Malaraq was adrift in an ocean of agony.
Around him, dark waves pounded and beat him beneath a cool, delicate surface of what felt like millions of tiny bubbles-- but he was not fooled. As a child, he and his extended family (a small group of perhaps ten to fifteen individuals) had lived beside a Great Sea, where water-shells had dabbled the sandy landscape and salty grazing fish were to be had by the hundreds...before a band of invaders from the North had come to plunder. Malaraq and his family--the few that survived-- eventually fled North and blended with the then-fledgling village of what would later become Looks Thrice, but not before Malaraq had his first (and only) direct experience with the Great Sea. He remembered; he'd been seven, and his ample aunt had warned him in that shrill voice of hers-- had it really been so long ago?-- not to wander too close to the waters.
Malaraq, even then having had a thick skull, paid her no mind, and subsequently found himself caught in a rip-tide that had battered him like a limp doll, and which he had been lucky to get out of. Indeed, had two of his older uncles not been such good swimmers, he might have perished in those waters... as he surely would now.
He tried to scream for help; black water poured into his lungs, searing and burning until he coughed and spluttered his torture. Again and again, huge waves more than fifty man-lengths tall rolled him beneath the surface.
Bless the Twin Moons, where am I? What is this agony?
Again, he tried to call for help. Again, it was useless.
This time, he felt a blinding pain in one of his legs-- he wasn't even sure which-- and was sure that he had been dashed into a nest of coral. While the prickly edges of the dead sea-plants made him want to howl in pain, on a primitive level he felt like screaming with relief. Where there was coral, the shore was near, and where there was shore, there were People.
Sashaying beneath the waves like a clumsy deer that has plunged into the water to escape an enemy, Malaraq clawed his way to the surface. And there, once he took a great gasp full of fresh, salty sea air, he realized that he was in no place that resembled home.
The sky, which was blacker than soot, had no Twin Moons.
Great Weema, where am I? Is this some sort of-- dream?!
Another wave, this one gentler, finally pushed him onto the wet, sticky sand of some desolate beach. Malaraq felt like weeping; momentarily forgetting the pain in his leg, he grabbed fistfuls of the wet sand and kissed them repeatedly, laughing like a giddy child at the sea-weed that became caught in his teeth. At last, he was safe! He could drag himself as far away from these dangerous waters as he could, perhaps finding sanctuary with the same invaders who had plundered his family and sent them fleeing south--
But no. Behind him, there came a great, low rumble from the direction of the waters. It was a sound that was so deep it was nearly silent, causing the sand, the shells, and skittering crabs all around them to tremble with the fullness of it.
Again, that sound. Malaraq's heart, which had barely had time to thaw, now stiffened in his chest. He dared not turn around.
Another groan, this time louder, inclining to a high, feverish pitch that resembled the rage of some great, mighty beast that has been denied its rightful due. The sound, while eerily beautiful, was at the same time breath-taking in its intensity and fearsomeness.
"Great Twin Moons! Save me from this madness!" Malaraq called hoarsely, making use of his shaking voice for this first time-- but there were no Twin Moons to hear.
Slowly, he picked himself up from the wet sand-- teetering dangerously on the wounded leg which, even now, leaked alarming amounts of blood and lymph-- and peeked in terror at the waters behind him.
There, rising up from the now-quiet waves, a great, great sea-creature lifted its mighty neck. This neck was slender, sleek, and moist with salty wetness; the color was a uniform red (red! like fire!), and the scales scintillated brightly, although there were no stars to reflect off of them.
Malaraq tried to hold his urine. He was unsuccessful. The beast's massive head, which was deer-shaped, turned toward him and fixated the great, serpentine eyes upon the miserable figure on the beach. A thick beard of orange-red strands hung from the heavy chin, and upon the head were two mighty crests, which made the creature look like a Devil. But even more astonishing still were the color of the eyes: one was a piercing violet-- and the other a deep, deep jade...
The Sorceress. She is a Devil-- I knew it!
With a mighty bellow, the beast made a mad rush to toward the shore, opening wide its mighty maw and preparing to snatch him into oblivion, darting with the speed and strength of a thickly coiled snake until Malaraq screamed himself awake.
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"...what's he saying?" Those same eyes peered into his face above a scrunched, jutting nose, which wrinkled in distaste.
Luka shrugged, drawing the last of his stitches through Malaraq's seeping leg wounds, tearing the string off in his teeth, and tying the stitch with several firm knots. "Who knows? Something about dragons."
"The poor man's delirious," said Ziuta, though her face betrayed not the slightest hint of sympathy.
Malaraq, whose eyes blinked sleepily at first, opened wide in terror when he saw who leaned over him. At once, he tried clumsily to scoot away, babbling nonsensities and pointing a stubby finger at Ziuta as though she were the source of all his problems.
