by Byron Preiss
Amsel thought about the black coldrake that had pursued him in the warren. Fran its size and intelligence, it could have been the product of such a union, but he did not know if that could be true. Nonetheless, the dragon had once again confirmed his authority with the coldrakes. He had to use it!
Amsel shouted at the dragon, “Man will be murdered unless the coldrakes are stopped. They have killed; they have violated your edict! Would you see us perish as your race has?”
Lowering its head, the dragon looked at Amsel with eyes of sorrow and said, “It is man’s own fault for betraying us.”
Amsel shook his head angrily. “It will be your fault if the coldrakes invade our land. They will vanish there from the summer heat. Then you will have betrayed dragons, man, and the coldrakes. Is that to be the legacy of the dragons?”
“Leave me alone,” said the dragon. “I have suffered more than any.”
“I have suffered as well!” cried Amsel. “I have watched my people go to war for something the coldrakes did, something I still do not understand. If you are responsible for those creatures, you must stop them from going south.”
“My race is gone,” said the dragon. “I am alone. I am no longer responsible.”
“You are responsible!” “You still exist in this world, and the coldrakes still respect your words!”
The dragon covered its head with its paw. “Leave me alone,” it said again. “I wish only to be left in peace.”
“There is no peace,” Amsel shouted. “You cannot live alone! As long as there are other living creatures you must deal with them.” These words were unfamiliar to Amsel, but he had learned their meaning well in the past few weeks. “You must help us,” Amsel insisted. “You must help both mankind and coldrake.” Amsel looked into the dragon’s eye. “If you, the last of the dragons, so noble, so respected, so old, will not help then what hope is there for mankind?”
The dragon raised its head and roared directly at Amsel. “I cannot bear man-scent any longer! Leave me alone! I wish only to be left in peace!”
The force of its breath caused Amsel to stagger backward, but he shouted back at the creature as he regained his footing on the covern floor. “I wished to be left alone, too!” he answered, “but the world found me just the same. We cannot ignore it. It seems to me that there is no hope in this world if we do not live together. I have risked my life to reach you. Please help me . . . help men and women who have done nothing to betray you!”
The dragon sighed. “I can no longer fly, and the flame has gone out within me.”
“You have your wings,” argued Amsel, “and the heat I feel in this room is not from your blood alone.”
“I am imprisoned,” it said.
Amsel smiled. “Then I will find a way to unshackle you.”
“I have tried to do so for ages. There is no way to remove it.” The dragon pulled on the chain to emphasize his words.
“If I can remove it,” said Amsel, “will you help me?”
The dragon was silent, but Amsel saw in its face something that had been hidden only moments ago. In its dark blue eyes there was hope, centuries old and waiting.
Amsel walked quickly toward the dragon’s leg. If the shackle had been closed by man, then there had to be a way for him to open it again.
The shackle was large, so large that Amsel would be able to stand up inside it if the dragon’s leg were removed. As the dragon watched him, the inventor found a large hole within the casing of the lock. It was bigger than his hand, and Amsel assumed it was made for the insertion of a key to open it.
He stepped closer and thrust his hand inside. Probing with his fingers, he discovered a series of tumblers that composed the locking mechanism. He had learned little about locks in his readings and experiments, but there had been a time years ago when a Southland merchant had sold him a box that had a keyhole in it. He had studied the device then, and he knew he would have to apply the information he had learned from it now.
He tugged at the tumbler closest to him and managed to raise it to what was, as nearly as he could determine, its proper height. He then tugged on the next lever, repeating what he had done to the first.
It took time for him to continue this pattern, as the tumblers farthest from him were more difficult to raise. Straining, he stretched his hand as deeply into the lock as he could and pulled the last lever. He pinched his finger as it gave way. He pulled his hand out of the lock and shook it ruefully.
The dragon watched this with a look that resembled amusement, and Amsel softly said, “Move your paw.”
The huge paw flexed; the manacle held for a moment, then broke open with a rusty grating snap. Amsel dusted his hands by slapping them lightly together and smiled proudly at the dragon. “Now,” he said, “I think we will visit the coldrakes.”
