Arlian had to admit it was good brandy; he still didn't actually like it, but it was warming and not actively unpleasant. He finished his, neither hurrying nor dawdling.
When the last glass, Shuffler's, was empty, Wither collected them, saying, "That should help us face the remainder of the evening." He closed the bottle and glasses in the cabinet, then turned and said, pointing at the desk, "Now clear those papers and let's see what Obsidian's man has brought us."
Shuffler quickly snatched the remaining papers off the desk, and Black dumped his bundle onto the blotter. Wither stepped forward and opened the linen wrappings, allowing four spears and half a dozen blades of varying length and shape to spread across the white fabric. He looked them over, then picked up one of the knives in his good left hand. He studied it for a moment, then glanced at Arlian.
"They're sharp?"
"Very sharp, my lord, but brittle. Obsidian takes a finer edge than steel, but chips or shatters easily."
"So they're not meant for repeated use, then."
"No."
"One strike, though—that should be easy?"
"Indeed, my lord. And as you saw last night, obsidian will readily pierce hide that would turn any other blade." He did not know who Shuffler really was, or what he already knew, nor just how much Wither had told Horn, and he therefore preferred not to mention dragons unnecessarily. Perhaps it would still be possible to keep Enziet's secrets from spreading any farther.
"And if it's so very sharp, there should be little pain?"
Arlian's mouth opened, then closed again. For an instant he still thought that Wither was concerned about killing the dragon that would someday emerge from his chest, and wanted a quick demise for the creature that would still bear some connection with him.
Then he realized the truth.
For another instant he hesitated, but after all, was this not what he had planned for himself, in the end?
Finally he said, "I can only guess, my lord, but yes, I would think the pain would be slight, if the blow is fast and straight"
"Good." He looked at Black. "Fetch the cloth, if you would, sir. Leave the other weapons. Then come with me, all of you." He took the knife and headed for the door.
"Arir Black asked quietly.
"Do as he says," Arlian said, as he followed Wither.
In the parlor he found Wither directing the maid and footman in positioning the basswood chairs in a curve along one side. When that was done Black had emerged with the linen in hand, and Wither pointed out where he wanted it laid upon the floor, at the edge of the hearth and well off the carpet. When he was satisfied with the arrangements, Wither straightened up, knife in hand, and said, "Take your seats, please." He stepped back onto the square of linen.
"My lord," Black said, still standing, "I ask you to reconsider"
"Oh, no, steward, whatever your name is. I have considered this quite enough. I have thought of nothing else since I saw my friend die last night."
"That is but a single day, my lord. Perhaps the light of another dawn will show you alternatives ..."
"There are no alternativesf" Wither bellowed, pointing the stone dagger at Black's throat. "Do you think I am a fool? I say I've thought for a day, but in truth I've thought about some aspects of this for centuries, since before your grandfather's grandfather was bora. Now, sit you down, steward, and hold your tongue!"
Black closed his mouth tight, glanced at Arlian, and took a seat on one of the basswood chairs.
Shuffler and Horn and Arlian and the maid sat, as well; the footman stepped back against the wall.
"You, too," Wither said, pointing the knife at the footman. "Sit."
Startled, the footman obeyed, despite the violation of normal etiquette this constituted, and the six of them sat in a semicircle on one side of the room, facing Wither, who stood on the far side on a square of linen spread across the front of the stone hearth.
"Now," Wither said, "I think some of you know what I intend, and all of you will see it—that's why you're here. I want witnesses. I want everyone to know that I do this by my own hand and my own choice; I want no questions, no ugly rumors, no lingering doubts."
"My lord..." Black and Horn began simultane-ously.
"And no questions," Wither said quickly, cutting them off. "No questions, no protests. This is what I choose."
The two men subsided unhappily, glancing at one another.
