by Stephen Deas
They reached the abyss of the Gnashing Snapper Gorge, where the immense mass of the Fury roared through the depths of the Worldspine. Hyrkallan tipped B’thannan’s wings and they dived into it, down deep between black slabs of rock only a few dragon-spans apart. Jaslyn’s ears popped and throbbed. The world became as dark as night as they fell and the air filled with spray and the thunder of rushing water. As Hyrkallan slowly leveled his descent and skimmed across the black waters, Jaslyn looked up. Far above her, the sky had gone so dark that she could see stars.
Slowly the gorge widened out. The river slowed and they passed the startled eyes of Hanzen’s Camp, the last stop for even the most adventurous boats plying the Fury River. They stopped for a second night not far away on the edge of the Worldspine, a hundred miles east of Drotan’s Top, and then drifted up again with the dawn, veering a little eastward but still flying south, out over the swathes of rolling green that were the Raksheh, the Thousand-Mile Forest, squeezed between the endless flat gray clouds above and the rolling green ones below. In the hills and plains to the faraway east, Zafir’s eyries were almost empty, her dragons dispatched to the palace. Once, in the far distance, back toward the mountains they’d abandoned, they saw four other dragons flying north, high in the sky and deep among the peaks. Other than that, they saw no one. As the light failed they stopped again in the empty depths of the forest, at the ancient abandoned Moonlight Garden, looking out over the wild Yamuna River and at the Aardish caves where Vishmir the Great and, some said, the Silver King himself were laid to rest. Jaslyn stood there amid the blood-red marble stones veined with yellow and watched the moon rise. In a place like this, in this wilderness of lonely emptiness and the stone relics of a people who had died and gone long ago, she felt strangely at home. Outwatch was like this. Surrounded by desolation, old beyond measure, crafted by hands long dead with skills long forgotten. Enduring. Everlasting.
Unlike everything else.
She sighed and tried to sleep under the cool open skies of the south. The dreams that came to her were strange, always were in this place. Of men with white hair and silver skin and wide blood-red eyes. Of the Silver Kings.
They flew away again with the dawn, saddlesore and weary although the dragons who did all the work seemed untroubled by their long flight. Southeast now, down the Yamuna River and out across the rolling deep green canopy of the Raksheh. As they took off it started to rain, low gray clouds rolling in off the Sea of Storms far away to the south. Rain. It was delicious. A novelty for those born to the desert realm of Sand and Stone.
They crossed the edge of the Raksheh, the dark sprawl of trees breaking up into a patchwork of fields and copses laced with a dark spiderweb of muddy roads and spattered with hamlets and farmhouses. As they did, Jaslyn saw a single dragon far in the distance. She urged on Morning Sun until he was alongside B’thannan and signaled to Hyrkallan, but by then the other dragon had seen them and sped away. They flew on a little further, closing in on the grand eyrie of Clifftop. Jaslyn looked for an open space and brought Morning Sun as gently as she could to the ground, thundering into the side of a hill, slipping and stumbling, tearing gouges as deep as a man out of the thick damp earth. A flock of sheep scattered in panic in front of them. Jaslyn felt a sharp stab of desire from her dragon. Hunger. He hadn’t eaten since Evenspire. When she told him no, he snorted and tossed his head, blew a column of flame a hundred feet up into the air, the rain around his face sizzling into steam.
Jaslyn sat, slowly getting wet. The air smelled of dragon and the rich dark soil. Without the wind in her ears, the world fell silent apart from the steady hiss of the rain. She sat and she waited, alone in the emptiness while Hyrkallan and his two outriders circled above to mark where she was. That was how it was done, when a stranger on a dragon entered a foreign realm. Like an animal rolling on its back, exposing its belly to show it meant no harm.
Eventually the dragon from Clifftop came back with others. One rider landed nearby, his dragon shaking and tearing the earth once again. The rest stayed in the air, circling. Jaslyn told him who she was and why she’d come. She had no idea who he was. She wasn’t at all sure that he believed her either, but then maybe he did. Or maybe he’d seen her at Lystra’s wedding. Maybe he’d been one of the dozen and more southern riders who’d gallantly asked for her hand at a dance only to be brushed away without even a smile. Climbing to the top of the hill and then hurling themselves down the side, the dragons raced and flapped their wings and ripped the earth with their claws once again until they launched themselves into the air, one after the other. She followed him toward Clifftop, trying not to think of what would be waiting when they got there. Ceremonies and greetings and all manner of tedious rituals to go through. All a waste of time. From Clifftop to the palace of Furymouth was most of a day on the back of a horse, longer in a carriage. She didn’t have much time before she’d have to fly back, and every hour she spent at the eyrie was an hour away from Lystra.
