The Offering

When he found the child, he wondered if it had died. There had been no screaming nor crying nor movement that had drawn him to it, and it lay still, wrapped in a tiny swath of rough fabric. He stared at it, himself still as a statue, for several long moments.

A subtle shifting. Tiny breaths.

It lived.

He considered how best to go about moving the little beast. To pick up the small thing with his teeth could work . . . or perhaps the thing would break. No, that did not seem wise. He cocked his head, considering the situation.

He couldn't simply use his snout to roll the thing back to the Den. That would likely cause damage; it had no fur, no scales, no substance. No, the thing would have to be carried, and the only way to do that would be with the mouth.

He unfurled his dark tongue and snaked it out between his jaws. Gently, he slid it under the thing, disliking the feeling of pine needles and dirt sticking to his tongue's wet underside. It was tough from years of using it to clean his own scales, and it was strong. He lifted the child with ease and folded the sides of his tongue up so the little being wouldn't slide off. Then, cautiously, he pulled it back into his mouth, which he left awkwardly hanging open.

Already, he could feel a slight ache in his jaws from the held position and a pooling of saliva as his body reacted to the presence of something where food was meant to be. A disturbing image of accidentally swallowing the thing flashed through his mind, and the urge to bite down was stronger than he would have liked despite a complete lack of desire to eat the little creature. Muscle memory and habit were difficult to control.

The prickles of the pine needles he had accidentally scooped up were irritating, and he wanted to spit them out. He tried to sigh, but felt a heat rise in his belly as he did so. It wouldn't do to crisp the creature.

As he turned to walk back in the direction he had come from, he saw the other dragon standing silently between the tall, widely spaced pines. His dark green scales glittered, and silent smoke curled from his nostrils.

The dragon with the child in his mouth eyed this smaller green dragon with something close to sympathy, before jerking his head, telling the young one to get a move on.

They passed each other without another glance, and he took the still, sleeping child back to the Den.

17 YEARS LATER

The thing about cleaning dragon scales is that, to do so properly, you need a great many tools. For long-neglected scales, you'll need a chisel or a pick to break away the tough film that creeps over the hard surfaces and dulls their shine.

To make the process easier, you can also use a brush to paint a mixture of elderberry juice and crushed-up mint onto the Creep, as I call it. This combination serves as a dissolving agent, allowing you to remove the grime with a hard-bristled brush once the mixture has soaked in.

You'll also need long-handled tools for the areas where the scales overlap, which are difficult to reach, and softer, finer brushes for scales around the eyes, nostrils, ears, and shoulder blades, where the scales are smaller, softer, and more easily damaged.

Soft fabrics dipped in my own special combinations of herbs serve to polish the scales until they are as bright and sparkling as the jewels and precious metals with which both the humans and dragons are fascinated. Mosses can be used when fabrics are scarce, but they are far less efficient and tend to shred on the scales’ edges, making more work for me as I sweep the loose bits away.

One final and especially important tool for the cleaning of dragons is patience. Dragons are, of course, extremely large, so cleaning the scales all over their bodies takes a great deal of time.

Dragons are majestic. They are noble and, as they constantly remind me, they outlive humans by at least fifty years and are the wisest creatures on the planet because of that. Despite this, though, they are not patient.

Moreover, they are vain.

"Why have you not yet finished my cleaning," comes a raspy voice from behind me, "if you're just going to sit there all day playing with strings?"

I sigh. "I was just seeing which brushes are still usable. As you know, I have to collect new supplies from the city if I am to perfect your scales as you desire. My polishing silks are all worn apart, and my brushes--" I hold up the one in my hand for emphasis "--haven't been replaced in the last year."

The old dragon, clearly disliking my tone, pulls herself up. The flash of her yellow eyes, the razor-sharp glint of her scales, and the spiked horns are terrifying. Just as I can never grow used to the intense beauty of her darkly red scales or her pattern-pierced wings, so too can I never quite keep a shiver from running up my spine when I see her this way.

"Do not speak to me that way, girl," She hisses. "Do you forget your place?"

I lower my eyes and purse my lips. "I do not."

"Good. Then go your way, and bring back all you require, along with those things the others have requested." Her tail whips around, halting just in front of my feet, and I pick up the satchel that she has snagged with the spike on the end of the long appendage. I lift the flap, eyeing the gold inside. "Will it be enough?" She rumbles.

"It will."

"Then go. The Den moves on tomorrow afternoon. Be back by then. Although, I do not suppose you will attempt to spend the night in the city again." Her lip curls in a menacing smile.

