by K. C. Julius
* * *
Ilyria battled through the raging storm for what seemed like ages, and even when the rain and wind at last tapered off, she pressed on. Maura wondered how much longer the dragoness could keep up this grueling pace before doing herself harm.
Still, another several hours passed before Ilyria spiraled down and began to weave in and out of the clouds, seeking some sign of the drakes. Their pell-mell flight had brought them over low hills now, and the dark hulk of mountains rose in the distance. Maura drew a shaky breath of relief.
And then Ilyria dropped suddenly earthward, and the ground rushed up to meet them. Not a second too late, the dragoness leveled off and scuttered over the dense bracken, plowing into it as she came to a bone-jarring stop. Maura somersaulted over the dragon’s head and landed in a thicket of thorny brush. Ignoring her savaged skin, she fought her way free and scrambled back to where Ilyria sprawled, grey smoke streaming from her nostrils, her breast heaving as if her heart would burst.
“Hide, child!” the dragon groaned. “They are near.”
Maura shook her head, for there were no telltale smudges against the clouds. “I’m not leaving you.” She ran her hands over the dragon’s scales. “Where are you hurt?”
Ilyria shifted and moaned. “My wing. The left.”
A slender bone jutted from the delicate membrane.
Maura reached into her cloak pocket. One by one, she drew out bandaging, a mortar, a pestle, yarrow flowers, and comfrey leaves. She ground a poultice, then applied the salve before gently pressing the broken bone back into place.
It was their good fortune that the bracken surrounding them provided a perfect camouflage for Ilyria’s bronze scales. And although it offered no real shelter from the elements, the rain had stopped. Maura set off in search of water, and was still in sight of the dragon when she found a stream brimming with fat trout. There were plenty of vines around that she could use to weave a fish trap, so she set to work. It took her most of the day to make the basket, during which she often sent thoughts of gratitude across the Abyss to Dal, who had taught her the art.
Food, water, camouflage… it was a start. Still, it would take several weeks before Ilyria’s broken bone mended. And the responsibility for keeping them healthy, safe, and alive would fall entirely on Maura’s shoulders.
* * *
Over the following days, most of Maura’s time was taken up in seeing to Ilyria’s needs. As soon as the dragon regained enough strength, they moved closer to the stream, where they subsisted on fish, lion’s tooth, purslane, wild cress, and mushrooms. The weather remained blessedly mild as Ilyria convalesced, and they were content alone together in an uninhabited world that brought them both solace. Under star-studded skies, Ilyria spoke of her long-ago youth, and encouraged Maura to tell her own tales about growing up in Branley Tor. To Maura’s surprise, speaking of her childhood years brought her more pleasure than sadness.
One evening, as Maura rested against Ilyria’s breast, she told the dragoness about the Lurker who’d tried to steal her lapins. “For all I know,” she said, not quite keeping the bitterness from her voice, “the fellow might have been a relative of mine.”
Ilyria gave a low snort. “There is no shame in being one of the People of the Light.”
Maura twisted round to look up at her. “People of the Light?”
Pale smoke streamed from the dragon’s nostrils. “That is what å Livåri means in their tongue. They have inhabited the Known World longer than any other humans, and lived peaceably for millennia with elves, dwarves, and other magical folk.”
“Even dragons?”
“Most definitely. In the days of the Before, we did not shy away from close contact with å Livåri. Indeed, legend has it that we share a bond of blood with them.”
Maura laughed. “Well, you do, at any rate.” A small glow of happiness grew inside her, edging out the humiliation she’d been carrying ever since learning of her mother’s heritage. Perhaps her å Livåri blood was what had attracted Ilyria to her in the first place.
She was about to ask if this was the case when the dragoness released a sudden, low hiss. Then Maura heard them too—voices, raised in song.
If Ilyria was discovered, she would be in terrible danger. Superstition and hate born of ignorance with regard to magical creatures were prevalent throughout the continent. Even if she was fit and chose to fight, any who escaped to spread word of her presence would bring more to come to deal with her.
