Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  “Rumors say that she is more than adviser to him.”

  “I have heard. If this is true, then she is certainly in a position to see her whispered suggestions become laws. I need not tell you what those suggestions are like!”

  “I know,” said Thalen, placing his cup back on a shelf.

  “You should! I’ve spoken of it in tones of dread often enough. If Hawkwind listens to her, we might very well have women in the Brothers of the Wind. It is an insufferable notion! No woman is strong enough or quick enough to sail a windship!”

  His brother held up a hand, as though to stem a familiar tide. “Nevertheless,” he said, “you must be careful how you air your views, for everyone knows how much Evirae desires the Ruby.”

  “It is not Evirae that I worry about. I worry about Simbala. I see the appointment of this miner’s son, for all his good intentions, as a turning away from the regime. I know many of our people feel this way, too. He is not fully trusted yet. He may never be. If a real crisis arises, they will turn on him quickly.” Kiorte straightened the collar of his uniform.

  “It is an occupational hazard of monarchs,” Thalen said, wiping dust from his brother’s hat.

  “True. But though Monarchs come and go, the Royal Family of Simbala has continued. That is what worries me, Thalen—that the Royal Family may not continue.”

  VIII

  The voyage across the Strait of Balomar had become a nightmare. Sailing had never been more than a hobby to Amsel, and he regretted that now. He had hoped that the crossing would take only a day, even tacking against the winds, and he had taken only a few provisions from the cave where the boat had been stored.

  His ignorance of the strait’s conditions had undone him. He had encountered relatively calm water at first, but then, as he approached the center of the strait, where the waters of two great seas met and clashed, he realized just what folly he was attempting. Driven by wind and opposing currents, the waves clashed in every conceivable pattern. He had been swept into them before he fully realized the danger, and it was only the lightness of his small craft that had kept him from being capsized.

  The small boat was tossed and spun about on the foaming sea, and Amsel was soon too seasick to do more than hang on helplessly. At first he traveled in circles; then he was seized by a strong current that pulled him northward, out of the worst of the strait’s turbulent center. He was soon carried into calmer water, but he was also being pulled rapidly north. At first he tried to battle the current, but he was exhausted from the heavy waves, and he soon realized that the current was taking him far north of where he wanted to land. For the rest of the day and through the long night, he drifted, helpless in the current’s grasp. As the sun set at the end of his second night at sea, it became clear that he was not going to be able to land at the northern end of Simbala—a strong wind was now offsetting the current’s shoreward pull. In the evening light, Amsel could barely make out a few people on the distant beach; he waved, but received no response.

  The northwesterly wind grew stronger. Amsel realized with a feeling of helpless terror that he was being blown out into the North Sea, known in legends as Dragonsea. It was not until late that night that the wind softened and the current dissipated in the open waters. In the calm he at last fell into an exhausted sleep.

  When he awoke the next morning, the sky was overcast—there was no sun to give him an idea of the direction of the land. Not that it mattered much, because the air was now perfectly still. The sail lay limply against the mast.

  He allowed himself a few sips of water and a mouthful of cheese. The fact that his countrymen were preparing to attack another country in a suicidal war while he floated helplessly adrift was maddening, but he sternly counseled himself not to waste energy reflecting upon it.

  His musing was cut short by a strange sound—for a moment it sounded like the beating of distant breakers, and his heart leaped. Then he realized that the sound came from above him. Amsel stared overhead. In the gray clouds overhead it seemed, for an instant, that he could discern a strange, regular movement, like the motion of a bird’s wings; but what bird, so high as to be concealed by the clouds, would be that large?

  He listened intently, but the sound was gone. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes—the glimpse of movement was gone too. All was still. Amsel shook his head. “Hallucinations already—a bad sign,” he murmured.

  It took until midmorning for the overcast to burn away. This, Amsel told himself, was both good and bad—he could cast his course by the sun now, but he also had its heat to contend with. It reflected from the glassy surface of the sea, dazzling and enervating him with its light and heat. He was already quite hungry and thirsty again, but he realized that he would have to be stern with his rations. It might well take him days to reach land.

