Nox blinked, then grinned. “Good! That saves us a lot of searching.” He gestured to Parsha. “We’ve come at His Majesty’s behest with news from the Winter Camp.”
The figure’s sword lowered marginally. “What news?”
Nox hesitated. “Have you heard of the Winter King’s dragon?”
“Aye. And now we’ve another flying overhead if you’ve not noticed. How have you entered the city? The gates are secured.”
“A pointless action,” Parsha said, pointing up, “considering the dragon’s general location.”
“Well,” said the cloaked man, flames in his tone, “we couldn’t well let travelers enter to risk their own lives, and an evacuation would have encouraged the dragon to attack sooner.”
“So, you sit like a goose in the hearth.” Parsha shook his head. “There is a very simple solution to your circling problem, only we need a diamond.”
Nox winced. “Uhm, Parsha.”
Silence fell between the three men.
The man’s sword raised again. “A diamond?”
“Yes, a very large diamond of the first water.”
Nox tried a laugh and caught Parsha’s arm to keep him still. “We need to meet with Brioc Ffyr or Towwen Brym, please.”
“About a diamond?” asked the man in wooden tones.
“About a dragon,” Nox replied. “Two dragons, in fact. Please. It is urgent.”
The man sighed. “Name?”
“Nox, son of Hemm.”
The man stiffened beneath his cloak. “Hemm? The baker?”
Nox perked up. “Yes.”
“I thought you looked familiar. You and your twiggish brother sometimes work the shop, do you not? A better knot of bread I’ve never tasted than Hemm’s.”
Nox flushed as he smiled. “Indeed, sir. Though the twiggish boy you mentioned is only like a brother to me. We’re not related.”
The man stepped aside. “Enter in peace, Nox, son of Hemm, and perhaps we can convince you to stay long enough to magic up a proper meal. I am Remien, son of the sea for all I know. I bid you welcome. Come in and be comfortable.”
Grinning, Nox led Parsha inside the stone church, down a short passageway, and into the chapel itself. The wooden pews had been pushed aside to make way for tables laden with candles, parchment, scrolls, ink wells, tomes, and trays of half-eaten gruel and dry bread, as well as a few tankards and empty bottles smelling of ale.
Standing or sitting in various attitudes of thought, at least two dozen men crowded the chapel, most of them young, a few bearing the seasoning of declining years. At the center table sat four men with their heads together, poring over what must be a map, one man tracing his finger along some road or other, while the others stared hard as though the map would answer their unasked questions.
“Gentlemen, my lords, and fellow rebels,” called Remien, voice ringing through the vaulted chamber. “May I present the honorable Nox, son of Hemm the baker, and his rather well-dressed companion, whose name I failed to obtain ‘aforehand?”
Several men dipped their heads in greeting, but those at the center table didn’t look up, too engrossed in their discussion.
Remien tried again. “Nox here, fine fellow that he is, has braved the world beyond our dragon-plagued city to reach us, bringing with him word from our Winter King.”
Someone dropped a quill to the flagstones. Every eye turned toward Nox, whose face burned. He bowed at the waist. “G-greetings from His Majesty Gwynter ren Terare ren Wintervale. I’ve come at his behest to bring Charquae from the brink of destruction.”
Chairs shrieked against stone as those at the center table rose to their feet. The youngest of their number, perhaps younger than Nox himself, spoke in clear, carrying tones. “What hope do you bring, Sir Nox? We would hear what our king requires of us.”
“A diamond,” Parsha piped up. “All we require is a diamond of the first water. I won’t say it again.”
Chapter 12
Diamonds could be obtained, certainly. But a diamond of the first water—one that met with Parsha’s approval—that was a different matter altogether.
Nox waited with the dragon inside the church at one of the pilfered tables. Remien hovered nearby, while the other rebel leaders had abandoned their shelter in search of Parsha’s especial request. The dragon remained relaxed for the first hour, but as Towwen Stone—one of the council and Gwyn’s childhood friend by his own report—brought in a sack filled with gems and dumped them across the wooden planks of the table, Parsha grimaced.
