by Stephen Deas
There goes a prince, he thought with a certain amused wonder, who thinks he is far cleverer than he actually is.
He let Jehal’s words roll around his head for a few seconds until he knew what he was going to do with them. Then he set to correcting the disarray inflicted upon his maps.
18
THE KING OF THE CRAGS
One by one they arrived. Six of the Syuss on the back of a pair of jet-black hunting dragons. King Narghon and twenty of his riders. King Silvallan and six of his Golden Guardsmen. Rumors raced back and forth through the palace that Princess Jaslyn had left her eyries in the far north and was coming with a hundred dragons. On the next day she was coming with two hundred, then three; then she was coming alone and in disguise. The speaker’s eyries around the palace were overflowing with Jehal’s dragons and Sirion’s and those of the other kings, but mostly with Zafir’s. Many of her riders were here now and nearly all of her adult dragons, all scouring the Purple Spur. There were always at least a dozen dragons in the skies above the Adamantine Palace, watching in case Hyrkallan’s traitors crawled out of their caves once again. From his perch up on the Gatehouse Jehal watched them all come and go. He spent more and more of his time up there, looking down over the eyries. He was waiting for the Night Watchman. Putting himself in Vale’s way. Looking for an answer.
An answer I’m not going to get. He was there again on the evening before the council that would decide the future of the realms. He looked down along the palace walls, thick with scorpions. If I was Vale, I would stay silent. I’d leave me to get on with it and then make my decision as it suited me.
He sighed. It didn’t really matter which way the Night Watchman jumped. Well, unless you were worried about the small matter of the thousands and thousands of people who would burn in a dragon-war, and the tens of thousands who’d probably starve afterward. But as long as it stayed in the north, nothing that particularly mattered would get damaged. The easy route, of course, was to make sure the council made the right decision in the first place. Narghon would do as he was told: specifically he would do as Queen Fyon told him, and now that Tyan was dead, Fyon was left as the eldest of Jehal’s family. Silvallan wasn’t stupid and had nothing to gain from taking Shezira’s head. Sirion though . . . Which way will you jump? I can see Zafir’s touched you, but I can’t see how. What did she offer? And how easily are you taken in? He’d spent a lot of his time on Sirion, making sure that little whispers reached him. The right little whispers. He was the key, but all he had to do was stay silent. Inaction would suffice. Should I just tell you that your cousin wasn’t pushed, that he simply fell? I could tell you how it all went. I could tell you that I pushed him right up to the edge, until he was teetering on the brink, but that the last step was his own. I could tell you that I saw him. I could even show you how. Is there a punishment for any of that? I suppose when you consider everything else, there probably would be. What with all the poisoning and so forth.
That, in many ways, would be the best thing for the realms. To stand up in front of the council and tell them exactly how he’d driven Hyram mad. Tell them everything he’d done. Leaving Zafir carefully out of it. Shezira would be spared. The north would be appeased. Zafir would be blameless, her position secure. At the very worst they’d exile him. He’d be forced to spend his time in Furymouth with his queen. Wasn’t that what he wanted anyway?
No. That’s only half of what I want and so it’s not going to happen.
Jehal watched the Night Watchman pacing his walls, and knew that he wouldn’t get an answer. Finally he retired to his bed in the Speaker’s Tower. Hyram’s bed, not many months ago. When he slept there though, Hyram’s ghost couldn’t be bothered to haunt him. Instead he always dreamed of home. Of years long ago when King Tyan had been strong and well. Of Lystra in his arms. Of the Taiytakei and their strange and magnificent gifts. Of the last thing he’d done before he’d left Furymouth. Night after night he saw himself poised over his father’s bed, the pillow in his hands, watching the last light in his father’s eyes finally die.
Except tonight his father wasn’t his father but Lystra, and the pillow wasn’t a pillow but a knife, and the bed was covered in blood, and her mouth and eyes were wide with terror and she spasmed and writhed, and however much his heart filled with horror at what he’d done, he couldn’t leave her like that, and he would lift the knife to finish her, blinded by his own weeping, except that no matter how hard he tried, she wouldn’t die, and the screaming only got louder . . .
