‘Make a fire,’ he groaned, but Kataros only stood and looked helpless. What does an alchemist know about starting a fire in the wilds? He just about managed to get one going, almost weeping with fatigue; that done, he wrapped himself up in a heap of furs and fell asleep. Warm.
He woke up again in the afternoon feeling almost as bad as when he’d fallen asleep, but they walked on anyway, through the evening, and gave up again when the sun set and darkness came. The moon and the stars were up, but the trees were thick now and little light reached through the leaves and branches. The path was too rough to follow blind, the stones too uneven, lifted up by tree roots, washed loose by water or simply gone. A broken arm was one thing; a turned ankle could be the death of them. Down here they had enough furs to keep warm. As long as it didn’t rain, which, this being the Worldspine it usually did.
As long as they kept going.
When he woke up again, he was shivering. Kataros was huddled next to him for warmth. She still wouldn’t speak, still seemed terrified of him, but at least she seemed to understand that he wasn’t about to rape and murder her. That day they passed a place where a slurry of mud had washed down from the mountain. The sluice and the lake? he wondered later. Or maybe something else. Were they anywhere near the eyrie still? He was having trouble thinking. Fatigue, that was it. He was simply too exhausted. They had food from the eyrie for a week or two. Water from the river. Shelter and furs enough that the cold wouldn’t kill them down here. Maybe they should rest. Build a shelter to keep the rain off and just rest.
He had strange dreams that night. Dreams of dragons. As though, fleetingly, he was slipping in and out of Snow’s thoughts again.
Why are you here? The dragon was flying high. Snow fields shone below in the moonlight. A dozen dragons flew around her. They were angry. No, annoyed. They didn’t like flying in the night.
You are dying.
He slipped away from them. A bit later, he slipped back. Now the dragons were settled in a valley somewhere. Could have been any mountain valley – they all looked the same. For no better reason than that, Kemir decided it must be the valley where all of this had begun. Where riders from some mad dragon-lord had attacked Queen Shezira’s party while the queen herself had been at the Adamantine Palace. Where he’d run from dragon-fire and Snow had first flown free. That was a Scales who’d done that. The Scales who’d raised Snow from an egg had urged her away and she’d taken him with her.
Daylight. Potions. He didn’t remember making a fire or breaking his fast, but he must have done both, since there was a fire and his belly was full. Then more walking. All blurred together. The next night Kataros might have tried talking to him, but if she did, he didn’t hear her. Too full of dragon-dreams. They came again, stronger this time. Snow and Ash and the others. All flying. Their joy of freedom and the simmering rage filled him. Made him smile.
There might have been another day. Another night. Kataros shaking him, he remembered that. No fire. Didn’t matter. Dragon-dreams were more real anyway.
They flew across the sea, Kemir and Snow and the dragons she’d freed. They flew across the sea and buried themselves in the high mountains by the coast, where titanic waves crashed against towering cliffs, and the cliffs vanished into the clouds. In the ice-bound high places where no dragon-rider ever flew, he pored over a map…
Snow flew in the dark…
… as close as she dared, Kemir on her back…
… eyries buried deep in the stone, guarded by hundreds of scorpions…
Frustration and rage.
A dozen horsemen, riding through the high valleys. The horsemen were unexpected and the dragons were hungry. They were always hungry. Kemir watched the slaughter, watched the dragons play with the horsemen. When they came back, they were gleeful. He thought it was the joy of the hunt, the taste of human fear, but no. The Mountain King was moving his dragons south, Snow told him. His eyries furthest from the sea were almost empty. Kemir hardly cared. He looked at the riders. The sight of them brought back every reason he’d ever had for every thing he’d ever done. Pain, hate, rage. Watching, helpless, as his cousin was killed. Watching, helpless, as his home had burned.
You are one of us, Snow said to him, and they were flying again up to the bleak icy heart of the Worldspine.
Memories?
‘What are you saying?’
