The Faithful Traitor (Wizard & Dragon Book 2)

by Robert Don Hughes

  ‘The dragon listens to me,” he boasted to her when the dinner wine began taking its toll on his young body. “Oh, not me directly —” He chuckled, “ — but to one of my tugoliths. He was made out of a tugolith you know — oh, but, of course, you know that.” He giggled, pointing at Elaryl. “You were there!”

  Elaryl had been present at the dragon’s making. But how did Ognadzu know? She didn’t reply, waiting for him to continue.

  “Anyway, he — he? Is the dragon a he? Who knows. Whatever the thing is, it listens to tugoliths. And I have in my employ a tugolith who’s not afraid of the dragon — not afraid at all. I give it instructions, and it goes right into the Central Gate and tells the dragon where to go and whom to swallow. Pretty good assassin, wouldn’t you say?” Ognadzu cackled, winking at Elaryl and taking another sip of wine. “Pretty effective?”

  Elaryl waited for a pause in his self-congratulatory giggling, then asked, “Why does the dragon do this for you? Out of friendship?”

  “Friendship? You think the dragon is my friend?” This set off another fit of giggles, and Ognadzu wobbled unsteadily in his chair as he struggled to contain himself. Elaryl took the moment to glance at Ranoth and Talarath. Neither man had entered much into the conversation. She couldn’t tell from their closed expressions whether they appreciated her efforts to pry information out of this tipsy teen or not, but she’d chosen to pursue the topic and wouldn’t back away from it now.

  “If not out of friendship for you, or for the tugolith, then why does the dragon do as you ask?”

  “Simple,” Ognadzu growled, and suddenly his face was fierce and the effects of the alcohol were no longer apparent. “I tell the twi-beast where Sheth may be found, and the dragon goes and burns that place.” He turned his head to look at the two Elders of Lamath seated on the other side of him and announced, “That’s why the Hall of the Elders will burn in Lamath. Ranoth.” He snarled maliciously, then locked eyes with Talarath and added, “And it’s why this brand new mansion of yours will soon go up in smoke, Talarath. That is, if the two of you prove to be as foolish as your counterparts in the Western and Upper regions. You knew they burned, I assume?”

  “You sent me word yourself,” Ranoth answered crisply.

  “Ah, yes. But you verified it from sources you trust, did you not?” Ognadzu prodded, and Ranoth answered with a troubled nod. “Good. Good. Then perhaps the two of you will be more responsive to my invitation.” Ognadzu smiled, and he turned to grin back in Elaryl’s direction. She found the expression hideous.

  “And that invitation is?” Ranoth asked.

  “Why, to rule Lamath with me.” Ognadzu met the eyes of the two Elders frankly. “You did realize that I will rule Lamath, didn’t you?”

  “Lamath chooses its own rulers,” Ranoth said carefully, “from the ranks of its spiritual leaders …”

  “Oh, and I need not apply, since I’m obviously not spiritual? From all I can gather, Ranoth — neither are you,” Ognadzu snarled. “Neither is Talarath there, nor any man who’s sat in an Elder’s chair in years. Elaryl,” he asked, turning suddenly her way, “did you realize that Lamath has been ruled by a cadre of spiritual pragmatists for years? I’ve studied your history, both in your own libraries in Lamath and in the once-great library in the Remnant. It’s a dead faith, your religion of Lamath. A dead faith waiting for renewal …”

  He seemed to hang upon that last word, as if expecting some response from his audience. Elaryl looked at her father and the Ruling Elder. Both of them seemed to understand what the boy was saying, but she didn’t. She decided to ask. “What do you mean by renewal of the faith?”

  He turned to face her. “You don’t know? Quite simple, actually. Lamathians are very simpleminded people. You may not know that, living as you do in the house of a priestly leader, but it’s true. They want a religion they can understand, a religion they can prove is true. And some have begun to discover the truth of the dragon.” Ognadzu smiled at her chillingly. “They’re calling it the scourge of the Power …”

  “The what?”

