Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 2-4

The sound of Pieter’s voice startled Lathwi out of a daydream. She looked up to find him already perched on top of the mottled beast. The sight thrilled her. He looked far more powerful and self-assured on that animal’s back than he ever did on foot. Perhaps this beast-keeping was not so bad after all.

“How you do that?” she asked.

He smiled at her—a tight, humourless bend of the mouth. “What? You don’t know? I thought you knew everything.”

“Not know how you do that,” she replied. “You teach.”

“Of course,” he said, although the lesson he meant to teach her was quite different from the one she had in mind. “You can start by flipping the reins over the bay’s head.”

The stallion was feeding greedily now, and did not so much as twitch an ear as Lathwi did as she was told. Pieter was happy to see that, for it meant that the beast would not be so quick to cooperate with her this time.

“Now go around to his left side,” he told her, when she looked to him for further instruction. “No, not that side, the other one. Don’t you know your left from your right?”

She shrugged. Left, right—the words had no meaning to her. And besides, what did it matter, one side or the other? They both belonged to the same horse.

“Good,” Pieter said, when she was where she ought to be. “Now stick your left foot in the stirrup.” As she did this, the stallion strolled forward a few steps, forcing her to hop along with it like some great, black, one-legged wading bird. Pieter stifled an urge to snicker. “Now lift yourself up and swing the other leg over his rump.”

She wound up on the ground on the other side of the bay. Pieter’s smirk broadened, diagramming his spite.

“Try again. It’s more of a climb than a jump.”

This time, she landed in the saddle. It was as hard as a rock, and not very comfortable; but the view from here was excellent. She felt bigger suddenly. Stronger. She wanted to roar with pleasure, but decided to wait until this lesson had run its full course.

“What now?” she called instead.

“Use the reins to pull the bay’s head up,” he advised. “He won’t want to give up his breakfast, so you’ll have to pull hard.”

His prediction proved to be correct. The first time she tugged on the reins, the bay tugged back and then resumed his grazing. The second time, he swung his head around and tried to bite her calf. She clouted him between the ears and tried again. This time, he grudgingly lifted his head.

“Now nudge him in the ribs with your heels. Gently—”

As intended, the qualifier came too late. The stallion started, then broke into a sudden gallop. As Lathwi lurched backward, remaining in the saddle only by sheer luck, Pieter roared with laughter.

A moment later, though, his mirth soured in his mouth. For the bay was racing across the meadow now, and Lathwi was nowhere close to being in control. She squealed once as her mount veered toward the trees, then again as it redoubled its pace. The poor woman, he thought, as he went charging to the rescue. She must be terrified.

Meanwhile, Lathwi continued to squeal. Although jarred and jolted and horribly off-balance, she was ecstatic. This riding was like nothing she’d ever experienced: breath-taking and violent, a blur of chaotic motion. It recalled the wind to her face and the thrill of speed to her blood. It was not as swift or grandiose as flight, but it would serve admirably for the moment—if she could figure out a way to communicate her wants to the beast.

“Turn him, Lathwi!” came Pieter’s shout, from somewhere behind her. “Pull back on the reins!”

The reins? How curious. She had gotten the impression that those were meant to regulate the beast’s appetite. She gave the straps an experimental tug. Without warning or loss of speed, the horse veered sharply to the left. She grinned, then yanked on the reins again. The horse veered again, this time directly into the path of Pieter’s oncoming pinto.

The bay’s first change of course sent relief gushing through Pieter’s veins. The second took him completely by surprise. He hauled back hard on his reins, desperate to avoid a collision. The pinto skidded to a sudden stop and then reared, spilling him onto the grass. An instant later, the bay sped by. In passing, he heard Lathwi shout.

“That only way to get down?”

Although he could scarcely believe his ears, he was sure that there was light-hearted laughter in her voice.

G

Another hour or so passed before Lathwi could handle the bay with any degree of competence, and during that time, she took enough falls to mollify any remaining grudge that Pieter held against her. When they finally took their leave of that meadow, the meanness that had dogged them throughout the morning was gone.

They rode in companionable silence for a long time, each of them immersed in private thoughts. Pieter was thinking of his aunt, and the sort of welcome he was apt to get from her. On the one hand, she did not like surprises, good or bad; and this visit could definitely be viewed as a mixed bag. On the other hand, she was always glad for another chance to try and talk him into taking up life in the city again. She had been vehemently opposed to his moving away from Compara; at times, that was still a sore point between them.