I raise my chin to stare into her eyes, but I cannot reply. I push the brush from my hand into the satchel, throw the strap over my shoulder, turn on my heel, and march toward the forest that separates the current resting place of the Den from the human capitol city, S'eariunt.

As I walk, I pull my long hair out from underneath the satchel strap and let it swish freely onto my back. Most days I would pull it up or braid it out of the way, but not on days when I go into the cities. These outings happen only once or twice every few months, and I can bear to leave my hair loose that often.

The journey through the forest is refreshing. Whenever I can get away from the Den, I feel peaceful. With the Den, I am alone in the middle of a thriving world of others. With the trees, or between the grasses of the open plains, I am alone because there is no one else around.

The trees here are the largest I have ever seen. I have never before been to this part of the kingdom; the Den has been traveling elsewhere. I surmise that the capitol city will be a sight to behold, but I wonder if it will be able to compete with the pines that tower around me, each nearly five feet in diameter, each stretching up higher than any bird dares fly. The needles create a slippery carpet beneath my feet, and I breathe in their pleasant scent.

The trees become smaller and I assume I am nearing the forest's edge, along with S'eariunt's gate. My steps flag. There was a time when, this close to a city, I would begin to soar, spirits heightening as I prepared for the sights, sounds, and adventures within the walls. Since the events of Mesal, though, my fervor for city life has dimmed. I had wanted the city then, wanted it so badly. But it did not want me.

I slip from the forest and onto a path that leads to the gates. I gaze at the city before me, and just a sliver of my old wonder begins to work its way back into my mind. I can't help it. There are many others on the path, for it is the harvest season, and goods are flowing into and out of every city like living rivers. Even before passing through the gates, I am surrounded by the bustle of other beings who walk on two legs and wear clothes made of fabric, a rare sight in my life. When a young man pulling a cart calls a greeting to me, I give a wave before patting my hair down against my neck. I do not shy away from them, for they do not frighten me, but neither do I truly join their lively stream. I do not fear them, but I know they will fear me.

Passing through the gates, I cannot help gawking at all that I see. I've been in cities before, but none where the buildings march up and down the roads with such grandiose precision. I've smelled the spices of cooking tents and stalls, but never so many, never all at once. A smile creeps onto my face. I cannot stop it.

I see that I have caught the eye of that young carter again, and I force my smile away, patting down my hair. I bustle past him and begin my work.

There is no practical reason for my tasks to take long, but then, there never is a practical reason to wander around a city and marvel. Wonder is impractical, and today, I revel in it.

So often, my life is driven by practicality. The dragons cannot clean their scales nearly well enough with just their tongues, so I developed methods to return their jeweled armor to a polished shine. The dragons found and raised me, so I owe them my life. The dragons need all the food they can find, so I hunt, gather, and cook for myself. The dragons need balms and salves for their mildewing wings, so I go purchase from the human healers. The human healers do not speak the draconic tongue, so the older dragons taught me the human language. Everything is as it must be and no other way, for that is the life I lead.

Here, though, in a world of people who look like me but whose minds are beyond my understanding, impracticalities prevail. No one needs a bejeweled sword, fifteen different varieties of rice, or a pet monkey, but I see all of these things. My simple, rough clothing fits my needs well enough, but the people here wear whites that will stain in a second, tight leathers that don't allow for mobility, and smiles that can't possibly account for the blandness of life.

When I am with them, I become intoxicated. In the past, this led to conversations, acquaintances, and day-long adventures with people I hardly knew. Since Mesal, I am more cautious. I know now that, if they know me, they turn away my conversation, shun my acquaintance, send me off without ceremony.

I hesitate even to ask a question of the kind vendor who offered me a fair price for new silk bolts. I stand for a moment, debating whether I should even speak, but despite what I know, I cannot bring myself to go back to the Den just yet. This human world is not mine, I know that now. But I cannot force away my feelings that it should be mine, and so I must stay a little longer.

"Sir," I begin, using the form of address the old dragons taught me. I try to dull the hissing accent I have developed. "I am only in this city for one day. I know there is much to see, and I don't have time to explore it all. If I can only do one thing . . . what should it be? What makes this place . . . " I search for the right word, knowing the right one in draconic but not the human language. " . . . this place?"

He smiles, carefully wrapping the silks and slipping them into my outstretched satchel.

"If you can only see one thing, it should be The Offering."

I tilt my head. This is a word I do not know. "The Offering?"

"Yes. There's no other like it in any human city. You'd have to look almost anywhere else except here to find one, usually."

"What is it?" I ask.

He smiles again. This expression looks so much better on humans than dragons; the teeth are not so intimidating.

