Season of the Dragon, page 12
The squat woman was tougher than she looked. As she jerked the chain, the shackles dug painfully into Quen’s wrists, forcing her up. Quen followed Imbica, but was sure it was all a big mistake. Before the gate closed, Rhoji had said, “I’ll find you.” His promise to come for her was the only thing preventing stupefying panic.
Imbica led Quen to a small square building plastered bright white. Its red clay-tiled roof swooped up and out at the ends before meeting a high point in the middle. Seen from the front, the building looked like it wore a mustache over its walls.
The building was squat, and the wooden door rounded at the top and low. Quen had to duck to enter. Once inside, she kept her head bowed to prevent hitting it on the ceiling. Dimly lit with small oil lamps, the tiny clerk’s office smelled of pipe smoke and body odor.
A small man with a shock of short orangey-red hair sat at a wooden desk with a slanted top. Like the Tilaj Gate, the desk’s smooth, worn wood showed use by several generations. The clerk’s light-blue tunic pulled tight against his thick middle. He was writing with an ink pen in a giant ledger book. Upon seeing them enter, he looked up and frowned. “Now what’s this, Imbica?” He sounded annoyed by the interruption of his work.
“I need two yindrils and a carriage.”
The clerk raised his eyebrows. “You do, do ya? And what in Hiyadi’s name for?”
Imbica thrust her chin out. “Edict 42 business, Rhomley, and not your matter to mind.”
His blue-grey eyes grew dark. He glared at Imbica as though she’d asked for the skin from his own back. He marked his place in the ledger with a cloth-covered weight and pulled a second ledger from the shelf above. “You’ll get one yindril and a cart. No carriage.”
Imbica stamped her foot. “Not satisfactory. Edict 42, Rhomley. I require—”
“This Edict 42 may be your business.” He flourished his pen at Quen. “But keeping count of Dynasty property is my business, Kovatha, and not yours to mind. I don’t forget losses, and….” He flipped backward in the second ledger book. “Ah, yes—two turns ago, you cost the Dynasty a yindril and a carriage.”
Imbica’s voice got pitchy. “But that wasn’t—”
Rhomley held up his hand to silence her. “Rules are rules, eh, Kovatha? Or do you think they don’t apply to you?” He gave her the kind of imperious stare only a bureaucrat armed with regulations can pull off.
When she didn’t argue further, he wrote in the book then on a slip of paper. He applied a seal and handed the scroll to Imbica. “One yindril and one cart. Good day.”
They said no more to each other. Imbica snatched the scroll and led Quen out the back door of the clerk’s cramped hut.
Behind the clerk’s office was a small compound of buildings, all in the same style as the clerk’s hut. Imbica led Quen to stables, in front of which were lined up a row of impressive carriages. All shone with black lacquer, symbols of Hiyadi painted in gold on the doors with more gold and red accents on the wheels and trims. At the end of the row of imperial-looking carriages sat a small, simple wood wagon cart. It wasn’t any more impressive than the typical traveling merchant or herder’s carts passing through Solia.
There was no one around save for herself and Imbica. Quen’s eyes darted wildly, considering potential avenues for escape. Though the Kovatha had shown she was physically strong, Quen had Nixan strength. I can overpower her. I’ll make a run for the gate. No one can outrun me. She didn’t have a plan for what to do once at the gates and could think no further than the immediate desire to run. Rhoji and the Jagaru can’t have made it far yet. I’ll catch up to them. This may be my only chance.
Quen dashed away from Imbica without restraining her speed. She tried to prize open the restraints on her wrists as she ran, but the lock held fast.
From behind, Imbica called out, “Loa Vatra. Loa Vay’Nada. Sunginare di Vatra, sunginare di Vatra, sunginare di Vatra.”
Under the shackles, Quen’s wrists burned. Fire seared in her veins, like her blood had become molten. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her breaths were shallow. The scorching sensation traveled up her arms and to her neck.
Quen didn’t stop running, though her extreme speed was gone. She scratched at her wrists, trying to rid herself of the bindings. The heat overtaking her, Quen dropped to her knees, panting and breathless. It was as though she was being burned from the inside out.