  “The scourge of the Power!” Ognadzu said with a sweeping gesture of his hand, imitating the Right of the dragon over his plate and goblet. “The dragon is the Power’s personal avenger, swooping to swallow all those who pretend to lead in faith, but hunger only after power. Persons like …” He turned back to the two Elders. “ … the two of you.” Ranoth and Talarath watched him grimly. “How else do they explain the precision with which the beast makes its attacks, unless it is being directed by your precious Power to rid the Land of Lamath of impure leadership? I think you must certainly understand my meaning, Ranoth.”

  “I do,” the little man murmured.

  “I don’t,” Elaryl snapped, and for the first time Ognadzu frowned at her. “What is it you want from Lamath? You have everything your daddy’s money can buy!” It was the wrong thing to say, but Elaryl had known that before she said it. Ognadzu’s grand expression withered in humiliation, then flowered back full in rage, as he pointed his finger and shouted at her.

  “You, woman, will burn first!”

  “No!” Talarath shouted, coming out of his chair and around Ranoth’s to grab the boy up by the lapels and lift him into the air. Ognadzu looked at the much bigger man, his eyes wide with shock. Immediately the roomful of warriors jumped to their feet, and just as quickly Talarath set the boy back on his feet and released him. But Elaryl’s father wasn’t finished — he’d just chosen a different tack. “She’s not one of the leaders of Lamath; she’s merely protecting her father. Ranoth and I understand you. Tell us what you want us to do.”

  From the moment he’d burst from his seat in her defense, Elaryl’s pride in her father had been swelling. Here, at last, was the father she remembered, the man of rigid principles who would face down an army for the faith. But with these last words the illusion exploded — for it was an illusion, had been an illusion, she realized, for a long, long time. The boy had spoken the truth-much as she hated to admit it to herself. The people of Lamath were simple folk, who wanted a simple faith. But ever since watching her beloved Seagryn be made a pawn in the Elders’ political maneuvers, she’d realized that the leadership of the faith no longer subscribed to it themselves. There was no dependence upon the Power in her own household — Talarath depended instead on strength, timely action, and closely guarding all information. Elaryl understood in that moment that there was no essential difference between the power politics of her father and those of this slimy young merchant. And she wondered — were Seagryn’s motives any different?

  “Yes,” she said aloud to no one who happened to be present. “Yes, they are.”

  “What?” the boy snarled at her, certain, now that she’d insulted him, that anything she said must be another barb aimed to further hurt him.

  “I’m not talking to you,” she said flatly, for she wasn’t. She realized Ognadzu took this as more humiliation, for she saw him coloring out of the corner of her eye. But her gaze was reserved for her father — and it was full of the same stern righteousness he’d projected at congregations throughout her lifetime.

  “Father, what do you think you’re doing? Are you about to negotiate some agreement with this — boy? What are you thinking about? Ranoth!” she shouted across the livid young merchant’s head. “What do the two of you think you’re doing? I thought you were the leaders of Lamath, not its betrayers! I thought you had true faith in the Power!”

  “Daughter,” Talarath warned, but it was a weak warning, motivated only by terror, void of moral character. She ignored it.

  “I simply won’t believe it of you. Neither of you! If there truly is anything to this Power you’ve taught me about all my life — if there is truly anything to believe in — then I will not see an adolescent merchant rob my nation of its faith!” She spun around, marched off the dais, and started down the aisle toward the stairway.

  “Stop that woman!” Ognadzu shouted, and a half-dozen warriors stepped out to do
just that.

  “Yes, stop her!” Ranoth called after them, then looked at Ognadzu. “For we’re going with her. Oh, you can have your guards kill us, if you choose, but I have my own warriors ringed around this place, and I daresay — tugoliths or no — you’d have a difficult time leaving the region without seeing that it is this precious mobile mansion of yours that goes up in flames, not our homes. You overstep yourself, young Ognadzu. You’re much like your father in that way.” He turned to Talarath. “Your daughter’s right. Let’s leave this fool to his wine.” Ranoth stepped down off the dais and walked swiftly between the tables to join Elaryl. Talarath quickly followed, but the guards who blocked Elaryl didn’t budge until Ognadzu spoke.