And then there was Lathwi to consider.

She came riding up to him just then, as if she knew that he had been thinking of her. Although she still sat somewhat awkwardly in the saddle, she seemed very much at ease.

“I’ll admit it,” he said, flashing her an affable smile. “I’m amazed. I was sure that this demon-in-disguise would’ve killed you a thousand times by now. Instead, he almost seems to have taken a liking to you.” He paused, debating whether to ask or not, then forced himself to be bold. “Did you use sorcery on him?”

“What ‘sorcery’?” The tinge of fear which shadowed his tone implied that it was a thing of power. If so, then she wanted to know how it might apply to her.

He chewed on the fringes of his mustache, unsure of what to say. He knew all too well what sorcery was, yet now that he had been asked, he was hard-pressed to define it. Magic, witchcraft, wizardry: these were only variations of the same thought. Lathwi required words that explained themselves.

“Sorcery is a kind of secret knowledge,” he told her at last. “A sorcerer—or sorceress, in your case—uses that knowledge to manipulate nature and other forces.”

At that, her thoughts began to cycle at a furious pace. Taziem had taught her much that was secret. Did that qualify her as a sorceress?

“Tell more,” she urged.

“I can’t, I’m not an expert on the subject,” he said. “All I can say is that sorcerers control things that ordinary men cannot—fire, wind, weather.”

“I Call fire. Wind, too.”

“I know,” he replied, with a dry half-smile. “I, on the other hand, cannot. That’s why you’re a sorceress and I’m a trapper.”

She hissed, venting her excitement. He had said it, so it must be true: she was not only a woman, but a sorceress as well. The distinction pleased her. Yet there was still much more that she wanted to know.

“Why you fear this sorcery?”

Once again, she rendered him speechless. It was only natural for a man to fear things that he could not control, he wanted to tell her, but that wasn’t quite true. He could not control lightning, and yet he never went running when it crackled across the sky. Perhaps that was because lightning could only kill a man, he thought then. When sorcery struck, the results were often worse than death.

He glanced at her. She was still patiently waiting for an answer. A feeble curse died on his lips. He should have known better than to hope that she’d forget or let the matter slide.

“I’m afraid,” he said, digging deep for an honest bone, “because I don’t trust sorcerers to leave me alone.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Too much of any kind of power perverts a body’s outlook on life.” When she continued to stare at him, obviously expecting him to elaborate, he sputtered. “Could you trust someone who could summon wolves to eat his enemies or conjure fire to burn an unfaithful mistress in her bed or turn some unlucky trapper into a lizard simply because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

As far as she could tell, trust was another human quirk. And because it did not apply to her, it did not interest her.

“Why this sorcerer not eat enemies hisself?” she asked. “He not have teeth?”

“It doesn’t matter if he has teeth or not,” he said, too agitated to quibble about details like cannibalism just now. “If he’s like most folks, he’ll only manage for himself until he’s powerful enough to coerce someone else into doing the job for him.”

There was nothing wrong with that, she thought. Every living thing strove to make life easier for itself. Did he not make his mule carry his things? Had he not claimed the horses so he would not have to walk anymore?

He was weak, she concluded again, this time with more clemency than scorn. He was afraid of power simply because he did not have enough of his own. But she did not say that aloud—it would serve no useful purpose. Instead, she began a lazy review of the conversation’s other aspects. The part about playing tricks with fire interested her. She would not have thought to use her knowledge of Names in such a manner. She started to consider possible applications, mostly tricks on Shoq, but was distracted by a loud growl from her stomach.

“I hunger,” she told Pieter.

“You’re always hungry,” he commented good-naturedly, and then squinted at the sky. The sun was still a fair distance from the horizon. “Can you wait a few hours? I want to make up for the time we lost in the meadow.”

Her stomach growled again, loud enough for him to hear. The beginnings of a frown lined his brow, then abruptly gave way to inspiration. He swivelled around in his saddle, then began rummaging through one of his satchels. A moment later, he swivelled back around with two strips of what seemed like old leather in his hand. He stuffed one of these strips into his mouth, then offered her the other.

“Here, try this.”

“What is?” she asked warily. He ate the most unlikely things. Stranger still, he seemed to enjoy them.

