The Dragonstone

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Pedestrian traffic was light, and heavy, horse-drawn wagons trundled through the streets. At one point, Arin and her companions had to pause while a water wagon maneuvered ’round a twisting turn. As they moved onward, water wagons in the early morn became a common sight, for Pendwyr was a city without wells, and water was hauled in from the shafts and springs down on the plains of Pellar.

  Not that the city was without its own water, for nearly all of the buildings in the city itself had tile roofs, and they were fitted with gutters and channels cunningly wrought to guide rainwater into cisterns for storing. This supply was augmented by the water from the plains.

  That a city had been raised on land with no water was an accident of history, for Pendwyr had grown a building at a time as merchants and craftsmen had settled on the headland to be near the fortress. The bastion itself was where the High King had quartered after the city of Gleeds near the mouth of the Argon had been burnt to the ground, an event precipitated long past by the Chabbains from across the sea.

  Yet situated where it was, rain came often to Pendwyr, and seldom had the city needed to rely wholly upon water from the plains.

  Neither Arin nor Egil nor Delon nor Aiko commented upon this history of Pendwyr, for they did not know how the city had come to be. Instead they strolled along without speaking for the most part, eyeing the richness all ’round.

  Past shops and stores, past restaurants and cafés and tea shops, past inns and taverns, past large dwellings and small squares, past greengrocers and chirurgeons and herbalists they strolled. And they crossed through several open market squares, with fish and fowl and meats, with vegetables and fruits and grain, with woven goods and flowers and the like. But Arin and her companions did not stop to finger the wares, though Egil commented that here was the place to come to resupply the ship.

  Onward they walked, to pass through a gateway in a high stone wall which ran the width of the narrow peninsula. Beyond the wall the character of the buildings changed, for here were located a great courthouse, a tax hall, a large building housing the city guard with a jail above, a firehouse, a library, a census building, a hall of records, a cluster of university buildings, and other such—here was the face of government, the agencies and offices of the realm. As they passed through this section of Pendwyr, they heard a loud thnk!, and down a side street and in a large, open city square behind a low wall they could see a gallows of many ropes being tested. And even though it was early in the day, street peddlers were arranging their carts in the square, maneuvering into the best positions to sell their wares at the public spectacle.

  Arin sighed. “Humans: they make a carnival of death.”

  Egil looked at her. “Perhaps, love, it will give others pause. They will think twice ere committing a like crime.”

  Arin shook her head. “As Delon said, such spectacle will not stop the Rovers.”

  Egil shrugged, and they walked onward.

  Ahead, stood Caer Pendwyr itself, the citadel tall with castellated walls all ’round and towers at each corner, enclosing the castle of the High King. As they neared the caer, of a sudden they realized that it sat on a free-standing spire of stone towering up from the Avagon Sea below. The fortified pinnacle was connected to the headland by a pivot bridge, a span which could be swiveled aside by a crew in the castle to sever the fortress from the headland.

  A line of petitioners stood outside a low building away from the bridge. After an enquiry or two, Arin and her companions took their place at the end of the line. People turned and gaped at them, for seldom had any seen a Dylvana, and none had ever seen a yellow warrior woman. At the distant door, a warder stepped inside as a whispered mutter made its way up the line. Moments later a soldier dressed in the red and gold of the High King’s guard emerged with the warder, who pointed at the foursome. The warder took his place at the door again, but the kingsguard marched toward the four.

  Aiko shifted into a balanced stance as if readying for battle, though she left her swords scabbarded at her back.

  “Do you think they know about Gudrun and are coming to arrest us?” whispered Delon.

  Egil shrugged. “Not likely,” he responded, yet his hand fell to the axe slipped through his belt.

  The kingsguard stepped before them and bowed. “Milady,” he said to Arin, “bring you word of the King?”

  “Nay, I do not,” replied Arin. “I am here to see him instead.” As a look of disappointment flickered across the kingsguard’s face, Arin added, “I take it by thy question that King Bleys is not in Caer Pendwyr.”

