Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “I didn’t like his face,” said Aeliana.

  Gregor snorted, once. “And you left a fake skull mask behind. The Matriarch was not happy. You’ve thrown in with the Drakocenti, haven’t you?”

  Aeliana gave him a thin smile. “That’s only half-right. Suffice it to say, the Drakocenti are a creation of my new master.”

  “And who is your new master?” said Gregor. “Master Cyprian of the Scepter Bank? Something of a step down from the Matriarch of the Red Family, I would think.”

  “No,” said Aeliana. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next, Gregor. You will take me to the Matriarch. I have an offer from my new master for her.”

  “Oh?” said Gregor. “No, I don’t think so. I have a better idea. You’ll get up and leave. I’ll follow you, kill you, and take your head to the Matriarch. Then I will receive great rewards for your death.” He smirked. “Unless you want to have another shag. For old time’s sake. The alley would serve, but I could take you right here on the table while the crowd watches, just like the last time.”

  A wave of visceral loathing for Gregor rolled through her.

  “A compromise, then,” said Aeliana. “We’ll go into the alley together. I will show you the sign of my new master, and after I do, you’ll want to take me to the Matriarch at once.”

  “Very well,” said Gregor. He drained the last of his wine and set his cup aside. “I have been busy lately, and I would enjoy some amusement. Let us see the sign of your new master.”

  She read the truth in his eyes. He would follow her into the alley and let her say whatever she wanted. Then he would attack her and kill her. Unless he managed to overpower her first, and then he would force himself on her.

  But Aeliana thought not.

  The Mark of the Herald would persuade him otherwise.

  And if not, well…the dark soulblade on her hip was hungry, she would enjoy killing Gregor, and there were other members of the Red Family she could approach.

  Aeliana rose, and Gregor followed her across the common room. She pushed her way through the kitchen door. The cooks turned angry glances in their direction but subsided at Gregor’s scowl. Aeliana walked into an alleyway that stank of urine and rot, took a few steps, and turned.

  Gregor waited, hand resting on his sword hilt. His expression was relaxed, but she saw the tension in his stance.

  “Well?” he said.

  “After I betrayed the Red Family and left Cintarra,” said Aeliana, rolling up her right sleeve, “I wanted vengeance on Ridmark Arban for the murder of my father.” Gregor gave her an odd look. No doubt he was trying to figure out why she was rolling up her sleeve. “I needed someone with the power to oppose him, someone who hated him as well.”

  Gregor snorted. “And just who would that be?”

  Aeliana touched the inside of her arm. “I went to Urd Morlemoch, and I came out again.”

  The Mark of the Herald appeared on her right forearm, glowing with blue fire, the flames spreading up her arm and over her fingers. Gregor took an alarmed step back, drawing his sword a foot or so from its scabbard.

  “My new master,” said Aeliana, “is the Warden of Urd Morlemoch.”

  “Are you mad, girl?” snapped Gregor. “You know that the Matriarch hates the Warden. Do you have any idea what she will do to you for this?”

  “She will speak to me,” said Aeliana. “The Warden has a message for the Matriarch. He is willing to forgive the past if she will perform one small service for him.”

  That was a lie, of course. The Warden had no interest in reconciling with the Matriarch. In truth, the Warden did not care about the Matriarch, who likely thought about the Warden far more than the Warden ever thought about her. The Warden was preparing to reshape the cosmos, to correct its flaws and make it anew. The Matriarch was hiding like a terrified child in Cintarra, playing her pathetic little murder games with the Red Family and hoping that her enemies never found her.

  But those little murder games would be useful. And while the Warden did not care about the Matriarch, he never forgot a grudge. Aeliana expected her master would be pleased with what she intended.

  Gregor said nothing, his sword still half-drawn.

  “I imagine the Matriarch will be annoyed,” said Aeliana, “if you kill an emissary from her oldest enemy. Especially since the Warden might take offense…and the Matriarch would blame whoever was stupid enough to kill the emissary.”

