“Great Nayimathun,” Tané rasped.
Nayimathun tilted her head. Her body drifted with the wind, as though she were as light as paper. Tané placed her hands in front of her and pressed her brow into the ground.
“You did not come to the Grieving Orphan tonight,” Nayimathun said.
“Forgive me.” Since she could not touch the dragon, Tané signed the words with her hands as she spoke them. “I cannot see you any more. Truly, great Nayimathun, I am sorry.” Her voice was breaking, like rotted wood under strain. “I must go to the honored Sea General. I have something to confess.”
“I would like you to fly with me, Tané. We will talk about what troubles you.”
“I would dishonor you.”
“Do you also disobey me, child of flesh?”
Those eyes were blazing rings of fire, and that mouthful of teeth invited no argument. Tané could not disobey a god. Her body was a vessel of water, and all water was theirs.
It was dangerous, but possible, to ride on dragonback without a saddle. She rose and stepped toward the edge of the cliff. Shivers flickered up her sides as Nayimathun lowered her head, allowing Tané to grip her mane, plant a boot on her neck, and sit astride her. Nayimathun flowed away from the castle—
—and dived.
A thrill sang through Tané as they plummeted toward the sea. She could not breathe for dread and joy. It was as if her heart had been hooked from her mouth, caught like a fish on a line.
A spine of rocks rushed up to meet them. The wind roared in her ears. Just before they hit the water, instinct pushed her head down.
The impact almost unseated her. Water flooded her mouth and nose. Her thighs ached and her fingers cramped with the effort of holding on as Nayimathun swam, tail sweeping, legs clawing, graceful as a blackfish. Tané forced her eyes open. Her shoulder burned with the healing fire only the sea could light.
Bubbles drifted like sea-moons around her. Nayimathun broke the surface, and Tané followed.
“Up,” Nayimathun said, “or down?”
“Up.”
Scale and muscle flexed beneath Tané. She tightened her hands in the slick of mane. With one great leap, Nayimathun was high over the bay, raining water down upon the waves.
Tané turned to see over her shoulder. Ginura was already far below. It looked like a painting, real and unreal, a floating world on the verge of the sea. She felt alive, truly alive, as if she had never breathed until now. Here, she was no longer Lady Tané of Clan Miduchi, or anyone at all. She was faceless in the gloaming. A breath of wind over the sea.
This was what her death would feel like. Jeweled turtles would come to escort her spirit to the Palace of Many Pearls, and her body would be given to the waves. All that would be left of it was foam.
At least, that was what would have happened if she had not transgressed. Only riders could rest with their dragons. Instead, she would haunt the ocean for eternity.
The drink was heavy in her blood. Nayimathun soared higher, singing in an ancient language. The breath of both human and dragon came like cloud.
The sea was vast below them. Tané nestled into Nayimathun’s mane, where the wind could hardly touch her. Countless stars glistened above, crystal-clear without cloud to obscure them. Eyes of dragons never born. When she slept, she dreamed of them, an army falling from the skies to drive away the shadows. She dreamed she was small as a seedling, and that all her hopes grew branches, like a tree.
She stirred, warm and listless, with a light ache in her temples.
It took her some time to wake fully, so deep was she in dreaming. As she remembered everything, her skin turned cold again, and she realized she was lying upon rock.
She rolled on to her hip. In the darkness, she could just make out the shape of her dragon.
“Where are we, Nayimathun?”
Scale hissed on rock.
“Somewhere,” the dragon rumbled. “Nowhere.”
They were in a tidal cave. Water washed in from outside. Where it broke against the rock, pale lights bloomed and dwindled, like the tiny glowing squid that had sometimes washed up on the beaches of Cape Hisan.
“Tell me,” Nayimathun said, “how you have dishonored us.”
Tané wrapped one arm around her knees. If there was any courage left in her, there was not enough to refuse a dragon twice.
She spoke softly. Nothing was secret. As she recounted everything that had happened since the outsider had blundered onto that beach, Nayimathun made no sound. Tané pressed her brow to the ground and waited for judgment.
