Stormrise

Forest fell asleep immediately, but I lay awake for a long time, unable to quiet my thoughts. The sense that I was being watched dawned gradually, until I sat up in a rush, blanket clenched in my fists.

“Nuaga?” I whispered.

Rain.

Her voice was so powerful inside my head that I jumped. I took a calming breath, reminding myself that she was visiting in a dream, not in the flesh. Then I closed my eyes. Immediately, I was drawn into the waking-dream state that had become so familiar, my true body as lost to me as if I were sleeping. Nuaga stepped forward, and for a moment I fought the desire to claw myself free from her.

This was a dragon. With teeth. And breath that could melt flesh.

At first, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The reality of what she was—what she could do—stole my ability to think beyond it. Nuaga was beautiful and terrifying. Magnificent and awful.

Yet she had become so much a part of me that I couldn’t allow fear to render me powerless. I had spent days memorizing and studying the Lament, and my heart burned to understand more.

I met her gaze.

Nuaga drew her face near mine. Her expression was so human that my breath stuttered in my throat. She was almost … smiling.

Do you fear me?

“Only sometimes.”

She regarded me for a few moments. Do you understand my Lament now?

“I still have questions.”

Tell it to me.

Faltering at first, then growing steadier, I recited the Lament. When I finished, Nuaga was silent. Her breaths came slowly and evenly, and I tried to imagine what it would feel like for her to turn that breath toward me with the intent of melting my flesh. I waited, but still she said nothing.

She seemed, for the first time, uncertain. Perplexed.

“Nuaga?”

Something is missing …

“Tell me what’s missing.”

Her gaze was sad. The words you will need to awaken the dragons. And the need for sacrifice.

Sacrifice?

“Meaning what, exactly?”

The greatest dragon magic is only released through sacrifice, such as T’Gonnen’s own life. And the dragon-waking words will speak for themselves.

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

The sadness in her eyes deepened. I did not write them; I spoke magic over my beloved scribe so that she could imbue the words with my power. The minds of the slumbering dragons are intertwined; if the waking words were in my mind all along, they would have long ago disturbed the ages-long sleep.

“So I must bring these words to the dragons.”

Yes. If you don’t, there is no hope for Ylanda.

“But why?” I whispered. “How can there be no other hope?”

Her eyes grew large and transparent, as they had done before, and drew me somewhere else. This time, I didn’t close my eyes or brace myself—I simply stood tall and waited while the scene settled around me.

You have a willing heart, Rain L’nahn. You deserve to know us.

I stood in what seemed to be a temple carved of stone. The walls were lined with gemstones the size of a man’s head, each one giving off as much light as a small sun. T’Gonnen, high king of the dragon clan, stood beside Nuaga, his mate. Beside them stood four mighty offspring, two males and two females. Their sheer majesty gripped me, and I stepped backward, my boots scraping on the rough-hewn floor.

T’Gonnen’s voice rang like thunder. “Nuaga and I have cleansed the land and guarded the people who are now the kingdom of Ylanda, and you are called to the same. This is your land. Your people.”

The young dragons bowed their heads in reverence to T’Gonnen. Fierce affection welled inside me—a father’s love for his children. I pressed my hand to my heart and held my breath, waiting to see what came next.

The high king and she-king stepped back, revealing a gem larger than the others, set into the center of the front wall. It pulsed and glowed a deep crimson, and the dragon offspring turned their heads toward it. I, too, was drawn to the brilliant light, like a moth to a lantern. My eyes were dazzled, and in my momentary blindness, I was pulled into the gemstone, weightless as air.

Landscapes shifted, time rolled backward. I watched, awe-stricken, as the Great God fashioned his dragons, breathing a thousand years or more of life into each one. People believed they were immortal—they were revered and sometimes worshipped. Their magic was coveted, collected. I watched farmers gathering dragon dung, a prized fertilizer that created such bounty that during times of drought, there was enough food. The smallest bits of a dragon—a scale, a piece of claw, a hair—were collected and treasured, and the dragons were happy to share. Truly, they were the most magical of all the Great God’s creations.

Once more, a burst of light blinded me, and when it subsided, I stood again in the shadows of the temple, a mere cat’s throw from Nuaga and her family.

“Always remember that you are revered,” T’Gonnen said to his children. “But never take it for granted.”