Luka grabbed Malaraq's good leg and jerked him back into position. "Keep still, old man," he sneered. "You're lucky you have anyone here to treat the wounds in your half-eaten leg. Pomoq will have to amputate it, most likely," Luka added, smiling at the look of sudden terror in Malaraq's expression. "If I were you, I would lie still and not make any noise. You will never walk again without the aid of a staff-- and if the Council finds you guilty of trying to end Ziuta's life, you may never walk at all-- if you know what I mean." Luka glanced at the pale-faced man and gave him a wink.
"She must be killed! She is the demon, a devil!" Malaraq shrieked, waving Ziuta away as though she were a massive cow-fly that might suck at his wounds.
"This pretty little maiden? What are you talking about, old man?"
"Do not let her so-called beauty fool you. She was the Devil! My dream told me so-- she was a mixture of woman and dragon! She is no better than the Draca who seek to raid our villages. She must be killed!"
Luka reached forward and gave Malaraq a slap on the forehead. "Watch what you say-- and whom you say it to," he warned. "The Evening Folk will not take kindly to a man of delusion disparaging a girl who can command the Draca."
"Of course she can command them! She is one of them! She is the Draca!"
Luka snorted and turned away. Fishing in his pocket for supplies, he lighted another grass-stick.
Ziuta approached Malaraq and stood over him, hands on her hips, her long curtains of blazing red hair teasing gently back and forth in a gale that smelled oddly of salt. "What are you talking about, Malaraq?" she asked kindly. The syrupy tone in her voice was perhaps a little too sweet. "I am no devil, Council Elder. I am a child of the Stars-- and I kept the Draca from eating you alive. Remember that. Ha!"
"You told them to break my leg."
"And you tried to kill me."
Malaraq looked up in loathing at the girl. Why did she have to be so petite, so beautiful-- so accepted by the members of Looks Thrice? Why, this was his village-- and yet even the suspicious Gormaq had adopted her as his own! Now, he would stand trial for her attempted murder and likely be tossed out to the feral dogs. What was this world coming to?
Turning away from the first in disgust, Malaraq lifted his bound hands to Luka in supplication. "What is to happen to me?" he asked, in a voice that trembled slightly. "Why do we still sit here? And who attempted to heal my leg?"
"I stitched your wounds-- but I can never heal it," Luka said. "Only Pomoq can do that. As for the rest of us, we wait for strong men to carry you back into the village. You will answer for your crimes, and the beautiful Ziuta and I will live happily ever after." Luka, glancing at the haughty Ziuta with a gleam in his eye, nudged the wounded man with one foot. "What do you think of that, Elder...eh?"
Malaraq pursed his lips and glowered.
He hated them. He hated all of them...but none so badly as the reptilian Ziuta, whom he would have gladly impaled with his sword if he could. Something about her was different-- not quite person-like-- and much more, well, serpentine. He doubted the girl even knew it herself, but she was not natural.
Yes, she and her bald-headed friend from the stars would have to be gotten rid of...which could only be accomplished if he could clear his name, conspire with Amiechek, and do away with the one person who stood in their way throughout all of this: Pomoq.
Malaraq pulled himself into a sitting position, chewed nervously on his fingers, and watched greenish fluid seep through the stitches in his useless leg.
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Waru was in a foul mood.
These days, it did not take very much to nettle her. She had come awake that morning with a sense of dull dread and general irritability, noting that the sleeping bench across from their fire-hearth (the coals were cold) had been abandoned, the bed sheets folded carefully across the headrest in the almost compulsive manner of her mother, the Matron. Star-light filtered in through the crumbling, half-moon window, from which the evening drape had been drawn aside to let in the morning's lumination.
Waru barely understood herself anymore; it was as though she did not know who she was. Shrugging out of her night camisole and tossing clothing out of a garment barrel in search of the perfect dress and apron that would compliment her feminine figure, Waru shut her eyes momentarily to block out the pain that throbbed just beneath her forehead. Ever since her humiliating 'incident' at the community well, piercing, ear-splitting head-aches had become par for the course. If she lay down, her head ached. If she stood too quickly, pain throbbed. And the Twin Moons forbid that she turn her head too quickly, for she would pay for that mindless gesture with hours of agony. At times, the torture was so unbearable that she flew through the lodge in furious fits, grasping handfuls of her thick, gold-spun hair and ripping it out of her scalp until blood beaded and scabbed over. Screeching in dismay, Amiechek could only hold up her hands in helplessness and shock as her only daughter whirled about the place like a miniature sandstorm; kicking things over, hurling empty baskets into the blazing fire, grasping handfuls of clean clothing and trying with all her might to rip them in half.