"If I told you, I'd ruin the surprise. It's nearby, though." He hands me the satchel and points upward, where the road rises away from his shop on an incline. "At the top of this hill is a huge city square. Beyond it is the palace, but in its center is The Offering. You'll want to see that, miss, if you're here for just one day."

"Thank you," I say, lifting the satchel strap over my head and brushing my hair back into place before I turn away from him.

I don't know what I was expecting, but when I reach the square at the top of the road, my feet stop moving and my heart begins thudding.

The square is indeed huge, almost a quarter of the size of the clearing in which the Den is currently located. It is tiled with exquisitely patterned bricks and lined with important looking shops and homes. A road opposite the path I am on leads directly to a magnificent structure, larger than any building I have ever seen before. But that structure cannot hold my attention because, between it and me, there is a cage made of beautifully and intricately twisted metal.

And in that cage—

In that cage is the greenest, most dejected looking dragon that I have ever seen.

I stare. I have never seen a dragon contained. Never.

Dragons are graceful in their movements until they attempt to travel any meaningful distance. Their movements are jerky; anyone who has seen a dragon travel quickly has probably laughed at its lopsided gait. They are huge beasts. When the Den travels, it makes for quite a sight as they amble along. Still, they need to roam. They do not stay in any place too long, needing to experience all of the lands and regions the kingdom has to offer. They like to see new things, be in new places.

The Den always travels together, as a family. They never leave any of their kind behind. When a dragon dies, the mourning process is short and fierce, because dragons do not know how to say goodbye.

Yet here in this city is a dragon. Alone.

I approach the cage, noting that although there are people milling around it, marveling at the beast inside, none of them go too near. It's not until I'm closer that I notice several uniformed men stationed near the cage, keeping back anyone who ventures too close.

I step up near one of these men, but not past him. He glances sideways at me, and I give him a nod before focusing my eyes on the creature.

Although the cage is large enough to offer him room to pace around a bit, he is curled on his stomach. His eyes are open, and one is not too far from me, but I do not think he sees me.

I know this dragon is male from the pattern of spikes that runs down his back. The females do not have these, which makes them easier to clean.

With this thought, I look more closely at his emerald green scales. I can imagine how they might sparkle in the sun if he were not caught in the shadow of this prison, but as it is, they are dark. I can see the Creep overtaking many of them, and his wings are as limp looking as any I have seen. I imagine that, if he's been here for a long time, the mildew must be setting in, as it always does.

His eyes, his scales, his spirit. I can see so clearly that they are all dull, faded.

I turn to the guard. "Excuse me. How did this dragon come to be here?"

The guard seems surprised at my question. "He's The Offering," the man says. When I still look confused, he repeats himself. "The Offering. He was offered."

"Ah," I say. I look again at the dragon. "Why is he in a cage?" I try to keep my building rage away from edges of my voice.

The man stares at me like I'm an imbecile. "Look at him," he says. "Do you want that thing freely roaming the streets of this city?" He shakes his head. "We keep him here as he is meant to be here, but we know better than to leave him be."

"I see."

I don't.

I wish that I could question this guard better, understand what is going on, but in all honesty, I don't know what to say. I rarely have a chance to have conversations, and when I do, they are with dragons who don't much care for my thoughts. I don't know how to get what I need from this man, and I don't understand human customs.

I look at the dragon again, though, and I realize that I don't care about human customs. That dragon should not be here.

"Would you like me to clean his scales?"

The man, who has begun walking away, turns back to me.

"I beg your pardon?"

"His scales," I say. "Would you like me to clean them?" I open my satchel, showing him its contents. "I have all the necessary supplies."

This time, he does not even try to hide his incredulity. "Girl, what are you talking about? You want to go into that cage?" He shakes his head, calling to one of his fellow guards. "She wants to clean the dragon!"

The other man walks over, his head cocked in confusion. "What?" He looks at me. "Young lady, what would you know about dragons?" He laughs, as if he thinks I'm joking.

"I know he needs tending to," I say. "Look at the way his scales are filmed over, see?" I point. "I have everything he needs here. And I know how to do it."

"How?" The first man scoffs.

I hesitate, but looking at those vacant yellow eyes forces me to action yet again. I swing the satchel off my shoulder, turn my back to the guards, and sweep my hair to the side. I hear them gasp.

I do not know what the tattoo on the back of my neck looks like. The dragons do not have mirrors, and of course I cannot see back there. I didn't even know it was there until the disaster at Mesal.

