by Tim Stead
“Yes,” she said, since there was no point in denying it. “He was interested in our encounter with Shadow.”
“I suppose he would be. Did he make any sense of it?”
“He said not. He thought that my telling him the tale might show him something, but it didn’t.”
“And Dragons do not lie,” Sithmaree said. She looked at the food on the plate, and somehow her sentence also conveyed to Callista the sense that whilst dragons were truthful, others were not.
Whatever the Snake suspected, Callista was determined that her problem, her dragon gift and her knowledge that she could pass the test, were her own, her very own, and nobody else had a right to them. She ate in silence.
“You are going out again?” Sithmaree asked.
“Yes.”
“And will you meet dragons again?”
“I think it likely,” Callista said. She would not lie when asked a direct question. “Bane said that he expects Kirrith to come here today. He may also wish to hear the tale. They seem to think it an important matter.”
“Kirrith?” Sithmaree seemed surprised. “If he is coming from Telas Alt, then I don’t doubt it.” She looked thoughtful. “Will you tell me if he discerns anything?”
“Of course, but I do not even know if he will ask to hear it.”
“He will,” Sithmaree said. “It is unheard of for Shadow to speak. It is a rare thing, and just the sort of fodder that the dragons love.”
It was with these words in her ears that Callista packed her small pack and set off along the path to the low hill where she had met Bane. She had it in her mind that if Kirrith came then it would be there that they spoke.
She arrived there while the air was still fresh and sat down on the seat, looking up at the sky for any sign of dragon wings, but there was nothing. Time passed slowly. She had not brought a great deal of food with her, and when the sun had climbed to its zenith she ate what she had and still felt hungry. She began to consider walking back to Col Boran. There was no point sitting here all day.
On the other hand she might as well walk on. She wasn’t that hungry and the trail led on from the seat, running down into a small green valley that reached up into the mountains. She looked around one more time, but seeing so sign of dragons she hitched her pack onto a shoulder and walked on.
It was much warmer now, and she wound her way down into the valley at a modest pace, pausing from time to time to look ahead and enjoy the view. The valley was turning out to be quite pretty, and an assortment of decorative trees clustered about the tiny stream that ran out of it making it seem almost like a lord’s park.
She reached flat ground and turned towards the mountains. It would be an hour yet before the sun began to use them to make shadows on the plains, and she would be on her way back by then.
She stopped at a bend in the stream and drank a little water, filling the small flask she was carrying in her pack. When she looked up she was startled to see a vast dragon had somehow landed in the meadow opposite without her hearing or seeing it. The creature was watching her, so she stood up and bowed to it.
“You are Kirrith?”
“I am Kirrith,” it replied, its voice rolling over her like thunder. Kirrith was a good deal larger than Bane.
“You are most stealthy,” she commented.
“When I wish to be.”
“You have questions for me?”
“I have. Would you like to ride?”
“Ride?”
“Travel upon my back.”
Callista was lost for words. It was widely known in Col Boran that only Narak rode upon the backs of dragons. Not even Pascha was afforded the privilege.
“Why? Why would you allow it?”
The dragon did something like a shrug, a ripple that travelled down his long back. “There is some kinship in your gift,” it said. “And besides, I long for the high air. It is thick and warm down here.”
“Lord Kirrith, it is a great honour, but I do not know how to ride a dragon.” She was more than a little afraid. She was not overly keen on heights and she could see no place that she might sit in safety.
“It is simple enough. Sit at the base of my neck and hang on firmly with both hands.” The great beast lowered and stretched out a wing. Callista hesitated, but she was afraid to refuse such an offer – even more afraid than she was of falling to her death. She walked up the wing. It was more rigid than she had expected, a bit like walking up a wooden ramp with just a hint of flexing beneath her feet. She reached the approved position and looked around. Kirrith was so large that she could not put a leg either side of his neck, but would have to kneel between two ridges on his back and grip the same ridges with her hands.
“Kirrith, I am afraid,” she said.
“No harm will come to you,” the dragon said, and because he was a dragon and could not lie, and because she felt the certainty of his words she knelt and took hold of the ridges. It was the oddest sensation. Where she placed her hands the dragon seemed to change shape to give her a firmer grip, and she could have sworn that where she knelt the ridges grew higher and more curved to make her position more secure.
The wings stretched out on either side, reached up into the sky and then drove down with a thump that rattled her teeth. She glanced over the side and saw the ground lurch away from them. Twice more the wings beat downwards, scooping gales of air onto the ground. After that the flight smoothed, and Callista saw Col Boran wheeling away from them as they climbed in a rapid spiral. She felt the air cool as they rose, and saw the mountains sweeping past the dragon’s wingtips.
It was exhilarating. She had never known a sensation like it. The air rushed about her, and it seemed that the world itself shrank away until only her and Kirrith seemed to exist, almost as one being, riding up into the clouds.
It ended too soon. Kirrith lifted his wings, catching the air, and settled on a high peak a thousand feet above the palace. Callista looked down on the stone buildings and wondered how she was going to explain this to Sithmaree. She did not doubt that, somehow, the Snake would know of her flight.