And it was all her fault-- that red-headed harpy who was permitted to have the spines of an earth dragon and the scale of the hated, despised Draca! Why, the girl was hardly even treated as an outcast anymore: when Zai-oo-tah passed in the common area, the same young men who used to give Waru appreciative glances now looked at the Sorceress with lust in their eyes and whispers behind their hands. White-headed babies toddled after her as though she were an older sister-- even the dogs, whom Zai-oo-tah hated so much, had ceased to bother her. The Star-Sorceress was, at the very least, ignored or given brief nods of greeting and acceptance-- what was life on Weema coming to? Had Malaraq and Amiechek no spines, no guts to put Pomoq and Gormaq in their rightful places? Should that devilish girl be given special treatment simply because she was rumored to have killed a dragon and been adopted as a daughter in Gormaq's and Mother's own lodge?
Growling like a dog disturbed in its sleep, Waru found a delicate frock trimmed with pink lace which she had not worn in several weeks. This she tugged over her head. Then she found a white apron, tied this around her waist in the demure fashion of the Evening Women, and then dared to face her sullen reflection in Amiechek's sapphire-trimmed looking glass.
What has become of me?
Waru glowered at her piteous reflection in dismay. The young girl who stared back at her was still beautiful...but she hardly recognized the wide-eyed waif who peered back-- it was like gazing into the face of a perfect stranger. The clothes were lovely, and her figure as gorgeous as ever...but had she put on a few pounds? Warumachek rubbed her belly and grimaced. No, it couldn't be. She had been stuffing herself with more honey-coated nuts in the evenings to satiate her depression, but she would be truly mortified to know that she had put on any extra weight. Waru had never weighed more than one hundred and eight pounds in her entire life. And her eyes-- did they still give one the impression that they turned in on one another, as though she were a dummard who could not focus?
With one hand, she reached to feel the sore spot on the back of her head. The swelling had gone down, but there was still a painful scar hidden only by long strands of golden hair.
I am ugly. I am fat. I am as blubbery as my own Mother, and it is all her fault. Hers! While the rightful inhabitants of this village suffer at Zai-oo-tah's wrong-doings, she is permitted to walk about the place like-- like some sort of Queen....as though she deserved the title. Ha!
Waru made up her mind right then and there that, if it took the entire rest of her life, she would get rid of the red-haired bitch if she had to give her own soul in the process. Waru would lie, steal, cheat, do all that was necessary, but she would not allow the Sorceress to have full run of Looks Thrice. This was her village!
But if there were anything that Zai-oo-tah would find herself regretting most in her last few moments alive on Weema, it would be the attempt to sink her claws into Dijaq and try to steal him away.
Why, no-one-- no-one-- could dare take Dijaq from her! And Waru was not fooled by Ziuta's attempts to hold her nose loftily in the air and pretend that she was not interested in any man; a fool could see that it was all a ruse, all part of her foreign, alien background that was such a bad example for the younger girls of the village. Why would no one listen to her? Why could the Council not see?
Waru decided that this morning, she would not allow it to be of any consequence to her. It was morning, the day was fresh, and besides, the Council would be deciding her fate within the next hour; she could already hear the mutterings and dim laughter of a crowd gathering outside. Waru could picture the proceedings now: Ziuta and that skinny boy, Tuchek, would be placed on the platform for all to see-- if they had survived-- and while most of Warumachek wished for the girl to suffer the most painful death imaginable, a part of her almost wished that Ziuta had made it through the night. Watching her humiliation before the People would be more fun that way,
After all, no one in their right minds would believe that Ziuta could have commanded any Draca. Malaraq would keep the entire affair in order, and he would not allow the love-struck young boy, Luka, to stand up for the girl. Waru had always disliked Malaraq, but there was a side to him that had some common sense, and he hated the fire-girl just as much as she and Amiechek did.
This morning would be the time to end this.
Pirouetting prettily first once, then twice in front of the looking-glass, Warumachek flashed one of her brilliant, dizzingly white smiles.Her brain was a-clutter with smatterings of thoughts, word fragments, images, emotions, and damaged synapses:
Do my teeth come together all right?
Will they kill Zai-oo-tah if she is found to be a fraud?
How much longer do I have as young woman before the men will stop noticing me?
If the Council does not do away with the Sorceress, in what other ways can it be secretly achieved?
Does Dijaq know how much I truly love him?
Would a stone work? A hammer, a sharp blade, suffocation, poisoning?
Dijaq...Dijaq...Dijaq....
Trying to quell the sudden beating of her heart, Waru neatly arranged the two plaits of her hair over both shoulders and started for the lodge door.
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Dijaq sat at the edge of Father's bed, carefully spoon-feeding him the last bit of breakfast, which was bolberry root mixed with gruel. Perhaps two hours past, a group of six strong men had gone out through the palisade to fetch the wounded Malaraq. Preparations would soon begin for the Questioning, but until then Dijaq had decided to check on his Father and make sure the helpless old man would not be uncomfortable before he made his trip back into the common area.
