Season of the Dragon, page 32
Within moments, another dark door appeared with an orangey-red sky on the other side. The late-summer skies of the Sulmére. A familiar sky. Vahgrin flapped his massive wings, and they cleared the dark portal, the air crackling with sky-fire.
Seeing familiar skies brought tears of joy. Quen hadn’t realized how much she missed burnt-orange skies, Hiyadi a hazy yellow blob rather than a bright white denizen she had to shield her eyes to look upon.
Vahgrin tilted to the left and pointed his nose down. Quen’s stomach flopped, and it felt as though her heart had risen to her throat. She let out an involuntary gasp.
Nevara’s laugh was hearty and vibrated at Quen’s back. “Have no fear, Doj’Anira. Vahgrin hasn’t lost a Rajani yet.”
Vahgrin yowled loudly. Whether it was a cry of pain or agreement, Quen couldn’t tell. The phantom Nixan heart was silent and still. Sure, now you’re silent when you might actually have something useful to say.
Juka’s relentless summer breath hurled sand, making the air thick with dust. Wee Niyadi was a few hand widths past zenith, while Hiyadi hugged the horizon. It was late, though still five or six hours until the full dark of Niyadi’s brief rest. The air smelled of dirt and the faintest odor of the tar pits to the northeast. Ahead lay Volenex.
Where desert meets sea, a mountain rose from an ancient crater. The craterous land hugged Indrasi’s southernmost waters, where the Zhongdu Ocean met the Orju Sea. Odors of saltwater, kelp, and rotten fish mixed with the tarry aroma. The smell made Quen’s nose twitch. She donned her tatty borrowed keffla to ward off the stench.
Inside the large outer crater sat an inner crater, smaller and less worn. Seawater filled the ring between the two. The craggy outer crater was volcanic black, while the inner cone was rusted-iron red. From their high vantage point, the formation of the two extinct volcanos with a ring of ocean water looked like an eye. Volenex’s double caldera was both bleak and beautiful.
She despised the excitement that welled in her. This most foreign place—a place she’d never been before—felt like… home.
As they got closer, a complex of buildings came into view. Carved from the inner cinder cone’s black stone, towering spires like midnight glass glistened.
Vahgrin landed in a courtyard paved with square tiles cut from black basalt. In between grew vibrant green moss, delicate in contrast to the spiky towers rising around them. As Vahgrin flapped his mighty wings to gently land, the air he produced blew the gauzy, flowing garb of a circle of women ringing the courtyard.
Two of the women, covered head to toe in sheer white linen, came forward to assist them in disembarking. Quen had seen Nevara leap gracefully from the beast without needing help, but Nevara didn’t deny their aid. The women carried wood steps and placed them on the ground by Vahgrin. They stood on the top step and offered delicate hands, their wrists jingling with gold bangles, their faces obscured by the thin gauzy fabric.
Nevara took their petite hands in hers, and they bowed as she descended. Once on the ground, she kissed their hands as they kept their heads low. “How blessed by the mighty Dragos heart you are this day, sisters, chosen to be the first to touch the Doj’Anira.”
The two white-clad women raised their heads and looked up to Quen. Beneath the gauze, their lips and eyes were rouged red. They glanced furtively at Quen but quickly averted their gaze as if it was taboo to stare at her.
“They are Atyro, Doj’Anira. Nixan, like all here. Atyro are neophytes, pure and untouched by their first Promena. They eagerly await shedding the confines of the human skin they’ve worn, and all hope for the feathers of Rajani. Atyro serve the Order. Sisters, lend a hand to the Doj’Anira.”
Quen took their hands in hers. They were the hands of young women, most likely not yet of age. They were hands that had known little of the rough work Quen had grown up doing in the harsh Sulmére.
Like Nevara, Quen didn’t truly require help. Though Vahgrin’s back stood a person and a half high, Quen’s Nixan agility allowed her to leap from such a height. But, following Nevara’s lead, Quen allowed the women to help her disembark.
The courtyard was quiet save for the gentle lapping of waves as the sea pounded the volcanic shore. The gathered Atyros, the neophyte Rajani, were silent as an eavesdropper listening for gossip.
“Come, Doj’Anira. I have the great honor of preparing you for a ceremony in your honor.” Nevara walked toward the tallest spire.
