Season of the Dragon, page 1
SEASON
of the
DRAGON
Book One of
DRAGOS PRIMERI
NATALIE WRIGHT

TUCSON
Copyright © 2023 Natalie Wright
Published by Menaris Books, Tucson, Arizona.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales is coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. For permission or other information, contact the author at: NatalieWrightAuthor@gmail.com.
LCCN: 2022923758
Dedication
Maps
PART I
SONG of NIYADI
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
PART II
Kovan Came
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART III
DRAGOS TEPLO
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
APPENDIX
Dramatis Personae
Glossary of Terms
A Note About Religion and Magic
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank You Readers
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS & PUBLICATIONS BY NATALIE WRIGHT
Dedication
For FF & JRF
Maps
PART I
SONG of NIYADI
Wake wee Niyadi, wake!
Escape the Shadow’s dream.
Your love awaits,
Her light you seek.
Embrace Indrasi’s shore, ho!
Ride brave Niyadi, ride!
Across the starry sky.
Erase the night,
Hero to all.
Banish the Shadow’s call, ho!
Dance glad Niyadi, dance!
Rejoice in Lumine’s arms.
Win her sweet kiss,
The Queen o’Night.
Fight to deserve her hand, ho!
Stay friend Niyadi, stay!
Empty your cup o’drink.
Bring honeyed ale,
And bosoms pale.
Sing ‘til your brother wakes, ho!
–Song of Niyadi, Sulmére Drinking Song, c. 1380, 3rd Era, Kovan Dynasty
Chapter 1
Quen
Quen’s two hearts drummed an uneven rhythm, matching the thunder of the approaching herd. The people of Solia crowded the wide dirt boulevard, whooping and ringing bells to welcome the first returning herdclan of the season. Quen wanted to join the excitement, but she dared get no closer than Fano’s smithing tent set a row back from the main road. I don’t want a repeat of last year. The galloping herd entered Solia’s gates, and the ground quaked. Quen’s shadow heartbeat, normally a phantom quiver, thrummed.
A head taller than most people from Sulmére Province, Quen easily peered over others and spotted the first riders through the gate. To her surprise, her brother, Rhoji, led Pijwar Herdclan into town. I wondered where he’d gotten off to this morning. Rhoji’s kopek, Gambol, trotted proudly, his freshly oiled, leathery skin glistening in the midday light of the two suns. Rising winds fluttered Rhoji’s blue feather earring and rippled Pijwar Clan’s orange banners.
Despite his morning ride into the Sulmére’s shifting sands, Rhoji’s bone-white linen tunic and riding pants remained pristine. How does he manage that? Ubiquitous Sulmére dust caked Quen’s sand-colored linen tunic and wide-legged pants.
“Hika, Rhoji!” Quen called.
The crowd’s cheers swelled, welcoming their favorite local son as if he’d been gone on a year-long quest. Rhoji was merely the second son of a clanless Solia merchant, but neither Rhoji nor his adoring fans seemed to know that.
“He’d look like a Sulmére prince if he wasn’t riding a damned kopek.” Fano, Quen’s friend and a traveling blacksmith originally from the capital province, thrust a wheel loop into the quench, steam rising and quickly dissipating in the dry air. “Kopeks look like something dead, buried, and brought back to life.” Fano wiped copious sweat from his broad forehead with a dusty, oil-stained cloth.
He’s not wrong. Gambol’s hairless skin, taut across his keg-shaped skeletal ribcage, gleamed like aged leather, his long legs spindly but agile. Quen called again and waved to Rhoji. He gave her a head bob and veered toward her just as the lead riders of Pijwar Clan galloped, their thukna herd now barreling into the gates behind them.