Quen’s voice was a parched croak. “Please. I beg of you. Stop.”
Imbica approached, her hands circling, sparks flying between them. Her lips moved as she quietly chanted. Imbica stood over Quen with an expression of dispassionate interest. Quen’s hands and arms turned a violent red color.
Finally, Imbica said, “Nil Vatra. Nil Vay’Nada. Sunginare di sunginare.” As Quen lay in the dirt, writhing in pain, Imbica snatched Quen’s amber pendant.
“This is the price for your foolish attempt to disobey Dynasty law.” Imbica studied the amber necklace, shrugged her shoulders, and tied it around her own neck. “With this payment, I shall forget your escape attempt, so you don’t end up in Cinwa’s dungeon like Druvna. Since this is your only valuable item, you might consider that before trying to run again.”
The searing pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Quen’s throat was tight, her face wet with sweat and tears. The relief was sweeter than any feeling Quen had known. She wiped her face and noticed the veins in her hands were visible, making them look bruised purply blue.
“The bruising will be gone in a few days. Now get up.” Imbica’s tone was flat, containing neither anger nor compassion.
Quen’s arms trembled as she pushed up. She had to stop midway to catch a breath. Though the sensation of veins filled with boiling blood had ceased, she throbbed from head to toe with achy, lingering discomfort. She wished for Dini’s fever tea followed by rest in her own bed. The bed in Solia. The one I no longer have.
Quen had met few people she didn’t like and none she loathed. But she despised Imbica. The desire for revenge simmered in her gut, taking residence with the smoldering fires of vengeance against the dragon and its rider.
Once Quen was upright, Imbica said, “You will obey me, yes?”
Quen nodded, though it made her skull swim with dizziness. I have no other choice if I want to survive this day.
Imbica tugged a thin leather cord from inside her tunic and retrieved a whistle carved of bleached bone. It was narrow and about a finger long. She put it to her lips and blew, but it didn’t make a sound audible to Quen.
Within a few moments, a yindril bellowed. Its deep call rumbled her chest. The voice was mournful, as if whatever made it had suffered a substantial loss. Another yindril returned the cry, this time from farther away.
Footsteps scraped across the sunbaked clay road as though of a giant man who had lost a foot in battle. The thing slowly moved towards Quen and Imbica with a thump-step-scrape, over and over.
A thick mist of moist sea air and blowing sand obscured her vision. Quen could see only twenty paces in any direction.
A creature half again as tall as Quen emerged from the soupy fog, its wide grey horns jutting from a narrow, grey-skinned head. Skin resembling scaly bark covered its spindly arms and legs. The creature’s eyes were tiny slits. Copious, sinewy threads covered a hole in the creature’s throat. The hole breathed, growing larger then smaller. The overall appearance was of a walking man-plant. Quen backed away from the encroaching creature, but the lead chain pulled taut and halted her.
Imbica noticed Quen’s unease. “You have never seen a yindril before?”
Quen shook her head, her mouth open but unable to form speech.
“No need to fear them. They are simple-minded, docile creatures.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Quen said. Her voice was an awed whisper. “Not even in trader’s tales.”
“They are new to Indrasi, brought from the swamps of Tinox by the Dynasty. They have special… properties.”
The yindril had no claws or sharp teeth. It made no threatening moves, yet Quen broke into a cold sweat. The hole in what should have been a neck sucked in and out unnervingly, the baleen-like strands quivering. And its mournful cry, coupled with its slow, foot-dragging gait, struck terror in her. She had difficulty understanding why the Dynasty would purposefully import such terrifying creatures. “What is special about them, other than how strange they look and sound?”
“They are simpletons, as I said, and incapable of mastering magical understanding themselves. But they enhance a mage’s ability to receive the gifts of Menaris from gods and spirits. Useful for Kovatha mages, no?”
Receive gifts of Menaris? “I don’t understand.”
Imbica sighed with impatience. “Menaris, the gift of magic. It originates in the Void, you know.”
No, I didn’t know that. She’d been taught that the Void was the home of Vay’Nada—the Shadow. It was the place poor Niyadi went as he left the comfort of his brother, Hiyadi, and his unrequited love, Lumine. “You said it was a gift from gods and spirits. So what does the Void have to do with it?”
