by Lela Markham
“This is why I enjoy having you as a pupil,” he announced. “You break all the boundaries. A dragon?”
“Yes, a dragon in its lair. She was beautiful.”
“In its lair?” Now Gly frowned, the expression furrowing his unlined brow. Among men, Gly seemed a young man scarcely into his third decade, but he was near a half-millennium-old. “It would be a rare gift if you could scry into a dragon’s lair. They have their own ways to prevent that, such as we protect the holt.”
“And do I not have a rare set of gifts?” Ryanna asked. This elicited another grin from her tutor. She stood up from the fountain’s edge, her simple cotan robe falling around her ankles to drape her lean frame. A tall elfling with a long braid of dark hair, she hardly rated a glance among the Kin. Elflings were not rare in the Kinholts, but they were still a minority. Her human eyes and round ears were odd-seeming to her mother’s race, but in human society, many a man had chased after her like cat-mint. As she approached a half-century of life, she now recognized that her half-elven beauty had been part of the problem all along.
“I have not heard of any Kin in my lifetime who could scry a dragon,” Gly assured her. “Not even Shanara is so gifted.”
“Or she has chosen not to share,” Ryanna suggested.
“Well, true. Shanara does prefer her privacy. When next she wanders this way, or at least scries to me, I’ll have to ask after that ability. She is a connoisseur of historical lore.”
They stopped at the long table near one of the two hearths that heated the enormous central chamber of the Hall of the Wise and collected breakfast – seed bread with eggs and dried berries soaked in goat’s milk. They took their food around a corner to Gly’s workshop. In the darkness, Ryanna smelled drying herbs and essential oils. She lit the lamps with a thought as Gly moved a tray from his work table. To protect the quality of his wares, Gly’s workshop had no windows, so even on a cool spring day, the room was blackness without lamps.
“I had planned to discuss Scripture today, but I think rather we should investigate history,” Gly said, selecting a codex from a floor to ceiling shelves of similar books and setting it before her. “Dragons are much on my mind now. What do you know of them?”
While Ryanna recited what she remembered of dragon lore, Gly ate some of his breakfast, not even looking at her.
“They are one of the elder races in the Basketlands, perhaps the oldest. Certainly they predate the creation of Kin and Dwarf alike, though there is question if the Wardens might have walked the land before. They once lived in consort with Kin and were considered councilors of the Wardens, until the coming of the Celts. With the loss of the basketlands, we also lost contact with the Wardens and the dragons. Some still claim to see them flying in the high valleys, but they avoid the company of the other sentient races.”
“You grasp the major understanding of the situation,” Gly observed. “Please seek a deeper knowledge,” he encouraged as Ryanna spooned a bit of berries and crème into her mouth.
Swallowing, Ryanna opened the codex, found the subject in the index and flipped to the pages. A line-drawing in colored ink showed a scarlet and black dragon that looked remarkably like the one from her vision.
“They live many thousands of years, it is thought. They live in caves on the sides of fire mountains. They’re monogamous and bear live young that spend their early development in a mother’s pouch. They are thought to have a language that is all their own, but they also speak Elvish. Ho, there, this writer believes they may all be gone.”
“Garanthalgravynsyn,” Gly identified. “He lived through the Scourging. That book dates from the last years of his life when he had not seen a dragon for four hundred years.”
Ryanna swallowed a bite of seed bread before continuing.
“That’s before we moved into the Dragon’s Back,” Ryanna said thoughtfully. “Could it be that dragonkind were wiser than we and simply moved away from the Celtman early?”
“It well might be, though I have heard that the Celts hunted them where they remained in the basketlands. How we know that for certain, I cannot say.”
“Yes, I remember the tales they told at Peace River. Hunting dragons was among them. The lives of men are so short, however, that they thought they were telling mere fancies. Except for those who lived with us there, most Celtmen thought elves a fancy, actually.”
“They live short lives, men,” Gly agreed. “Is there more about dragonkind there?”