* * *
“There!” said Evirae gaily. “We will have that rusty old box moved and I will put our dresser there!”
Mesor shook his head in disapproval. “That box is a rare antique from the days before Monarch Ambalon. Your dresser is far too large to fill the same space. It will block the window, Princess.”
Evirae glared at the Bursar. “Queen!” she said sharply. “You must call me Queen.”
Mesor smiled. “As you wish, my Queen. However, the coronation does not take place until tomorrow.”
“It is a mere formality!” Evirae answered.
“Perhaps, but until the coronation occurs, you possess only limited authority of office. The Family must not think you arrogant.”
Evirae ignored Mesor’s cautionary tone. She cheerfully explored Hawkwind’s private chamber, opening closets and doors, murmuring plans of redecorating, and always keeping an eye out for any further evidence of treason.
What a life it would be, she thought. She would take the reins of government firmly in hand. She would send invitations to the Southland and Bundura to increase trade; she would travel with Kiorte in his windship to distant lands. Faded banners in the streets would be replaced with new and colorful fabrics and the streets of the Simbalese would be works of art! The children would love gracious Queen Evirae, and Kiorte would be their hero. Even Ephrion would respect her, and, she would ask his advice on minor matters of state.
Evirae strolled to the chamber’s only window and looked out at the verdant courtyard below it. She would walk these grounds as Queen. Here she would give birth to a child, a daughter to perpetuate her role in Simbala’s affairs.
“I wish Kiorte were here,” she sighed, facing Mesor, “but he will return for the coronation, will he not?” She tapped her nails on the wall behind her.
Mesor nodded. “If Prince Kiorte’s maneuvers against the invaders succeed, you will have every reason to expect him.”
Evirae, suddenly anxious, said, “Are you hiding something from me, Mesor? Something that I do not know?”
“Certainly not,” replied the Bursar. “Why would I be privy to information that you are not?”
“Do not answer me in questions!” said Evirae. “If you know something, tell me!”
“My Queen, do not be worried!”
Evirae ignored the title and pursued him further. “You expect a high-ranking post within the Circle, don’t you? You may rest assured there will be a place for you in the stables if you do not answer me now!”
So upset was Mesor by this threat that he promptly composed a reply. “There is one concern that I have,” he said nervously, “and that involves the dragons. If Kiorte uses the windships, the dragons may attack again.”
Evirae smiled, relieved. “A single dragon!” she said disdainfully. “The windships are more than a match for a single dragon. If that is what troubles you, then there is no trouble at all. The miner has fled the army to join the Rayan in her escape. Kiorte controls our defense. Dragons or no, the Fandorans will be driven out.”
“Yes,” replied Mesor. “I am sure you are correct, there is no reason to worry.”
Evirae smiled loftily. “I do not
mind,” she said. “It is my duty to concern myself. I am your Queen now, Mesor. Tomorrow’s ceremony of installation is a mere formality, is it not?”
“Of course,” the Bursar replied hastily.
“Do not forget it. I must see to the invitations now.”
Mesor watched as she walked toward the door. He knew the Family was watching Evirae closely. Her title was secure, but their support was not. If Kiorte did not return soon, they might change their minds.
He would make sure to have a fast horse available for himself, if that occurred.
* * *
Hours later, in a dark and private chamber on another level of the palace, Monarch Ephrion rested. He was unaware of the sound of the footsteps in the hallway outside, and it was several minutes before a passing guard entered to inform him of two visitors at his door.
The white-haired statesman sent back word with the guard, bidding the Baroness and Baron to enter. He lit a small lamp near the door, and as Tolchin and Alora stepped into the room and greeted him, Ephrion noticed a nervousness on their part. Although the room was pleasantly cool, Alora was fanning herself repeatedly, and Tolchin viewed the antique furnishings of the room with a pretense of interest. Ephrion knew that their presence had a purpose other than social.
“You seem troubled,” said Ephrion. “Is it Evirae?”
The Baron shook his head. “We have come to explain our actions.”
