Dark Coal

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. When there were, they traveled in swift bands, driving several hundred-head herds of bonecrest kine from the northern steppes toward the lusher grasslands south of the Veil. They never rested while within the valley's steep, mountain-walled confines. They were never alone.

But the hands of fortune had opened to Ardeshir, gehelim captain of Imperial Funar's Far Western regiment. He had pried back its fingers while in the presence of the priestess of Tahered, and though her augury had cost him dearly, her drugged whispers had led him to the richest of prizes.

The lone dragon remained a mile distant, as yet unaware of his presence, much less the presence of the sixty capitol soldiers at his back. She was a beautiful creature, easily twice the height of a grown man at the shoulder, and twenty times the breadth from wingtip to wingtip. Her smallest movements revealed smooth, youthful sinew and muscle all sheathed in vibrant, jewel-toned scales, and the majestic crest of horns rising along her head and temples and cascading down the back of her long neck called to mind the purest lodes of jade and emerald.

Such a prize delivered to Kamorna's flesh market would see him drowning in riches till the cloaked coal beside his heart burned red. And if her as-yet shrouded human graces were anything on par with her current form, his descendants would enjoy that wealth as well, possibly to the third and fourth generation.

Surrounding her ambled a flock of docile, amber-fleeced qobak. As they drew near the shallow waters of the valley's central brook, the dragon climbed up onto one of the fallen monolith stones looming over the bank, while her beasts took comfort in its shade.

“Shall we move in, Captain?” the soldier at Ardeshir's back spoke in a hushed whisper. Like Ardeshir, he too had cloaked the presence of his coal to escape the dragon's senses, though its power still smoldered in his eyes and sent soft pulses of azure light through his cropped hair. “The anchors are set,” he continued. “The winds are favorable to burn the nahbi.”

Ardeshir kept his eyes on the dragon's distant shape. “Release the hounds and begin the burning. Wait until the smoke hangs thick to release the shroud.”

“It will be done.”

It took little time for word to reach the warriors hidden at the valley's mouth. A deep-chested howl sounded out, and was moments later echoed by several others. As the first echoes began to fade, the dragon roused herself, her head turning to gaze up the valley even as her flock cowered close to the base of the stone beneath her. Her jaws opened wide to reveal two unbroken rows of knife-length teeth, and she let go a deep roar of warning, momentarily drowning out the howls of the incoming pack.

They were not deterred.

One by one, fourteen loping shapes appeared, cutting through the grass, long limbs making short work of the distance the dragon's flock had covered in the previous hour. The height of a man at the shoulder, with stream-lined, white-furred frames built for speed and agility, the hounds showed no hesitation as their eyes locked on their intended prey.

The dragon did not wait for them to reach her. One moment, she was crouching low upon the ancient stone. The second, she had launched into the air, her path aimed straight for the leader of the pack.

“The nahbi is burning,” the warrior behind Ardeshir spoke.

“Good.”

Ardeshir watched the scene play out before him as the pack leader evaded her, and the dragon instead slew two of the younger hounds, only to find herself beset on all sides by the pack's more experienced members. As he had predicted, concern for her flock downwind restrained her use of dragon fire, and the feigned attempts of the more crafty hounds to draw closer to the cowering qobak forced her into a frenzy.

She's young. Inexperienced, Ardeshir thought as her attention focused more and more on the enemies surrounding her. She's never known what it is to be prey.

Even as blue-black smoke began to seep down from the north, her attention remained on the pack besetting her, until its fumes passed over the flock behind her. The bells hanging from the horns of the rams began to jingle as they bleated and scattered south, down the creek bank. Alerted by their cries, the dragon glanced upward toward the sky. Her nostrils flared with heat as she breathed in the strange scent saturating the breeze.

The hounds drew back, heads low to the ground, and the dragon staggered, eyes wide with the realization of her plight. Flames roiled from her mouth as she exhaled. Her head shook as she felt the nahbi take hold, and she drew back toward the monolith, her wings fanning back and forth in a desperate attempt to clear the air. But the smoke only seeped in thicker.

“Send the shapebinder,” Ardeshir spoke.

“Captain, the shroud—”

“—Is no longer needed. Send the shapebinder now. It's time he earns his wage.”

As he spoke, the dragon fell at the base of the stone, unable to rise. Her trembling wings collapsed down over her head and coiled torso. The hounds pulled back, drawn away by the silent calls of their handlers.

