The Last

  “Khara Melisandra.”

  “You’re a Melisandra? What are you doing in Velt? You’re southerners, you people.”

  “We’re free farmers,” Khara said. “My father’s estate is twice the size of this filthy little town. And I’ve already told you why I am here.”

  I had no idea what a “Melisandra” was. I knew Khara was lying, and I was astounded to realize that the man did not. Why wouldn’t she tell the truth?

  But I kept silent. Silent as a dog.

  Not that I was resentful.

  The guard shrugged. “I don’t know you. You do not carry the natite pass, so you’ll have to talk to them. Tie your horse up and go into that building. Tell them your story.”

  I sensed Khara’s nervousness, but she obediently tied off Vallino. We stepped through a darkened doorway into a fine two-story building, not leaning, but straight, not shabby, but freshly painted in blue and green. Most of the building extended out over the water, supported on stilts.

  We stood on a narrow platform. It was dark, with just a single guttering torch. The only light came from sun prismed through the water, bouncing curves of light around the walls.

  Immediately before us were four taut ropes running from massive pulleys that hung from the ceiling. Two more humans in green and blue wore bored expressions. As soon as they saw us, they sighed and began hauling on rope ends that slowly turned the pulleys.

  Like some great, sea-dwelling beast, a rusty steel cage rose from the water.

  Tobble stared. Even Khara’s eyes went wide.

  Within that cage I saw a creature from a dream, a fantasy thing made of fish scales and shimmering green skin.

  “That,” said Tobble, “is a natite, Byx.”

  22.

  The Ferry

  The natite was smaller than a human, but larger than a dairne. Its head was shaped like a ship’s bow, a bony ridge down the front separating two huge eyes the deep blue of the sky at day’s end. Its mouth was a triangle, flattened a little at the top, its ears mere filigree placed high on the sides of its head. Below the ears were gills, three flaps of bloodred flesh that extended from the bottom of the ear down the neck.

  I tried not to stare too long at its body. It was vaguely human in shape, thought it would never be mistaken for a human. Green flesh covered its powerful shoulders and chest, and two huge, writhing tentacles rose from the creature’s shoulder blades.

  The natite’s body fused into a sort of fishtail covered in scales. The tail ended in horizontal flukes, but with a nasty surprise: rising between the flukes was a sort of spike perhaps a foot long, an ivory horn that was serrated along the bottom and glittering sharp at the point.

  The natite sat, almost daintily, in a steel chair bolted into the cage. I noticed that the cage extended only on three sides, while the back was open. The cage was meant to protect the natite from—well, from us, I supposed.

  The creature blinked slowly. A translucent membrane covered one eye, then retreated as another membrane lowered over the other eye.

  “Eret wik thung woa chulas scrit?” it said.

  One of the bored humans translated. “Why shall we grant passage over the sea, our home?”

  “We wish to go the isle,” Khara said. She repeated the lie she’d told earlier.

  “Woa eret escapil nyet?”

  This turned out to mean “Why have you no sea pass?”

  “It was destroyed in a fire.”

  The natite considered this. Then, after translation, it said, “You must pay the blood tax.”

  Khara bristled and shook her head, but after three more rounds, the natite was unmoved.

  “What’s the blood tax?” Tobble said, echoing my thoughts.

  “It looks as though you’re about to see,” Khara said grimly. She stepped to the very edge of the platform. The natite leaned in and one of the massive tentacles on its back whipped forward, seizing Khara’s wrist.

  The natite shifted closer, and with a sudden speed that caused me to emit a very undoglike yelp of surprise, it sank the green needle teeth at the end of its tentacle into her wrist.

  Khara flinched at the pain.

  The natite sucked on her wrist for several seconds. Then the tentacle released her and she drew back a wrist covered in slime, with two bloodred punctures.

  “Du aster cun wallek,” the natite said. Translation: “You are free to use the ferry.” Its human servants began winching it back down into the water.

  “They eat blood?” Tobble cried as we stepped back out into the sun, breathing sighs of relief.

