Kings of the North
Page 54
He looked at Orlith. “What can you tell about this fire—what is it?”
Orlith sniffed. “There’s a scent—” He too dismounted and walked forward. “Iron … stone … blood. It has been long indeed since I smelled it—I should know it, but I cannot quite …” He bent to the tracks the armsmasters had found. “Here a half-elf … but this, that wears man’s boots, does not smell like a man, nor does the taig regard it so.”
“What about these marks?” Siger asked. “I can smell something, but I don’t know what.”
Orlith bent to those and then jerked upright. “Singer’s grace! It cannot be … they never come to settled lands anymore—”
“What?” Kieri asked.
“A dragon,” Orlith said. “A dragon was here.”
“A dragon burned this? The Pargunese have a dragon on their side?”
“No! Never!” Orlith glanced at the other elves. “Dragons—adult dragons—are also creations of the First Singer, and they revere life and justice. They do not interfere in human affairs unless humans interfere in theirs, and we did not. But Pargun, it may be, did. Tell me, did you ever hear of dragons’ eggs?”
“If you mean that old folktale where a fool finds a dragon’s egg and tries to sell the jewels inside, yes. But that’s just a story—parents use it to scare their children, but everyone knows there are no dragons anymore. Camwyn got rid of them.”
“Not … quite.” The speaker, barely visible in the gloom of the undergrowth to the side of the road, stepped out into it. Kieri’s height, dressed like any winter traveler at first glance, leather cloak over leather jerkin, close-fitting shirt and trousers, tall boots. High cheekbones, long nose, slightly mottled dark skin, and surprisingly light tawny eyes gleaming from beneath the hood of his cloak.
Carlion, Siger, and two King’s Squires had drawn blades all around Kieri before he could say anything. Kieri noticed the man wore no sword, not even a dagger.
“Dragon,” Orlith said, hardly loud enough to hear.
The man tipped his head to Orlith, then looked back at Kieri. “You weep,” he said. “Do you grieve for the land?”
“Yes,” Kieri said. He did not believe the man was a dragon, though he was strange. Perhaps he was a Kuakgan. “I cannot heal this myself; I was hoping for a Kuakgan to help me.”
The man looked hard at the elves then back at Kieri. “Do you consider the consequences of your acts?”
“Yes,” Kieri said.
“And what did your Sinyi tell you about Kuakkgani?”
“They do not like them, for some quarrel I do not understand.”
“I do,” the man said.
“But the taig’s need is greater than a quarrel,” Kieri said.
“Quarrels are rarely just,” the man said. He glanced back down the road. “Those horses should be farther away.”
“Who are you?” Kieri asked.
“Who are you?” the man answered with a mocking smile. “Do you have authority to demand my name?”
“I am the king,” Kieri said. “If you are human, and in this realm, then yes, I do.”
“Well, king, I am not human, though I take this shape to cause less fear. My name belongs to me alone, but the Sinyin there was correct: I am a dragon. Over whom, I must inform you, you have no authority whatsoever.”
“Did you burn this?”
“No. I stopped it, but not alone.” The man tipped his head back and pulled something from his mouth—longer, impossibly longer. A blackwood bow. “The arrows you found came from this bow, and the woman who sent the arrows into the fire—”
“Died there,” Kieri said. It came out half gasp, half cry.
“No,” the man said. “She did not die.”
“She is alive? Where is she?” Kieri’s skin prickled up with a sudden chill.
“Coming,” the man said. He looked Kieri straight in the face. “She is a very brave person, but she is only half the song. Are you the other half?”
Arian alive—could it be? Arian alive! Cold vanished in a rush of joy that warmed. “Yes,” Kieri said. “I am.”
“She is wiser,” the man said. “But you are not unwise, and you know what she does not. Perhaps you are what the land needs … come near.”
“My lord, no!” his Squires said as he took a step forward.
“I must,” Kieri said.
“I will change, and offer you what I offered her,” the man said. “But those horses—I do not wish anyone to be hurt.”
“Dismount,” Kieri said to the others, “and lead the horses back.”
“You say you care for the taig,” the man said, as the others did as commanded. “What would you give to save the taig?”
“Whatever is necessary,” Kieri said.
“Have all your deeds been just?”
“No,” Kieri said. “And though I regret those that were not, it does not change what came of my injustice.”
“Perhaps indeed you are as wise as Half-Song. Abide there: I change.”
The man’s shape dissolved and then resolidified larger, larger still, darker, the faint smell of hot metal much stronger now. Then the dragon crouched before him, dark as old bronze, each scale distinct, the long snout, the great glowing eyes, the coils of tail.