Ardeshir heard footsteps behind him, and turned to face the robe-shrouded figure. The shapebinder stood before him, his face concealed by a painted, ivory mask. Smoke seeped out from its mouth as he exhaled.

You called me. The man had not spoken, but the words resounded uninvited through Ardeshir's mind nonetheless. But it is not yet time.

“Not yet time?” Ardeshir's face remained hardened, even as his body shivered with each word forced into his thoughts.

Command more nahbi be burned. Flood the valley with it. Release your shroud.

“Are you blind?” Ardeshir motioned to the distant dragon. “Her exertions have sped its progress. Bind her now, and we will be long gone from this place should her kin come in search of her.”

The shapebinder surveyed him. If he was angry, his demeanor did not betray him.

Thirty men.

“What?”

I will do as you wish. Ignore my warning as you please. It will cost you thirty men.

“Then they are yours. Go.”

The shapebinder bowed.

Ardeshir issued the command and watched as the thirty gehelim warriors he had chosen took to the air on coal-fire wings of blue, green, and gold. Watched as they descended down into the valley, their passage dispelling the poisonous pall hanging over the dragon and her scattered, unconscious flock.

It was as the last of the thirty landed, and their heavy, armored steps settled on the soil, that the dragon struck.

Head concealed beneath her wings, she had slowly, cautiously drawn breath, and a river of virid flames exploded from her jaws, following a deadly arc as she charged forward with a scream of fury.

It will cost you thirty men.

Whether it was his own thoughts or no, the words echoed in Ardeshir's head as half his men burned to ash in a moment, and the remainder stumbled back in a vain attempt to escape her rampage.

Vile worms!

From the coal beside his heart, her rage sounded forth, the dragontongue burning to the depths of every soul present.

Shameless, wicked, vile worms!

The shapebinder had moved in last. Without a sound, his flight unmarked in the confusion of flame, teeth, and claws, he alighted atop the monolith at the dragon's back. A thrum of power issued from his form.

It rippled out through the air and stone, and the dragon froze. The few warriors remaining fell back, eyes wide, their grip on sword and spear shaken as they watched her struggle against a grasp invisible to their sight.

The shapebinder leapt down to the scorched earth, and his hand rested firm against her shuddering side. A second thrum of power emanated outward from their feet.

By will of the Queen of Heaven—

No!

By the power of the Living Stars—

Not this!

I bind you to your lesser form.

Father, save—

Thousands of tendrils and weaves of deep-gold light surged out from his hand as the spell took root. Ardeshir looked away.

When the light faded, the shapebinder stooped down, woven, adamant-threaded cords in hand to bind the olive-skinned, linen-garbed woman lying motionless at his feet. Long hair cascading in ringlets of black and dark-green covered her face, while horns like jade crested crown-like from her head. Having finished tightening her bonds, the shapebinder turned to gaze at Ardeshir. A cold wind tore down the valley as he did so, disturbing the mounds of dead mens' ash and scattering them over the still water and blackened grass.

Congratulations, Captain. The words echoed dully in Ardeshir's thoughts. She is a prize befitting the emperor. Rejoice. These efforts have secured to you the First Prince's favor.

Ardeshir swallowed. His eyes slowly shifted from the dispersed ash to the fallen woman. He said nothing.

Kamorna, capitol of Imperial Funar, was not known as the Bride of Heaven for nothing. Encircled on the north, east, and south by the broad river Niga, her noble houses, gardens, pleasure quarters, theaters, pinnacles of learning, and garrisons rose level on level along the sheer cliffs of Kohinar, the Mountain of Light, while her artisan streets and myriad markets spilled forth like an ever-expanding bridal train down the city's western approach.

Impressive as she was to the traveller's eye by day, her splendor grew all the more with the coming of night. Then, tens of thousands of lights capturing every rainbow hue blossomed like fallen stars along the city's tangled streets and within her high houses. Gehelim men flew on coal-fire wings of azure, green, gold, vermillion, and deepest scarlet as they pursued business of all kinds, their uncloaked glory outshining not just the stars, but the blue-green glow of the ring-mantled nightgiant overhead.

And yet, above them all loomed the gold and gem-worked roofs of the Palace of Heaven, seat of the Khorshed, emperor of Funar. By day they shone like fire, but by night they gleamed like a rich crown glistening with dew of turamali, sapphire, and ruby.

