Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

Owl recognized the gift as a bough lily, the flower of Cilendrodel, a pale lavender, trumpet-shaped bloom with a faint, comforting aroma. The traditional victory flower.

Victory, thought Owl. It finally struck him just what the prince and princess had accomplished. For the first time since Gloroc had sent his minions out of the boundaries of the Dragon Sea, he had suffered a clear defeat. He had lost his single greatest weapon in Cilendrodel-the fear of the general population that no one could overcome his forces. If he had lost once, he might do so again. The people would not soon forget Alemar and Elenya's vengeance. Nor would Gloroc.

Owl and his companions turned to the former governor. Let them worry about reprisals another day. For the moment they would have satisfaction.

The twins and their party did not ride free of their audience until far past the outskirts of the hamlet. Alemar held up his hand in salute, but the motion was perfunctory, unconscious. As the trees closed over their heads, he stared up into the branches, looking for some hint of movement, for the sweet, melodic call of tiny voices. The wood mocked him with its silence.

Never in his life had rythni shunned him. Throughout boyhood, this fact had set him apart, given him one of the greatest joys of his life. He had never conceived of losing their trust.

The cost of victory had been too high.

"Come back," he sang in bittersweet rythni. Elenya, the only one of his companions who could understand him, closed her eyes in pain.

He gradually became aware of the object tickling his hand, and for the first time saw the bough lily. He let it fall into the dust.

Scheming Dragons

Hidden dragon. Do not act.

– I Ching, First Hexagram, First Line

JANNA DID NOT STAY in her sea chamber, but took Toren to a reception room near the pool decorated with rugs, tapestries, overstuffed pillows, and curtained alcoves. He sat down, the tortoise cupped carefully in his palms.

The high priestess took an ornate glass bottle and a snifter from a cabinet and poured him one swallow of a scarlet liquid. He took it, sniffed it mistrustingly.

"It will ease the shock when your totem is restored," she said.

The concoction smelled similar to that used by his own Fhali shaman for the totem ceremony. He drank. It coated his gullet with a hot, medicinal film.

"It is very strong," he said, suspicious.

"It needs to be," she explained. "This procedure is not going to be the pleasure you have imagined."

His fingers knotted around the stem of the glass. "My ancestors," he said anxiously. "They were harmed inside the gem?"

"No," she answered quickly. "They are intact. It is you who have changed." She rubbed her cheek, looking guilty. "Except for the potion, there's not much I or Struth can do to prepare you. When you awaken, I will be gone. This is something you will have to deal with by yourself."

His eagerness dribbled away, but nevertheless he longed for the reintegration. She replaced the snifter in the cabinet and ordered him to lay down on the divan. The potion melted into him, grasping at his consciousness. The tortoise shimmered.

Janna's incantation built from soft, crooning tones to full-voiced song. His tortoise lifted its head, blinked its eyes, and crawled forward. Its pads left brief, smoky tingles along his chest and throat. It slipped into his mouth like a bird into its nest, dissolving as it passed his tongue, following the path smoothed by the potion. It merged with him.

The room dimmed. Janna's shadowy form hovered nearby. A kind of drowsy half-sleep overtook him, and dreams filled the empty place in his mind, dreams of his father, his grandfather, and all his ancestors along the male line back to the founder of the village. He was no longer a cheli.

The peace and joy of reacquaintance lasted an instant, then he fell into a chasm of screams.

Deena draped her feet in a pool in the garden of Struth and kicked. Spray danced to the tiles on the far side. The sun sparkled and beamed off the ripples. The water kissed her aching, road-weary soles.

She jumped as a shadow fell across her.

Janna stood beside her, though Deena had not heard her approach. The high priestess reached down with her intimidatingly beautiful hands and caressed the top of Deena's head with long, carefully polished nails.

"I thought I'd find you here, though I expected you'd be bathing more than your feet." Her eyes flicked toward the dusty riding clothes on Deena's body.

"I was planning to," Deena replied. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Must she constantly feel unfeminine in Janna's presence? "It's been so long, I wanted to savor it."

"Not to mention that you were lost in thought," Janna said, laughing.

Janna always treated Deena like a favorite niece. The role never hung easily on the latter's shoulders. "Well, yes. As I told you, it's been an eventful journey."

"Yes." Janna picked up the barrette that Deena had left on the tile. "It's just as well you haven't changed clothes. Tie your hair back up, too," she said, handing her the clasp. "I want you to look like you did the last time Toren saw you."

"Why?"

"I want you to visit him."

Deena's heartbeat quickened. "Why?"

Janna lowered her head, frowning. "I've just given him back his totem. It may be important to his adjustment to see you. You… will remind him of what he's been through in the last few weeks. At least, that's what Struth hopes."

Deena sprang to her feet, and hurriedly rolled up her hair. "Child," Janna said, setting her palm firmly on Deena's shoulder, "I doubt that he will want to see you right now. He will probably shun you. If so, let him be. What matters is that you confront him just long enough for his ancestors to take note of you."

Subdued, Deena nodded, and reached for her socks. "He's in the Soft Room," Janna said. The priestess smiled and glided away into the fronds that surrounded the pool and isolated it from casual view.

Deena tugged on her boots and threaded her way down a flagstone path. She strained to remember exactly where to find the Soft Room; she had seldom been there because the chamber served mainly as one of the hospitality rooms.

She wavered outside the closed door, poised her knuckles to rap on the wood. A groan and a muffled impact filtered through the barrier. She caught her breath and threw open the door.

Toren rolled across the floor, clutching his head, digging his heels so sharply into the finely woven carpets that he bunched the fabric into dramatic folds and mounds. He tumbled toward her, forcing her to leap over him. He came to a stop against a tapestried wall.

"Toren?" she murmured.

He jerked his gaze toward her. She quailed, frightened by the feral glow in his pupils. A string of clipped, foreign words streamed from his mouth.

"I don't understand," she said soothingly. "Use Mirienese."

He jerked with each syllable, as if physically struck. He shook his head, focussed on her once more, and snorted in disgust. She swallowed a lump so big it bruised her throat.

"Toren, what's wrong? It's me, Deena."

He shouted a brief, stern phrase, and jabbed his finger toward the doorway. Stung, she ventured half a step toward the opening. Janna's warning rang in her mind: He may shun you. Indeed he had. The rejection stabbed her deeper than she could have imagined.

She was not quick enough for him. He seized her by the waist and tossed her. She flew like a sack of grain out of the room. His strength awed her. She was lean, but she was not that small.

She scampered down the corridor, getting herself out of range. Toren slammed the door closed. She stopped and looked back, wincing at the pinched spots on her waist. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She cursed the bitch who had sent her to him.