The Season of Dragons

By the time summer, once a welcome guest, had planted itself firmly in place and become just another part of ordinary life, Vesta—who still spent more of his hours away from camp than in it—was only now beginning to learn what summer on the Steppe truly meant.

"Everything here is going to become cheese."

Altaira had taken on the role of teacher.

"You prepared all of this while I was away from the tribe?"

Even at a glance, the quantity was enormous. A sound of genuine wonder slipped out of him.

Altaira answered by rolling her arms in wide circles, as if to say her shoulders were aching from the work.

"It was no small labor, I'll tell you that."

"You've worked hard."

"Oh, please. You've had it far worse, Vesta. You can come closer, you know."

"May I?"

The cheese was packed into cloth sacks. From the way those sacks hung, heavy and slack, they had not been sitting there for a mere hour or two. When he drew near, the smell of milk rose to meet him.

"So this is steppe cheese."

"It's still a bit early to call it cheese."

Altaira began untying the cloth bundles one by one. Vesta and the other elves stepped in to help.

"Do people in the Empire enjoy cheese as well?"

That, at least, he could answer with confidence.

"Of course. There's no Imperial alive who dislikes cheese."

Flavor aside, it was regarded as excellent food even in terms of nourishment. How else would it have ended up in the supply rations of Imperial soldiers? Gladiators, whose lives ran remarkably parallel to a soldier's, had trained their bodies on cheese as well.

"Though it wouldn't be the same kind of cheese."

Imperial cheese was made from sheep's milk and figs. Vesta did not know the principle down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to its bones, but he knew at least this much: some property in fig juice caused milk to clot. And that clot became cheese.

There are no figs growing on the Steppe, so they must use some other method.

"Have you ever made cheese yourself, Vesta?"

"Never once."

He had spent his days locked in the arena. There had been no leisure for such things.

"When you stir the milk as it boils, the solids separate. We gather those solids and pour them into these cloth sacks."

Those solids were called curds, though Altaira did not take the explanation that far.

"To drain the moisture?"

The answer seemed to please her. Altaira smiled at him, soft and warm. He felt oddly bashful for no good reason. Perhaps because she was a woman raising a child near his own age, she had a way of drawing him into a gentle, enveloping atmosphere. For a boy who had grown up without parents, it was an unfamiliar feeling.

"Yes. Once you've wrung out all the moisture, it finally becomes Aruits."

Aruits, one might say, was something like powdered milk.

"Will this do?"

The elves came back carrying wooden boards.

"This should be plenty."

Altaira sat down in front of a board and demonstrated in person.

"Now it's time to knead. If we had flour, it would bind more easily."

When she opened the cloth and tipped it out, something that truly deserved the name powdered milk spilled forth. Altaira gathered it in her hands and worked it into dough.

"Press it into the mold... ta-da!"

She beamed as she held up the finished piece. Perhaps it was because elves were an ageless people, but the way she smiled with such open delight made her look like a young girl.

Cheese made by an elf.

To some, it would be a legendary food, worth a fortune and then some. To at least one person, it certainly would.

His master's words rose unbidden.

Anyway.

The dough Altaira had made was still a stretch to call cheese.

"You don't eat it like this, do you?"

"Of course not. We have to spread the dough on the tent roofs and let it dry."

"You dry it in the sun?"

It was a cheese eaten only after it had dried hard as stone, she told him. Bite down, and it did not squash—it shattered into powder.

"Cheese that hard... that's remarkable."

Honestly, he had trouble even picturing it.

"We call it Aaruul."

"What does it taste like?"

"Tart. Addictive, actually."

The more he heard, the more it sounded like an entirely different food from Imperial cheese. The Empire's cheese leaned salty rather than sour, and the longer it aged, the more a smoked, almost peppery heat rose through it. Gladiators had eaten it with wine to celebrate their victories—inside that narrow world of theirs, at least.

And then they went back out to fight again.

In a way, cheese had been a symbol of victory as well.

Vesta rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward.

"I'll give it a try as well."

"By all means."

Listening to Altaira's instructions, he began to help with the kneading. All he managed to produce were rather sorry-looking lumps of dough.

"We make all sorts of cheeses besides Aaruul. Urum from the milk foam—that's a cream cheese—and even Baslag, which is closer to butter."

Baslag, she told him, would likely sit most easily with him.

"It's a cheese that slices thin and goes well with meat."

"That does sound like a more familiar flavor."

