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  “Well, please just ask Him for me.”

  The Oracle nodded her head again, the dark locks spilling around her pretty young face. They were very attractive, these Laarnan women, with their skin even lighter than the Atunaeans’ and their hair black as obsidian. The Tarphaean islanders had black hair too, of course, that went more naturally with their dark skin. But where the islanders’ hair rose in jubilant curls, continental hair was straight and solemn. Which was attractive too, in a funerary sort of way. Lord Tavener had married twice, both times to Tarphaean beauties, but if he took another wife, he thought he might try a continental girl. The color contrast on this young Oracle was quite compelling.

  Tavener had expected a much older woman when he came to seek out the famed Oracle of Ravennis, but what did he know? On Tarphae, only two Gods mattered: Mayar of the Sea, and His daughter Karassa, who had raised the island and made it habitable so that Her people might live and praise Her.

  The famous Oracle of Ravennis had turned out to be three women in the three ages of life, and for reasons unexplained, Tavener had been given the young one to tell his troubles to. When he had asked her how long she had been doing this, the young Oracle had smiled.

  “Five years, my lord. Ravennis usually gives His Young Servant the questions that are more easily asked. When we look upon our supplicants, we feel, all three of us, who is best suited to ask each supplicant’s question. The Venerable Servant usually gets those whose questions require the most unraveling and the most tact, and the Graceful Servant often gets those questions that are of a sensitive nature, those that one might not feel comfortable discussing with me. I was called to you, so however complicated the answer to your question might be, the question must be relatively direct.”

  That made its own kind of sense, Lord Tavener supposed, but it did disconcert him to be speaking to an oracle easily half his own age. The Oracle now rose and retreated to the sanctum. After some minutes, the Tarphaean nobleman felt wingbeats on his heart, as if one of Ravennis’ sacred crows had just alit from his soul. It was a strange, light feeling, but it soon passed, and his heart returned to its earlier feeling of foreboding. Oh, Hunter. What was a father to do?

  The king had laughed to hear that Tavener wanted to take his problems to an oracle. “Now, Tav,” he had said. “Isn’t there an easier, more traditional way to get your boy’s mind onto girls? Why go see some old woman when you can bring him a young one?”

  Lord Tavener had not told him that he had tried, and that Hunter had glared at him as if the old lord had threatened to take his sword away. At first Tav had wondered whether his son might not be attracted to women at all, but Hunter had seemed mostly put off by the dishonor of his father’s suggestion. Honor. The only other thing Hunter seemed to care about, besides swordsmanship.

  Long minutes passed, and still the Oracle did not return. Was the God giving her a long answer? he wondered. Or was He simply taking His sweet time getting back to her? What did the Oracles really do in that sanctum of theirs? Gossip with each other, perhaps? Drink wine and laugh about their supplicants’ foolish questions?

  He should not think thoughts like these. The Oracle of Ravennis was well respected, and Ravennis was, after all, the only God he knew of who claimed a concern with fate. One would have thought that Elkinar, being the God of both Life and Death, might have some interest in fate, but apparently not. Tav did not understand these continental Gods.

  For one thing, there were simply too many of them. Back on Tarphae, sacrifices were made to Karassa or to Mayar. But here on the mainland, there were so many Gods to keep track of that Tav wondered how people kept them straight. Other than Mayar, who was also worshipped along the coastline, there was Mayar’s divine brother, Magor of the Wild, and a second pair of brothers, Atun the Sun God and Atel the Messenger. There was Eramia the Love Goddess, who was supposed to be the sister of one of the others… Elkinar, maybe? Elkinar was God of the Life Cycle, and then there was Pelthas, who had something to do with scales – was he the God of Justice, or of merchants? There was Ravennis, of course, and some mountain God whose name began with a C, and countless smaller ones. Tomorrow evening began Karassa’s summer festival on the island of Tarphae, but how the people of the continent managed to keep track of all their holidays and festivals, Tav would never know.

