The women released her mouth. When she opened her eyes, Blasphet no longer loomed above her. The black dragon leaned over Colobi's fallen form, ignoring Anza for the moment.
"Ah, my faithful one," he said, his voice mournful as he lifted her limp body. "You've known nothing but violence all your life." He brushed the bloody hair away from her forehead. He placed his scaly talon over her face. "I know you acted out of love, but there's no need for fighting."
He pulled his talon away. Colobi's forehead was intact; there was no sign of the tomahawk wound, not even a scar. Colobi's eyes opened, glistening with tears. She whispered, "I've defiled your holy presence with my anger. I'm not deserving of your mercy."
"You're wrong, my child," said Blasphet. The skin around his eyes creased. Dragons couldn't smile, but his eyes signaled affection. "All are worthy of wholeness and mercy. You understand what you did wrong; you won't transgress again. You've paid for your sins. When I picked you up, you had no heartbeat. The woman who acted in anger is dead. You are a reborn creature now, free from the sins of your past."
Blasphet set Colobi down. She stood on unsteady legs; tears ran down her cheeks. Driven by emotions that Anza couldn't fathom, Colobi spun and ran from the barn, weeping.
Blasphet turned toward Anza. His great, long face, bigger than a horse's head, snaked down toward her. He exhaled as he studied her. His breath was pleasant, smelling of mint. It was nothing like the carrion breath of most dragons.
He took a long, deep breath inches from her face. A fine silver dust rose from Anza's flesh. It reminded her of the residue that had been left behind by Jandra's bracelet.
Blasphet's eyes stayed focused upon her as she searched his face for any possible weak points. If she could get her hands free, she still possessed a chance. The silver halo that hung above Blasphet's scalp reflected candlelight, meaning it was solid. It was plain, and didn't look strong, but it did have a small triangle near the front that rose up into a decorative peak. A sun-dragon's ears were large, flat disks on the side of their head, almost like the surface of a drum. If she could grab the circlet, then drive the point into Blasphet's ear, the pain would immobilize him. Then, if she could reach her throwing knives…
Blasphet observed, "You're calculating how best to kill me. This is one reason I hold such affection for mankind. The best of you cling to hope long after a more rational being would succumb to despair. Tell me my child, what is your name?"
Anza glared at him.
"There is no need to fear me. I will not harm you."
Anza stared silently as Blasphet cocked his head, waiting for her answer. In the candlelight, she saw more of the silvery dust riding in and out of Blasphet's nostrils. Blasphet turned his head to the right, then to the left, his eyes running up and down the length of her body.
"You've not lead an easy life," said Blasphet, touching the festering burn wound on her chest. She sucked in air as a jangle of pain ran through her. "You possess far more scars than a typical woman your age. You've broken several bones over the years. Yet, you've received better medical attention than most humans. Your cuts have been expertly stitched and your bones have been reset by a confident hand."
Blasphet turned his attention to her face. He stroked her cheek. "A typical female your age would already be a mother. Yet I see you retain your virginity. It's obvious from your rather formidable skills that someone has trained you as a warrior, not a wife. What a curious life you've led. Won't you tell me your story?"
Anza ground her teeth together and strained against the hands that held her. Though she was still fully clothed, she felt as if Blasphet was somehow undressing her. She'd never felt so vulnerable.
"Whoever trained you… he was never able to teach you to speak, was he?" asked Blasphet. He didn't wait for Anza to answer. His eyes were fixed on her throat. "He couldn't have. I see a small tumor on your recurrent laryngeal nerve. It looks quite old; perhaps you've had it since infancy. It's become calcified. It's a tiny stone in your throat that blocks nerve impulses to your vocal chords. The muscles in your larynx have atrophied, producing your present aphonia."
Blasphet's talons fell upon Anza's throat. He lightly rubbed her skin. Anza shuddered, then tipped her head back as searing pain ripped through her neck. It felt as if Blasphet were attempting to decapitate her from the inside out. She couldn't breathe-it felt as if a dozen thick worms were squirming and coiling in her windpipe.
She opened her mouth and tears welled in her eyes. She'd lived her life as a tool of death, like a sword or a bow. She'd known that the day would come when she would break and be discarded, as was the fate of all tools. She'd never told a soul that she was afraid of this day. Who was she to tell? It was her shameful secret that she sometimes woke up in the dead of night, from dreamless sleep, shivering at the thought of nothingness, of non-existence, of the world moving on in her absence.
Suddenly, the worms in her throat lined up in a more orderly fashion, allowing the movement of air once more. She filled her lungs to fullness with a deep, desperate gasp.
As she exhaled, a noise tore from her throat that was like nothing she'd ever heard. It was something the cry of a hungry baby, only deeper, like the howl of a coyote, or the wail of a wildcat. It was a long, deafening, drawn-out scream that caused the hands that pinned her to flinch.
It was the scream of a woman who had never even whispered. It was a howl that was the sum of countless days of silence. It was the cry of a woman who'd never laughed, never cursed, and bore in silence the pain of broken bones and a thousand cuts.
It was a sound she'd heard only in her dreams. There was no mistaking it. This noise was coming from her own mouth. It made her tongue itch and her teeth ache.
Slowly, the scream died away as the last thimble of air left her lungs. She took a deep breath, and screamed again.
One by one the hands that held her let go. She didn't move. She couldn't. All the anger and fear and shame of a silent lifetime had provided the tension that drove the springs of her clockwork heart. That tension was gone now, carried away by the primal howls. The last remnants of her unspoken agony seeped out as loud, choking, sobs.
"Ooo," she said, trembling. "Ooohhh, oohhhh, ooohhhhhh."
She possessed a voice, but she didn't know how to make words.
"Ooohhhh!" she groaned, as she curled into a tight, fetal ball. "Oooohhh… Ooooohhh!"
Gently, a pair of giant talons slipped beneath her and picked her up. She was cradled against Blasphet's enormous breast. She pressed her wet face against it. His scales felt cool in contrast to the heat of her tears. The drum-like beat of his heart filled her ears.
"Your screams are like music to me, child," Blasphet whispered. "They are the sounds of your body healing, so that your soul may heal. Soon enough, we'll teach you to talk. You shall be whole, child. You shall be healed."
"We shall all be healed," the chorus of women said in unison.
Anza opened her teary eyes. She didn't see an angry face among the women who looked up at her.
Beyond the women, however, was the sky-dragon she'd spotted earlier. He was standing near the back of the room, staring at her with a look that was best interpreted as a scowl. He didn't look pleased by what he was seeing, but he didn't look like a threat either. Nothing in the way the dragon carried himself suggested he was contemplating violence.
Feeling completely, truly safe for the first time in memory, Anza closed her eyes and cried herself to sleep in the cradle of Blasphet's wings.
Jandra woke TO the sound of a woman screaming. Her eyes popped open as the echoes faded. She felt a flutter of panic; total darkness engulfed her. Was she blind? The disorientation faded and she remembered she was underground, deep in the mines.