"A little more," he pressed, trying gently to push the wooden spoon into Father's mouth. The old man accepted, but since he had no teeth, a good deal of the gruel dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin. He ate mechanically and with vacant eyes, as though he took no pleasure in either the acts of eating or tasting.
Patiently, Dijaq wiped at his father's grizzled chin with a cloth. "Would you have more?"
Father moaned wordlessly and rocked back and forth, clutching a brightly-colored cloth in both hands that he only recently had begun taking to bed with him at night.
The cloth had belonged to Dijaq's mother.
Sighing, Dee set the bowl and wooden spoon aside and took his father's cheeks tenderly in both hands. "I know you must miss her," he admitted quietly, and Father answered with yet another groan, rocking all the harder.
"Mother has taken her position among the star-spirits and looks down on us daily, Father," Dijaq said helpfully, trying with all his might to believe the words that came from his mouth. The trouble was, he did not know what he believed anymore.
"Muh. Muh." Father reached a shaking arm to the bowl of lukewarm gruel; Dijaq recognized this as his father's plea for "more". Lately, the elderly one had made tremendous inroads in his attempts to communicate.
"You would have more?" Dijaq set the bowl on a small wooden nightstand that was situated close to Father's sleeping bench. "I wish I had more time to spend with you, Father, but I must attend the Questioning." Dijaq exhaled nervously, smoothing his mass of untamed, whitish-yellow curls away from his eyes and adjusting his trousers and frock, which would have to be neat and void of any stains.
This morning was an important one; except for the infirm and those who were at home taking care of sick babies, the entire population of Looks Thrice would be jostling for a good view of the dreaded wooden platform. Amiechek, Pomoq, and Gormaq would take their places at the Elder's Bench as they always did-- but what would happen from there?
Nervous and trying to quell the dim nausea that was beginning to plague him, Dijaq tried to tick off the possibilities in his mind. Would Malaraq, with his injured leg, be given a place on the platform? Yes, he almost certainly would-- a grave injustice had been done in his attempt to kill Ziuta, and he would have to answer for it.
What punishment would Malaraq receive? Would he be condemned to death? Removed from the Council? Try as he might, Dijaq was so excited that he could barely contain himself.
Would Ziuta and Tuchek also be given places on the platform? ...Perhaps the girl would. She would have to answer Pomoq's direct questions about the Draca, their behavior, and whether or not they communicated-- not to mention if they followed any direct orders which Ziuta had given them.
This frightened Dijaq most of all. Would the townspeople believe her? Would they accept her as one who could speak to the Draca and keep them at bay-- or would she be treated as a fraud, cast out from the village and the only people whom she could call family?
But no...Pomoq would never allow it. Pomoq knew things...and he would be able to tell instinctively if Ziuta or anyone else lied to him. If Pomoq said she could command the Draca, then he would be believed; for he was Healer, Seer, Deliverer of babies, and Leading Council Elder all in one. No one would doubt him. In fact, if Pomoq called the sky yellow and it was clearly blue, there would be not a soul who acknowledged any azure color from the heavens.
Dabbing at his Father's mouth one last time and ensuring that both the gruel and a pitcher of water were within the old man's reach, Dijaq stood and headed for the lodge door.
A heaviness weighed deeply on him; how he loved Ziuta, with a force unmatched by any in the world! Ziuta would be cleared-- he was certain of it-- and perhaps then there would be chances to make amends with her. He could consider forgiving the Draca for their dastardly deed of abducting his mother-- much as he hated to do so, he would acquiesce for the sake of his love. And this time, he could walk through the village with his head held high.
He had done something that he never would have imagined possible; he had saved Ziuta from her evil attacker, Malaraq-- and Luka had stood to the side, helpless and open-mouthed. Yes, for once his rival could not claim the effort of rushing toward Ziuta's aid...and perhaps she would remember that, even if Ziuta took to her old ways and ignored Dijaq in the plaza, as she did with just about everyone else.
I love Ziuta. I crave her...I need her. And deep down, I know that she needs me. Bless the Twin Moons, we are meant to be together-- please make it so!
And with these final thoughts, Dijaq unlatched the lodge door and stepped out into the morning, unaware of a pair of eager grey eyes that probed him intensely from a small crowd near the platform. The owner of those eyes smoothed her golden locks and smiled a crooked smile: for here came her lover, Dijaq...and she intended to have him...no matter what the cost.
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The silence in Hallow's Wood was deafening.
Below the twisted forms of the bolberry trees and their sagging branches, which brushed the tips of the grass stems in the star-light, the two Sisters Duscha and Doora knelt at Haven's Creek, lapping at the water with parched tongues. Deesha and Deema, the middle two siblings, perched high in the bows of the strongest tree, wings folded generously over thickly muscled bodies, with heads tucked beneath the parchment-like webbing in a light, tremulous sort of sleep.
