Season of the Dragon, page 14
The cart’s remains smoldered, smoke eddying into the darkening sky. Imbica searched the rubble and pulled her pack from under the bench. Soot blackened Imbica’s fine leather bag, but it hadn’t burned through.
Imbica slung the pack across her body and wiped her sooty hands on her previously spotless black linen tunic. She resumed their northward journey. The chain pulled taut, and Quen followed.
They walked silently for at least a mile, each ensconced in private thought. It was full dark now, and Lumine was only a sliver in the sky. Quen saw only a few paces ahead. The chilly air was soggy. I wish I had warmer clothes.
Quen forced one foot in front of the other, trying to soothe her unmet needs with thoughts of her time with the Jagaru. Of Druvna’s nightly stories and how pipe smoke escaped the hole in his lip and curled into the twilight air. Gossiping with Shel as they sucked kabu stalk and oiled their kopeks. Rhoji and Eira talking, Rhoji’s head thrown back in laughter at Eira’s jokes, happier than she’d ever seen him. Quen even longed for Mishny’s haughty glare. She craved time with the family they’d cobbled together. People she cared about, and who cared for her. Yet the question nagged. Would they stand with me if they knew?
And then there was Aldewin. Though no one was around, her cheeks colored as she recalled the night of drunken songs and Aldewin lying atop her, telling her she was lovely. He would run from me if he knew the truth. Nixan die alone. I can’t dwell on something I’ll never have.
She turned her thoughts to wee Lumina, but that was even worse. Her chest tightened as she recalled saying goodbye to Lio, Zarate, and Lumina. She didn’t allow herself to think about Pahpi. No matter where my thoughts turn, I have no peace.
They’d gone about six miles on foot when Imbica announced they’d bed down for a few hours. Their “bed” was the ditch at the side of the Trinity Road.
“We are nearly to the Niri Bridge.” Imbica yawned. “There we will find a wagon headed to Qülla.”
Quen admired the woman’s self-assured nature. Since she'd hitched herself to Quen, a dragon had attacked, and she had lost two horses, a wagon, and a yindril. She now had to cart her cargo behind her, yet she confidently assumed they would find a ride to Qülla. It must be nice to be Kovatha. The black tunic and silver belt signaled what she was for all to see. Imbica was probably right. If there were travelers on the road going north, it was unlikely they’d refuse a request from a Kovatha.
As tired as she was, Quen slept fitfully. Each time her lids closed, she relived this second encounter with Vahgrin. If not for Imbica’s battle-mage skills, Vahgrin would have made Quen into a cinder. Yet there was a connection with Rajani, one she could no longer deny. What does it all mean?
Imbica yanked the chain, ending Quen’s fitful sleep. Hiyadi was already four fingers above the horizon, overpowering his little brother, Niyadi. Quen rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched. Her shoulders ached, and her neck was stiff from cramming herself into a ball to fit the narrow gulley.
“Come, Doj’Anira. We will find a wagon, then you may rest.”
Hiyadi burned away the morning mists, revealing details of the landscape. Ice domes shone pinkish-white in the morning light atop high mountains to the west, while the lower slopes were craggy and barren grey stone. To the east, the land ended as it met the sea.
Finally, the Niri Bridge was visible ahead. It soared into the sky in a large upside-down ‘V’ of polished pale grey stone, expertly set so hardly a seam showed. The road turned from hard-packed clay to side-by-side wood planks. Wood planks met the stone entrance and covered the bridge for the entire length. Though the Tilaj Gate had been impressive, the Niri Bridge surpassed its grandeur. I didn’t know people built such things. As soon as they stepped onto the bridge, a yindril keened a rumbling lament.
Quen had never particularly yearned to see Qülla, the capital, but her excitement stirred. She was nearing the end of this journey. I don’t know what lies ahead, but it must be better than being shackled to Imbica and enduring her magical torture.
The bridge creaked beneath their feet. Unlike wood buildings in the Sulmére, the Niri Bridge’s wood appeared more supple and not desiccated.
The bridge spanned the vast chasm of the churning Suab River, flowing from the mighty TasūZaj range to the western sea. Beginning as a small meandering brook, it gathered water as it traveled across the eastern portion of Indrasi. By the time it entered the capital’s province of Suab’Hora, its waters were a churning torrent raging through the chasm it created.