The room tilted and swirled, and I found myself standing near the edge of a rise of ground over a deep hollow. The sky darkened, and I watched a dragon give birth to her young. Somehow, I understood that she was at her most vulnerable, the heat of her breath temporarily lost as she transferred her magic to her dragonling.

I knew this place—I had been here before. Fear gripped my heart as I saw the band of men appear over the opposite rise, their swords already drawn.

“No!” I cried, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Save yourself! Take your baby and go!”

But no one heard me. The men rushed her, as I knew they would, killing her and nearly strangling the baby before stealing it away. I wept as they carved the mother dragon’s body and divided portions among themselves, gorging on the ill-gotten magic.

Not nomads. Men of Ylanda, who had turned on the dragons for their own gain.

I sank to my knees in despair as the earth tilted and spun once more. This time, I knelt just outside a clearing in a deep forest, where at least half a dozen dragons had gathered.

“Our catacombs are nearly complete,” the largest male said. “We will at least have a safe place to give birth and guard our young.”

“But Stonewall is rising,” said another, “a testament to the people’s loss of faith in us.”

“Yes,” said the first, “and in its shadow, a black-market trade between those who seek to prosper by selling our magic and the nomads who crave it.”

“The best we can do is to protect our young.” A glorious female spoke this time, her voice much like Nuaga’s. “Buckets overflowing with shed scales and bundles of fur sell for a decent price, but a freshly born dragonling, delivered alive? There is no comparison.”

“We are like fugitives in our own land,” the first dragon said.

“For now,” the female said. “But T’Gonnen will set things right.”

The scene swirled away like paper on the wind. I now stood on a high mountaintop, though it overlooked not an earthly vista, but a vast, swirling tapestry of light and color that shifted and changed before my eyes.

First the attacks began. Dragons were forced to protect their young and to seek out those who were selling their magic to the nomads. Those who had once revered them now feared them instead. Stonewall stood as a marker of Ylanda’s defiance and pride.

I felt the dragons’ indignation, and their misery. I felt the keen sting of betrayal, the silent pain of resignation.

T’Gonnen rose up before me, magnificent and terrifying. I watched the Lament unfold before me, and I doubled over with sobbing as T’Gonnen breathed his last upon the ramparts of Stonewall. Every scale, every tooth, every talon was pulled and peeled and cut from his body. His eyes. His heart. The segments of his spine.

And when I saw them dismember the sacs of his manhood, a surge of heat tore through me. The very maleness of T’Gonnen was what had stolen my monthly bleed and deepened my voice.

I watched his body topple to the outside of the wall, where his remaining bones and whatever else was left of him were scavenged by the nomads. I continued to weep as Nuaga and the other dragons sank into the quiet darkness of their catacombs to be long forgotten.

A cold wind whipped me, forcing shivers from me as I folded my arms around myself. I was swept up again, blinded in the rush of wind and light and shadow. When my feet hit solid ground, I opened my eyes to find myself once more in the temple of stone, but this time, it was empty, the gemstones dark. I gazed into the shadowed space, imagining the dragons gathering there to pay homage to the Great God. But the emptiness of the chamber brought more tears; I wiped them from my face with both hands.

“I want to wake them, Nuaga.” My voice, wet with crying, echoed in the hollow space.

The temple shifted, and I moved through layers of light and motion until I once again stood before Nuaga. Her eyes rested on me with new expectancy.

Will you release me?

“Why did you not appear before now?” I whispered.

Those who have awakened me before responded with fear and loathing. You are the first one who has willingly listened. Her eyes grew wide. Will you release me?

The longing of my heart burst forth with such fervor I could hardly contain it. “Yes.”

Nuaga lowered her head so that her face was inches from mine. Now?

My words were mere breath. “Yes.”

She stepped back, and suddenly I was inside my tent, my hands still clutching my blanket. With fierce purpose, I reached for my dagger and clutched it to my breast as I slipped outside. Soft as a breeze, I sank to my knees and, without stopping to think, sliced the blade into my palm. Gritting my teeth against the pain that bloomed as the blood swelled to the surface, I tipped my hand toward the ground. My blood dripped soundlessly into the dirt, though I imagined it was sizzling with the heat of a dragon’s breath.

Rain.