He blinked. He was in a valley surrounded by trees, next to a river, walking along a trail. He had no idea how he’d got where he was but, for a moment, everything was clear. Kataros was standing in front of him, shaking him.
‘What’s wrong with you? You’re raving.’
‘What am I doing here? This isn’t right?’
And then that moment of clarity slipped beneath the waves. Pain. He was in pain.
Still dying.
Night again. More dragons.
I see you, Kemir.
Come and get me then.
Night changed to day. Kataros drifted through his dreams, dragging him by the arm. Trees. Lots of trees. And mud. The path changed under his feet. No more uneven stones. Slick and smooth now. Mud. Something warm and bitter in his mouth. None of that seemed real any more. Snow, that was what felt real.
I have something. A gift. Ride with me.
He seemed to fly. Fast, impossibly fast, flitting from one place to another. Leaping and dancing through the dragon’s memories. He roamed the emptiness between the Worldspine and the Maze and the Purple Spur. Dry dead stone peaks drifting below or else furious torrents of water between a cage of dark sheer walls. Nothing lived here, nothing at all; there were only titanic spires and curtains of ruddy stone where even dragon-riders had no reason to fly.
Come! See!
Between flashing peaks, away into the Worldspine, where the mountains were capped with snow again. Far-away words echoed through the cold air and the untouched peaks. They came, carried on the silence, flecked with a fusion of anger and despair.
‘Kemir!’
Rider Semian. He knew, not from the voice but from the way the thoughts tasted inside his head. The cold was so bitter that he was surprised it didn’t freeze Semian’s call to his lips. There wasn’t even a breath of wind. Semian had bawled out his challenge and it had rung clear. The mountains and the Worldspine scorned him with their silence.
‘I have a destiny!’ he screamed again, and Kemir heard him clearly.
He jumped off the mountainside from where he sat and slid out into the void, gliding silently, searching for the rising air that would carry him upwards. He felt the call to war. Saw men and dragons, eyries and castles and cities and palaces, all aflame. It would not be long. He gave a few lazy flaps of his wings and then stretched them out and soared up towards the mountain peak. He could see Rider Semian clearly now. He was standing, arms outstretched. He must have been looking the other way. He will have nothing. Be nothing. Kill! Burn!
‘Kemir!’
He seemed to float towards Semian, drifting with easy deadly purpose. The sun shone behind him, brilliant and cleansing. Perhaps it was his shadow falling over Semian that made the dragon-rider turn as Kemir rose up the side of the mountain to meet him. Huge, wings outstretched, filling the sky. The sun cast a halo of fire around him. Semian didn’t move, but Kemir heard his thoughts, over and over, the same. Out of the sun there shall come a white dragon.
He swooped closer, grinned wide. His jaws opened, a hundred bone-swords sharp and gleaming to carry Semian to his destiny. And the dragon shall be Vengeance.
‘Kemir! Kemir!’
Kill! Kill! He bit down. Thoughts fluttered and died and the glorious taste of salt and iron took their place.
And yet there, in his moment of ecstasy, in his final triumph, something was pulling him away, away from death and the clear blue sky. Away to somewhere dirty and blurred that tasted foul. He suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Kill! Snow! Kill him!
Be at peace, little one.
His own voice sounded faint. Weak. Dista
nt.
‘Kemir!’
The red rider and the white dragon. Justice and Vengeance.
‘Kemir!’
Hands were shaking him. Hard. His mouth tasted of earth and blood. The air smelled of fire. He was lying on his back. Kataros was crouched over him. The hands doing the shaking were hers.
‘Kemir!’ Hers was the voice he’d heard on the wind. The voice that had pulled him back. Gentler now, but the same nonetheless. ‘Thank the ancestors.’
He sat up, dazed, bemused. Horrified to see they were somewhere far away from the last place he remembered. Lower. The eyrie mountain was somewhere far behind them, lost to sight.
