The Dragonslayer, Zia seethed, ruined everything. From her perspective, this was absolutely true. She paced, arms crossed against her chest, holding her elbows in a defensive, closed posture. Not, of course, she thought, that it started there. Zia was a woman of intense passions, as befit a fire sorceress. Perhaps a little more choleric than sanguine, she still partied hard, loved with what she felt as passion, and when she was pleased her good cheer was infectious.
But her fitness as a sorceress, her sincere faith that powered her magic, was not the issue at hand. Nor was it up for debate; who could question the faith of a woman who had sworn her first oath of fealty to Izkarzon when she was only seven years old? But that aside, what had her seething were the strictures of a society which would not conform itself to her whims—except, of course, as flame would.
When she had made her come out, her faith in herself was unshakeable. The world was Zia’s oyster. She had been told this her entire life. Even when she came out to her parents as trans, their reluctance, resistance, and doubt only produced enough cognitive dissonance to make her redouble her efforts to make her world conform to her will. She was ouroboros in Sasson, the highest caste and sole heir of her parents’ noble estate, and now as a woman she would carry on the family name. Surely, and sure enough, her parents would rather concede the field and allow her to make her come out as a woman than sacrifice their only child to preconceived notions of who she was.
Then came the first wave across her bow which actually made her doubt the seaworthiness of her worldview ship. She received not a single offer of marriage in her first Season, not even so much as an improperly long bow over her hand, excepting from Askar—who everyone knew had a limp wrist. Despite tailored dresses in the trim of the season and tasteful amounts of padding to cover what she considered deficient curves, not. One. Offer.
But it was only her first Season. There were to be others before she was “on the shelf.” The second Season went much as the first, though she did share a waltz with Askar—what the Hell, at least it’s attention—but again, not a single proposal.
And then, in the most auspicious Season, the third, for I was born in the third month of Gemini… she shivered with rage. The Dragonslayer ruined everything. She killed our Lord, the mighty gerontocrat and King, Izkarzon. The unrest was immediate. There was no third Season, the entire country—perhaps not the country of Dragold, but certainly the capitol city of Sasson—was embroiled in debate over who was the oldest, who had the greatest claim to rulership. My parents removed, with me in tow, to their country seat, and waited it out. She crossed her arms the other way, then recrossed them. The worst choice they could have made. Their contracts were lost, their contacts and relationships lost to either death or cowardice. When we returned to Sasson we had little wealth, no status, nothing but a title that barely meant anything. Even the ouroboros only meant so much. Zia absentmindedly rubbed the ring branded onto the back of her hand, the caste-mark of the most favored and privileged of Dragold’s castes.
It was upon their return that Zia began to roam the poorer districts of Sasson. Her parents thought she was going out with an attendant, and perhaps this was true at first, but after the first time ruining a pair of boots in the unkept roads and piles of dubious sludge, the attendant was content to accept a token payment and bide her time drinking pints while Zia went off on adventures. What her goal was, not even she could say, but she pursued it with zeal. She felt alive like she had been struck with lightning the first time she encountered a gang altercation, bread-caste criminals attacking one another with spiked boards and short knives. It flowed around her, as whatever she was in her now-stained and soiled “adventuring” garb, she was clearly not a member of either gang.
The poor districts were alive in a way the sterile neighborhoods of her youth were not. You could walk past endless rows of decayed stone buildings, their elaborate gardens variations on a theme, hear nothing but the footsteps on cobblestones of purposeful people on errands. Nobody idled in the streets anymore, each token tyrant cracking down that much more on any perceived rivals and their freedoms. But in the slums of Sasson, the buildings were wood, patched and repaired in the humid and wet climate and nonetheless succumbing to decay. There were gardens, the smell of strange spices and spit-roasted meat. Singing, off-key and bawdy, carried on the air. The bakers never had white bread, sometimes they didn’t have doors, but they had hearty barley loaves, quartered in a style reminiscent of the lowest caste’s daily wages and the brands on each one’s right hand.
In time, she made… well, a friend might have been pushing it. A puzzle, more like. Not to mention, it wouldn’t do for even an ouroboros in straits to befriend a bread-caste ganger. Zia was less than honest with herself. Drexl, the friend Zia had managed to acquire, was quite comely regardless of her caste, stout and curvy over slab muscle. However, she persistently, politely rebuffed Zia’s advances. She lacked a partner, Zia knew that much, but she never did more than demure in a fashion befitting a debutante when Zia reached for her hand or attempted to kiss her cheek. Nonetheless, she kept spending time with Zia, regardless of whether her pin money extended far enough to cover both their drinks and meals. She wasn’t sure what drew them together, another piece of dishonesty with herself. She was witty, cordial, as her sorcery illustrated sanguine, she could rally a sagging and slumped tavern into rounds of song in her rich baritone. And she wanted Drexl, because she as yet had not been able to so much as kiss her, which prodded both her certainty she deserved what she wanted and her desire to be validated by a woman who, in the course of conversation, she had confirmed was only interested in women. If Zia had been honest with herself, she might have thought, perhaps, when she kisses me, I will feel secure that I have successfully encompassed womanhood.
