The Blind Dragon

by Peter Fane

  The air was cold and smelled of damp and ancient stone. She lay on a slab of rock. Her head, her back, her knees—her whole body—ached horribly. Especially her head. Gingerly, she waved a hand in front of her face. She couldn't see it. The darkness was absolute.

  "Dagger," she whispered into the black.

  Her head throbbed.

  She'd been dreaming. A terrifying, bizarre nightmare. And although the memory of it was already fading, its effect lingered, as if some larval thing from the dream world had clawed through in search of a deeper nesting place, a hollow near the center of her chest where it could hide and grow.

  She blinked at the darkness. White ghost shapes flitted across her vision. The rock slab where she lay was cold and hard against her back, covered by a layer of cool dust. She tried to open her eyes wider, but there was no light.

  She was in some dungeon, some prison somewhere. The blackness was total.

  But no. That wasn't true.

  On the far wall, she could just make out a faint seam of moonlight. A small window, she guessed, shuttered against the night. She took a deep breath, but a knifing pain stabbed through her ribs and stopped her. She groaned.

  She didn't know where she was exactly, or how long she'd been there, or how she'd arrived. But she did know this: Moondagger's presence in her mind was missing.

  She closed her eyes. When she did, she saw them crashing into the trees, heard the crunch of bone, the rip of muscle and tendon.

  Dagger.

  Anna reached out with her mind, not sure what she was doing, but trying all the same, feeling for his presence.

  Nothing. It was like reaching into a gaping, black hole.

  Anna sat up. When she lifted her legs, a chain clinked and she felt the weight of dead iron shackled round her right ankle. She was barefoot. Her armor and weapons were gone, of course. She was wearing only her riding undergear and a few shreds of her armor's padding. Powdery dust caked her feet and palms.

  Chained and imprisoned. And Moondagger was almost certainly dead.

  "But we got you all the same, didn't we?" Anna whispered, the realization dawning. Her mouth was tender as she spoke. From the sound of it, her cell was very small. Her lips were swollen and raw. There was something wrong with one of her front teeth. Chipped, her tongue discovered. Anna smiled in the darkness, her bottom lip splitting open with the grin. The pain felt good, in a way.

  "Because we got you," she breathed carefully.

  "Yes," a man's low voice purred near her in the darkness. "You did, indeed."

  Anna stifled a surprised gasp and turned it into a deep breath instead, calming and readying herself.

  "Who's there?" she asked simply.

  "You've nothing to fear from me, dragon knight," the voice murmured. "But, forgive me. You're not afraid. How could you be? What on this world—what on any world—could scare the dauntless, indomitable Anna Dyer?"

  Anna didn't answer.

  There was a rustle of cloth as the man stood. Footsteps crossed the cell's dusty floor. A shape blocked the crack of light in the wall. The soft click of a window's latch. Then a shutter swung open, bringing with it a flood of moonlight. Anna squinted against the sudden brightness. The moon made a perfect, blue-white square on the cell's flagstones. Motes of ancient dust churned in its glow.

  "I'll leave my lantern hooded, if you don't mind," the man said. "I've always preferred moonlight to fire. 'As the world sleeps,' so the ancient poet says, 'mother moon shines her silver light into dreams and onto dreamers.'"

  "What do you want?" Anna asked.

  "I'm a friend," the man said in a clear, articulate manner. "Or, perhaps more honestly, someone who would be your friend. As the poet says, 'Our days are like the last beams of the moon, a turn away from—.'"

  Anna sighed.

  "Don't care for ancient literature?" the man asked. "No songs or poems of old? You strike me as one who might savor the Kingdom's early ballads. No soaring flights? Heroic duels? Epic victories?"

  "Leave me be," Anna sighed. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. Older.

  "I am Malachi Fel," the man said.

  Anna tensed and nodded. Made sense. Lord Oskor's heir. Come to avenge his father. Her ankle chain clinked in the dust.

  "Please," Lord Malachi continued. "Don't be alarmed, dragon rider. You've nothing to fear."

  She said nothing. She wasn't afraid.

  "I'm not here to harm you, Anna. I'm here to thank you. And I'm here to ask for your help. A small favor, nothing more."

  She didn't respond.