  “Let them go,” he announced finally, sitting heavily into his chair. Then he picked up his goblet and saluted them with it. “You may all prepare for martyrdom. The scourge of the Power is upon you!”

  “Why don’t you just kill us now, Ognadzu?” Ranoth challenged. “You haven’t the courage to act directly, do you? That’s like your father, also.”

  “Insults!” Ognadzu cackled, taking a drink. “Listen to them heaping up insults! Oh, no no no, Ranoth. I’m not fool enough to kill you here. Much more effective to let the dragon do it. More impressive. Burns itself into the minds and memories of the peasantry. Have a pleasant evening …” he added, raising his goblet again, and the guards stepped aside. Elaryl shot down the stairway as quickly as possible, hearing the heavy tread of Ranoth and her father behind her. Once outside, she saw by torchlight that the massive carriage was indeed ringed with Lamathian warriors who had not been in evidence until now. But what difference did it make now? she realized. Ognadzu would be true to his word. The dragon would be upon them as quickly as the boy could send word to it. She, however, would not be here.

  “Daughter,” Talarath began when they got inside the mansion, but she didn’t pause to talk to him. “Elaryl!” he called up to her, and she stopped on the stairs to look down.

  “Yes?”

  His old face, craning to look up at her, seemed twisted by a dozen emotions he’d never taken the time to learn how to express. She loved him, she knew — but she hadn’t the time now for him to try to learn how to talk to her. “I —” he began, then stopped.

  “Father, I’d suggest you and Ranoth get out of this place as quickly as possible. Store the things you want to preserve from this house somewhere in the village, and hide yourselves among the warriors.” She glanced around at the mansion, still smelling so new. “We really didn’t live here long enough to build many memories into the walls. I, for one, won’t miss it.” She started up the stairs again.

  “But where will you be?” he called, strangling on the words and their implication.

  “Me?” she said, leaning over the bannister. “I’m going to find my husband. From the looks of things, he’s the only one left who can do this nation any good. I love you. Good-bye —” Then she was off again, once more racing up the stairway as she had been all day.

  She found Jocelath curled up in a corner of the room, trembling in terror. “What’s the matter with you? Get up!”

  “My Lady!” her maid shouted, bounding to her feet and rushing to embrace her. “I thought you were surely kidnapped or dead!”

  “I’m neither one yet,” Elaryl muttered, dashing to her closet and throwing it open, “but I wouldn’t give either one of us much chance of living into tomorrow unless you get busy and help me pack.”

  “Pack?” Jocelath gasped, her face draining to a pasty white.

  “Yes, pack. Here,” she grunted, throwing a wad of clothes in her maid’s direction.

  “But — where are you going?”

  “We are going — wherever. Would you hurry?”

  “But —” the woman said again, her eyes wide with terror. “Where will we sleep?”

  Elaryl hadn’t thought of that, and she paused to consider it. “Outside, I guess.” She returned to stuffing clothing into a bag.

  “Outside?” Jocelath murmured, swallowing with difficulty. “With the dragon?” Elaryl noticed her maid suddenly doing something strange with her hands, but she didn’t stop to look more closely. She was trying to make some plans. Where was Seagryn now? Where would he be in the next few days, so that she could go meet him there?

  “You know,” she told Jocelath as she tied the neck of her tote bag and tossed it over her shoulder, “for the first time I can remember, I really miss Dark the prophet.”

  Chapter Thirteen: CRYPTIC ANSWERS

  “IT smells funny,” Dark complained as he sniffed at the pile of powder in his palm.

  Nebalath turned red and snarled some reply, but Seagryn didn’t hear it. He was preoccupied with the same thoughts that had plagued him for days.

  “Works, though …” the young prophet murmured after inhaling the green spores. He drifted toward the pleasant oblivion of a dreamless sleep.

  Seagryn watched the boy’s brown eyes roll backward and realized he’d missed an opportunity. “I wish he’d let me ask him some questions first,” he told Nebalath. Dark heard this comment and managed to focus his gaze on Seagryn for just a moment.

  “Has Sheth talked to you?” Dark asked, his speech slurring.