Except it wasn’t. At Clifftop Jaslyn let Morning Sun dive and then spread his wings and almost stop in the air before smashing into the ground, the way all dragons like to land. She threw off her harness and slid from the dragon’s back and there was Lystra, little sister Lystra, right in front of her only a few dozen yards away. In the rain, Jaslyn had to blink a couple of times to be sure. Then she had to blink again. Tears this time. Protocols and rituals could go hang. She raced across the ground and grabbed her sister, almost lifting her off the ground. She remembered the smell of the air here. The smell of the sea, the distant sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below.
“Lystra!” She still had to keep blinking.
“Jaslyn!” Lystra seemed reserved, returning her embrace with only a measure of joy. Jaslyn took a second to realize why.
“Ancestors! You’re so big! When will it be? It can’t be long! Look at you!” She put a hand on her sister’s big round belly and smiled. The first smile since . . . she couldn’t remember. Since Lystra’s wedding perhaps.
Lystra smiled too, the shy proud smile that Jaslyn remembered. The smile that made her heart melt, and perhaps Jehal’s too. “Another two months, they tell me.”
“So long? You look ready now!” The thought of Lystra as a mother had a bitterness to it. Almiri had already given Valgar three heirs. She was the last one. Lystra was all grown-up, not little anymore. But that sort of thinking wasn’t helpful, wasn’t why she’d come. “Why are you here at Clifftop? You should be at the palace with everyone to look after you!” She stepped back. For the first time she realized that Lystra was clothed from head to foot in gray. “You’re in mourning! What’s happened?” Someone was dead. Jehal? Her heart jumped with hope. Could it somehow be Jehal? Is he dead after all?
Lystra looked confused. “You mean you don’t know? How can you not know. Mother . . .”
Oh. Yes. That. Jaslyn looked down at herself. Not a trace of gray. She’d almost . . . No. Not almost. She’d actually forgotten. For a few days she’d forgotten that her own mother had been executed. She’d tried to forget that horror along with everything else, and for once she’d actually managed it. Now she felt ashamed.
There were several men and women standing either side of Lystra. Jaslyn had ignored them totally until one of them coughed and smiled and stepped forward.
“Meteroa, Your Holiness.” The man bowed. Holiness. She still couldn’t get used to people calling her that. “I am King Jehal’s eyrie-master and I am at your service. I do my best to advise Queen Lystra while he is away. Currently I have advised her to move away from the palace. The air here is cleaner. So is the water. And indeed the food, I have discovered.” He raised an eyebrow as if he meant to convey some complex meaning. Jaslyn had no idea what he was talking about. She should have worn gray. She should have worn gray if only for Lystra. I never liked our mother but I know you did. I always thought you were her favorite because you were the pretty one, but maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe she liked you the best because you were the o
nly one of us who liked her back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“Can you . . .” She was still looking at Lystra. Could she what? Forgive her? For forgetting that their mother and their queen was dead? For being as coldly indifferent as the speaker?
“I’m sure Queen Lystra understands.” Meteroa smiled. “You are almost at war with Speaker Zafir. There is little time for mourning. It is a luxury, I know. I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“I . . .” Is that why I’m here? “I wanted to see my sister again. In case it was the last time.” She cocked her head at Meteroa, desperate to talk about something else. I want to be alone with my sister. ALONE! “Since you are here, Eyrie-Master, I have a question for you. Do you have dragons who refuse their food? Hatchlings who sicken and starve and die?”
Meteroa chuckled. “All eyries have them, Your Holiness. Tarrangan’s Curse, we call it here. Three dragons live, one dragon dies. So it’s always been.”
“Do you have any of them here right now?”
