“In all of the years that history records, we have encountered these D’Karon and their creatures only at or near the battlefront and only operating on behalf of your people. If you are certain that this substance is genuine and a result of their influence, then to our military it will be seen as damning evidence that you have resumed hostilities despite the ceasefire,” Valaamus said steadily.
“Let us not jump to conclusions. I suggest we begin the mystic analysis,” Deacon said.
Myranda nodded, but she scarcely needed to open her mind’s eye to know that the spells that tainted these bits of flesh and bone had the shape and color of D’Karon workings. It wasn’t the same ghastly perfection that seemed to define most D’Karon magic, but it was certainly drawn from the same roots, grown from the same seeds. Deacon’s face made it all too clear he had come to the same conclusion. Valaamus saw it as well.
“What does your magic tell you?” Valaamus asked.
“There is unmistakable D’Karon influence in the residual enchantment of these samples… But I can say with certainty that this is not the work of a true D’Karon.”
“A true D’Karon?” Valaamus asked.
“These spells are imperfect, incomplete,” Deacon said. “This skull was certainly that of a sheep, and these bones and that hide are from a goat. The D’Karon conjure the substance of their creations. They are entirely constructed with no element of what we would call nature.”
“This means little, does it not? Even the most experienced mystic can miscast a spell or take liberties in the interest of speed or ease,” Valaamus said.
“You don’t understand. Spell craft is sacred to the D’Karon. To miscast them would be tantamount to blasphemy.”
“They have been committing war atrocities for generations. Blasphemy would not be beyond them, I’m sure,” Valaamus said.
“While I agree with Deacon’s assessment, it does not change the fact that D’Karon knowledge is at work here. I would not liken this to an attack by an enemy. With the evidence we have, we can at best make the claim that we know for certain that an enemy’s weapons have been used,” Myranda said.
“Which in any case would be an act of war,” Valaamus said.
His carefully measured diplomatic tone had not faltered, but his words were increasingly carrying the threat that the damage had been done.
“I realize that my assurance on this matter carries little weight, but no force within the Northern Alliance would ever rely upon D’Karon spells,” Myranda said. “Not after what very nearly happened to us while we were under their thumbs. Before you make your final determination, I implore you to allow us to continue the investigation. Again, these are merely the weapons. Until we find who has been wielding them, we must not assume that the Northern Alliance is behind the attacks.”
“Of course I agree. Anything is preferable to an unnecessary war. But as diplomats you must realize that the investigation can only continue with the blessing of the military, and I am obligated to present these findings to them,” Valaamus said. “They may not agree that war is unnecessary.”
“When do you present your findings?”
“We are all expected in the capital for a banquet in your honor in two weeks. My first formal briefing of the military is expected on the evening of my arrival, some days earlier. As I will be traveling by carriage, I do not expect to reach the capital in less than five days. I may be able to suggest some alternate routes that would extend that journey to a full week. Anything beyond that and a military representative will be dispatched to meet us en route. With the evidence currently available, it is very likely that they will call for an immediate termination of the diplomatic exchange, and they could very well close the border in preparation for troop deployment. You must find something compelling to suggest that it is not the work of a Northern Alliance ally that has blighted our lands with such treachery, if such evidence exists, and return it to me before I deliver my briefing.”
“Then there is no time to waste. Where were these creatures encountered?” Myranda asked.
“At the most northerly fringe of the Southern Wastes. I don’t pretend to know how quickly your dragon can carry you, but given a guess I would say it would take every bit of six days for you to reach it. That would leave you no time at all to seek out any evidence, let alone deliver it to me. It was my great concern that such would be the case, and you must believe me that I fought for every moment of time I could for this mission, but… a nation so long at war, allowing figures such as you to pace its lands…”
“I understand. But for the return of the information, at least, I have a solution. I will leave a messenger pad with you,” Deacon said.
“A… messenger pad?” Valaamus asked, his tone indicating he believed he had misheard.
“It is really quite simple, you see—”
“While you explain it to him, I’ll have a word with Myn, Grustim, and Garr about our plans,” Myranda said.
“That is wise,” Valaamus said.
Deacon, Myranda, and Valaamus gathered and stowed the samples, hiding them once more in their bundle before Myranda opened the door to seek out the dragons and Rider.
#
Outside the cabin, Myn sat patiently, eyes on the door. She had the remaining deer from her hunt clutched beneath her claws. Garr lay across from her, eyes shut but still alert. Grustim had shed his armor and reclined in the curl of his mount’s tail. He whittled idly at a piece of wood, ostensibly sculpting it but mostly just making it smaller and passing the time.
The group had only just returned from the hunt, the kill still warm beneath her claws, but Myn couldn’t help but let her gaze wander from time to time to the other dragon. She sniffed the air as the breeze carried his scent to her. It was strange. The scent of the man was present on the dragon, not just from the ride, but from days and weeks earlier. Likewise the man seemed steeped in the scent of the dragon. It was clear at a single whiff that the two were together, always. She felt the flutter of envy in her chest at the thought.
