked. “You may call me Essa.”

His brow wrinkled. “Just showing due respect, your—I mean, Essa.” He looked rather adorable when he was disconcerted. I decided to keep him in that state as much as possible today, just for fun—and, perhaps, to see how he would respond. My own little war.

I looked to Rohree. “Has he been giving you any trouble?”

“Far less than you usually do,” the sprite sniffed. She’d been my personal attendant for many years and knew better than anyone what a brat I was. I didn’t doubt Kit was a dream compared to me.

I turned back to the enemy. “I thought today I might give you a tour of the city. Would that please you?”

“Sure,” he nodded. “Thank you.”

“Excellent,” I said, mounting Sisha. “Let’s go.”

“On horseback?”

I arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re ready for dragon back just yet, do you? Besides, its forbidden for foreigners to ride dragons.”

He glanced around. “Is there a horse for me?”

I repressed a smile. “One horse worked fine for us last time,” I patted Sisha’s haunch behind me. “Up you go.”

Rohree gave me an amused but reproachful look as the reporter clambered up awkwardly behind me. But once he was in place, he surprised me by wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, pulling my body against his with a force that made my breath catch. I glanced back to find his face only inches from mine, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Don’t want to fall off. Your majesty,” he said.

The smile he gave me was bold. Teasing. Ferocious. It took a few seconds for me to remember we were only inches apart.

“No, indeed,” I said. “It would be a shame to lose you so soon. We only just found you.”

I gave Sisha a nudge and we surged away, leaving Rohree shaking her head in our wake.

* * *

Issastar was a large city, made up of six major districts. It held so many wonders it would have taken weeks to show Kit them all, but I made a good start. We started at Downcity, where I took him on a walk along Sand Crescent. I showed him how to find the best seashells along the water’s edge and how to pick out sea relics—bits of carved marble that are the remnants of the lost city of Eoshad, which sank during the second elven civil war three eons ago.

“Here,” I said, placing one in his hand. “They say they’re lucky.”

“They’re part of a city that blew up?” he asked. “How lucky can they be?”

“I never thought of it that way,” I laughed.

He showed me how to fling rocks and make them skip across the water. Apparently, I learned, it’s all in the wrist.

Next, I took him to the wharfs. The tide was coming in, and we sat on an old dock with our toes in the water and watched the white-sailed fishing boats and the gray-sailed war ships and the gold-sailed merchant ships coming into port.

“I haven’t sat here and watched the ships come in since I was a girl,” I said, closing my eyes to enjoy the sun on my face. “My Auntie Dreya used to take me here. In Maethalia, aunts teach their nieces and uncles their nephews.”

“Did you come here often?” he asked.

“We did before my accident. After that, Auntie felt I needed extra training, so there was no time for frivolous things like trips to the bay.”

I opened my eyes to find him staring at me.

“Sorry. I was just…” he blinked and looked away quickly.

“Imagining how you might strangle me and become a hero to your nation?” I asked, nudging him with my shoulder.

He smiled. “Something like that. Actually, I was noticing your necklace. Is that?—?”

He reached for the stone that hung on the silver chain around my neck. Instinctively, I slapped his hand away—far harder than I meant to. He pulled back, his eyes hard.

I wanted to apologize, but stopped myself. Better to be cruel than weak.

“Never touch a rider’s dragon stone,” I said, my fingers going to the necklace’s smooth gem. I glanced down at it. Beneath the stone’s gray-blue surface, its power swirled and glowed, like sunlight glowing behind clouds.

“Is it… magick?” he asked.

I smiled, trying to lighten the mood again. “It’s only the beginning of the magick you’ll see here in Issastar.” I said. “Come. I have more to show you.”

I took him to the fish market next where the mongers shouted prices in three different tongues and tossed fishes back and forth and did tricks with their sharp knives as they cut fillets for their patrons. For lunch I bought him a strip of kotash, sweet and salty dried fish that sailors eat on long journeys, and a jar of jinjin, the fermented juice of the prickle fruit from the far away Under Isles, which sailors use to get drunk. In fact, we each drank a jar of jinjin, which perhaps wasn’t the wisest thing to do.

You’re in the company of an enemy, I reminded myself. But the poet didn’t seem much like an enemy today. His questions seemed more the sort a curious little boy would ask, rather than a shrewd scribe.

Do you have pirates here?

Do you like to sail?

Have you ever been seasick?

They say there are merfolk in Maethalia. That can’t be true, can it?