Shariar Mirzud looked through the sheer curtains, out the round window, to gaze down on the southern shoulder of Kamorna. Here, at the heart of her pleasure quarters, warm-hued lanterns burned in criss-crossing patterns over the streets, vigorous music played constantly, and the shadows of dancers clothed in living flame inhabited every open court. Incense filled the air, obscuring any remotely-unpleasant stench that might otherwise haunt the darker corners of the district, and the raucous din of revelry, though sometimes dulled by the copious silk and tapestry of the richest brothels, was never truly absent.

He sighed. The atmosphere of these places had never agreed with him, even in his youth. Even so, his eyes wandered from the window to the many-colored curtains concealing the detailed murals usually displayed on every panel of the waiting chamber he now occupied alone. The Garden of the Heart was famous for its wide selection of beauties, boasting a match to satisfy the predilections of every shariar and kian with the means to pay. Under normal circumstances, the murals would be unveiled every evening for clients to choose their company, only covering offerings as they were claimed. And yet this was the third week, that while the sun still burned on the horizon, he had entered to find every panel covered, not just to his shock, but to the anger of the establishment's most loyal patrons.

“He remains pathetic in all save appetite,” he muttered, as laughter and music sounded out from the chambers beyond. A green-coaled young man clad in the garb of a kian's son emerged from the closed curtains, a flagon of wine in one hand, and a richly-adorned sheathed sword in the other. Upon seeing Mirzud where he reclined by the window, the man smiled in recognition and gave a cheerful bow of his head.

“Shariar Mirzud, I thought I heard your voice speaking with the Garden Master. What brings you? My prince is in a benevolent mood, should you desire his invitation.”

“Were he truly benevolent, young Javaid, he would not use his mother's purse to reserve the highest brothel for his sole use this half-month.” Mirzud made no effort to curb his sour tone. Javaid laughed, ripples of green coal-fire pulsing through his unbound hair and gleaming in his eyes as the coal beside his heart reflected and refracted his merriment.

“Please pardon him, my lord. Surely you remember the melancholy of youth. My prince's heart is an overflowing fountain of affections the maidens of this garden admirably strive to contain. Surely you can turn any displeasure aside while he seeks peace in their embrace.”

“As a glutton seeks to fill his gut while his kindred starve?” Mirzud stood. “Perhaps I should avail myself of your invitation to speak a word in his tender ear. And if that fails, to take a cane to his bare rear.”

Javaid's eyebrows lifted, but the smirk did not leave his face as he drew back the curtain behind him and bowed.

“Did you hear that, my prince? He accepts your courteous invitation.”

“I heard, sweet Javaid, and I welcome the reproof and caning both,” a calm, baritone voice spoke out. “Shariar Mirzud, grace this garden with your presence. Your company is the ideal entertainment I've sincerely craved for at least a quarter hour.”

Mirzud's frown only deepened, but he strode stiffly past Javaid, leaving flickers of vermillion flame in his wake, while his robes billowed out about his person.

Under normal circumstances, the space beyond was partitioned into various rooms and apartments. But the silken screens and heavy curtains had been removed to create a vast, thick-carpeted chamber, with an open roof and garden at its center.

Cushions had been gathered round what could only be described as a throne, while tables heavily-laden with food and drink were laid before it, providing a feast for the dozen bright-coaled men reclining beside them.

Mirzud came to a stop, and the figure sprawled in the throne directly before him smiled as confusion flared in the older man's eyes. If the forty prostitutes of the Garden of the Heart were present, they were sequestered in the innermost court beyond this intervening chamber. “Kianoush Emaran, I thank you for this invitation to your... unique festivities.” Mirzud made no effort to smooth the distaste from his face. “It is always a marvel to witness your theater first hand.”

At those words, Emaran, second prince of Funar, slowly sat up. He was clad in loose pants and an open robe, both of them thin, white linen. His long, green-black hair was lazily bound back with a sheer, red scarf embroidered with the Garden's seal. Recognizing it as the scarf that would normally hang by its owner's mural in the room behind him, Mirzud noted to his alarm that other, similarly-marked scarfs hung about his waist, confirming once and for all that all the Garden's inhabitants were accounted and paid for.

