The King of the Crags

by Stephen Deas

  Kemir raised an eyebrow. “You had a mistress?”

  A moon-sorceress. The ones who created us. They are long gone. He felt her push the memories out of her thoughts. I found a road. I have not seen this . . . He felt her plucking the word out of his head again. I have not seen a donkey creature before. I was hungry, but I only ate things with four legs. Kemir thought he sensed a hint of reproach. These are . . . They taste like horse but sweeter. I like them better.

  Kemir slowly came closer again. “Everything with two legs ran away screaming, then?”

  Some of them fell over where they stood and clutched their heads. I do not remember so much fear in your kind. One of them decided to die. He was old.

  “What do you mean decided to die? You mean you scared him to death?”

  I did not try to. I was hungry. I left your kind alone. I took as many things with four legs as I needed.

  “Donkeys?”

  Other things too. Horses and dogs and buffalo. I did not even burn their wagons, Kemir.

  “I get it, dragon. You were very very careful not to hurt any people. Some of them died anyway, but that really wasn’t your fault.” He spat and turned away. “You still ate Nadira.”

  Snow peered at him. Her face had the same hungry expression as it ever did but her thoughts had changed. There was a music in them. She was laughing at him.

  I see into your mind, Kemir. You think you can be different from others of your kind. You think the young one we leave behind us could be different too, if only we could find him and take him with us. But we cannot do that if he will not come, and besides, you are fooling yourself. I do not understand why you try to change how things are, Kemir. I am a dragon. Some of us are white and some are black; some are larger and others are smaller; but beneath our scales we are all simply dragons. Your kind are the same, Kemir. All of you. You always fight one another and you always will. I remember more than you can imagine. I remember from long ago, before the world was broken. Your kind were always this way even then, and you, Kemir, are no different. I can see into you and I know this to be true. Embrace what you are, Kemir. Do not try to be something else. Your enemies are merely those with bigger armies and sharper swords. That is the only difference between you.

  Kemir bit his lip. “My enemies have dragons. Dragons are not weapons.”

  No, Kemir, that is exactly what we are. But not for you. You are food. The order of things has become twisted.

  “I am not food, damn you!”

  Snow didn’t answer. She was laughing at him again. You amuse me. Perhaps that will save you when I become hungry.

  “Oh, I’m amusing food now, am I? Just when I thought useful couldn’t get any worse.” He took a deep breath. “If there was a road and it was busy then there must have been a town not far away.”

  You are thinking of the boy again.

  “Some things can’t be undone and some things can never be forgiven. What you did to him can’t be put right. Nor can what you did to Nadira. But you could try.”

  Snow was looking at him. Kemir felt her puzzlement.

  Why?

  “Forgiveness.”

  Forgiveness, Kemir? I do not understand this. In your mind, it seems it is the opposite of revenge. I see revenge in you often. All of your kind. You, Kemir, you would rather die trying and failing to have revenge than live and forgive. Why would you do that? I do not understand either forgiveness or revenge.

  Kemir laughed. “Yet that’s what drives you too.”

  No, Kemir. I seek to free my kind from their slavery. I do not seek to willfully punish those who did it to us. I will do what needs to be done, no more. I will eat when I am hungry, Kemir, or perhaps for pleasure. But not for spite.

  “Some people think that forgiveness is the most beautiful thing in the world. And you can’t have that unless you have a little revenge too.”

  I see nothing beautiful in being stupid. She cocked her head. I see, however, that you want this forgiveness very much. Why?

  His fists were clenched. He hadn’t noticed, but now they were so tight that it hurt. Why indeed? “Because I should have stopped you. I should have stopped you from eating the people that lived here. I should have stopped you from eating Nadira.”

  Ah. I see.

  Very slowly Snow lowered her head until she held it just above the ground. She moved closer, right in front of him. So close that he could reach out and . . .

  Touch me, Kemir.

  His heart was racing. She was warm. He could feel her heat. And she was huge. He reached out a hand and touched the scales of her nose. He was shaking, he realized, like a leaf.