“Come, now … touch your tongue to mine. Let me taste your justice, O king, and let you taste mine.” Kieri stared a moment as a long red tongue slid out of the dragon’s mouth. The air shimmered above it; the surface looked like red-hot iron, a few flakes of ash on its surface trembling from the heat.
What would you give for the taig? Arian, he was sure, would have risked this and more. He knelt, feeling the heat pouring off the dragon’s tongue; it took all his courage to force his tongue from behind his teeth and touch it.
To his tongue it was hard, barely warm, and tasted of iron and spices. The tongue was withdrawn; as he lifted his head, the dragon winked at him. “You are a man of justice, whom anger no longer rules. Half-Song has chosen well. You will prosper.”
Kieri had just stumbled to his feet when the dragon said, “They are come.” Kieri turned and saw the silvery light of the elvenhome kingdom moving toward them down the road, within it the Lady and many other elves. The light washed out around him; he felt its effect on the taig where he stood, like cool salve on a burn.
Kieri wanted to demand of the Lady where she had been, but the look of grief on her face stopped him. She came and knelt to him, as she had not before. In a voice like liquid silver, she said, “Sir King, I am sorry. I should have been here, to know I was needed and be at your side. I am at your command.”
She looked up then, the beauty of her face astonishing even in that crisis; from her violet eyes a few tears spilled. Despite his anger at her absence, despite the warnings of his sister’s bones, Kieri felt pity for her, an immortal humbling herself before him. She too was a ruler; she was his elder in all things; whatever she had done, it was wrong for her to kneel like that. “Rise,” he said. She stood, graceful as ever, but her shoulders drooped just a little, like a scolded child’s.
She ignored, or did not see, the dragon still clear to Kieri’s eyes in the road. Kieri glanced at the dragon—that eye of flame seemed to mock him—or the Lady. Confusion held him for a moment—what did she mean? He looked from her to the other elves and back at her—at the other elves—before speaking again.
“You know best how to help the taig, which sorely needs your aid,” he said. “But I don’t understand why you didn’t come before.” All the times before, he meant.
“I went beyond the taig’s reach, and was trapped there,” the Lady said. “I was wrong to do so.” Was it really contrition in her voice, or a glamour? He wanted to believe her, but could such pride as he had seen her display before ever be truly humbled? “I would be there yet, ignorant of this attack, and helpless, if not for your betrothed.”
“My betrothed—”
“Unless you regret your choice,” Arian said, stepping out from between other elves. “For my
flight that day—”
At the sight of her, Kieri forgot his concerns about the Lady. “Never,” he said. “I regret only the hours we were not together. When I saw your arrows—I thought you had died—” His voice caught; he did not know which of them had moved, but she stood near enough now he caught the scent of her hair.
“When the taig woke me, that night in Dorrin Verrakai’s steading—” Arian began.
“You went to Dorrin?”
“Time passes,” said the dragon. “And enemies are not far to seek. I have business with them, but you, Sinyi and Sorrow-King and Half-Song, have work to do as well.” It lifted Arian’s bow with its tongue and handed it to her. “You left this behind in the elfane valley.”
“Thank you,” Arian said. “Do you need me?”
“No, Half-Song. He does—” The dragon flicked its tongue toward Kieri.
“Lord dragon,” the Lady said with another bow. She sounded more like her former self, regal and gracious. “Forgive me that I did not see you—”
The dragon cocked its head. “Seeing is not of the eyes only, Lady, as you surely know.”
An expression touched the Lady’s face that Kieri did not recognize. “Lord dragon, I accept your judgment.”
The dragon huffed out a small breath with a hint of sulfur. “I have given no judgment yet, Lady, for the deeds are not yet completed. Have you healed your quarrel with the rockbrothers?”
“Not fully, but I renounce any claim to the rock-mass, as Arian said I must. For the rest, I will meet with dasksinyi when this crisis is over.”
“Excellent. May you prosper, then, as Sinyi should prosper, in harmony and grace.” The dragon vanished; a swirl of ash blew over them all and then settled.
“My lord king,” the Lady said, “you have labored long on a task not entirely yours. I am here now, and many others: let us lift the burden, at least for a night and a day. Rest yourself, you and your betrothed.”
Only elvenhome light gave guidance now, for dark had come, and Kieri could feel the taig reacting to something he thought might be invading troops. But now the Lady spread out her power, reaching to the edge of the forest, and the elves with her joined their power to hers.