It was late, and Quen was exhausted. She’d gotten a lifetime fill of pomp and ceremony at the capital. Now, she had energy only for answers. “Ceremony. Now?”
“The Rajani have planned for your return for many years. We will allow no one to interfere. Besides, we are creatures of the night.”
An Atyro on either side pulled open a massive door of solid granite. Quen followed Nevara into a vestibule of polished grey marble, open to the sky above. Nevara’s boot heels clicked on the floor while Quen’s dreyskin boots made hardly a sound.
“How could I be returning to a place I’ve never been?”
Nevara ascended a stairway of stone steps, much like the ones Quen had climbed in the capital. Quen followed, taking the steps by twos so she could get ahead of Nevara. On the landing, Quen blocked the path. “I need answers, Nevara. How could you plan for me? What is a Doj’Anira, really? And why under Hiyadi’s sky are so many people trying to claim me as their own when I’m a simple Sulmére woman? I will go no farther without answers.”
Nevara smiled, her eyes twinkling. “You truly still believe yourself a simple woman?” She laughed, the cackle echoing off the stone. Nevara stepped onto the landing and took Quen’s hand in hers, deftly avoiding the talons. “Come with me, and you will have the answers you seek.”
Nevara strode down the wide hall and dragged Quen behind. They soon ascended yet another column of stairs leading to a small courtyard. In this outdoor circle stood another ring of women, this time wearing red robes and girdles of gold chain, much like the one Nevara wore, clasped at the front with a dragon’s head. Hammered golden headdresses affixed to the backs of their heads echoed Vatra’s fire and reverence for Hiyadi’s power.
As Quen entered the courtyard, the women came forward. Nevara held Quen’s arm outstretched, and the women touched her talon-tipped hand.
“Sisters, welcome our Doj’Anira.”
They surrounded Quen, their hands covering her shoulders, back, arms, and hands. Their voices were hushed as they mumbled words in the ancient tongue Quen couldn’t understand without aid from her Nixan. But her shadow soul remained hidden, even to her. Is it still with me? The thought simultaneously raised hope but also panic. What if killing the Nixan kills me too?
“These women are Drago’Sorceri, like me,” Nevara said. “Many older even than me, we have faithfully studied the ancient ways. Kept the language of Dragos Menaris alive, you see. Waiting for the day we would welcome Ishna, the Winter Dragon, back from her sleep in Vay’Nada.”
Though Quen understood the words Nevara spoke, the meaning eluded her. The Drago’Sorceri, these odd, red-robed women groping at her, made her head swim. Bile rose, and a band of anxiety tightened around her middle. I am Quen, not Ishna.
“Welcome home, Ishna, our venerated Dragos’Madi.” The women whispered this phrase as they pawed at Quen with silver-nail-tipped fingers.
What are they babbling about? They’re all addlebrained.
But Quen couldn’t ignore the rod of searing pain that began at her middle and jolted her entire body like a bolt of sky-fire. Ishna.
She swayed, and her vision narrowed.
Deep inside, she’d always known. I am Doj’Anira—twice blessed. Not because of her bicolored eyes, but because she carried two souls. And my shadow soul—the Nixan I’ve imprisoned… It belongs not to a Rajani changeling, but to… a dragon. My second soul is… Ishna. The Winter Dragon.
Quen’s temples throbbed, and her legs wobbled. “I’m going—”
The women bore Quen to a stone bench, where they laid her down. They continued whispered prayers or spells or whatever they were saying. To Quen, their mumbling was like fingers scraping sandstone. It didn’t ease the feeling that she would either pass out or vomit.
With a hand to her head, she bolted upright. “Please, stop. I must… I want to speak to Nevara. Alone.”
Nevara spoke in the odd Rajani language, full of tongue clicks and long-drawn-out vowels like Vahgrin’s dragon-speak. The women went silent. They laid their hands on Quen one last time, bowed, and left her alone with Nevara.
Without the onslaught of the women’s buzzing words ringing in her ears, the urge to slip into unconsciousness faded. She bent her head low, between her knees, and took deep gulps of air as she tried to gather her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Tell me everything. From the beginning. What did you show my Pahpi that day in Solia? How did you know my mother? And what of this beast I carry inside?”
“Instead of telling you, I will show you.”