“There is no need to defend your vote to me,” said Ephrion. “Your reasons were made clear at the meeting.”
Alora was obviously disturbed. “I voted not for Evirae, but to end the war. Hawkwind was not fit to run it.”
“Nor is Evirae,” said Ephrion.
“Of course!” replied Tolchin. “But we all know that Kiorte will be in charge of the army, not Evirae. She had already agreed to that before the meeting had started.”
Alora nodded. “Kiorte will drive the farmers out with windships. No more fighting need occur.”
Ephrion looked at them both and beckoned them to another room within his quarters. He walked to the rosewood desk, above which one large candle sat glowing. In the dim light it cast, Ephrion unrolled the picture of the coldrake.
“Man and windship have been unable to defeat it,” he said. “What makes you think Kiorte will?”
Tolchin examined the picture. “It is terrifying, I agree, but even a dragon is no match for the fleet!”
Alora took the scroll from her husband’s hands and held it to the light. “It does not look like a dragon,” she said softly, “but I have never seen a real dragon as you have, Ephrion.”
“I have never seen a dragon either,” Ephrion responded. “The creature that attacked the palace was a coldrake.”
“A coldrake?”
“A less intelligent creature than the dragons, but related to them nonetheless.”
“I have been reviewing the old legends of the Southland, Tolchin, and I am convinced that it is the coldrakes who are responsible for the war.”
“Impossible!” said Tolchin. “The Fandorans invaded Simbala and brought the creatures with them.”
Ephrion lifted the picture out of Alora’s hands and showed it once again to the Baron. “Tolchin,” he said sternly, “does this look like a creature who can be ordered about by farmers and fishermen?”
“No,” Tolchin admitted, “but what reason could it have for attacking our forests?”
“I do not know,” said Ephrion, “but I have sent Lady Ceria to find out.”
“The Rayan?” asked Tolchin. “You sent the traitor on a mission to aid us? Have you sent Hawkwind, too?”
Ephrion walked toward the velvet couch. “Ceria is not a traitor,” he said, ignoring the reference to Hawkwind. “I have sent her on a mission, and the time grows near when her mission will be in peril. At noon tomorrow, Evirae will be Queen.”
Alora was troubled, for there was much she did not know. “What is it that you have sent Ceria to find?” she asked.
Ephrion sat down on the couch. He knew the time had come to reveal what he had done. Ceria would need the help of the Family if Evirae took office. He had high regard for the Baroness and the Baron, and he would risk the secrets he had learned to engage their help.
He had been unable to do so at the meeting, for Evirae would have sent agents to find Ceria. It was too late for that tactic now. If Ceria had reached the Rayan camp and succeeded in her quest, then she would most likely be returning to the forest now. He had to ensure her safe arrival. For that he would need the help of the Family. Hawkwind had spoken of his respect for Alora, and she had always exercised some measure of control over her husband. There was little time left to ponder his alternatives; he had considered them carefully in the hours since the meeting.
“My concern is not for Evirae, but for Simbala,” Ephrion said quietly. “The coldrakes have never before journeyed into our land, but I am concerned that what we have seen may be only the first of many.”
“Do you mean an invasion of coldrakes?” asked Tolchin.
“I do not know,” Ephrion replied, “but we must protect ourselves.”
* * *
The distant sounds of fighting came across the valley to the Simbalese camp with the first light of dawn. Vora and Kiorte stood staring toward the hills. “Prince Kiorte,” Vora said urgently, “we cannot simply leave a band of Wealdsfolk out there!”
“What else am I to do?” Kiorte demanded. “I take no pleasure in the Wealdsmen’s peril, but they acted without orders. I will not endanger more men and women to rescue them!”
Vora frowned. “Perhaps we would succeed if we aided the Wealdsfolk now! There is little food in those hills. The Fandorans must be hungry and tired. We have been patient.”
“No!” answered Kiorte. “Until the troops return from the Southland, we must not take any chances. The Brothers of the Wind have been ordered to the valley. The entire fleet will drive back the Fandorans.”