Imbica drew a curvy twist in the air with her finger. “The river snakes along the Suab’Hora Province’s southern border, marking it off keenly. The Suab carves a chasm passable here on the Niri Bridge. It is the only way in or out of Suab’Hora’s southeastern border. Allows the Dynasty tight control of goods and people traveling through Suab’Hora.”
Imbica rested on a large stone bench on the Suab’Hora side of the bridge. Catwalks built above for guards and archers were empty. Four guardhouses created corners. A lone guard occupied one guardhouse. Policing the southern border of the capital province fell to this one bored-looking guard. It seems odd that they wouldn’t have more guards here.
The man yawned when Imbica inquired about catching a ride north on a wagon. “Been two days since even a three-wheeled fruit cart happened along.”
Imbica rapped her fingers on the wood ledge she leaned on. “That is unusual, is it not?”
The guard nodded. “Yes, ‘Minster. But trade is slower now that…”
Imbica stopped tapping. “Now that what?”
The guard shifted uneasily on his wooden stool.
Imbica sighed. “Oh, for the love of the Three, spit it out, man. My hands are full. I am in no position to arrest you.”
He studied a spot on the small ledge he’d been leaning on, his fingers tracing an invisible circle. “Since the new levies on the southern provinces—on food and skins—”
“The Exalted has equalized the burden on all citizens. For many years, our southern friends enjoyed the benefit of unduly favorable treatment by the Dynasty, thanks to the generosity of Exalted Xa’Vatra’s grandfather, Zal Kovan.”
The guard rubbed the back of his neck. “I do no’a know ‘bout that, ‘Minster. I only know what I seein’, and since them levies, fewer carts comin’ up through the gate.”
Imbica’s brows knitted at the news.
He gave a nervous chuckle. “Of course, there’s bound to be someone comin’ eventually. Why, I bet there’ll be a wagon this morning. Just wait and see.”
There was nothing to do but wait. Imbica returned to the stone bench, her fingers nervously tapping her thigh.
Nearly an hour passed before Imbica pulled the last of the food from her charred pack. They ate nuts made smoky by the fire. Surprisingly good. The hard cheese was more challenging to choke down with an ashy flavor, but Quen forced herself to eat her entire portion. Quen’s stomach rumbled loudly even after licking the last crumbs from her fingers.
Quen’s hunger was intense. I fear this constant hunger is more than just the meager rations Imbica provides. She’d never cared much for eating meat, but since the day of the fire in Solia, she’d craved animal flesh like never before.
As they finished their meal, wagon wheels rattled onto the wooden bridge. A small, dark-haired man sporting a wide-brimmed reed hat drove an open-air cart pulled by a lone horse. The horse was stockier than the ones that had drawn Imbica’s wagon. This horse had a long, shaggy mane and tufts of white hair at its ankles.
The guard groaned as he rose, bothered to be made busy. The man pulling the wagon retrieved a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his loose linen shirt.
While the guard inspected the man’s proof of taxes paid at the Tilaj Gate on the goods he hauled north, Imbica pulled Quen toward the man. “Come along, Doj’Anira. Our ride is here.”
As the cart driver returned the receipt to his pocket, Imbica approached him. “Are you headed to the capital?”
The man didn’t glance in their direction. He gave a terse “Yes’n.”
“Then you shall take us there.”
He chuckled and said, “I do no’a know ‘bout that.” He finally looked over, and upon realizing he’d been talking to a Kovatha, his eyes grew wide, and he shifted nervously. “Oh, ‘Minster, I did no’a know you was—I mean, of course, for the Dynasty.” He got out of his seat and hastened to move bundles in his small wagon to make room, dusting the cart’s bed as best he could with his straw hat.
“’Minster, you could ride on the bench up front with me.” He looked down at the chain. “I do no’a think it will stretch that far. I suppose if you do no’a want to drop the chain for fear your prisoner will run away.”
Imbica looked searchingly at Quen, but only briefly. “I will ride with the Doj’Anira.”
The man smiled and offered his hand to help her into the wagon. “As you wish, ’Minster.”
Imbica was sprier than Quen guessed, based on her size and being in her middle years. She didn’t need the man’s help, but accepted it graciously. The cart driver didn’t offer Quen help, not that she needed it.