“Show me—what?” The idea that her mother was still alive took Quen’s breath. She clasped the amber pendant at her neck. Could it be?
A dark shadow passed over Nevara’s face. “I have nothing to show you of your human family. No human before has walked the corridors of Volenex. What I will show you is of Ishna. Come with me, and I will show you what remains of the first Winter Dragon.”
• • •
Quen had often imagined conversations with the mother she’d never known—the woman who’d schemed to doom Quen to life as a Nixan. Did she realize what she’d done? Or did she think she could override Nevara’s will? I will never know. But maybe Nevara will finally answer the questions tormenting me like a bug in my bedroll. She followed on Nevara’s heels as they traveled a winding corridor, spiraling down into the belly of the extinct volcano.
They arrived finally at a deep cave. Two iron sconces bearing torches near the doorway provided dim light, but the central part of the room remained shadowed. Two white-robed Atyro sat on ancient wood benches just inside the stone opening. When they saw Nevara, they quickly rose and bowed low.
One of the Atyro spoke, her voice thin and low as if a babe slept, and she didn’t want to wake it. “How may we serve you, esteemed Drago’Sorceri?”
“Light the remaining torches, then leave us.”
The two women scurried to do as Nevara bid and left silently, bowing low again as they went.
With lit torches, the circular room’s purpose became clearer. Floor-to-ceiling shelves carved into the stone ringed the perimeter. Leather-bound tomes, yellowed scrolls, stacks of parchments, and even jars holding teeth, bone, and scales packed the shelves. In the center of the room, upon a raised stone platform, loomed a dragon skull larger than Vahgrin’s. Torchlight danced across the dragon’s skull, making it seem alive.
Quen’s voice was a hushed whisper. “A dragon skull.”
“Not just a dragon skull.” Nevara moved toward it, Quen on her heels. “That is Ishna, the Winter Dragon. Unceremoniously murdered by Indrasian Kovan.”
Every child in Indrasi learned the story of Indrasian, the heroic warrior who ended the dragon scourge and ushered in the new era, Nomo Teplo, the Age of Man. Like most people, Quen had been taught it was more myth than reality. Indrasian was the first ruler to unite all Indrasi, hence first a country, then an entire continent named after him. The Kovans claimed they descended from Indrasian’s bloodlines. The enormous skull was from a dragon, but whether it was the dragon Indrasian supposedly killed, Quen couldn’t be sure.
Quen circled the platform and inspected the skull. There was a large hollow between the eyes, covered over with lacy bone. As she got to the back, she noticed ridges at the base of the dragon skull. She fingered her neck-ridge as if she could press it back into normal shape. The Nixan spirit within was quiet.
It unnerved her that the shadow soul had abandoned her when she needed it most. Her phantom second heartbeat had annoyed her. But now that it was quiet, Quen realized her shadow soul had supplied strength and courage. You choose now to be still? There was no answer. As she stared at the brittle bone, remnants of the body that supposedly once housed her shadow soul, her resolve to destroy Vahgrin waned. Not gone, but the bloodlust was diverted by recent revelations and the unshakeable feeling that as much as Rhoji was Quen’s kin, Vahgrin was Ishna’s.
“Assuming what you say is true—that this is the last remnant of the dragon Indrasian slew—how did it end up here?”
Nevara’s eyes were shiny with emotion, as if she held back tears at seeing the thing. “The Dragos Sol’iberi is an old order, and the Rajani sisterhood ancient. They learned Indrasian hauled Ishna’s severed head from her mountain home to a nearby village. There he paraded it like a prize, seeking glory for his villainous deed.”
“Glory he got.” Indrasian, ancient ancestor to petulant Xa’Vatra. Heat rose in Quen’s throat. In her belly roiled fires of anger at what the ruling family had done to her and the poor dragon Indrasian slew. Why is this making me angry? Quen shook her head to clear her mind. I’m being sucked into her story. This dragon was Vahgrin’s kin, not yours.
Nevara’s eyes were wide, her pupils so dilated her eyes were two black orbs. “Indrasian’s descendants will pay. Oh yes, they will pay.” Her laugh was the call of a night bird crackling in cool, dry air. “Soon, all Qülla will pay for Indrasian’s crime.”
The woman looked positively crazed, her mind a spooked drey running this way and that. But her words sounded familiar. Like what Quen had said after Vahgrin razed Solia and killed her father. She, too, had promised to avenge the loss of someone she loved. Is that what I looked like?