“Not really. References to other books. He was writing from Moryn. I suppose these might be found in the collegium.”
“No doubt. Perhaps I can scry to Tav, see if he can bring some of Garanthal’s books back with him on his trip.”
“You’re excited by this topic.” Ryanna did not form it as a question.
“Yes, yes, indeed. So much of this time seems so exciting. Winter People brought prophesy and prophesy ignites, sending Padraig to seek the king. After centuries of waiting, it feels as if the world turns once more on its axis.”
“The Celdryans will not easily accept a king that unites both people,” Ryanna reminded gently.
“They cannot stand against the One True God’s choice,” Gly assured her.
Ryanna flipped a page of the codex and gasped. Behind the dragon in flight, a fire mountain erupted, red ink enveloping a village far down the page. The artist’s rendering seemed to suggest that the dragon was somehow responsible for the eruption. She pointed out the drawing to Gly.
“They are always tied to fire mountains in the lore. I don’t know why the artist would suggest this, however.”
“Could it be a gift of the dragons, such as I can call forth fire from wicks? They can somehow draw fire from mountains?”
“Perhaps. Our ancestors took dragons for granted and either didn’t write about them or the books have been lost. We really know very little about them now.”
“The Celts believe dragons can breathe fire from their mouths or noses.”
“That sounds painful,” Gly said wryly.
“That was my thought round the story fire. What am I to learn from all this?”
“I’m uncertain. What I know for certain is that the Gifted receive their Gifts from the True God as they are needed. If you can see into a dragon’s lair, Ryanna, then God must have a purpose for it.”
Ryanna sighed. Elves usually developed their gifts as children and their childhoods reflected the restraints needed. Powerfully gifted children were often apprenticed to the Wise. Ryanna, like many elflings, had exhibited only mundane gifts as a child, coming into increasing power as a young adult, already married and seeking her own life story. She had not submitted easily to the tutoring and the demands upon her freedom and she still did not seek to be a Wisdom.
“Why does the Council still refuse to block me from the Source?” she asked. “They know that I will never use my abilities in a position of leadership, so why do they not allow me to end my studies?”
“They do not owe you an explanation, Ryanna,” Gly said. “Seems a shame to waste gifts such as you have.”
“They could always unbind me if needed. I do not seek this life, Gly.”
“No, you’d rather chase after Padraig.”
“Not true,” Ryanna insisted. “I accepted the restraints put upon me by the Wise. Even if I had not, Padraig would not have me until I had fulfilled my responsibility.”
“And, you do not feel in the least rebellious about this?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ryanna said with a quick smile. “Of course I’m impatient. Elflings always are, by Kin standards. I have matured in my perspective, however. I will not go haring off to repeat the mistakes of my youth. Although I have never worn goi’tan grey, I understand why I earned it and would not earn it again.”
Gly nodded.
“I think perhaps you are acquiring wisdom, pupil.”
Ryanna smiled at him, warmed by a high compliment indeed. Then Gly pulled the codex from her and set another one in its pl
ace.
“What did Pol have to say about being content?” he asked.
Ryanna paused for a heartbeat, scanning the Scriptos before her.
“The letter he wrote to Filipai,” she said, searching the pages. “Ah – here it is.”
Before moving on to the next portion of the lesson, however, Ryanna looked at Gly.
“If Padraig is to find the king,” she asked. “Are my gifts to be used in some way to secure the king’s reign?”
“We have no way of knowing and thus the council chooses not to restrain that which God appears to find needful.”
Ryanna shivered as a sensation like snow sliding off a roof washed down her back.
“I think you might speak truth,” she said.
“The Wise always speak the truth as it is available to us,” he replied. “Now let’s get back to your lesson so that you are ready when God calls.”
When God calls? Ryanna thought. What if I see the trumpets being prepared right now? And another shovelful of snow slid down her back.
Grief
The elves built with wondrous stone, strong and easily worked, but lit as if by witch light, excellent for foundations, but fearful to the eyes of men. The cities were well situated, so that our cities are built upon the remains of the elven kingdom. I call it a kingdom, though they never presented a king. How could they build such wonders without a king?
