Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  She sighed, closed her eyes, and rested her cheek against his shoulder, and then fell asleep.

  Ridmark and Third looked at each other. Her face was impassive, but he knew her well enough to read her expression. For that matter, Third knew Ridmark as well as Calliande, and on certain topics, Third understood Ridmark better than Calliande. Ridmark was a warrior, and so was Third. Calliande, for all her prowess with battle magic, was at heart a healer.

  That could not be said of either Ridmark or Third.

  “Why is she talking about a red sword?” said Third.

  “I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “She’s been mentioning it ever since the battle of Castarium.” He hesitated. “Calliande doesn’t think she’s manifesting any magical ability…”

  “But you think differently,” said Third.

  “Before the attack on Castarium,” said Ridmark, “she pointed at the keep and said ‘dragon.’ The next morning, a dragon landed on the exact spot.” He started to shrug, realized that might wake Rhoanna. “It could be a coincidence.”

  “Or maybe not,” said Third.

  “I suppose if we find a red sword in the Shadow Ways, we’ll know she can see the future,” said Ridmark.

  “Do not tell Jager,” said Third. “He would use her power to anticipate when prices rise and fall and make yet another fortune.” She paused. “Though given that you will have to provide a dowry for her future marriage, perhaps that is only sensible.”

  Despite himself, Ridmark laughed. “Don’t talk to me of dowries for another sixteen years at the soonest. Let’s put her back to bed. She’ll likely sleep for another few hours.”

  They walked around the barracks to the room where Rhoanna and Joachim slept with their nurse. Ridmark eased the door open. Lucilla was snoring in a chair, face propped in her hand. Joachim lay asleep in his bed, mouth hanging open. In silence, Ridmark crept across the room, lay Rhoanna on her bed, pulled the blankets up to her neck, and slipped out of the room again.

  He closed the door behind him and walked with Third towards the gate.

  “It sometimes seems strange that you have children,” said Third.

  Ridmark frowned. “Why?”

  “When I met you, you were grim and solitary,” said Third. “Though if I am honest, I suspected none of us would live long enough to have children.”

  “Is that something you regret?” said Ridmark. “Not being able to bear children?”

  Third thought about it. “No. I have known a great deal of pain in my life. I would not wish anyone else to endure it. I…”

  “Lord Ridmark!”

  Ridmark turned. An Anathgrimm warrior jogged towards him, scowling behind his tusks and bone mask.

  “Aye, warrior?” said Ridmark.

  “Lady Selene is here,” said the Anathgrimm orc. “And she says that one of the Drakocenti cultists is with her.”

  ###

  Calliande hurried into the great hall of Mara’s castra, Ridmark and Third at her side, Vegetius, Niall, and some of Ridmark’s men-at-arms following them.

  The others had already gathered. Mara sat on her throne of rough stone, Jager on his smaller but more comfortable seat. Accolon stood at the foot of the dais, a stern expression his face. Archbishop Caelmark waited next to him, grim and stark as ever in his black robe and skullcap. Selene stood with her arms crossed, wearing her preferred travel clothes of blue tunic, black trousers, long black vest, and black boots.

  A young Cintarran noble in finery waited next to her, fidgeting and sweaty. He wore a fine mantle, tunic, and cloak, a gold torque around his left arm and a jeweled sword at his waist. The young noble was fleshy, verging on fat, with greasy brown hair and a pointed beard that looked like fluffy down glued to his chin. For a moment Calliande did not recognize him, then she recalled Sir Tristan Bregan, one of the lords of the Regency Council.

  She felt a mixture of surprise and satisfaction. Both Selene and Jager had predicted that some of the Drakocenti might turn on their fellows if Accolon kept reversing enclosures. Calliande had doubted it, but she should have known to trust the instincts of the Prince Consort and the former Scythe of the Maledicti.

  “Ah, good, we’re all here,” said Selene.

  “It seems you have news for us, Lady Selene?” said Accolon.

  “I certainly do,” said Selene. “Last night after court, I made the acquaintance of Sir Tristan Bregan. He was rather impressed with how I dispatched the assassins of the Red Family.” Tristan swallowed, his fear obvious. “After careful consideration, Tristan has realized that the Drakocenti are doomed, and wished to speak to the Crown Prince.”