As he hoisted himself back into the driver’s seat, he said, “Name’s Besha.” He smiled back at them, looking like he expected a pleasant greeting in return.
He didn’t get it. Imbica kept her face stoic, her demeanor imperious.
“What are you taking to the capital?” Quen asked. Imbica shot her an angry look, but the way Quen saw it, Imbica hadn’t quoted edicts about a Doj’Anira not having the right to speak.
“Got unworked thukna and drey wool in the sacks,” he said. “They say folks in the capital be wanting to dye it themselves. Not liking the country dyes no more, they say.” He spat. “Fah.” He gave a furtive look back, eying his Kovatha passenger. “Anyhows, if they be wanting raw wool, ole Besha’ll cart it. I’m only hoping it’s worth the extra taxes.”
Quen curled into a pile of sacks and inhaled the familiar odor of drey’s wool. Besha’s cart smells like home. She avoided thinking about the past. With each passing mile, life in Solia became a hazy dream.
They climbed steadily uphill. The vegetation transformed from the odd, spiky squat trees, tufted grasses, and low bushes to taller trees with broad leaves and vibrant green short grasses.
Quen ignored Imbica’s glares and peppered Besha with questions. She was anxious for news of Solia. “What town are you coming from?”
“This load is comin’ from Linzaô.”
“Oh.”
“That disappoints you?”
Quen sighed. “No. I had hoped you were from the Sulmére.”
“I picked this load up from another fella, so I’ve no’a been to Sulmére lately.”
Imbica chimed in, suddenly interested. “What village in the Sulmére, Doj’Anira?”
“I’m from Solia. Was from Solia.”
Besha gasped. “Solia? Now that I heard about. Terrible fire down there. People claiming it were a dragon.” He chuckled and slapped his knee as if he’d told a great joke. “Can you believe it? Some people got more ’magination than sense.”
Quen considered setting him straight about the dragon. I could regale him with a horrific tale of charred bodies and scorched sand. But she decided not to. For a time, he’d be happier believing dragon stories were false. People were anxious about Niyadi’s return to Vay’Nada, the night’s shadow encroaching more each day. And frightened people were prone to spin calamity into superstitions to prove their fears.
As Hiyadi descended to the horizon, they came to a small town called Embrir. It wasn’t much more than an inn with an attached tavern, a smithy, a tiny common goods store, and a smattering of houses. The grey stone used to build the Niri Bridge’s facade was used to build the buildings. Still, nothing in Embrir was extraordinary like the Niri.
Besha pulled the wagon to the back side of the Exalted Inn. It was an impressive name for an insignificant place. A mild wind would have turned the rear stables into kindling. Interior light leaked out through the disintegrated mortar between the stacked stones of the main building.
The interior of the Exalted Inn was similar to the outside. The dusty floors bothered Quen. In the Sulmére, people kept their floors clean despite the constant battle with sand and dust—or perhaps because of it. Twice-daily sweepings were the norm. No respectable establishment would allow dust to gather.
A woman with arms the size of small tree trunks wiped a table. Her chubby face was red, and her neck flushed as though she’d overexerted herself.
Besha flushed and gave her an appreciative smile. “Finira, it’s been long with no see’un you.” He took off his reed hat and nervously twisted the brim in his fingers.
Finira’s breeches stopped at the knees like Besha’s. Her copious bosom nearly popped out of her front-laced linen shirt, and her ample buttocks made the fabric of her pants strain at the back. Quen hoped the entire ensemble didn’t rip apart, leaving the woman exposed for all to see.
Finira smiled a broad, gap-toothed smile and pushed a clump of sweat-wet orange hair from her cheek. “Besha, I’ll be a yindril’s skinny arse.” Only after she’d spoken did Finira notice the black tunic and silver belt on the woman coming up behind Besha. “Oh, pardon, ’Minster. Did no’a see you there.” Her face reddened another shade.
Imbica sighed and smoothed her tunic. “We need a room for the night. And a hot meal.”
The chain connecting Quen to Imbica rattled as they went farther into the inn. Finira stared down at it and gave Quen a pitying look.