They were beside a road. Not some never-used valley trail, but a proper road made of mud and hoof-prints and the ruts of cartwheels.
‘Where… where are we?’
The woman shrugged.
‘How long… How long have I been here?’
She sat back. ‘You’ve had a fever for days. Then you were walking and you just fell over. I thought you were going to die.’
Would probably have been best for both of us. He rubbed his head. He felt woolly inside but otherwise strangely well. His arm barely hurt at all. It was in a sling. When did that happen?
‘I was with the dragons. The dragons from the eyrie.’
Kataros looked at him askance. ‘How do you know they were from my eyrie?’
‘The dragon was white. One of the dragons from the eyrie was white.’ He shrugged.
‘And did you see who rode them?’
‘They didn’t have any riders.’
‘When you were at the eyrie, you drank water from the lake.’ She shrugged as if that was the end of the matter. ‘You can fly with the dragons if you do that.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Then you’ve become feverish from your injuries. You’ve been having visions. I’m not surprised. I barely brought you back.’
She looked different. Sounded different. She was talking to him for a start. Not staring into space. Not vacant and empty or wide-eyed and frightened.
‘How long since we left the eyrie.’
She shrugged. ‘A week. More. I’ve lost count.’
‘A week!’
‘We followed the path. We found a road. You made fire and shelter. But now our food is nearly gone. People use this road. Outsiders. You have to talk to them. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What did you do to me, alchemist?’
‘I kept you alive. I kept the cold at bay and I broke your fever. What caused it I can’t say.’ She shrugged. ‘Since you say you didn’t drink dragon-water.’
There wasn’t much to be said to that. They’d kept each other alive. As for Semian, Kemir wasn’t sure whether what he’d seen had been real or a dream.
Let Semian be dead, he decided. That was for the best.
15
The Picker
The morning after he’d stolen the Speaker’s Spear, the blood-mage Kithyr was gone again from the City of Dragons, this time riding out into the Hungry Mountain Plains with a dozen carts and twice as many men from the merchant’s house. As an assayer, Kithyr was good at what he did: precise, shrewd enough to see when he was being cheated, honest enough not to be bought, flexible enough to make an exception when he saw a farmer in real need. The Adamantine Spear lay wrapped in its black silk at the bottom of a wagon full of grain. The Picker came too, driving that very same cart after the regular carter had fallen conveniently ill. As best he could, Kithyr forgot that the spear was there and lost himself in his work. The grain, when they had enough of it, would be carried to the Fury River gorge. It would make its precipitous way down from Watersgate to the river and the waiting barges at Plag’s Bay. He didn’t know where it would go after that, probably up the river rather than down it, but he knew where the spear went. It went with the river, to Furymouth, to the Taiytakei and the half-gods they had brought with them.
In all of Kithyr’s calculations the one thing he’d never contemplated was that no one would even notice what he’d done. In the eye of his mind he’d seen the soldiers on the gate rush to the Night Watchman almost as he was riding through the gates. He’d seen the Night Watchman run to the alchemists and the grand master roused. He’d seen his deception exposed. They’d know him for what he was. Blood-mage! The cry would echo around the palace. Everyone would be torn from their beds. The Night Watchman himself would lead the pursuit, racing into the City of Dragons only a moment too late, tearing the doors off every inn and doss-house. And then, with a great moaning cry of despair, the grand master alchemist would find that the spear was gone and they’d all know what he’d done.
It was what he’d feared and so he’d planned to meet that fear. A lesser man would have bolted for the river, but no. Kithyr and the Picker and their wagons of grain meandered the Hungry Mountain Plains, wandering among the golden fields south of the Sapphire River valley and the rain shadow cast by western edge of the Purple Spur. Every day they bought another wagon of grain, sometimes two, sometimes three. At every stop the wagon train grew bigger, picked up more men. In the evenings, when they stopped for the night to set their camp in the balmy twilight air, Kithyr looked south. Out towards the deep purple blotches of cloud that littered the southern sky. Towards the hidden scar of Gliding Dragon Gorge only a few days away. Towards Plag’s Bay, the gateway to the Fury, the start of the long road to Furymouth, the south, the Taiytakei, the realisation of all the power he’d ever dreamt of. He could run towards it at any moment, but no. He would stay close to the palace and the City of Dragons while the Adamantine Men and their dragons scattered to the four corners of the realms on their search for their precious stolen spear. He would wait for them to be gone. Only then would the journey south begin.