The nightmare woke him up. He lay in the darkness of his room, staring at the ceiling above his bed, listening to Kazah, his pot-boy, snoring. His heart slowly stopped its pounding. Outside, the palace was quiet.
He got up and walked to his windows, opened them and stepped through to the balcony outside. Hyram’s rooms, Hyram’s balcony, where Hyram and Shezira had stood that fateful night. Hyram had had three different poisons in him by then. He shouldn’t have been able to move and yet he’d dragged himself outside. Where Shezira had found him, rambling and not making any sense.
Jehal stood where Hyram had stood. He peered down. He’d watched it all unfold through the eyes of the little mechanical dragon, his wedding gift from the Taiytakei. Shezira had never touched the former speaker. He could say that, if he wanted to. But then he’d have to admit that Hyram only fell because he’d flown the Taiytakei dragon straight at Hyram’s face. He’d thought he was being so damn clever, but all he’d done was make a mess of a perfect plan.
Zafir had married Hyram. Hyram had made her speaker. All the hard work was done. Hyram would have lost his mind over the months that followed. No one would have been surprised when he fell off his own balcony once he couldn’t even wipe his own arse anymore. Lystra would die in childbirth. He and Zafir would rule the realms together for two decades. Longer, if they could find a way. Their enemies might have their suspicions, but suspicions were all they could ever be.
Down below the stones were dark. Too dark to see if Hyram’s blood still stained them. It could still have been perfect. But Shezira was there when Hyram fell, and now Zafir was intent on casting what might have been a tragic accident as a murder. Because, if Shezira is gone, I really have no reason left not to slit Lystra’s throat. We both know that I have to choose and choose soon. Ah, Zafir, impatience will always be your undoing. So now I have to decide what I want. Do I want you? Do I want Lystra? Do I want your throne?
He sighed. Shezira wasn’t going to die. Sirion would dither and abstain. Narghon and Silvallan would call for her to live. Zafir would stand alone and lose. And she would blame him. Now was no time to be uncertain. Before the council and whatever consequences it brought, he would have to decide between his lover and his queen, otherwise it would all go on and on and on, and before you knew where you were, he’d have to avert another dragon-war. No, one of them would have to die, and soon. No room for kindness, no room for mercy.
He wandered back inside. There was another hour before dawn but the air was still and stiflingly hot and the nightmares had destroyed any possibility of sleep. He kicked Kazah awake.
Bring me light! he snapped in brusque gestures. Words were lost on Kazah, who was as deaf as a wall. They spoke in signs, in a bastard language of their own devising. Kazah hurried away and was soon back with a candle.
Clothes! Jehal took the candle to a table by the balcony and rooted around until he found a quill and some ink and some writing paper. Behind him, Kazah was holding a tunic and trousers. Jehal dressed himself. Then he sent Kazah away. He sat down and stared at the empty page in front of him.
Lord Meteroa,
My previous instructions regarding Princess Lystra are withdrawn.
Jehal
He looked in horror at the words he’d written. So simple, so pure, so innocent in their way, yet they would tell Meteroa everything he needed to know. Anything more would be superfluous. The eyrie-master would understand exactly what was required of him.
He shook his he
ad. I can’t send this. The words may hide their meaning from others, but I’ll always know what I’ve done. I’m commanding Lystra’s murder.
The words sat on the page as words were wont to do. Still, unmoving, accusing. He bit his lip. And that’s exactly what I have to do. She’s in the way and she has to go. That was always how it was going to be, and if you weren’t prepared for it, you should never have married her in the first place. You could have turned her down when the white dragon you were promised was never given. Face it, you were just being greedy. Just being you, who can never say no when it’s served up on a plate for you. Well you’ve had her every which way you know and so now you can move on. Let her go. Marry Zafir. Follow her as speaker. It’s not as if you’ll have to wield the knife yourself, not if you don’t want to. Say the word and Meteroa will do it for you. You can be a thousand miles away, hands as clean as Zafir’s silken sheets.