“It’s jerky—preserved deer flesh,” he appended, and then grinned at her instant look of revulsion. “I know it’s not exactly your kind of food, but at least it’ll keep your belly quiet until we’re ready to make camp for the night.

“Do you want it?” When she hesitated, he added, “You did want to get to Compara sometime soon, didn’t you?”

With a grudging rumble, she accepted the strip. It had a hard, greasy feel, and reeked of wood smoke and vague decay. If she had not watched him stick a similar piece into his own mouth, she would never have guessed that this was food. But because she had priorities, and Compara was one of them, she choked the jerky down—bite by galling bite. Her gorge rose and fell several times.

“Not bad, huh?” Pieter asked, as she swallowed a last mouthful of bile.

“No hunger no more,” she replied, and then fell into a queasy silence.

G

The sun was close to setting by the time he deemed them ready to make camp. He steered his horse into a cozy little clearing among the trees and dismounted.

“Dreamer!” he groaned then. “I had forgotten what a day in the saddle can do to a body.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about until she went to get down from the stallion’s back; and then it became all too clear. Her legs buckled as soon as they hit the ground. An instant later, her body turned into one long, excruciating cramp. She hissed, expressing consternation as well as pain. She had not hurt like this since the last time she had tried to fly on her own.

Pieter knew what her problem was. Indeed, he felt as if he were partially responsible for it. If he had stopped when she had first asked him, she might not be in such sorry shape now. Goaded by guilt, he rushed over to her with his bedroll and eased it under her head.

“Try to relax,” he told her. “I’ll be back to help you as soon as I can.”

She groaned. He hurried off.

When he returned, he had an armful of wood. He dumped it onto the ground in front of her, then built a hasty pyre. “Get it burning,” he said, and then hurried off again.

While she did not understand this obsession of his, she was in too much pain to argue. She pulled fire’s secret Name from her sweat-soaked memory. The pile of wood ignited. The ensuing waves of smoky heat made her feel light-headed.

The next time the trapper came hustling back into view, he was toting a kettle of water. His thoughtless mobility filled her with respect. Never again would she accuse him of being weak!

“How are you feeling?” he asked, as he set the pot over the fire. “Has the cramping subsided yet?”

“No,” she replied. Then, just so he understood that she did not intend to endure this same sort of unpleasantness on a daily basis, she added, “I not ride again.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you hurt like hell now, but after some broth and a good night’s sleep, you’ll be as good as new. And the more you ride, the easier it gets.”

She grunted, a summation of doubts. He chuckled again, then settled down beside her and began to massage her scaled legs. She tensed and hissed a warning.

“Take it easy,” he told her, refusing to retreat. “The broth is going to take a while to brew. Meanwhile, this will loosen up your muscles.”

Although still dubious, she relaxed a notch and allowed him to continue.

He worked with dispassionate skill, more interested in her mail than the flesh which spanned beneath it. Like the rest of her, it was peculiar—as tight a mesh as he had ever seen, yet more supple than the lightest chain-mail. The few seams that he could feel did not come undone when he pressed on them.

“Where did you get this stuff, Lathwi?” he asked. “It’s wonderful.”

“Mother give,” she told him, in a tone that matched her growing languor, “so I not bleed so much. She say smell make her hunger.”

He snorted. This mother of hers sounded like one tough old b***h. “Do you know what it’s made of?”

“She take hide from broke-back brother.”

“Right.” He knew she was spinning yarns at him now, but he didn’t take her to task for that. The tales a person told could be as revealing as the outright truth, and he wanted to get to know her better for his aunt’s sake, if no other. “Do you come from a large family?”

She smiled at the image which expanded in her mind—a tangle of well-fed dragons, each of them twice her size and still growing.

“Is big. Mother biggest. Smartest, too.” In a wistful tone, she added, “She make me leave when chosen come back.”

Ah, so that’s what had happened to her, he thought then. She’d been outcast. Many peasant families did that to their daughters when there were too many mouths to feed. No wonder she was so fierce and uncivilized. No wonder her skills with the common language were so crude. She must have been on her own for years and years now.

Lathwi did not notice the pity that came crept into his eyes then. Her thoughts were still snuggled amidst a crowd of dragons. An ache swelled in her heart, displacing the one in her limbs. She pushed his hands away.

“No more rub,” she said, as he started to protest. “No more talk.”

He did not blame her for cutting the conversation short. Some things were just too painful to discuss.