“A city filled with second-rate riches is hardly worth saving,” he murmured as he poked through the gems with disdain. “Have humans no eye at all?” He caught a single ruby between his finger and thumb and squinted at it for several seconds, then scoffed and tossed the precious stone over his shoulder.
Nox gawked as the ruby clattered to the floor near the high-rising lectern. “Is it fake?”
“No, far worse. Whatever fool cut that gem had no talent nor any heart to speak of. He ruined it. It’s little different from a pebble.”
“It’s not worth anything?” asked Nox, perplexed.
“Oh, it might purchase a few acres of land, but frankly, no one should ever be subjected to the study of such poor workmanship.”
Nox let out a whimper and scooted from his chair to collect the hapless ruby that was still worth so much. Dragons were the oddest creatures.
Towwen Stone watched Parsha until Nox returned to the table, ruby in hand. The scholarly councilman smiled at Nox and sat to await Parsha’s verdict of his remaining gathered riches. “Tell me, Master Nox, how fares the Winter Army?”
Nox frowned and ran a finger over the knots of the polished tabletop. “It desperately needs supplies, i’ truth. Few wagons sent from Charquae have ever arrived. Men are without shoes, let alone armor, weapons, or even food.”
Towwen frowned and nodded. “Alas, we’re in no position to send more aid, especially if the wagons are only waylaid time and again. We’re only strengthening the enemy in our efforts, such as those efforts be, under siege as we are.” He glanced at Parsha. “Tell me, sir dragon, how will this diamond save our fair city?”
Parsha eyed Towwen Stone for a long moment, perhaps weighing his character as Nox might weigh the quality of a freshly baked loaf of bread. When Parsha had first declared his need of a diamond, the room exploded with indignation and laughter, Towwen being of the latter temperament. But Nox had silenced all by kicking a chair hard, sending it clattering.
“You laugh at no man, but a fierce beast!”
Laughter had roared across the room, swallowing up the indignant few. Nox had tried to shout over the crowd of men, but Parsha lifted a hand and summoned fire to wreath above him, flames bright and hot.
“Heed me, humans, or there shall be two dragons tearing stone from mortar!” His voice had rung across the still room, sharp and commanding.
“He’s a dragon,” Nox had said into the silence. “He’s taken on this form in order to enter Charquae. We really do need a diamond.”
It took a little more persuasion, but not much. When Brioc Ffyr, oldest resident mage, had confirmed that the Weave surrounding Parsha looked unlike any man’s magery, the other men began to sweat.
Now Parsha tilted his head and offered a toothy grin, showing very inhuman fangs to Towwen Stone. “The diamond is not unlike the Fraeli’s parley, though perhaps it is more of a bribe than mere negotiation. Should the she-dragon treat with me, your city might be spared. If not, you will need to flee by nightfall, for I must at that point duel her over this territory.”
Towwen paled to the shade of a summer cloud. “How likely is it she’ll accept your invitation to treat?”
Parsha’s smile widened. “There is no dragon alive who would not at least come down to examine a diamond of the first water. But let me assure you, if I proffer up a diamond or other precious stone of lesser quality, I and this entire city, indeed this entire province, will be reduced to cinders in the
merest flicker of a moment.”
Nox shifted at the prospect of becoming cinders. He carefully rested his inferior ruby away from the pile of gems under Parsha’s scrutiny, afraid to offend this dragon and set him off. These beasts, Nox suspected, were never fully tame.
The door to the chapel opened. Towwen turned as Nox and Parsha eyed the door. In streamed the rebel leaders, grim as they spread across the room to make passage for a newcomer. Nox straightened as he recognized Lady Delyth ren Cryven, the recently widowed wife of Charquae’s leading lord and former governor of Vinwen Province. Nox knew as well as anyone else that House Cryven did not support King Gwynter’s cause. In the months preceding his death, Lord ren Cryven had sentenced several affluent citizens to death without a trial after accusing them of treason and magery. Many rebels considered it Afallon’s handiwork when the elderly man had died in his sleep.