In part the envy was for the togetherness. She and Myranda had been inseparable at one time, but Myranda had others in her life. Many depended on her. Myn understood. The others would be helpless without Myranda, while she could handle herself if required. But at times she longed for the old times. Yes, the nights had been long and cold. Yes, the danger had been ever-present. There had been little food and much traveling to be done. But Myranda had been with her, warm and safe beneath Myn in her early days and folded beneath her claws in the days that followed. Seeing a dragon and his human sharing such togetherness made those days seem so far away.
A whisper of the envy, though, was for the dragon himself. Myn may not have been able to spend as much time with Myranda as she would have liked—if she did, they would never be apart—but she did get to spend plenty of time with her. In all of her life she’d had only a few months during which she’d had the opportunity to spend time with another dragon. It didn’t seem fair that a human should be allowed to spend so much time with one when she did not.
Her thoughts vanished in a puff of excitement when she heard the door open and saw Myranda walking toward her. The dragon hopped to her feet and snatched up the deer, taking two steps forward to meet Myranda and dropping the deer at her feet.
“For me?” Myranda said with a smile. “Still my little hunter. Come here.”
Myn lowered her head and received a good, hard scratch.
“I think you should keep this one for yourself, though. We’ve got a great deal of travel ahead of us, and I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard without a full belly.”
Always happy for another morsel, Myn snapped up and gulped down the remaining deer.
“Grustim, Garr, may I ask something of you?”
The Rider looked at her. “I have been instructed to treat you with deference and respect. What do you require?”
“You are more familiar with your land than I. There is a place in the Southern Wastes that
we must reach as soon as possible. How quickly do you think you can guide us there by dragon-back?” she asked.
“The Southern Wastes are a big place, Duchess. Garr could reach the nearest of it in four days. The farthest in seven. But you will not be able to reach it so quickly.”
“Why not?”
He paused for a moment. “I don’t know that I can answer that question with deference and respect.”
“Then answer it with honesty. We don’t always have the luxury of gentility.”
“You’re a duchess, Duchess. And he is a duke. When I travel, I travel with my lance, my armor, my dragon, and the dagger of command that affords me the right to issue orders to troops when the need arises. Though I’ve never known nobility to travel by dragon, look at the bags you’ve brought. You bring civilization with you where you go, and that slows travel.”
“Nobility is a recent development, Grustim. I’m quite accustomed to traveling light. To be honest, I’m not accustomed to having any other choice.”
Grustim did Myranda the courtesy of not voicing the doubt that was clear in his expression. “Even so. The dragon will need to carry you and the duke both. Garr is bigger, faster, and will have to carry only me. Even without a passenger, your dragon would lag behind. She is an able hunter, that much I have seen, but she lacks the training and conditioning of a dragon worthy of a Rider.”
Garr’s eyes slid open, peering through the iron mask he wore.
“You will slow us,” Grustim continued. “I think eight days will be enough.”
The low roll of what might have been thunder rattled in the air, though there were no clouds. Myranda smiled and looked to Myn. Her tail was scything back and forth, her eyes locked on Grustim with a burning intensity.
“I think Myn respectfully disagrees with your assessment.”
“Then tomorrow we shall see.”
Chapter 3
In a desert stronghold in Tressor, Commander Brustuum returned to his primary task. He was an older man, his black hair slowly succumbing to gray. He marched with purpose through the airy halls. Like most Tresson creations, artful expression had been sprinkled into every detail. The walls were white clay with green leaves and vines painted around doors and windows. The doors themselves, though sturdy and wooden, were carved with scenes depicting great battles and honored warriors. The man himself was no different. His chin bore a beard nature had striped with gray. He’d trimmed it with care and sculpted it into subtle flares to each side. To cope with the often intense heat and beating sun of his homeland, his robe and trousers were light and billowy, made from a thin tan cloth and tied about the waist by a red sash. The edges of the robe were embroidered with patches and emblems labeling him a commander of some reputation in the Tresson army.
His journey through the stronghold took him down from the brightly sunlit upper levels to the dank, flickering holding cells below. The last of them, buried deep enough in the bowels of the place that the heat of the beating summer day was replaced by the coolness of the earth, was the only occupied cell on the entire floor. Whereas the other doors on the floor were simple iron grates, this one was made of thick planks and reinforced with iron bands, offering openings only in the form of a small metal grill at eye level and a slot at ground level. Four fully equipped soldiers guarded it. Two of them held curving swords and wore thick leather armor. The other two were dressed in thick embroidered robes and wore jeweled rings on three fingers of each hand. These were the casters, trained mystics who made up barely a fraction of the Tresson army. Most regiments had only a single caster. To have two guarding the same room spoke volumes for the threat that awaited within.
“Esteemed Commander Brustuum,” greeted the first of the swordsmen with a respectful bow of his head.
“Soldier,” the older man said with a stiff nod. “She’s awake?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has she caused any trouble?”
“No, sir. She has continued to be very cooperative, though she will not eat.”
“And the secrecy of her presence has been maintained?”