  “Sheth?” Seagryn frowned. “No …”

  “Tha’s righ’.” The boy nodded weakly, drowsing off. “We talk abou’ tha’ later … When I wake u …”

  Seagryn stooped over Dark and shook him once, gently, then again a little more firmly. “Too late.” He looked up at Nebalath. “Again.”

  “Too late” had been a frequent refrain between them in the days since their encounter with the Emeraudes. After scooping sacks full of the foul-smelling green spores from the cracks of the cone, they’d arrived back at the coast too late to prevent The Norck Stork from being attacked. A larger vessel, sailing under lime and dark-blue colors that neither of them recognized, had sighted the Stork and was pursuing it. While they’d managed together to cloak the ship, allowing it to slip away, they’d been forced to wait a week in the steamy jungle until Captain Norck had made a full circuit of the island and come back for them.

  Fylynn suggested repeatedly that it was probably for the best. “Norck would have fled at the first scent of us anyway!” she’d said. “Now we can burn our clothes and bathe every day in the sea until he returns.” She’d made the most of the time herself — sunning on the beach, hunting for seashells, and dancing through the surf — but Seagryn had taken the delay hard.

  He’d been unable to relax. Although the green cats had given them a wide berth, he was always aware that they were prowling the perimeters of the shoreline campsite, effectively preventing any further contact with the purple inhabitants of the isle. And with Fylynn playing down by the beach, he’d spent most of the week alone. Nebalath had disappeared for longer intervals each day, and while he always returned with things they needed — fresh clothing the first day, food every day, towels, soap, books, some much-needed cologne — the old wizard had seemed less and less willing to talk. Nebalath had permitted himself only one comment on the day they’d finally boarded the Stork. “I hope we’re not too late,” he’d mumbled.

  “For what?” Seagryn had asked — but the old man never had answered.

  That day they’d been caught in a storm. “It’s too late in the year to be sailing in these waters,” Captain Norck had explained as the winds blew them westward. The storm had lasted for days, and they’d spent two weeks returning to their original course.

  To add to his frustration, throughout this period Seagryn had been unable to contact Elaryl. He’d tried. He’d spent whole days laying in his bunk, working without success to dream his way back to her. Nor did Nebalath seem inclined to help him as he had before, and Seagryn couldn’t understand why. Hadn’t he done everything the old man had requested? Why, then, wouldn’t Nebalath go and visit Elaryl for him and bring him back a report? When asked, the thin-faced wizard had brushed the request aside as if it were beneath him. Then
Seagryn began to wonder — had Nebalath attempted to visit Elaryl already and found her condition so wretched he couldn’t bring himself to share the truth with Seagryn? Did his “too late” apply to Elaryl? Toward the end of the journey, Seagryn had started sampling Dark’s green powder himself. It took his mind off his troubles, at least.

  They’d arrived this evening, all three of them feeling battered by the journey and much relieved to find a safe haven at last. Fylynn had gone right to bed, while Seagryn and Nebalath had rushed the treasured medicine to Dark’s bedside. Now Seagryn looked down at the prophet lad’s peaceful expression and battled against his own envy. He wished he could sleep so blissfully, for, despite his weariness, his mind had not allowed him to rest for days. Having missed this opportunity to hear a hopeful word from Dark, he’d doomed himself to yet another sleepless night. Unless — he glanced over at the sack of green spores …

  “No,” he grunted, and Nebalath looked up at him in surprise.

  “No what? What are you talking about?” the old wizard asked.

  “Nothing,” Seagryn snarled. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Be careful,” Nebalath said, craning his neck to look around him suspiciously. “This house goes on forever. It’s easy to get lost inside it.”

  Seagryn didn’t reply. He stalked out of the room and trotted down the stairs, almost running over Uda, who was on her way up.

  “Is he all right?” the girl asked. “Is he sleeping?”

  “Like the dead,” Seagryn snarled, and Uda’s blue eyes flew wide open. “He’s not, of course,” Seagryn quickly added, angry at himself for frightening her so. She’d grown so much since he’d first met her, and not just in height. The troubles of the last year had forced her to mature quickly. Seagryn welcomed the change. “He looks as if he’s sleeping comfortably. Perhaps he’ll wake up a new man.”