Draka Chapter 371: How Can I Make The Audience Despair? (Patreon)

I’d hoped that Herald would tell the family about her and Maglan’s wish to get betrothed as soon as we’d landed, but those hopes were in vain. Of course she wouldn’t just come out and say it. Even if there was no reason to think that Mak would object, Herald was the kind of person who’d want some ceremony around a declaration like that. She begged me not to say anything either, and that despite me having already promised, so it must have been doubly important to her.

I expected another small party in the near future.

On the bright side, Sandstorm landed at the inn shortly after we did, having flown in from wherever she’d been strolling around. She might have walked, but she’d simply been too excited about showing herself off. I only hoped she hadn’t knocked down any stalls or awnings or anything when she took to the air. Or any people.

To be completely fair, I would’ve wanted to show off if I’d looked as good as she did, too. After adding the loot from the Tekereteki camp, I’d been just a hair smaller than Sandstorm, though with her build she would have been considerably heavier than me even if I’d passed her. Now she was a good three inches taller than me again, and beyond smug about it. I didn’t begrudge her that; to me it was just more evidence of how much larger my hoard was than hers. I hadn’t even gotten an inch out of the loot from the Tekereteki camp; she’d gotten at least four times as much, meaning her gains hadn’t even begun to taper off.

Then I realized what that might mean for her full, adult size, once she had an adult-sized hoard. Gods and Mercies, she might outgrow Mother. I was suddenly very grateful that she liked me so much.

Her new and greater size wasn’t even the biggest change. Her already bright brass scales had taken on an almost opalescent quality, adding a subtle rainbow sparkle when even the slightest bit of direct light hit them. “Look at me!” she demanded as she posed and preened in the square. “I am magnificent!”

“You really are,” I agreed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beautiful scales.”

“You have not,” she said with absolute certainty. “I have seen all the same dragons as you, and none of theirs compare. But yours are a close second! They’re a black only found in the deepest depths of the earth, as dark as mine are bright.”

“You’re as kind as you are observant, cousin,” I told her, quite pleased at her compliment.

She was right, too. In some ways, she’d become my opposite. And not just in her appearance. There was nothing subtle or stealthy about her. She was bulky, and built to brawl. She was direct, loud in every way, and unashamedly intrusive when she took an interest in anything or anyone. I could very easily imagine her in a hundred and fifty years, possibly less, flying back to that island and screaming down into the dormant volcano, “I am Sandstorm! You killed my father! Prepare to die!”

Well, I doubted she’d still be Sandstorm by then. She’d probably pick some suitably braggadocious adult name for herself, like The Purest Gold Shines Only Half As Brightly, or Her Name Is Legend, or No Star Can Challenge Her Radiance. Something like that.

 I doubted very much that her new shininess was the only change to her scales. If I were to guess, I’d say that they were probably considerably harder, either in line with my own Fortitude Advancement or something she had access to that I didn’t. But I wasn’t going to ask. Advancements were as private for dragons as they were for humans. Probably more so; a dragon was much more likely to have to fight for their life at some point. So instead I just congratulated her, complimented her splendor, and generally let her strut around and be smug and happy.

Once she felt that I’d been suitably impressed, she told me, “I am going to go speak with the Weaver now. She must hear of our daring… heist. Is that the word? Heist?”

“Heist will do,” I confirmed.

“She must hear of it, so she can include it in her story. And that reminds me: you should speak with her soon! She has asked after you several times now.”

She added that last part with a disapproving narrowing of her eyes, though whether at the Weaver’s insistence on speaking with me or on my continuing failure to meet with the rhapsodist, I couldn’t say. Either way, it was enough for me to finally promise to do so. “Have her send a message to Mak,” I said, “and we’ll decide on a time.”

“Very good!” she said haughtily, and set off down the street.

*

That evening Zabra came to the inn, accompanied by Hardal. She went straight to the yard, where I was speaking to Mak. As Hardal blocked off the alley, something he was fully capable of, unremarkable though he was, Zabra approached the two of us. “Lady Draka, Lady Drakonum,” she said with no more deference than might be expected of a House matriarch visiting a friendly acquaintance of the same standing. “Might we speak in private?”

“Of course, Lady Tespril,” I agreed, turning back to Mak. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Mak replied with a friendly smile before hopping off the barrel she’d been using for a seat. “Come, Lady Tespril. Step into our cellar.”

With that Mak opened the cellar doors and went right inside. Zabra hesitated for only a moment, briefly enough that I only caught it because I knew to look for it. Her first visit to that cellar had been unpleasant for her. Not as unpleasant as Mak’s visit to Zabra’s prison, not nearly, but enough for her to remember every time she came there.