Nuaga was before me again, wreathed in the shadows of a waking dream. I met her gaze, caught between fear and euphoria.

“The others,” I said. “They won’t be in any danger?”

Without a word, she lowered her head and, before I had time to react, reached with her long tongue and licked my bleeding hand. Warmth spread through my hand and up my arm.

No. Do you release me, Rain L’nahn?

“Yes. I release you.”

Her countenance shifted from dark to light, from sunset to sunrise. A sound like music leaped from her throat, and when she bent her face to mine, I didn’t shrink.

And are you willing to make a great sacrifice?

I thought of Tan Vey’s bloodthirsty soldiers, and of my precious family, whose lives meant more to me than my own. If the Lament called for me to sacrifice myself, what of it? My willingness to die for them had resided in my heart since the day I donned my brother’s clothing and cut my hair.

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” I said.

And yet the Lament is mysteriously lacking the words you need.

Then revelation—and joy—welled up within me. “You can come to me now, yes?”

Yes. I can rise from the catacombs now.

“And you can move faster than any person ever could?”

I have three times the legs and twelve times the strength of a man. She smiled. Or a girl.

“Take me to the Commune of Mennek,” I said. “The original Lament is there—I’m sure of it. I think some verses are missing.”

Mennek. She said the name as though it drummed up an ancient memory. Then she raised her great head and looked down at me. I will take you there. And if you are successful, be prepared to receive my mark. Once you do, you will be one with the dragons. Your loyalty will lie forever with us.

How could I be loyal to the dragons and the high king’s army? Was Nuaga asking me to abandon Jasper and the others and follow her orders instead?

I wanted to do what was right. Part of me ached to follow Nuaga to the farthest reaches of the known world. Part of me clung fiercely to the honor I wanted to bring my family by serving the high king.

Could I do both?

The high king’s army will not succeed without the dragons’ intervention, she said softly.

I summoned the courage to ask the question that would reveal my true heart. “If I wake the dragons, will Ylanda truly be saved? Will my family be safe?”

The only hope for safety lies with the dragons. Without them, there is only death.

I raised my chin. “Then I will wake them.”

I will hold you to that, Rain L’nahn.

Were Nuaga’s words true? Would our army not prevail without the dragons’ help?

Without my help?

Her eyes glimmered as she faded once more into darkness, and I found myself kneeling outside my tent, alone. My hand no longer hurt, and when I tentatively ran my fingers along the surface of my palm, it felt smooth and whole, as though no blade had ever pierced it.

Heart pounding, I climbed into the tent and rolled onto my side upon my blanket. Nuaga’s words curled into the corners of my mind, echoing until they faded: I will hold you to that, Rain L’nahn.

What in the name of the Great God had I unleashed?

I woke in the chill of morning, almost face-to-face with Forest. In the tent-shadowed light, he looked younger, except for the scruff of beard that had been growing all week.

I rubbed my palm across my cheek and beneath my nose. My skin felt a bit fuzzier, perhaps, but no one had said anything. Probably it was my imagination.

Which was fine. I didn’t want a beard.

I watched him as he slept, my heart knotted by the battle within it. He wasn’t mine to long for, yet I wanted to trace his cheeks, his jaw, his lips with my fingertips. I wanted to press my ear to his chest and listen to the beating of his heart.

Jealousy tore through me like wildfire. The thought of sharing Forest with my sister was unspeakable.

Not sharing—relinquishing.

I forced the ungenerous thoughts from my mind, reminding myself that the Great God had destined Forest for either my sister or death. And he had destined me to honor my family—and save them—not as myself, but as a soldier in the high king’s army.

Almost, I woke Forest, wanting so much to tell him about my visit with Nuaga, in the hope that he would believe me. Instead, I blew him a soundless kiss and left the tent.

After morning warm-ups and breakfast, I excused myself and made my way back to our tent, empty cup in my hand. I gathered my dirty shirt and socks, as well as the extra shirt I wore on laundry day. I had just ducked out of the tent when Forest approached.

“Most of the others are washing shirts only,” he said. “They say our britches won’t dry before the other soldiers arrive.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Something wrong?”

I frowned. “No. I just … need to be alone for a while.”

“Nervous?”

Ugh. The Neshu match. “Yes. I’ll be downstream a way. Can we talk later, though? I spoke with Nuaga last night.”