This last question prompted me to take him to see the Downcity merman. Ever since I was a little girl the merman had been there, sitting each day in a wooden tub outside the crab fishers’ warehouse with a bucket set out in front of him to collect coin from out-of-town visitors who’d come to the city to see the sights. He was still there, but he looked older and shabbier than he had when I’d last seen him. His beard was longer and grayer, his eyes more distant. But when he took up his pipes, the tune he played was as lively as ever.

I sighed, saddened to see this icon from my childhood looking so bleak. “He looks so lonely,” I said, half to myself. “You can tell he’s broken. It’s a shame he isn’t a woman.”

Kit glanced at me. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just too bad he’s not a woman, so he’d be stronger,” I explained.

Kit blinked. “Because women are stronger than men, you’re saying?”

I met his glare. “Of course. It’s well known. Why? Is that not known in your country?”

Kit shook his head. “Well... I’ve known plenty of tough, smart women. But back in Admar, the men do the working and the fighting and the women mostly cook and clean and take care of children. Of course, there are career girls…” Here he trailed off for a moment. “But mostly they rely on their husbands. Because the thinking is, men are stronger.”

I laughed. Then I laughed harder. The silent spasms of mirth shook me until I had to bend over and rested my elbows on my knees.

“Oh my,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. “I think we’ve just discovered what’s wrong with your country, my friend. Push a squirming human out of your genitals or fight a female Skrathan in the war ring then tell me about how men are stronger than women—if you still have the breath to speak. Ha. Wow. Your country is run by men…” she laughed again.

“Alright. Maybe we should settle this with a pull-up contest,” Kit joked. Then he glanced at my missing hand and stopped himself, clearly realizing his mistake. I watched with amusement as the color drained from his face.

“Fine. A one-armed pull up contest,” I said. A low tree branch spread over us. I stretched up and grabbed it with my one good arm. Then, using all my strength, I pulled myself up until my nose touched the branch. I managed to do it two more times before dropping back to the ground, trembling and already beginning to sweat. Several people around us applauded.

Kit stared at me with something like wonder. Then he shook his head. “Fine. You win. Women are stronger,” he said—ending the conversation with a hint of a smile.

We both turned back to the merman. “Now come on. Is he real? Or is that tail fake?”

“Tug on in if you don’t believe me,” I scoffed. “Why would his tail be fake?”

“So people will put money in his bucket.”

I frowned at him. “Why would having a fake tail make people give him coin? He’d be a liar.”

“There are all sorts of swindlers like that in Canal Square in Ironberg,” he said. “There’s a woman who pretends to have three legs, only one of them’s made of paper maché. And another fella has trained his dog to lie down and act sick, so people will feel bad and toss him a few pennies. And there’s another one, a little short woman who pretends to be a lost child, and she?—”

I grunted. “Well, we Maethalians are not as deceitful as you necromancers,” I said. “He is a real merman. I’ve been coming here to watch him since I was a girl. Watch. He’s getting ready to call the birds.”

Just as I spoke, the old man took out a set of smaller, more high-pitched pipes and played a sad tune. From all around, seagulls came, wheeling and cawing, to land near him. Some splashed down in his tub with him, others roosted on his head or shoulders, or on the dock nearby.

“They say he lived on the shoals off Rograd Point,” I said. “When the war began, his people were all driven away and scattered. He’s the only one left.”

I watched the poet watching the merman.

“Poor guy,” he said at last, and dug his hand into this pocket, but it came out empty. “Hah. I forgot. No wallet.”

I reached into the pouch at my belt and gave him a silver. He took it and dropped it into the merman’s bucket. The old piper gave him a nod.

“Very interesting,” I said when we were walking again.

“What?”

“To see that you’re charitable. You necros are supposed to be nothing but robbers and pirates and crooked merchants.”

“Well, some of us are,” he said with a smile. “Just not me. I still don’t get the necros thing, by the way.”

“You use machines, which are inanimate objects brought to life,” I explained. “And to make them and fuel them, you use petrol, which is derived from the dead. It is a form of necromancy. And it is written that such things will one day bring disaster upon our people—and upon all the world.”

“Right. Motorcars and planes are pretty handy, though.”

I eyed him. “You would choose convenience over morality?”

“Depends on what day you ask me,” he joked, then sighed. “When you put it that way... I guess not. But good luck convincing the car companies and railroads and airlines that they’re wrong.”

“I don’t have to convince them,” I stopped walking and turning to him. “I only have to convince you.”

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? You convince me your way is right, then you send me back to convince my people.”

I nodded.

“And what if you can’t convince me?”