  Next week would be Hunter’s seventeenth birthday. Advice from an Oracle had seemed like a good present yesterday. Anyway, it could not possibly be as counterproductive as his previous gifts. At fifteen, Hunter had received his sword, and at sixteen his armor and shield. He had obviously appreciated both presents, and trained with them as much as he was allowed to, but Tav distinctly felt that they had only contributed to his son’s strange malaise. What could a loving father give to a son whose passion was eating him from the inside?

  At length the door to the sanctum opened, but it was the gray-haired Venerable Servant who stepped forth to meet him. “My Young sister will be with you shortly,” she told him. “Please keep your question to Ravennis in the forefront of your mind until she emerges.”

  Oh, very well, Tav thought. How can I make Hunter’s life long and meaningful? How can I make Hunter’s life long and meaningful? How long am I going to have to wait here? All right, how can I make Hunter’s life long and meaningful?

  Finally, the younger Oracle came out to meet him. “Do you remember what your question was?”

  “Yes,” Tav said impatiently. “How can I make Hunter’s life long and meaningful?”

  The Young Servant raised her two hands, her thumbs and middle fingers pointed toward each other in the symbol of Ravennis. “Return to the island of Tarphae, to your home, as quickly as you can. Do not stop anywhere along the way, except to ensure your passage. When you arrive, find your son Hunter and make sure that he leaves the island that very day, on the first available vessel. Do not rest for an instant until you have seen him off the island.”

  “What?” Bile rose in Lord Tavener’s stomach when he thought of sending his son off into the unknown, without so much as an explanation. “That day? Even if I can make it home by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be lucky to get him to the docks before evening and the start of Karassa’s festival! Chances are, there won’t be any ships leaving port by then. Can’t it wait until the day after?”

  The Oracle glared at him. “The God of Laarna has spoken. Do not hesitate, and do not tarry. Your son’s long life and happiness depend upon it.”

  3

  Galanea

  Galanea hid her curse well. She had come to the island as a maiden, driven to find a place where no one knew of her family and its… peculiarities. It had turned out to be a good choice too, for but a year later her home city of Ardis rose up under the High Priest of Magor and put both its king and his deformed advisors to the stake. All their magic had not helped them then, against the priest’s righteous zealotry. From what Galanea had heard, Ardis was now ruled by a council of generals headed by High Priest Bestillos himself.

  But where her family had been proud of their monstrosity, and wielded their fearsome appearance against their adversaries with the same gusto that they wielded their magic, Galanea was made of softer stuff. With her powers she had changed her eye color from its brilliant gold to brown, the scaled webbing of her neck vanished into silky skin, and her sharp, clawed feet now held a gentler, more common shape. With her monstrosity in check, she had found herself a husband among Tarphae’s young noblemen, a man of pride and pedigree.

  For three years, Galanea lived a life of beautiful normality, until her body betrayed her in a way that she should have long anticipated. It became pregnant. She suffered then, as her husband became ever more loving and attentive, knowing that her peaceful life was about to end forever. She prayed that her baby would be normal, that it would have its father’s natural brown eyes and curly hair, and his big, kind hands. She prayed that her child’s inevitable scales would drop off in the womb, leaving only its father’s black skin underneath. She prayed to h
er parents’ God and to every God she knew, knowing that none would answer her.

  Her son was born with four-fingered claws for hands, with golden scales that stretched back as far as his forearms and eyes like the four o’clock sun. The baby did have curly hair, at least. She named it Criton, after her father, because her husband wanted nothing to do with it. He beat her then, he who had been so loving, and shut her in his house with her infant, telling her never to so much as set foot outside or he would have her and her demon child drowned. Galanea did not blame him, though perhaps she should have. She had known that it would end this way. Her three years of childless marriage would remain the happiest of her life.