  When the snows melt on the tops of the mountains and the melt-water rushes down their sides and the rivers bloat and swell and froth, who will stop the flood? She growled and withdrew. Foolish man. When the flood comes, you run. When mountains topple, you run. When the earth cracks, you run. So it is when a dragon comes. Unless you are Kemir, who wrings his hands and says “I should have stopped you.”

  For a moment the fear went away. Kemir walked past Snow’s head to where her front claws sank into the soft ground. He kicked her as hard as he could. Not that she’d even feel it, but it was satisfying, kicking a dragon. “Fine. Leave the boy. Just take me to the town you saw. We’ll find out where we are. And don’t burn it. The food there is all useful food, remember, and besides, I might want to stay there. You can find out where Valmeyan and his dragons are and then you can start burning things again.”

  As you wish, Kemir. I am no longer hungry today.

  “And I will not be afraid of you.”

  Perhaps I have taught you something of value then.

  “And stop laughing at me.”

  He put the boy out of his mind as best he could and climbed onto Snow’s back. She lumbered across the ground to the edge of the clearing she’d made in the forest and then started to run. Kemir closed his eyes. This was the bit that always scared him the most. The dragon’s whole body pulsed with every step. The earth shook and the trees quivered in sympathy. He felt like a little boat, tossed on the waves of a stormy sea, hurled this way and that, at the mercy of the dragon-rider harness they’ d stolen months ago, which didn’t even fit properly. As Snow reached the edge of the water, she made one last effort. Kemir felt himself grow heavy and then they were flying, over the water, tossing spray everywhere. Each beat of Snow’s wings levered her upward, pressing him into her scales. She circled once and then put her back toward the morning sun. Below them, all Kemir could see was endless forest and the silver ribbon of a river flowing idly away from the lake.

  Maybe she’s right. How do you stop a hungry dragon, after all? But the thought felt hollow. Somehow. That was the answer. You didn’t just give up and say it couldn’t be done. Of that much he was sure.

  After an hour of following the river, they began to see cleared spaces in the forest. Then something that might have been a boat on the river. Then a village, more fields, more boats, all dotted about like tiny little toys. Which made him remember playing dragon-lords with his cousin Sollos when they’d been little boys. They’d make mounds in the dirt and find little stones to be people and then they’d pretend they were dragons and smash it all to pieces.

  Well now he knew how those little stones felt. He wondered what they thought, the little people on the ground below him now, when they looked up and saw a dragon. Did a chill run down their spines? Were they frozen to the spot, wondering if today was the day the monster would swoop down and snatch them in its jaws? Or did they shrug their shoulders, mutter “There goes another one” to their neighbors and get on with what they were doing? As if dragons were just another kind of weather.

  Snow banked and pitched down, swooping low over the next village. As she dived, Kemir couldn’t hear anything except the rush of the wind past his face, but when he craned his neck over Snow’s shoulder, he saw the people. A few were staring, rooted to the spot, but most were running away. They were running ahead of Snow, out int
o their fields. He couldn’t hear them screaming, but he knew that they were.

  Well that answers that, then. “Why do people always run in front of whatever is chasing them?” he shouted. “Why don’t they scatter?” And why am I shouting? No one can hear me over this wind and the dragon doesn’t need to anyway.

  All food runs, thought Snow. She felt smug. Pleased at the reaction below.

  “They are not food!”

  Everything that runs is food. Kemir felt a hunger in the dragon now, almost a craving. He could picture her crashing into the village, spraying fire, smashing houses into splinters, tossing screaming men and women up into the air for the sheer joy of it, just like he and Sollos had done in their games. The visions lasted for a while, long after Snow had left the village behind and risen back into the sky. He shuddered. They weren’t his own visions, he was fairly sure of that. They had far too vicious a joy to them.

