The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (5 page)

There were so many. It was almost as if we were characters in a play, or heroes in a story.

But they
were
heroes in a story, she thought, with a sudden insight. Well, maybe not herself, but certainly Satō and Bran. If somebody ever wrote the history of this war, they would feature in it. “The Wizardess and the Dragon-Rider”.
And what about the priestess?
a member of the audience would ask.
So sorry, we didn’t have enough actors. We replaced her with this wooden cut out of a girl holding a lamp.

The breeze ceased and the plain turned quiet again, quiet and empty.
Empty.
There was something wrong about the emptiness. She opened her eyes.

“They are all at the Gate,” said a familiar voice. “Storming it, trying to get out into our world again.”

Torishi sat on a round white boulder that had appeared out of nowhere. He again wore his long mane and thick beard, and the rich ceremonial robes of the Kumaso. A bow and a broadsword hung on leather belts across his back. Though his body in the Otherworld bore no scars, she saw pain in his tired, grey face. He was pale, almost translucent. She wanted to embrace him, but he looked so weak, she feared it would exhaust him even further.

“The Gates?”

“The Gates of the Otherworld.”

Bear is fearful, girl is bold.

“You and Bran both speak of it as if it was a real place ...”

“But it is, little priestess,” Torishi laughed. “Did they not teach you about it? Don’t tell me you
Shamo
priests no longer know of it?”

“Of what?”

“The bald mountain in the far north—”

“Where the hermits go to die,” she finished for him.

It was supposed to be at the far end of Yamato: a sacred peak where the forest hermits and itinerant monks ventured in search of a peaceful end. A place on the edge of the physical and spiritual worlds. The legend said that those who died there would pass straight into the realms of the Gods. In Kiyō, thousands of
ri
away, few believed it to be anything more than a myth.

“It’s not a myth,” Torishi added, as if reading her mind. “You should have seen it in your visions.”

“I didn’t have any visions. All I see is this place. Something’s changed, lost.”

Torishi patted his beard in thought. The familiar gesture opened a dam of emotions in Nagomi’s heart. She reached her arms around his trunk-like chest.

“Oh, Torishi, when are you coming for me? I’m worried.”

The bear-man stroked her hair. “My wounds are not yet healed. I will come as soon as I can. Where are you now? Are you safe?”

“In Naniwa. We’re hiding from the
Taikun
. It’s a long story.”

“Have you found the wizardess? Is the boy with you?”

“Satō is …” She stumbled. “She’s not here. Bran is somewhere in the city, hiding. I wish I had your herbs. I wish you were
here.
”

Torishi scratched his head. His eyes turned solemn for a second, losing their spark. “I … may not be able to reach you for some time yet.”

“What do you mean? You
are
all right, aren’t you? You will heal. You’re strong.”

His mane shook as he laughed. “Yes, I am strong. But it took me a great effort to reach you today.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, cub,” he patted her head. “I just wanted to teach you something that may come in useful when I’m not around.”

“Teach me — you mean, like a spell?”

Torishi had never divulged even the slightest secrets of the Kumaso magic. She tensed with anticipation — and a niggling anxiety.
Why now?

The bear-man twirled a strand of beard between his fingers. “It’s not the same as I use … but it’s similar. It will let you reach the boy’s mind — or anyone’s, as long you have something that belongs to them.”

“I can arrange that. What are the words? And components?” She was eager to learn, but she hoped it wasn’t too complicated.

Torishi smiled. He rose from the boulder. “In here, we don’t need words. Close your eyes and free your mind, little priestess.” He laid his heavy hands on her head.

Like a swelling tide filling out the estuary, the power of the spell filled out the nooks of her mind, and carried with it the words and the patterns she needed to invoke the magic. She gasped and reeled back from the impact.

He grasped her hand to stop her from falling.

“This — this doesn’t sound like your language at all,” she said, after playing the spell back in her head. It was a simple magic, without flames or herbs, just a handful of bird feathers, a shape to draw on a willow-wood stick and an incantation. The words sounded funny and there was a jarring dissonance in their melody.

“No. Had I known it before, I would have taught you sooner. I’ve learned it here, in the Otherworld.”

“Who taught it to you?”