“Gods and spirits are intermediaries. They wash raw magical energy of the Void clean of its taint and gift Menaris to those patient enough to learn the complexities of Menaris.”
“The Void is magic?” Quen shook her head. “What the heck is the Void?”
Imbica let out an impatient breath. “The is that isn’t.” Seeing that Quen still didn’t comprehend, Imbica threw up her hands. “The unseen realm of the spirits and gods. Look, I can’t explain it any better than that. It’s something you understand, or you don’t. And if you don’t understand, suffice to say you probably don’t have Menaris gifts.”
I don’t know about Menaris, but does a shadow-spawn heart of a Nixan soul count? “So if you pull magical energy from the void, why do you need yindrils to cast spells?”
Imbica harrumphed. “I don’t need yindrils to cast. But some Kovathas never made it past the novice stage, known as Rising at the Pillars, and most have only a year of Kensai training at best. The yindrils are an important new tool for Kovathas to enforce the Dynasty’s edicts across Indrasi.”
Imbica makes the yindrils sound important. Odd that I’ve never seen one before. But then again, she’d rarely seen Kovathas in Solia.
The yindril held two leads, a horse on each. Covered in short black hair and well-muscled, the horses were stockier than kopeks. Though of standard size for a horse, they looked miniature next to the yindril.
The yindril had gotten the horses within ten paces of the cart, near enough for the beasts of burden to take up Quen’s scent. Their reaction toward her was like that of kopeks. They skittered, keened, and showed the whites of their eyes.
Their reaction flustered the yindril. It halted and emitted a deep, low, mournful yowl from its gaping maw.
Imbica sighed. “For the love of Hiyadi’s light, what has gotten into the lot of you?” She splayed her hands again, preparing for another spell.
Having recently experienced Imbica’s immolation spell, Quen flinched away. But Imbica didn’t intend her spell for Quen. The Kovatha swirled her arms, rolling her hands as if she held a ball. This time she thrust her hands toward the yindril and horses.
“Usiru ôhmla cureā.” Imbica invoked the spell in the same dead language she’d used before. Quen made out only the word ‘fear.’ Imbica repeated it several times. At first, her voice was calm and confident, as though she had spoken the spell many times and expected it to have the desired effect.
But by the fifth or sixth statement of the incantation, having had no effect on the animals, her words became higher-pitched and more clipped. The horses reared and whinnied shrilly. The yindril flailed its great long arms like trees blowing in a mighty wind as it tried to get control of the spooked horses.
“What in the Three is wrong with them?” She hurled her hand at the horses while chanting, “Usiru recine.”
“I am what is wrong with them,” Quen said. Her voice weak from the burning spell Imbica had cast on her, Quen’s words got lost in the commotion.
But Imbica’s new spell calmed the horses. While their eyes were still wild and their nostrils flared, they stood still as stones.
The yindril stopped moaning. It held the leads of the now-bespelled animals, its tendril-covered maw slowly expanding then shrinking like a fish’s mouth out of water.
Imbica pulled a neatly folded cloth from her belt and wiped sweat from her brow. The early evening was chilly, but the spell work apparently stoked Vatra within her. “What did you say?”
Quen cleared her throat. “It’s me. Animals fear me.” The horses had reacted to her as kopeks did. But the yindril is more flustered by the nervous horses than by being near me. The yindril was more plant than animal, though, and plants had never been afraid of her.
“All of my life, I’ve been cursed in this way. Kopeks barely tolerate me.” Though Nabu tolerated me well enough. Thinking of Nabu, a gift from her eldest brother and his wife, made Quen recall Lio, Zarate, and wee Lumina. Lio holds Lumina so gently in his burly arms. She coughed and pushed aside memories of family, for now anyway. “How have you dealt with this before? With other Doj’Anira you’ve taken to the capital, I mean.”
Imbica brushed the arms of her tunic as though they were dusty or soiled from her spell work. “I have not yet had the honor of delivering pursuant to Edict 42. You are the first, and by Hiyadi, I will get you there.”
