Tané flinched, but managed a smile.
“I will leave you. We both need rest.” Onren drained the cup. “Goodnight, Tané.”
“Goodnight.”
As soon as Onren was gone, Tané quenched the oil lamp and crawled under her bedding. Exhaustion and pain engulfed her at last, and she plunged into a dreamless sleep.
When she woke, the light was golden. For a moment, she could not understand why the room was so bright. It seemed as if it had been dark for an eternity.
She slid open the window. The sun gleamed on the rooftops of Ginura, even as the rain kept sheeting.
A sunshower. A good omen.
The servants would come soon with her new uniform. If the dragon on the back of the surcoat was silver, she would remain a sea guardian and serve as a leader in the navy.
If it was gold, she was god-chosen.
She paced the room and lit the incense in the shrine for one last prayer. She asked forgiveness for her impoliteness toward Onren, and again for what she had done on the night before the ceremony. If the great Kwiriki would only absolve her, she would prove her devotion for the rest of her life.
The servants came as afternoon ended. Tané waited, eyes closed, before she turned to face them.
The tunic was watersilk. Blue as sapphires. And on the back of the surcoat was the dragon emblem, embroidered in gold thread.
Her new attendants skinned her hair into a military style. The scar on her cheek looked more prominent, and her shoulder ached, but her eyes were as bright as fresh ink.
As the sun took its leave, she emerged from her palanquin and stepped on to the pale sand of Ginura Bay. The choosing always took place at the end of the day, for her old life ended here. She wore new leather boots with a thick heel, the better to grip the stirrups of a saddle.
A night rainbow burned against the smoky purple of the sky, daubed across the horizon in intensities of red. People were gathering on the cliffs to stare at this peculiar sign from the great Kwiriki, and to watch the twelve new dragonriders walk toward the water.
Turosa was among them. So were all the other relatives of dragonriders. Tané fell into step beside Onren, who smiled at her. She had earned a place in Clan Miduchi.
The last time Tané had been on a beach, the stranger had stepped from the dark like a curse. Yet the tides within her, which had pushed her toward this day from the cradle, were strangely calm and still.
Ten Seiikinese dragons waited in the sea, lithe and beautiful. The sun and the rainbow lit the waves that lapped against their bodies. The two Lacustrine warriors, it seemed, had yet to arrive.
When he was called, Kanperu bowed to the Sea General, who lifted a string of dancing pearls around his neck. He handed Kanperu a helm and a padded saddle. Next, the Sea General bestowed on him a mask to keep the elements off his face and a sword quenched with salt water, its scabbard inlaid with mother-of-pearl, made by the finest bladesmith in Seiiki.
Kanperu passed the cords of the helm around his neck, then hefted the saddle under his arm and strode into the water. Once he was up to his waist, he held out his right hand, palm turned upward.
A blue-gray dragon extended her neck and considered him with eyes like full moons. When she dipped her head farther, Kanperu hooked his fingers into her mane and clambered onto her, mindful of her spines. No sooner were he and the saddle in place than his dragon let out a haunting call and plunged into the sea, drenching everyone on the beach.
Onren approached the shore next, cheeks full of her smile. She had only held out her hand for a moment before the largest of the dragons—a hulking Seiikinese with a black mane, his scales like beaten silver—came gliding toward the beach. Onren tensed at first, but once she had made contact, she relaxed and climbed his neck like a ladder.
“The honorable Miduchi Tané,” the Sea General called. “Step forward.”
Onren lowered her mask over her face. The dragon lowered his head and swam away.
Tané bowed to the Sea General and let him lock the pearls at the base of her neck, the sign that she was god-chosen. She took the helmet and the saddle and, finally, the sword in its scabbard. It already felt like a part of her arm. She fastened it to her sash and waded into the sea.
As warm salt water swilled around her calves, her breath came short. She reached out a hand. Head down. Eyes shut. Her hand was steady, but the rest of her was quaking.