Maura leapt to her feet. “I’ll be back when it’s safe!” Before Ilyria could protest, she darted in the direction of the singers, all the while racking her brain for a plausible explanation as to what she was doing alone in this wilderness.
It was only after she’d scrambled up onto a well-worn trail and saw the wagons that Maura realized she knew the song the men were singing. It was, incredibly, in Drinn.
“Bonny Mae of Morlendell!” she sang out, approaching the burly man seated on the first wagon.
The song died on the man’s lips. He threw the reins of his mule team to his companion, then jumped to the ground, unhooking a lantern from the wagon and raising it high.
“Could it be? Bonny Mae herself, with the voice of an angel?” The man, about a dozen years Maura’s senior, had a round face and a mop of sandy curls spilling from beneath his broad hat. He strode toward her, his expression bright with wonder. “Where in Alithin’s bower did you spring from, mistress?”
“I might ask you the same, good sir,” she replied, still slightly breathless from her run.
His dark eyes widened. “You really are from Drinnglennin! The north, by the sound of you!” He called over his shoulder. “Jory! Am I dreaming?”
“Nay, Ruen,” came his companion’s reply. “Not unless we both are.”
There were two wagons and four men. The little knife in Maura’s kirtle wouldn’t help her, but should they come upon Ilyria, the dragon could deal with this number.
She sensed no threat in Ruen, who was still staring at her in amazement, but Jory, who leapt down as well and ambled toward them, might prove a different kettle of fish. He was taller than Ruen and thin as a reed, with straight brown hair framing his narrow face.
Maura gave a little curtsey. “I’m Ma—Mae.”
Ruen gave a burst of delighted laughter. “Of course you are! Sent from the goddess to round out our merry troupe!” He called to the second wagon. “Did you hear, lads? We’ve found our Mae!”
Maura didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh, I’m afraid—”
“I’m not surprised—out here alone in the night!” Ruen swept off his hat and bowed with a flourish. “But you’re safe now—in the company of Ruen Rassley and the Trilling Troubadours. You’ve heard of us, surely? We’ve played every court on the continent!”
“Every court?” Jory scoffed. “That’s a fat dog!”
“A fat dog?” Maura echoed.
“It means ‘a lie’ in Palmador.” The lean man looked her up and down. “Jory Jordan’s the name.” He stabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Wells and Volker over there—neither one of ’em with the manners of a muddy hound,” he added loudly.
One of the seated men lifted his hat, and the other touched his temple in a two-fingered salute.
“Here, now!” Ruen clapped his hands together heartily. “We’ve kept this lass standing in the dark long enough. She’s as pale as a pillar and post—like as not dead on her trenchers! You just come along with us now, Mae—you can ride in our wagon and get some rest. There’ll be plenty of time to—”
“I can’t go with you!” Maura blurted out. When Ruen frowned, she added hastily, “That is—where are you heading?”
“Szendre—just a few miles to the east. We can’t just leave you out here on your own…” His voice trailed off and he cast an uncertain glance beyond her. “Unless you’re not alone.”
If he started nosing around in the brush, all would be lost. Maura called on the only distraction she could think of: she burst into tears, which was not difficult in her anxious state. “I am alone! A… a boar ran across my pony’s path and she threw me!” This shaky tale didn’t begin to explain what a girl from Drinnglennin was doing in the middle of Delnogoth, but hopefully her maidenly distress would put all questions to rest.
“There, there.” Ruen awkwardly patted her shoulder, and he looked so genuinely sorry for her that when he took her hand and led her toward the wagon, she didn’t resist. “If it’s your pony you’re worried about, I’m sure she’ll find her way home. I’m guessing that would be Szendre? Is your father one of the miners come over to join the mad search for gold?”
Maura nodded, grateful for the explanation he’d just supplied her with.
“We’ll see you home now, shall we?”