  There was a single oar under the seat. He took this and began to paddle slowly and laboriously toward the southeast.

  * * *

  Noon in Overwood was a time of green-golden light and drowsy, humid warmth. On the Avenue of the Vendors, open-air market stalls stood side by side. Here could be purchased dried fruits and foods from the Southlands. A few stands boasted fresh vegetables and fruits, chicken and fish, but most of the food came by small wagons from the Northweald, and by caravan form the south. On this avenue could be found bolts of tapestry and damask, gossamer veils of spidersilk, precious carved jewels and wood—the products of a country of artisans. The length of the colonnade was being decorated with lanterns in which various oils and resins burned, hung from a complicated latticework, producing bright flames of different colors and scents that discouraged insects.

  Everywhere people were gathering, waiting for the procession to begin. Rayan entertainers from the south juggled brightly painted gourds or played mandolins and flutes to earn tookas, the jeweled currency of Simbala. Miners sat wearily beneath trees; soldiers and commonfolk lined the streets. A sculptor was working feverishly on the trunk of a tree, trying to put the finishing touches to his sculpture of Lanoth, the Windrider who had used his ship to divert an avalanche and save a mine ten years before.

  The air was full of the smells of baking pastries and the sounds of music, laughter, and conversation.

  Two young miners sat in an open-air tavern. One of them, his mud-caked boots propped on the next bench (much to the distress of the proprietor), said to his companion, “It’s not fair. Hawkwind was a miner, just like us, and now he’s Monarch of Simbala.”

  “So you think it could happen to you?” the other miner, a woman, asked.

  “I’m not saying that. Just saying I thought for a while that we had a friend, that the conditions in the mines would improve. But they haven’t. The lower shafts are still flooded, and everything’s damp in the Sindril caverns. Every time we swing a pick there, we chance setting fire to a lode.”

  “Even a Monarch can’t control the weather,” she replied. “The timbers and braces have been mostly replaced, and they’re digging sluiceways for drainage. I think Hawkwind’s doing a fine job.”

  “He was a miner,” the other insisted.

  “You won’t be happy until you get to mine in a silk robe with a jeweled pickax,” she said with fine sarcasm. He scowled at her and looked away.

  At a stall, a young woman picked over various fruits while conversing with the vendor, also a woman. “It’s the first time a woman has ever been made a Minister of the Interior,” the customer said, “and I don’t know that I like it. Some jobs ought to be left to men, says I. Not only that, but to appoint a Rayan woman . . .” She shuddered.

  “It doesn’t seem like a bad thing to me,” the vendor said. “At least it was a decision,” and she looked pointedly at the melons the other held in her hands.

  Two little children were playing in the shadow of a stone fountain. One, a boy of twelve, had pinned a scrap of cloth around his neck in the manner of a cloak, and held in one hand a wooden hawk, carved wings spread. “I’m Monarch Hawkwind!” he cried. “And my eagle see
s whatever evil you do!”

  “He doesn’t have an eagle,” the second boy corrected. “He has a hawk.”

  “It is so an eagle!”

  “Well, if it’s an eagle, why don’t they call him Eaglewind?”

  The first boy was unable to counter this logic. “They can call him whatever he likes,” he said. “He’s a miner like my father.”

  The crowds gathered as the time of the procession grew near. Stories and opinions were exchanged, but all agreed on one thing: it would be a memorable occasion. On that point they were more prophetic than they knew.

  * * *

  The sounds of the gaiety came faintly to the ears of a lone traveler, deep in the woods to the north. He moved quickly and silently between the trees, avoiding crackling underbrush and open spaces with the unconsciousness of habit. His evident knowledge of the woods, and the green and brown of his clothes, together with the great bow and quiver of arrows he carried, marked him as a hunter of the Northweald. His name was Willen. He was a handsome man, with long blond hair and a high forehead. Laughter and sport came easily to him on an ordinary day, but this was no ordinary day. His usually smiling face was set in hard lines. The turn of weather and the beauty of the forest were lost on him. Strapped to his belt was a small pouch. Occasionally his left hand would cup and caress it, then tighten into a fist.