  “No,” Khara said. “The natites sample blood. They can pin down elements in it that identify a particular person. Somehow, by means we don’t understand, they can share this information instantly with every other natite in the world. Once they know who you are, if you cross the sea again, they will know you by some obscure natite sense, even long after your wound heals. It’s like having your travel documents.”

  “Did it hurt?” Tobble winced at his own question.

  “A little,” Khara said. “But the pain is not the problem. The problem is that I am now known to the natites. Any time I wish to cross again, they’ll recognize me and know where I am.” In a low voice she added, “I do not wish to be known to anyone, let alone tracked for the rest of my days anytime I travel on water. In the past, I’ve always managed to get hold of a forged sea pass. Usually by way of a hefty bribe. In that case, you don’t need to go through . . . all this. I just didn’t want to risk attempting a bribe, not with you in tow, Byx.”

  We retrieved Vallino, who snorted suspiciously at the slight wound on Khara’s wrist.

  The ferry had two levels. The lower one, in a dark passage, held banks of weary-looking men at their oars. “Who are they?” Tobble asked in a whisper.

  “Indentured servants,” Khara answered, her brow knit in a frown. “Some prisoners, perhaps.”

  We moved on to the flat main deck. It was open to the air, which was calm and cool and almost as crowded as the streets of Velt had been.

  After a while the human crew began casting off ropes, and a deep drumming began. The oars lowered into the water and swept in time to the beats.

  I watched Velt recede as we pulled away, a shabby, wild, dirty place I felt no desire ever to see again. I was more concerned about what lay ahead, and I took advantage of my dog status to scamper up to the bow and look.

  The sea was dotted with all manner of craft, some heading to the isle, some rowing between boats, some hoisting sails en route to the sea.

  But as fascinating as all that was, it was Cora di Schola, growing slowly closer, that captivated me. It was edged by a stone wall, ten feet high at least, punctuated by towers rising twice that height. Beyond the walls were pillared marble buildings with round windows, decorated with stone carved to resemble flames.

  Above all that rose a ziggurat, a rectangular tower atop a circular base level, ringed by a walkway that rose in stairlike levels, higher and higher. The huge temple glowed red in the lowering sun.

  Khara and Tobble joined me. Khara, following my gaze, nodded. Pretending to speak only to Tobble, she explained, “That’s the Pillar of Truth. It’s controlled by the scholars. Each level is devoted to one of the great governing species.”

  “Is there a level for the dairnes?” Tobble asked, as if reading my mind.

  “There was the last time I was here,” said Khara. “But it was mostly just a dusty library. No . . . staff.”

  No dairnes, is what she meant to say, I thought bitterly.

  We ate what little we had and drank from the cistern amidships. When night came, we curled up together at the feet of Vallino. I tried to sleep, but each time I closed my eyes, a wave of despair overtook me. What should I do now? What could I do now?

  On the one hand, I could try to escape again.

  On the other hand, what would happen to Tobble?

  On the one foot, I had nowhere to go, even if I did escape.

  On the other fo
ot, if I did nothing, I was leaving my fate to others.

  I opened my eyes and saw stars, pinpricks in the blanket of night.

  I had nowhere else to be. I had no family to pine for.

  I was alone.

  I had no idea where I was going, or why. I had no plan. I had no goal. I was baggage being escorted by Khara to an end I could not imagine. But part of me, a large part, I am ashamed to confess, did not care.

  I remembered with perfect clarity my father’s whispered words about me: I dreamed she was the last to live.

  The last to live. The endling.

  I pulled the wrinkled map from my pouch. Were there more of me—more dairnes—somewhere in the world? My pack had thought so—hoped so, at any rate.

  But I had no pack anymore.

  And even if I tried to find out if there were more dairnes in the world, did I really want to know the answer?

  When next I closed my eyes, they stayed closed. I dreamed of my mother and my father, of my brothers and sisters.

  But even in my dreams of them, I knew they were no more.

