AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The sisters embraced.
“I’m so happy,” Ayafeeia said. “I don’t know why, but I’m truly happy.”
“What are my first orders, maidmother?” Wistala asked.
“We’re going to have a first-oath feast. Your orders are to stuff yourself cross-eyed, Wistala.”
“My family mostly called me Tala.”
“Then Tala you shall be to us,” Ayafeeia said.
Ayafeeia gave orders to some thralls in—almost—spotless white smocks regarding food.
She put Takea in charge of correcting Wistala’s behavior, a duty that somewhat mollified Takea’s dislike and cutting remarks. Able to devote herself to criticizing Wistala’s bows, or wording, or tone, or knowledge evidently removed the incentive to treat her as a curse dropped into the Lower World to vex dragonkind, or at least Takea.
“Silly! Keep your eyes open as you bow. What if a blow were to come during an exchange of formalities? Even enemies will bow to each other,” was a sample of the chatter, which tended to bend round back to where it began, like a dragon with a solid bite into her own tail.
The Firemaids and Firemaidens—the taxonomy was a little confusing to Wistala; it seemed that all wingless drakka were Firemaidens while some winged dragonelles who had no intention of taking further oaths were called Firemaidens and others were called Firemaids—she suspected it depended on whether a dragon seemed likely to sing his song in the near future—and all dragonelles who had taken their three oaths were titled Firemaids, with the ones no longer expected to do duty far from the Lavadome given ranks such as “advisor” or “superior” or “of distinguished merit,” depending on overall health and ability.
She met one cave-bound dragonelle “of distinguished merit,” an aged thing with scales gone unhealthy and almost yellow, with a great chunk of her head caved in and scarred over. She babbled about flowers and stars for the few uncomfortable moments Wistala spent in her presence.
“Dwarvish ax,” Takea whispered. “Saka will be your first duty, cleaning her tailvent and reminding her to eat and making sure she raises her head to swallow.”
“A lesson to always smell and listen first before putting your head into a hole,” the Firemaid who attended several of the “distinguished merits” explained.
“Wouldn’t it be kinder to just let her starve, if she won’t eat?” Wistala said.
“Oh, she has a few good days every year. You hear some fine stories. Besides, bones from older dragons are worth more in trade. The alchemists claim they can age a dragon by the color of a cross section.”
“You sell her body after she’s died?”
“Just bits,” Takea said. “It’s an honor. You serve the Empire even after death. Your bones can purchase gold coin or whole herds of veal for hatchlings.”
Takea watched her for a moment. “Don’t be afraid to accept the harsher realities of life. Embrace them. We never die, in a manner. As long as there are new drakka taking the same oaths we did, we’ve helped that part of us live on.”
They feasted, well and long. Wistala had never had such a banquet. Organmeats in rich sauce and quarter-sheep and great flanks of beef and glazed chickens lined up on a skewer ready for swallowing. She’d eaten well before, but it was always hominid food, overloaded with tasteless, juiceless vegetables that bloated one with gas and glazed fruits that made her throat close up and her eyes wince.
They talked of battles against the demen and hunting aboveground, and she heard the story of how the Tyr destroyed a Ghioz fortress by having rocks dropped on it by the Aerial Host. Ayafeeia corrected the stories on only one point, saying that the Tyr, though present, had only inspired the rock-dropping. The actual management of it belonged to an exiled dragon, a white named NiVom.
“He would have been Tyr, I think, but he was driven out,” Ayafeeia said.
The bloodcurdling stories reminded Wistala of Rainfall’s tales of when Hypatia was ruled by “barbarian kings.”
Was this Tyr, whom all seemed to respect and admire, nothing more than a “barbarian king,” climbing to his throne-shelf over bloodied heads of rivals?
“Ha!” Ayafeeia told her, when she asked the question, phrasing it more politely. “Our Tyr is many things, but he’s no duelist, for all that he killed the Dragonblade. No, he was a compromise. As he came from no clan, he had fewer enemies who’d swear to die before they saw him in the throne room.”
“His mate, however,” Takea said.
“Hush. I believe Nilrasha herself comes.”
Wistala was taught not to crane her neck to watch the Queen approach, but to turn into a respectful recline, facing the Queen, ready to do her bidding.
“What do I say to her?” Wistala asked.
“As little as possible,” Takea said. “It’s deeds that count, not words.”
The Queen approached.