Before Vora could reply, there was a distant, rumbling sound in the forest behind them. Lookouts rushed from their posts as the cries of other men were heard.
“Lathan!” shouted Vora. “Ride yonder to find out what has happened!”
The aide, standing nearby, ran to his horse and mounted it.
For a moment Kiorte ignored the confusion and glanced west at the foot of the hills. “I can see nothing of the Wealdsmen in that fog,” he said. “Perhaps they have found a way to retreat.”
Vora looked out into the mists, but did not reply. He had suddenly determined what the sound was behind them. He had hoped, he had dreamed, that this moment would arrive. Now, as Kiorte stood unaware beside him, he knew it had.
Hawkwind was returning!
* * *
“Hawkwind is coming!” The shout went up from a loyal contingent near Vora’s tent, and was instantly overheard by Prince Kiorte. Facing Vora, he said, “You knew of this! You have conspired with Hawkwind against the Family!”
“Don’t be a fool!” Vora responded. “I have defended Hawkwind against Evirae.”
“To defend a traitor is treason itself! I can have you arrested for—”
Kiorte suddenly looked up. There was a colorful explosion of birds from the canopy of trees. Then a hawk soared into view, circling the Simbalese camp and screeching triumphantly. The cry was echoed by blasts from a dozen horns.
“He has found them!” said Vora. “He has found the missing troops!”
From the forest issued a vast procession. Rank after rank of mounted soldiers rode forth, their surcoats and jambs gleaming. War chargers, caparisoned in brilliant tanselcloth, entered the clearing proudly. Behind the first wave of cavalry came the crossbowmen, some riding two to a horse, for there had been no time for a foot march. Grooms and supply handlers had been ordered to unload packhorses and ride them.
They continued to arrive, bright waves breaking from the wooded depths. The beleaguered soldiers sent up a cheer for the miner and his lady, riding in the vanguard. General Vora brok
e away from Kiorte and hurried toward Hawkwind and Ceria. He noticed the black pouch at the Rayan’s side, with a large bulge in it. He wondered anxiously if they had found the Dragonpearl.
As he neared them, Vora called out, “There is trouble, Hawkwind! Kiorte has taken over the troops!”
To Vora’s surprise, Hawkwind responded calmly. “Deal with those behind us,” he said. “They have ridden for nearly a day without food or rest. I will see Kiorte.”
He passed Vora quickly and proceeded toward the Prince. Ceria rode wearily behind him, acknowledging Vora as the General continued toward a captain of the troops from the Southland. Hawkwind dismounted, and he approached Kiorte outside Vora’s tent. “I have brought the troops,” he said, “and Ceria has discovered evidence of the true roles of both the dragon and the Fandoran spy. I must explain it to you.”
Kiorte glared at him in controlled anger. “You are under arrest,” he answered, “for the betrayal of the Simbalese army and support of a proven traitor.” He clasped a gloved hand around Hawkwind’s wrist. “If only Thalen were alive to see you charged,” he added, his voice heavy with emotion.
Hawkwind twisted his wrist sharply, breaking the Prince’s grip. “I have returned with the soldiers we need to drive the Fandorans from our shores!” he said curtly. “You have no right—”
“I have every right to arrest you!” Kiorte shouted in return. “You deserted our army!” He turned to a guard and said, “Take him!”
Hawkwind stepped back. “You will not arrest me!” he warned. “I am still Monarch of Simbala!”
“You are no longer Monarch,” Kiorte told him grimly. “Evirae is Queen.” The guard waited, not knowing what to do.
“Then the Family has voted,” Hawkwind said. “Evirae acts quickly when her own plans are involved. Has the coronation taken place?”
“It will occur this afternoon, but it is a formality only. Evirae is Queen.”
“It is unlike you to belittle the traditions of our land, Kiorte. Until Evirae wears the Ruby, I am still Monarch. That is Simbalese law.”
“Tell me not about our ways, Hawkwind. You have fought them and the Family ever since you entered the palace! Under mandate from the Royal Family of Simbala, I demand your surrender!”