I think I might love her though. There. That was an admission, wasn’t it?
Pah! Kings have no room for feelings, remember? Who said that, Jehal? Was it you? Yes, I rather think it was. Zafir’s much better in bed. Take that and be grateful.
Lystra is carrying my heir. My first-born. A son, perhaps. A son who could one day wear my father’s crown. There. Wriggle out of that one.
But was that anything so special? First-born? He must have sired at least a dozen bastards by now. Zafir freely admitted that she might have conceived at least twice because of him and that both times she’d drunk a dose of Dawn Torpor and bled it out. Was this so different? If Lystra knew what was at stake, she’d probably even accept her fate. My life to save my mother? Yes, my love.
Without even thinking about it, he’d dropped a blot of molten wax onto the page. It sat there, waiting for him, waiting for the press of his ring to turn his words into a royal command and seal Lystra’s fate. The trouble was, his hand wouldn’t move.
This is stupid. In a minute the wax is going to go hard and I’m going to have to scrape it off and start again.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t have much time for any of the many possible gods that the realms had to offer. Most people saved their prayers for their ancestors, but when it came to that, all Jehal could think about was his father, drooling and useless. And even if dying had restored Tyan’s senses, Jehal wasn’t at all sure he ought to be praying to someone he’d murdered, especially when it came to murdering someone else. Conscience troubling you, son? You never prayed to anyone about finishing me off, did you? Got a little trouble with some guilt there? And you thought for some reason that I might want to help you with it?
Still, he couldn’t think of anyone more useful to ask for forgiveness.
Somewhere over the palace, in the first light of the breaking dawn, a dragon shrieked. Two short calls and then a long one; and with the last one it must have swooped straight over the palace, and low too. The whole tower shook with the thunder of its passing.
Jehal froze and then rushed to the window. No one in their right mind would do that, not now, not with the Night Watchman’s scorpions lining the walls. There were shouts down below, but they weren’t shouts of alarm, and when Jehal swiveled his gaze, he saw that the dragon hadn’t flown across the palace, but had actually landed within the Gateyard walls. Men with torches were running toward it. A rider was dismounting and he wasn’t waiting for a Scales or anything like that. He was racing straight for the Tower of Air. To Zafir.
Jehal left the letter where it was. He pulled on his boots and ran out of his rooms, out of the Speaker’s Tower, and went to find Zafir as well. As he reached the Tower of Air, soldiers raced past him, heading away. He was halfway up the stairs when a bell began to toll. An alarm. More dragons. He ran faster and soon found Zafir, hurriedly dressed, coming the other way.
“Oh, trust you to be the first,” she snapped. She swept past him, not quite running but not quite walking either. Jehal reversed and fell in behind her.
“The first to what?”
“We’re going to war—what does it look like?”
“What? Are we under attack?”
“You’re still not a king, Jehal. You have no voice in this, but if you must know, there are dragons pouring out of the Worldspine. Hundreds of them. Almiri’s and Jaslyn’s.”
Jehal snorted. “That can’t be right.” No, no, no, they weren’t supposed to do that.
“Why not? Slipped in and out of the Worldspine, where no one would see them. They mean to attack the palace.”
“That can’t be right.” Could it? Could they really be so bold? If it was true . . .
“Jehal, listen to me carefully while I say it again slowly. Hundreds of dragons are flying out of the Worldspine. They are coming here. They have gone to war.”
Jehal grinned. “If they have then I take off my hat to them. Can we stop them?” They’re insane. They can’t possibly have enough dragons. Not with so many of Zafir’s already here . . .
“Of course I can stop them.”