Doora, the youngest, always walked on all fours and had the habit of keeping her head close to the ground, rather than extending her mighty frame and relishing in the beauty of her swan-like neck and powerful, double-crested head. She was the youngest, and as such, she had often born the bront of Dragura's unpredictable wrath. Scars mottled her strong body where stones, rocks, or even dishes had been thrown and tore some of the precious scales loose from her hide. Doora jumped high in the air at every sound and was quick to lash out before she used her intelligence to assess a situation; it was the sad, sad result of years of abuse which would likely never be undone.
"Should we not raid the village and bring the Star Child here, to us?" Doora whispered nervously, looking first here and then there, as if she expected the Mistress herself to materialize out of the forest and punish her with another lashing.
"Hush, Sister, and drink. We must return to the trees, and after that there is no telling when we will have food or water to sustain our bellies. Drink!"
"But--"
A throaty growl caused Doora to cower at once and bend to the water, using a broad tongue fitted with small, hook-like barbs that expertly drew the water in. A dragon could drink hundreds of gallons of water at once and still remain thirsty, but for now, rationing would have to do.
By this time, the sisters knew that Dragura would begin to question their whereabouts. Their instructions had been clean and sure: find the Star Child, and bring her back.
The first command had been met, but an unspoken truce had sprung between the four Sisters in the mean-time; they could not, in good conscience, return this red-haired child to Dragura. The Mistress, fearing competition and someone with stronger powers than her own, would destroy little Zai-oo-tah in a heart-beat to keep her place as 'Queen of the Dragons'; it was a fate which Duscha, the oldest, refused to contemplate.
Having finished her drink, Duscha licked her chops and raised her head from the water, giving her body a shake and stretching her wings with a powerful, mighty sigh that rivaled any gale in Hallow's Wood.
Doora crept forward until she knelt before Duscha, and gently gripped Duscha's lower jaw in her own mouth, a gesture of submission that was a silent request to speak.
When Duscha did not turn her away, little Doora soughed: "Would it not be much better to have the girl here with us? There is no telling what the People of Looks Thrice will do to her. She is outcast-- she is not like them. And once they find out that she has the capability of commanding the us, she may very well be destroyed."
"It is a chance we will have to take," Duscha rumbled nobly. "Why, what else would we do? Snare the child and keep her here in the wood, where she would shiver with cold and have to live on bolberries and lake water? No. There are others among the Evening Folk who will care for her. She shall stay with her kind, and in the meantime, we shall remain here, in Hallow's Wood."
"They are not her kind, Duscha."
"They are People, are they not?"
"Yes, but--"
"But nothing. We have our orders. We have found the child that speaks to dragons as if she were one of them, and as if we were one of her own. This, truly, is a special child. She may not know it yet, but I have seen this child's future in dreams; Dragura will never be able to overtake her. She will be the savior of the dragon kind and the woman who frees the Evening Folk from the veritable prisons of their own villages. Think, Doora!" And Duscha bent her mighty head. "This Star Child, this Zai-oo-tah, shall be one with us!"
Doora blinked and shook her weary head. "I do not understand."
"Nor do I-- not fully. But it shall come to be nonetheless. Have my dreams ever been wrong?"
"No--"
"Then we shall guard the village, keep watch over the child, and wait. What I have seen shall come to pass. She will become one with us in a way that she may struggle mightily against at first-- but the choice will not be hers. And from the Star-Child will rise two great forces that will rival the Twin Moons themselves--"
"Impossible!" Doora breathed. "A simple child? How can such a thing be?"
"Enough with your questions already. Get back to the trees. Sleep! Tomorrow shall be another day of waiting...and watching."
Doora did not have to be told more than once. Alighting to her perch, she settled with a quiet fluttering of wings as Duscha took one last sweeping view of the clearing, the wood, and the Creek which separated them from the path that led to Looks Thrice.
Occasionally, the coal-black water dragon would make a pass through the creek and lift her serpentine neck from the water, as though searching for something-- or someone-- in the direction of the old bolberry tree that leaned out over the water, but Duscha had not seen the creature in several days. That was good; the Draca and water dragons were no great friends. With a snarl and snap of her mighty jaws and gleaming teeth, Duscha would make as if to attack while the water dragon bared its own teeth and sank dejectedly back into the waters.
This water dragon, Duscha knew, was looking for Ziuta. But friends though they might have been, Duscha could not take the chance that the water dragon's instincts might overcome her attachment to the child. Water dragons could be dangerous-- and this one, whose intelligence did not ascend to the level of even the lowliest of Draca, was no different.
Duscha heaved another great sigh, used her jaws to break off a small branch of bolberry fruits to soothe her aching stomach, and ascended back into her resting place with a strong leap of the hind legs and powerful swoop of her wings.