  "I understand." The dark shape nodded at her silence. "But it's true. You're a hero, Anna. Both to your people and, in a sense, to mine. You deserve all of our thanks—."

  "Let me sleep, traitor," Anna said, leaning her head against the wall. "I'm tired."

  "Of course. I ask only a moment. Will you hear me?"

  She shrugged.

  "When you killed my Father, you changed things, Anna. My older brother, Halek, cannot assume title. I am next in line. I thus find myself in a new position, a position from which I hope to do good. In essence, your courage has made me High Lord of House Fel. And in a week's time, if you are willing, your courage will make me High Lord of Dávanor."

  "I'd rather die," she said plainly, wincing at the pain in her side. She touched her ribs. At least two were broken.

  "Truly, your spirit is as fierce as they say."

  "Yeah?" Anna chuckled. "Why not unchain me then? See how 'fierce' my spirit can be?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Bravo." She sighed. "It's not every High Lord who dares face a bound, wounded squire in the middle of the night, chained unarmed to a rock."

  The man laughed. It was a surprisingly comforting sound.

  The cell was still dark, but the square of moonlight lit the cell with a blue-white glow, and Anna's eyes had finally adjusted. Lord Malachi leaned against the far wall, across from the window. He was a young man, Anna saw. No older than twenty. Clean shaven, wearing his dark hair in a short soldier's crop. He was a bit disheveled, but well-groomed. His face was completely covered in grey dust, except for two circles around his eyes that had been protected by his riding goggles. His eyes were striking. Dark, steady, and keenly intelligent—the eyes of a young man accustomed to the pain and joy of command. No doubt about it—this was the young man whose face she had seen in the drawing above the Gorge.

  She inspected him. The general impression he made was that of a seasoned, professional courier who'd just spent several long days on dragon back. He wore a light riding harness of dark green Abúcian leather, dark green riding pants, and dark green riding boots, all well-worn and well-maintained. He was unarmed except for a short, undecorated dagger sheathed and clipped upside down on the bandolier across his chest. A pair of unassuming dragon gauntlets was folded and tucked into his bandolier, as an experienced flier might carry them. A hooded lantern of black iron sat in the dust at his feet. Beside the lantern, leaning point-down against the stone wall, there was an iron poker, like the poker you might use to stoke a fire, but shorter and thicker. Its handle was wrapped in black leather.

  Anna cleared her throat. "What do you want?"

  "As I said, I'm here to thank you. And to ask for your help. I've much to offer."

  "Offer, then, for the Sisters' sake." Anna sighed. "Or let me rest. Or kill me. Or release me. I don't care. You and your traitor clan can rot for all I care. I've done my duty."

  "Indeed." He inclined his head. "And what of your family? Your friends? What of Master Zar? Master Khondus?"

  "They're alive?" She opened her eyes.

  He nodded. "Fyr and Borónd, too. And your family. All here in the High Keep. Safe and sound."

  "My dragon?"

  The question hung there. Her chest twisted with the chance, with the possibility—however impossible.

  Lord Malachi looked at her for a long moment, something strange in his eyes. Then he shook his head. "I'm sorry. He was dead when
they recovered you. Killed on impact. A brave mount. Worthy of song."

  She groaned and the sorrow squeezed her heart with dark claws. She tried to take a breath, but her throat caught. She tried again, doing everything she could to focus herself into calm. And then she realized that something else was missing, too: her old friend—her rage. She wished it would come back. But it didn't. She was just tired. And it had never been her friend at all, she realized. It had been the opposite. A silly, spoiled child taunting her to play with a razor. She'd played. And now Moondagger was dead.

  Death is not defeat.

  Empty words.

  "Thank you for telling me." She swallowed. But she was dizzy and her head was starting to ache, a low pounding. "Where's my family? Where are the Drádonhold's captains?"

  "In the infirmary. Their injuries were grave, but they live. My physicians attend them. Your family is unharmed, for the most part."

  "What happened?" She carefully rubbed her hands together for warmth. "If you want something, let me see them."

  "Of course. But allow me to give you this, first." Lord Malachi reached behind his back and withdrew Master Khondus's dagger. He unsheathed it. In the moonlight, the high silver glowed with ghostly, ancient power.