  When baby Criton burped, little jets of flame licked out from his mouth and singed her clothes. But he was not a fussy child, though his claws scratched her terribly when she fed him. Perhaps in another world, his father might have thought his golden scales beautiful to look at. But in town, it was known that the infant had died, and that Galanea herself was terribly sick. How kind of her husband, they all said, to bring her all the food and medicine she needed, right to her bed. How devoted, the women said, and how they wished that their own husbands were so kind and understanding of them. To be Galanea, they imagined, was to be a pampered invalid.

  And Galanea was grateful to her husband. She was grateful that he had let her keep the child, even in miserable secrecy. Perhaps, she thought, when he grew older, Criton would learn to disguise his deformities as she had hers, and then he would be able to venture out into the world without fear of a crowd’s retribution.

  As the boy grew, her husband seemed to hate him even more. Criton was a sweet, sensitive boy, but his father couldn’t see that. The child was disciplined harshly for scratching the furniture – which he could not help, sharp as his claws were – and when he became sick and ran a fever, Galanea’s husband would hold his head in a bucket of cold water until he was nearly drowned. It was prudence, her husband would insist, because Criton tended to breathe small gouts of flame when he was feeling unwell.

  Criton grew and grew, and Galanea taught him all she could about the world, and his unique place in it. He asked her all about her family and its origins, but Galanea did not like to speak of such things. She told him stories instead, stories of the life she imagined for him. Still he persisted, until Galanea finally told him that her family had called the curse ‘being dragon-touched,’ and that there were no more dragons in the world. The Gods had punished them, though she did not know why. Still he asked her, over and over, as if she could somehow have acquired more knowledge on the subject without ever leaving the house.

  The boy would not believe the truth. He did not believe that the dragons were gone, and he would not believe that the man who held his head under water was truly his father. His favorite game was to play dragon finder, to look under the bed and in the closets for his imaginary dragon father. His real father found the game grotesque, and beat the child whenever he saw the boy playing it.

  Galanea was afraid to train her son in magic in his father’s presence, and for some time Criton’s magic developed uncontrolled. Eleven proved to be a very destructive age, but when the child turned thirteen, he began to express more control over the outbursts. His voice also dropped, from its high squeal to a low growl, transforming almost overnight, it seemed to her. And he grew bigger, eventually even surpassing his father’s height. By this time, Galanea had forgotten whether her husband was a tall man or a short one. There was nobody but her son to compare him to. She hadn’t seen any other men in over a decade.

  To Galanea’s great joy, Criton learned how to assume a more pleasing shape when he was about fourteen or fifteen years old. But unlike his mother, Criton did not keep this shape all the time. He adopted it when his father came home, and went happily back to his hereditary deformities the minute his father left the house. This Galanea did not understand, but then the boy was dragon-crazy, and though he still did his best to avoid his father’s beatings, he did not want any part of his father’s shape or culture.

  By this time, Galanea was plotting a way to get her son out of the house before any more disasters could befall her miserable little family. Her husband was a broken, bitter man, but he still had a temper, and boys of Criton’s age could be known to get very aggressive. She was not sure what she feared more: her husband beating Criton to death, or her son tearing his father’s throat out with his claws. One way or another, she had to get him out.

  Her son did not agree. As a boy of his age, he relished the idea of tearing out his father’s throat. The revenge fantasy consumed his every thought, and Galanea had to fight very hard to restrain him. Then one day, when he was fifteen or so – who even knew anymore? – Galanea finally found a way to persuade him.

  “Criton,” she said to her son, “tonight is Karassa’s summer festival. Your father will be out late at the fires. Take his money from the bedside table, and find a ship to take you away from here.”

  The moment had finally come for her son to leave his mother behind, to go on the adventures that his young mind had always craved – yet there he stood, suddenly filled with fear.

  “But, Ma,” he said, “what will I do out there, among your husband’s people?”

  “You will play dragon-finder,” she choked, tears welling in her eyes. The boy had not played the game in years.

