To her surprise, the guard bowed low before the statue. “No dragons here. They are sacred to Amarrel. This was Methanfire, dragon of the Akkad-Dar’s father.”
The Dark Knight’s dragon. A blue, if the painted scales were accurate. Linsha’s thoughts roved back over everything she could remember about the Tarmaks and dragons. Except for the previous warlord, the Akkad-Ur, she had never seen one on dragonback. The general had also worn a necklace of dragon’s teeth and a mailed shirt of dragon scales. Where had those come from, and why had he worn them? Were they trophies from a kill or a way to honor dragons? On the Plains, the Tarmaks had aided Thunder in killing Iyesta, then they abetted in the death of the blue. They tried to coerce Crucible into joining them, then nearly killed him. What did the Tarmaks think about dragons? She really didn’t know. She would have thought they hated the great beasts, but here was one practically venerated in the front porch of the emperor’s palace. The guard had said they were sacred to Amarrel. Amarrel, she remembered, was the demigod Lord Ariakan had supposedly impersonated in order to convince the Tarmaks to join him. Maybe it was his influence that sparked this respect for something the Tarmaks seemed to both love and hate.
Shaking her head, she moved past the dragon statue and followed the guard and Callista up the stairs to a set of large double doors bound in brass and set in a frame of some kind of polished red wood. The guard pushed open a door and led them inside out of the rain. Linsha and Callista paused on the threshold for a moment, their mouths open in astonishment at the size and ornamentation of the vestibule. Mosaics in bright geometric patterns spread over the floors, and murals of Tarmak battles covered the walls. A row of gilded columns gleamed in the dim light. The guard turned left and hurried the two women on. Their eyes wide, they moved through broad corridors past more chambers and council rooms, and all the rooms that they could see were adorned with polished woods, magnificent wall hangings, and painted frescos of fantastic animals and bloody battle scenes. This was certainly more than either had expected.
The Tarmak had always struck Linsha as a race bent solely on destruction. It had not occurred to her that their civilization was quite ancient and somewhere in the midst of their warfare they had found time to build magnificent palaces and learn the deeper aesthetics of art and expert craftsmanship.
After some minutes of walking, they approached a set of large double doors flanked by two enormous guards fully armed with swords, knives, and small round shields. The doors were set in a round opening and carved into a screen of ornately twisting vines and flowers. A word spoken by their escort elicited a slight bow by both Tarmaks, and the door was opened wide.
A smaller male Tarmak in a simple white tunic and leather kilt hurried forward to meet them as if he had been waiting by the door for just such an opportunity. The warrior explained his mission. Linsha listened to his voice and caught the Akkad-Dar’s name. She also heard the odd title the guard had used earlier. The Drathkin’kela. What was that supposed to mean? Betrothed? Intended? Idiot? Whatever it was, it was enough to prompt the elderly Tarmak to jerk his head. For a second his eyes sought her face and an expression of astonishment flickered across his features. Immediately the look was hidden, and he clasped his hands and bowed low, revealing a bald head.
The guard bowed to Linsha. “The Akeelawasee,” he said and propelled the two women through the door.
Linsha turned around to ask him a question, but before the words were out of her mouth the doors slammed in her face.
3
Place of the Chosen
“Greetings, Lady,” said the servant by her elbow. He was an elderly fellow only an inch or two above her height. His wrinkled skin seemed more reddish than most Tarmaks and his ears were not as pointed. A simple sleeveless tunic of bleached linen hung on his thin frame, and a knotted blue rope was tied around his waist.
He bowed again and indicated the way down a long hall. “If the Drathkin’kela will follow me,” he said. Any hint of surprise was gone, and his expression assumed a bland servile mask under an awning of thick eyebrows. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and modulated as if trained to avoid giving offense.
Linsha took it any way. She was still feeling disgruntled. She crossed her arms and refused to move. “You speak Common well. Do you know more than just a greeting?”
“Assuredly, Lady. I speak several languages well, including Tarmakian, Damjatt, Nerakan, and your Common.”
She studied the man’s wrinkled face. He had light gray eyes, which he kept respectfully lowered. “Then tell me what this ‘drathkin-kela’ means. I am a Knight of the Rose, a trained warrior, not some silly female you can throw names at like a dog.”
He clasped his hands, a movement Linsha began to realize was a sign of respect. “Lady, the words are a title the warriors of the Akkad-Dar have given you. It means roughly ‘dragon friend’ or ‘chosen of the dragon.’ ”
“Oh.” Linsha’s arms dropped and her hand moved to the dragon scales that hung on the chain around her neck. Her fingers clasped the scales under the wet wool of her tunic. “Is that a good thing?”
He gave her faint smile. “To them it is. Even though you are a human, you have been granted a place in the Akeelawasee where you will be treated with honor and respect.”
“Even though I am a human,” she repeated dryly. He made no mention of her status as Lanther’s betrothed. She wondered if Lanther had told anyone yet. “You must have learned Nerakan and Common from the Dark Knights.”
The man nodded. “Sir Bendic tutored me. A very skilled linguist. He learned Tarmakian in a few months.”
“Tarmakian I recognize. What is Damjatt? I thought that was the breed of horse the Tarmaks use.”
A wry glint lit his pale gray eyes. His thin mouth lost its smile. “The horses were once ours. Our pride and joy.” He paused then went on. “My people are the Damjatt, the people of the high grasslands. We were the last free tribe to fall before the Tarmak military might. Now we are merely beasts of burden, like our horses.”
“If you were the last,” Callista put in, “who was the first?”
“The Keena. They relied too heavily on their jungle to protect them.”
Linsha tilted her head in thought. The name sounded familiar to her. She had heard that before. Then she had it. Lanther had called in a Keena to seal their betrothal before they sailed, and a pair of Keena had guarded the dragon eggs when Lanther showed them to her.
“Are they priests?” she asked.
“Those that survive. They are a deeply religious people, and those that still remain have found a place among the Tarmak as priests, seers, scholars, and… other things.”
Linsha snorted an unladylike sound. The Tarmaks obviously hadn’t treated their neighbors any better than they treated the people of the Plains. Feeling disgruntled, she strode forward without waiting for the servant or Callista. “What is this place?” she demanded as they hurried to catch up.
“It is the Akeelawasee,” the Damjatt replied.
“Which means what?”
“The Place of the Chosen Ones, Lady.”
Linsha glanced around. They were walking down a long corridor already dark with evening shadows. A few oil lamps spilled pools of light on the stone floors and illuminated delicate murals and decorations painted on the walls. It was so quiet she could hear the rain pounding on the roof. “Chosen for what?” she finally asked.
“For the emperor and the royal family. These females—or women as you call them—are the wives, daughters, concubines, and family of the emperor.” He stopped before a large door, threw it open, and waved the two women in. They stepped onto a gallery that overlooked a large room. Bright light filled their eyes, and a swarm of sounds buzzed around them.