“Then you’re an idiot,” I said. “Maybe I’ll slap a fake tail on you and put you in a tub next to the merman. You could bring in a few coins that way, I imagine.”

He gave me a thoughtful smile. “You’re not what I expected from a dragon rider.”

“No? Why not?”

“Well… you have a sense of humor, for one.”

I shrugged. “Every time a Skrathan flies, death flies with us. You either cry or you laugh.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

At those words, an unexpected anger rose in my chest, along with an image of Paemalla laid out on the stone floor—and of the brothers and sisters and friends I’d lost before her. “ Do you understand, poet?”

“I’m a reporter, technically?—”

I interrupted him. “You risk paper cuts and ink-stained fingers. A rider risks—” I brought the stump of my right arm up between us, holding it in his face so he couldn’t help but look at it. “Everything.”

I waited for him to look away. Everyone looked away from the shiny, rounded, scarred stump where my forearm ended. Only he didn’t look away. He looked right at it, then into my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low with sincerity.

He meant that he was sorry for insulting me, I guessed. But it felt like more than that. It felt like he was sorry about what had happened to my arm. To me. And in all these years, no one had ever said that to me. They ignored it. Or whispered about it. Or joked about it. Or babied me. Or pitied me. But nobody, not once, had ever simply looked at my arm and said, I’m sorry.

Tears welled in my eyes. The poet didn’t look away. Instead he came closer, as if he might reach out to me, embrace me, comfort me, but I turned away fast, wiping the tears away and hoping he hadn’t noticed them.

“Come,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even. “There is more to see.”

* * *

We tied Sisha to a hitching post and made our way up the Jagged Stair and into the neighborhood called Belltower, or Jordamtor in the old tongue. There were many sprites about performing errands for their masters, their antlers making the lines of highmarket look like a thicket of twigs. Dwarves bustled about, too, their rings and golden necklaces and brightly polished chainmail glinting in the midday sun, the air pleasantly scented with the musky perfume they favored.

A hush fell over the square and I turned to see people hurrying out of the way as the sound of tromping boots and jangling mail drew near. I stood on my tiptoes and craned my neck to see a troop of warriors in wicked-looking black armor marching toward us, carrying a banner of plain black.

“Who are they ?” Kit asked.

“Lacunae. Warriors of the Gray Brotherhood,” I said, distaste wrinkling my nose as I watched them march past.

“I’ve heard of them,” Kit said. “Our boys in the trenches are terrified of them. I’ve never seen one up close…”

I could tell from his expression he was impressed, and not a little dismayed by their presence. Which wasn’t surprising. The Lacunae had that effect on everyone with their massive stature, narrow slitted helms, dark cloaks and general aura of bleakness and death.

“No one likes them,” I admitted. “But they’re necessary. The crown’s army would have folded long ago without them. That’s why Prelate Kortoi, leader of the Brotherhood, has such power.”

“Prelate Kortoi?” he asked, as if startled by the name.

“You’ve heard of him?” I asked. The thought that Kortoi’s fame extended across the sea was disconcerting.

“Yes,” he said. “The Prelate… I’d like to meet him one of these days.”

I frowned. “I can’t imagine why. But perhaps we can set up an introduction, if you want...”

The Lacunae had marched on, and in their wake the crowd returned to their business.

“Come,” I said, shaking off the dismal feeling the Lacunae had left behind. “I have more delicacies for you to sample.”

We purchased a snack of sausage and honey roll from an elvish looking waif at a food cart, then hiked up and sat on a stone bench at overlooking Oerl Spring. The spring had been dammed up in centuries past to form a lovely reservoir of clear water, and from its west end the Falls of Cheselie dropped over two hundred feet. From here, we could see the dragon hatchery, the palace, and almost the entire city of Issastar.

Off to our left, the two towers that gave the Belltower district its name stood looking down on it all.

“What’s the story with those?” The reporter asked, pointing up at them.

“Those are Sytor and Ertor, the two towers. They were supposed to represent the Earth Mother and Star Father who came together to beget the elvish race hundreds of eons ago. The one that is broken off is Sytor. It was supposedly destroyed by a raid of rival dragon riders thousands of years ago, before Aulucia the White united all riders under one banner. Ertor still remains. The bell in it rings when danger threatens the city, and watchers sit there night and day, watching for enemy war machines coming across the strait.”

“Your people still worship them, don’t they?” the reporter asked. “Earth Mother and Star Father?”

I nodded. “Star Father gives us things like magick, scrying, mathematics, and poetry. Earth Mother is responsible for the forests and fields and springs and seas. And love—physical love.”