  For a moment, Criton’s eyes lit up. Then he said, “And leave you here with him? I can’t do that to you.”

  Galanea wiped away her tears, which only came faster. “Criton,” she said, “the years before I had you – before he realized what we were – those were the happiest years of my life. Your father and I loved each other once, and though we will never love each other again, I still care too much about him to let you two argue and fight until one of you kills the other. If you wish to have your revenge on him, take his money. But you have to go now.”

  Galanea’s husband never locked his money away. He had the only key to the house, and he knew that Galanea and her son were too afraid of his anger to risk being seen at the window. But now the festival was about to begin at Karassa’s temple, and the streets were mostly empty. Nobody saw Criton climb out the window. When his feet were safely on the ground, he took the form that his mother liked best, clenched his newly fleshy hands and walked out toward the late afternoon sun, its golden color reflected in his eyes. Galanea craned her neck out the window to watch Criton go, but he had soon walked around the corner of the house and disappeared.

  It had been fifteen years since Galanea had prayed. She knelt now on the floor and bowed her head, still wiping tears from her eyes. May the Gods protect you, my sweet son. Go safely, and find your dragons!

  4

  Two-foot

  Two-foot scrambled up the guardian tree, swinging from pointed branch to pointed branch, the sap sticking to the pads of her hands. Near the top, she found her goal – a nest of twigs and the occasional stray bit of sheep’s wool, with five eggs inside, one larger than the others. She gathered up all five and put them in her makeshift pouch, then climbed back down to where Four-foot awaited her.

  “See, Four-foot? Eggs, just like I told you! You can have these four, but I want this one. It’s a cuckoo, just like me. It doesn’t belong.”

  Four-foot devoured his eggs in the manner of his kind, and whined a little when he saw that Two-foot had not yet finished hers. She preferred to delicately poke a hole in one side with a twig or a guardian tree spine, and then suck out its contents. She preferred this way because then none of the egg spilled, and because if she did it right, it left her with a beautiful hollow egg that she could carry around in her pouch until it broke. Her kind were more sentimental than Four-foot’s.

  Actually, Two-foot did not know very much about her kind. She knew that they lived in the little wooden hills outside the forest, the ones that made gray clouds in the evening. But though her memories of her childhood with her own kind were vague, she knew that she had not liked it. There was som
e menace, some danger in her kind that kept her away from those cloud-producing hills, except when Four-foot could not find any food and she had to climb over their thin spiky tree-things to catch a lamb or a shoat.

  She thought that she had once been in a sort of giant leaf on the water, but she did not remember much about it. And though she spoke to Four-foot after the manner of her kind and not of his, the only words she could ever remember hearing were, ‘wicked child.’ She thought that meant that someone hadn’t liked her, but she could not say why. It had been before she met Four-foot, she was sure of that. And there had been so much water under that leaf, far more than in any of the forest streams that she and Four-foot drank from. She didn’t entirely know what to make of that image.

  If she was called ‘wicked child,’ she wondered what they would have called Four-foot, had they known him. Wicked something else, maybe? But Four-foot was not wicked. There were so many of his kind, who hunted together and sang at night, but only Four-foot was her friend. She usually slept in trees in case his kind came looking for him and were mad at her for being there. He was big and strong and would protect her, but some of them were almost as big, and there were more of them. He had got in a fight for her once, and lost one of his ears. She didn’t want to make him do that again.

  She admired Four-foot, who was stronger and faster than she was. But he didn’t know how to climb trees, and most of the spiky tree-things that her kind put up around their animals were too tall for him to jump over. And he couldn’t prick his eggs and suck them out, not that he seemed interested in doing so. In the heat of the day, when Four-foot lay down to pant in peace, Two-foot’s favorite thing was to lie down with her head on his chest, listening to the ban-doo ban-doo of his heart and the heha-heha of his breath. She wondered if he heard the same ban-doo when he put his head on her chest, but of course he couldn’t tell her.