“Speak,” they said simultaneously.
Gregol looked to Zuzanna, then to the approaching carriages. Given the choice between taking the time to cope with what had just occurred and seizing the opportunity to potentially give this mission a chance at success, he eagerly chose the latter.
“You tell her what not to do; I shall tell her what to do,” he said.
“Very well,” Zuzanna agreed.
For the others observing, what followed was a bizarre and rather entertaining performance. Gregol, with a frantic energy that increased as the Tresson delegation drew nearer, spouted volumes of information about Tresson customs and beliefs. He illustrated the traditional greetings, briefly gave points of historic importance, and suggested fruitful topics of discussion. Zuzanna laid out cultural taboos to be avoided, points of etiquette to be emphasized, and sensitive information about the Northern Alliance that should be politely declined for discussion lest the defense of the Alliance be endangered. At nearly the same time, the pair began to run dry of topics that could be covered quickly. It was just as well, as the carriages were now near enough for the rattling of their wheels to be heard.
“Simple enough,” each Ether said.
Again there was a burst of flame. A few moments later a single figure stood before them. Ether took back her book.
“I shall take your words into advisement,” she said, walking forward to take her place at the border.
“Into advisement?” Gregol said.
“With all due respect, oh honored Guardian, we must insist that you behave precisely as we have instructed,” Zuzanna said.
“If you were treating me with all due respect, you would not presume to insist upon anything. Much of what you have described requires me to supplicate and demean myself to an intolerable degree for no reason but to forestall an inevitable squabble between arbitrarily divided members of your own kind. It is a pointless exercise in futility, and I engage in it only because it has been suggested that it is somehow beyond my capabilities to do so. Nothing is beyond my capabilities. So I have listened to your words, but I shall take from them only what I choose.”
“Of course, oh Guardian,” Zuzanna said.
“Thank you, Guardian Ether,” Gregol said with a bow of his head.
With that, Ether turned and awaited the arrival of the delegation.
“This is an inauspicious start to very delicate proceedings,” Zuzanna said quietly to her partner.
“To put it very lightly,” Gregol agreed.
Ether stood, stone still and utterly quiet, until the carriages reached the crossing and the delegation stepped out for the formal greeting. As before, Tressor had sent an ambassador and a pair of aides to represent their kingdom. Joining them was a reasonable accompaniment of guards and individuals fulfilling a half-dozen other minor roles necessary for a successful diplomatic tour.
The shapeshifter stepped forward, toeing the line of the border, and looked her counterpart in this exchange in the eye evenly. The Tresson ambassador was elderly, older even than Gregol. He had steel-gray hair contrasting with dark, almost black, craggy skin. There were thin, intricate tattoos visible at his wrists, and while his garb was similar to that worn by those hosting Myranda and Deacon on their own mission, his was adorned with a complex pattern of beads and embroidery.
Gregol sighed in relief as Ether initiated the interaction as instructed, flawlessly executing both the Tresson and Northern greetings and utilizing the proper style of address.
“Ambassador Maka, may I formally invite you and your delegation to enter the Ulvard region of the Northern Alliance,” Ether said, stepping aside and sweeping her arm in a mechanical imitation of Gregol’s suggested gesture.
The ambassador nodded and he and his people filed through. Gregol stepped up and offered his own welcome.
“We are very pleased to have you here. It is our hope that you will enjoy what little of Ulvard you will have time to see during your journey, and may we all learn much of one another. As per our prior communications, for the duration of this journey we shall be using Alliance carriages, as the climate and conditions of the road have rather special requirements for both horse and carriage. You shall be joining Guardian Ether in the first carriage, along with Ambassador Zuzanna and myself and two of your aides. The rest—”
“No,” Ether said.
All eyes turned to her.
“No?” asked Gregol.
“The ambassador and I shall ride alone in the carriage. The rest of you may divide yourselves as you please among the remaining carriages.”
“Guardian Ether, this was discussed at length prior to arrival of the delegation,” Gregol began.