As I spoke those words, I was surprised to feel warmth flooding to my cheeks. The stranger watched me so intently. No one had looked at me like that in a long time, not even Braimar.

Was it a sort of bravery that made him look at me so? Was it defiance? Should I be offended? Or flattered? Or…? I was overthinking. Stop.

“So you have just the two gods?” he was asking.

I blinked, shrugging off my previous thoughts. “Not exactly,” I said. “Everything has its own spirit, every rock and stone and tree and star. But it is Earth Mother and Star Father who bring these different beings into relationship with humans.”

“That’s a very succinct description of an entire religion,” the reporter said, licking honey from one of the rolls off his thumb. “Well done.”

I laughed. “Oh, there’s a great deal more I could get into. The daemons of abyss and negation. The lineages and traits of the twelve houses of dragons. The One-Hundred Saga. The Nine Forbidden Acts. The high and low magicks. How much time do you have, poet?”

He smiled. “Well, I haven’t seen any flights leaving out of Maethalia to take me back home, so I imagine I have a lot of time. And remember, I’m a reporter, not a poet. You can call me—uh, Kit.”

I returned his smile, but mine was cold. “You have time. I do not... The challenge looms over me. By the way, what did you think of our first challenge event yesterday?”

“Impressive,” he said.

“More impressive than your country’s flying contraptions?” I pressed.

His expression was smug. “Impressive,” he said again. “But I’m biased, I think.”

Naturally it would take more than one demonstration of dragons’ prowess to make him recognize our superiority. Still… his response annoyed me. I tried to change the subject. “Tell me about your country’s religion.”

He gazed out across the city and sighed. “Not much to tell, really. We have just the one god. Zero magicks.”

“And your god, he is both creator and punisher, yes?”

“Right,” he said. “In the afterlife the good get eternal salvation, the bad get eternal suffering. Pray to the fellow upstairs and he’s supposed to listen and help you. And then there’s his daughter, Sophi, who came to earth and was enslaved for twelve years. She whispered secret wisdom among the slaves, then, on the day she was to be executed for her insubordination, the chains on the wrists of all the slaves transformed into water and they were freed. She became a mist and floated up to heaven in front of a cloud of a thousand witnesses.”

“That sounds like a powerful magick,”

He yawned. “If it really happened. It was three thousand years ago, after all. Who knows? Say, that market down there doesn’t have coffee or cigarettes, does it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what those things are.”

He groaned.

“But wait. Go back,” I pressed. “You sound skeptical. Do you not believe in your god?”

He’d been turning a pebble between his finger and thumb. He threw it now, sending it skipping down the path. “I should,” he said. “I’ve been luckier than most. But some of my biggest prayers were never answered. And Sophi’s great wisdom hasn’t done much for me—most of it was about giving money to the poor, and I’ve never had a hell of a lot of money to give, to be honest,” he shrugged.

I tutted. “You’re a faithless poet.”

He looked at me. “My faith is in myself. And…”

I leaned in waiting for his next words, but he hesitated. I could almost see the thoughts shifting behind his eyes, as if he were building up to say something important. Then, he looked away, across the lake.

“And…?” I prompted.

He looked serious. “Listen. About your challenge. What if I told you I could help you defeat Laynine?”

I felt my eyes go wide. Nothing he could have said would have surprised me more than that. “I’d say what everyone says about you foreigners is true. You’re mad fools.” I laughed, but he was not laughing. “What would a poet from the land of necromancers know about flying dragons?”

“More than you might think.” He leaned close to me, conspiratorial. “There is a way for you to win. But you’d have to trust me.”

I felt anger rising in me. Despite the occasional annoyance, Kit had been a pleasant enough distraction so far. Now, he was mocking me—like everyone else. It was a reminder of who he really was. An enemy. A foreign agent. Whether his words were a sick jest or some perverse attempt to sabotage me, I wanted no part of them. And worse, they gave me an aching feeling in my chest. The unease and hurt and dread he’d momentarily distracted me from began to seep in again, like water from a spring.

Abruptly, I got to my feet. “Just because I’ve shown you a little kindness you take me for a fool?”

He looked flustered. “What? No?—”

“I would never trust you.”

“My apologies, Princess. I only?—”

“Silence!” I snapped, in a voice that sounded frighteningly like Mother’s.

“I have neglected my training today. Come. I have to get you back to your room.”

Your room—more like your prison cell, you cur, I thought. I’ll leave you there for a week and see if you dare to mock me then.

His mouth hung open as if he would say more, but I turned on my heel and strode away toward the Jagged Stair, leaving him to keep up or be left behind.