  “Mhor damn your bones, girl,” hissed Gregor, and he slammed his sword back into its scabbard. “Very well. You shall have your wish. Follow me, and I shall take you to the Matriarch.”

  Aeliana hid her smile and followed Gregor.

  They walked through the Western City, heading to the southwestern corner of Cintarra. Many artisans and craftsmen lived in this district. Most of them dwelled in apartments over their workshops, but some had grown prosperous enough to have mid-sized domi of their own. They were hardly comparable to the great mansions in the Eastern City, but next to a cottage in the countryside, it was a palace.

  Gregor stopped before one of those houses. It was four stories tall, built of red brick, and it looked pleasant and stately.

  “Wait here,” Gregor ordered.

  He walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened a crack, and Gregor spoke with someone inside. The door opened wider, and Gregor went through it, closing it behind him.

  Aeliana waited. To amuse herself, she looked at the windows, noting how the shutters eased open, how the hidden crossbowmen took aim. She counted four of them before she gave the exercise up as pointless.

  Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed, and then Gregor returned, accompanied by two younger men she did not recognize.

  “Your request has been granted,” said Gregor, voice curt. “You will surrender all your weapons.”

  “Of course,” said Aeliana. She drew the dagger from her belt and the hidden knives in her boots and passed them over. One of the younger men took the blades. Neither Gregor nor the other assassins noticed the dark soulblade. The scabbard the Theophract had made for the weapon was powerful enough to obscure the weapon from the Keeper’s Sight, so it certainly would hide the blade from the mundane vision of Gregor and his men.

  Would it work on the Matriarch?

  Aeliana was about to find out.

  But she suspected the Theophract’s magic was stronger than the Matriarch’s.

  “Follow,” ordered Gregor.

  Aeliana walked behind him to the door. The two younger men fell in behind her, no doubt ready to kill her if she fled. They went through the door, past an entry hall, and into a large dining room that had been set up as a throne room. A half-dozen assassins of the Red Family stood near the walls, and Aeliana recognized some of them. She could not mistake the hatred on their faces.

  The Matriarch of the Red Family sat on a throne at the far end of the room, her void-filled eyes drilling into Aeliana.

  The dark elven noblewoman wore a gown of midnight blue with crimson highlights, her pale face stark and alien, her eyes filled with a bottomless black void. Power hung around her like a cloak, and her black hair had been braided into an intricate crown. She was a figure to inspire awe, and when Aeliana had first met the Matriarch as a child, she had been terrified, though she had taken care not to show that fear in front of her father.

  But now…

  One of the powers of the Mark of the Herald let her sense the strength and nature of magical spells, and she felt the spells around the Matriarch. Almost all the dark elf's strength went into spells of concealment and hiding. The rings on her long fingers had been enspelled to obscure her from magical observation. The Matriarch was powerful, but she was a coward. Indeed, it was the source of her title. In ancient days, she had slaughtered her entire family to escape from the urdmordar, and so in mockery, the dark elves had hung the title of Matriarch on her.

  “The traitor returns,” said the Matriarch, scorn dripping from her beautiful, alien voice. “But you should k
now that I have no mercy for traitors, Aeliana Carhaine. I trained you in my Family as a favor to your father. And after your father failed, I gave you a place in the world. And in repayment, you betrayed me and fled like the cowardly dog you are.”

  For an instant blinding rage rolled through Aeliana, and she wanted to draw the dark soulblade and attack. She forced back the impulse. Not yet. She would almost certainly be overwhelmed and killed if she attacked now.

  “I haven’t returned to seek mercy, Matriarch, for I have no need of it,” said Aeliana. She noted that the Matriarch hadn’t noticed the dark soulblade. The Theophract’s magic was indeed powerful. “Rather, I’ve come with an offer from the Warden of Urd Morlemoch.”

  She felt the gaze of the assassins, felt them tensed to attack.

  “The Warden,” said the Matriarch, derision in her tone. “The Warden would have no use for you, broken child. Nor would you survive the journey to Urd Morlemoch and back.”

  Aeliana smiled. “There is no need to take my word for it, Matriarch. See for yourself.”

