Master of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  Rosa poured hot water from the kettle to a bowl and carried it over to the child. She cleaned out the wound and then combed the long dark hair and plaited it in two tight, neat braids. The child continued to sleep.

  Anton cut up bread and meat for their supper and washed it down with ale.

  “You look worn out,” he said to his wife. “Why don’t you go to your bed? I’ll sit up with the girl.”

  “I was tired, but I’ve got my second wind.” Rosa smiled at him. “You’re the one who looks dead on his feet.”

  Anton glanced at the open window, lowered his voice. “What have you heard about how it happened?”

  “ ‘Magic gone awry,’ the Blessed are saying. If so, that’s not all that went awry,” Rosa said softly. “Dimitri the Butcher was helping me with the wounded.” She paled. “Some of them . . . some of the limbs were crushed and could not be saved. He brought his big knife—” She swallowed and put her hand to her mouth.

  Anton fetched her a mug of ale and, after a gulp, she was able to go on. “Dimitri has a shop on Gate Street and before he left, he saw a battle between the monks and one of their own. This monk was crazed, seemingly. He used his magic to topple a building near the wall. This all happened right after the explosion. What is even stranger is that this monk had a young woman with him, apparently helping him! The Blessed are not talking about that, mind you.”

  “Do they think this lunatic caused the explosion that brought down the other buildings?”

  “That’s what everyone is saying, and the Blessed are not denying it.”

  “I trust they caught him.”

  “That is the truly strange part.” Rosa dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. “The crazed monk was not so crazed but that he found the Hidden Gate and escaped! And the girl with him! Dimitri saw it with his own two eyes.”

  Anton frowned and shook his head. “That’s impossible. The dragon would never permit it.”

  “I thought so, too. But then something else happened. While Dimitri was talking to me, the monks came for him.”

  Anton glanced at her sharply.

  Rosa gave a nod and emphasized the nod with a jab of her finger. “I saw that with my own two eyes, Husband. The Blessed told Dimitri they had work for him to do, but what work could have been more important than what we were already doing—helping the injured? I think they took him away because they didn’t like what he was saying—”

  “Where am I?” came a voice.

  Rosa and Anton both jumped. Rising from the table, they hastened to the back part of the house. The girl was sitting up in the bed.

  “You are in our home, child,” said Rosa, her voice softening. “I am Rosa and this is Anton.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and rested her hand on the girl’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

  “My head hurts,” the girl replied. She had a grave and solemn face; large, dark eyes that were clear and bright and bold. She was not shy around strangers, seemingly.

  “What is your name, child?”

  “Dracon—” the girl began, then stopped.

  “Drake?” Rosa questioned, not certain she’d heard right.

  “Draca,” the girl corrected. “With an ‘a.’ I was named for my father. His name was ‘Drake.’ My parents were devoted to the dragon,” she added, seeming to feel the need for explanation.

  Anton and Rosa exchanged glances.

  “Where are your parents, Draca?” Rosa asked. “They must be worried about you. Anton will run fetch them and bring them here.”

  “My parents are both dead,” Draca said in matter-of-fact tones. “They died when I was little.”

  “The Abbey orphanage then. The holy sisters—”

  At this, the girl threw off the blanket and started to climb out of bed. “You’ve been very kind. I don’t want to be any trouble. I’ll be going—”

  She went very pale and her eyelids fluttered. Swaying on her feet, she put her hand to her head. “I feel sick.”

  “Lie down, Draca,” Rosa insisted, alarmed. She rested her hands on the girl’s shoulders and eased her, unresisting, back on to the bed. “I know you’re afraid, but we won’t tell anyone you are here. We promise. Don’t we, Anton?”

  He nodded, to assure her.

  “We understand, you see,” Rosa added, smoothing back the hair from the girl’s face.

  The girl regarded them both with a suspicious, wary expression, her eyes darting from one to the other. “What do you understand?”

  “We know—or guess—what you are.”

  “You do?” Draca was astonished.

  “That you are a runaway,” said Rosa gently. “We won’t make you go back. Not until you’re ready.”

  “Runaway,” Draca repeated. She sighed and sank down into the pillow. “My head hurts . . . Can you tell me what happened? I don’t remember.”

  “Memory loss is not unusual with a head wound,” Rosa said softly, to her husband. “Tell her what you found.”

  “There was an explosion. You were lying in the wreckage of an abandoned house,” Anton explained. “The whole building had collapsed—the roof, the walls, everything. You should have been killed. But you weren’t. You just got a bump on the head. When the beams fell down, they fell around you. Not on top of you.”