  He listened to the sounds of the distant city. Let them laugh and enjoy themselves while they can, he thought. They will have little reason for rejoicing after I have spoken my piece! The Royal Family has looked down on us for centuries, but when the Overwood has need for food, we are never pariahs. So be it; our people have not complained. We have no need for the pretensions of windships or palaces. The Northweald can take care of itself. But what happened yesterday was beyond such squabbles. Now we shall demand what is due us as rightful citizens of Simbala.

  Lady Graydawn had told him of the procession. She did not intend to be there, but Willen did. What better time, after all, to present what had happened to Monarch Hawkwind?

  He was nervous—he rehearsed his speech mentally, over and over. He had been to Overwood only once before in his life, as a small child, and he retained only a confused memory of sweeping marble-and-wood buildings encrusted with jewels, of people dressed in fine sparkling clothes, and of the giant tree castles. It had been beautiful, but he had never felt a desire to live there. His home was the Northweald—the steep wooded hills and valleys cut by icy streams, the scent of pines, the sound of the wind through meadows filled with crackleflowers. Better the smallest log cabin of Northweald than the finest palace of Overwood. It was his home, and he did not intend to let an attack on it go unrevenged.

  His hand once again sought the pouch by his side; this time he opened it and withdrew several fragments of jagged brightly colored shells. He held them tenderly, looking at them until tears made the colors swirl and run in his vision. These fragments had been clutched in the fingers of little Kia when his son had found her crushed and broken on the beach. She had been missing for weeks—search parties had combed the area but had not found her. Only by accident had Willen’s son, exploring a remote part of the beach, discovered what was left of the girl’s body. She had evidently been collecting seashells when the Fandoran barbarians had attacked her. Nearby, his son had found more of the shells, shattered on the rocks—the remnants, no doubt, of some large mollusk cast up from the sea.

  Of course, it had been the Fandorans that had attacked her. Who else could it have been? Certainly there were no creatures living in the barren lands near the sea. Nor was there any reason in the world for the Southland or Bundra to attack them. Simbala lived peacefully with its neighbors.

  Last night, however, a small Fandoran fishing boat had been sighted in the fog of the strait, far offshore. Willen returned the shells to his pouch. The Fandorans were barbarians—that much had always been known. Now it was evident that they were murderers, too. Kia had not been his daughter, but he had known her and loved her like his own. It could as easily have been his own son killed.

  The Fandorans could not be allowed to go unpunished. He would seek the help of the people of Overwood. Despite their differences with the Northweald, surely they would help.

  Before him was a low stone wall on the edge of Overwood. Willen vaulted it with a leap and hurried down the path. The sounds of merriment were very close now.

  * * *

  From the broad steps of the huge tree containing the palace, along the sweeping road known as Monarch’s March, the Royal Family began its procession to the Dais of Beron. People lining the street joined the march cheerfully as the Family passed by, and in a few moments it seemed that virtually the entire city had joined the casual parade.

  In the forefront walked Hawkwind and Ephrion, with General Vora and Ceria. The latter glanced over her shoulder at the huge, happy throng behind them, then looked at Hawkwind and laughed. “This threatens to grow out of hand!”

  “Listen to them, Hawkwind,” Ephrion added, speaking as loudly as he could to be heard over the sound of music and singing. “So much for those who say you are not well-liked!”

  “If you say so, Monarch Ephrion,” said Hawkwind, but the General, on his other side, responded, “On the first sunny day after a week of rain, I would join a parade even if a dragon were leading it!”

  Behind them, loosely arrayed, walked the rest of the Royal Family: the Lady Eselle and General-Emeritus Jibron were in the forefront. Eselle, younger sister of Ephrion and mother of Princess Evirae, was resplendent in a gown of lace and gold lamé, her beauty tempered by age but still considerable. She spoke in a penetrating whisper to her husband, Jibron. “Notice how Hawkwind and Ceria laugh and speak together so casually,” she said. “I am sure they discuss more than matters of state, dear. Is it not entrancing?”

