by Steven Poore
Rapidly awakening now, Cassia shook her head. “More rumour than news,” she started, but Malessar raised his hand to stop her.
“Unheeded rumour topples thrones,” he said. “I have been studying for hours, but I can find nothing to satisfy myself that I should not worry. This is something I should have taken care of a long time ago.”
He tossed the spare coat down to Cassia. “I would have you witness this.”
It took her a moment to understand this was a request, rather than a demand or an order. Still, she hesitated. “Sir, may I ask why?”
Malessar looked away, wiping the tip of one finger along the edge of the shelf and examining it for evidence of dust. It was a distraction, she realised. He wasn’t sure how to answer the question.
“Because I will require an independent and honest verification of my findings,” he said at length. It didn’t sound like the entire truth to Cassia’s ears. She waited for more, but Malessar had fallen silent again.
And that wasn’t the answer to the question I asked. There was much more to this than Malessar would admit, especially to her.
Malessar appeared to wake himself from his reverie, tutting under his breath as he turned to leave. “Come to the roof when you have dressed,” he told her over his shoulder. She listened to his measured tread on the tiled stairwell until he had ascended past the first landing, then fished for her warmest clothes, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders.
He listened to me, she thought. But I still don’t know if that is a good thing. I don’t know if I should tell him everything.
Despite the warmth of the daylight hours, long habit had driven Cassia to invest in shirts of thick cloth, and convenience kept her in the divided skirts she had seen the dancers wear in Fahrian Square. She threaded Pelicos’s blade onto her belt and shrugged into the fur-lined coat Malessar had left behind.
She took the lantern with her up the switchback stairs. By night, lit by the flickering glow, the masks and carved figures in the alcoves took on more sinister aspects, leering at her as she ascended.
The night was cool and clear, the moon gibbous and low in the starry sky. There was no wind to speak of, but she could still taste the acrid tang of the tanneries beyond the old walls. Few people in the city had reason to be up at this hour, and she saw no lights in the maze of the surrounding district. Malessar had picked this time with deliberate intent, Cassia thought as she ducked under the lintel and emerged onto the rooftop garden.
A brazier had been lit in each of the four corners, radiating small circles of warmth with a banked, hungry glow. Cassia set down the lamp and let her eyes become more used to the night before crossing the stones to join Malessar at the other end of the roof. He stood shaded between two of the braziers, apparently deep in thought.
She remained a pace behind him, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the cold that was seeping into her bones. Slow to anger, she remembered. Fishing in dark, undisturbed waters – you may not like what you catch.
She shivered. And what have I caught?
He faced North, she realised. Seeing the ancient mountain fastness in the depths of his mind, perhaps, as though the hundreds of miles between Galliarca and Caenthell did not exist.
“Sir,” she said softly. “Perhaps I am wrong. It might be nothing. I must have misheard, or misunderstood . . .”
Malessar raised one hand from the wall to silence her. “Hush. Our course is set,” he said grimly. “Stay close, but do not speak or interfere. Follow my instructions exactly. Understood?”
“But—”
The hand waved again, this time more brusquely. Malessar’s attention had turned skyward and he appeared to be searching for something. Searching and listening.
Cassia tipped her own head back and turned on the spot, wondering what he sought. She knew it was possible to divine the future by reading the patterns of the heavens, yet the warlock had disdained that practice, dismissing it as unreliable. And what did he mean about their course having been set?
High above, a small constellation blinked as it was briefly occluded. Something had passed in front of it, Cassia realised, with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
Another few stars disappeared for an instant. This time she thought she saw the dark shape that commanded the skies over Galliarca, and the breath froze inside her lungs.
It banked and curved, describing a slow, ponderous circle above the city’s walls, descending all the while. The lack of grace was deceptive, it required the merest twitch of a wing to tighten or alter that curve. Those wings, fully spread, would stretch across the entire width of the Square of the Princes. And the sinuous tail that flicked, lazily, for over thirty feet behind the scaled body . . .