  “He is not, milady,” replied the guard, his gaze flitting to Aiko and back. “Lord Revor presides.”

  “We have traveled far to see the High King,” said Arin, “but if he is not here, then we would seek audience with his steward instead. Our mission is pressing.”

  The kingsguard shook his head. “I am most sorry, milady, but the lord steward is seeing no one today. He prepares for an urgent journey.”

  Arin drew herself up to her full four feet eight. “Tell him that a representative of Coron Remar of Darda Erynian is here seeking aid.”

  The kingsguard swept his hat low in an elaborate bow. “Wait here, milady. I will see what I can do.”

  * * *

  They returned to the caer for the afternoon appointment that the kingsguard had arranged. Within a candlemark, a warder escorted them across the bridge and into the walled castle. They passed among corridors and at last emerged through a postern to find themselves crossing a rear courtyard toward a short suspension bridge a hundred or so feet above the rolling sea. The bridge itself spanned from the castle to another sheer-sided pinnacle on which were low stone buildings—lodgings, said their escort, for the King’s closest advisors.

  “When I was a lad in Gûnar,” said Delon, peering down at the sheer stone as they crossed the swaying bridge, “my father and I oft climbed rock faces such as this. Those days in the Gûnarring are long past.”

  Looking ahead, they could see a third pinnacle beyond, and another suspension bridge spanning the gulf between this one and that. On the far pinnacle stood the High King’s private residence; they did not cross over to the King’s spire, but instead were taken to a stone dwelling at hand, where they waited in a foyer for another candlemark or so. Finally, a slight, balding man stepped through a doorway and bowed to Arin. “Milady, I am the Lord Steward Revor,” he announced, “and I understand you have urgent business.”

  * * *

  “So, milord,” said Egil, “King Bleys is not even in Pellar at the moment.”

  Revor shook his head as he hastily examined papers, stuffing a few into saddlebags and placing others back among the piles upon the desk he stood behind; as he had told them, he would be shortly sailing northward across the bay to deal with a matter of high justice concerning the garrison in the Fian Dunes, but he could spare them a moment. “No. Bleys is to the north. No sooner had he come back from breaking the Rovers’ blockade, than word came of the Lian campaign against the Rûpt—”

  “Campaign?” burst out Arin. “What campaign?”

  Revor looked across at her. “It seems that some of the great trees of the Larkenwald were cut down by the Foul Folk, and the Lian took up arms against the tribe of Spaunen that did it.” Revor glanced at Arin. “From the message that came, Elven vengeance was swift, milady, utterly without mercy, as it should have been. Chilling examples were made of the axe wielders, and their remains are even now being displayed to the Spaunen kindred in their mountain haunts. At times battle ensues, and the Lian hew down those Rûpt who take up arms. That is where High King Bleys is: he rides with the Lian.”

  “What does the felling of trees have to do with Bleys?” asked Delon.

  “Why, eldwood trees are protected by edict of the High King,” replied Revor, returning to his task. “Too, King Bleys is not one to stand idly by when there are arms to wield.” The steward gestured at the piles of paper and scrolls yet awaiting his scrutiny. “He’d rather leave th
e administration of the realm to others. In any event, as soon as he returned from breaking the Rovers’ blockade, he and Phais and a small warband rode off to join the Lian on their ride through the Grimwall.”

  “Phais?” asked Egil.

  “She is the High King’s advisor,” replied Revor. “A Lian herself, she was outraged when the word first came.” Revor paused in his scrutiny. “Huh, last October it was, a year past. But then Bleys was readying the fleet to sail against the Rovers, and although he gave Phais permission to ride to the Larkenwald, she stayed by him. Now he fares at her side. They rode to join the Lian in late July—three months past.”

  “Milord, how goes this war?” asked Delon.

  The steward shrugged. “Other than the original message, we’ve no word.” Revor stuffed a last paper into his saddlebag and buckled it shut.

  He looked across at them. “But here, you did not come to speak of war; it was to see the High King instead.” Now he gazed directly at Arin. “You seek aid, Dara Arin of Darda Erynian, the Blackwood, representative of Coron Remar. How may I help you?”