  She lifted her right arm. The assassins tensed, and Aeliana touched her right forearm. The Mark of the Herald appeared, shining with blue light, and the blue fire spread up her hand and arm. The brothers of the Red Family leveled crossbows in her direction, and others drew swords and held daggers ready to throw.

  The Matriarch went motionless as a corpse, though her fingers seemed to sink into the arms of the chair.

  “That is the magic of the Warden,” said the Matriarch. “That is the touch of his power. I would know it anywhere. What is the old devil doing?”

  “It is the Mark of the Herald,” said Aeliana, “for I am the Warden’s Herald, and I come to you with an offer.” That was only half-true. She was the Warden’s Herald, but a Herald of Ruin, of the destruction and remaking of the cosmos.

  “And what does the Warden of Urd Morlemoch ask of me from within his prison?” said Matriarch.

  “Chaos,” said Aeliana.

  “What manner of chaos?” said the Matriarch.

  “The Warden wishes the city of Cintarra thrown into chaos and disorder,” said Aeliana. “A revolt would be preferable, but a civil war would work just as well. I suggest assassinating prominent priests. Caelmark Arban’s priests have been one of the things keeping Cintarra together. If you assassinate eight or nine of them at the same time and leave a document proclaiming their deaths the order of the Regency Council and Master Cyprian of the Scepter Bank, that would do it. The city would erupt into revolt and chaos.”

  A murmur of mocking laughter went up from the assassins.

  “A cruel trick,” said the Matriarch. “I appreciate the humor of it. But what would be in this for me?”

  “The Warden would no longer consider you his enemy,” said Aeliana.

  “Chaos and disorder in Cintarra would risk exposing me to my other foes,” said the Matriarch.

  “So it would,” said Aeliana. “But the Warden would leave you in peace. The urdmordar are far away. And the Swordbearers and the Magistri would be preoccupied with a civil war in Cintarra. You would be perfectly safe from all harm, and in the chaos of a civil war, you could collect as much wealth and as many followers as you wish.”

  At least, she would be safe for another few days, until Agravhask and his army arrived.

  “Well, my family,” said the Matriarch, “what do you think?”

  “Kill her, my lady,” said Gregor at once. “She is not trustworthy, and this is a trick.”

  Most of the other members of the Red Family agreed with him.

  “I would agree with them,” said the Matriarch.

  Aeliana said nothing, shifting her stance so she could draw the dark soulblade.

  “But she bears the mark of the Warden’s power,” said the Matriarch, settling back on her throne. “And I desire peace with the Warden, even though he is a prisoner in Urd Morlemoch. Therefore, I will agree to the Warden’s request, Aeliana Carhaine. My family will assassinate as many priests as possible and leave forged documents saying the deaths took place on the orders of the Regency Council.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Aeliana.

  “And once the deaths have been accomplished,” said the Matriarch, “return here. I will give you a reward, and a message to bring to the Warden.”

  “Of course,” said Aeliana

  She knew exactly what kind of message the Matriarch would give, one that would likely involve Aeliana’s death.

  “Go, child,” said the Matriarch. “Return to this house tomorrow, and we shall talk further.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” said Aeliana with a bow.

  She walked from the house.

  The Matriarch had never once noticed the dark soulblade in the Theophract’s enspelled scabbard.

  Aeliana was looking forward to tomorrow.

  ***

  Chapter 18: Defector

  Ridmark awoke before dawn in the room he shared with Calliande in one of the barracks of Queen Mara’s castra. Calliande was fast asleep, and he decided to let her rest a little while longer before they started the day. Using the Sight so much in the Shadow Ways was tiring, and even Calliande’s exceptional stamina had limits.

  But they were close, he knew. They had at last found the path to the ancient elven ruins below Cintarra and had explored some of their corridors. Ridmark had realized that the ruins were not of the high elves, but of the Liberated, the elven nation the men of Owyllain named the gray elves. The high elves were bound by their threefold law, and to violate that law transformed them into dark elves. The Liberated, the gray elves, by contrast, had given up their immortality, but in exchange, the threefold law had lost its power over them, and they were free to act in ways the high elves never could. The Liberated of Owyllain had built vast kingdoms and soaring cities, but the dark elven lord called the Sovereign had ground them into the dust one by one. Now all that remained was a single city in the Illicaeryn Jungles ruled by Ridmark’s friend Kyralion.