Gambol got within a few feet of Fano’s smithing tent and jerked away, his eyes showing the whites. Rhoji pulled at the lead, trying to get close enough to talk without shouting. Like all animals Quen encountered, Gambol didn’t want to get near Quen. My damned curse. Not even Dini, the town Bruxia—healer and wise woman—could explain Quen’s curse with animals. But whatever the reason, Quen’s oddity meant she was unfit for binding with a herdclan. In the Sulmére, a person without a herdclan or honorable profession was pesha—no one.
Quen sighed and wrapped a strand of her keffla around her nose and mouth to keep out the dust. She tried to console herself. At nearly twenty, Quen was the last of her peers without a herdclan. I probably wouldn’t enjoy being a herdwife, anyway. Studying at a Pillar was her only hope for an honorable future. Or at least one her father, Pahpi, considered proper. They impatiently awaited an emissary from the Pillar of the Way of Water, Val’Enara, to advise whether the Archon would admit Quen. She had no magical ability—no innate understanding of Menaris. But they train in the Orrokan arts of war. Maybe that will be my path.
The pungent odor of thukna musk filled the air, and Quen wrinkled her nose. The ground rumbled as the herd sprinted through Solia, intent on the life-giving waters of the Lakmi River at the eastern edge of town. I didn’t scare them this time. It was reason enough for celebration after the debacle the prior spring. Quen twirled, the ends of her keffla catching the breeze, her tunic’s billowy sleeves like wings.
Rhoji stared down at her and said, “You look like a lopsided cart without a driver.”
Her rare moment of joy repelled his brotherly barb the way her presence repelled even the most docile woolly drey. Allow me some peace, Rhoji.
The bony protrusion on the back of her neck tingled, and she rubbed it and then chastised herself. You can’t will it away. Stop, or you’ll only draw attention. Quen removed her hand from the prominence that had grown under her skin a few weeks ago. It was a sign that she was losing her lifelong battle to suppress the shadow soul within—the soul of a changeling known as a Nixan. Quen was determined not to let the Nixan have its first Promena—metamorphosis. Though most Nixan morphed from human to beast form and back again with ease, some Nixan remained in animal form after their first Promena. I’ll be keeping my skin, Nixan.
But even Still Waters, the relaxation technique Pahpi had taught her, barely worked any longer to calm the wild second spirit within. Quen breathed deeply and repeated her Still Waters mantra. I won’t let you win, Nixan. The pounding of the shadow heart calmed, and Quen sighed with gratitude that she’d regained control. For now.
The last of Pijwar Clan’s thukna passed, and now drey, horned sheep-like animals ready for shearing, waddled through the merchant square. The air was thick with dust kicked up by the herd. Pijwar Clan’s children brought up the rear of the small but proud herdclan. They rode on the rounded shellbacks of juvenile ranju, waving. Their eyes, the only part of their face visible amidst the wrap of their kefflas, were bright and twinkling. I bet they’re smiling. The crowd cheered even louder, their bells clanging. Rhoji clapped, though his red leather riding gloves muffled it. Fano put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
Quen clapped politely, but she dared not allow herself to join in the revelry wholeheartedly. The internal battle to restrain her wild second soul took great concentration, and just being near the excitement was risky enough.
Pijwar Clan gathered now on the Lakmi River’s banks. Rhoji clicked his tongue and steered Gambol into the street. “Join me at the tanning bay before Niyadi is past zenith. I have a new dye to try out before Jima Clan arrives.”
Quen rolled her eyes. Thinks he can lord over me. “Who died and made you First Kin?”
“Do what you will, but if Pahpi catches you at Yulina’s drinking instead of in the tanning bay, he’ll have your hide.” Rhoji trotted toward the town center, leaving Quen in a soured mood.
Please, Lumine, send Val’Enara’s messenger soon. Though Quen had doubts about finding happiness sequestered in a remote sanctuary, she’d at least be free of working hides and Rhoji’s haughty attitude.
Skins can wait. Quen pulled her bone-hilted dagger from her waist scabbard and began sharpening it on Fano’s whetstone.