Torishi shook his head. “It doesn’t matter for now. Do you remember it all?”

“I think so.”

He turned serious. “Do not fear it. The Shadows will smell your fear on the Eagle’s Path — and even though they’re busy elsewhere, they
will
come for you. Use it with care and only when necessary.”

“I understand.”

The warning was unnecessary. She sensed a faint malevolence in the spell and knew she would not want to use it often. Whoever Torishi had learned it from, was somebody she little desired to meet.

Who lives here that can teach a magic like this? Who lives here at all? A
kami
? A demon?

A grimace of pain ran through the bear-man’s face. He reached to his side. There was no wound visible there, but she knew in the real world his body must have been in agony for the pain to break through to his phantom self.

“You’re straining yourself,” she said. She touched the place of the wound. She couldn’t do anything to heal it. “You should go back.”

“You’re right.” He rubbed her shoulder with a gesture filled with sadness and longing. “I must leave.”

“I don’t know how long we will stay in Naniwa, and where we will go from here. Please hurry.”

“Stay safe, little cub.”

He clasped his hands together, bowed, and vanished.

Nagomi remained alone on the red dust plain. She sat down on the boulder —
is it going to remain here forever? —
and waited for the dream to end.

Nodwydd stretched out its long silver neck as it climbed over the rocky ridge. Beyond it, the mountain sloped steadily northwards, easing into a broad muddy plain that stretched all the way to the sea. Dylan pulled on the reins, slowing down almost to a hover.

“This should be it,” he told Gwen. “This is where Wulfhere’s report ends.”

Gwen unfurled the banner she’d been holding on her knees. It was a piece of green cloth embroidered by a Kurume tailor. The three dragons were drawn in a fanciful Yamato style, snake-like and whiskered, but from a distance, the banner was recognizably that of the Dracalish Empire.

“How long do we wait?” she asked over the flapping of cloth in the wind.

“As long as it takes,” he replied. “They are soldiers; they are bound to patrol the border at regular intervals.”

“What if they decide to blow us from the sky?”

“They won’t. They let Wulf escape.”

“Maybe they didn’t deem him enough of a threat.”

“Trust me.”

“If I haven’t trusted you, I wouldn’t be here.”

Squinting in the sun, Dylan located a wide road leading from the mountains to the sea. He followed its course. He made no effort to conceal their presence, flying low enough for all below to see. The dots and dashes of men and carts stopped in their tracks as the silver dragon soared above them. The land tapered into a triangular peninsula, leading to a harbour city at its end and a narrow strait beyond it.

“They’re coming,” said Gwen.

Dylan looked around — nothing disturbed the crystalline silence of the sky. “I don’t see anything.”

“They’re here.”

The great black dragon dropped its cloak right above them, blotting out the sun. Dylan picked up Nodwydd’s unease. The Gorllewin monster descended parallel to them. The rider dropped the grey hood and studied Dylan and Gwen for a while.

“You’re far away from your empire, Dracalish,” he shouted. He spoke in Prydain, with an odd, archaic accent. “Go back to the rebels while you can.”

“Your threats don’t frighten me, Grey Hood. I’m here to talk.”

The rider shrugged. “Then talk.”

“I want to speak with your commander, not his lackeys.”

“The Komtur’s not here. There are only three of us here in Kokura — as you well know.”

Dylan feigned bored exasperation. “I also know you have a way to communicate with him from here.”

The Grey Hood opened and closed his mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine. I must’ve made a mistake.” Dylan tapped the dragon’s side with his heel and the mount slowly turned back toward the south.

“Wait!” The Grey Hood was as young as Frigga, inexperienced, nervous. “How come you know about it? It’s a state secret.”

Dylan halted. “Will you take me to your commander or not?”

The rider mulled over the response. At last, he nodded.

“Wait here. I’ll let you know the Komtur’s reply,” said Frigga. Her voice was as cold as her eyes. She relished the reversal of the roles, however brief it was.

Of the three Grey Hoods living with a couple of natives in a tiny village on the edge of Kokura, she seemed the oldest, and the most senior officer. This was a surprise to Dylan. They were all barely older than cadets in the Dracalish army.

Is Gorllewin lacking riders?

