Season of the Dragon, page 3
But Pahpi would hear no more. His voice was firm and filled with anger and disdain. “Leave, vile creature, before I cut you down.”
Nevara bowed, though she kept her eyes on Quen and Santu. “The sands beckon me home.” She rose, graceful and composed, her dark eyes like two black beads. “Mark well, Quen Tomo Santu, what you witnessed here today. You can run from destiny, but it will find you. Is it not better to embrace the truth than commit your loved ones to the flame?”
Quen wasn’t sure what Nevara meant and was still puzzling over how to answer, but Pahpi spoke low through gritted teeth. “Get out.”
Nevara’s surly glare disappeared, and she once again wore an amiable smile. “When you tire of living in the chaos you cause, you will find me at Volenex.” She flourished her robes as she turned, flashing their dark-red edges. Nevara called back on her way out, “I look forward to our next meeting, Quen Tomo Santu, child of Volenex.”
Quen began to run after Nevara, but Pahpi’s wiry arm held her back. He spoke through gritted teeth. “I said no. For the love of the Three, Quen, when will you learn to leave things be?” Pahpi never said harsh words to her or struck her in anger. Pahpi’s vehement reaction both surprised and worried her. I don’t want to fight Pahpi. Though he was strong and virile, especially for a man in his middle years, Quen’s strength had grown in recent months. If we have an altercation, I might hurt him.
The door banged shut behind Nevara, and they were alone. Nevara’s exit left a void pregnant with unanswered questions.
Why does this Nixan come to Santu’s Stand? And how does she know my secret? What promise did my mother make? And what are Rajani and this Dragos Sol’iberi Nevara mentioned? Destiny. Prophecy. Flame. What does all this mean?
Nevara might have departed, but questions remained. And Pahpi had answers.
Quen shook with anger, rage, and fear. Hot tears welled. She’d never raised her voice to Pahpi, but she couldn’t contain the cauldron of emotion. “You told me Volenex was mythical. A place from stories like The Saga of Ilkay. But Nevara said she’d be there. What is the truth of this, Pahpi?”
Pahpi pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. “Volenex belongs to Vay’Nada spawn, not decent folks walking in the light of the Three.”
Quen groaned. “That’s not an answer.”
Pahpi’s eyes were wide with anger and shone black. “Volenex is home to the Dragos Sol’iberi, a splinter faction of Val’Vatra Pillar. The Dragos Sol’iberi worship dragons and other Vay’Nada spawn. Eons ago, Vatra Pillar banished them. It’s a cult of the Shadow, Quen. Full of Rajani Nixans and evil.” As if expecting her next question, he added, “It is no place for you. Or anyone who prays to the Three.”
One question down, many remained. Quen pressed further. “Tell me what Suliam promised. What does that scroll say?”
Pahpi shook with rage, his voice raised and full of contempt. “Nevara’s words are ghosts of whispers. The past does not control us.” He turned away, as though ignoring her would make her questions disappear.
Fear of the Nixan overtaking her and fused with growing rage that Pahpi withheld knowledge she needed. Quen pulled at his arm, her voice loud and angry. “Look at me, dammit!”
Pahpi turned, his eyes dark with anger. “Quen, I suggest—”
“No!” Quen screamed. “See me, Pahpi. Tell me the truth. Name what I am!”
Pahpi winced, his eyes rimmed in red and wet with tears. Is that fear? Worried she’d hurt Pahpi, the bubbling cauldron of anger burned now at a simmer. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”
Pahpi’s eyes glistened. “Name you?” His lower lip quivered. “You are Quen Tomo Santu. My daughter. You walk in Lumine’s light.”
“Stop lying to me!” Quen ripped the keffla from her face. “Look at me. Say it aloud. Name me true.”
Pahpi turned away. “I cannot …”
Tears made tracks on Quen’s dusty face, and her voice was a dry croak. “You’ve lied to me. My whole life.” Quen abandoned any attempt to stave off tears. She hiccupped with great sobs. “You lied to me, Pahpi.”
His wary expression was gone. Pahpi’s eyes were soft and brimming with tears. “Please, Quen. Do not dredge up the bones of my past. You are my child. You live in Lumine’s light. I have told you this your whole life. It is not a lie.” His eyes pleading, Pahpi reached for Quen’s hand.