  "An impressive weapon." He held the blade up to the window, turned the dagger to the moon, white shards of light reflecting against the cell's walls. "Timeless, indestructible, priceless. It will be yours again, if you have the courage to take it."

  Lord Malachi smiled. His teeth were clean and straight. A good-looking young man, Anna realized.

  "I have more to offer. You will hear me?"

  "Speak," she said.

  "First, when you've recovered, I offer you a commission in my scout corps here on Dávanor. Second, if in that post you show the same talent and courage you've so far evidenced, I'll appoint you to Dávanor's cavalry. You will serve me and our world's forces in the High King's war. Third, upon our victory, which should be quite soon—."

  Anna closed her eyes. "You misjudge the tactical situation, I think."

  "The High King's advantage is insurmountable." Malachi shrugged. "In any case, upon our victory, you'll return here to the High Keep and take command of the remaining House Dradón dragons. Fourth, and finally, I will double your family lands and bestow a handsome reward upon you and your clan. I know your people aren't poor, Anna. But my riders and my soldiers are well paid. My top commanders even more so. In sum, your friends will be healed, this high blade will be yours, you'll serve as a flight officer in our world's forces and, upon your homecoming, you'll receive land, title, and coin."

  "And in return?" Anna asked. "You want what?"

  A large crow fluttered outside the cell's window and landed on the sill. For a moment, its wings blocked out the square of moonlight, casting black shadows into the cell. It turned, stepping slowly, cocking its head. Its eyes were glittering jewels. It settled and looked down over the distant lands below. There was something wrong with its right wing. The blue moonlight glimmered black on its glossy feathers.

  "In return," Lord Malachi continued, smoothing an eyebrow, "a small service, nothing more."

  Anna opened her hands, waiting.

  "Word of your deeds has spread, Anna. In the last days, the news has traveled most of Dávanor. The messenger dragons have been busy. On one hand—to my allies and to the allies of my house—you're a dangerous foe whose bravery is both respected and feared." He smiled at Anna's frown. "It's true. Even those who loved my father cannot deny your courage or conviction. On the other hand—to my enemies—you're a hero and a symbol. Lord David had many friends. As does your family. Those friends are loyal to House Dradón and to Lady Abigail. While I hold the High Lady in protective custody here in the High Keep, violence has already broken out between factions across many of our duchy's counties. As we speak, our world runs to the very edge of war. I need your help, Anna—,"

  "Forgive me, my Lord," she cut him off softly. "We're not at the 'edge of war.' We're at war. A war that your house—that your father—started. We should've destroyed you traitors three years ago. But Lord David was merciful, if not just, Great Sisters forgive him. And this war—this war which now rages, this war which you began—is the result."

  "Perhaps." He pursed his lips. "But we have now a chance for peace."

  "No." She sighed tiredly. "There is no 'we,' my Lord. And there is no 'peace.' I serve Lady Abigail Dradón, the High Lady of Dávanor. By extension, I serve her rightful liege, High Lord Bellános Dallanar, the Silver King, the true Lord of Remain. You are Malachi Fel. You are the son of a murderer and a traitor, the lord of a murderous and traitorous house. I'll do nothing for you, your family, or for the Pretender King before whom you grovel. You are the enemy of my house, the enemy of the Kingdom's ruling family, the enemy of the Realm's High Laws, and the enemy of the Kingdom itself. I'd gladly die a hundred times before lifting a finger in service of your thrice-cursed clan."

  In the window, the crow cocked its head and ruffled its feathers.

  "Please, Anna." Malachi raised his hand. There was a note of real concern in his voice, and for a moment, Anna thought she saw the young man's shoulders sag. "More hangs in the balance than you can know. Many lives, from both our high houses, from across the duchy, are at risk. Will you put your hatred for my family above your love of Dávanor? Will you not hear me?"

  "If we're at risk, then it's a risk you created. As Master Borónd says: 'If you dislike the crop, examine the seed.'"

  "Maybe so." He paused. "There is no doubt that my father was ambitious and cruel. But I am not my father, Anna. I inherited this conflict. I did not create it. You inherited this conflict. You did not create it, either. And now we have a chance to put all to rights and start anew for the good of our peoples, our Houses, and our world."