All inhabitants of the village had been resettled, leaving empty houses and farmsteads. Frigga’s dragon slept in a withered rice paddy, next to a heap of deer carcasses. The others soared above the village like vultures, vigilant.

Dylan and Gwen were ordered to stay in one of the thatched huts. They sat among the remnants of a hurried evacuation: a few overturned clay pots, a straw cushion, a wooden rice scoop. Dylan’s stomach rumbled. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“What do you think is their secret?” asked Gwen.

“I have no idea. And I doubt we will learn it today, either. Speaking of secrets — how did you see past the glamour?”

Gwen shrugged. “I’m not sure. A subtle change in the air, a rustle of wings—”

The door squeaked open. A Yamato peasant entered, bent in half, carrying a steaming bamboo box filled with rice and vegetables. He left it on the clay floor and vanished before either Dylan or Gwen managed to say anything. By the time they finished the meal, Frigga had returned.

“You may come with me,” she said. “You, stay here,” she told Gwen.

“She’s my Reeve,” said Dylan. “She goes where I go.”

The rider bit her lip and tapped on the door frame. “Fine. Doesn’t matter.”

She led them to the dragon resting in the rice paddy. “Get in the saddle,” she ordered. “I can only take one of you — you’ll have to stay,” she said to Gwen. “Here, if you want.”

Dylan climbed the tall saddle. The dragon’s neck was broader and more squat than he was used to, forcing him to adopt an uncomfortable position.

“Close your eyes,” said Frigga and tied a tight blindfold around Dylan’s head. She then tied his hands with a set of spare reins. “Hold tight. It’ll get bumpy.”

“How long will it take?”

“You’ll see.”

Dylan waited. The dragon remained still and silent. Suddenly, the air around them changed. It got noticeably colder, and a metallic, unpleasant smell filled Dylan’s nostrils. He heard a distant hum of a thousand voices crying in unison.

The dragon rose into the air and flew onwards, at breakneck speed, without turning or banking even once. Dylan tried to locate the sun, in vain: its heat seemed to have vanished.

“Don’t squirm around,” Frigga said; she sounded annoyed. “If you fall off here, I’m not picking you up.”

Here … where is here?

He counted the minutes. A quarter of an hour passed before the dragon began its descent. At length, it touched the surface. Dylan felt a fine dust settle on his arms and legs. The rider helped him down. The ground was soft, like a sandy beach. Still blindfolded, Dylan entered a cold building and climbed a winding staircase. A gust of wind came from an open window.

“Untie him,” said a masterful voice.

Dylan took off his blindfold. He was in a round room, with walls of raw stone. A large arched window overlooked a flatland of red dirt. The sky was dusky and drab, starless and cloudless. Somehow, Dylan knew it never changed.

“You wanted to talk to me,” said a portly man in a hooded cloak, standing by the window. Below a receding hairline, his forehead was tattooed with the horned cross of the Sun Worshippers. A long rapier hung from his belt.

“
You
are the commander of the Gorllewin?”

“Komtur Mathiun Perai of the Western Navy.” He extended a hand in greeting. “I would offer you a chair, but no furniture lasts long in this place.”

“Where are we?”

“Does it matter?”

Dylan glanced out the window.

None of this is real. What kind of magic brought us here?

“I suppose not.”

“Now, what is it that you wanted to discuss? I have to warn you, we can’t stay here too long, so make it quick.”

Dylan licked his lips. The air in the room was dry and dusty. He guessed there was no more point asking for water as there was in asking for a chair.

“Tell me, Komtur, are you satisfied with how your Yamato adventure is progressing?”

Perai grimaced. “It was going fine, until you showed up.”

“I’m not the one who downed one of your beasts.”

“It was a fluke.” The Komtur waved his hand. “Some …. freak spell. The dragon’s fine.”

“But not the rider — and you don’t have a lot of them to spare.”

“Thanks to your son, I have even fewer.” Perai glowered, angered at the reminder. “Get to the point, Dracalish.”

Dylan stepped over to the window. It was broad enough for the two of them to stand comfortably side by side. The cold stones around its frame shimmered, as if coming in and out of existence at random. The red plain stretched featureless as far as he could see. Over the horizon, shrouded in a rusty haze, rose mountains of white stone.