Quen shook with anger and sadness like she’d never known. She stared down at Pahpi’s outstretched hand, and through bleary eyes, she barely recognized it. It was no longer the hand of her beloved Pahpi but of a stranger who’d chosen to ignore the bits of her he disliked. He’d loved her, but only the part he approved of. “How can you say you love me when you won’t see the truth of me?” She wiped her nose on her sleeve and ran from Santu’s Stand, leaving Pahpi’s hand hanging, waiting for the reprieve from guilt she was unwilling to give.
He called out to her, “Quen!” But she ignored him, and the door to Santu’s Stand banged shut behind her.
Chapter 3
Eavesdropping
Eavesdropping hadn’t answered Quen’s questions and had left her with tenfold more. The fervent need for answers drove away care about what people might think of her. I’ll never belong to a herdclan, anyway. Not now. She opened her stride wide and allowed herself to move with the inborn speed rather than concealing her abilities. Juka, patron spirit of sky and æther, blew her usual afternoon wind. Quen donned her keffla and covered her nose and mouth as she ran from the only home she’d ever known.
Tears streamed down her face, still hot with anger. Her tears dried nearly instantly in the dry air. Pahpi had always been the tether that grounded her to Menauld, keeping her from flying off into Juka’s vast sky. With Pahpi’s faith, Quen had been hopeful she could conquer the Nixan with whom she shared a skin.
How can I trust love built on a lie? Pahpi had known, if not that she was Nixan, then at least that a powerful curse touched her. If I can’t rely on Pahpi’s love, how will I keep the Quen part of me from being consumed by the Shadow? Her world was splintering.
Hoping to catch Nevara before she left, Quen sprinted to the town’s stables. An ancient wooden pole structure that looked like a strong wind would knock it down, the stables housed kopeks sheltering from the heat. Several of them screeched, and a few reared up as she passed.
Quen yelled over her shoulder, “Yeah, well, I’m none too fond of you either.” She tried to ignore the squawking kopeks as she scanned the interior to see if Nevara’s giant wolf was resting inside, but it wasn’t there.
At the far end, Rhoji rubbed Gambol’s leathery skin with huson pine oil, the piney scent masking Gambol’s unpleasant musky odor. Rhoji had removed his keffla, and his long locks blew behind him like a black flag, the single blue feather in his left ear whipping about his neck in the breeze. “Where are you going in such a hurry? I will need help with evening meal soon.”
“To—help Dini with something,” she lied. Fortunately, Rhoji was far enough away to not see her facial expressions. Her eyes often got wide when she lied, a dead giveaway to anyone who knew her, and Rhoji knew her very well.
Rhoji crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at her. “Dini’s quarters are the other direction.”
Quen pretended not to hear him. She picked up speed again as she headed to the center of town. She needed answers, and only Nevara would give them.
Quen ran past merchants, busy helping folks from the newly arrived Pijwar Clan as she headed toward the western gates of Solia. There was no sign of Nevara or the black wolf.
The odor of sulfur assaulted Quen as she passed Fano’s smithing tent. Though he’d arrived a week ago, Fano’s smelter burned white-hot by day and orange by night.
Quen had known Fano most of her life. When she was only five, Fano had placed a blade in her hand and taught her how to throw. She got lessons from him each spring until she out-threw him in her sixteenth year. Fano had good-naturedly told her he was done teaching and gifted her the bone-hilted steel throwing dagger she wore.
She fingered the polished bone hilt of the dagger, her most cherished possession. She’d fashioned a belt and scabbard from light-grey drey hide and had rarely taken it off since.
Fano yelled, “Hika!” He waved his hammer in the air, gesturing for her to come over.
Quen waved and walked backward as she spoke. “Can’t talk now. Looking for the Kentaro. Did you see her leaving town?”
Fano thrust the wheel loop he’d been hammering into the fire. His laugh sounded like someone had pushed it through a giant bellows. “You mean the pretty one?” He pantomimed a well-endowed chest.
“Lumine’s teats, Fano. I’m serious. I need to speak with her.”