“You’re thinking about the Dragonslayer again, ain’tcha?” Drexl asked. Zia looked up from her mug of blittero and realized she had been scowling. Shouldn’t do that. Makes lines on the face. She raised one haughty eyebrow to make it clear the question was insolent, but after she had made her point she nodded. “Well, there’s nothing for it, is there? We’ll all be taxed the same regardless of who’s at the top. Just wish they’d stop trying to draft my lot into their blood feuds.” It was a tacit element of their relationship that Drexl not acknowledge Zia’s high standing, and if Zia had once made a point of wearing a glove over her right hand, she no longer felt it necessary. Relationship. Double-edged sword of a word. I’d like the more intimate meaning. Oh, it could never go anywhere, but to have it would be nice. Zia had dated, of course, but only straight women and whatever one could characterize her time with Askar as. Drexl would be the crown jewel in Zia’s tiara of padded dresses and affected pitch.
Zia had the seat with her back to the wall, and had been scanning the room as she drank and sat with Drexl. She watched a man receive a flat turndown from a woman—which the tavern keeper will make sure he honors—and rose from her seat. Drexl raised an eyebrow—insolence—but it was another unspoken agreement between them that Zia was entitled—entitled to be flighty, thank you—in any case allowed to pursue her romances and trysts. Sashaying in what she was certain was a beguiling manner, Zia walked up to the man. He wasn’t bad-looking, she supposed. Muscular, taller even than her, perhaps a week in need of a shave. Dark where she was light, and—Zia delighted in such details—higher caste than Drexl, who she was snubbing. Only of the wane, but still higher than bread. “Looking for some fun, stranger?” she asked in her softest, most dulcet voice. He had to lean in to hear her, it was hard to have volume without a strangled overtone, and the dive was not a quiet environment. Zia saw her chance and took it, leaving bright red lipstick unevenly overlaid on his lips. His eyes flitted to her hand and lit, and Zia realized she had captured his interest. His hands wrapped around her middle—corseted, of course, which spared her the feeling of his rough workman’s hands—and reached to grab her behind, which was mercifully all padding. They had a few rounds, Zia was largely passive as his hands wandered, and she wondered to herself when this game had begun to pall. Perhaps it’s simply where it leads. Am I still sensitive to the mores of high society despite their snubbing me? She rose, the man rising with her, but she looked back and shook her head. He colored and looked ready to protest, then took one look at the barmaid and sank back into his seat with a thunderous expression on his face. Still, and Zia breathed a sigh of relief, he did return to his blittero rather than pursue the matter. Even among the lower castes, a woman has a right to choose.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
When she settled heavily at the table she shared with Drexl, the gang woman was still sipping at her mug and slowly eating a plate of tubers and fish. She raised one eyebrow, and Zia wondered how much she had watched when she asked, “Did you have fun?”
Zia suppressed a scowl and put in its place a sunny grin. “Of course I did. Aren’t I the life of my own party?” Eugh. He smelled like a smithy. Not that being a smith wasn’t honorable work, someone had to make the axes the nobility, church, and merchants were killing each other with. But it was unpleasant to someone raised in a background of delicately seasoned food, and breath redolent of, at worst, wine or attar of roses.
“You are that, Zia. Sorry to doubt you.” Oh, so you were being petty. Oh, so it showed on my face that I broke things off. “Zia, I’m on your side. I just don’t get why you collect men and women and yet near as I can tell I’m the one friend you have in the whole district. Your little black book is on its third volume.” She toasted with her mug. You could be more than my friend, if you’ve noticed that I’m not sure about collecting names and meeting places. I don’t get why you won’t be. I’m fun, you like me, but you just want to be friends. Be more with me, until I’m ready to settle for whatever title will have me.
Being in this bar… what was it called? Has lost its appeal. If I head out now I can get home in time to change into clothes suitable for evening services. Zia was not religious—ha—about attending Church since her parents had stopped enforcing it, but she was unquestionably devout and made a point of catching a service most days of the week. Unless she was otherwise occupied. What? I’ve sworn more than a dozen oaths of fealty to our Lord Izarkzon, surely He understands that I have needs. “I’ll catch you later, shall I, Drexl?” Zia asked rhetorically, depositing coins on the table to more than cover her portion of the drinks and food. Without waiting for acknowledgement, she slipped out of the table and out of the door, making her way for her parents’ mansion. They still have such a nice house, even with the unrest. Surely they could increase my allow—pin money. Women have pin money, louche and dissolute men have allowances.
