“Memorize?” His voice went a little squeaky.
“I’m willing to train you at your own pace, but you must have a foundation of knowledge to build upon. One cannot fix a thing if you do not understand how it is broken, and you will not be able to recognize how it is broken if you do not know how it should normally function. So yes, memorize. When you are done, we’ll move on to body chemistry and cellular composition.”
“Move on to what?”
She smiled. “You’ll see.” Miya picked up the mortar of crushed herbs and scooped the rest of the mixture into a small glass jar. “Put this on any other bruised areas, such as your jaw. When you run out, return to me or any of the House physickers and we’ll replenish your supply.”
“Thanks, I appreciate—” He paused. “Why am I going to need a steady supply?”
Her expression turned grim. “Darzin’s son Galen does. And he is a sweet boy.”
Kihrin gave her a startled look. “Great,” he murmured. “That’s just great. Does he beat his wife too? I assume Galen’s mother wasn’t a slave girl.”
“I do not believe you need me to provide you that answer.”
He sighed. For just a moment, talking to Miya about learning magic, he’d forgotten where he was. “No. No, I guess I don’t. Of course he beats his wife, and then he sends her here to be patched up good as new when he’s done. Isn’t it great when all the healers work for you? You can get away with almost anything.”
She started to say something, then stopped and shook her head. “Come along, Your Highness. It is time I showed you to your rooms.”
33: THE DRAGON’S DUE
(Kihrin’s story)
Every time I’ve seen the Old Man I am reminded how enormous dragons are. Artists never get it right. I think it’s because they have this overwhelming need to paint in an opposing knight or wizard or the like—and making the human large enough to be noticed messes with the scale. Take the largest creature you can imagine … the Old Man was larger.
It’s hard not to freeze in place, trapped by one’s own awe.
He landed on a red-hot volcanic island of molten stone offshore from Ynisthana itself. Yet he was so large I was positive he could reach out with a claw and rip both of us in two without effort. He was less a living creature than a monument to the uncontrollable. As he landed on the island, an upwelling of lava fountained into the air, as if the very ground reacted to his presence with fire.
“I have come for what I am due,” the Old Man said.
Tyentso uttered a curse to make Madam Ola blush, and shoved me behind her.
“Hey—” I started to protest.
“Do not hide the golden voice. He is mine,” the Old Man growled.
“Nobody said you could have him. Just the opposite.”
“I don’t care,” said the Old Man.
“Kihrin, run.”
I remembered Teraeth’s caution: running just gave the Old Man something to chase. “I don’t think—”
The dragon lunged.
I ran.
Tyentso moved her arm, and a wall of fire-hardened glass thrust skyward from the beach, twenty feet thick and tall enough to block my view of the horizon. The glass turned red immediately, then white-hot as it slagged. The temperature soared to oven-like heat as scouring winds picked up. The wall shuddered as the dragon slammed into it from the other side. Then it exploded toward us.
I ducked to the side as an enormous glob of molten glass hit the ground near me.
Everything fell silent.
I turned back.
The dragon floated in midair, frozen. It blotted out the sky. Lava dripped from the dragon’s claws and fell, sizzling, into the ocean waves.
Tyentso picked herself up. Part of her chemise had burned, scorch marks marred one of her arms, but she was miraculously still alive.
Khaemezra walked out onto the cliff.
I don’t know if Khaemezra had been spying on us or the dragon, but she must have been nearby. The old woman was a bit less hunched and frail than she had been on the trip over, as if this island had rejuvenated her. She was taller, straighter, and younger.
“I made myself clear, Sharanakal. You may not have him.” Her craggy voice carried with perfect clarity over the waves and sand.
“Release me! Release me this instant, Mother.”
She pointed an old, thin arm toward the sea. “Go then, and do not return.”
The dragon shuddered. He shook off his paralysis like a dog shaking water from its fur, then flapped his wings, raising himself high in the air.
He looked at me. At least, I think he was looking at me.
The Old Man flew off into the sky.
We watched him go. No one said anything for several long, tense moments. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. “How do you kill something like that?”
“You don’t,” Khaemezra said. “You might as well kill a mountain.”
Tyentso moved one hand over her arm, wincing as she probed the edges of the burn. “You called him Sharanakal. Is that his true name?”
“Yes,” Khaemezra said. She gathered her robes and turned back toward me. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine.” I looked at Tyentso. “Sharanakal? Why do I feel like I should know that name?”
“Because you’re a minstrel’s son, I imagine. Sharanakal may not be as famous as Baelosh or Morios, but there’s only eight dragons in the damn world,” Tyentso said. “You’ve managed to gain the obsessive attention of one of them. Aren’t you the lucky bastard?”
My heart beat drumroll fast. I felt faint from more than just too many cups of wine. I felt powerless, helpless, and trapped.
What I didn’t feel was lucky.
Once I’d woken up on the island and the Old Man wasn’t using me as his favorite toothpick, I’d decided the danger was past. The Old Man had let me go. I was safe. From Relos Var? Maybe not. But at least safe from the dragon. A whole cult of people lived on this island without being bothered by giant dragons, so I was safe, right?
Wrong.
Khaemezra didn’t seem sympathetic. “Child, whatever possessed you to think waking Sharanakal was a smart thing to do?”
I clenched my jaw. “It was Teraeth’s idea.”
Khaemezra’s nostrils flared. “Yes, that does sound like something my son would suggest.”
“Let’s stop throwing around blame. That little ditty saved all our lives on the ship,” Tyentso snapped. She waved at Khaemezra. “Except you, of course, who was never in any real danger. So you don’t get to complain, Mother I-can’t-get-involved.”
“Is he going to leave?” I asked. In the still night, with the crashing of the waves behind us and even the jungle insects not daring to make a noise, my voice sounded small.
Khaemezra stared at me. “Eventually. When he grows bored.”
“How long will that take?”
Khaemezra didn’t answer.
Finally, Tyentso waved a hand. “A decade or two. Maybe longer. And you can’t out-sneak a dragon, Scamp. He’ll find you.”*
I don’t remember choosing to sit. I just found myself sitting, as though my legs had decided they were tired of waiting for me to do the right thing and had acted of their own accord.