“Something must be deeply amiss if this is the countenance you bear in the Garden of the Heart,” Emaran spoke. “Come. Sit with me. Eat and drink. Your company can distract me while the ladies of this beautiful house prepare to receive me.”

“Forgive your father's servant for uttering the gentlest of reproofs,” Mirzud snapped, “but is it so difficult to acknowledge you yourself are the cause of not only my ill-countenance, but of the anger mounting against not just your habitual excesses, but your favored mother's continued enterprise?”

“Ah. Forgoing the pleasantries, I see. I hear the mighty Khorshed's words. Has he chosen to borrow your voice?”

“For the enemies of this empire, it is no secret such debauchery in a prince is proof of fatal weakness. That evil aside, even as you deprive and mock the Khorshed's servants time and time again out of jest, and embrace your base appetites with utter abandon, you erode your mother's achievements, endanger her alliances, and threaten to topple all she has built, all while she, mad with maternal devotion, pours her portion of the Khorshed's bounty, the symbol of his love for her, directly into your worthless, grasping hands. You endanger her in doing so, shore up the empress's and your elder brother's power, and make all who serve your father question his rule while he overlooks your failings. I have yet more words to speak, if your dull mind is large enough to hold them.”

“No need, no need, honorable Shariar,” Emaran held out a hand, even as laughter echoed out from some of the men at his feet. He stood up. “My ears are not great enough to hold your chastening, such as they are.”

“Must I fetch my rod then?”

“Yet what words do fill this skull are sting enough tonight, and it will take many soft words and gentle hands to heal the welts they leave.”

Mirzud shook his head. “You mock even me.”

“Am I to be blamed when you take my jests as mocks?”

The older man sighed. Reaching out, he took hold of the pale-blue scarf hanging from Emaran's waist and drew it up between them. When he spoke, his voice was low.

“Your mother would have paid for this one when she stood at auction. She is too young. She should be an utter stranger to this life. But I heard it was one of your men who tipped the scales in this whorehouse's favor.”

“True. She is young. And as you said, a stranger to this life. But by the dawn, she won't be a stranger to me.”

Vermillion flame flared in Mirzud's aged fist. Emaran staggered back as the shariar struck him across the jaw, his own stunted, weak flickers of coal-fire failing to provide any protection from the lord's wrath. Not allowing him a moment to recover, Mirzud charged forward and seized him by his robe, drawing him close and shaking him. “You are a shame to the woman that bore you,” he spat. “But like every other lord in this empire, you despise her and the good she has done you. I would thank her God she does not see it, were it not for the gold she puts in your hand, to her own undoing. May that wretched excuse for a coal desert you. No one will gather your ashes, least of all me.”

Mirzud turned and strode from the chamber, the blue scarf still held in his fist. Silence filled the room. Emaran waited for the curtains to swing back into place, a hand held to his jaw. The smile was gone from his face as he wiped the shariar's spittle from his cheek.

“That'll leave a bruise,” one of the men at his back spoke.

“Nothing a tear or two won't mend,” Javaid spoke up, entering back into the chamber. “The old man still lands quite the blow.”

“Is he gone?” Emaran asked. Javaid nodded.

“Good. You all know what to do.” The twelve men present nodded their heads, with one of them reaching under the table and producing a coil of rope. The air of merriment was gone from the room as Emaran slung the rope bundle over one arm and strode past the throne and inner garden, till he reached the doors at the back of the chamber. Having slipped through them, he closed them fast.

Forty gehelim women and girls surveyed him soberly as he turned to face them. Veils covered their heads and faces. No trace of coal-fire betrayed itself in their eyes. The woman closest to him drew forward, a bundle of clothing in her arms. “Are you hurt?” she asked as Emaran set the rope aside, along with his belt of many scarves, and accepted the bundle, donning with swift, well-practiced ease the deep-blue, close-fitted tunic, breeches, coat, and hooded scarf. He grinned, only to wince.

“Would you shed a tear for me if I were, Parisa?”

“Your tongue is clearly unharmed.”

“The guards and Garden Master?”

“Oblivious to the world, thanks to your gift.”

“Is the little one ready?”

Parisa nodded. Pulling down her own red veil, she turned and motioned to a small, bundled figure who drew forward hesitantly, her eyes barely visible through her own scarf and hood. Emaran pulled on his own hood and likewise fixed the scarf up and over the bridge of his nose, before kneeling down to meet the little girl's eyes.