“Hissing and snarling at the end of their chains in some deep cavern beneath our feet? You ask strange questions, Your Holiness.” Meteroa looked baffled. “I have no idea why you ask me this, but no, at present we do not. Why? Why do you wish to know? If I have your permission to ask, Your Holiness?”
“No.” Jaslyn shook her head, all interest suddenly gone. “No, you don’t.” She shivered. “May we go?”
Meteroa bowed. “Of course, Your Holiness.” He led them toward the cliff-top towers and in among the sprawling walls. “The King of the Crags is returning to his mountains, I hear. It is curious, Your Holiness. Why would he emerge from the Worldspine for this when he doesn’t even come for the crowning of a new speaker? I cannot help but wonder about that. Valmeyan has more dragons than any two kings or queens put together. It is something of a quandary. Can you enlighten me, Your Holiness?”
Jaslyn thought she sensed the faintest hint of mockery in Meteroa’s voice. She bristled. “No. I’m sure Prince Jehal will know the answer.”
“King Jehal,” purred Meteroa. “King Tyan died five weeks ago.”
Five weeks? Why didn’t I know this? Jaslyn turned to Lystra. “Then if Jehal dies, you’re queen!” She could slap herself. She must sound like an idiot. Meteroa had been calling Lystra his queen ever since they’d arrived. What’s the matter with me?
Lystra was staring at Jaslyn. Her eyes were very big and glistening with tears. All of a sudden she stepped closer and embraced Jaslyn again. “I know you think the worst of him,” she whispered, “but he has the heart of a good man, not a wicked one. All the things they say about him, they aren’t true. I know. I see him in a way no one else does. Don’t wish him dead, Jaslyn, please.”
Jaslyn froze. A shiver ran through her. She held Lystra tight. “You’ve changed,” she whispered. She couldn’t think of anything else. There. That was every question I had, answered in a stroke. Now I might as well go home.
Lystra straightened and stepped away. “Jehal tried to save Mother from Zafir’s headsman. That’s why he was imprisoned.”
“Did he? Did he really?” Jaslyn couldn’t bring herself to believe in Jehal. If he did, he had a selfish reason for it.
“He was trying to save the realms from a war, I think,” murmured Meteroa. “Always a foolish pursuit.” He turned and grinned at Jaslyn. “Since you’re here, I suppose he must have failed.”
“I came to see my sister.” Go away!
Meteroa didn’t go away. All through the dregs of the day he was constantly at Lystra’s side. To protect her, he said, from all the little dangers that others don’t see, although he wouldn’t say what those dangers were, and Lystra had practically been born and bred in an eyrie. The next day was no better, although Meteroa at least took Jaslyn around Clifftop to present his dragons. Quite a collection, Jaslyn realized. Jehal didn’t have as many as Isentine held at Outwatch, but such a variety! So many colors and shapes and sizes. Hunters and war-dragons of course, like every other eyrie, but some were . . . something else. Smaller, too small even to be hunters. Then he led her into the caves etched into the cliffs, into tunnels and darkness where everything smelled of smoke and Jaslyn could barely hear what he was saying, where all his words were blotted out by memories of choking air and rushing water and the deadly tightness of the alchemists’ redoubt. She could barely breathe. Cold sweat clung to her skin, gripping her, wrapping her in suffocating arms. Twice she stumbled and leaned on Lystra to keep herself from falling, and then finally a blast of fresh air and light thundered into her. They emerged into a gallery overlooking a yawning void. A hundred feet below, the sea crashed and roared over a tumble of black boulders that littered the cave mouth. Sunlight reached inside to light up the stone walls beyond, worn smooth by the waves. Further in lay a deep pool of still dark water. The air was fresh and salty.
“No use for dragons, this one,” said Meteroa, shouting to make himself heard over the noise of the spray. “No easy way in and out. We use this cave for something else. The kings of Furymouth have always kept their collection here.”
Jaslyn took deep breaths, sucking the cool fresh air into her lungs, cleansing them of the memory of smoke. “Collection?”
“Collection.” Meteroa pointed out into the emptiness of the cave. Slowly, as Jaslyn’s eyes adjusted to the brightness of the sun pouring in off the sea, she saw that there were things suspended in the air. Bones. Blackened bones. Dragon bones. Whole dragon skeletons.