“Didn’t you sharpen it yesterday?
Quen stroked the blade across the stone. She retorted, “Keeping it sharp enough to shear the rocks off a fella who doesn’t know when to leave off the ribbing.”
Fano laughed harder. “Remind me to keep my stones away from your blade, then.”
Quen joined in his laughter. The repetitive stroking of the blade against the stone calmed her spirits. The Nixan’s phantom heartbeat was now silent, and Quen let out a sigh of relief.
Her respite was short-lived. As Quen stowed her freshly honed dagger, the ridges on the back of her neck zinged like a taut rope snapping. Her neck deformity burned, and queasiness washed over her.
Through the still-dusty air, Quen squinted at a hulking figure entering Solia’s western gates. Two fiery-orange eyes of a kopek-sized black wolf pierced the sandy haze. Riding the strange beast was a woman dressed in black robes.
Kentaros, monks and masters of the Pillars, wore such robes. Deep-crimson embroidery edged this Kentaro’s robes. The black-and-crimson combination didn’t match any of the four Pillars. The woman’s long, flowing hair was as black as the wolf’s and contrasted with her pale skin.
A symbol etched in red ink emblazoned the stranger’s forehead. Kentaros bore the Trinity’s symbol inked in red—a blazing sun, inside of which was a crescent moon cradling a miniature sun. But the stranger’s mark was not the Trinity. Instead, she bore the mark of a fiery red dragon inside a radiant sun. Where is the Sister, Lumine, and Niyadi, the little brother sun? A Kentaro not bearing the Trinity mark? That’s odd.
Quen rubbed her neck. The bony prominence had never burned like this before. It felt like her spine was breaking through her skin. She feared the nubby ridges had finally poked through. Quen wasn’t sure if excitement or an ill omen caused the novel sensation. Though the Brothers, the sun gods, were blazing as ever, she was now cold. Run, stupid. Run from this stranger. But Quen’s feet remained planted like a koiyu tree.
Hairs on Quen’s neck stood on end, and rivulets of sweat ran down her sides. Apparently unaware of Quen staring like an awestruck child, the woman paid her no heed. She kept her eyes on the horizon but wore a wide, serene smile. It was the sort of smile reserved for family or good friends, not outsiders.
Most animals, when approaching Quen, got wide-eyed, flared their nostrils, let off the acrid odor of fear, and jerked away. But the approaching wolf displayed none of the usual signals of wariness. If this creature isn’t afraid of me, maybe animals outside the Sulmére won’t fear me, either.
The odd Kentaro kept her eyes on the horizon as she rode through town. Quen wanted to stop her. Why didn’t her wolf react as animals normally do around me? But she was as mute as a stone, unusual for Quen.
Merchants exited their tent stalls to watch the newcomer pass. Spring waters in the Lakmi brought new people to Solia. The town was filling with seasonal merchants and entertainers. Though Kentaros from the Pillars sometimes stopped to resupply in Solia, it was rare. Rarer still was a stranger riding a wolf.
Rhoji apparently hadn’t gotten far, and he approached. The stranger pulled on thin leather reins, and her giant wolf stopped.
“I bid you welcome, Mast—I mean Mistress—er, esteemed….” Rhoji stammered. He bowed his head.
Quen chuckled at Rhoji’s stumbled introduction.
“You may address me as Kentaro Nevara.” The woman had a smooth, reassuring voice. If Rhoji had offended the Kentaro, she didn’t show it. “And with whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
I feel pulled to this stranger like iron filings to a lodestone. Her phantom heart tharumped, and Quen closed her eyes and sought Still Waters. It’s like trying to corral a wild bull kopek. After several repetitions of the mantra, the Nixan soul was again silent.
Rhoji straightened, thrust his chin out, and said, “Rhoji Tomo Santu di Sulmére.”