Aiden ap Shalar, Priest of Bel (FY 132)
Founding Year (FY) 931
High Celdrya – Early Summer
Perryn ap Trevellyn refused to weep as Maryn’s favorite horse was led into the burial grounds. Had his brother’s body arrived a day earlier, he could have indulged a bit of grief, but he would be crowned tomorrow and a sovereign did not cry in front of his vassals. Truly, what a bastardly tradition! He was burying his father and brother in the same day. Did that not explain tears? Surely, if there was ever an occasion …. Perryn placed his hand on the pommel of his sword and squeezed hard. The gemstones cutting into his palm dried his eyes and no doubt the slight grimace made him look appropriately angry. Being only 19 meant he had no lines on his face with which to affect a believable scowl.
The priests were going about their duties, invoking the gods and mumbling prayers. Perryn allowed himself to look round the circle of faces at the grave site. His brothers-in-law Burcan and Joran, both of Manahan, stood just opposite him, watching the priests with unreadable expressions. Joran had ridden in just this morning, though Burcan had been here when Vanyn died.
What do you know of all this, my lords?
Lord Gerriant of Fyrgal, his father’s step-brother, might have had been holding back tears, or suppressing amusement. He’d always seemed companionable with the man he’d grown up with, but he’d been here when Vanyn died as well, so was suspect in Perryn‘s mind. Deryk’s eyes were bloodshot with crying. Perryn doubted his foster-brother wept for Vanyn, but he’d been bosom friends with Maryn since childhood and no doubt grieved as much as Perryn himself. His tears brought thought of Donyl, no doubt riding toward Dun Celdrya even now, grieving their father and brother as Perryn was not permitted. Perryn envied him that.
Councilor Dumyr stood near Perryn’s elbow, occasionally whispering words of reminder into the heir-apparent’ s ear. Perryn murmured the requisite words without processing them. Did Dumyr grieve the loss of the king he’d served for a quarter century? Impossible to tell. Dumyr’s wife, the Lady Wymffa, occasionally raised her handkerchief to her eyes to daub what might have been tears.
Malona, Vanyn’s mistress, stood among the crowd gathered in the burial grounds, but not in the front ranks of the mourners, as that would be unseemly. Perryn had always acknowledged her beauty, but today there was something both alluring and repelling about her. He couldn’t place his finger on it, but while her beauty drew him, somewhat also set his teeth on edge. Mayhap it was only that she was his father’s mistress.
What indeed am I to do with you?
The sky was dark grey with clouds that promised more rain. It seemed fitting that the sky would be unable to cry, as Perryn was unable.
The priest drew a ceremonial sword and sliced the jugular vein of the horse, intoning words in the ancient language as the horse collapsed to its knees into Maryn’s grave. The second priest sliced the jugular vein on Vanyn’s favorite horse and the same ritual was worked there. Perryn tossed handfuls of dirt into each grave and then turned woodenly to walk toward the towers of the dun. The mourners followed him.
“You should withdraw to your private chamber, my lord,” Dumyr suggested as they neared the main broch of High Celdrya. “It is appropriate and will give you time to school your resolve.”
Perryn nodded and turned toward his own rooms. In doing so, he passed Deryk on his way to the ale barrels.
“Will you speak with me privately?” he asked.
Deryk blinked at him, swallowed tightly and turned to follow him. Neither man spoke until they reached Perryn’s chambers on the third floor of a side broch. Deryk stood just inside the door, looking ill-at-ease. Perryn could not remember if Deryk had ever been in his chambers. He had naught against the man, but they had not been close, more by virtue of age difference than temperament.
“Please, do sit down. I would speak with you as kin.”
Deryk took the seat Perryn offered. His greeting chamber had been handsomely appointed as the captain of the warband with cushioned chairs and a divan. Perryn checked the silver pitcher on the tray and offered wine. Deryk stirred slowly.