Lady Delyth was an elegant old woman, willowy and frail as embers. Her face, said to be fair in years gone by, held lines like a spider’s web yet there was something beautiful about her eyes. She was gowned and bedecked in velvet and emeralds, and she leaned on the arm of a young man Nox thought might be her grandson and heir to House Cryven. He looked comely and well dressed, also adorned in precious gems and rich cloth.
Towwen Stone stepped forward and bowed low. “My lady does us honor by her visit.”
Lady Delyth lifted a hand as though to swat the youthful man aside, though she never touched him. Her eyes fixed upon Parsha, dark and glittering. “Brioc Ffyr calls you a dragon. Is this truth?”
“It is, faded one,” said Parsha, rising to tower before the slight figure.
She nodded once, curtly. “He also tells me you have the means of saving Charquae from the Crow King’s judgment.”
“I only lack a diamond,” Parsha replied.
“I do not believe in the Winter King’s cause,” Lady Delyth said. “House Cryven has long served the line of Crow Kings, and even aided in overthrowing the line of Wintervale in days of yore. I am proud of my husband’s heritage, just as he was before his death. But I also love Charquae. This is my home, and the home of my children. My grandson has lived here always.” She nodded to the boy supporting her. “I do not wish Charquae to fall before the wrath of a dragon, even if that dragon belongs to the Crow King. What I do now is treason. My beloved husband would likely behead me for my actions here, yet I do them, for the sake of life. May Afallon have mercy upon me.” She lifted a velvet pouch in trembling, wizened fingers. “Take this, mighty dragon, and save Charquae—for the children of now and still unborn.”
Parsha nodded. “Nox, bring me the pouch.”
Nox rounded the table and reverently accepted the lady’s offering, bowing his head as he backed away. He whipped around the table and placed the pouch in Parsha’s hand.
Lady Delyth turned and drifted toward the exit. Brioc Ffyr strode across the chamber to peck her cheek at the door.
Nox glanced at Towwen Stone. “Do they know each other so well?”
“She’s his aunt,” Towwen Stone replied, then waved at Towwen Brym as the printer crossed the room.
“Well?” said Towwen Brym. “Open the pouch, dragon, and let us see a diamond of the first water.”
Parsha eyed the man flatly, then untied the pouch’s string and upended it. The diamond fell into his palm, and Nox breathlessly considered the stone. He cocked his head. It looked no different from the other diamonds Parsha had examined as far as Nox could tell.
The dragon lifted the diamond between his finger and thumb, squinting. “Ah,” he sighed, “now this is a diamond.” He tilted it from side to side. “Observe the fine cuts, precise and nearly perfect. And colorless! Not an ounce, not a tint! Few diamonds have I seen so well crafted by man. It still carries the Weave. This is exactly what we need.” He dropped the diamond into his palm and looked up to face the men gathered at the table. Nox glanced around to find every face in the chapel pinned on Parsha, intense, eager.
“Then,” said Towwen Stone softly, “she’ll accept your parley?”
“It is not a parley, as I said. But yes, tiny human, she will accept to converse with me, at the least. No dragon, none at all, could do otherwise with such a gem as this.”
General Cadogan would normally call a halt on the eve of Afallon’s feast and allow his army to celebrate before continuing their march. Such had been the tradition for 600 years. But the Crow King’s command had been urgent, and Cadogan felt that urgency deep in his bones: Destroy Londolin, now.
He pressed on, praying Afallon would understand the need, and perhaps bless his cause. Doubtful, though, considering which city Cadogan marched upon.
He was a devout man, for he had seen the divine hand of Afallon directing his course through years of victorious military campaigns, but Cadogan was foremost a man of the sword, and he would do whatever it took to obtain that hard-won victory—even destroy the holy city. Surely Afallon had not led him to this point only to fall before a ragtag band of rebels under the command of an adolescent leader with claims to a long-dead line of kings. Worse still, those kings had fallen to the Crow King because they were weak, prone to fits of mercy when the law demanded justice.
Yes, Cadogan believed in Afallon, but not as other men did. Afallon was not some frail child filled with love for all men and countries, as women and babes believed; but was instead a forceful, glorious being, intent upon Simaerin leading the world into an age of order and purpose. The Crow King had been divinely selected to guide the country toward that future.