“Are they real?” She stood agape. Dragons burned when they died. Burned from the inside out so that nothing was left except their scales and their wings. Maybe a few charred bones from the end of their tail, but everything else went to ash. She’d never seen the skeleton of a dragon. No one had. Or at least that’s what she’d thought until now. Now there were four of them in front of her. They were enormous.
Meteroa nodded, sounding solemn. “Very real, Your Holiness.”
“How?”
He pointed down to the water below. “The Salt Pool. The sea barely reaches into the cave, but the pool beneath us is deep. Sometimes when a dragon is dying we bring it here to the Salt Pool. We feed it the same poisons as the Embers took when they fought for you and the alchemists. When a dragon dies in the Salt Pool, the water is enough to save the bones. The salt ruins the scales though. We don’t bring them here very often.” He pointed. “The nearest is Awestriker. He was King Tyan’s last mount. Prince Jehal had the dragon slain when it became clear that his father would never ride her anymore. The furthest is Bludgeon. That was the first dragon to be brought to the Salt Pool. They say the first king of Furymouth, the blood-mage Tyan from whom King Jehal’s father took his name, came here. There had been a battle. This was long before Narammed and Vishmir and the rise of the speakers. The Order of the Dragon had risen up in the Silver City and ousted the blood-mages from the Pinnacles. The battle was lost, the magus’ dragon was damaged and he did not want it to fall into the hands of the Order. He brought the dragon here to hide it. The dragon died. Later, when the Order came and Tyan fled, they sent soldiers to the cave to bring back the scales. The scales were ruined, but they found the bones instead. For days no one understood where the bones had come from. Sea monsters, they said. Eventually they realized the bones came from Tyan’s dragon.” Meteroa smiled. “Of course, that was long before there was an eyrie at Clifftop. Come. There’s more.”
He walked along a narrow ledge carved into the sheer side of the cave. Jaslyn followed nervously. Lystra stayed where she was. The ledge was rough, a foot wide or sometimes less, and the Salt Pool was far below. Small niches had been cut into the wall, tenuous handholds to offer an illusion of safety. Meteroa moved carefully and methodically. “The menagerie may interest you, Your Holiness, if you have an interest in dragons.”
The ledge ran for some fifty feet before it opened out into a wide natural gallery. There were more skeletons here, much smaller than the monsters hanging over the bulk of the cave. These were hatchlings, so small t
hey must have been fresh out of the egg.
“We’ve been breeding them like this since the realms began, Your Holiness.” Meteroa smiled again. “Not many of our visitors are privileged to come down here but I know this isn’t wasted on you. And you are our king’s sister now. The interesting ones are back here.”
One of the hatchlings had two heads.
Jaslyn stared at them in disbelief. Half of them were deformed. Two heads, two tails, four wings . . .
“Blood-magic,” said Meteroa with a curl of disgust, although whether he meant it or it was feigned Jaslyn couldn’t tell. “A few of our kings have had a taste for it. They were set on breeding a new kind of dragon. This is what they got. They never had any success. Fortunately the local penchant for blood-mages has died away. We work with the alchemists now, using potions to try and evolve the breeds.”
“You want to breed a dragon with two heads?” Jaslyn couldn’t contain her disbelief. Meteroa laughed.
“No. It’s all about the color of the scales, the timbre of their sheen, that sort of thing. That’s why Jehal so wanted your white dragon. A new strain, a new bloodline, perhaps we could have done something different. You breed your dragons for speed and strength; we’re known through the realms for the most colorful dragons.” He chuckled again. “In different times, an alliance between our realms would have been a happy time for me. I would have spent a great deal of time in your eyrie and you in mine. We could have traded secrets, eyrie-master to eyrie-master. We could have traded bloodlines. I had high hopes for what our eyries might produce if they worked together. Who knows—maybe those dreams are not quite lost?” He talked on and on and Jaslyn soaked up every word. Meteroa knew what he was doing and he knew his dragons. She got lost in them and almost forgot why she was there. Other things slipped in. Jehal’s imprisonment, his injury, his recovery. The poisons Meteroa had found in the kitchens. The sabotage to the saddles of Lystra’s horses. A dozen other ambiguous little clues, all of them pointing to Zafir. Evil, wicked Zafir.
