Linsha took two rapid steps to the table and slammed her hand over the scale. “What do you know about this dragon?” she demanded.
Shutters fell over the old Damjatt’s face, and he withdrew to a respectful distance from Linsha and made a slight bow. “Only what I’ve heard, Lady,” he said.
Linsha did not move. “And what did you hear?”
He peered behind her and out the window where the shutters were partially open to the morning breeze. “I heard once or twice,” he replied softly, “that there was a dragon in the old sea caves beneath the palace.”
“You’ve never seen it.”
He shook his head, his eyes on the floor at her feet. “It is forbidden. 0nly the priests and warriors and those chosen by the Emperor or the Akkad may go down there.”
Linsha thought for a moment then picked up the dragon scale and laid it in the old slave’s hand. His seamed face crinkled into a large smile. He held the scale to the light, admiring the sheen and color.
Linsha had deliberately polished the scale until it gleamed, and she was gratified to see her small ploy had worked. Assuming a casual air, she sat on the worktable in front of him and held out her cut palm. Never had she been able to figure out why some people thought it necessary to cut the hand for a blood oath. Why not the forearm? Or the buttock? Or the little toe? Something that would not interfere with one’s grip on a sword. Fortunately the Tarmak paint once again had performed its magic. The cut on her hand and the slash on her stomach were already healing well, and her eye did not seem as swollen.
“Her name is Sirenfal,” she said as if adding an afterthought. “She’s a young brass dragon.”
Still holding the scale, Afec bustled around his worktable and shelves, collecting his medicines, cloths, and water. “A female you say? And she’s young?”
“She has only laid her first clutch of eggs.”
The old Damjatt dumped his things on the table beside her and took her hand distractedly. “She has eggs?”
As Linsha hoped, he sounded fascinated. She caught his arm and asked, “Why would the warriors and the Emperor smash an egg to make a soup of some sort?” She described the breaking of the egg and the mix of ingredients that went into the drink.
His hand fell to the knotted belt at his waist and clutched the knots in his fingers. “They did that? I have only heard rumors. Are there any more eggs left?”
“Not of hers. Those are gone. This egg was from the Missing City. It was part of a clutch I swore to protect.”
“What a waste,” he murmured.
“Yes. So what are these rumors you’ve heard?”
Afec shrugged. “You know how talk passes among servants. I have heard that the drink you described is an old potion handed down among the Keena priests.”
“All right. But what does it do?” she insisted. “It couldn’t have had dragon eggs as the main ingredient in the beginning.”
“No. I’ve told you. We have no native dragons on Ithin’carthia. The addition of a dragon’s egg was the Akkad-Dar’s suggestion. I believe the potion was made by the Keena originally as a way to increase virility.”
Linsha’s eyebrows rose. “And what does the egg do?”
He gave a dry, raspy chuckle. “Adds its innate magic to the brew. It changes the nature of the drink to a kind of general tonic. It is supposed to improve one’s natural abilities-strength, stamina, virility.”
“No wonder the warriors crave it,” she said and wondered if a talent to use magic was one of those abilities that could be enhanced by this potion. That could explain much about Lanther. “The dragon eggs are hard to come by, so the Tarmaks have made a religious ceremony out of the preparation.”
Afec stared. “Did they give you any?”
She made a face that answered his question clearly. “I doubt they share that with women. I think Lanther just wanted me there to show what he can do to the eggs if I don’t obey.”
“What was the dragon doing during the ceremony?”
Linsha hid a secret smile. She had captured his full attention. Now she wanted his sympathy and cooperation. Afec was an old man and a slave, yet he knew the palace well, and while he was not a priest, he seemed to know much about healing and medicines. He did not have a great regard for the Keena or the Tarmaks either. He could be her best ally. With that in mind, she told him everything she could remember about Sirenfal, the dragon’s condition, and what the priest used against her.
When she finished, he stayed quiet for a long while and concentrated on cleaning her hand and the slash on her stomach. He checked her bruises and her black eye. He rubbed a cream on her wounds that tingled with the same heat as the blue paint.
“What do you plan to do?” he said at last.
“Why do you think I’m going to do anything?” she asked.
For the first time the old servant lifted his eyes to look directly into hers and gave her a knowing smile. Linsha was charmed. There was a sparkling vigor to his gaze and a depth of intelligence she realized he had kept camouflaged behind his subservient bows and lowered lids.
“I have watched you, Lady,” he said. “You would not be here, alive and preparing for a union to the great Akkad if you were not strong, resourceful, and tenacious. You are named the Drathkin’kela for good reason. I don’t believe you will let this young one languish in misery if there is something you can do.”
Linsha knew without a doubt that he meant what he said. She could only hope that he had the courage to help her and remain silent. “I need to talk to the dragon without the Tarmaks listening to every word,” she told him. “You said the dragon was in a sea cave. There must be an entrance somewhere out on the cliff face.”
She paused, tilted her head. Through the window she could hear insects buzzing in the bright sunlight and the faint rustle of the wind through the slender trees in the garden. Then she heard the sound again that had caught her attention-the slap of sandaled feet on the stone paving.
Afec patted her arm and switched subjects without a moment’s hesitation. “Rest today. Let your muscles recover. Tomorrow we will discuss the marriage rites and your duties as a Tarmak wife.”
The sandaled feet paused at his door and a knock shook the door just as it was shoved open. Two of the Akeelawasee guards and a stricken-looking slave woman hurried into the room. The slave woman’s linen shift was dirty with sweat stains and blood, and she carried a wrapped bundle in her arms.
“Afec,” the woman said in Tarmakian. Tears trembled on the edge of her lashes. “Loruth’s babe was delivered a short while ago.”
Neither Linsha nor Afec had to ask if the birth had gone well. The grim faces of the guards and the woman’s distress were clear enough. Linsha hopped off the table and watched with interest while the slave laid the bundle down and unwrapped it. Inside the woven blanket, a large Tarmak infant startled at the sudden exposure to light and cool air and began to cry lustily.
Linsha studied the baby, a little boy, and could see nothing wrong. It had been hastily cleaned and its umbilical cord was still attached.
Afec pointed to the small foot. “What did the midwife say?” he asked the slave woman.
“He is marthtok,” she sniffled.
The old healer sighed. Linsha looked puzzled. Marthtok? What did that mean?
“I am forced to agree.” Afec picked up the squalling baby. “A pity. And the mother?”
“She is resting. Once the midwife pronounced the infant marthtok, she refused to look at it. It is her second loss. There will be no more.”