Forest’s expression was guarded. “S’da.”

“Thank you. And please don’t tell anyone where I’m going.”

He clapped me on the shoulder, yet another boy behavior I had become used to. “I won’t say a word.”

I headed across the field toward the creek. This would probably be my last opportunity to wash anything, and we’d all have to be content in our filth and stink. But while the air still held enough warmth, I intended to clean myself as well as my clothing.

Our bucket of soap sat at the edge of the field, more than half empty. I took my cup and scooped it full, then headed downstream. The trees thickened a bit in that direction, and the water curved eastward. My hope was that I would be able to find a private spot where I would feel safe.

I fought my way through thick underbrush in order to follow the stream around a bend that, with the trees’ help, hid me from view. The day was warming quickly, one of those unusual days in early falling season when the sun tried bravely to elongate the summer. I swatted at a hornet with my fistful of shirts as I stepped onto a broad, flat expanse of the bank between two tree roots. Checking once more to be sure I was alone, I peeled off my shirt and unwound the ratty strips from my torso. I wrinkled my nose at the smell, which didn’t even seem like it could come from me. Perhaps the dragon powder had affected that, too.

Quickly, I pulled the extra shirt over my head, relishing the freedom of my breasts beneath the scratchy fabric. Then I pulled off my boots and socks and stepped out of my britches, which I hung on a branch, leaving them unwashed as Forest had suggested. I felt almost giddy as I took the cup of soap and the stinky length of fabric to the water’s edge and began to scrub.

After I’d washed away the stink, I looped the strips of fabric over some low branches, checked again that no one was approaching, and slipped out of my shirt and undergarment. I grabbed the cup of soap and waded waist-deep into the stream, until my toes sank into the soft, cool bottom.

I bathed with relish, knowing it would be my last bath for a long time. I scrubbed my hair clean and washed the grime from my face. The soap was pungent and earthy, and my skin sang with the sweetness of simply being clean.

I didn’t linger, though I dearly wished I could. After a final rinse, I dragged myself from the water and reached for the strips of cloth. Then I stopped. It might feel better, I thought, if I let my strips dry a while before rewrapping myself. The thought of the damp strips around my torso after a few minutes of delicious freedom was too much. So I pulled the long shirt over my head and stepped into one of my undergarments, making sure I was well covered before taking my clothing into the stream to wash it.

The sound of babbling water just beyond the deep where I stood almost completely masked the distant sound of voices and laughter upstream. Trails of soap—and someone’s errant undergarment—swirled by, clearly showing me the advantage of washing upstream. It was no matter, though. The sheer decadence of complete privacy, and the freedom to allow my body to breathe for a while, was worth the disadvantage.

I washed my clothing as quickly as I could. When I’d wrung as much water from the garments as possible, I slung them over my arm and waded back to the bank. There was no sunlight here, so I would have to carry the clean clothes out to the field where everyone else spread out their things to dry. I looked around for somewhere mud-free to toss the shirts and other things while I rebound myself. The leafy, twisted undergrowth grew thicker several strides away from where I stood.

I tossed my shirts first. They cleared the mud and landed directly on the dry, clean undergrowth, disturbing a hornet in the process. I twisted the clean socks and undergarment together and tossed them onto the shirts. One of the socks slipped free, half-landing in the dirt. Quickly, I found a long stick and used it to pick up the sock and poke it farther on top of the leafy covering.

From everywhere and nowhere, hornets filled the air around me. I cried out as they attacked, their burning stings piercing my neck, my arms, my shoulders. Blindly, arms flailing, I turned and ran into the water, the hot sound of their buzzing in my ears as they stung. I plunged myself into the water, writhing as the insects caught beneath my shirt continued to sting me. When I had no more breath left, I came up for air. The swarm was gone.

Tears hot in my eyes, I pulled off my shirt and plucked the remaining hornets from my already-swelling chest and abdomen. Then I turned the sopping-wet shirt inside out and shook it frantically, getting rid of every last hornet. As they landed on the surface of the water, I slapped them with the shirt.

Finally it was silent. The pain of a thousand fires wracked my body. With great effort, I lifted my wet shirt from the water, unable to wring it, and turned toward the bank.

Forest stood at the edge of the water, staring at me with a face of stone.