“It was not discussed with me. Ambassador Maka is my equal for the purposes of this tour. I fail to see the value in crowding the carriage with subordinates and cluttering the conversation with additional voices.”
Gregol stammered somewhat in searching for the proper words to convince the headstrong elemental of the crucial nature of protocol. He’d not yet found the appropriate phrasing when the Tresson ambassador spoke.
“That is most agreeable,” said Maka. His voice was more heavily accented than the other representatives, but he spoke slowly and with great clarity.
“Ah! Ah, well then, splendid,” Gregol quickly proclaimed.
A flurry of discussions and activity arose as the individuals responsible for the smooth execution of this journey clambered to adjust to this unanticipated change of plans. Ether simply stepped up to the carriage, opened the door, and climbed inside. When it became clear that he would require it, she offered a hand to Maka and pulled him inside with ease.
“Driver, you may depart,” Ether instructed in a raised voice.
“I am supposed to—” the unfortunate driver began to reply, his voice muffled by the thick walls of the carriage.
“Those individuals for which this tour was designed and arranged are presently in your carriage. The other drivers are aware of your itinerary. They shall meet us. Depart,” she ordered.
The carriage jerked into motion.
“I admire your directness and pragmatism,” Maka said, easing back into the overstuffed seats of the carriage. “I have never understood why it is believed that great understanding can only come from great numbers of people. Many voices lead only to more confusion. This, two representatives speaking as equals, this is the essence of diplomacy.”
“I am pleased that we agree on this matter,” Ether said. “I was instructed to inform you that this carriage is a fine example of the many trades and materials that have brought the Northern Alliance great pride in the years since the war began. The copper of the hardware is from the historic Grossmer Mines, the leather is worked and dyed Alliance blue by skilled artisans, and the wood is rock-pine felled from the base of the Dagger Gale Mountains. At your feet is a basket of food, each a Northern delicacy. You may partake as your appetite requires. It may also be of value to you to know that this is my first and quite likely my last instance as an ambassador.”
“This, may I say, does not come as a surprise.”
“No?”
“There is a… a certain language a diplomat uses. It is softened, smoothed. It has no edge, padded with bluster and pomp. Many words are used, but little is said. You speak like a blade hacking to the core. Also, what you have done, breaking with arrangements agreed upon? This is something an ambassador would never do.”
“I see. Then this is a profession defined by rigid adherence to arbitrary customs.”
“Most definitely. Another man might have refused the new arrangements, or perhaps terminated the whole of the tour in outrage.”
“You feel no such outrage.”
“I am old, I am cold, and I am hungry,” he said, opening the basket and looking over the contents. He selected a small cloth pouch of dried fruit. “They will say their empty words and come to their agreements in the other carriages. A pleasant ride with a lovely woman sounds like a far preferable way
to spend this journey. Now, please, tell me about your land…”
#
Most of Myranda and Deacon’s first day in Tressor was spent traveling. The first half of the day’s travels had been through towns and fields that at one time or another had been at the center of the fighting. While a century of warfare had kept the front line remarkably consistent, this stretch of it still wandered north and south a dozen miles or so depending on the intensity and outcome of the battles. As a result, some towns they’d passed through were being rebuilt for the dozenth time. The same thing had happened all across the northern side of the border as well, but Myranda had had a lifetime to adjust to it, and the Northern Alliance was far less populous than Tressor. After it became clear to the people that a city could not be reliably defended, it was simply abandoned, even if it was a capital like Kenvard. It said something about these people that they continued, decade after decade, to take back the land and return to the life they wanted to live.
The sun was setting by the time they were beyond the reach of the war, and the tone of the landscape changed. Buildings were older and more ornate. Indeed, if there was one thing to be said about the people and the architecture of Tressor at a glance, it was that much more time and effort were put into expression. Clothing was more colorful and vibrant. Buildings were more than just shelter; they were nuanced and accented, often to an almost sculptural degree.