  “Pardon,” said Tristan. He stuttered as Accolon’s hard gaze fell on him. “I-I beg a pardon, lord Prince, a royal pardon.”

  “And why should I give you one?” said Accolon, voice soft but unyielding.

  “Because I’ve made a serious mistake,” said Tristan. “I didn’t know any better. I know that’s not an excuse, but Cyprian made it sound so good. But…but…he doesn’t know what to do. It’s all falling apart. I made a mistake helping him, a bad mistake.” He gulped. “And if you pardon me, I’ll tell you absolutely anything you want to know. I’ll do anything you want, lord Prince.”

  Accolon stared him. Tristan sweated through his tunic.

  “Very well, Sir Tristan,” said Accolon. Tristan all but wilted in relief. “Under two conditions. First, that you make an oath to the Dominus Christus, as administered by the archbishop, to denounce the Drakocenti and all their doctrines and to beg God forgiveness.” Tristan bobbed his head. “Second, you will summon the dark magic the Drakocenti taught you, so the Keeper might burn it from your flesh.”

  Tristan flinched. “That…that will probably hurt.”

  “It will hurt a great deal,” said Calliande.

  “You must do this to prove your surety, young man,” said Caelmark. “The Dominus Christus offers forgiveness freely to all who repent, but repentance must be accompanied by true contrition. For otherwise, it is an empty and hollow gesture. If you do this, it will show true repentance.”

  “It will also show,” said Ridmark, “that you are serious about turning your back on the Drakocenti cult and aiding the Crown Prince.”

  Tristan sucked in a deep breath. “All right. Um. What should I do?”

  “Call the dark magic of the Drakocenti,” said Calliande, reaching for the Sight. She saw the aura of power around Oathshield and Third’s swords, but no sign of magic around Sir Tristan.

  “As…as you wish,” said Tristan. He rolled up his right sleeve. “Um. I think this is how I do it. I never really liked it.” He frowned and touched the inside of his right forearm…and all at once dark magic surged through him. A symbol of blue fire appeared on the skin of his forearm, the ghostly image of a dragon-headed man.

  The sign of the Drakocenti, and according to Tyrcamber Rigamond, the symbol of the dragon cult in the Frankish Empire.

  “Brace yourself,” said Calliande, calling the fire of the Well of Tarlion. “This will hurt.”

  Tristan tried to say something only for it to come out as a whimper, and Calliande worked her spell. White fire lashed from her fingers and sliced into Tristan, and the young knight stumbled back, his eyes popping wide. Calliande felt the dark magic surging inside the young man, rising like a shadow to oppose her power. Yet the dark magic was not strong enough to resist both the Well of Tarlion and the mantle of the Keeper, and Calliande shattered the dark magic, driving it out from his flesh.

  Tristan fell to his knees with a scream, shaking like a leaf in the wind. He had been strong enough to survive having the dark magic driven from his flesh. Where the Mark of the Drakocenti had been on his forearm was a hideous livid burn charred black and red, smoke rising from his arm. The familiar stench of burned flesh flooded Calliande’s nostrils.

  “Hold still,” said Calliande, and she crossed to him, seized his temples with her hands, and cast another spell.

  Once more, she called the magic of t
he Well of Tarlion, and this time she shaped it into a spell of healing. The magic flowed into Tristan, and she felt the agony of his burn flood through her as if it had been in her own flesh. Burns were always the worst wounds, overwhelmingly painful. Calliande had healed thousands of wounds in her life, more than she could recall, and they hurt every single time.

  But she was used to it, and she forced aside the agony and directed the spell. The pain blazed in her arm for a moment, and then it winked out like a candle dropped into a bucket. Calliande stepped back, forcing her aching jaw to unclench, and looked at Tristan’s arm. The burn had healed, leaving a livid and rather ugly scar, but he would keep full use of his arm.

  “What…what did you do?” croaked Tristan, flexing his trembling fingers.

  “I removed the dark magic from you and healed the resultant burn,” said Calliande.

  “Be grateful you kept the arm,” said Ridmark, his voice like granite.

  Tristan opened his mouth, looked at Ridmark, and seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say.

  “Lord archbishop?” said Accolon.

  “You might as well remain kneeling,” said Caelmark.