Imbica yanked on the chain, pulling Quen to the wagon. “Up and in you go.” She heaved herself into the front seat, richly upholstered with deep-purple fabric embroidered with symbols of Hiyadi in golden thread.
“And don’t think about jumping out once we ride. Not only can I set fire to your arse from a hundred paces, but I locked those shackles with a spell.” She thumped the side of her head with a finger. “Only I have the key.”
It’s like she can read my mind. Quen leaped into the back of the cart and sat on the plain wooden bench. She continued pondering the possibility of escape, keeping her eyes and ears open for an opportunity.
The yindril sat on the upholstered seat next to Imbica, its great mass making the wagon creak and groan. It had hitched the still spell-drowsy horses to the wagon. It let out a screechy cry at Imbica, as if to complain about the situation with the horses.
“Worry not, woody friend. It will be slow going for a while, but the spell will soon wear off. Now proceed—to the Niri Bridge.”
They rode in relative peace for close to an hour. The horses did indeed liven up with each mile they traveled. Soon Hiyadi kissed the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in crimson and orange. They climbed ever higher in elevation, the cactus and desert scrub giving way to dense greenery and small trees.
Bored, Quen peppered the Kovatha with questions. “Do all Kovathas know how to cast spells?”
Imbica snorted. “Spells.” She folded her arms across her chest and looked indignant.
“Then what do you call the magic you wield?”
“The art of Vaya di Menaris we learn at the Pillar is unlike your village Bruxia’s healing arts. It goes beyond what common people call magic. It is understanding.”
If magic is understanding, that explains why I can’t conjure fire in a wood stove. Though Pahpi had taught her much about calming her mind and focusing, he’d imparted no knowledge of Vaya di Menaris. Quen didn’t understand what magic truly was, where it originated, or how to wield it. Her attempts to tap into the power of the magical Corners were amateur flailing and always failed. “Understanding?”
Imbica sighed loudly. “Of the Corners. Vatra, Enara, Qüira, and Doka. Fire, water, earth, and wood. And of course Juka of the æther and air, presiding over and among them all.”
“Oh, you mean like the naming? I saw a woman once call Vatra to her aid. It was terribly frightening.” She recalled Nevara conjuring a column of fire in Pahpi’s trading post.
Imbica scoffed. “You think you can call spirits or gods to your side so you can perform tricks?” She laughed with incredulity. “Vatra does not simply come when called like a dog. Even Juka’s winds, easily understood, come only because Juka enjoys making mischief in the world of men. Many teachers begin with lessons of calling the wind, thinking Juka easily manipulated.” She chuckled. “Juka’s pleasures are fickle. If it pleases her to answer prayers, she’ll send soft breath to cool or tickle us. Or she might send a powerful gale to bandy us about and whip the sands into a haboob. Juka’s japes can be cruel and are little understood by most.”
Quen tried to follow the mage’s explanation but didn’t really grasp what Imbica was going on about. But I agree with her about Juka. That spirit answered my prayer with a cruel jape that nearly killed me.
Apparently recognizing Quen’s lack of comprehension, Imbica said, “When a mage casts a spell, she is dancing with spirits.” Her eyes were alight with excitement, her voice animated. “In a dance, one must pay attention—listen, watch—feel your partner. The best dancer responds to her partner’s moves. Otherwise, you trample toes, and the dance is an ugly mess. A mage’s power is a gift from the gods of the cosmos and the spirits of Menauld.”
“That explains a lot.”
“How so?”
“Every time I pray, the gods are silent or answer with a punishment. I don’t think they like me much.”
Imbica harrumphed. “It’s not a matter of them liking us or not. It’s a matter of respect and experience. Training at a Pillar, one learns how to show proper respect to the gods and spirits. And one learns restraint, lest one pull so much power from the Void—the realm of gods and spirits—they burn or freeze themselves to death.”
“Did you know anyone that happened to?”
Imbica brushed hair from her temple and smoothed her tunic. “Yes, of course. Study in the Pillar long enough, and you’ll…” Imbica sighed. “Enough about Vaya di Menaris. I doubt it matters for you—where you’re going.” Imbica glanced at Quen’s bound wrists.