Back then, I had decided, although the dragons had told me all my years that I owed them my life and service, that I would prefer to live among creatures like myself. When I went into the city Mesal for supplies, I decided not to come back. At first, I enjoyed my time there. I found a place to spend the night, met some other young people, and was invited to an evening of dancing. As I spun about, my loose hair had become too unwieldy, so I swept it up atop my head, revealing my neck. Before I knew it, the dancing had stopped, my new friends had distanced themselves from me, the room I had reserved was denied to me, and I was swept from the city.

When I asked the Grand Dragon about it, she had looked at me with something that was nearly sympathy.

"You are marked," she said. "You were marked before we found you. The mark means that you are ours. The humans will not have you."

I turn once more to face the guards. "As you can see," I say, "I am marked. It means that I belong to the dragons. I live amongst them. I can help him."

They are wary of me. I can see it in narrowed eyes and tight lips. But, amazingly, they do not ask me any more questions. They lead me to a door in the cage, put a key in a lock, and usher me in.

As the door clangs shut behind me, the dragon stirs. He shakes his head, blinks his bleary eyes, and rises, facing me.

He is smaller than every other dragon I know, but he appears to be into his young adulthood, unlikely to grow much more.

I hold his gaze, waiting for him to speak first, as I have been taught. He is the dragon, I his human.

But he does not speak. The interest that flickered in his eyes for a moment when he saw me in his space dies down, and he begins to turn away.

"Greetings," I say in the draconic tongue, and his head whips back around, the flames in his eyes suddenly blazing.

"What did you say?" Smoke curls from his nostrils, the first sign of fire I've seen from him yet.

"Apologies," I say. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn."

He shakes his head, tilts it, confused.

"No. You speak the language of . . . of the dragons."

"I do."

"How?"

"I have lived with them my whole life." I step closer and smile, a gesture I don't usually make toward dragons. Those in the Den don't wish for any affection or comfort from me. "I'm Kazatil."

He becomes still as a statue. It takes him a moment to speak again. "You are the Kazatil?"

I smile again, beginning to worry. Has his confinement damaged his reasoning? "Not the Kazatil. That's just my name. Kazatil."

Suddenly, he moves closer to me, lowering his voice, as though the guards outside might understand us despite our separate language.

"Girl, do you not know what your name means in our language?"

I bring my eyebrows together. "I did not know it had meaning. I suppose I simply thought it sounded nice."

He shook his head. "Do you know what those human guards call me? It is one of only a few phrases of their language that I have come to understand."

"They call you The Offering," I say, not sure what he wants.

The smoke unfurling itself from his nostrils thickens. "They do," he says. "Our word in draconic for that, our word for--" He struggles to pronounce it, "--offering . . . it's kazatil."

As I look at him, my eyes widen. "What?"

He lowers his voice again, speaking intensely. "When I was young, I was exchanged by my Den for a human child. It is part of an ancient ritual, part of what is called the Dragon Festival. I do not know how it started, but each race offers up one of its own. Each race presents an offering, a kazatil."

He stares me down, daring me to misunderstand.

"I . . ." he waits. "I was . . . given up? Sent to the dragons as a child?"

He nods.

"And you, you were too?"

He hesitates. "It was different for me. The humans choose their offering through a random lottery, and a child is sent away before it knows any different. But dragons . . . dragons never leave anyone behind. They always slow to the pace of the weakest link."

He shuffles the useless flaps on either side of his body, those appendages that no dragon has a use for. "I was that link," he said. "And when they had to choose one of their own to offer . . ."

"They chose you," I said.

"They chose me."

I expect him to be upset, but instead, his eyes are burning with excitement and he moves closer to me. Where he was sluggish and forlorn only minutes ago, now he is full of life, burning with a plan.

"Kazatil," he says with intensity, "I have been waiting for you my whole life."

"What?" My head is spinning. I don't know what's happening.

"Kazatil," he says again. "The Dragon Festival is ancient. No one believes it anymore, but its rumored that long, long ago, dragons could fly."

I stare.

"But they could not do it alone," he continues. "They could only fly with the help of a human, a human so like to them that their souls could combine as one." He stares. "Kazatil. Offering. You are me."

And in that moment, I understand.

"Offering," I whisper. "Have you ever wished to be free?"

He looks up. Above us, there is no roof to the cage. The bars forming the walls were simply made high enough that he cannot jump over them.

In a flash, I jump onto his back, and he unfurls his wings. Something deep in my gut pounds downward, like a piece of my spirit has broken off and gone into him. At the same time, a feeling of something comes from him to me.

He leaps into the air and widens those useless wings, and I strain this newfound spark within me.

And we fly.