And then there were the fields. All of the Northern Alliance’s greenest land was also closest to the border. The same shifts in the front that had chased away the cities could easily wipe out the farms. Therefore they were kept small so that if one was destroyed, it was not so great a loss. Even those fields safe from battle tended to be small because any land far enough from the front to avoid combat was also cold and rocky enough to need tremendous care to bear any crop at all. For that reason farmers could only manage small plots. Here the farms and plantations seemed endless, literally covering the whole of the landscape in both directions at times. Just one such farm could probably feed half of Kenvard.
Myranda looked out the window of their coach at the green expanse, workers still toiling in the fields as the light faded. They were tending to thorny bushes Myranda had never seen before.
“Excuse me, Valaamus, but what is this farm growing?” Myranda asked.
“Ah! This is a rakka plantation. They are rare so far north. Surely you have heard of rakka?”
“Yes… yes, I think so. Your provisions. The berry you bake into your bread.”
“Yes indeed. Very hard to grow. Closely kept secret. Most of our plantations are much farther south, but where the soil is right, our enterprising farmers are always willing to give a rakka crop a try.”
“I understand the plants are quite finicky,” Deacon said. “Surely the climate here would be too volatile for them.”
“Again, it is the soil that is most important. If the soil is good enough, it is well worth the effort to have the slaves dig up saplings down south and bring them here to bear fruit.”
Myranda looked to the window again, eyes scanning the workers.
“Slaves…” she said.
“Of course. Rakka requires much work. It would not be possible to grow it in quantity without slave labor.”
“We abolished slavery in our kingdom,” she said.
Valaamus nodded. “A recent decision, I understand. Bold, in the aftermath of war, to make so sweeping a change. Surely more strong hands would be preferable, particularly when rebuilding is necessary.”
“We now believe that freedom takes precedence,” Myranda said.
“A fine philosophy. I wish you luck in putting it into practice.”
“We’ve done well enough so far,” Myranda said.
As evening slid into night, they approached the place where they would take their meal and sleep. It was a small, comfortable cabin overlooking a lake and nestled in a dense forest. The carriage pulled to a stop not far from the cabin, where a small shrine stood by the lakeside. Myranda and Deacon gazed at the shrine. It was tall and carved of stone. Like most Tresson creations it was elaborate without being gaudy, and even without understanding the symbolism, there was a solemness about it. The top of the shrine was a carving of a lantern. A flame burned inside. The rest of the shrine was an obelisk carved with the likeness of ivy and accented with copper inlays tinged green with the passage of time. On either side of the shrine, each rising only as high as the hub of the carriage wheel, was a line of stone slabs. The sweeping, curling script of the Tresson language formed the names and ranks of hundreds of Tresson officers in total.
An attendant opened the door to the carriage. Before Myranda could step out, the thumping of heavy footsteps caused the attendant at the door to quickly retreat. A moment later Myn’s head filled the doorway, looking somewhat reproachfully at the diplomats who had tucked Myranda away with them for so long.
“Myn,” Myranda scolded, “don’t forget your manners.”
The dragon backed away and sat on her haunches, eying the attendants, who were reluctant to return to their tasks. Eventually they got their nerve and saw to the delegation, helping each down and seeing to the bags of the Tresson nobles.
“You speak to her as if to a child,” Valaamus observed, “and yet she obeys.”
“I’ve been with her since she was born,” Myranda said, walking over to the impatiently waiting dragon and giving her some long-awaited attention as Deacon unloaded their things from her back and handed them to the attendants.
Grustim, for the first time since Myranda had been introduced to him, made a sound that might have been intended for human ears. It was muttered beneath his breath, a Tresson word Myranda didn’t recognize.
“Hold your tongue,” hissed Valaamus.
“What did he say?” Myranda asked.
“It is a very old word,” Deacon said. “It means fertile soil. Or the material used to fertilize it. I believe, in context, he was suggesting that something you’d said was untrue.”