Cold scale brushed her fingers. She dared not look. She must. When she did, two eyes, as bright as fireworks, stared back from the face of a Lacustrine dragon.
21
West
Loth left his rooms in the Palace of Salvation for the last time in the dead of night.
The Draconic plague was inside him. One touch to the brow of the Flesh King, a prickle in his hand, and an hourglass had turned over in his mind. Soon enough, the fine grains of his sanity would begin to course between his fingers.
Slung over his shoulder was a leather sack, filled with supplies for the journey through the mountains. His baselard and sword were at his side, concealed beneath a winter cloak.
Kit followed him down the winding stairs. “I do hope this is a good idea, Arteloth,” he said.
“It is the opposite of a good idea.”
“Piracy was the better option.”
“Undeniably.”
They were entering the bowels of Cárscaro. The Donmata Marosa had told him how to access a hidden stair from the Privy Sanctuary, which tapered as they descended. Loth dried the cold sweat from his brow. He had pleaded with Kit to stay behind, but his friend had insisted on coming with him.
An eternity passed before their boots hit flat ground. Loth held his torch up.
The Donmata Marosa was waiting at the foot of the stair, her face cast into shadow by her hood. She stood before a great crack in the wall.
“What is this place?” Loth asked.
“A forgotten escape route. For use in sieges, I suppose,” she said. “It was how Mama and I meant to flee.”
“Why did you not use it to get word out?”
“I tried.” She lowered her hood. “Lord Kitston. Are you now afflicted?”
Kit bowed. “Yes, Radiance. I believe I am sufficiently plague-ridden.”
“Good.” Her gaze snapped back to Loth. “I sent one of my ladies. That was before I knew how many Draconic creatures were in the mountains.”
The inference was clear.
The Donmata reached behind her and held out matching wooden staffs, each capped with a hook. “Ice staves. They will help you find your balance.”
They took them. To Loth she handed another sack, heavy with the iron box.
“I bid you not abandon this task I have set for you, Lord Arteloth.” Her eyes were jewel-like in the firelight. “I trust that you will do this for me. And for Virtudom.”
With these words, she stood aside.
“We will send help.” Loth spoke quietly. “Keep your father alive for as long as you can. If he dies, hide yourself from Fyredel. When this task is done, we will tell the sovereigns of Virtudom what has happened here. You will not die alone in this place.”
At last, the Donmata Marosa smiled, just a little. As if she had forgotten how.
“You have a kind heart, Lord Arteloth,” she said. “If you do get back to Inys, give Sabran and Aubrecht my regards.”
“I will.” He bowed to her. “Goodbye, Your Radiance.”
“Goodbye, my lord.”
Their gazes held for a song of heartbeats. Loth dipped his head once more and stepped into the passage.
“May the Knight of Courage bring you cheer in these dark hours,” Kit said to Marosa.
“And you, Lord Kitston.”
Her footsteps echoed as she left. Loth felt a sudden regret that they could not take her with them. Marosa Vetalda, Donmata of Yscalin, imprisoned in her tower.
The passageway was unspeakably dark. A breeze drew Loth on like a beckoning hand. He snared his boot on the uneven ground at once, almost robbing himself of an eye with his torch. They were surrounded by the glimmer of volcanic glass and the porous swell of pumice. The glass mirrored the light of his torch, casting a hundred different reflections.
They walked for what seemed like hours, sometimes turning a corner, but otherwise moving in a straight line. Their staves tapped out a rhythm.
Once Kit coughed, and Loth tensed. “Hush,” he said. “I would rather not wake whatever dwells down here.”
“A man must cough when need be. And nothing dwells down here.”
“Tell me these walls don’t look as if a basilisk carved them.”
“Oh, stop being such a doomsinger. Think of this as another adventure.”
“I never wanted an adventure,” Loth said wearily. “Not even one. At this moment, I want to be at Briar House with a cup of mulled wine, preparing to walk my queen to the altar.”
“And I should like to be waking up beside Kate Withy, but alas, we cannot have everything.”
Loth smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Kit.”