  Draca stared at him, unblinking. “That was lucky.”

  “More than luck.” Anton smiled. “You used your magic to shield yourself from death. The ‘blood bane.’ “

  “We know about the ‘blood bane,’ “ Rosa added. “Our daughter was one of the Blessed. She was quite strong in it.” Her voice softened. “And we know that sometimes it can be hard for young girls to deal with such power. We know that sometimes they run away—”

  Draca lowered her gaze in confusion. Her hands plucked nervously at the blanket. “Please! Don’t tell the monks—”

  “We won’t, dear, we won’t. Now lie back and rest.”

  Draca nestled down among the blankets. She closed her eyes, and was soon breathing deeply and evenly.

  The two stood gazing down on her.

  “It’s good to have a young one to care for again,” said Rosa with a tremulous smile. She reached out to take hold of her husband’s hand.

  “We can’t keep her indefinitely,” Anton said, drawing his wife near. “Someone will be sure to find out, and then the monks will be coming for us.”

  “I know,” Rosa said with a sigh. “Just a day or two. That’s all. No one will miss her in the confusion.”

  “Now you should go to bed,” said her husband.

  “Not yet.” Rosa pulled the stool on which she sat when she was weaving over to the side of the bed. “I’ll stay up with her a bit. She might wake again and be frightened.”

  Her husband kissed her on the top of her head. “You’re a good woman, Wife.”

  Rosa smiled, pleased. She drew the blanket around the girl’s thin shoulders and tucked it in. Taking up some mending, she rested her back against the wall and began to hum a lullaby she had sung for their daughter.

  Lulla, lulla, lulla, lullaby.

  My sweet little baby, what meanest thou to cry?

  Lying in their bed, Anton realized he had not heard his wife sing in a long, long time. His eyes filled with tears.

  5

  WHEN GRALD ARRIVED AT THE ABBEY, VEN WAS CONSCIOUS AND alert, though he pretended not to be. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, stirring only when he heard his father’s rough voice.

  “How are you feeling, Dragon’s Son?” Grald asked.

  Ven did not answer immediately. Opening his eyes, he stared around the room, as though disoriented and confused. At last, he shifted his gaze to Grald, to the dragon, his father.

  “Well enough.” Ven made an effort to pull himself to a sitting position.

  “Do not move, Dragon’s Son,” one of the monks warned, and laid a restraining hand on Ven’s shoulder.

  Ven flashed the monk a look, and the man hastily drew back his hand.

  “The
monk is right. You should not be moving,” Grald said solicitously. “We must take care of that body of yours.”

  A strange way to put it, Ven thought, but he let it go. He had more urgent matters to consider than his dragon father’s odd choice of words. He could hear the dragon Grald sniffing around outside the cavern of his son’s mind; trying, as always, to find a way inside.

  Ven stood in the center, wrapped in the blazing whiteness that had no color.

  Thwarted in his efforts to pry apart Ven’s mind, Grald was forced to ask for information. “What happened to you, Dragon’s Son? Who stabbed you? Was it your brother?”

  Ven’s lip curled slightly. “As if Marcus had the guts! The girl. Evelina. She stabbed me. When I went to meet with my brother, she followed me—”

  “If you had not slain the monk who was given to you as guardian, that would not have happened,” Grald interrupted. His heavy head lurched near, the hulking body crowded close, trying to use his bulk to intimidate.

  Ven did not flinch away. He looked the dragon in its human eyes.

  “Guardian!” He started to laugh, then grimaced in pain. He shifted slightly. The monks had wrapped cloth bandages around his ribs, and they constricted his breathing. “The monk was a spy. Your spy on me.”

  “If he was, what did you have to hide that you needed to kill him?”

  Ven was silent a moment, then said quietly, “He was an annoyance. A nuisance. Mad as a rabid skunk. I didn’t like him. That was why I killed him.”

  Far from being put out, Grald seemed to find this amusing. He gave a low chuckle and, dragging up a chair, settled himself at Ven’s bedside.

  “I don’t like any of them,” Ven continued, casting a venomous glance at the monk hovering near him. “If they want to live, they’ll stay away from me.”

  Grald jerked his thumb and the monk left gratefully, hastening from the room. Grald looked back at Ven and his amusement evaporated.

  “You sneaked off” to meet your brother alone. That was stupid, as you found out. You should have been patient. I would have arranged a meeting between the two of you.”