“I… I haven’t got one. My father… died in the mines.” She gave an inward shudder at the horrible lie that had sprung to her lips, as if saying such a thing would make it true, until she remembered her real father had been dead for many years.
“Poor lamb! Well, you’re safe with us for this night. Once you’ve had a good rest, we’ll talk about the days to come.”
Seeing no way to refuse Ruen’s kind-hearted offer, Maura allowed him to hand her up into the back of the wagon. Her benefactor offered her a courteous bow, then disappeared around the side of the conveyance, and as it lurched forward, she thanked the gods for the man’s trusting, incurious nature.
As the road spiraled behind them, she strained her eyes in the darkness, seeking any landmarks that might help her find her way back to her last true friend in the Known World.
Chapter 7
Morgan
In the tumult surrounding Maura’s dramatic departure, Morgan slipped from the throne room into the Tribus’s hidden council chamber. From there, it was a simple matter to descend into the tunnels under the castle—a labyrinth he knew as well as the grain and knots in his wizard’s staff—and make his way to the Tribus’s secluded lodgings in the north wing of the palace. There was no telling what sort of welcome awaited him there, for Audric, his one-time mentor, and Celaidra, the only woman he had ever loved, had both been disturbingly silent during his recent trial and sentencing. And although Selka had always suspected Morgan of setting the Alithineum fire, in their shared time on the Tribus he’d found the sorceress to be intelligent and just, if somewhat prickly in nature. It was easier to believe that Roth had simply disregarded his advisors’ counsel than that none of them had lent Morgan their support.
He would learn the truth from Celaidra and apprise her—and through her, Elvinor—of the possibility that Urlion had a living son here in Drinnglennin, for such news could not be entrusted to a bird.
The muffled boom of cannonry informed him the royal troops were firing on Ilyria. From old habit, a warding spell came to Morgan’s lips, although it held no power. In any case, he suspected Maura and the dragon didn’t need his help. The girl’s destiny had always been hers to determine. He hoped this latest trial would finally convince her of this, provided she and the dragon managed to escape.
He climbed a narrow set of stairs leading up to the chamber that had once been his own, fifty years before, in the days when he’d served King Owain. At his touch, the door at the top swung open to an empty room. Morgan was two steps into it when he heard the door close behind him, and the soft click of a lock.
“Pray be seated, Master.” The voice, which was not Celaidra’s, came from the other side of an ornate screen in the corner.
It was no use trying the door at his back, and the windows would offer no means of escape either. Resignedly, Morgan took a chair, from which he could see that the lilacs were in bloom in the whimsical gardens below.
“Forgive me for barging in like this, my lady.”
With a low laugh, Selka emerged from behind the dressing screen, her crimson skirts swinging behind her. Despite her years, she would still have turned many heads at court—if anyone had been allowed to see her.
Morgan rose courteously as she drifted toward him.
“Ever the gentleman, Morgan. You were expecting Celaidra.”
The wizard gave a slight nod. “I was under the impression that she had—”
“Taken up your old quarters?” Selka laughed again and moved past him to stand by the windows. “I imagine that appeals to some ridiculous sense of romance on your part. But I doubt she could bear it, not after you spurned her.”
Morgan remained silent. He had no intention of discussing his past with the sorceress.
“Nothing to say to that?” Selka gave a little shrug. “You wouldn’t have found Celaidra here in any event. She’s out of the city at present.” She arched one fine brow. “I assumed she would be meeting you on your way to wherever you plan to hole up next. You, Celaidra, and Storn’s bastard daughter… oh yes, and the dragon. Now that came as a shock—I do confess it. Who would have guessed that that timid girl was actually dragonfast?” She gave an appreciative nod. “Quite the consummate actress, Lady Maura.” Her sly smile disappeared. “Did Urlion know about the dragons? Celaidra denies she did, but she’s a poor liar.”
So Celaidra had only recently departed. Selka clearly hadn’t meant to let that slip, for something flickered in her dark eyes.