Wither continued, "I think you all know I'm older than any man has a right to be—Shuffler, you probably know the least, but even you must know I've lived for centuries. The weight of all those years is a burden on my heart and my soul, one I bore not for any love of life, but because I would not give my enemies the satisfaction of my death. I have seen my friends die, over and over and over, and I have felt my own heart grow colder with the passing years. I thought that that cold-ness, the detachment, the alien thoughts so unlike the beliefs of my youth were the result of my losses over the years—that all those deaths, all that suffering, all those tears I never shed openly had eaten into my heart like rust.
"My compatriots said that my blood was tainted.
and that the taint was growing with time, that the human part of me was gradually dying and being replaced by the other. I refused to believe this. I thought it was merely the ravages of time and loss that were the rust eating away at me.
"I thought that if I could find one true companion, a soulmate who would live out the long years with me, I could clean away that rust. I thought that if I could forget the monsters that made me what I am I could remember how to be fully human once more, and that a wife as ageless as myself could make me forget them
"And I thought I had no choice—to do otherwise than to live on, clinging to what remained of my soul, would be to surrender to the monsters I believed had meant to kill me, all those years ago, and I would not surrender, would not give them the satisfaction.
"But now, Obsidian has shown me the error of my beliefs. He and Nail demonstrated last night that my compatriots had been right all along, and the damage to my heart came not from the pain outside, but from the corruption within. I know now that it was never intended that I should die in the attack that ruined my arm, that I was flung into the pit deliberately, and that all these long years I have lived have been not for my benefit, but for the benefit of the thing growing within me. I know that I have little time remaining in any case—if Nail was my elder at all, he was no more than a year or two older than I. For me a year is nothing—
when I was a child a day seemed to last forever, but now whole decades are scarcely enough time to catch my attention. I cannot delay without risking losing track of time and allowing the unspeakable culmina-tion of my corruption. And so we are here tonight, Lord Obsidian in particular, and I hold the weapon I need." He lifted the knife. "This blade should be enough, but if perchance anything survives, the spears and knives in the study should let the five of you finish the job."
"My lord," Horn said, "doesn't Lady Opal deserve to be here?"
Wither let out a bark of bitter laughter.
"Whether she deserves it or not I cannot judge, but she would unquestionably interfere, in one way or another. Whether she would try to stop me or hasten me I do not know—I've named her heir to my estates, so the latter is not unlikely. What worries me, sir, is the possibility that she would attempt to drink my blood."
The maid gasped, and Shuffler said, "My lord!" in shocked tones.
"I hadn't thought of that," Arlian murmured.
"Would it work?" Black asked quietly.
Arlian threw him a quick glance, and shrugged. "I have no idea. A few months ago it would simply have killed her, but now, spilled by an obsidian blade—I don't know."
"I pray you all make certain she has no opportunity to do so," Wither said—and then, with no further warning, he plunged the black blade into his chest.
For a moment a stunned silence fell; a wisp of smoke curled up from the front of Wither's blouse where the blade ha
d pierced it.
The maid screamed, breaking the silence and restoring the room to life.
"My lord," Horn called, leaping from his chair. Arlian and Black were close behind. As Wither crumpled to the floor Horn tried to catch him, but was only able to ease his fall; he found himself forced to his knees, his master's body sprawled face-down on his lap.
Black and Arlian knelt to either side, and Black rolled the dying man onto his back, off Horn's knees, the knife in Wither's chest protruding horribly as his hand fell away.
Blood bubbled up around the stone blade, thick and red, hissing and smoking and writhing in a thoroughly unnatural manner, but remaining merely blood; no other shape took form. Arlian saw that moving blood and knew that if the blade piercing Wither's chest had been anything but obsidian, a dragon would be rising from that wound even now.
That was why Wither had asked Arlian to bring the weapons, of course; if a steel blade would have served, he would probably have gotten the deed over with that much sooner.
And this was, of course, why he had asked about how sharp the blade was, and how painful its use would be.