  Arin glanced at Egil, then said, “We’ve come looking for a ferret in the High King’s cage.”

  Revor’s eyes widened and he sat down. “And this is your urgent business?” His tone was sharp.

  “Aye, ’tis the rede of a prophecy we follow…one thy High King should now know about, given that he has met up with any who rode with me to Black Mountain.”

  “Prophecy?” Revor took a deep breath and blew it out. “Milady, the High King keeps no ferrets.”

  “Are there any in Pendwyr?” asked Delon.

  The steward shook his head. “None I know of. I am afraid that if your mission calls for the finding of a High King’s ferret, you are to be disappointed.”

  Aiko spoke for the first time. “Has the High King any cages?”

  “He kennels dogs,” replied Revor, cocking his head at her unfamiliar accent. “Falcons and the like.”

  “May we examine them?”

  Revor blew out his breath again. “I’ll arrange for someone to escort you, though you’ll find no weasels, stoats, ferrets, mousehounds, or other such within.”

  “Does Bleys keep cages elsewhere?” asked Egil.

  Revor shrugged. “Perhaps some at Challerain Keep, though I would be most surprised if any contained ferrets.”

  The steward looked from one to another. “Is there aught else you would ask of me?” None replied, and Revor stood and threw on a cloak and hat, and took up his saddlebags. “There is a tale here for the telling and would that I could hear the whole of it, but I, too, have urgent business.”

  As the steward led them toward the door, Delon said, “There is one other thing you could do for us, milord.”

  Revor looked at him and cocked an eyebrow.

  Delon said, “You could give us permission to speak to the prisoners in the jail.”

  “Huah,” grunted the steward. “But for a few drunkards, the rest are to be hanged at sundown.”

  Delon shrugged. “Nevertheless…”

  Revor snorted and then his eyes widened. “Oh. I see. It is the High King’s cage. Certainly.”

  Then Lord Revor frowned, as if chasing an elusive thought. But ere he could catch it, a page stepped through the doorway. “Milord, I am to tell you your ship awaits.”

  Revor waved him away. “Yes, yes, lad. I’ll be right there.”

  “Speaking of ships, milord,” added Delon, as they moved outside the lord steward’s quarters, “we’d like permission to speak to any prisoners in brigs as well.”

  The steward shook his head. “The brigs are empty, lad; all are in gaol. Regardless, I’ll get you a pass to the prison.” Revor called a kingsguard to him and gave him instructions, then bade good-bye to his guests and, shouldering his saddlebags, strode away toward the bridge to the caer.

  * * *

  “Well, Lord Revor was right about one thing,” said Delon, “there are no ferrets in any of these cages.”

  They stood in the High King’s mews, the birds unhooded, their jesses free, their eyes glaring.

  “Ha!” barked their escort. “A ferret wouldn’t stand a chance with these beauties. Look at those claws, those beaks: what ferret could withstand such?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, back toward the kennels where the dogs yet stirred and yipped at these strangers who had passed by. “Nor would a weasel or such last long with the hounds,” added the kingsguard.

  “All right, then,” said Egil, “take us to the prison where languish the Rover captains.”

  The guard looked at the sun, a handspan above the horizon. “Not for long,” he said. “In a candlemark or so they’ll be languishing at the ends of ropes.”

  Out from the mews they stepped and past the stables. They walked across the central thoroughfare and toward the jail. Down the side street where stood the gallows there came the hullaboo of a crowd. Arin shivered in revulsion. “Mankind and his spectacle of death,” she muttered.

  Egil took her hand as they strode toward the lockup. “Can you say Elves are any different?”

  She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

  “I mean, love, the Lian are even now displaying the remains of slaughtered Foul Folk to their kindred. If that is not a spectacle, I know not what is meant by the term.”

  “But they slaughtered trees,” said Arin.

  “And these pirates slaughtered people,” rejoined Egil.