In Hallow's Wood, all had gone quiet again.
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Amiechek sat stiffly in her regal finery.
A crown of shell beads adorned her greying, tow-colored hair, which had been rolled into the typical austere bun at the nape of her neck, and numerous folds of soft, white aprons adorned with the finest cuts of lace covered her generous lap. On her knees, she clasped her hands until they were as white as her clothing. Amiechek's thin white lips had been pressed into a tight line; from a seat near the front of the crowd that pressed against the wooden platform for the Questioning, Waru sat gracefully with her apron covering her shapely legs and shot her mother a poisonous glare-- as if the events of the night had been her fault.
This morning, so fresh with the scent of ripened bolberries and adazzle with star-light that beamed down onto the comfortable little village, was supposed to have been one of jubilance-- but, as had happened so often in these past few months, Amiechek's hopes and dreams had been dashed to bits, like the shards of a looking glass Waru had once hurled against the wall in one of her headache-fueled furies.
The red-haired Sorceress child was still alive.
Bless the Twin Moons, how could it be?
To her left sat Pomoq, still clad in his dark cloak with the heavy hood that hung down the back. His 'pet', little Green Wings, perched on his left shoulder and trilled warily for a gaggle of giggling, snow-haired children, who pointed and laughed, each dashing for a share of the brilliant jade feathers which fluttered to the ground when the tiny bird fluffed out her chest. Pomoq seemed as calm, poised, and unbothered as ever; nothing seemed to phase the man-- and, frankly, Amiechek was tiring of him. Both he and Gormaq (who sat to her right, fiddling anxiously with wrinkled hands) were much too partial to the red-headed Outsider, and it would have to stop.
Were she and Malaraq the only ones who could see the foolishness of fawning over a child with unnaturally colored hair and eyes, who had come from the gods-knew-where in the Universe above?
And speaking of Malaraq, Amiechek had wanted to leap from her seat before the platform to tear her hair in mourning when she saw the sorry state of him; he'd had to be brought into the village on a litter carried by four strong men. Malaraq looked sallow, deflated, and wan, and his leg-- bandaged and stitched though it might have been-- looked so mangled as to not resemble any sort of human limb whatsoever. A look of perpetual agony graced the man's face.
What could have happened? Had the Draca wounded him? Had they done so at the Sorcereress's request?
Whatever the situation in Hallow's wood during the Night, Amiechek was furious. She bit her fists to keep from leaping to her feet and flying to the platform in a blind fury, longing to tear the beautiful red tresses out of Ziuta's head and render her as bald as her friend, the mute Joo-Lee.
And even now, the men and boys of the village leered at Ziuta, offering each other snide remarks and quiet jokes, with the knowing glances and wide eyes that had once been reserved for her own precious daughter, Warumachek.
It was an outrage.
It was a travesty.
Somehow, it would have to be stopped.
"Shall the Questioning begin, my Healer?" offered one of the four men who guarded the platform.
Pomoq waved at him impatiently with a hand whose fingers looked like gnarled root-lings. "In a moment. I would confer with my Council mates," he said airily.
Before them, Malaraq sat on a hastily-erected box on the platform, his ruined leg sticking straight out in front of him, still clad in its blood-stained wrappings. Luka and Dijaq stood proudly to one side of him and Ziuta on the other; the lovely, cerise-haired Ziuta, who stood with the lofty bearing of a Queen, arms crossed, nose high to the air as though she could not stand the smell of the common People below her.
Amiechek sneered. The nerve!
Why did her hair have to shine so magnificently in the star-light? Shouldn't her dress and apron be mussed with mud, damp with water, or ruined with brambles and thorns? Yet not a shred of lace was out of place, not a hair astray from the delicious waves that cascaded down her shoulders-- like a crimson waterfall giving way to wide, attractive hips and tiny, bare feet. Almost, Amiechek could see what the men saw in her...and that was all the more reason to find some way to be rid of her. She was charming the men of Looks Thrice with her devilish tricks.
Why could they not see? Why did they not hear?
Pomoq cleared his throat and turned to Amiechek, giving her a withering glare. The Matron attempted not to wilt before the piercing stare of those sharp, bright eyes: this man was, after all, the Healer who had delivered a wailing Warumachek into her arms so many years ago, draping the blood-streaked child with a warm blanket while Amiechek wept her gratitude and stroked her new daughter's hair, trying hard not to think of the baby boy she had lost before.
"What would you ask of me, Elder?" Amiechek asked him coldly.
"Things are not what they would seem," Pomoq said simply, "but rid yourself of the poisonous vitriol, woman. It is not becoming of a member of my Council, and a fair decree cannot be issued while clouded with the blind venom of hatred. Adjust your senses or I shall send you home, right here and now, before the People, and they shall see you in your shame. Is that what you want?"