Once inside and away from spying eyes, Mak’s demeanour changed immediately. “What do you want, Zabra?” she asked, seating herself on a stack of crates so that she was looking down on the significantly taller woman. “You know I don’t like you coming here unannounced.”

“And normally I wouldn’t, Lady Drakonum, but I needed to speak with our mistress and didn’t know how long she might be here.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Mak said, though she didn’t sound happy about it.

“Do you have news for me?” I asked.

Zabra moved a little, putting her back to the stairs so the three of us formed a squat triangle. “Yes, my lady. I met Lilianna — that is, Lady Provisioner Vassaram — a few days ago, at my home. It… it went well.” She paused to smile before continuing. “She remembers us like we were her own true sisters. At times it was like she’d never left. I think it would be helpful if either Kesra or I were to join you when you meet with her.”

“You, then,” I said, as though Kesra was even an option. The younger Tespril was reliable, sure, especially since Kira saved her life, but her loyalty wasn’t absolute. Then I turned to my own sister. “Mak, arrange a meeting with Lady Vassaram, please. I’ve got no plans to leave the city for a while, so just pick whenever’s convenient for you. Let Zabra know in good time so she can arrange her schedule around it.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Zabra, I want you to write down everything you know about Lady Vassaram that you think might be useful to us, if you haven’t already. I don’t want you to leave here until you’ve done so. And just so you don’t worry, I don’t see us having any trouble with her. I rather expect her to be an ally. But I want to be prepared when we meet.”

“Draka,” Mak offered, “she actually already sent me a pretty detailed description of Lady Vassaram.”

“Oh. Well then! Well done, Zabra!”

There really was no comparison for Zabra’s smile at those words. The center of her universe had just praised her; what more could she ask for? Her eyes shimmered, and she had a very audible lump in her throat as she said, “Thank you, my lady.”

Things moved quickly after that. Mak got in touch with Lady Vassaram on my behalf, and the lady provisioner wasted no time in replying with an invitation. She couldn’t see us the very next day, so very sorry, prior commitments et cetera, but the day after that we were most welcome an hour before sunset, for a meal and a walk in her gardens. We gratefully accepted.

If I’d been her, I would’ve wanted some time to prepare, too.

*

The next morning, Sandstorm dragged me along to see her favorite storyteller since, as she put it, “If I leave it to you you will never actually do it.”

I didn’t mind. I had a day and a half to kill, and I had wanted to speak with the woman at some point. That morning was as good a time as any.

I’d half expected that we’d meet with the Weaver at the theater where we’d seen her perform, but not so. Instead we went uphill, to the lower parts of what could still be considered the high city. Sandstorm brought me to a nice single-floor home with a small but well-kept garden, full of flowering bushes and shady trees, and we’d barely made it to the gate before a woman came bustling out, bowing deeply before a nervous babbling erupted from her. “Lady Sandstorm!” she said, still bent ninety degrees at the waist, eyes locked firmly on the ground. “It is a pleasure as always to see you. And the Black Lady herself! You do us a great honor by visiting our humble house. I am Mirann, lady of the house. Please, make yourselves comfortable in the garden and I will see if the lady Weaver is ready to see you.”

With that she practically fled back inside the house. From that, and the nervous way she’d been speaking, I got the feeling that Sandstorm hadn’t exactly been expected, and never mind me. That was supported by how frazzled the slight, timid woman I knew to be the Weaver looked when she emerged from the house, squinting in the bright morning sun. She was wearing a rather fetching wrap, a simple cut but dyed a bright green and embroidered with a multitude of little red birds in flight, but it was wrinkled and uneven. Her hair was gathered in a simple high bun tied with a ribbon, and I doubted she’d taken the time to brush it. All in all, I got the distinct impression that Lady Mirann had been forced to wake her guest, who’d rushed out as quickly as she could make herself halfway decent.

“Good morning, Sandstorm!” she said, and I wondered if the lack of an honorific was because she was taken off-guard, or because they were close. Then she saw me off in the shadows of the trees, and literally jumped an inch into the air. “And Lady Draka! What an unexpected pleasure. Welcome, and good morning to you as well. To what do I owe the honor?”

“You wanted to speak with my cousin,” Sandstorm declared. “I have brought her.”

“Ah, so have,” the Weaver said, giving me an uncertain smile. “How kind.”

“Do you need a moment?” I asked. “Maybe you’d like to have something to eat first? A drink?”

