Paul Cook: Brother of the Dragon

Duranix had told him there would be no more snow. He thought of the seedlings the villagers had planted. Ice was not snow, but it certainly meant woe to the tiny fruit trees. Had the Protector been wrong, or had he, Tiphan, misunderstood?

Alone in the empty street, Tiphan shook his head. The Protector was never wrong, and it seemed unlikely that he, the Protector’s chief servant, would be wrong either. Trust the dragon and believe in your own wisdom, he told himself. Believe, and all will be well.

Little noises teased Amero’s ears. He didn’t want to notice them. He was too comfortable. Snuggled deep under a pile of furs, his nose buried against the back of Lyopi’s neck, he was content. The noise was probably Unar, bumping around the dark interior of the house.

The noise grew louder. Someone was hammering on the door. Amero bolted upright. He heard loud, unintelligible talk in the street outside.

Lyopi pushed herself up on one elbow. Tendrils of hair had worked free of her braid and stood out around her face. “What is it?” she said crossly.

“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”

He made for the door. “Amero,” Lyopi called, “you might want some clothes.”

He looked down at himself and grinned. “It is cold out.”

The room resounded with more blows on the door. Amero pulled on his leather breeches and buckskin shirt. When he opened the door, he caught his foreman in mid-knock.

“What is it, Huru?” asked Amero, squinting against the morning light. People were running in the street.

“Sorry to wake you, Arkuden, but there’s trouble.”

Lyopi appeared behind Amero, wrapped in a black bearskin. “What trouble?” she asked.

“Ice fell all night. The fields are covered with half a span of sleet. The orchard planters are furious. They say the dragon lied to them, told them winter was done.”

Amero sighed, scrubbing his fingers through his short hair. “I knew this would happen. Where are the planters?”

“At the Offertory, demanding an explanation. Old Konza can’t handle them.”

“Konza?” Lyopi’s dark brows rose in surprise. “Where’s Tiphan?”

The dark-skinned man shrugged. “No one knows.”

Amero closed the door and put on his sandals and cloak. Lyopi began to dress as well.

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“No, Unar needs you. It’ll be all right. I won’t let anyone hurt Konza.”

She frowned. “I’m not worried about Konza.”

Amero kissed her and hastened away with Huru. His first steps in the street sent him sliding into the wall of the house across the way.

“Watch your step, Arkuden!” Huru warned. “The ice is very bad.”

The rest of the town seemed empty, with none of the usual morning hustle. Amero soon saw why. Most of the townsfolk were crowded into the streets around the Offertory.

Konza, backed by Sensarku acolytes, was blocking the entrance to the sacrificial altar. Amero saw Jenla at the head of the outraged planters, shaking her fist under Konza’s nose.

“… what he told us, and we believed him!” she said. “We spent two days on our hands and knees, putting in all the seedlings we had! If they die, what will we harvest?”

“The loss threatens us all,” Konza said. His lined face was white with cold and anxiety. “No one meant to mislead you — ”

“Great heaps of good that does us now!” howled another planter. “Without fruit, without nuts, I’ll have nothing to barter for meat or hides for my family.”

“The elder trees still live,” Konza said weakly.

“They’re played out!” Jenla cried. “For the past four years they’ve yielded less and less. Last summer we got just threescore and one bushels of apples from the whole orchard, and only four-score and eight of burl nuts!”

Amero pushed his way through the crowd of curious onlookers until he was standing between Jenla and Konza. His presence caused an immediate change in the mood. Konza and the planters visibly relaxed.

“Arkuden,” said Konza. “I’m glad to see you.”

“As am I,” Jenla added. “You can right the injustice done to us!”

“What injustice?” asked Amero.

She repeated her earlier charges. When she finished, Amero said, “Who told you winter was over?”

“It was Tiphan!” said a man behind her. The other planters took up the cry and repeated it until Amero held up his hands for quiet.

Jenla said crossly, “He spoke the words of the Great Protector, Arkuden.”

Amero smiled. “Then we should ask the dragon.”

A murmur went through the crowd. No one was quite sure what Amero had in mind, but it was more interesting than huddling by their hearths on a frigid morning.

Amero tried to move past Konza but found his progress blocked by the close ranks of the acolytes.

“Stand aside,” he said.

“Only Sensarku may enter,” replied a stern-faced youth.

“Boy, I was living in the cave with the dragon before you were born,” Amero retorted. “Stand aside. I am the Arkuden, the dragon’s son. If he tolerates me in his home, he won’t mind me in his dining hall.”

To Amero’s astonishment, the acolytes stood their ground. Konza ordered them to move, and they reluctantly parted, allowing Amero into the Offertory.

Inside, he gazed up at the high walls and scrubbed stonework. It was a very different place from the day he and his sister Nianki had fought rebel nomads for control of Yala-tene. The cairn where the rebels nearly burned Amero alive was then a rude pile of sooty stones. Now it had the air of a sacred place, somehow more important than merely the spot Duranix took his meals.

Konza and the female acolytes trailed behind him as he walked around the high altar. The crowd gathered around the entrance and peered in. The male Sensarku barred their way.

White sand crunched underfoot. Sleet covered the sand, making the courtyard around the altar gleam like white metal. On the far side of the altar, Amero found steps inset into the stonework. He started up. The girls on Konza’s heels protested.

“He is not clean!” said one. “He defiles the Protector’s place!”

Konza whirled, his gray fox cape lifting from the force of the spin. He scowled at the assembled girls.

“Hold your tongues!” he snapped. “Amero is the true son of the dragon! He may go where he wishes.”

The acolytes, chastened, said no more, but they watched with intense resentment as Amero mounted the steps.

The platform was quite high. Only the village walls were taller. Amero had often seen the top of the Offertory from his lift, but he’d not been on the great cairn since Tiphan had forbidden it to non-Sensarku. It was a simple structure, a solid stone platform ten paces wide by fifteen long. In the center was a firepit to roast Duranix’s meals. Short pillars at the corners of the pit served to hold the ox or elk carcass above the flames.

Konza joined him. The wind was blowing less, but it was still bitterly cold atop the high altar.

Amero turned and faced the waterfall, several hundred steps away. Duranix! Duranix, will you come? he thought. There was no answer but the whistle of the east wind.

Amero frowned as he concentrated on sending his thoughts again to the distant dragon.

Duranix, there’s a problem in the village. Please come.

There was still no answer from the dragon, but Amero felt a tingling in his ears. Assuming it was from the cold, he cupped his hands over them. The tingling grew stronger, and then a faint sound, little louder than the wind, seemed to scratch inside his head.

It’s too cold to go out. What do you want?

Amero was so startled he staggered and nearly fell when his feet slid on the icy altar. Konza grabbed his arm to steady him.