Quen’s mind was a sea of doubt, and the world around her spun. Pahpi had drilled into her a mantra meant to quiet the wild heart within. Still Waters. Still Waters. But it was no use. Enara was out of her reach. Though Vatra’s fires burned strong in her, she wasn’t crazed like the Dragos Sol’iberi. At least not entirely. Not yet. The Dragos Sol’iberi plan was pure madness.
“Death for death. That is the grand plan?” Quen shook her head. “The Dragos Sol’iberi plans to lay waste to an entire city because one man killed this over a thousand years ago?” She gestured toward the giant skull.
Quen’s words broke Nevara’s unwavering gaze upon the dragon skull. “You think this is about one life?” Her whole body trembled with emotion. “The Winter Dragon was not just any dragon. She was a Dragos Primeri. One of the original four, and a living god. Dragos Primeri magic fuels all dragons. When Indrasian killed her, he doomed them all. Extinction, or nearly so as far as humans knew. And he gloated about it.” Her lips curled into a sneer, as if speaking of him made her mouth taste awful.
Quen pinched the skin between her eyes and took a deep breath. “What in the name of the Three does any of this have to do with me?”
Nevara grabbed Quen’s wrist and dragged her to the wall of stone shelves. She didn’t bother with a torch, instead conjuring a ball of yellow light that hovered nearby as she searched. Nevara found what she was looking for on a shelf near the bottom. It was the scroll she’d brought to Solia. It was still dusty from being stomped into the dirt by Pahpi.
The Drago’Sorceri took the scroll to a table, lit a table lamp with the flick of a wrist, and extinguished her magical orb of light. The table had several devices, like the one Quen had seen Pelagia use, to unfurl a scroll and hold it for reading. “Here. Read for yourself.”
Quen had wanted to see this scroll so badly she’d flung herself into the desert churning with haboobs just for a glimpse. Now it lay unfurled before her, and she was afraid of what it said. She hesitated and stood in the shadows behind Nevara.
The Rajani gestured to the table. “Do not be afraid, Doj’Anira. You have questions, now find the answers. Learn the truth.”
What did she say about Vay’Nada? That it showed the truth, but weak people didn’t want to see it? What if I am weak? Quen forced herself forward to read what her mother had promised to this dark sorcerer so long ago.
The flowery, wordy language was of the kind used in the capital’s edicts. Language meant to obscure truth rather than reveal it.
She had to read most sentences a few times to fully digest the meaning. The more she understood, the more her stomach felt hollow. Because her father, Santu, was the Consular of Bardivia, it was auspicious that he have three children to mirror the Trinity. It was most auspicious to have a son, another son, and then a daughter. But Quen’s mother, Suliam, could not conceive a third child. When severe drought hit Bardivia, the people thought they’d angered the gods. They blamed Suliam’s inability to bear a third child. Desperate to appease her husband’s people, Suliam bargained with the Dragos Sol’iberi and Nevara specifically to help her conceive.
The scroll said:
“And said child will be Dragonborn and promised to the Dragos Sol’iberi. At the time of the Dragonborn’s first Promena, to Volenex she must go. There, the Rajani of the Dragos Sol’iberi will welcome the Dragonborn with open arms and lovingly attend her metamorphosis with gratitude for her vessel. Praise to Primal Dragos’Madi. We praise the dragon reborn. Praise for the rebirth of our god, Ishna, the Winter Dragon.”
Quen’s legs quivered, her knees buckled, and she grabbed the table to steady herself. She slumped into a nearby chair. Her body slick with sweat, Quen felt like she was breathing through sand. Her lower lip trembled as tears dripped onto her lap. “No. This cannot be. I thought—Rajani. I had accepted that. To be—like you.”
Nevara knelt and took her hands, her lips smiling, her eyes alight with joy. “You, Doj’Anira, are so much more than Rajani. Do you not see? Our entire order has existed for over a thousand years, sustained by a single goal. To bring Ishna back into the world. And you, most blessed among us, are the vessel which carries our god back to us. You, dear Quen, house the soul of the Winter Dragon. You have borne her well, but the time has come to bring Ishna forth—to become all you are destined to be.”
“But… how? This isn’t possible.”