Quen’s face reddened. Being a prisoner hadn’t embarrassed her because she knew she’d done nothing wrong. But Finira’s look of pity made Quen’s stomach lurch. She’d leave without supper or sleep if she didn’t have to receive that look again.
They ate a bland meal of greasy, fried jishni tubers, day-old flatbread, and roasted meat. The meat was so tough, Quen worried she’d still be digesting it when her next birthday came around. Finira served sweet wine, the meal’s only highlight. To Quen’s surprise, Imbica allowed her a cup.
Besha lifted his wine cup and nodded a toast to Quen. “You treat your prisoner well there, ’Minster.”
Imbica struggled with the tough meat, sweat on her upper lip as she attempted to cut it with a knife and fork. “She is no ordinary prisoner. In fact, I suppose one could say she is not truly a prisoner.”
Besha pointed at Quen’s shackles with a hunk of bread. “It’s a-lookin’ like she is one.”
Imbica chewed Finira’s tough meat and finally swallowed loudly. “This detainee is Doj’Anira, and I am delivering her to the capital pursuant to Edict 42.”
Besha drank wine and wiped his mouth with his hand. “Did no’a know ‘bout that law.” He stared at Quen as if trying to make sense of it all.
Imbica sipped her wine. “The Dynasty needs to redouble its efforts to inform the citizenry beyond Qülla of its laws.”
Besha nodded in deference. “As you say, ‘Minster. You know best.”
Imbica and Quen shared a tiny room with two narrow beds raised off the floor by a primitive handmade wood platform. Lumpy straw filled the mattress covered in rough spun linen. But it was Quen’s best sleep since she left her bed for the last time in Solia.
The new morning brought a fine grey mist and a cooler temperature. Besha said the fog would burn off by midmorning.
Besha’s stocky horse pulled the cart and riders on a gradual ascent, and the mountains to the west disappeared behind them. The clay road gave way to a path of deep-brown soil cut through a forest of trees so green, Quen questioned if she was, in fact, awake. As they ascended, the trees grew taller, and the canopy widened, blocking Hiyadi’s warm rays. Quen wriggled deeper into the sacks of raw wool. The damp air made the cart’s cargo smell of wet animal.
Mile after mile of pristine woodland answered how the peoples of the northern lands could build such a massive bridge or gate of wood. Since the time of legends, the Sulmére hadn’t seen so much wood.
Midmorning of the third day, the trees thinned, and the air warmed considerably. Shackles still bound Quen to Imbica. Her future remained uncertain, but she threw her head back and basked in Hiyadi’s light. She said a silent prayer of gratitude to Hiyadi for his healing rays.
“Qülla be ahead now, ’Minster.” Besha whistled through his teeth. “Ah, now ain’t she a beaut’.”
Quen climbed atop the wool sacks for her first view of the capital. The entire city rested upon a steep hill rising from the bedrock. It looked like a giant had plucked a handful of rock and dirt and plunked it down atop the mountain. A single-lane road cut through the stone, winding up the steep cliff to the city above.
Atop the cliffs were brick and stone buildings, many with smooth columns at the corners topped with conical caps of copper. Some cones were orangey-gold, but most had weathered into a pale-green patina. Like the Tilaj Gate, intricate carvings cut into the stone mimicked vines and plants or ornate geometric patterns. Domes capped most buildings, some inlaid with elaborate tile mosaics, others plastered white or gilded with gold or copper. The overall effect was of a colorful city reflecting Hiyadi’s light for several leagues.
The spires, domes, carvings, and color of Qülla paled compared to the palace. At the northernmost edge of the massive limestone bluff, a bit of land covered in mossy-green plants rose like a remnant of what used to be. A sliver of land curled down in an impossible structure, still somehow attached to the limestone cliff below but also curving from above, creating a great ladle of emerald land. Waterfalls poured from the spoon of land on either side.
A spoon of land cradled a palace of splendor. Quen rubbed her eyes to make sure she was awake. Artisans had carved the palace from the limestone cliffs into a delicate lacy structure. Cones of gold punctuated the walls. The castle sprawled down into the spoon. At the apex, an enormous gold dome covered a ring of glowing, jewel-like stained-glass windows.
As they got closer, something flew from the palace and disappeared below. Quen’s muscles tightened, and her stomach roiled. “Was that a dragon?” she whispered.