She walked once more down the offered wing and sat on a rock, wrapping her cloak about her in the colder air.
“Now,” Kirrith said, folding his wings once more. “Tell me about Shadow.”
Emboldened by her flight, Callista did not do so at once. “Do you know who or what Shadow is?” she asked.
“I do,” Kirrith said.
“Will you tell me?”
“I will only say that it is very old, older than the Benetheon, perhaps even older than dragons, and that when some things are destroyed they leave behind a residue, a thing that yearns to be what it once was. A shadow.”
“No more than that?”
Kirrith did not reply, but instead looked away to the south. Callista waited. After a while he looked back again.
“Tell me your story,” he said.
Callista told him her tale. She tried her best to include every detail, every movement, every word. She knew that this was important. Kirrith let her speak. He did not interrupt with questions as she expected, but closed his eyes and remained completely still.
Eventually she ran out of words and stopped talking. Kirrith remained still, almost as though he had become part of the rock. All she could detect was the gentle rise and fall of his massive flanks as he breathed the cold mountain air.
“It is like a thunderstorm,” the dragon said, opening his eyes. “I see things in flashes, and even those things are obscured, partial, and blurred. But there are dark days ahead, of that I am certain. It may be that dragons will die.”
“Die?” Callista was shocked. “But dragons are immortal. They cannot be killed.”
Kirrith turned and looked at her. “The one thing we all know is that nothing is immortal. The sun rises and sets. Should we be any different? If my life is a long summer’s day and yours a brief winter one we are the same. Night will fall.”
“But the sun rises again each day.�
��
Kirrith grinned, or she supposed it was a grin. At any rate he bared his teeth. “I confess that the analogy is flawed,” he said. “And it may be that a fallen dragon may rise again, but I do not see how.”
“But you saw something. You know something.”
“That is true. The one thing of which I am certain is that you must take Eran Pascha’s test, or the night will be without stars.”
35 Fated Luck
Mordo was lucky. He was just passing down the stair from one of the many terraces in Col Boran when he heard a loud crash and a man’s cry. The noise came from one of the Durander apartments, and in a moment of prescience Mordo sensed danger. He stepped into the shadows next to the guard room, and at the same time noticed that the post was deserted. This was not as uncommon as it might seem. Very few of the significant residents of Col Boran required protection, and so there was a definite laxness among those charged with their safety.
He saw a man run from the building on the far side and recognised him at once. It was Josetin, the man he had hired to kill King Degoran.
A moment later he saw what the Durander was running from. Wolf Narak in full aspect leapt after him and seized him by the neck. There was no doubt that the plot was uncovered, failed or not. It would be only moments before Narak discovered the truth.
Mordo ducked back into the guard room. There were several swords on a rack – useless – and a bow with a quiver of arrows. He snatched up the bow and once more looked out.
The scene had not changed. Narak was still holding Josetin by the neck at arm’s length, and the Durander was kicking feebly. Narak was staring up at the Dragon’s Back.
Mordo didn’t waste the opportunity. He had balanced the certainty of discovery against his own chances and made his choice. He quickly fitted an arrow to the string, took careful aim and let go.
He was confident of his skill – the distance was not so great that he would miss – so as soon as the string flexed he ran. He threw the bow and quiver back into the guard room and fled headlong down the stairs. At the bottom he turned left and pushed open the door of his own office. He threw himself into his seat and grabbed a handful of papers.
He breathed deeply, knowing he had only seconds to recover his breath.
There was a noise like a storm in the corridor outside and the doorway was filled by the form of Narak, still in full aspect. At this distance his presence was overwhelming. Mordo was afraid, but beneath that he was aware that this would work in his favour. Everybody, the guilty and innocent alike, were afraid of Narak when he was like this.
“Did a man run past here?” Narak demanded.
“No, my lord,” Mordo replied. “But I have only just returned from my duties in the palace.” This was true. Narak would not sense a lie. He could feel the Wolf God’s rage, almost like a furnace, the heat of it pressing against him.
“You saw nobody? You heard nobody?”
“Nothing, my lord, not down here.” Again a truth. Mordo had found that you could answer almost any question with a truth. You just had to be creative. The key was to avoid being asked the direct question: did you kill this man? Even then he could have tried a diversion: what man? When? It was an art.
Narak remained in the doorway, perhaps unconvinced by Mordo’s answers. He could still feel his blood pumping from his flight down the stairs, but he showed nothing, breathing slowly even though he was desperate for air. It was all about control.
“You know nothing about the man who was killed?” Narak asked.
“Killed? Someone has been killed?” Could a question be a lie? It seemed not. Narak stared at him a moment longer and then was gone. Mordo heard footsteps vanishing into the distance and then fell forward on his desk gasping for air. He felt faint. One wrong word would have been certain death, he knew. The Wolf was not one given to mercy.