  For a moment they walked onward in silence, then Arin said, “Thou art right, Egil. The felling of people is of more concern than the felling of trees. Yet heed, the crowd down by the gallows has come to be entertained, whereas the warband of Lian seek only vengeance pure, and they seek only to prevent such from occurring again. They feel no joy in what they do; only justice.”

  Now Egil fell silent, and as lamplighters moved along the street preparing for the oncoming dusk by igniting the oil lanthorns atop lampposts, at last Arin and her companions came unto the jail.

  * * *

  Upon orders from the desk warden, they laid their weapons aside. A guard searched them all and found Aiko’s shiruken; in spite of her low growls, he set them in the vestibule as well. “Care for them as if they were your children,” she said, “for if they are not here when we return, you shall father no offspring in the future.”

  A jailor led them up a stone stairwell and in among enshadowed holding cages, dark with the coming of eve. Through the barred windows the crowd waiting in the street below could be heard: hawkers selling their wares, children shouting and screaming in play, strident voices calling for the show to begin, a low mumble and mutter of people pressed together. Some prisoners peered out through windows at the gallows below, while others sat upon the floor and wept.

  “These are them what are to be hanged,” said their jailor escort, gesturing at the cells to the right. “Pirates and cutpurses and such. Them others over on this side are drunks and debtors. Hang them too, says I. It’ll clear the city of such.” Then he turned to Arin. “Mind you now, you got to hurry. The rope dancing is about to begin, and me, I want a fair seat for the show. In fact, I’ll go get Rob to save me one. Take care now not to get too close to the bars and I’ll be back before you know I was gone.” With that he turned and hurried away.

  Aiko prowled down the side holding the drunkards and debtors, her gaze searching the cells.

  Of a sudden, Delon called out “Ferret!” his voice ringing throughout the pens.

  There was no answer.

  Slowly, Arin and Egil moved along the right-hand cages, peering within. Some of the prisoners were dark skinned; these were obviously the Kistanians—the captured Rover captains. Others were pale and trembling—“Cutpurses and thieves, most likely,” said Egil. Feral eyes turned their way and some prisoners spat curses at them in an unfamiliar tongue. Some captives turned their backs upon these gawking visitors, while others reached out through the bars, beseeching, pleading for the Dylvana to save them, tears running down t
heir faces.

  “Adon, deliver me from such a place,” muttered Delon, and he strode on ahead.

  A fair-skinned youth with dark brown, shoulder-length hair moved forward through the shadows to fetch up against the bars of a cell. As Delon stepped past, the youth reached out and caught at Delon’s sleeve. “Good sir, you called for Ferret?”

  Delon drew back, away from the clutching fingers. “I did.”

  The youth, alone in the cell, said in a low voice, “I am she, unjustly imprisoned.”

  Delon’s eyes flew wide and he looked closely. “By Adon,” he gasped, “you are a female!”

  She held her arms wide and pirouetted. Dressed in lad’s clothing, she stood a slender five feet three or four. Her enshadowed eyes were dark brown, matching her hair. She could be no older than twenty-one or -two.

  “And you are named Ferret?” asked Delon.

  She turned up a hand. “Yes.” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and filled with as much maidenly virtue as she could muster. “Surely, sir, you can see that I am innocent.”

  Delon looked rightward. “Dara!” he called. When Arin turned, Delon said, “This lady names herself Ferret.”

  Arin quickly stepped to the cell. “Is this true? Thou art Ferret?”

  “That’s what I am called, milady,” answered the girl-woman, “though my true name is Ferai. ’Tis Gothonian, as was my dear father, rest his soul.”

  “Ferret, Ferai, regardless,” said Arin, “we must get thee free of this place.”

  Ferai’s eyes lighted at these words, but no sooner were they said than the jailor came rushing back. “Time’s up. I’ve got my seat, and they’re ready to start the hangings. You’ll have to leave.”

  “Wait,” demanded Arin. “You must set this one free.”

  The warder stepped back, as if startled. “Her? Why, she’s one of the worst. Queen of All Thieves, that one. No, milady, she’ll dangle among the first, she will.”