29

The cantinas and hostals they had been in so far hadn’t been the classiest or newest establishments. They had all been different degrees of worn down and rough around the edges, but they had always been well taken care of, loved by patrons and owners alike. Places of rest and refuge and some measure of luxury after spending days mired in toil and hard labor. This place, though, whatever place the Siren’s Call’s captain had brought them to, was not of that ilk. The stairs to the bottom floor creaked with every step, no matter how lightly or carefully he stepped. The walls were stained by years of torch smoke and grubby hands. Splotches were splashed along the floor that could be anything from food or drink stains to bodily fluids. Hamasa’s hand hovered over the greasy rail of the stairway, then he tucked his arms under his poncho and tried to rearrange his expression into something more neutral.

He hadn’t turned his nose up at the Garsias’ hut with its dirt floors and glass-less windows. Although the very idea of comparing Irmen Garsia’s tidy home, with the colorful rugs and stainless, albeit shabby, furniture to this grimy place made him want to immediately apologize to the woman who had cared for him so well. Her lovingly neat and comfy home deserved better than that.

The cantina on the ground floor of the Wharf’s Mouth was definitely at its best when the sun was down and the only light was the unsteady orange glow of fire light. People of all kinds sat around uneven tables, some vaguely circular and others square in shape, and none of the chairs matched. Hamasa saw people tall and fair haired, small and dark like most of Mekshi, even the raven black hair and golden skin of Riyukezans; rough-spun tunics and trousers, kimono of cheap cotton, some tucked into repeatedly patched hakama, and, most surprising of all, the loose draping linen of a Harenese toga over poorly cut tunics with squared necklines. He probably shouldn’t be so shocked. Even in war merchants would trade, and the war hadn’t truly begun. Whispers and rumors and the occasionally abrupt street fight do not a war make. And the Harenese had mines of gold and jade and diamonds in their borders, one of the many reasons they had been kept as a closely monitored territory of the Riyukezu Empire years after the first rebellion. People would always hunger for precious gems and metals, especially if war was coming and fortunes teetered.

However, Hamasa kept his eyes on the table full of Harenese merchants, looking for two particular faces, and edging around the walls of the common room. His attention was finally broken when he walked past the small dais built near a large stone and clay fire place. A single woman sat there, hair so blonde it would put Harenese gold to shame and eyes the color of bright amber. She looked… shinier and brighter than everything around her. In the thin wisps of her hair, Hamasa caught the sight of feathers so fine and white they were almost invisible. She tilted her head when she saw him, eyes unblinking as she stared, and he froze. Then, she smiled and her gaze dropped to her lap where she had placed a large, gleaming, golden wood vihuela. The case by her feet was battered and frayed, but the vihuela was pristine, the tune that strummed beneath her fingers clear and perfectly in tune. Cheers erupted, followed by shouts for songs, and Hamasa hurried towards the table where Marya, Valerius, and, another surprise, Arash sat. The Siren’s Call’s captain and first mate were already gone to Hamasa’s relief.

“Didja see her?” Marya breathed out the words, chin on her hands and eyes over his shoulder. Hamasa turned to see the dala, smiling silently and tuning her instrument. “She’s the most beautiful woman I ever seen.”

“I thought you admired the Sovereign?” Hamasa couldn’t help teasing. Marya blushed and she stuck out her tongue at him.

“I can’t exactly flirt with an Sovereign, can I? But her, I can buy her a drink at least. Do you think she likes tepacha? Maybe she only drinks sangria or sakki…” Marya frowned thoughtfully.

“Perhaps you should leave her to work,” Valerius suggested.

“Just because you’ve got a stick up your bum, doesn’t mean I do,” Marya retorted.

Arash laughed out loud and Valerius sighed. Hamasa dropped his face in his hands with a groan.

“We have food coming soon, my lo—” Valerius broke off, scowling so fiercely Hamasa began to worry it would become permanent. “Hamasa.”

“It definitely doesn’t look like saying his name hurt the same as a sword in the gut,” Marya said with a nod and a glint in her eye.

“Mm, yes, very discreet,” Arash agreed.

“Is this the only time you two will get along? Teasing Valerius?” Hamasa demanded.

Marya and Arash exchanged glances, grimaced at each other, and then turned to Hamasa.