They were nearly at the bottom of the tower. Jehal’s mind raced on. If the Night Watchman was right then Hyrkallan was probably leading the attack. But that couldn’t be, could it? Hyrkallan was too canny. He’d never let Jaslyn do something like this. It was suicide. “I know Hyrkallan. He’s one to wait and wait and wait and strike when the time is exactly right. Which isn’t now. He’s devoted to Shezira and an attack now would make her death certain. He’d wait.”
“While Jaslyn is impatient and has little love for her mother. Your point?”
“My point?” Jehal laughed, but before he could say any more, a second messenger threw himself to the ground in front of them.
“Your Holiness!” he gasped. “It’s not the north. It’s the King of the Crags! The King of the Crags is coming!”
19
SILENCE
For all practical purposes, Jaslyn was a prisoner. She’d heard the new speaker’s summons and she’d flown south without an inch of doubt inside her. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted her mother freed or hanged, but in many ways that was a question that missed the point. Her mother would prevail. She would win because she always won, and Jaslyn would be tossed in her wake like a leaf in a storm.
She’d flown to Southwatch and then to Evenspire and then, quite to her surprise, all her dragons had been taken away. By her own sister. As jailers went, Almiri was as kind as they came, but a prison was a prison, and Jaslyn chafed at the invisible chains that held her to the ground. They might as well have cut off her legs.
“You’re mad,” Almiri said when Jaslyn had told her where she was going. “Speaker Zafir will throw you in a tower and have your head too.”
“And you’re afraid,” was Jaslyn’s reply. It hadn’t been a good conversation after that. Maybe Almiri was right and Zafir was a monster. Did it matter? Not to go was to concede defeat, wasn’t it? Jehal, who most certainly was a monster, who surely had his hand up Zafir as far as it would go, would waggle his fingers and make the speaker issue whatever decrees pleased him. Not to go meant no one would be there to challenge him, yet here she was, trapped by her own big sister as if they were both ten years younger and Almiri had been left in charge for the afternoon so their mother could go hunting. After days of frantic preparation, she suddenly found herself with nothing to do except to sit with Isentine and watch Almiri’s Scales at their work while her riders kicked their heels in the vastness of the Palace of Paths.
“This is as close as I can get to them,” she sighed. “My dragons. Just because she’s my big sister, why does she think she can get away with this?”
Isentine had a faraway look in his eyes. “Your Highness, this is the first time I’ve been away from Outwatch in five years. Should I be honest with you?”
“Always. Someone has to be.” They walked together among the buildings of the inner eyrie. Jaslyn knew they wouldn’t be allowed out onto the landing fields, that Almiri’s soldiers had orders to stop her. They were watching her now, a company of them, never too far away.
>
“I thought, when you asked me to fly with you, that I would never see Outwatch again. I thought that we would fly to the Adamantine Palace and that we would both die on the speaker’s command. I thought you were foolish and reckless. I thought you should have come here to see your sister. That you should have come to plan a war together.”
Jaslyn growled: “If that’s what you thought then why didn’t you say anything?” Even here within the outer walls of the Palace of Paths and its eyrie, most of the buildings were guarded. A few of them carried the sign of the alchemists on the doors. Somewhere not far away was the hatchery; the guards were unlikely to let her near Almiri’s precious eggs though. I might smash a few in my impatience to be away.
Isentine ignored her. “That’s what Queen Almiri really wants and you know it. You do yourself no favors spurning her and sulking out here, Your Highness.”
“I’m not her little sister anymore, Eyrie-Master. I have almost three times her dragons at my beck and call.”
“You should listen to Hyrkallan now that he’s back . . .” Isentine kept on talking, but Jaslyn suddenly wasn’t listening anymore. Or rather she wasn’t listening to him. She was listening to someone else. Or something else. A voice, inside her head, so faint she could barely even hear it, and yet so loud it filled the world.
Who are you?
She froze. Two and a half months had passed since she’d last heard that voice in her head. The same voice. Except then it had come from a dragon half dead from poison, who’d breathed its last that same day.