  But to judge from the ruins beneath Cintarra, there had once been gray elves in Andomhaim as well.

  The reliefs carved into the walls of the corridors had told a story. Ridmark hadn’t been able to read any of the elven writing, but the reliefs on the walls were crisp and clear. The carvings displayed an army of gray elves marching to the sea. They built a vast citadel, and inside the citadel, they had forged an artifact that looked like a giant ring carved with symbols.

  Another relief showed the high elven archmage Ardrhythain, recognizable even in the stone carving, giving the dragon-headed staff of a Guardian to a kneeling elf. The elven man had looked a little like the Guardian Rhodruthain, but unlike Rhodruthain (or many other elves) he was bearded and wore battle armor and carried a sword. The next set of panels had shown the Guardian with the dragon staff leading the gray elves to the ring. The ring became a world gate, the gray elves passed through it, and the story told in the carvings ended.

  Rhodruthain had told Ridmark that there had been twelve nations of gray elves, and one of them had settled in Owyllain. Others had opened gates to other worlds. Likely the carvings depicted one of the gray elven nations departing for another world, one far from the urdmordar and the dark elves.

  That had to be what the Drakocenti had been seeking, what Calliande sensed in the Shadow Ways. Some artifact of power, some mighty relic the gray elves had left behind. Ridmark thought they would be able to locate it today. The Shadow Ways were a twisting, complex maze, but they were very close.

  He dressed in silence, donning his armor and cloak and sword. Ridmark was pleased that his efforts did not wake Calliande, but she had been very tired last night. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him, looking around the castra’s courtyard. The sky was just starting to brighten to the east, and Ridmark could still see the stars, though they were growing fainter. The Anathgrimm soldiers had not yet even risen to begin their morning drills.

  A boot crunched against the grass, and Ridmark turned and saw
Third walking towards him.

  And to his mild surprise, she was carrying Rhoanna. The sight of grim, deadly Third carrying a child was always quite incongruous.

  “Papa!” announced Rhoanna, and she held out her arms, trying to twist out of Third’s grasp, heedless of the fact that she would have a nasty fall if she succeeded.

  “I think you had best take her,” said Third.

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark, and he lifted Rhoanna and kissed her. “I’m sure there’s a good story.”

  “Not particularly,” said Third in a dry voice. “I do not sleep much, as you know. Somehow Rhoanna had terrorized Lucilla into going for a walk. The poor woman was half-asleep, so I offered to take Rhoanna. She was pleased to accept.”

  “Walk!” said Rhoanna.

  “You ought to be in bed, young lady,” said Ridmark. “You need your sleep.”

  Rhoanna beamed at him. The expression made her look winsome and lovable and, Ridmark was certain, was entirely calculated. There was a devious mind inside that little head.

  “When she reaches adolescence, she shall become formidable,” said Third.

  “God and all the saints have mercy,” said Ridmark.

  “Walk,” said Rhoanna.

  “Well, who are we to refuse?” said Third.

  Ridmark snorted but started walking for the curtain wall, Third at his side. For the moment, Rhoanna seemed quite content to simply enjoy the ride and look at the sights around her.

  “Do you think we will find it today?” said Third.

  “I do,” said Ridmark. “Calliande thinks so, anyway.”

  “And when we do?” said Third.

  Ridmark shrugged. “We take it, or we destroy it. Either way, we cannot let our enemies have it.”

  “Father,” said Rhoanna. She suddenly looked very solemn. “Third.”

  “She knows your name,” said Ridmark.

  Third almost smiled. “Or she is learning to count.”

  “Red sword,” said Rhoanna. “Red sword.” She pointed at the ground. “Red sword!” Then she pointed to the south, in the direction of Cintarra proper. “Red sails! Red sails!”