side, and the air burned in her throat and lungs. Her heart lurched against her ribs. She looked about her in bewilderment. The multicolored stone of the true city had given way to the mud-brick and straw-roofed hovels by the very water’s edge. She had never known of places such as these that surrounded her.
The few people that saw her looked at her incuriously. The noise and terror of the hunt were far behind her. In this part of the city, even on Festival Day of Year’s Beginning, unkempt hair and a bedraggled robe would not seem strange.
Her feet were cut and bleeding from the sharp stones, but she forced herself to step evenly. I am a king’s daughter, she said to herself. I do not show my pain to ones such as these.
She did not think of trusting any of the people she passed; she did not even turn her head to look at them, too weary to fear them. She followed the path in front of her, and found herself at last alone on the edge of the cliff, looking out across the sparkling sea.
“No land,” she had heard the minstrels sing in her father’s hall. “No land to the west, no matter how far the white-winged ships could sail.”
The sea-wind chilled her. Her thin Festival robe had not been woven for outdoor adventuring. The cliff path descended in roughly-cut steps. At the bottom, her feet sank deep into the sandy beach. The salt air was heavy with the smell of decay. Something drew her to the water’s edge—gentle waves, ankle deep, knee deep, thigh deep, waist deep. Something called her, drawing her as she had drawn Nahil to her. The water was warm, warmer than the wind had been.
The next wave rolled higher, lifting her feet up, tugging on her, trying to draw her out to sea. No foothold—water above her, water below her. She fought to regain the air, the solid ground. The wave receded. She clawed at the sand. When she struggled to her feet again, coughing and blinking her eyes to wash away the burning salt, the compulsion to enter the sea was forgotten.
The wind stripped all warmth from her body. The sand gritted itself into her torn feet. She fell to her hands and knees and crawled along the beach, seeking a shelter, any shelter that would hide her from the hunters.
Chapter 2
Ilbran greeted Festival morning with joy. The fish had not begun to run, so he could walk in rich leisure. His boat was ready; his nets were mended.
On this day, all mistrust of the land was forgotten. The people sang praises to the One who had led them to a wide and fruitful land. They had survived another weary summer. The storms that ended its fires had stilled. Burning aftersummer was over. Now the land would blossom and grow and feed the people again.
Ilbran joined in the joy and singing as though he had never known hunger. He walked through the streets, one more white robe in a sea of white. Even the earth was dressed in white; clumps of sweetsnow sprang from every bit of unpaved soil, scenting the air with the smell of honey.
Ilbran walked on, using the freedom of the day to wander the city and forget what he had left behind him.
Dragonsquare was far from his usual paths. The heavy gate stood wide and he entered. It was an awe-inspiring sight, though few people were drawn to it, too grim on this day of rejoicing. By the west wall, a ring and fetter gripped heavy bones, dragon’s bones, the smallest of them as thick as a man’s strong arm. They were picked and dry, white as stone, all that was left of gray Yvaressinest, who was enchanted and chained by Lanissiril and Karstir; all that was left of the great dragon who lay in the city till the enchantments weakened, and then gnawed off his own leg to escape.
At the far side of the square, Ilbran saw the gray robes of a grizane, one of those unhuman wizards who had joined their strength and power to exile Yvaressinest from the land. Dragon’s wrath is fierce. If they had let him fly free, he might have torn the city down around their ears.
The grizane stood and watched. His face was hidden by his hood, but his body was turned intently, as though he saw some meaning in the dry bones that escaped others.