Asha slipped her left hand into her bag, feeling around for her scalpel. She inhaled slowly, reciting the tisarana in her mind as Priya had taught her.
I take refuge in the Buddha.
I take refuge in the Dharma.
I take refuge in the Sangha.
The words were meaningless to her and to her token devotion to Shiva, but it was the repetition that mattered, the act of clearing her mind, of calming both herself and the soul of the monster inside her. She said, “If your things were so valuable, then you should have hired more careful men to handle them. And you should have invested in stronger crates. The crates broke on their own, and your men fell into them.”
“But the jars and cloth might have been salvaged if you had not destroyed them!” He pointed at the water.
She looked down and saw that where there had been a pile of half-crates and bolts and jars in a small island there was now a vast sea of tiny splinters and shards and shreds. “Oh that. Well, I had to save the boy’s life. Next time you should be more careful.” She turned to leave.
The man grabbed her wrist. “Next time you’ll be dead.” He drew his sword and the blade smoldered with a dark amber light.
Asha forgot the tisarana utterly at the touch of the man’s hand on her body and her mind sank into a white-hot pool of rage. Rage at the knowledge that this man carried a sun-steel sword, rage for all the innocent souls he had imprisoned in its blade, rage at all the people like him who strode through the world trampling human lives for their own petty desires.
In her heart, the golden dragon roared.
She turned back to him, seeing only a white figure against a veil of crimson. The man hesitated at whatever he saw in her face, but then he drove his sword straight at Asha’s chest. Just before it touched her skin, she caught the blade with her bare hand, her bare hand armored in golden scales and ruby claws. Dimly she felt the heat radiating from the steel in her hand, but only dimly.
“What? What are you?” the man stammered.
She could barely hear his words over the hammering of his heart in his chest. Asha constricted her fingers and claws around the sword and felt it warping, curling, bending, and twisting. Steam rose from her hand. The man let go of his sword as the blade snapped in half, the two pieces of it clattering to the cobblestones at their feet, the metal now dark and cold as the aether mist spilled out of it.
They’re free. All of the souls are free.
Asha’s vision shifted. The sky became bright blue and the road became pale gray. She looked at the man in the green robe, who had taken several uncertain steps backward. For a moment she imagined impaling him on the broken shards of his own sword, of shredding his flesh with her claws, of throwing his mangled corpse into the sea. She held up her blood-red talons in a curled half-fist.
“Asha?” Priya’s voice was soft but clear, and very near.
Asha swallowed.
I take refuge in the Buddha.
The golden scales on her hand melted back into her smooth brown skin, and the claws slipped back into her soft fingertips.
No, not the Buddha. Or Shiva, or any god. I take refuge in the forests. I take refuge in the mountains. I take refuge in the harmony of all living things. I take refuge in the wind and the water, and the sun and the stars.
The dragon’s spirit fell quiet, nestling back down deep inside her, returning to its own refuge within her soul. She shivered in her own skin, still dripping from the harbor. Asha exhaled and looked at the frightened man. “Go back to your masters in Alexandria. Tell them what I did here. Tell them to repent what they have done. And tell them that I am coming.”
“Why? What do you want? Who are you?” He stumbled back another step.
“I’m the woman hunting you. I’m the woman who isn’t afraid of you. And I’m the woman you can’t hurt.” She reached up to push her hair back behind her golden ear and said, “I am Asha of Kathmandu.”
Epilogue: The Crossroads
Nadira saw him sitting on the little stone pillar at the crossroads, his legs dangling back and forth above the dusty road. The same old bronze greaves flashed on his shins, but the rest of his clothing was new. Brown trousers and jacket, white shirt, and a bronze gauntlet on his right arm. But then, he was always changing, always traveling, always restless. And yet somehow, after two thousand years, he still looked so young, so bright, so new.
She took her time. Her padded clothes and heavy armor chafed her shoulders and hips, and sweat ran freely down the small of her back. The helmet felt like it was cooking her head.
Overhead, enormous white clouds sailed across the deep blue sky casting gigantic shadows across the face of the earth. Thick shrubs lined the road, many of them dotted with red berries. Large brown hares chased each other across the road, darting in and out of sight. Huge red hawks glided across the sky.
When she finally stepped into the intersection of the Damascus highway and the country lane, she saw Gideon was beaming at her. That same smile.
He hopped down off the marker and held out his arms. “It’s been so long. It’s so wonderful to see you again, Nadira. How are you?”
She stopped short of his arms and pulled off her helmet. “Hot and sweaty. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you, of course. I heard about the siege at Constantia and I figured you’d be coming this way, sooner or later.” He glanced over his shoulder to the north. “The army passed by about four hours ago.”
Nadira nodded. She shuffled past him and sat down with her back against the little stone pillar he had been sitting on. It was slightly cooler there in the shadow of the bushes. “Why are you here, really?”
Gideon winked at her. “Can’t I just want to see you?”
She sighed and squinted up at him. “That? Again? Really?”
“Is it so wrong that I’m attracted to women my own age?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly as the humor around his eyes faded away. “All right then. I wanted to warn you. I met a woman a short while ago. She had an Osirian following her, and I dealt with him. But this woman, Asha, is very special, and she may be coming your way one day.”
“She’s already come and gone.” Nadira spat in the bushes and pulled her flask from her belt.
“Oh.” Gideon frowned. “Already? I suppose I lost track of time. Sorry. So you met her?”
“Yeah, I did.” Nadira took a drink.
“And she’s doing all right?”
Nadira laughed. “We killed a dragon together.”
“Did you really?” He squatted down beside her with a bit of boyish glee in his eyes. “A big one?”
“The biggest. We did hit a snag, though.” Nadira sighed and wiped the sweat from her face. “It possessed her. Asha. And I don’t just mean that ear of hers. The whole damned snake got inside her.”
“Oh no,” Gideon whispered.
“Oh yes. And what the hell is that thing?” Nadira pointed at the brass gauntlet on his right arm.
“It’s my sword,” he muttered, his eyes wandering the ground aimlessly. “Possessed? Did she change? Did you have to kill her?”
“No. Her little friend helped her get the beast under control.” Nadira took another drink and offered the flask to him. “For now.”
He waved the flask away. “That poor girl. Where is she now?”
“No idea. I mentioned the Aegyptians to her, so she might be heading for Alexandria.”
“With a dragon inside her? What about Lilith?!”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I told her about Lilith.” Nadira belched.
Gideon sighed and sat down beside her. “Nadira.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it back to scratch roughly under her breast. He sighed and took back his hand. “Nadira, please. It breaks my heart to see you like this. We were so happy once. Do you even remember that? Do you remember what it means to be happy?”
Nadira fell very still and quiet, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “Yes, I remember. I remember everything. Every day, every touch. Every damned second of it.”