She backed up against the wall at the edge of the roof, her hands gripping the bricks tight as another myth came alive before her eyes to wreak havoc upon her beliefs and fears.
The dragon’s gliding spiral kept Malessar’s rooftop at its centre. The beast’s long neck twisted under its body to keep the city under close scrutiny. Malessar had begun to pace around the roof in the opposite direction to the dragon, muttering a low chant. Each brazier he passed flared up of its own accord, green flames briefly illuminating the walls and silhouetting his figure.
Cassia sweated with terror inside her fur coat. All the tales she had ever recounted of the Age of Talons jumbled inside her head: heroes, villains, august generals and vicious demons alike, all speaking their lines atop each other, random verses piling into a meaningless hubbub of words that stopped her from thinking of anything else.
Uhlwe of the Deeps. One-eyed Krol, scourge of the Hordes. Sabita the Mighty, who created winter by blocking out the sun. The legends were legion, told around fires on cold winter nights to thrill and scare children.
The dragon flexed its massive wings slightly, and a cold down force licked over the coals. The only sound came from Malessar’s even chanting. Cassia could only watch, transfixed, as the beast hung in mid-air while its huge hind claws reached out to the balcony at the far end of the roof.
A rasp of bone against fired clay. That was all. The dragon perched lightly on the wall, head arching to look at Malessar, who stood on the opposite side with his arms folded.
“Craw,” Malessar named the dragon. “Old friend.”
The dragon’s head tilted to one side, the left eye coming level with the warlock’s head.
Centuries have passed. Yet you have not.
The voice that sounded in Cassia’s mind was deep but androgynous, and it carried an edge of humour. Craw had made a joke, she belatedly realised, and that further astonished her.
This city sleeps, Craw pronounced. This is your work?
Malessar nodded. “It would not do for this city to know that you still live,” he said. “Even less that you consent to come at my request. Panic is an ugly emotion.”
Of course, Cassia thought. Galliarca was preternaturally quiet, even given the late hour. The warlock must have cast a spell to make certain the populace slept soundly. Little wonder she had fallen asleep so quickly earlier.
Craw’s head moved again, and a huge golden eye stared unblinkingly at her. This one is awake.
She shuddered, pinned to the wall by that cold regard. The dragon seemed to see right through her, through her clothes, skin and flesh, to her heart itself.
“I have need of her,” Malessar said with a shrug.
The eye was mesmeric. Cassia could not tear herself away from that vast, all-consuming well. Finally, just as she believed herself lost forever in the gates of the dragon’s mind, Craw blinked and raised its head. The moment was gone, and she slumped against the wall in relief.
Yes, the dragon said, settling back on its perch once more and returning its attention to the warlock. The braziers cast flickering light on the burnished scales of its underbelly.
Your scent is troubled, Malessar. And you have called upon me. Is this indeed a dire situation? There is no siege at this city�
�s gates, no sorceries in the air other than your own. I do not perceive a challenge.
Malessar frowned. “The challenge is not at hand, Craw. But I am troubled nonetheless by what may come to pass.”
He paused, as if uncertain of asking his next question. “Have you been close to Caenthell recently?”
No. I have neither reason nor desire to cross those lands. There is nothing of worth in that past.
Malessar sighed. “I need to examine the wards I placed upon the land there, to ensure they still hold fast. But I dare not spare the months it would take to travel north, so I have called on you, Craw, to beg your favour.”
Craw was silent for a moment. You fear your wards will fail.
Malessar moved restlessly along the rooftop, his face falling into shadow as he spoke. “They should not fail, unless the curse itself is lifted. But I researched the long-term effects of curses on the living earth many years ago, and I was reminded of that research earlier this afternoon. This is a journey I should have made centuries ago, but I could not . . . I could not face returning to Caenthell. Such wounds do not heal with time, Craw. I fear I have delayed too long.”
There was a raw edge to his voice as he spoke of Caenthell, a combination of sadness and anger, his bitterness directed at himself. How could he still be so angry with the High King after so many centuries? It was as if there was an empty space in the middle of this tale – pages that had been written but then torn out and hidden away, and Cassia could not work out what was missing.