  "You're a usurper, my Lord. Can I be more plain?"

  "I would be your friend, Anna. A friend to both you and your family."

  "At the cost of my word and honor? At the cost of my dragon's faith?" Anna looked him in the eye. "Never."

  Malachi stroked his jaw, then continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "In exchange for land, title, and coin, this is what I want: tomorrow morning, in the High Square, before the High Gate, in front of the inhabitants of the High Keep, you will kneel and swear a public oath of loyalty to me as the High Lord of House Fel."

  Anna sighed. Her body ached. Her head was beginning to pound again.

  Malachi continued: "Then, in one week's time, I shall take Lady Abigail to wife. After that ceremony, you'll once again swear public oath of loyalty to me as the High Lord of Dávanor. Between your own courage and reputation and the courage and reputation of your parents, your words will carry weight. Our enemies will be given pause. Those uncertain of their position will join us, for the sake of good order."

  "I won't do it." Anna rubbed at her temples. "I'll never do it."

  Malachi sighed. He looked at her for a long moment. Then he tucked Master Khondus's blade behind his back, reached down, and took the short, iron poker from its place against the wall. The crow stirred on its perch, turned, and peered into the cell, its black eyes glittering.

  "You will swear," Malachi said softly. He held the poker away from him, as if it repulsed him. "You'll swear or, by the Sisters, you'll serve me in another way."

  "Trying to prove your bravery again?"

  Malachi bowed his head. "I'll not harm you now, Anna. But tomorrow morning, if you don't swear, you'll force me to make an example of you and your family. There's no other way. Your people will suffer. It will not be quick, you understand."

  Anna's stomach knotted, but her gaze didn't falter.

  "You," Malachi said, holding the poker in the square of moonlight, moving it in and out of the crow's shadow, "you will lose your eyes. But only after you've seen your family and friends destroyed. You'll then spend the remainder of your life in this cell, sightless and alone, to be brought forth when my enemies require a reminder of my authorit
y." He looked at her unhappily. "So you see, Anna, you will serve me. One way or another. Would you serve with glory, honor, and wealth? Or with torture, horror, and death?"

  Anna lifted her chin. "To live and die as a loyal soldier of a great Lady and a great House is glory and honor enough. A soldier never forgets her word. My family knows it. My dragon knew it. I know it. Death is not defeat."

  "Fine words." Malachi nodded. "And speaking of which: What of your family? What of their deaths? Your mother? Your sisters? Your friends? Must they be made to suffer, also? My advisors will insist upon it. And they'll be right."

  Anna swallowed. "If I betray my word, then I betray my dragon's memory, my clan, and my High House. My people understand this better than anybody. So take my blood and take your vengeance, my Lord. My oath you'll never have."

  "'Vengeance?'" Malachi's eyebrows shot up. He shook his head. "Oh no, Anna. Not 'vengeance.' I loved my father, to be sure. As much as any highborn son can love his lord and master. But the horrors you suffer tomorrow aren't retributive. Quite the contrary." His voice went quiet, like he was talking to himself. "Better to think of it as a kind of performance, a kind of theatre. You'd be closer to the truth."

  Anna frowned.

  He looked at her. "A show of cruelty can make a powerful memory in an audience, Anna. The memory becomes a scar, and the scar becomes a lesson. When I hurt your friends and family, I won't enjoy it. But I'll do it so that my people can see what happens to those who defy my authority. Likewise, when I take your eyes," he glanced disdainfully at the iron poker he held, "I won't enjoy it. But I'll do it so that my people can see that my power is the one thing—the one thing above all others—that they must fear. The entire display is a simple, calculated path to a simple, calculated end. And that end is 'peace.'"

  Anna looked away. On the window sill, the crow cocked its head.

  "For a handful of viewers," Lord Malachi continued, "your mutilation will make you a martyr, of course. But for the vast majority, your mutilation simply will be feared. Feared. Nothing more. That fear will become a tool, a tool with which I can fashion order and peace for our world. Of course, tomorrow's spectacle will be terrible. But isn't one terrible day preferable to a thousand? Isn't it better for one young soldier to endure such a fate than for an entire world to suffer? Either way, you misunderstand me. It's not 'vengeance,' Anna. It is duty. The duty of statecraft."