Amiechek was so mortified that she could not speak a word.
Turning next to Gormaq, Pomoq addressed him with only slightly more dignity. "Your daughter has been returned to us," he began. "She shall be questioned in the same manner as all of the others. She will receive no favors, no honors, no special treatment until what took place in Hallow's Wood is to be determined-- and you shall not speak for her unless we all do so...as a team. Do I make myself clear?"
Gormaq nodded. He was stone-faced.
"Good." Pomoq turned and faced the Platform. "I shall grant Amiechek the honor of beginning with the Questioning."
There were gasps of delight from the crowds that pressed, now jostling ever closer to get a glimpse of the Matron, to hear snatches of what would be said. Women and daughters clasped hands, while boys and several of the young men looked at Ziuta with longing (Luka gave them all warning glares). Old men with hoary heads formed tight clusters, already discussing the implications of what the decree would be. The attitude and mood of the day was as of a somber festival; while their parents looked on in tense silence, white-haired children ran around the Platform naked in circles, squealing with mirth as they played 'tag' with one another and waved brilliant green feathers.
Surprised, but determined to begin the proceedings with an air of dignity, Amiechek glanced quickly at Waru. The young girl gazed up at her now with sparkling eyes and a slight smile, her earlier poison apparently forgotten.
"I start with you, girl, who stands with her arms crossed as though she were a princess," Amiechek began grandly. This was the part of her job she enjoyed the most. She could speak to the girl in any tone she wished without fear of reprisals. "Tell us what happened during the Night in Hallow's Wood...and I remind you that you are under an oath to tell only the truth! You have thirty seconds-- no longer."
"Thirty seconds?" Ziuta was incredulous. "But that is hardly any time--"
"Do as the Matron says," Pomoq interrupted firmly, and Ziuta flushed, causing Waru to stare down at her polished fingernails with a smirk.
"Very well." Ziuta lifted her chin in the gesture she had perfected so well. "Tuchek, Luka, Dijaq, and Malaraq followed me into the wood as Pomoq requested. Our command was to see what would happen if we encountered the Draca and whether or not I could command them, as was the question."
"Yes, yes, we know all of this." Amiechek made an impatient gesture. "Get on with it!"
"In short, Malaraq tried to kill me," Ziuta snapped, turning to glare at the man with the ruined leg-- Malaraq only sat straight ahead and stared blankly into the crowd, which burst into excited babble. Malaraq had tried to kill the girl? But how could it be? Had he expected to get away with it?
Amiechek could hardly believe her ears; even Waru's jaw had dropped. "I do not believe you!" she snapped. "Already you make up stories to save your own skin! Why would Malaraq try to kill you?"
"To rid the village of me once and for all," Ziuta said smoothly, though her brow was furrowed and she clearly looked troubled. "It is no secret how well both Malaraq and you, Matron, despise me-- along with many others. But try to kill me he did-- and he would have very nearly succeeded had Dijaq not acted quickly and stopped him in his tracks." Ziuta cast Dijaq a fond look; he blushed and stared at his feet, while Waru seethed. She had begun to tremble, and her face was a figurative thunderstorm.
"How did he try to kill you?" Amiechek demanded.
"With a knife and his bare hands," Ziuta shot back. "He grabbed my hair and was going to slice my throat right then and there! But then Dijaq--"
"Lies! All lies, I tell you!" Malaraq burst. "She distorts the truth to make herself seem favorable! Pomoq, you must believe--"
"Silence!" Pomoq held up a hand. "The girl speaks!"
"Dijaq struck him in the face with a bola," Ziuta continued, and there was a collective gasp from the young women in the crowd who pressed even closer for a look at the red-cheeked Dijaq. How romantic that the shy young man would have protected a helpless maiden in such a way! "Then came the Draca, who were hiding in the bolberry trees on the other side of Haven's Creek. The Draca were there to protect me...and they would have killed Malaraq straight away, had I not stopped them."
The crowd gaped.
"What do you mean, 'stopped them'?" Amiechek peered at her as though through some primitive microscope.
"I told the head of the Draca that he must not be killed, for he should face the punishment in Looks Thrice for the crime of trying to kill me. Malaraq is very strong, and in order to prevent him from running, I--"
Ziuta hesitated, then looked to Luka as though for support. He gave her a gentle smile, and she went on. "I instructed the Draca, the biggest one, to break his leg."
All at once, the People were aflurry with babbles and disbelieving exclamations. Could it actually be true? But how could she allow it? Would it be decreed against the rules of Looks Thrice? And was this not proof that the Draca obeyed her after all?
"I say that you are lying," Amiechek said, with dierce determination. "No child can command a band full of wild dragons! I declare that they accosted you, attempted to kill our Council Elder, and that he barely escaped with his life. It is you, girl, who must face the consequences!"