  Other villages came and went, scattered patches of open space amid the great blanket of trees. Then the forest began to break up. There were more people, more fields jigsawed together, more roads, more boats on the river, and then finally a town. Kemir wasn’t sure what he’d expected—probably a muddy collection of houses, little more than a village that had sprawled out of control. What he hadn’t expected was a small city. It straddled the river, with strong stone walls protecting both halves. It even had a little castle. Snow changed course, keeping her distance.

  “Are there dragons here?” That was his first thought.

  No. If there were, I would have freed them. Snow started to descend. We will fly further until we find some.

  “Or you could let them know that you’re here. Burn some fields, eat some cows, that sort of thing. Donkeys, if you think they taste better. Scare them. Do whatever you want to do. Make noise. Let them see you. Enough to draw a few riders from their eyries to come have a look. Then when they come, you eat them.” Slowly. Crunch crunch. Like chewing on an icicle.

  Like Ash.

  “Yes. Like Ash. Don’t hunt them where they’re strong. Draw the other dragons to you.”

  Snow thought for a while. Will there be fighting men in this town?

  “It’s a castle, Snow. Castles have soldiers. There’s really not much point if they don’t.”

  Then they will have weapons for fighting dragons and the people who ride on us. Kemir could feel her weighing up choices. She turned and headed away from the town.

  “What are you doing, dragon? Are you afraid?”

  No. She was laughing. I have no need for you while I do this, but you are still useful and I do not want you to be dead. I will do as you suggest. I will burn this place. You may watch from far away. It will be safer.

  “No! No burning! No need to kill anyone, Snow. You understand me? Just scare them and then leave.Useful food, remember.”

  I understand, Kemir, but I will decide for myself which of you are useful.

  She didn’t say anything more, but landed on a hilltop a good few miles from the town and waited until Kemir unstrapped himself and got down. He could have stayed, he supposed. Could have stayed in the saddle, but what difference would it have made? She could have torn him out with one twist of her tail, or else simply ignored him. So he shuddered as Snow launched herself into the sky again. He was very glad, he decided, that he was where he was. On the ground, far away from where Snow was going.

  28

  POISON IN THE BLOOD

  Jehal was dying. He knew he was. The pain was getting worse. He grew slowly weaker until he didn’t know he could possibly be any weaker and yet the next time he awoke, he was.

  The smell was bad too.

  In some ways he was surprised he was alive at all. He’d lost a dreadful lot of blood. He felt perpetually light-headed, which was probably a mercy. And yet, when he hadn’t died, he’d felt a joyous spark of hope. For a few days he’d thought he might even heal. And then came the smell.

  He’d seen men take a wound in a tournament and die, just like this, surrounded by the stench of their own rotting. The alchemists hadn’t been able to help them and Jehal had little hope they would be able to help him.

  If they cared.

  He had a dim memory that Zafir might have come to him the day after Shezira had shot him. She’d held his hand and said some soft words that might have seemed comforting at the time. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was a dream like all the other dreams. Mostly he dreamed of Lystra and of the son he would never see. If my bloodline dies, so does yours. Neatly done, Queen Shezira. If it wasn’t me you’ d crippled, I would applaud you for such an efficient and ruthless revenge. But you messed up. I’m dying, and now all that’s left is to mock us both for your incompetence. What use am I dead? How do I protect them?

  He got angry sometimes, which was always a mistake because he didn’t have the energy to be angry. He’d rail and spit at the world and then he’d fade away and wake up hours later to find that even more of his strength had ebbed away. Men and women came and went from his bedside, silent frightened ghosts who looked at him and then looked away. Afraid. As if they were the ones who were slowly dying in the gilded prison that was the Tower of Dusk.

  Sometimes he thought about his own father, cocooned in his sickbed for nearly a decade. This must have been what you saw, he thought. In the early days. When there was still a part of you alive in there. Then such a sorrow filled him that he wept.

  He thought of Meteroa too. He would understand. Did Shezira know? Did she know what King Tyan had done to him? My brother butchered my sister and my mother. My father . . . I don’t even know what my father did to my uncle. What a family we are.