“The prophecy’s coming to pass, isn’t it?” she said.
Morgan kept his gaze steady. “Do you wish me to deny this?”
In reply, the sorceress recited the infamous lines from the lost Chronicles:
“When dragons return to Drinnglennin’s skies,
her darkest mage again shall rise
and thus unleash the wings of dread
’til all the Known World’s tears are shed.
“If it’s true, there’ll be no stopping him this time.”
Morgan met her challenging gaze steadily. “I assume you’re referring to Lazdac?”
“Do you really have to ask? You, of all people?”
“He can be defeated, Selka, but only if we present him with a united front. Wizard, sorceress, man, elf, and dragon.”
Her scornful laugh echoed around the chamber. “You actually believe we can to alter that which the Chronicles foretold? Impossible. Its prophecies have never failed to come to pass. Why should we presume we can change the course of destiny this time? And even if we could, do you really propose that we ally ourselves with all men? The Helgrins, for instance, who have already scented out the discord in our realm and are raiding our shores again? How do you suppose Gral will react to that—Gral, who is already suffering the affront of having Helgrins entrenched on her northern coastlands.” The sorceress’s tone was bitter. “And with the shiploads of Albrenians already in Drinnkastel, it won’t be long before we’re all dancing to Segavian violinas.” She raised her chin, exposing her long, pale neck, like a swan giving warning. “You can forget about the Goths, Olquaria and all the rest, for no amount of negotiation and treaty-signing has ever created a genuine trust between the East and the West. And you propose adding elves and dragons to this cauldron of conflicts?”
She shook her head. “As I said—impossible. There was a time when our combined powers—Audric’s, Celaidra’s, Egydd’s, yours and mine—might have stopped Lazdac. But you had to run off alone to play hero when he last beckoned, and we all know how that ended.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Such a waste. And all for nothing.”
At any moment now, she will call for the guard.
But instead, Selka lifted a filigreed fan from the table beside her and flicked it open with a snap. Morgan realized she was nervous, which made him all the more wary.
The sorceress drew a step closer and lowered her voice. “I need you to do something for me.”
The idea that Selka should ask something of him was so novel that Morg
an searched her face for a sign of mockery. What he saw was something quite different. “I’m all ears,” he replied.
Her words dropped like stones. “I knew about Urlion’s second marriage.”
Morgan didn’t pretend not to understand. “I see. When did you come to learn of this union?”
The pulse in Selka’s throat quickened beneath her alabaster skin. “The night Urlion returned to Drinnkastel after his last progression, he summoned me to his chambers. He was drunk and maudlin, and he made me listen to his sorry tale—bawling like a lovesick calf about how he’d lost his bride.”
“And you told no one?”
“No one,” she echoed. “I was sworn to secrecy.”
Morgan knew very well she could be lying. Why would Urlion wish to keep this marriage secret? And why would Selka then cast a spell on him so that he would be forced to forget all about it?
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “It’s the truth. I made a solemn oath. I was bound to honor it.”
“Until now,” the wizard observed. “I assume there is a reason why you’ve chosen to speak of this at last, and to me?”
Selka picked at an imagined thread on her dagged sleeve. “It’s rumored there may have been… That is to say, I’ve heard mention of… a child.”
Morgan hoped his face didn’t betray his apprehension. “Who has made mention of this?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters very much. Who spoke of a child?”
“King Roth and Lord Vetch,” Selka replied coolly. “You needn’t look so alarmed. It was assumed to be a private conversation.”
“The subject of which we can presume Grindasa is also privy to.”
The sorceress gave the slightest of nods. “I suppose she would know as well.”
“And what has this to do with me?”
“I thought perhaps… you were the last one to speak with Urlion. Did he not say anything… at the end? Did he not remember?”
Selka was as good as admitting she knew about the enchantment. But why risk revealing this to him? Was it because she believed her traitorous spell remained undetected? Or was she testing him, to see if it hadn’t?