Except it was beginning to look, if he waited for that, like he’d be wandering the plains for a very long time indeed. No hue and cry had been raised. As far as he could tell, no one even knew that the spear was missing. At the very least he’d expected to see soldiers on the roads, riding swiftly to carry the news: Blood-mage abroad. Nothing at all was almost an insult. Now as he watched the setting sun, his feet began to twitch, eager to be gone. Eager to put an end to this.
‘The best thievery is when a man doesn’t even know he’s been robbed,’ mused the Picker. He was wearing a sly smile, watching Kithyr staring at the southern sky.
‘Is it that obvious what I’m thinking?’
The Picker nodded. ‘About as obvious as having it writ all over your face in ink, I should say. Course, I know a few things the rest of these fellows don’t. It might behove you to look a little less troubled, if I may say.’ By ‘the rest of these fellows’ he meant the other carters and teamsters driving their wagons towards the river.
Kithyr nodded. The Picker looked like any other man, but Kithyr knew better. The Picker, although his skin was light, had come from the Taiytakei. If he had powers of his own then Kithyr had never seen them used, but the sense was always there that the Picker could do things. In equal parts, the Picker was here to help him and to keep him honest. He certainly wasn’t averse to the odd murder or two with those strange knives he carried with their invisible blades.
The magician stretched and forced out a smile to briefly smother the frown that lived on his face. ‘If only we knew that was the case.’
‘Careful, was you?’ You could tell he was Taiytakei from the way he spoke. Most men didn’t see past the pale skin and just thought he had a funny accent and a weird way with putting words together, but if you stopped and listened hard enough, it was clear that he came from across the sea.
Kithyr snorted and his smile faded. ‘If you have to ask then my only answer is scorn and disdain.’
‘Got what you went for, maybe. Not the same as careful.’ The Picker picked up a stem of straw off the back of one of the carts and sucked on it. ‘Could be you left a trail wide enough even a dragon-rider fellow could follow.’
‘No.’
‘Well then, stop your worrying.’
The blood-mage stood up and went to the Picker’s cart. The cart where the spear was hidden. He stood by it, frozen.
‘Don’t be messing with my cart.’ The Picker’s voice hardly changed, but now there was a flash of steel lurking inside it. I can do things when I has to… One of the first things the Picker had said, years ago when they’d first come together.
Years. It really was that long. When he, Kithyr, had been little more than a dabbler, and the Picker had casually walked into his life and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. A few things you and I have to do to keep our masters from over the seas happy, and they’ll be letting you into a few secrets as the times goes by. They’d lived up to that promise too, and now here he was, perhaps the strongest blood-mage since the Edict of Vishmir and the purges that had followed.
Being ordered about by a thief.
‘Why do they want it?’ he asked suddenly. The Picker had never actually said so, but the spear was quite obviously meant to end up in the hands of the Taiytakei.
‘Why’d you think?’
‘Because it has power.’
‘I expect lots of things has power. I’d say it’s because it commands the dragons.’
‘Old stories aren’t necessarily true ones.’
The Picker shrugged and chewed on his stick of straw. ‘Best kind though, old stories. You have to admire them. It’s like an old soldier. It might not be pretty but it’s got something, something lots of other stories didn’t when they fell by the wayside and got forgotten. It’s got the urge to keep on, to keep going, to keep being said. Gutsy like. And there’s nothing as good as a kernel of truth at the heart to keep a story alive.’
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