  The archbishop led Tristan through the oath, and the young knight renounced the Drakocenti and begged forgiveness. Caelmark responded that the Dominus Christus had forgiven him, since he had shown true contrition, and ordered Tristan to stand.

  “Now,” said Accolon as Tristan staggered back to his feet. “I believe we have some questions for you.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Tristan. “I will tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “First,” said Accolon. “How did you wind up joining the Drakocenti?”

  “My father died,” said Tristan, “and I inherited his lands and his debts. I didn’t really know what to do. Master Cyprian approached me and said that he was willing to forgive some of my father’s debts if I enclosed my lands for sheep. He said I could make a great deal in revenue, more than enough to cover the debts and live comfortably. I…didn’t think it seemed like a good idea, but Cyprian said the displaced villagers would be able to find work in Cintarra. I guess that didn’t work out.”

  Calliande thought of the hungry people filling the streets of Cintarra.

  “No, it did not,” said Accolon. “Please continue.”

  “I spent more time with Cyprian’s friends, and he appointed me to the Regency Council,” said Tristan. “He said…he said that Tarrabus Carhaine had been right. That mankind had to become more than what it was, but Tarrabus hadn’t been ruthless enough.”

  “And this seemed wise to you?” said Accolon.

  Tristan gave a miserable shrug. “I am not…I am not a clever man, my lord. Cyprian had such fine-sounding arguments.”

  “Considering how Tarrabus died,” said Jager, “one would think you would be wary of following his example.”

  Tristan gave that regretful shrug again. “By then, it was too late. I couldn’t back out.”

  “You are willing to give me a complete list of the Drakocenti cultists?” said Accolon.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Tristan. “Those that I know. The High One…that’s what we called Cyprian…he made sure that we didn’t all know each other.” He gave a sickly smile. “In case one of us betrayed him like I am doing now.”

  “Siding with the Drakocenti was the betrayal, young man,” said Caelmark in his preacher’s voice. “By speaking with the Crown Prince now, you are renouncing that betrayal and returning to the path of wisdom.”

  “What is Cyprian looking for beneath the city?” said Accolon.

  “Something called the Great Eye,” said Tristan.

  “Do you know what that is?” said Accolon.

  Again, Tristan shrugged. He seemed like the sort of man who shrugged a lot. “No. Cyprian never told me. He said it would give us the power to become immortal, to transform into dragons at will.”

  Calliande shared a look with Ridmark. That sounded like the Dragon Cult that Tyrcamber had described. Tyrcamber himself was able to take dragon form at will, but he was a Dragontiarna Knight and maintained his own sanity and his own will through the process. Calliande suspected gaining that ability had cost Tyrcamber a great deal of pain.

  “Dragons?” said Accolon.

  “Dragon gods,” said Tristan, wiping his hands on his tunic. “That’s what Cyprian said. We would become dragon gods, and rule mankind forever, guide humanity to a brighter future.”

  “Sir Tristan,” said Calliande. “Can you tell us what Cyprian and the Drakocenti are planning?”

  “Well,” said Tristan. “Cyprian didn’t tell me much. I don’t think that he trusted me. He just needed me on the Regency Council to approve his decisions. But…the Theophract gave him instructions.”

  “The Theophract?” said Ridmark, and Calliande felt a twist of unease. “You’re sure that was his name?” Tyrcamber had said that a dark elven wizard called the Theophract had founded the Dragon Cult in the Frankish Empire.

  “Yes,” said Tristan. “I think the Theophract was some kind of pagan wizard or something. I never met him, but Cyprian would talk about him a lot. He said that the Theophract ordered him to push Cintarra into a revolt, and in exchange, the Theophract would teach him the spell to open the Great Eye and summon the power to become a god. Um. But it will take a blood sacrifice.”

  “A sacrifice?” said Calliande.

  “It will take either royal blood or the blood of a Swordbearer to open the Great Eye,” said Tristan. “Prince Tywall isn’t sick. Cyprian is holding him prisoner, I don’t know where. He wants to kill the poor lad to open the Great Eye. And a Swordbearer was wandering through the Shadow Ways. The Bank’s soldiers captured him, and Cyprian wants to use him as a replacement in case Prince Tywall dies.”

  “That must be Sir Rufinius,” said Ridmark to Caelmark.