Once it was finished, she said, she would set a few pieces aside for him.

"Thank you for thinking of me."

"Of course. You need to grow up big and strong."

At least as tall as Ashtien, she added without the slightest hesitation.

That won't be easy. Ashtien is so tall to begin with.

She stood taller than most Imperial men.

"You don't need to worry. I'm sure you will."

If he ever did, Ashtien would no longer be able to mash his hair down and rummage through it at will.

Not that I dislike it.

Still, there were times it felt as though he were being treated like a child, and that sat poorly with him. It was a little embarrassing, too.

"The Khan is surely waiting for that day as well."

Altaira's eyes sparkled as she said it. Vesta did not answer. He only nodded.

He found Ashtien on a hill overlooking the tribe.

Her face was unreadable, emptied of feeling, as she gazed down over the people she ruled. In truth, she was the sort of person who showed that quiet, composed face far more often than a smile.

"Ashtien."

At the sound of Vesta's voice, she turned her head.

"Oh—and here I was hoping to play truant."

A soft puff of laughter. It felt warm. That laugh was a different color from Altaira's. There was a red in it, or perhaps a pink. Vesta thought so, at least, to himself.

"How did you know I was here?"

"If I said someone told me, that would rather spoil it, wouldn't it?"

"It would. I would rather it weren't so."

"Then it isn't. I just..."

"Just?"

Vesta did not answer at once. Ashtien pressed him.

"Juuust?"

"I just knew, that's all."

He hoped it would not sound careless. Fortunately, she seemed satisfied.

"Hoh. Is that so. You simply knew..."

She was only turning his own words back over, and yet he felt strangely embarrassed. Vesta changed the subject.

"What were you doing up here?"

"Nothing in particular. I was looking down over the tribe."

Vesta moved to stand beside her, curious about the view she had been watching. He took in the same landscape. Ashtien took in the boy who had come to stand at her side.

Fluffy.

He looks even fluffier than usual today.

Ashtien's hand crept up in secret. The boy before her was a very swift quarry, and even Ashtien, unmatched as she was, had to take care.

In a flash—

"Ack—!"

Ashtien ruffled Vesta's hair without mercy.

"How dare you be so insolently fluffy!"

"What does insolently fluffy even mean..."

His hair a wreck, Vesta muttered under his breath.

"Heh. It means I like it."

"...Fine."

His sulkiness did not last long. Before long the two of them were talking again, looking down over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the tribe.

"That's Uushun."

"Mm. Playing with the children, as always."

"She's a good person. Truly."

Uushun's laughter carried all the way up the hill.

"And over there..."

"Rahan. The one beside him is Asmur."

"You can see all that from here?"

"I have good eyes."

Rahan climbed down from his horse without Asmur's help, a little clumsily. Vesta could not see it well, but Asmur had surely been watching that descent with worry. She started toward Rahan where he stood on two feet.

"Ah..."

"..."

Asmur caught Rahan's head as if gathering him into an embrace, and kissed him. It was no modest kiss.

"Mm."

The air turned awkward for no good reason. For the sake of his friend's privacy, Vesta made a determined effort to look elsewhere.

"Haha—there's Bia over there."

"......"

"Haha. Ha..."

A touch—

It was not a sensation he could call purely soft, but it was vividly, unmistakably there. Ashtien's hand had closed around his.

"You only need one hand to point at something. Isn't that so?"

"R-right."

Vesta pressed his lips together, then opened them again.

"Ash—"

A sudden rush of wind.

What kind of gale is this?

It was no ordinary gust. Vesta pulled Ashtien in close. Was it the thought that he had to protect her?

From that hold, he turned his eyes to the sky.

"A dragon."

A majestic ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠presence cutting across the heavens came into view. It was flying very high, and even that was enough to raise a gale on the ground.

So that's a dragon.

"How does a thing like that even take to the sky?"

"Who can say. Not something a person would know."

Ashtien's voice had sunk low. She sounded as though she were worrying over something.

"It is the season for dragons to come, but they have never passed this way before. Is this an omen of fortune, or of ill...?"

Something may happen before long.

"Are you all right?"

"Ah. Yes. I am fine."

She set her heart in order, so that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the unease would not color Vesta as well.

"Indeed. What meaning has a dragon soaring so high for mere people. More than that—"

She was still half-gathered in his arms.

"You meant to protect me, did you?"

"...Of course. And just so you know, don't tease me."

"Hardly."

So you take my worries away.