Трой Деннинг: The Veiled Dragon

Once the numb ringing inside Ruha’s skull abated and it occurred to her that she was still alive, her first thought was not that she would choke on the saltwater she had swallowed, nor that the weight of her sodden aba would drag her beneath the dark waters, nor even that she might bleed to death from her many lacerations. When the witch opened her eyes and saw the sea heaving all around her, her first thought was that she would never be found.

The dunes loomed as high as mountains, with rolling, moonlit faces that blocked Ruha’s sight in every direction, making her feel immeasurably alone and insignificant in the stormy vastness of the Dragonmere. They were maddeningly inconstant, now lifting her toward the stars, now dropping her into the abyssal gloom, now carrying her along on steep, tumbling slopes of water. The witch knew she could not let the sea have its way with her. She had to free herself of its capricious grasp or die, but her chest was pumping water from her lungs in racking coughs, and she could barely keep her head above the surface, much less hold herself steady on the crest of a surging dune long enough to … do what, Ruha did not know.

In all likelihood, she was not the only one to survive the disintegration of the Storm Sprite , but there had been no time to put the little shore boat into the water. The others would be in the same predicament as Ruha, and no doubt anxious to blame her for their troubles.

The caravel crew would have every reason to treat the witch more kindly—providing they came back. Certainly, they had witnessed the explosion that destroyed the dragon, but would they realize what had happened to the Storm Sprite ? Was their captain an honest man who would turn back to help those who had helped him? Ruha could only allow herself to believe that the answer to both questions was yes; to assume anything else was to lose hope, and to lose hope in Umberlee’s domain was to die.

Still, the caravel would not arrive soon. It would take time for the great vessel to come around, then she would have to beat her way against the wind—using only one of the three masts she had once carried, and probably relying upon a tiller half splintered by the dragon attack. By the time she arrived, the Storm Sprite ’s wreckage would be strewn across a square mile of heaving sea, and Ruha knew better than to think any lookout would spy her dark head bobbing amongst all the oil casks, splintered timbers, and shreds of dragon floating upon the surging waters.

A large, curved timber appeared atop a nearby dune, its end briefly jutting over the crest like a great scimitar. Ruha fixed her eye on the beam. As it glided down the watery slope, she started to swim, reaching forward and kicking her legs in the fashion Storm Silverhand had taught her. The witch’s shawl and veil had vanished, but her aba remained securely wrapped about her shoulders, and she had to struggle against both its clumsy cut and sodden weight to make headway. Nevertheless, she did not even consider slipping out of the garment. Its pockets were loaded with exotic dirts and rocks useful for her stone magic. More importantly, all of her spells were sewn into the interior lining. In the desert, paper and ink were precious commodities, but there was always plenty of thread to spare for embroidery.

By the time Ruha reached the timber, she could do no more than throw her arms over the top and hang there gasping. Though she had not realized it until the exercise had warmed her body, the water was deceptively cool. Her joints began to stiffen, and she recalled Fowler’s stories of pulling his sailors aboard, blue and dead after only minutes in the water. But that had been in northern seas, and the Dragonmere was in the south. The temperature here could not be so dangerous—or so the witch hoped.

Ruha fought back her growing panic, reminding herself that the sea was not so different from the desert: it was vast and empty and lonely, with most of the life lying hidden beneath the surface. True, the dunes moved faster and they were made of water, but not water that one could drink. That was as precious here as it was in the sandy wastes. And there was one other similarity, one the witch did not want to consider: the sea, like Anauroch, was hospitable to those who knew its ways—and merciless to those who did not.

Ruha contemplated her growing chill and decided it probably would not kill her. She was not shivering, she still felt her toes and fingers, and her teeth were not chattering. All in all, the witch had spent more frigid nights in the desert, and she suspected that the cool water was keeping her from bleeding to death. There were dozens of cuts on her body, some both long and deep, but all stinging bitterly from the salt. The witch could feel her blood swirling about her, warm and viscous against her skin, but she could not tell how much she had lost. Had she been on dry land, she would have examined her cuts and bandaged them all, starting with the worst one first. But in the dark, heaving sea, she had to content herself with running her fingers over each wound in turn, feeling for a heavy flow that suggested a severed vein or artery.

Ruha found no rushing streams or pulsing tides, but she could count her inspection only a partial success. The swirling saltwater made it difficult to distinguish an oozing flow from a gushing one. In the end, she decided the mere fact that she did not feel light-headed was proof enough that she was not bleeding to death. And she thought of at least one good thing about being adrift: in the desert, some hungry jackal or lion would smell her blood and come running, but such a thing could not happen at sea. No creature she knew could follow a scent through water.

Having convinced herself she would not be dead by the time the caravel returned, Ruha turned her thoughts to making certain she would be found. Her own people, the Bedine, used large, curled horns called amarats for such purposes. The witch did not have an amarat , since only the men were allowed to use them, but she did have wind magic.

Ruha drew a deep breath. Then, speaking from her belly, she uttered a wind spell. Within her chest, she felt a tremendous sensation of expansion, as though her torso were growing as large and round as an oil cask. She tipped her chin back and cupped a hand around her mouth.

“I am here!” The voice that came from her lips sounded like that of a giant, deep and resonant. It was so loud that it made the water reverberate like a drum. “Come and help me!”

Ruha pulled her hand away from her mouth and silently counted to a hundred, then repeated the message. As before, her voice was that of a giant. The witch counted again, then fell into a regular pattern of silence and calling. She was always careful to keep constant both the strength of her voice and the duration between her cries, hoping that would help the caravel captain determine whether he was moving closer to her, or farther away.

Ten calls later, Ruha’s cries became thunderous croaks, for her throat had begun to ache from the sheer power of her booming voice. Nevertheless, she continued to shout, determined not to vary her routine until her windpipes burst—though she was starting to fear the cold would kill her first. Goose bumps were rising all over her body, and she felt a cold numbness creeping into the marrow of her bones. To make matters worse, the flotsam from the Storm Sprite was drifting apart faster than she had expected. She could see nothing close by except a handful of splintered deck planks, an oil cask riding low in the water, and several slabs of rotten dragon flesh.

As Ruha watched, one of the scaly chunks vanished beneath the sea. The slab did not slip gently under the surface, as though the meat had become too waterlogged to float. It plunged downward with a sharp swish, leaving nothing on the surface except a small circle of swirling water.