He went to his window and opened it, sucking down air. When he felt recovered he poured himself a cup of water and drank it in two gulps. He wiped the sweat from his face. He had never been so close to death, nor had he ever been so close to Narak in his aspect. It changed his plans. He had always thought to foster chaos among the kingdoms, to create an age in which he could thrive, but he needed several things, and didn’t have them yet. After this he could not stay here much longer. If Josetin had talked he would have been discovered, and that would have been the end of it. He did not think that Narak was entirely convinced and that frightened him. It was like a blade poised above his head, waiting to fall.
But for all that his luck had held. He had been fortunate indeed to see his agent’s capture, and even more fortunate that a useful weapon had been to hand.
He could not risk coming so close again.
Yet it was almost as though he was fated to succeed, as though some subtle magic worked in his favour. He closed the window and sat down at the desk. He began to smooth out the papers he had snatched up. Everything should be neat. There was a request here for ceremonial tiles for the testing chamber. More were needed, it seemed. He read the paper, signed it, and placed it to the left.
This was his skill. He would act with innocence and at the same time he would tear the kingdoms apart. Out of chaos new powers would arise, and Mordo, weak, untalented Mordo, would be among them.
36 The General
Sheyani had been troubled by her day with Callista. She had told Pascha that it took time to learn what she could from a person, to divine their music, and that was true, but she had heard things in Callista’s voice, in her movements, that were contradictory.
The one certain thing was that she had never met anyone like Callista Dalini. There was a purity within her that resembled childlike innocence, but was not. It was tempered by bitterness, regret, betrayal, and so many other taints. But where most people would have been changed by this, Callista had not. The purity remained. It was an odd thing, this knowing purity, like a man who has been lied to a thousand times, and yet trusts what he is told; a woman who has been beaten many times, and yet trusts that she will be safe. In a way it was a defiance of logic. But it was more than that. It was as though she trusted the world, eventually, to conform to her picture of it. If she held true then the world would see the folly of its ways and respond to her trust.
There was something else in Callista. It was steel.
These things had not yet settled. Callista was a cake half-baked, and what she came to in the end could be very fine indeed, or the exact opposite.
And she thought that the girl had lied to her.
Sheyani was not a truth teller, but she was a wise woman who had seen over a hundred summers. She knew people, and the way the girl had looked away when she answered that particular question had been enough. It was something to do with the test.
To add to her worries there was a rumour flying about Col Boran that Callista had been seen talking to Bane. Few dragons were given to idle conversation – Torgaris, perhaps, or maybe Kelcotel, but Bane? Bane was all purpose. There was nothing friendly about Bane.
Sheyani was sitting in the house she shared with Cain when Cain came in. He had been away in Telas for a few days on some errand for Pascha, but she was so deep in thought that she did not hear him enter. Cain, typically, did not disturb her. He sat in a chair on the other side of the room and waited.
It took more than a few seconds for her to realise he was there.
“Cain? I did not hear you come it. Telas went well?”
“Well enough. Lord Filamon sends his finest regards, and two cases of wine.” He smiled. “Something troubles you?”
Sheyani shook her head. “It is the Dalini girl. Pascha asked me to speak to her, to judge her.”
“Sithmaree’s ward? She’s barely more than a child.”
“She’s much more. Callista is special, different, like you.” She smiled. She knew that Cain saw himself as commonplace. He was a soldier, an innkeeper, a minor lord who had been lucky at Fal Verdan and lived on the back of it ever since. That was how he saw himself, but S
heyani saw something different. Cain had a gift. People followed him, loved him, would die for him, and when he touched a problem it fell apart, opened like a flower and revealed its solution. It seemed almost magical to Sheyani, to whom magic was commonplace.
“Special in what respect?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, but I would not like to see her wedded to power before I know. She could be dangerous.”
“Or?” Cain had picked up the alternative in her tone.
“Or she could be… special.”
“A gamble, then.”
“Perhaps, but she seems not to want power. All she talks about is her home, people and places she knew, domestic matters. She has no politics in her at all.”
“I heard about the thing with Shadow,” Cain said. “That must mean something.”
“Nobody knows what, or if they do they’re not speaking of it.” She remembered the dragons. “Perhaps Bane knows,” she said. “Perhaps that is why he was speaking to her.”
They sat in silence for a while. Outside it began to rain – a brief shower most likely. They came and went this time of year at Col Boran.
“Lord Filamon thinks that war is coming,” Cain said.
“War?” Sheyani was surprised. She had seen no signs of it. “Avilian and Afael?”
“Avilian and Berash,” Cain said. “The Telans watch the Berashis closely, even after so long a peace. They say that Berashi soldiers are massing on the Avilian border; that Bas Erinor has called out the regiments. It may be just posturing, but the Avilian duke is not a subtle man.”
“The Berashis wouldn’t start anything, surely? Has there been some provocation?”
“Not that I know of. There was nothing to suggest it in Avilian when we were there and Filamon knew of nothing. He has many friends still in Berash.”
A war for no reason and a girl that interested dragons, a girl that mythical creatures spoke to.