  Part Three

  My Funeral

  23.

  Cora di Schola

  Although the trip took only a few hours, we weren’t able to disembark until the next morning, the water was so crowded with vessels. It was a relief to stand, once again, on dry, unmoving land.

  The port was shaped like a crescent moon, deep and wide, with stone piers jutting far out into the water. At every possible docking point, passenger boats, private yachts, and freighters were tied up two, even three, deep, so that people on the outermost berths had to walk across other boats to reach land. I’d had no idea there were this many ships and boats in all the world, let alone right here.

  “This is far busier than the last time I visited the isle,” Khara said, frowning. “Something’s going on.”

  We pressed our way into the crush of humans and horses. Workers shuffled by, hefting big loads on their backs. Expensively attired nobles rode on palanquins that jostled by the crowd. Horses and donkeys vied for space.

  It had not occurred to me that the isle was also a town. Somehow I’d pictured nothing but libraries full of scrolls, where brilliant minds debated important matters. But of course even scholars needed to eat and sleep and buy clothing. And Cora di Schola wasn’t just any town. It was a town filled to bursting with representatives of the great governing species.

  We hadn’t gone far before a pungent scent struck me with the force of a hammer. A felivet, and close, no less!

  I turned and my blood froze. A huge, sleek, catlike creature, black with golden stripes, sauntered casually between two men who seemed entirely unafraid of it.

  It was one thing to have scented felivets when I’d been with my pack. It was quite another to be within clawing—or chewing—distance of one.

  Tobble and I dropped back in fear, but Khara urged us to keep pace. “There’s no need to be afraid of the felivets here on the isle,” she said. “All species are bound by treaty to avoid violence.”

  Indeed, as we made our slow progress I saw sidewalk cafés where humans sat in chairs while felivets lounged on wooden benches. Their fur varied wildly. I saw single colors like indigo, maroon, and black, along with striped, spotted, and patched coats. But they all shared the same terrifyingly muscular body shape, one that said: I could kill you with a single swipe of my great paw.

  Raptidons were everywhere, too, often perched on T-shaped poles, tearing at animal flesh stuck on skewers. Those, at least, I’d glimpsed before, in my former life. Like felivets, they seemed to come in many variations, but all had massive wingspans, fearsome talons, and hooked beaks that made me shudder.

  We even passed several pools for natites. They lounged in the water, their lower halves submerged, chatting amiably with felivet, raptidon, and human alike.

  I saw no terramants, and to be perfectly honest, I was relieved. The sight of felivets lying within a single great leap of me was disturbing enough. Raptidons, creatures that could easily snatch puppies or badgers to their nests for a quick meal, preened far too close for my comfort. And I was still unsettled by my introduction to the natites. I didn’t need any carnivorous insects to make me nervous. I was plenty uncomfortable already.

  Vallino and Tobble didn’t seem particularly thrilled, either. Both eyed the crowds warily, looking as anxious as I felt.

  “Let’s find a room and a stable for poor Vallino,” Khara said. “I know a place.”

  We left the main street and entered a network of alleys so narrow that Khara had to dismount and lead Vallino through. The horse’s flanks brushed both sides of the stone buildings looming above us.

  We came at last to a large courtyard. On one side was a pretty, whitewashed inn bearing a sign that read The Hanged Cow. A painted illustration softened the name a bit: it showed a cow suspended by a rope around its middle.

  “That’s a tad grim,” I whispered.

  Khara laughed. She untied her bag of belongings from Vallino’s back and held up an index finger. “Wait here,” she instructed. “And don’t talk to anyone. You’ll find that most on the isle, no matter the species, speak the Common Tongue instead of Nedarran.”

  We watched as she slipped behind a stack of wooden boxes piled high at the far end of the courtyard. A few minutes later she emerged, not as Khara the boy, but as Khara the girl. She wore a long blue dress trimmed in white, and her hair hung loose, freshly combed.

  “I see you’re a female again,” I said in a hushed voice. “Must I remain a dog?”

