“The Staminata?”
A smile touched my master’s bloodless lips. “The council would strip me of my Heuris status if they knew I’d spoken to you about the Staminata.” He looked sideways at me. “Although such an indiscretion pales in comparison to what else I have done.” He bent closer. “The Staminata is the mental and physical training required to become a full Dragoneye. It is intended to help the apprentice bear the energy drains required to commune with the dragon he serves.”
“Is it difficult, Master? The communing?” I asked, sensing that he was, for once, in an expansive mood.
He stared down at the casket on his lap. “Difficult?” Again, he smiled humorlessly. “Is it difficult to take the land’s life force and twist it to your bidding? To clear energy blocks built of ancient dreads and narrow thinking? To untangle the past, present, and future and knit it into another possibility?” He sighed. “Yes, Eon, it is difficult and painful and exhilarating. And it will kill you.” He looked over at me, his eyes dark. “As it has killed me.”
It was said almost as a challenge, but I did not look away.
“Better to die in such service,” I said, tightening my grip on the post, “than to die laboring in a salt farm.”
He blinked at my vehemence. “There are worse ways to die than choking on salt,” he said softly.
I had to look away then; away from the strange softening of his eyes.
“And the Staminata, Master?” I asked quickly. “Will I be able to do it?”
“It is not like the Approach Sequence,” he said. “There will be no swordmaster drilling you endlessly. The Staminata does not rely upon brute strength or agility—it is a mixture of meditation and movement. Once you have learned the basic form, it is up to you to develop your mastery and thus your mental and physical stamina.”
“It’s what you do in the Moon Garden, isn’t it?” I said.
He tilted his head to the side. “And how would you know that, Eon?”
I shook my head, unwilling to answer with the truth. Nor would my master want to hear that I knew by intuition—the “irrational” knowledge only claimed by women.
“Yes, it is what I practice in the Moon Garden,” he said. “For all the good it does me.” He looked out ahead with a bitter smile. “Until recently, I did not regret my calling. Now, I find that I resent not having a future.” When he turned back to me, I saw the fierce light in his eyes that I had seen during the cleansing ritual. He reached toward me, as though to stroke my cheek. I flinched, and he dropped his hand, his face once more a mask of cool irony.
“That bargain was made a long time ago,” he said, almost to himself.
I drew back into the corner of the seat and brushed my hand over the coin. Would it be enough to buy my way to the islands? My master’s gaze was pressing against me. I turned away and pretended to be absorbed by the passing view. We had turned into the main thoroughfare that led to the Dragon Arena. It was just past dawn, but the street was lined with curious onlookers, the house-shop shutters already open and the vendors hawking for business. A man noticed our palanquin and yelled, his call rippling along the street until we became the focus of attention. Faces turned up to watch us pass by: excited, skeptical, searching, disdainful. Then a murmur started, the soft words shifting through the crowd like leaves shivering in a breeze: It’s the cripple.
I straightened in the seat, my hands in tight fists, and kept my eyes fixed on the banners that billowed above the entrance to the arena. Every so often, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the familiar jab of a ward-evil gesture.
“Does your leg pain you?” my master suddenly asked. In the four years I’d been in his service, he had never asked me about my leg.
“Not a lot,” I said, stumbling over the lie.
He gave a curt nod, his face even more unreadable. “But it has proved useful.”
The lead bearer called to his team, and we stopped outside the gated entrance of the arena. A huge gilded carving of the Mirror Dragon—the emperor’s symbol—swirled across the lintel. On either side, the heavy supporting pillars were decorated with two ferocious door gods, their carved swordhands rubbed flat by years of people seeking protection. I peered through the crisscrossed slats of the heavy gate but only saw a dim corridor and the bright flare of sand.
The lead bearer looked to my master for instructions.
“Follow the wall until we come to the Portal of the Twelve Heavenly Animals,” my master said, pointing to the left.
We moved slowly around the periphery of the arena, passing the bright jade and gold Emperor’s Gate, through which the Eternal Son of Heaven would make his entrance. The grand boulevard that spanned the distance from the gate to the outer precinct of the Imperial Palace was already lined with people, most holding handmade red flags for the new Ascendant and apprentice. Last Ascension Day I stood in that crowd and watched as Amon, the new Pig Dragon apprentice, was showered with flags of good fortune on his way to the Dragon Halls. Would I be walking behind the emperor’s horse in a few hours, a rain of red paper falling on my head?
“Sit still, Eon,” my master ordered.
I leaned back into the seat, turning away from the crowd. Ahead, an open palanquin was waiting outside the Portal of the Twelve Heavenly Animals. We stopped a little way behind it and I recognized the delicate shape of Dillon’s head and the fat, neckless form of Heuris Bellid. Their bearer team slowly lowered the palanquin onto two large lift stones. Dillon climbed out, turning to help his master down to the ground. In braver moments, when we were alone, Dillon called him “Master Belly.” I stifled a smile as Bellid adjusted the red pleated sash over his huge gut, then waved the palanquin away.