"You were wrong," Wither gasped, even as Arlian thought that "It hurts. By the dead gods, it does."
Arlian marveled that the man could still speak at all with a knife in his heart "I'm sorry, my lord," he said.
"At least the dragon is dead," Wither said. "I can feel..." Then he choked, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, blood that smoked slightly but ran, liquid and bright red, like ordinary blood. His jaw fell open, and his eyes went blank.
Arlian looked at that trickle of blood, and the thought struck him that a few drops of that in a bowl of water would let him speak to the dragons again. He looked down at his hands and saw that one bore a smear of blood where he had held Lord Wither to turn him. But what would he say?
Would they hold this death of one of their offspring against him? Had Wither just initiated a new Man-Dragon War?
Or had he eliminated one of the problems that might cause such a war? His death meant one less witness to Nail's demise.
"I'm sorry," Arlian repeated—but Wither was dead, and Arlian was speaking to ears that would never hear again.
"He killed himself!" the maid said, in a squeaky little voice that seemed completely inappropriate to the somber moment.
"Yes," Arlian said.
"I had no idea" Shuffler murmured, his hands clasped over his breast. "He never said he intended anything of the sort!"
"Of course not," Black said. "If he had, you might have stopped him."
"You tried," Arlian said, as he reached down and closed Wither's staring eyes. "You and Horn."
"You didn't help," Black said.
Arlian started to say something; then he stopped. He looked Black in the eye and said, "No, I didn't. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to stop him."
"He wasn't one of your six lords!" Black said angrily.
"No—but he had the heart of the dragon."
"So do you. Do you plan to thrust a glass knife into your heart someday?"
"Yes, I do," Arlian said.
Black stared silentiy at him for a moment, then said fiercely, "I won't help you do it, and I hope you'll have the courtesy to wait until I'm long dead."
Arlian's mouth turned up in an involuntary wry smile. "1'1 try," he replied. "I do have a good many other things I intend to do first"
"Im not sure I'll help you with those, either," Black said. "I'm beginning to have reservations about the entire matter."
"I don't blame you," Arlian said. He looked down at Wither's corpse. "I don't blame you at all."
They had laid the body out on the linen, legs straight and arms folded across the chest; Horn had pulled the knife out and cleaned it on a rag from his pocket. Arlian was just asking the footman where a more appropriate resting place might be when the door burst open and Lady Opal stormed in, an elderly man in Wither's livery trailing ineffectually behind.
"Wither!" she called, "what are you hiding from me? Why did you have ..."
Then she saw the five men clustered at the edge of the hearth—the maid had fled, but Shuffler and the footman had assisted Black, Horn, and Arlian in tending to Wither's remains. Opal stopped abruptly, the servant almost colliding with her, and turned to face them
"What are you .. ." she began.
Then she saw the body, and fell silent, staring. The old servant gasped and stepped back, horrified, but Lady Opal simply stared.
Arlian watched her warily, expecting tears or hyste-ria, but when she finally broke die silence she merely asked. "He's dead?"
"I am afraid so, my lady," Arlian replied.
"Oh, no .. ." the old man murmured.
"You're sure?" Opal demanded.
"Quite sure, unfortunately. He was stabbed in the heart."
"By you?"
"By his own hand, my lady, as all here can attest."
She stared at the corpse for a moment, then raised her eyes to Arlian's face and said, "But it was you who drove him to this, Lord Obsidian. And it was you who snatched away my chance at a thousand-year lifespan.
Do not think I will forget that, nor forgive it."
Arlian spread his empty hands. "My lady, you surely know that such a life would mean the eventual birth of another dragon, a fate scarcely to be sought."
"After a thousand years," Opal shouted, her calm finally breaking. "After a thousand years, and I could have done as he had when that end neared! Has he become a dragon?" She pointed a shaking finger at the corpse. "Were all his centuries worthless because they might have ended with the creation of a dragon? What harm would it do if they had, Obsidian? The dragons cower in their caves, troubling us not a whit!"