  Khara nodded. “For now.”

  “Arf,” I muttered.

  “Why the change, Khara?” Tobble asked.

  “The isle is more relaxed,” she said. “A place of intellectual freedom where women are treated more equally. At least that’s how it used to be.”

  Khara told Vallino to stay put, and she, Tobble and I entered through a low door. The inn had seemed quiet from the outside, but the interior was bustling, filled with crowded tables and boisterous customers. Two barmaids threaded through the crush of people, carrying pitchers of ale, mead, or cider. The proprietor, a large man with a hairless head, a round belly, and forearms covered in tattoos, rushed the length of the bar, taking orders, pouring, and cleaning.

  Khara received some strange looks as she pushed her way to the bar, perhaps because there were very few women in the room. To me, that seemed far less disturbing than the ten-foot-long felivet lounging on a deep bench against the far wall. The sleek cat seemed to be absorbed in conversation with a grizzled old man.

  I wondered what on earth they could possibly have to talk about.

  “Eldon!” Khara called to the barman. When he didn’t respond, she called again, more forcefully, “Eldon! Over here!”

  The barman turned, registered the source, and grinned.

  “Khara! It’s been a long time.” He lowered his voice. “You still . . . living the high life poaching?”

  “Sadly, yes. Do you miss it?”

  Eldon rolled his eyes. “Gets much wilder here than it does in the forest.”

  “I’m hoping you can help me, Eldon. I need a room for myself, my dog, and my pet wobbyk, and a stable for my horse.”

  Tobble bristled a bit at being described as a pet. I felt no pity: I was being described as a dog.

  “A room?” Eldon was incredulous. “But there isn’t a room for rent anywhere on the isle!”

  Khara frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “This eumony has the town swollen to three times its normal population.”

  “This . . . what?”

  “Eumony. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Eldon, let’s begin again. What is a ‘eumony’?”

  Eldon shrugged and made a face. “A new thing, cooked up by Araktik, the Murdano’s Seer, and the Council of Scholars. It’s a sort of funeral, though the mood so far is anything but sad, as you can see.” He indicated the raucous room.

  “A funeral?” Khara
asked. “Who died?”

  “It’s not a who, it’s a what. An entire species. It’s been announced officially that the dairnes are extinct.”

  Khara blinked.

  Tobble reached a trembling paw for me.

  I yelped and covered it with a bark.

  “It’s a sort of funeral for the species, as I understand it,” Eldon said. “Three days of drinking and carousing. And some solemn speeches, no doubt. But mostly—”

  I heard no more.

  I slipped through the crowd to the courtyard. I found a dark, ivy-laced corner and crouched there.

  I could not seem to stop shivering.

  I could not seem to stop sobbing.

  I had arrived in this place just in time to witness drunken revels for the death of my species.

  Until this moment, I’d feared that I was the last of my kind.

  But I hadn’t truly believed it.

  Now I did.

  I yanked my map from my pouch. I looked at it through tears.

  I saw rivers and valleys, plains and mountains. I saw a moving island in a vast sea.

  I saw a silly drawing by a silly pup, taught by a silly old dairne.

  I saw the truth.

  I was an endling.

  24.

  A Dairne Alone

  I barely spoke after the morning’s revelation, though Khara and Tobble tried, off and on all day, to talk to me.

  We spent much of the day sitting in the courtyard, waiting to see if Eldon could find a place for us to stay. It was early evening before he finally secured the last stall in a filthy stable not far from the inn.

  Once we were settled there, Eldon brought Khara blankets and a basket filled with leftovers from the kitchen: sausage, slices of bread, carrots, goat cheese, white olives, plika fruit, and a jug of water.

  “Wish the accommodations were a mite better,” he said, kicking at the dirty straw.

  “I’m grateful for your help,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”

  Eldon leaned down to pat my muddy head. “Nice doggie,” he said. “Needs a bath, I’d wager.” He straightened. “You’ll be staying for the eumony, then?”