  The archbishop offered a grave nod. “He, too, must be a prisoner.”

  “Yes,” said Tristan. “He was. I remember that.”

  “One question,” said Calliande. “Do you know who killed Hadrian Vindon? Was it the Red Family?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t them,” said Tristan. “It was some blond woman named Aeliana.”

  Ridmark frowned. “Aeliana?”

  “Aye,” said Tristan. “Blond woman, blue eyes. Pretty. I would have tumbled her,” he shot a guilty look at the archbishop, “but she, er, well, she frightened me. She said she was something called a Herald of Ruin. Even Cyprian was scared of her, and she gave him orders. I think she’s an emissary of the Theophract.”

  “In Castarium,” said Calliande, “Aeliana was the one who opened the rifts. If she finds another Dwyrstone and opens rifts inside Cintarra…”

  Ridmark looked at Accolon. “I think we have more than enough to move against the Scepter Bank.”

  “Aye,” said Accolon. “Sir Tristan, with Queen Mara’s permission I would like to keep you here, lest Cyprian attempt to take vengeance on you.” Mara inclined her head. Tristan all but wilted with relief. “Meanwhile, we will go to our camp and have Sir Peter rouse my men. We will enter the city at once, enter the Scepter Bank, and arrest Cyprian and the leadership of the Bank. I shall also order the arrest of the remaining members of the Regency Council.” He looked at Calliande. “Keeper, will you be able to test if the lords of the Regency Council are members of the Drakocenti?”

  “I will,” said Calliande. “It will be a bit of work since I cannot use the Sight on them unless they summon their dark magic first, but I can do it.”

  “Good,” said Accolon. “Queen Mara, I would also request that you have your Anathgrimm ready. If Cyprian tries to make a fight of it, we will need your help.”

  “You shall have it,” said Mara. “I lived in Cintarra for years, Prince. I do not want to see it suffer under the misrule of men like the Drakocenti.”

  “Then let us move at once,” said Accolon. “If we act swiftly, we can strike before Cyprian and the Drakocenti realize that anything is amiss. Let us…�
�

  The doors to the hall opened, and two Anathgrimm soldiers ran into the room, ignored Calliande and everyone else, and bowed before Mara’s throne.

  “My Queen,” said the Anathgrimm. “We have news.”

  “What is it, my soldiers?” said Mara.

  One of the Anathgrimm pointed at Caelmark. “There is a human who calls herself the Wraith at our gate, and she wishes to speak with the archbishop.”

  ***

  Chapter 19: The Mask of the Wraith

  Moriah walked alongside Sir Rufinius into the castra of Queen Mara.

  She was not at all sure this was a good idea.

  Still, if she was going to stop whatever Cyprian and the Drakocenti planned, Moriah needed powerful allies. She needed people like the Shield Knight and the Keeper and Lady Third, who had come closer to catching the Wraith than anyone else in Cintarra.

  Moriah just hoped that her potential allies did not kill her for being the Wraith. Still, if they were hostile, the wraithcloak had enough power left to let her escape.

  Assuming the Keeper did not have a spell to block her from using the cloak.

  Still, despite her unease, she looked around with curiosity. Moriah had never been inside the castra, and she had never stood this close to an Anathgrimm warrior. She and Gunther and Delwen had never dared to steal from the Anathgrimm, who had a degree of paranoid vigilance that made even Moriah’s watchfulness seem lax. The interior of the castra looked like an army camp built of stone and lumber, with barracks standing in orderly rows, along with stables, forges, and the other sort of buildings required by soldiers. Everything about the castra spoke of order and discipline, even the Anathgrimm warriors drilling in the central square, shouting in response to the commands of their centurions.

  Their escort of Anathgrimm warriors took them to the largest building, a massive structure that looked like the hall of some ancient orcish chieftain. The Anathgrimm soldiers opened the door, and Moriah and Sir Rufinius walked across a flagstone floor. A dais rose on the far side of the hall, and Queen Mara sat on a rough stone throne, seemingly dwarfed by it. Her husband Jager sat on a smaller and more-comfortable looking chair. Before the throne stood Prince Accolon, Ridmark Arban, the Keeper, Archbishop Caelmark, Lady Third, Lady Selene, and a fat young man Moriah recognized as Sir Tristan Bregan, one of the Drakocenti.