Now you have the courage, Craw said. And I am intrigued. I would see this for myself. Very well, we fly north.
“Fly?” Cassia gasped.
Both heads turned to look at her and she clamped a hand over her mouth. She had not realised she had spoken aloud.
Malessar actually sounded amused. “But of course – how else should we reach Caenthell quickly?” Malessar actually sounded amused. “Remember, I must also attend the Crown Prince’s banquet this week.”
It is an interminable journey on foot, Craw said dryly.
Cassia blinked, startled by the dragon’s words, not sure how to interpret them. Had Craw just referred to the long trek she had made from Keskor with Baum and Meredith? If so, how on earth could it know?
She shivered, all too aware of Craw’s gaze. Could the dragon read her as easily as she would read a book? No, she told herself, surely it couldn’t be possible. But there was one thing she was suddenly certain of – Craw had spoken only to her. Malessar had not heard the comment at all.
She stared up at the dragon’s bulk, wondering how a person might ride on its back. The stories were vague on the subject, or skirted around it altogether, but then, how many storytellers ever actually saw a dragon, let alone rode one?
I am told the ridges of my spine are most comfortable, Craw said, as if it had again heard her thoughts. You should grip with the muscles of your legs.
The whole scene struck Cassia as absurd: she was stood in a rooftop garden in the heart of Old Galliarca, listening to a dragon advise her how best to seat herself on its back. Shouldn’t we be speaking of gold, or philosophy, or ancient wars? This is nothing like the tales of the Age of Talons!
She looked around for Malessar, hoping for some indication of how she should ascend, not confident in her own ability to climb up. The warlock, however, busied himself with putting out the braziers. Once more he was aloof and unreadable, and the cracks in his façade had disappeared.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she said. “Surely Narjess would be more useful to you?”
Malessar’s lips twitched. “Narjess does not believe in dragons,” he said, as though that explained everything, extinguishing the last brazier with the wave of one hand. Smoke curled from the darkened coals, along with a faint tang of spices that made Cassia’s nerves tingle when she inhaled.
She could not help but glance up at the beast towering over her. If Narjess stood in her place, he might well change his mind.
Then Malessar was at her side, urging her up onto the dragon’s back, and there was no more time to think. Fear rose in her mind, taking control of her muscles as she struggled to make herself comfortable between Craw’s great shoulders, scared of toppling back onto the roof or even into the narrow alleys below.
Sat behind her, Malessar said something she could barely hear. Craw’s body shifted up from the rooftop and she flung her arms around the dragon’s massive neck, the scales cold but oddly soft under her hands.
Craw’s wings snapped out to their full width and Cassia felt her stomach wrenched by gravity. She caught a glimpse of rooftops retreating into the dark below her, a sight that so shocked and frightened her she could not bear to watch. She squeezed her eyes tight until tears streamed from under her eyelids. She felt the dragon bank to the left, a movement that threatened to empty her stomach, and cold air plucked at her exposed face and fingers as her hair streamed out behind her.
You are safe, Craw told her, but that did not reassure her. She dared not reply, nor did she open her eyes or relax her grip on the dragon’s neck. Her heart hammered and she thought she might pass out.
Craw flexed and pulsed underneath her, a solid rhythm that accompanied each sweep of its mighty wings. It was supple and exotic, a flowing movement that only heightened Cassia’s distress. She prayed fervently to any god that might hear that she would not throw up, dreading what might happen if she insulted or annoyed the dragon.
After a while, her nausea subsided, and Craw’s tireless movements lulled her back into an uneasy half-sleep. Malessar’s presence close behind her was a reminder that she was not alone, and it was a greater comfort than she could have imagined. The effort of keeping her arms wrapped around Craw’s neck made her muscles ache, but she could not bring herself to relax her grip.