“I'm told your name is Basia.”

Her eyes shifted from him to Parisa, before she finally nodded.

“Do you know who I am?”

Again she nodded. “Nilakshi,” she whispered.

“I'm going to take you away from here, to a safe place. I will be carrying you on my back. All you need do is close your eyes and keep quiet.”

Emaran turned around, and with Parisa's help, the little girl was soon hefted onto his back and tied firmly in place, her arms wrapped around his neck, and her knees gripping his ribs. Tying one end of the rope to one of the many pillars supporting the ceiling above, Emaran secured himself and approached the large window overlooking the pleasure quarters and river beyond.

“Remember the new month,” Parisa muttered. “The district patrol patterns will have changed.”

Emaran grunted and swung out into the night air. Though Basia kept her eyes shut for a few moments, curiosity swiftly drove her to squint them open. Having descended the outer wall of the brothel, Emaran detached himself from the rope and tugged three times. A moment later Parisa pulled it back up and out of sight.

“Why aren't you flying?” Basia whispered.

“This way is more fun.”

“But can you fly?”

“Shh.”

“They say Nilakshi can't fly. And that Nilakshi is a girl.”

“Not so.”

“They also say Nilakshi is a ghost with no coal.”

“Yet you can feel me breathing, no? Now hush.”

In the distance, a bell tolled the hour. Emaran drew a deep, steady breath, willing the nervous energy thrumming within him to grow still. He broke into a run. His feet moved silently over the familiar stone, and when it came time to make the next descent, he leapt back and forth down the cliff-face, his hands seizing the stone when necessary, and pushing off without a blink of hesitation. Basia stifled a gasp, holding a hand to her mouth as he finally alighted on the next wall down and vaulted onto the backstreet beyond. Eyes constantly scanning the skies above, and form evading the light of the lanterns now blazing overhead, he traversed wall and housetop following a path only he could see, descending further and further toward the gleaming river.

Though the echo of voices, laughter, and music was never distant, Emaran's course followed a circuitous route always at the edge, but never crossing a populated court or street. Though guardsmen occasionally flew directly overhead, their eyes, blinded by the glow of the pleasure quarters, failed to detect his dark shape as it flitted from shadow to shadow.

It was only as Emaran reached the final wall leading down to the waterfront that he was forced to a halt. The stink of the sewer was strong here, and the pleasure quarters had long since yielded to the garrison houses of the lower city. As he scanned the wall from the housetop where he now crouched, he noted the number of guards positioned along the wall's length. He frowned. Breaking into a path parallel to the wall, he averted his course a few minutes, waiting for a break in increased numbers. Finding none, he retraced his steps.

“What are you doing?” Basia whispered. Emaran came to a stop, his gaze resting on the guard tower rising up from the wall directly in front of them. Reaching down the long pocket of his breeches, he retrieved a folded steelwork and snapped it open. He then retrieved the adamant-weave drawstring from where it had been bound round his wrist and set it with a jerk. Slipping a bolt from his sleeve into the steelwork's bore, he lifted the weapon and lined his shot with the tower's distant window.

“Have you ever seen fireworks?” he asked. He felt Basia shake her head. “Then I think you'll like this.”

The ignition of the outer wall's signal flares was evident for miles, and the chaos that ensued took upwards of a half-hour to quell. Though order was fully restored, and corrective signals issued by the next toll of the bell, the damage was done. The coal-cloaked figure crouching in the shadows of the waterfront watched as Emaran skidded hurriedly down the gravel path above, and she only emerged from her hiding place once the prince drew to a stop just shy of the riverbank.

“That was dangerous,” she hissed even as she helped Emaran undo the bindings securing Basia to his back.

“I thought the colors were quite lovely, Isan,” he replied. “You didn't say there'd be double the guards.”

“Your mother was not apprised till this evening. There wasn't time to send word. I suppose you managed.”

“Never mind. Is there news of my brother's latest interest?”

At those words, a flicker of violet flame gleamed in the woman's eyes, betraying her misgivings for a moment before she willed it back. When she spoke, her voice was cautious. “There's rumors regarding a prize to be put at auction within the week. The auction is closed to all save those with a sealed invitation, to the obvious exclusion of your mother. The First Prince is the guest of honor.”

Emaran frowned. “The prize?”

Her gaze wavered, yet her voice remained steady, if barely. “A fertile, female dragon.”