“Yeah, sounds right.”

“There’s no other reason to get along.”

“My sanity could be another reason,” Hamasa replied. And then more seriously, “I care about both of you very much. I’m sorry about getting upset upstairs, but I do want you to get along.”

“Ay, such a little peacekeeper,” Marya cried, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him close to ruffle his hair. Hamasa gazed at nothing and waited for the wrestling to end, a smile threatening to emerge. “We’ll team up against Wally more.”

“Not that it gets much reaction, so it’s less fun for me. But anything for you, rafiik,” Arash said, tipping his head to the side.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Hamasa told Valerius quickly, eyes wide.

Valerius’ chin bobbed. “I’ve endured worse in my squad. It’s nothing.”

Arash’s blue eyes gleamed—a cat seeing a mouse dart close. “A challenge.”

A woman came up to their table with a large tray balanced expertly against her hip. Her skirt barely made it to her shins and was a bit frayed, but the stripes were still vivid and bright, and her white tunic was clean and stain-free under the long black and red vest she wore. She nodded at them without a smile and set the dishes on the table with a clatter of fired-clay on wood.

“Fish,” Arash said with a slight curl of his lip. “That one isn’t even cooked.” He pointed to a dish of finely chopped fish, shrimp, octopus, tomatoes, onions, and sweet yellow corn, glistening in juice and dotted with chilies and herbs.

“I never seen shrimp. It looks good,” Marya said, sniffing appreciatively and leaning over the dishes. “And the cervicha’s marinated in limón, so it’s not raw raw,” she explained. She pointed at another one, a shallow long dish with a row of tortiyas wrapped around a filling of corn, plump shrimp, tomatoes, chilies, and cilantro, drowned in red sauce and all covered with mounds of crumbled white cheese and fresh salsa. “And this is encheladas.”

“I’ve had that. With beans,” Hamasa said eagerly.

“And helped make the tortiyas,” Marya reminded him, nudging his arm.

“Red snapper,” Valerius said, pointing to the last dish where a fish so large it filled the entire platter and its tail brushed the table. It was covered in tomatoes and sauce and shining green capers and olives. The aroma drifted through the air and tingled at their noses. A bowl of roasted vegetables sat beside it. “It’s popular in Riyushu. Though, I’ve never seen it look like that.”

“The lady said this is how they cook it in Róntraih,” Marya said.

Hamasa looked up to see Arash leaning over the table, nose twitching and his tongue tasting the air. Their eyes met over the platters, and Hamasa slid the platter of snapper closer. Arash gave him a Look, his head tilting and his mouth twisting to the side.

“It’s fish.”

“Yes, and you’re a human now. Give it a try,” Hamasa said.

“I’m not gonna wait around for you to figure yourself out,” Marya said. She dug into the encheladas, humming happily and thumbing away salsa that oozed down her chin.

Arash picked at the snapper with a blunt wooden spoon that had one side a little flatter than the other. The look on his face at the first mouthful—the swiftly widening eyes and sharp inhale through his nose—had Hamasa grinning and picking up his own spoon for a bite. A sudden loud coughing from his other side interrupted him. Valerius pressed his fist to his mouth, his pale face ruddy and eyes watering. The spoon that still had traces of red salsa on it hung from his limp hand.

Marya burst into laughter, barely catching it behind her hand. Hamasa jumped to his feet to smack Valerius’ back.

“It’s spicy. Why is the fish spicy?” Valerius gasped hoarsely.

Arash sighed and reached over to tap Valerius’ reddened lips with a single fingertip that flashed white. Flowers of ice spread over Valerius’ mouth and tongue and, when he exhaled, his breath was glittering mist. Valerius exhaled again and stared at Arash. The dragon merely tried a mouthful of the cervicha without meeting anyone’s eyes. The next bite Valerius took was tentative, a slight frown on his face. The ice barely crackled and Valerius’ shoulders slumped in relief.

“That’s a nifty trick,” Marya said. She waved towards the bar to catch the bartender’s eye. There was a jerk of a nod and the woman turned away. “But tepacha or fruit water helps better and only costs a few tin bits.”

“Is there tea?” Valerius asked. Marya stared at him. “Never mind.”