"Fat pig!" Ziuta shouted spontaneously. Looks of glee and ecstatic whispers flew. Zai-oo-tah had called the Matron a pig! What would happen to her for this??
"Why, you little--" Amiechek started forward, hands outsretched, preparing to drag the girl straight down from the platform and throttle her where she stood.
"Enough! Someone stop her!" Pomoq cried, and two burly men stepped forth, each snatching hold of the Matron's flabby arms.
She flailed wildly. "Let me go!' she snarled.
"Never in a million years," said Pomoq dryly. "You have disgraced yourself by losing control because of your piteous feelings for a girl less than third your age. You are dismissed to your lodge. Go!"
"But--"
"Now! And take your daughter with you," Pomoq instructed, in a leaden voice which could have melted the snow in the Ice-Cap Mountains.
Weeping with humiliation, Amiechek and the stone-eyed Waru were escorted away from the proceedings.
Pomoq made a graceful gesture toward Gormaq. "You shall conclude the Questioning," he stated, and Gormaq stood in great relief. It had been torturous for him to watch his adopted daughter suffer beneath Amiechek's brutal insinuations.
He cleared his throat. "How many Draca did you come across, Ziuta?" he asked, in as neutral a tone as he could muster.
Ziuta thought a moment. "Four," she said at last. "One was larger than the others."
"Could they speak?"
"Yes."
"In what fashion?"
"Almost like People," answered Ziuta, "except that their voices are more beautiful than one could ever imagine. They are strong, well-built, heavily muscled, and intimidating. Their heads have two bony crests, and the scales are more beautiful than ovals of jade," she said. "I instructed one of the Draca to break Malaraq's legs, and she did so--"
"The Draca are female?"
Ziuta nodded vigorously. "Aye, all four of them."
Pomoq and Gormaq exchanged glances.
"Was it by your command that the Draca broke Malaraq's leg?" Pomoq asked, and the crowd quieted considerably; when the leader spoke, everyone listened.
"Aye, that it was."
"And who can vouch for you?"
"The both of us," cried Dijaq readily, and Luka nodded. "All of us were there, including Tuchek. We observed Malaraq's intent to slay Ziuta, and I did as she acknowledged; I used my bola to injure him. The Draca took care of the rest."
"Ah." Pomoq and Gormaq bent to confer quietly, while the crowd fidgeted and whispered. Women tried to comfort crying babies, but none were eager to leave. All wanted to see what would happen to this red-haired maiden-- and if Malaraq were found guilty of trying to kill her, the punishment would be very dire. None wanted to miss it.
"Did the Draca tell you why they are present in Hallow's Wood?" Pomoq asked at last.
Ziuta appeared to take a deep breath, then let it out easily. Nervous though she was, no one in the crowd would have guessed; she was a shining example of feminine beauty in all aspects, and there was not a young man present who would not have invited her into his sleeping bench. No longer was Zai-oo-tah a little girl.
"Their instructions from Dragura were to find me and bring me to her," Ziuta said quietly, so that those closest to the Platform had to strain to hear, "but they have decided not to bring me back, as their Mistress demanded. They-- they state that I am someone special, though for the life of me I cannot understand why, and they have made it clear that they intend to make Hallow's Wood their home. They-- they want to protect me, but they will not harm anyone in Looks Thrice."
More excited babble. The Draca had taken Ziuta under their wings!
Pomoq stood, prepared to issue his decree. "It seems we have a Blessed One among us," he said, bestowing Ziuta with a wrinkled smile. "That you are here unharmed is testament that the Draca are present and mean to protect you. I decree that they have now, and will continue, to obey your orders-- as they did when this Draca broke Malaraq's leg."
Ziuta looked up at him with gleaming eyes. "Wh- what does all this mean, Elder?" she asked timidly.
Pomoq looked back at her kindly. "It means," he said, "that from now on, you are to be revered in Looks Thrice as one who can communicate with dragons. With such a status, which never before has existed on Weema, you shall be given the proper respect and a new title-- which the Council will bestow after a few days worth of pondering. Congratulations, Ziuta. You have survived."
The crowd broke into spontaneous bouts of cheers, hoots, whoops, and excited blather. Pomoq had decreed that Ziuta could communicate with dragons! Never had there existed such a being!
Luka hopped down from the platform and approached the Elders, lowering himself on one knee before Pomoq and bowing respectfully until he could be addressed.
"Yes, my Dear?"
"What is to become of Malaraq?" Luka asked, gesturing back at the Platform with distaste as though the man were a pile of month-old flesh decomposing in the heat.
Pomoq did not miss a beat. "Execute him," he said simply, locking eyes with the incredulous Malaraq. On his shoulder, the feisty little Green Wings chirped in avian triumph.