“Watered, aye.” Perryn raised an eyebrow and Deryk sighed. “My mood is such that I might draw cold steel in your hall with the slightest provocation. Best to not dull my honor on the point of wine.”
“Aye, I know that well.” Perryn poured wine into two goblets and watered both. “I ask you this as friend, as I am not your liege at the moment. How did my father die?”
“He was poisoned. Surely the lords told you this.”
“Why would they tell the spare heir anything at all?” Perryn said. “Burcan and Joran hope the vyngretres will find me wanting and raise one of them instead.”
“Careful, Perryn. That sort of accusation can carry risks.”
“This is in confidence,” Perryn assured him. “Please take it that I just buried my father and brother. My father was poisoned. Are there any theories to who did this treason?”
“Nay, not that they have shared with me, but I am not without sources. My youngest sister is one of Lady Wymffa’s attendants. The lords believe the Assassins Guild is involved.”
“They’re a myth.”
“Someone makes the poisons that kill noblemen at the rule. And, I know for certain your father was poisoned. I almost sipped the mead myself.”
“And, you are qualified to recognize poison?”
“My father believes that younger sons have an obligation to protect the heir with their lives. I recognized wolfsbane.”
Perryn stood and stalked to the window. Deryk took a small sip of the wine, grimaced at the water, and set the goblet aside. He waited for Perryn to speak.
“What you described … Maryn’s death … might it all have been a way to hide involvement with the guild?”
“Mayhap. I had always thought of them as mere poisoners, but I’m revising that opinion.”
“Can you find out who might have hired them?”
“I can try, but it will have to wait until you are crowned because I will need the weight of the sovereign to wrest answers from those I question.”
“I will name you the war band captain as soon as I am crowned.”
“I thank you for the honor and I will accept pending approval by my father and brother. I’m 5th from the rule, so I doubt they’ll object, but I must honor them.”
“It is one reason I’m asking you for help. Maryn always said you are the most honorable man alive.”
“Since Maryn’s death that may be true,” Deryk said soberly. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath, swallowing audib
ly. “I will do whatever is needful to bring his killers to ground,” he promised in a husky voice. He drained the goblet and stood. “I’ll start looking right now.”
“Thank you.”
Deryk nodded and left. Perryn stared down at the ward beneath his window. It had begun to rain since they’d come upstairs and the paving stones were starting to glisten. Just as Perryn was about to turn from the window, three riders clattered into the ward. One of them flung himself from the saddle and strode toward the great hall. The slight hesitation in his step identified the rain-soaked plaid as belonging to Donyl, Perryn’s sole remaining brother.
Perryn paused briefly to set his untouched goblet on the table and moved to meet his brother before any others could speak with him.
Founding Year (FY) 1028
The Tongue – Spring - Present
Gregyn stood on a log on the far side of the lagoon, watching the sun make its progress across the sky. Due to the dense overgrowth, he couldn’t often see the sun, but he tracked its glow filtering through the trees. Soon it would be sunset and time for the ritual. Gregyn shuddered.
Naked save for a breech cloth, Gregyn had perched upon the log for a quarter of the afternoon, pondering his near-future. A ritual of this import required three. Assessing the population of the island and who might reasonably be excluded from this particular ritual, and recognizing Talidd had never stayed his hand to spare Gregyn’s feelings, the third in the ritual would be strong in the Power. Gregyn wished he’d known Talidd and the others desired his strength in the Power back when he’d been so eager to wield it and thus be included in the secret, and therefore, alluring rituals. He could have feigned weakness, or madness. Madness would have excluded him. Talidd would never believe it now. Weighing out the strength of those present on the island, and knowing two who would already be included in the trio, Gregyn accepted that Sawyl was powerful enough to bring visions on his own, so was the likely choice. There’d been a time when Gregyn had wished to be that powerful. Now he prayed he would not become so. The cavalier way Sawyl wielded such power frightened Gregyn, who did not frighten easily.