"The dragons killed my family and destroyed my village, my lady," Arlian said. "Furthermore, all the dragons now alive are old and tired; a young and vigorous one would not be content to sleep the years away in the caverns."
"You don't know that!"
Arlian started to answer, then bit off his reply. Opal was clearly not willing to listen to reason.
And she certainly wouldn't want to hear him talk about a dragon's image warning him of dire consequences if their wishes weren't heeded.
"Why do you care so much?" Opal demanded.
"What harm would it do you to let one more woman join your secret society?"
From the corner of his eye Arlian saw Black looking at Horn, at the footman, the clerk, and the old man—
this last, who Arlian thought was Wither's steward, had retreated to the door. They were hearing discussion of matters that should theoretically be kept secret—but really, how much could stay secret anymore? And were the secrets justified at all?
If it was truly too late to renew Enziet's bargain, then what further harm would it do for the truth to be known throughout Manfort and the Lands of Man? In fact, in open warfare, that knowledge should be spread as widely as possible, so that the dragons could not stamp it out
But if open warfare could still be avoided, then the secrets might yet be better kept quiet—but Opal was clearly not concerned with that.
"The dragons destroyed my home, my lady," Arlian said. "I want them exterminated, not increased."
"So are you going to hunt down and slay every dragonheart in the world?"
Arlian quietly replied, "Such is my intention, my lady, yes."
That caught Opal off-guard; for a moment she stared silently at him; then she said, in a voice dripping disdain, "You're mad."
"So I'm told "
She turned away from Arlian and demanded, "Horn, is he truly dead?"
Horn glanced at Arlian, then replied, "By his own hand, as Lord Obsidian said. Yes, he is."
"He had you here to witness it, I suppose?" She poked a thumb at the old man. "He had this fool keep me away, but he had you here to see?"
"Yes, my lady. I was here at his request, without explanation—you know how he liked to have me on hand in case he wanted some errand run on short notice.
He had summoned Shuffler to complete his will, and to attend to some other matters—and as a witness. He summoned Lord Obsidian and his man here to provide the weapon, and required them and Dovliril..." he gestured at the footman "... to stay on as witnesses. She's gone now, but he had also asked Orlietta to dress his hair, as he wanted to look his best—he said to impress Lord Obsidian, but I think now he was concerned with his funeral, instead. She was also a witness."
"And I was not."
"No, my lady. I said you should be here, and he refused."
"And you did not see fit to ignore that refusal?"
"There was no time, my lady. He acted very suddenly. I knew he thought he would die soon, my lady, but by all the dead gods I did not guess he intended this! I'm so very sorry."
"He chose this, Horn. He got what he wanted. I won't cry for him."
"Cold," Black murmured in Arlian's ear. "She'd have been right at home with your Mends in the Street of the Black Spire."
"Indeed," Horn said to Opal, his voice curiously strained. "As you say."
"I must inform the staff," the old man said, and Arlian thought he saw tears in the servant's eyes. "Your pardon, gentlemen and lady." He turned and vanished.
Opal ignored his departure; her attention turned to Shuffler.
"You drew up his will?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And I suppose he's left everything to Obsidian, to use in his grand crusade against the dragons?" she said.
"Oh, no, my lady!" Shuffler said. "He left a few little bequests here and there, and freed all his slaves, but the bulk of the estate goes to you."
For a moment Opal stared silently at the clerk, who stared uneasily back. Black, Arlian, and the others
"You mean I own this house?" Opal said at last.
Shuffler nodded vigorously. "Yes, my lady!"
Opal considered that for a moment, then turned her attention back to Arlian. He met her gaze.
"You're trespassing," she said. "Get out of my house!"
He bowed. "As you please, my lady."
"Shall I get the spears?" Black asked, pointing at the door to the study. As he did the footman was looking from face to face, clearly confused.
The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) Page 16