The Weaver put her hands up, her uncertainty slowly changing to a controlled excitement as she grasped the opportunity before her. “No, no, that’s very kind of you, Great Lady, but I wouldn’t want to waste your time,” she said. “I’m sure Mirann will be out with something sooner or later. She’s very considerate. Though if you don’t mind, I would prefer to join you in the shade. It’s getting rather hot already.”

I thought I was ready for her. When Sandstorm suggested I talk to her, to give her my story and my perspective on Sandstorm’s own, it sounded like a fun opportunity. When my cousin just told me out of nowhere that we’d go this morning, I figured, “Sounds good. Something low-pressure when I’ve got nothing else I’ve got to do.”

There was nothing low-pressure about it. I was not prepared for questions like, “When you tore the man’s head from his shoulders, what did it sound like? Could you hear the bone separating over the flesh tearing and blood spilling to the ground?” Nor did I expect her to be so interested in what things smelled like. What did the stone smell like when I first emerged into the sun? What scent was most noticeable in the mine shafts where I first spoke to Herald and the others? What about Behold Her? Did she smell like blood? Like decay? Did she have no scent at all? Perhaps her destroying mist also cleared anything on her that might smell.

What did it mean for a dragon to smell like a hatchling, socially?

That last one really threw me. The Weaver was fearless when she questioned me; not in the way that some people, like Hardal, literally felt no fear; but in that her desire to know was strong enough that she’d risk annoying or even angering me by digging for details or pressing when I was being evasive. “How can I properly tell the story of your first flight if I cannot see how the sun glinted off the distant waves?” she asked. “If I cannot feel the air over your wings, or how the wind stung your eyes? If I cannot smell the blood in the water when you fought the lake lizard, how can I tell it? Lady Draka, please understand: I am trying to make the audience live through what you lived through. I am trying to make them experience what you experienced. I do not like to make you revisit the pain of the past, but if I don’t feel the despair that you felt when you thought that you might be all alone, forever, how can I make the audience despair?”

The answer was, of course, that she couldn’t. And having seen one of her performances, I became far more invested than I’d ever expected to be in giving her all the material she might possibly need. Invested enough that, after Lady Mirann had brought her a midday meal of bread, oil, honey, and cold meat, we switched to covering my part of Sandstorm’s story. My cousin had been getting sooky over in her sunny corner of the garden, and I didn’t want her to feel left out.

I didn’t tell the Weaver everything, of course. Nothing that might have revealed the true extent of my magic, and nothing about Instinct and Conscience. Those secrets were for family, and no one else. I offered no explanation for my uncommon intelligence; I simply told her that I’d awoken in a young dragon’s body, confused about where I was but with a sharp mind. And she knew that I was holding back, but she was canny enough not to press for true secrets. She got all my remembered emotions and impressions out of me, and that satisfied her.

“I should very much like to speak with you again,” the Weaver told me as evening approached. “There is so much more to cover. Mercies, the rains had not yet started when we left off your story, and I am sure that there is more you can tell me about your cousin. Would you be willing to meet again?”

“I’d love to,” I told her. And I really would. The day had been exhausting, but in a healing way. It had felt almost like how I imagined talking to a therapist would. Perhaps I should have taken my parents up on their offer to pay for a session every so often. It might have done me good. “I have an important meeting tomorrow,” I continued, “and I’d rather not plan anything else before it. But how about the day after? You and Sandstorm could meet tomorrow and you could note down anything you might want my perspective on.”

“Yes, absolutely,” she replied, turning to face my cousin fully. “Would that be agreeable to you, my friend?”

Sandstorm huffed softly. She’d been unhappy about me and the Weaver being so focused on each other all day, even when we’d been speaking about her, but now she perked up a little. “That would be fine,” she said, thought I could tell from how her eyes narrowed that she was much more pleased than her words let on.

“Then I’ll see you in the morning of the day after tomorrow, Weaver,” I said. Then. after a pause, “I just realized I never asked your name. Everyone just calls you ‘The Weaver.’”

“That is my name, Great Lady,” she replied. “It is not the one I was born with, but I answer to no other. I would request that you please not ask again.”

“Oh. No, that’s fine. I know some people who feel the same way. Weaver it is, then.”

“Thank you, Great Lady. And… may I be so bold as to call you by name, as well, as I do with your honored cousin?”

I gave her a human, though toothless, smile, while narrowing my eyes in amusement. “I think after listening to me pour my heart out all day, you’ve earned that much, at least. Feel free to call me Draka.”

She relaxed a bit, and gave me a tired smile; “Thank you, Draka. I’m already looking forward to our next meeting.”

For once, a chapter title that I'm pretty happy with.