  “ ‘Scandalous’ is more the word!” General-Emeritus Jibron snorted. He was a tall man, gray-haired but unbent, in better physical condition, in his opinion, than many of the Simbalese soldiers young enough to be his sons. “This is yet another sign of the laxness of the current regime,” he told his wife. “It is a comedy—the Monarch and his chief adviser are commonfolk, and like as not lovers; the General, my successor, is a fat disgrace with only the barest lineal claim to the Family, and the previous Monarch is senile. There is more theater here than in the halls of the Southland.”

  “Do not speak that way of Ephrion,” Eselle said in a tone distinctly cool. Jibron glanced at his wife, on the verge of saying something else, but he remembered that Ephrion was her brother and thought better of his words.

  Behind them walked the subject of the occasion, Prince Kiorte, obviously uncomfortable in his dress uniform. Hastily cleaned and brushed, it still showed signs of the rescue he had performed in the midst of preparations for the ceremony—the silver braid on his right shoulder was stained with pine sap, and one of his pockets was torn. The pride he projected, however, kept even the closest of friends from passing comment on it.

  Besides Kiorte walked a young woman, tall and quite beautiful—taller even than her husband by virtue of her hair, which was piled in a great cone atop her head. The sunset-colored tresses were woven with strings of jewels and pearls. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes were the green of the surrounding forest. A slightly petulant cast to her mouth gave her an adolescent beauty that many Simbalese men found entrancing. Her nails were almost as long as her fingers, and each one was painted a different color. She stared straight ahead as she walked, smiling briefly to either side as people called either her name or Kiorte’s. She was Evirae, Princess of Simbala, wife of Kiorte.

  She slowed her step and dropped back a pace, until she walked abreast of a young brown-haired man who wore the uniform of a palace functionary. He did not look at her as he spoke. “Smile, milady,” he said softly and with a trace of cynicism. “This is a happy occasion. Your husband is being installed as the rightful head of the Brothers of the Wind. Are you not delighted?”


  “Of course I am, Mesor.” She smiled brilliantly, waving to the onlookers. “It is simply hard to enjoy the fact when the commendation is being given by a Monarch from the mines.”

  Kiorte glanced back at his wife and her adviser but said nothing. Evirae drew in her breath. “Did he hear us?”

  “Not at all,” Mesor said. “It is simply bad form for you not to walk by his side for more than a few moments. You know Prince Kiorte’s respect for form. Did you wish to ask me something?”

  She sighed. “No. Not really. I merely had to express my resentment at following them.” The last word was almost a hiss, and accompanied by an emotional look at Hawkwind and Ceria.

  “Yet follow you must—at least for the time being.”

  Evirae looked at Mesor and smiled. “You are subtle.” The smile left her face. “I fear I am not so subtle. You have heard what they say about me—the people?”

  “The people always talk,” Mesor said cautiously.

  “A saying of late: anyone possessed with an overriding desire is said to want it ‘like Evirae wants the Ruby.’ ” She paused. “Am I too blatant, Mesor?”

  “How could one describe the rightful heir as blatant?” Mesor countered. “But . . . it might be politic not to voice your resentment so openly. Sooner or later, the miner and the gypsy girl will prove themselves unfit for office. They are, after all, not of the blood. Your day will come, Princess Evirae. I am sure of it.”

  “Yes . . .” Evirae said. “But we must help.”

  “I always have your best interests in mind, milady. Return now to your husband. This is not the time to start another rumor of your discontent.”

  Evirae nodded and stepped forward. Mesor watched her and smiled. Behind him walked Baron Tolchin and Baroness Alora, the head of the Merchants’ Guild and the head of the Bursars of Simbala, respectively. They were both short, round folk, looking a great deal alike, as couples married long sometimes tend to do. The only major difference was the flowing white beard Baron Tolchin wore. They were both dressed in clothes of silk and ermine, despite the heat of the day. They strolled rather than marched, conversing amiably with each other in a singsong timbre common to the merchants of Simbala.