Cadogan never shared these thoughts with others, especially priests. The church already clashed with the Crow King’s philosophies. Any more tension between the two groups might lead to the church’s isolation. Should that occur, the people—torn between fealty and faith—might make a foolish choice.
The Crow Army marched through the holy night, and with the dawn Cadogan called a halt long enough for his men to chant prayers in honor of Afallon’s Feast before he called them back to order. They marched most of the day, and in the late afternoon, Cadogan eyed the distant spires of Londolin, Silver City of Afallon, a scape of cathedrals erected for Divinity. To the west stood the southernmost border of Simaerin’s ancient wood. No Ilidreth dwelt this far south these days, but still the trees crouched across the land, ominous, as though poised to strike.
Utter rubbish, Cadogan thought, and avoided looking toward the forest again.
The army reached the holy city at eventide. Part of Cadogan preferred the idea of destroying the looming walls of the fortress capital in the dark, but that was cowardice speaking. He required precision to puncture the walls and bring them down swiftly, which meant waiting for sunrise. Calling a heavy watch for the night, Cadogan retired to his tent early and tried to rest.
In his dreams, strange banners streamed in a curling mist at the forest border.
The dawn came late. A hush hovered on the air as Cadogan washed his face. He donned his armor, fingers clumsy as he latched his breastplate, buckled his sword, adjusted his cloak. He tucked his helm under his arm and motioned for his aide to follow him out into the camp.
The army lay exposed. The ancient road leading to Londolin stretched wide, wending between flatlands dotted with ancient trees, forcing the encampment to pitch tents around the towering trunks, hiding some from view. Cadogan didn’t like it, despite no outlying threats. The only living souls within miles of Londolin, apart from Cadogan’s forces, were the two dozen priests dwelling inside the holy city, dedicated to preserving its architecture. Those same priests must be relocated.
Cadogan strode through the camp with his aide, his page, and several officers until he reached the high gates to the city. “Ho the watch!”
A black-robed priest poked his head through the tower beside the gates. “What brings the Crow to the Silver City?”
“The Crow King has issued a command. I must speak with the head of your order.”
“Does it take an army to bring His Majesty’s mis
sives? This is a city of peace. No man of war may pass through the gates.”
Cadogan scowled. Most of the priests sent to Londolin were ordered here by the Arch Priest because they were deemed overzealous or disgraced. None would be easy to handle. “I carry the Crow King’s seal. Let me enter and speak with your High Priest, or by Afallon, I swear I shall use force to break down the gates.”
The priest studied Cadogan’s encampment. “You’ve brought catapults.”
“Of which I will happily demonstrate the destructive capabilities, unless you open the confounded gates, man!”
The priest considered him, huffed, then vanished within the tower. An age passed before a second priest popped his head out the window to peer long at the army spread before the city.
“State your business,” called the priest.
Cadogan rolled his eyes. “My business is this city, or I would not be here. I would speak with High Priest Douva immediately.”
“You would,” the priest agreed, “but you can’t. He’s…indisposed.”
“Short of death, there is no excuse he can provide which will satisfy. Open these blasted gates, let me inside your blasted city, and take me to your blasted High Priest.”
The priest shrugged one shoulder. “But as you said yourself, sir, death is a reasonable excuse, yes?”
A tremor ripped down Cadogan’s spine. The hairs on his neck bristled. “High Priest Douva is dead?”
“Yes, very lately.”
“How?”
“An arrow, sir. Shot in the head.” The man pointed his finger toward the southern trees. “It came from there and was made in the fashion of Ilidreth weaponry. We buried High Priest Douva on the Eve of Afallon’s Feast.”
Cadogan whirled toward the trees. In the same moment, a cloud passed over the rising sun, darkening the world. There, just at the border, Cadogan imagined he saw a line of men beneath streaming banners. The morning mist hadn’t yet been chased from the shaded treeline, and it coiled there, ominous in its silent revelation.
The Complete Duology Page 35