“You can see and feel our work,” the Lady said, when he hesitated. “Trust me now: I promise, when you are rested and seek me again, I will come to you, or bring you to me, as the taig needs and the Singer commands.” She looked earnest enough; the other elves nodded. Could he really trust her, changeable as she was? Orlith nodded at him from behind the Lady’s back, and he trusted Orlith now as much as he did any elf.
He had frightened subjects in Chaya who needed him; he had work to do and orders to give. Though he had healed a king and once raised the taig to save a friend, now he felt how much greater was the Lady’s power, and that of the other elves. They could do what he could not. He looked at Arian and wanted nothing more than to reach Chaya in an instant, with her in his arms.
“I will come back,” he said, hoping it was the right decision.
The elvenhome light strengthened, as the Lady turned from him, and he could feel the taig’s anguish ease a little. He turned to Arian. “You have a long tale to tell,” he said. “And we have a long ride this night, so I hope to hear it all.”
On the way back to Chaya, Arian rode double with another Squire until they reached a relay station; then she rode beside Kieri, and the others moved aside enough for them to talk. Arian told her story; Kieri winced at her description of taig-blindness, her realization that the Lady had imposed that taig-blindness, and listened fascinated to her analysis of Dorrin as duke, her introduction of Dorrin to the taig.
“So the Lady is more than fickle,” he said. “She is cruel as well.”
“I am not sure,” Arian said.
“But she hurt you—”
“There is something—the dragon said she had made mistakes in the past, and that she had lost some power when she freed herself from the banast taig. But my feeling is that it is not all her own doing.”
“You grew up here, among elves,” Kieri said. “You are more easily entranced, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Arian said. “Certainly when I was younger, the very thought of the Lady of the Ladysforest … I was awed; we all were. But when she offered to give up her rule—”
“What?”
“There, underground. She did, and most protested, but I saw one or two who smiled before they protested. I had no time to think about it then, but now … It seems to me, Sir King—”
“Kieri. Always Kieri to you.”
“It seems to me her mistakes might be, at least in part, arranged by another. Torfinn of Pargun had his traitors in the family: why not her?”
“You think she bears no responsibility for her deeds? For refusing my requests, for instance?”
“No. I do not condone her fickleness toward you, or her other mistakes, or her neglect of the taig’s need. And she may indeed bear the whole guilt … but perhaps not.”
“Do you believe her expressions of shame and contrition?” Kieri asked.
Arian looked thoughtful. “I believe she does not intend evil. I am not sure she knows what it is until its seed has sprouted and put out leaves.”
“A dangerous ruler,” Kieri said.
“Yes.” Arian rode silently for a time, then said, “I find sorrow in my heart for her. Perhaps because we—I—thought her perfect, robed in elven light, so beautiful, so strong … we wanted her to be what she seemed.”
Kieri, too, rode in silence awhile. “I felt pity only when she knelt to me,” he said finally. “And wondered if she meant me to feel that, or if she felt what she seemed to feel. With elves, so much is seeming, illusions, glamours … I cannot completely trust her, not now.” He glanced at Arian; even in dark night, he was sure of the expression on her face and that it showed exactly what she was. “I trust you,” he said. “You are real.”
It was midmorning the next day before Kieri and Arian rode into the palace courtyard, both stained with soot and ash, thirsty and hungry enough, as Kieri put it, to eat an ox, including the hooves and horns. Whatever the dragon had done when it left them, no more scathefire burned south of the Honnorgat. Low clouds had moved in, promising snow, moisture to ease the burnt ground.
Kieri went up to change; it hurt to know that Joriam was dead, but staying dirty was no honor to him. He relished his hot bath, his clean clothes, the—apparent, at least, however temporary—safety of his kingdom. Outside his window, the first fat flakes drifted down. Dressed, and hungrier than ever, he went downstairs, flanked by Berne and Suriya. He could smell the roast meat, the new bread. Arian came in the front entrance, wearing her Squire’s tabard again, as Garris emerged from his office.
“You’re back,” Garris said to Arian. “Put you back on the rotation?”
“No,” Kieri said, before Arian could answer. He could feel himself grinning, and Arian, pink-cheeked, was grinning, too. “Arian has a special assignment.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Former Marine ELIZABETH MOON is the author of many novels, including Victory Conditions, Command Decision, Engaging the Enemy, Marque and Reprisal, Trading in Danger, the Nebula Award winner The Speed of Dark, and Remnant Population, a Hugo Award finalist. After earning a degree in history from Rice University, Moon went on to obtain a degree in biology from the University of Texas, Austin. She lives in Florence, Texas.
Table of Contents
*
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Dramatis Personae
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Elev
en
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
About the Author