On her way to Church, bathed and dressed in a dress which, while not the peak of fashion, was a pure and innocent white, Zia pondered. A stupid concept, innocence. Why should I be innocent of what I’d shackle myself to for a lifetime? At that rate I may as well tie the knot with Drexl, who wouldn’t let me sample her charms even if we were wed. Say, I wonder if she’d go for that. A white marriage. Oh, but she’s bread. Sigh. As she walked, she found herself getting into the spirit of Church. Under her breath, she hummed a popular ditty she had heard in the poorer district. “Everybody loves Izkarzon, He was crowned by the holy Son, woah-oh! Oh how we love that dragon! Everybody loves Izkarzon, under Him we’re number one!”
The Church of Izkarzon, one of several in the city, was ringing its bells to summon the faithful of Izkarzon to services when Zia arrived. The large building was grand, though there was a broken window and the paint was beginning to fade, in a gothic style that couldn’t help but inspire awe. The doors to the narthex and the cathedral were built on a grand scale, a nod to the idea that Izkarzon himself—may He live forever in Heaven as He was meant to rule forever here—could visit any service personally. Zia frowned at the sparse collection of nobles and merchants in attendance. Though the ouroboros caste had been thinned by years of civil war, attendance had also dropped off immediately following the death of the green wyrm God-King.
“Praise be to Izkarzon, His divine Will leading us even as He departed from this lowly and physical world!” The priestess was in good form, projecting throughout the chapel. “And may His divine Will for us, like that of the Savior who crowned Him, soon see an end to the unrest.” It’s always unrest. Never civil war. Never uncivil war, people betraying brothers and trade partners to claim the title of elder and the associated throne. Why the Church hasn’t stepped in and declared Izkarzon’s Will that someone lead… who knows, maybe they did. “All rise for the Oath of Loyalty!” Zia rose dutifully, and as always gave her full voice to the Oath. “I pledge allegiance to the God-King Izkarzon, of the mighty nation of Dragold. And to the gerontocracy, which He graciously rules forever, a singular lineage dating back to—” Zia broke off as a thought occurred to her, but was immediately aware of heads turning to look at who had dared to stop speaking. “—crowned by the Savior, keeping His secrets, held by caste and ruler, Amen!” A singular lineage. Did Izkarzon have a mate? He’s been the ruler of Dragold for longer than any human lives, if he has any children they would be the rightful heir to the throne. Sasson could know peace. And perhaps, if I were the one responsible for enshrining Izkarzon’s child on the throne of Dragold, well perhaps my family, or at least I, might get rewarded. With status. But I don’t know if that’s heresy. I should ask the deacon after services.
Everybody Loves Izkarzon
Izkarzon is a gracious Lord indeed.
We truly love to serve Him!
Without Him our whole future looks dim.
Every word He speaks is like a precious bead.
We want Him e’er to lead us, but what does that mean?
And we sing:
Everybody loves Izkarzon
He was crowned by the holy Son, woah-oh!
Oh how we love that dragon!
Everybody loves Izkarzon
Under Him we’re number one, woah-oh
We love the dragon ruling!
We served Izkarzon since Ages past
History with Him predates us
But serving Him elates us
We only hope that fore’er our service lasts
We find serving Izkarzon so very keen!
And we sing:
Everybody loves Izkarzon
He was crowned by the holy Son, woah-oh!
Oh how we love that dragon!
Everybody loves Izkarzon
Under Him we’re number one, woah-oh
We love the dragon ruling!
How can we serve that drake?
We have to serve Him!
How can we serve that drake?
Love reserved for Him!
We’re always gonna serve that drake.
Tithes reserved for Him!
Never want any other drake.
And we will always sing:
Everybody loves Izkarzon
He was crowned by the holy Son, woah-oh!
Oh how we love that dragon!
Everybody loves Izkarzon
Under Him we’re number one, woah-oh
We love the dragon ruling!
Everybody loves Izkarzon
He was crowned by the holy Son, woah-oh!
Oh how we love that dragon!
Everybody loves Izkarzon
Under Him we’re number one, woah-oh
We love the dragon ruling!
Everybody loves Izkarzon
He was crowned by the holy Son, woah-oh!
Oh how we love that dragon!
Everybody loves Izkarzon
Under Him we’re number one, woah-oh
We love the dragon ruling!