Kentaro Nevara’s eyes widened, but only for an instant. Her smile grew broader. “Ah, how fortuitous.” She bowed her head and murmured, “Hiyadi provides.” When she raised her head, the smile faded. “I came many leagues to speak with your Pahpi and Madi. Please take me to them.”
Rhoji blanched, but soon his color returned. “I am afraid I can only meet half of your request, Kentaro Nevara, as my Madi, Suliam, has gone to the arms of the Sister.” To his credit, Rhoji kept his voice even and his gaze unaffected.
Around Quen, Rhoji never maintained composure when speaking of their mother. If Quen spoke their mother’s name, Rhoji would rage or storm away. Though Suliam hadn’t died in childbirth, she went to Lumine’s arms when Quen was barely one year. For reasons Quen never understood, Rhoji blamed her for their Madi’s death.
The Kentaro touched her fingertips to her chest, her mouth, and last, put the pad of her right thumb to the symbol on her forehead. She whispered, “May the Sister embrace her.”
Rhoji kissed his fingers, put his thumb to his forehead, and gave the required reply, “And the Brothers’ light welcome her.”
Among the Pillars of Vaya di Solis, this ritual prayer for the dead was the only thing all four shared. It was as universal as complaining about taxes levied by the Kovan Dynasty.
“You are here to see Pahpi then,” Rhoji said. “I can take you to him should it please you.”
Kentaro Nevara gave a favorable nod. “Most gracious.”
Anyone in town could have pointed the way to Santu’s Stand. With only a hundred permanent residents in Solia, everyone knew everybody else. And since her Pahpi owned Santu’s Stand, the largest store for goods and wares in the southern Sulmére, all who visited Solia knew Santu.
Quen followed, but neither Rhoji nor Nevara glanced her direction. Rhoji, always looking for an opportunity to impress someone he considered important, was busy kissing up to the Kentaro. And the Kentaro remained focused on whatever made her ignore everything around her.
As they approached Pahpi’s store, Rhoji offered a hand to help the Kentaro off her mount. Any herder’s daughter would blush if the tall, dashing Rhoji offered his hand. But Kentaro Nevara was no herder’s daughter.
The Kentaro dismounted on the side opposite Rhoji. Rhoji’s cheeks colored.
At first wary of the imposing Kentaro, Quen was beginning to like her. If she can take Rhoji down a few pegs, I hope she stays all spring.
“This way.” Rhoji opened the rickety door covered in flecks of bright yellow, and they entered the round earthen building locally known as “Santu’s Stand.”
Quen entered behind them, catching the door with her foot so it wouldn’t slam.
The Kentaro inspected Santu’s indoor market. Her upper lip curled as though she’d smelled something foul. As far as Quen was concerned, Santu’s Stand was the finest building in town. Most merchants and traders worked out of tent stalls that sprang up along the main road, tucked between the permanent small mud-brick huts. If the Kentaro thinks Santu’s Stand is beneath her, then whatever Pillar she’s from must be something to see.
Pahpi had pulled back the canvas roof. The bright midday light of the big brother, Hiyadi, and his little brother, Niyadi, flooded the interior of Santu’s Stand.
Pahpi had his back to them, talking to a herdwife about a small bottle he held. “This is huson pine oil. I think it’s what you need. Our Bruxia, Dini, uses this on squalling babes who tug at their ears.”
“How much?” The herdwife opened the small leather purse hanging from the primitively made leather belt at her waist. Worry pinched her brows. She pulled some coins from her pouch.
She was a young woman, likely Quen’s age. And she looks like she’ll soon have another babe to worry over.
I know that young mother. The woman had bound with Waloo Herdclan. Raiders assailed Waloo, a small herdclan, a few years back. Waloo lost most of their herd and their best herdsmen.
Santu pushed the woman’s hand gently. “Fah,” he said. “It is such a small bottle. Save your dars but promise you will use it. Your babe will be happier—and you and your herdsman, too, I should say.” He chuckled and put the bottle in her hand.