The first song of the night began to play. Almost immediately the entire cantina burst into applause and cheers, the applause becoming claps and foot stamps set along to the rhythm. Marya joined in, snapping her fingers with one hand so she could keep eating with the other. The dala with her vihuela began to sing, her voice a crystal clear tone that trembled at the highest pitch in a way that had a shiver running down Hamasa’s spine. Marya sang along, stopping sometimes to quickly explain something Hamasa and the other two didn’t quite understand. The food and drinks disappeared without Hamasa realizing how fast it went, his mouth buzzing and his whole body warm and drowsy. From under heavy eyelids, Hamasa watched Marya, Arash, and Valerius all talking or singing or eagerly encouraging each other to try something else at the table. He smiled sleepily, pulled one leg up onto the chair, and wrapped his arms around his shin. Another round of drinks was brought, but he was too comfortable and full to reach for it.

“I didn’t think humans could make music like that,” Arash said as yet another song began to play, quieter and more melancholy as evening turned to true night. “Though, she is a dala. That must explain it.”

Marya groaned and punched his shoulder. Arash stared at her in affront, rubbing the spot she’d dared to touch. “It’s still a Mekshan song, and a human made a vihuela.”

“Innovation does stem from mortality,” Arash allowed with a one-shoulder shrug.

“Why do you hate humans so much? Others, like dalas and chanaces, don’t live much longer than humans do,” Marya demanded. “What’s with all this ‘mortals’ this and ‘mortality’ that.”

Arash narrowed his eyes at her. A brief flash of ethereal blue and slitted pupils there and gone again. “Do you know how long dragons live?” he asked in an oddly casual voice.

“You said millennia… so a thousand years?” Marya guessed, rather nonplussed.

“Millennia is more than one. They can live up to four thousand years that I know of,” Valerius said.

“Yes, that’s what you know. There have been dragons that have lived ten thousand years. Do you know how long an Sovereign’s Shield lives?”

“Arash,” Hamasa blurted, horrified, sitting straight up in his seat. Arash ignored him, his gaze pinning Marya to her chair as her chin lifted in defiance.

“No, I don’t.”

“Guess, human, guess how long a being that should live beyond what you could truly fathom lives once they’ve attached themselves to a puny, insignificant speck of a human life,” Arash hissed.

“They can live on after their Sovereign has died,” Valerius said, low and sharp.

“Sure they can, but how many do? The first dragon in Mekshi, the Stormwrought? She was one of the most powerful Greys that had ever lived. She Chose her Sovereign, started an invasion and destroyed armies to give him a kingdom. Then, one hundred and fifty years later, within an hour of her Sovereign breathing his last after her soul kept him alive all that time, she died. She could’ve lived for thousands of years more, but she lasted less than two centuries after becoming a Shield.”

“What? But…” Marya stammered.

“That’s different,” Hamasa argued. He licked his lips when all their eyes turned to him. “She loved him. She only retook her true form in times of strife and lived as a human most of that time. They had children, human children, together. Not all Shields and Sovereigns have that kind of… of story. Most of them don’t.”

“That’s where the dragon blood comes from,” Marya realized, thumping her fist on her opposite palm. “The Sovereign’s, they all say she’s got dragon blood and special magic.”

Hamasa exhaled in relief. “It’s true. She has innate magic, like an Other, because she’s descended from the Stormwrought.”

“And he’s right, most Shields don’t marry,” Arash agreed. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, those narrow eyes on Hamasa now. “The Scarlet Dread—”

“Arash, don’t.”

“—was more than three thousand years old. Had a dragon lifemate. Even bred and had a kit.”

“A kit? Is that what you call a dragon baby?” Marya asked. She tried to grin, but her lips were too taut and the corners falling as if she couldn’t quite keep it up.

“Dragons don’t breed often, or much. Why do we need to? We live basically forever,” Arash said with a hand wave. “Kits are precious. Rare. But he decided the next great deed he’d do was become a Shield. Something no Red had done before. And he died eighty-five years later.”

“Eighty-five? That’s the… that’s how long the reign of the last Sovereign was…” Marya said quietly.

“Yes, it was. He didn’t die for love, as the Stormwrought did. He died for honor. For his Sovereign, the damned human he Chose to protect. Dragons live forever until humans kill them.”