“My apologies, Duchess. Grustim is a soldier. He is not as refined in his interactions as the rest of the delegation,” Valaamus said.
“I’m not offended, Ambassador. But I am curious. What prompted such a remark?” Myranda asked.
“Answer the duchess,” Valaamus ordered.
The Dragon Rider stepped down from his mount. “You say your dragon has been with you since her birth,” he said. He spoke Varden, but with a less practiced diction than the ambassador. “A female mountain dragon of that size would be at least ninety years old. She’s nearly as large as Garr, and Garr was hatched before the war.”
“Garr is your dragon?” Deacon said. “It thought it was named—”
“The breeders have their name and I have mine. He is Garr, and he is one hundred and sixty years old.”
“Myn is only about two years old,” Myranda said.
Grustim barely managed to prevent himself from repeating his earlier outburst. “She is not two years old, Madam Duchess. You are mistaken.”
Myn cast a hard glare in his direction. She clearly did not appreciate what he had to say or the tone with which he was saying it.
Grustim continued, “I will prove it to you.” He turned to his mount, uttering a guttural command. The dragon lowered its head, tipping its horns toward him. “Here, on the horns. Dragons shed their skin once per growth season. The scales leave a mark and stain the horn a bit. Come, look. Learn something about the beast you ride.”
Myranda and Deacon stepped closer, Garr not even acknowledging them. Grustim pointed to a very faint dip in the surface of the deep-green horn, and a slight discoloration. It ran around the circumference, and Myranda never would have spotted it if not directed, but once she knew what to look for, she found dozens more along the length of the horn.
“Now go find them on your mount and learn how old she really is,” Grustim said.
“Come here Myn, let’s see your horns,” Myranda said.
“Fascinating…” Deac
on said, looking over Garr’s horns. “In all of my dealings with dragons I’ve never noticed this…”
Grustim issued another order, and the dragon raised his head again. Myn marched over and tried to lower her head for inspection without taking her eyes off Grustim or Garr. Myranda ran her fingers along the length, but she found no hint of the rings until she reached the very tip, where there was a pair of them about a finger’s width apart.
“Here, you see?” Myranda said. “There are two.”
The Dragon Rider stepped doubtfully forward, but Myn pulled her head back by the same amount. He made a sound of irritation and stepped forward again, and again she pulled away. When he stepped forward again, there was a sudden flurry of motion and an angry rumble from both dragons. The humans turned to find Myn’s tail trapped under Garr’s forepaw. Based on the awkward position of the tail, it seemed clear now that she’d been luring Grustim into position for a good, hard lash with her tail and Garr had put a stop to it.
“Myn, what’s gotten into you?” Myranda said.
She tried to tug her tail free, but Garr refused to release it, and the pair once again rumbled a threat to one another. The Dragon Rider grunted an order, and after a moment more, Garr shifted his weight to release Myn’s tail.
“Now behave yourself and let him see,” Myn said sternly.
The dragon huffed in annoyance but held still. Grustim stepped forward and gazed at the horn. Not satisfied with what he saw, he ran his fingers over it with increasing confusion and disbelief.
“I don’t understand it. Even if you had sanded the horn there would be some sign… And it certainly hasn’t been sanded… These two at the end are proper. Perhaps a bit close to one another, but proper. Where are the rest?”
Myn pulled her head back and thumped it to the ground beside Myranda.
“No, Myn. No scratches. You didn’t behave yourself,” Myranda said, crossing her arms. She turned to Grustim. “We thought we lost her once. She was still smaller than me at the time. In a battle with some of the D’Karon creatures, she fell through the ice. I tried to save her but I was too late. We had to flee, and much as it pained me we couldn’t take her remains with us. Some time later I was to fight a terrible beast as punishment for my refusal to submit to the D’Karon after being captured by them. Myn turned out to be the beast. She was alive, and she had grown. I don’t know if it was the work of the D’Karon or some other force, but that’s how she came to be this size.”
The D'Karon Apprentice Page 8