Fano chuckled. “Better not let your Pahpi hear you talk like that. He’ll know where you learned it.” He took the loop from the fire and continued hammering it. “Sorry, Quen. I didn’t see her pass. And I’d remember a beautiful woman riding a wolf.”
Dammit. How did Nevara exit Solia without Fano seeing her? But Fano became a single-minded smithing machine when he worked. Maybe he just didn’t notice her.
He called out as Quen resumed running toward Solia’s gates. “Come to Yulina’s later. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Maybe later,” she called back. Fano had been from one end of the Sulmére to the other and was always a great one for stories. Having been no farther than Quipwi, the next town north along the Lakmi, all Quen knew about the world she’d learned from Fano and other travelers. And unlike Solia’s superstitious and wary people, Quen’s peculiarities didn’t bother Fano. Between his days as a sailor and ranging the vast expanse of the Sulmére Province, Fano had likely seen stranger things than Quen’s unusual curse with animals.
Fano hammered the red-hot iron into a curve to match up with the loop he’d already beaten out of the thin, straight metal line. “Stay out of trouble,” he shouted.
Not likely.
Now at the western gates, Quen paused. Chasing after someone in the desert was a bad idea. Even if she knew the direction Nevara had gone, Juka’s afternoon winds would erase her tracks within minutes.
Juka’s breath was only one of many reasons she should remain in Solia and not chase after Nevara. But I must know what’s on that scroll. There was no time to coax a kopek with sweet jishni root to allow her to mount, so she pressed forward on foot. A pair of dogs tugging at a bone gave up their game and ran at the sight of her.
“Cowards,” she called over her shoulder.
As soon as she was beyond the western gates of Solia, Quen opened her stride and sprinted without restraint. Moving this way was freeing. She tapped into reserves of strength from deep within, choosing to ignore the fact that the power likely came from the Nixan soul she despised.
Sulmére dust colored the horizon the same hue as the sand, making it difficult to distinguish ground from sky. Quen’s favorite story, The Saga of Ilkay, described Volenex as an ‘angry mountain.’ The only mountains visible in the haze were the ones to the south, so she went in that direction. I hope I’ve chosen correctly.
Juka’s afternoon breeze blustered. Quen double-wrapped her keffla and covered her vision in a gauzy layer of linen to keep the swirling sands from scouring her eyes. Running at full speed, Quen practically skimmed the sand’s surface as gusts slapped her tunic against her thighs.
No longer a typical afternoon breeze, Juka was threatening a haboob. Sands whipped, and dehydration swelled Quen’s tongue. Juka’s thirsty winds lapped the sweat from her skin.
Standing still and squinting at the horizon, she saw something moving ahead, far in the distance. A dark figure. Nevara?
Quen summoned more speed than she’d ever tried before. At first, her hips and knees protested. She ignored the discomfort, and after a few minutes, her joints loosened. Through the shimmering haze of blazing late-afternoon heat, a black blob wavered on the horizon.
She called out, “Nevara!”
Quen concentrated, but the only sound was the whistle of sand skimming the dunes. Juka’s breath.
She yelled again. “Nevara—it’s Quen Tomo Santu. Please stop, so we might speak.” Though Quen screamed, the dunes swallowed her voice. She didn’t know if Nevara—or whoever rode ahead—heard her.
A faint crackle amongst the whistling wind. Is that a call back? Quen continued running at top speed, practically hovering over the dunes.
The dark figure was closer, but still difficult to discern through the wavering heat rising from the sands. As Quen neared the figure, she realized it wasn’t a rider.
Quen called again. This time the response was clear.
“Brock-brock,” it croaked. It was a raven’s call.
Corvus.
The giant black bird spread its wings wide, creating a dark shadow on the sands. Its great beak opened, and it let out a loud croak. It sounded like the bird said, “Come.”
Quen ran toward Corvus and away from Solia.
Winds lashed her tunic, and sand swirled. Juka threatened a massive sandstorm. The kind that separated drey from their herd and killed herdspeople not wise enough to find shelter. I should turn back. Yet Quen couldn’t make herself turn away from answers.
