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on wheels. Their hunters flew above upon rocs,
shrieking in the wind, while the rest of the tribe shuffled below
through the mud.
    Laira
brought up the rear as always. Sometimes, walking here at the back,
she had dreamed of slinking behind a tree, running to the hills, even
shifting into a dragon and flying away. But the rocs forever circled
above, and if she lingered too far behind, Zerra would swoop down and
lash her with his crop. And so she walked on, weak with hunger, her
head spinning, following the others. She had not eaten more than
morsels in days, and her belly rumbled, but there was no food to be
found. When they crested a hill lush with grass and bushes, she
picked a few mint leaves and chewed them, staving off the hunger for
a while. When she saw worms in the dirt, she managed to grab one. She
swallowed it down quickly before disgust overwhelmed her.
    That
evening she served the camp again, preparing food, cleaning, washing.
And again she approached Zerra.
    He
sat upon a fallen log thick with mushrooms, gnawing on a bison rib.
Laira stood before him, half his size, a weary little wisp of a
thing. She raised her chin, straightened her back, and said, "Let
me hunt."
    He
clubbed her with the bone, then laughed as she fled.
    "I
will be a huntress," she vowed that night, huddling with the
dogs. Among them she found a bone with some meat still on it, and she
ate the paltry meal. "I am the daughter of a prince. I am
blessed with forbidden magic. I am strong and I will hunt."
    Because
hunting did not only mean honor, a rise in status, and perhaps true
meals and no more beatings. Lying among the dogs, Laira stared up at
the dragon stars.
    Hunting
meant flying.
    She
had never forgotten the beating of her wings, the feel of open air
around her. She had flown only once as a dragon, the day her mother
had died, but the memory still warmed her in the cold.
    "If
I cannot fly as a dragon again," she prayed to those stars, "let
me fly upon a roc, a proud huntress of my tribe."
    For
six nights she approached Zerra, demanding to join the hunters. For
six nights he scoffed, tossed bowls or bones or stones her way, and
laughed at her pain.
    On
the seventh night, she waited until he retired to his tent.
    That
night she approached that tent, the greatest one in the camp, a
towering structure of tiger pelts and cedar branches topped with
gilded skulls. Fingers trembling, Laira did something she knew could
mean death, could mean burning at the stake.
    She
pulled back the leather flap and she stepped into her chieftain's
home.
    He
sat upon a flat stone, polishing his leaf-shaped sword with oil and
rag. None in the Goldtusk tribe knew the secrets of metal; only the
loftiest warriors owned jewelry of gold or knives of copper. Most
still tipped their arrows with flint. A sword of pure bronze,
captured from the corpse of a great champion from the northern
villages, was the most valuable artifact the tribe owned aside from
their gilded tusk. It signified to all that Zerra was mightiest of
his tribe.
    But
I come from a kingdom of bronze, Laira
told herself. Mother
told me that thousands of warriors there wield bronze
khopeshes—great swords shaped as sickles—and that my father leads
them all. I will be brave. I will not fear this man.
    Before
he could rise to his feet and strike her, she spoke.
    "Why
do you hurt me?"
    He
froze, risen to a crouch, and stared at her. He said nothing.
    Her
voice trembled and her knees felt weak, but she would not look away.
She stared into his eyes—one baleful and blazing, the other drooping
in the ruined half of his face.
    "I
did not burn you," she said, voice slurred from the wounds he
had given her. "My mother had the curse. She could become the
reptile. And she paid for her sins. I am not diseased." Her eyes
stung and she clenched her fists, refusing to cry before him. "You
beat me. You starve me. You make me sleep with the dogs. But I am no
reptile. I am not my mother. I have served you well, and whenever