Cassia gradually became aware of a sound tickling the back of her mind, a low murmur; a susurration. It was like listening to a conversation taking place two or three rooms away. She realized it was Malessar and Craw talking privately to each other, and that caused her even more anxiety. What if Craw had indeed read her mind and was, even now, explaining her part in Baum’s schemes to the warlock?
She felt herself tensing further, readying herself for sharp questions, or an even sharper push. With no wings of her own, how simple it would be for Malessar to throw her from the dragon’s back . . .
You are safe, Craw repeated its earlier words to her, its tone warm and soothing. You have nothing to fear.
But Cassia could not shake her anxiety, especially when she wondered whether the dragon had been inside her thoughts. Was it mere coincidence that Craw sought to calm her now? She could not tell one way or the other.
The private conversation resumed, plucking at the edges of her consciousness. With her eyes still closed against the cold air, Cassia concentrated on the faint sounds, fighting to bring them closer and make sense of them. In part she wanted to know how dangerous her situation had now become, but another part of her had eagerly seized upon this distraction from her new-found fear of flying.
Craw’s voice came again, this time sounding amused and – Cassia believed – a little surprised.
Hush child. Sleep.
Frustration welled up inside her, adding to the tumult of emotions. She opened her mouth to snap at Craw, and yawned instead.
“What—”
She yawned again, unable to complete the sentence. Her thoughts were unravelling before she could put them together, and now she wanted to open her eyes she couldn’t even manage that.
The whispered conversation had become a low, rhythmic chant, she realised, just before she plummeted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
q
The ground was cold, the dew-scented grass damp against her cheek. She rolled onto her back and groaned as she discovered her coat was soaked through, a most unpleasant sensation that drove her towards wakefulness. Cassia levered herself up onto her elbows and blinked against the heatless glare of the morning.
&nb
sp; The air was sharp and bitter, her breath forming wispy clouds before her. She struggled to her feet, unsteady as her limbs felt stiff and leaden. She guessed that was a reaction to the stresses and strains of the previous night’s journey.
She turned, trying to work out what had happened to her. The dragon – she remembered clinging in terror to Craw’s neck, then hearing the hypnotic chant of a spell being cast in the back of her mind . . . and now here she was, with no sign of either Malessar or the dragon. Had they abandoned her?
The mountainous peaks to the north and west were caught in the full glare of the new morning, their snow-capped crests blinding bright. Cassia stood on a wide ridge halfway up a grassy hillside dotted with clumps of ancient, weathered firs and pines. Further up the hill lay the edge of a more ancient, virgin forest. A cobbled road, perhaps older than the trees around her, followed the length of the ridge, passing around the side of the hill to vanish from sight. The road was wide and level, but buried and corrupted by time.
Back toward the south and the southeast the land fell away into undulating, sparsely vegetated hills. Cassia thought she knew where she was now, although she had never come this far north before. Nobody dared live so close to the cursed borders of Caenthell, and her father had not reckoned the more northerly villages to be worth visiting.
Caenthell – just behind this hill . . . the shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold. She dropped one hand to her belt, checking her knife. She was fortunate not to have rolled over on it while she slept.
She was about to take her hand from the knife when she saw a figure striding easily into view along the old road, coming from the direction of Caenthell. Her fingers curled around the hilt, gripping it tight, and she felt the muscles across the back of her shoulders tense as the distant figure raised one arm to hail her.
It wasn’t Malessar.
She took an uncertain step back, only to realise that she had nowhere to run, nothing to hide herself behind.
An odd man, she saw, with a slightly exotic appearance that hinted at a sorcerous pedigree, just as the warlock’s did. His cheeks and his nose were too long, too smooth, echoing sculptures of antiquity she had seen in Hellea. His eyes were too wide, his mouth far too thin. The hood of his plain woollen robe was down, and she could see faint mottling across his bare skull, as though he had suffered from a disease many years ago. He seemed on the cusp of middle age, yet somehow beyond that too. As he came closer, and Cassia noted with apprehension that he would have towered over even Meredith, she saw the mottled effect extended to his hands and his bare feet.