Ahead, a flash of black. Juka’s breath carried a call. The raven croak was like a crooked finger beckoning her onward.
Drawing on reserves of strength she had only recently realized she had, Quen railed against the gale. It was like trying to move a mud-brick wall. No longer skimming the dunes, her feet sank into the sand. Her legs, mired in the dune, shook with effort as she tried to pull them out for another step. I’m no match for Juka’s mighty breath.
Ahead, Corvus flew like a seed husk bandied about by a strong wind. Juka hinders Corvus as well.
The air, now more sand than æther, made breathing perilous. Quen could barely see her hand stretched out before her. She lost sight of Corvus and called with all the force she could muster. “Corvus!”
The gale roared, drowning out everything but the eerie sound of sand whisking along the dunes. She called to Corvus again and again until her throat was raw. There was no response.
With each step, Quen sank deeper into the dune. As she walked, the winds deposited fresh, unpacked sand in front of her. Corvus was no longer visible on the horizon. Juka had stymied her quest for answers. Her longing for answers would have to wait. I just hope I live to see tomorrow.
Quen rarely prayed to the lesser gods and spirits for aid. But she prayed now to the only deity that could get her out of the mess she’d put herself in. She stood knee-deep in a dune and spoke silently to the guardian spirit of the wind, air, and æther. Juka, please gentle your winds so I can find my way home.
Why didn’t I bring food, water, and a staff to help me push up out of the dunes? Quen cursed herself for being so rash, running off like a newborn drey, blind and searching for its mother’s teat. If she survived the day, her father and brothers would give her the rough side of their tongues, and she’d deserve it. Her father would never forgive her for disobeying him and chasing after a woman he’d said was the spawn of the Shadow.
Is this my punishment? She asked it of the Trinity—Hiyadi, Niyadi, and Lumine—and half expected an answer.
She stood still as stone, waiting for the winds to subside. Her breath was ragged, heart pounding so hard blood rushed in her ears. The Nixan phantom heartbeat, usually a vague flutter, now thundered and panicked her further.
A voice. Sometimes, from deep within, she “heard” the voice of her Nixan soul. Like cheese curds rising to the surface of milk, ideas sometimes came from her deepest self. Thoughts that weren’t her own. Is this voice the Nixan taunting me? Quen held her breath, remaining as still as possible, trying to determine if the voice was from inside or out.
Again, a voice, and it was not from within. But it wasn’t Corvus either. The voice was human.
“Nevara?” Quen sounded like the crackle of husks in a thrasher. She tried to wet her tongue, but her mouth was as dry as baked linen. That isn’t a good sign.
There it was again. It wasn’t the trickster spirit’s jape. Someone called her name.
“Quen!”
Rhoji? Quen pulled a foot from the sand, her heart racing with renewed hope. She managed less of a croak and more of a call this time. “Rho-ji?”
A kopek brayed and coughed. A man yelled, “Quen?”
It is Rhoji. The winds still thrashed but had gone from tempest to mere windstorm. She said a silent thank-you to Juka and the Three for answering her prayers. Rhoji wasn’t her first choice of aid. He’d tease her about how she got lost in a haboob until the day she died, but as Pahpi always said, a person dying of thirst doesn’t refuse a drink.
“Rho-ji!” Keep calling so I can follow your voice.
They called back and forth to each other, each round getting louder and louder as they followed the sound to find one another. Before long, he was a dark blur on the horizon, the sands pink and orange behind him. From somewhere deep within, Quen found the strength to run. Gone was her preternatural speed. She moved with the loping clumsiness of someone nearly desiccated by Juka’s torrent of hot air.
At last, he was close enough she saw Gambol’s dark eyes squinted nearly closed, protected by two layers of thick lashes. Rhoji’s keffla covered his entire face, but his bone-white tunic was visible against the black of Gambol’s skin. She stopped, her legs quivering beneath her, and waited for him to come to her.
Gambol swept up to her side. This is the first time Gambol hasn’t been skittish around me. Rhoji reached down, and she took his hand. She wasn’t sure how she got up and behind him, but she rode on a kopek with her brother as if it were normal. Has the curse that makes animals fear me somehow lifted? Perhaps Juka really has answered my prayer.