  I have done such terrible things.

  Yes, you have, said another voice. A new voice, but he couldn’t see anyone. Not that that meant anything. He was probably dreaming again. The voice was another fragment of his slowly shattering self, most likely. Come to remind him of all the things he’d done wrong so that he could be properly miserable before he finally got around to dying. Come to remind him of how brother Calzarin came by his murderous madness.

  Piss off, he told it, and laughed as best he could. If he couldn’t sneer at anyone else, he could always sneer at himself.

  I could do that if you like, said the voice with a sniff of amusement. Or I could save your life. You choose.

  Then I’ ll have my life saved, please. Although I suppose I should ask what it’s going to cost me.

  A lot.

  Doesn’t it always? He hated feeling so weak. He was weak even in his dreams now.

  Yes. It usually does, agreed the voice.

  So what’s it going to be? Are you some part of me that’s been hiding away all my miraculous powers of healing and recovery, waiting for me to agree to a life dedicated to the betterment of others? Or are you one of the spirits I don’t believe in, come to tell me I can have my life back if I swear to become a good person? Because I’m not sure either is playing to my strengths.

  No. None of that crap. I want your money.

  Jehal spluttered. Now I know you’re just another part of me. Although I’m a little disappointed at my apparent lack of imagination. Is that what happens when you die? Do you become dull first? I must confess that I have largely avoided the company of the near-dead, but those I have seen have usually been most tediously dull. Deathly dull, even. Heh.

  I want something else as well.

  Do try not to bore me.

  What I want is not yours to give. One day you’ ll try to take it and find that I got there first. Let it go. It’s really not that important to you.

  Oh, here we go. You know, I’ve heard this story before. What are we talking about? My soul, is it? It’s usually something like that. Whatever it is, being told it’s really not that important to me rather convinces me that it is, in fact, desperately important to me.

  I want the Adamantine Spear.

  Oh. For a moment Jehal was nonplussed. So do I.

  No, you don’t. The other voice huffed impatie
ntly. You want what it means. You want to be speaker. You don’t give a toss about the spear or the ring.

  You’re much too crotchety to be me. You remind me of my uncle.

  Try imagining that I’m a wizard. I’m going to take away the poison in your blood.

  Oh, really?

  Yes, really. Piss me off when you’re better and I can always put it back again.

  Jehal tried to laugh. As deathbed visions go, I like you.

  We have an agreement?

  No.

  Oh. Well, I suppose I’ll leave you to your lingering death then.

  Jehal chuckled, or would have if he could have managed it. The Adamantine Spear? Some old relic that sat around gathering dust, wheeled out by whoever happened to be high priest of the Glass Cathedral every ten years. What did he care about that? They could always make another one. A better one maybe. One that didn’t weigh so much for a start. Or he could simply change his mind. The thought made him want to laugh even more. I’ d better not let myself know what I’m thinking. If I’m going to betray myself later, I’ d much rather it came as a surprise . . . He took a deep breath and lay back. He was probably going to die now, he thought, but at least he’d go out with a smile on his face. Then, as an afterthought, he screwed up his face and asked, Whoever you are, you don’t happen to count Vale Tassan as a friend, do you?

  The voice seemed to shrug. I don’t give a fig for him one way or the other.

  That’s good. Because if you really aren’t just some ghost and you really are going to make me better, then I think I’m going to have to kill him. In some horribly slow and nasty way.

  I’m sure that would be very interesting to watch but sadly I suspect I shall miss the occasion. Do we have an agreement?

  Can you do what you say you can?

  Yes. Last chance. Do we have an agreement or not?

  We do.

  A warmth engulfed Jehal, as though the softest fur blanket in the palace had wrapped itself around him. He closed his eyes and drifted off to somewhere far away. Somewhere past the ends of the worlds and off into the void between them, where everything was black and still, where clocks and hearts beat slower and slower and time didn’t march anymore . . .