“Rise,” Nayimathun said.
Tané obeyed.
“What has happened does not dishonor me,” the dragon said. “It dishonors the world.”
Tané ducked her head. She had promised herself she would not cry again.
“I know I cannot be forgiven, great Nayimathun.” She kept her gaze on her boots, but her jaw trembled. “I will go to the honored Sea General in the morning. You c-can choose another rider.”
“No, child of flesh. You are my rider, sworn to me before the sea. And you are right that you cannot be forgiven,” Nayimathun said, “but only because there was no crime.”
Tané stared up at her. “There was a crime.” Her voice quaked. “I broke seclusion. I hid an outsider. I disobeyed the Great Edict.”
“No.” A hiss echoed through the cave. “West or East, North or South—it makes no difference to the fire. The threat comes from beneath, not from afar.” The dragon lay flat on the ground, so her eyes were as close as possible to Tané. “You hid the boy. Spared him the sword.”
“I did not do it out of kindness,” Tané said. “I did it because—” Her stomach twisted. “Because I wanted my life to run a smooth course. And I thought that he would ruin that.”
“That disappoints me. That dishonors you. But not beyond forgiveness.” Nayimathun tilted her head. “Tell me, little kin. Why did the Inysh man come to Seiiki?”
“He wanted to see the all-honored Warlord.” Tané wet her lips. “He seemed desperate.”
“Then the Warlord must see him. The Emperor of the Twelve Lakes must also hear his words.” The quills on her back stiffened. “The earth will shake beneath the sea. He stirs.”
Tané dared not ask who she meant. “What must I do, Nayimathun?”
“That is not the question you must ask. You must ask what we must do.”
28
South
Rauca, capital of the Ersyr, was the largest remaining settlement in the South. As he threaded his way through its jumble of high-walled pathways, Loth found himself at the mercy of his senses. Mounds of rainbow spices, flower gardens that perfumed the streets, tall windcatchers accented with blueglass—all of it was unlike anything he knew.
In the moil of the city, only glances were spared for the ichneumon at his side. They must not be as rare in the Ersyr as they were farther north. Unlike the creature of legend, this one seemed not to be able to speak.
Loth edged through the crowds. Despite the heat, he had covered himself to the neck with his cloak, but it still made panic coil in him when someone came too close.
The Ivory Palace, seat of the House of Taumargam, loomed over the city like a silent god. Doves waffed around it, carrying messages between the people of the city. Its domes shone gold and silver and bronze, as bright as the sun they mirrored, and the walls were spotless white, arched windows cut into them like patterns into lace.
It was for the House of Taumargam that Chassar uq-Ispad worked as an ambassador. Loth tried to go toward the palace, but the ichneumon had other ideas. He led Loth into a covered market, where the air was sweet as pudding.
“I really don’t know where you think you’re going,” Loth said, through cracked lips. He was sure the animal could understand him. “Could we stop for water, please, sirrah?”
He might as well have held his tongue for all the good it did him. When they passed a trove of saddle flasks, each crystalline with water, he could bear it no longer. He fumbled the purse of coins from his bag. The ichneumon looked back at him and growled.
“Please,” Loth said wearily.
The ichneumon let out a huff, but sat on its haunches. Loth turned to the merchant and pointed to the smallest bottle, spun from iridescent glass. The man replied in his own tongue.
“I speak no Ersyri, sir,” Loth said ruefully.
“Ah, you are Inysh. My apologies.” The merchant smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Like most Ersyris, he had golden skin and dark hair. “That will be eight suns.”
Loth hesitated. Being rich, he had no experience of wrangling with merchants. “That … seems very expensive,” he muttered, conscious of his paltry store.
“My family are the best glassblowers in Rauca. I can hardly taint our good name, my friend, by underselling my skills.”
“Very well.” Loth wiped his brow, too hot to gainsay. “I have seen people wearing cloths about their faces. Where can I buy one?”
“You came without a pargh— why, you are lucky not to be sand-blind.” With a click of his tongue, the merchant shook out a square of white cloth. “Here. This will be my gift to you.”