“All in the stronghold believe that the cell is still being used to hold the accused traitor, Trimik.”
Maintaining the secrecy of his prisoner had been difficult. Only seven of his men within the facility knew. Beyond them, only the military patron who provided the food, funding, and equipment was aware. The word had gone no further. It hadn’t even gone to the high command. Some things were simply too important to be left to those in charge. They were too often dedicated to diplomacy, willing to give away too much. But ensuring they didn’t discover his prisoner until he was satisfied meant he had to expend a tremendous amount of resources to maintain the charade that she’d not yet been caught.
It had taken a fair amount of time to plot out troop assignments that kept enough men in the field to appease any superiors who might look in on him while keeping enough of his men on hand to be certain that their prisoner remained secure. Of the two, the security of the prisoner was the most crucial. The woman didn’t appear to be dangerous, but neither did a viper until it brought its fangs to bear, and by then it would be too late. Therefore, he’d sent as many troops as he could spare out to search for a woman whom he’d already found so that he could be left to the task of questioning her.
He paced down the hall toward the cell, watching as a rat skittered from one empty cell to another, and wordlessly motioned for the appropriate steps to be taken to allow him access to the prisoner.
The mystic conferred briefly with his partner, then each stepped beside their commanding officer and folded their hands, interlocking the gems of their rings. They uttered a few throaty chanting syllables. Brustuum grimaced as he felt the crackle of arcane energies run over the surface of his body. He detested magic. If he’d not been so skillful a commander he might have gone so far as to ban it from any units under his command. As it was, he knew all too well the value and even necessity of a mystic defense against the troops of the north, so he allowed and fostered the necessary evil of wizards within his army. He watched as the magical warding was removed from the door and it was unlocked.
The inside lay in utter darkness, save for where the dancing lantern light of the hall spilled, but even that seemed to enter only reluctantly, pushing weakly against an overpowering pitch-blackness within.
Brustuum snapped his fingers. “A lantern. Now.”
The soldiers quickly supplied him with a polished-copper oil lamp, which he held out before him. The light fell upon a figure seated on a straw-stuffed bedroll and leaning against the clay wall.
It was a woman dressed in standard prison attire: a simple sleeveless tunic and a pair of trousers that ended just below the knee. The clothes were, by design, poorly suited to travel in Tressor. They would offer little protection from the punishing sun. Thick iron chains lay coiled neatly beside her, connecting shackles at her wrists and ankles to thick rings driven into the stone of the walls.
Such defenses seemed to be far more than were necessary for such a prisoner. The shackles were nearly too large for the delicate ankles and wrists to which they were affixed. Her skin was so white it almost seemed to glow in the light of the lantern, and her hair was black but for a single streak of gray. As she raised her head to look upon her visitor, she showed a face of middle age or younger. She was not unattractive, her face bearing a crisp, almost angular beauty. At this moment, the most distinctive feature of that face was its utter lack of concern. If anything, she viewed her visitor with vague disinterest, as though his visit had pulled her from more interesting thoughts. Brustuum scanned the floor around her. A plate of thick porridge with a wooden spoon sat to her left, largely untouched. To her right was a handful of dead rats. They’d been piled with apparent care, and they seemed desiccated as if by years of dry desert air.
“On your feet,” Brustuum commanded.
The prisoner obeyed, though with a casualness that would have been more appropriate for a request than an orde
r.
“I am told you’ve not been eating your food. Be aware that starving yourself will do no good. If necessary, I shall have my men force food down your worthless gullet rather than lose you before I’m through with you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of starving myself, sir,” replied the woman, her voice oddly chilling. She sounded unimpressed by both her keepers and their prison. “It is simply that your recent offerings do not suit my tastes. Fortunately I’ve found a passable substitute.”
She gestured with one hand toward the pile of rats, causing the shackle to slide noisily down. The sudden sound caused the guards outside to stir.
“I do wish you would provide a proper meal, as you did a few weeks ago. You were a far better host then.”
“You’ll have no more of that. Until my mystics can make sense of what you’ve demonstrated and further demonstrations are called for.”
“That hardly seems polite…”
“For now, I have more questions. Do you recall what we last discussed?”
“Oh, you. Yes, I believe you were telling me where to find Mott?”
“I was telling you no such thing. You were telling me all that you’d done since arriving. I have been able to corroborate your recollection thus far, so you shall continue.”
“Yes, right. I recall now. Yes. I suppose we can continue if you wish, but might you know when I shall be allowed to be on my way? I appreciate the steps you’ve taken to keep my dealings from the others, as it has helped me to remain in compliance with the wishes of my masters, but there comes a point when the delay will do more harm than good. I am, after all, out of place. If Teht were to arrive and find me missing, I’m quite certain she would be just as displeased as if she found I’d made a spectacle of myself against her wishes.”
“And you, of course, wish only to please your masters.”
“Don’t you?”
“If their plans are wise and their methods just, then I do.”
“So we are of one mind. When shall I be allowed to leave?”
The D'Karon Apprentice Page 10