  Ven stared out the window. The sun was setting, pale yellow against pale blue, its colors muted as though it were trying to slip way without anyone noticing. “Marcus is my twin brother. A twin brother I never knew I had. I wanted to meet him alone. I had things to say to him in private.”

  “You wanted to warn him, you mean,” said Grald. “Warn him that I was going to slay him. Help him flee.”

  “I told you where to find him,” Ven retorted. “You could have come to claim him. It’s not my fault you didn’t.”

  “I was dealing with other matters,” Grald muttered.

  “Such as Draconas?” Ven asked.

  “What do you know of Draconas?” Grald demanded, his eyes narrowing so that they almost disappeared in the shadow of the heavy brow.

  “I know that he was here in the city. I know that he saved Marcus from your assassins. I know that he was using Marcus as bait to catch you,” Ven remarked coolly. “All very interesting, considering that you were using Marcus as bait to catch Draconas. What happened, Grald? Did you all end up catching each other? Is that why you blew up the city?”

  The human Grald regarded Ven in grim silence. The dragon Grald, lurking outside the cave of Ven’s mind, struck at him in anger and frustration. Ven stood in the white center of his mind, safe, unassailable.

  “So why did you blow up the city, Grald?” Ven asked. “And where is my brother? Where is Evelina? I wouldn’t mind seeing her again.” He pressed his hand over his wound. “I owe her for this.”

  “You can contact your brother mind-to-mind,” Grald said suddenly. “You have that power, the same as dragons. Ask him yourself where he is.”

  “I don’t think my dear brother will be eager to open his mind to me,” Ven said dryly. “Not after what happened between us. What’s wrong, Grald? Have you lost the prince?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” Grald returned, somewhat belatedly. “And this time I want answers. What happened when you met with your brother? What did he do? What did he say?”

  Ven shrugged and lay back on the pillow. “I met with Marcus. He was repulsed by the very sight of me. He loathed me from the start—a feeling that is mutual, by the way. He is what you might expect—a spoiled, pampered, royal darling. I could tell that he wanted to be rid of me, but he had to keep me around, of course, so that you could walk into the trap he and Draconas had set for you. Then Evelina showed up. She hid outside the door, eavesdropping on us, until she heard me refer to Marcus as a prince, then the mercenary little bitch nearly knocked the door down to throw herself into his arms.

  “She told him what a beast I was—how I killed her father and tried to rape her. My brother believed her, of course. To give him credit, he didn’t intend for her to stab me. Marcus is soft and weak. He doesn’t have the balls for that sort of thing. Killing me was all Evelina’s idea. She flung herself on me like a wildcat. The last thing I remember was her driving her knife into my chest.”

  “A knife you gave her,” Grald observed.

  “That was my mistake and I paid for it.”

  “And what happened then, Dragon’s Son?”

  “You tell me, Dragon Father. I heard an explosion. The next thing I knew, I woke up to find myself lying in a pool of my own blood underneath a house. Marcus and Evelina were gone. Outside, everything was in chaos, with people yelling and screaming and digging bodies out of the rubble. No one was interested in me, so I crawled out of the wreckage and came back here. I must have passed out again, because the next I know, one of your lunatic monks is bending over me, babbling at me.

  “I’ve answered your questions, Father. Now you can answer mine. Where is my brother? Where is Evelina? Were they killed in the explosion? And where is Draconas? I think I have a right to know—considering that all three want me dead.”

  Grald was silent. Ven guessed the dragon was trying to decide how much to reveal, how much to keep to himself.

  “You have nothing to fear from any of them, Dragon’s Son,” Grald said at last. “You are right about your brother. The king’s son is soft and weak and gullible. He is running back to the arms of his papa, and I will let him run. He has the girl with him. Soon”— Grald’s lips twisted in what passed with him for a smile—”you will have your revenge on both of them.”

  “Good,” Ven said, though he wondered what that meant. He waited, hoping Grald would fill in the details.

  “As for any harm that might come to you,” Grald continued, “the monks will protect you—if you let them.”

  Ven scowled and shook his head.

  “Meanwhile, you must rest, return to health. When you are stronger, I will tell you everything you need to know.”

  The dragon departed. He sent the monk back in.

  Ven ordered the monk back out, telling him to shut the door and leave him alone. The monk did as the dragon’s son commanded. He didn’t go far, however. Ven heard shuffling feet outside his door—two monks taking up their positions. At least two.

  Ven lay back down, exhausted by the mental struggle; as drained as if he and the dragon had battled physically—an unpleasant thought that gave him pause. Someday, if he was to fulfill his oath and avenge his mother, he would have to battle the dragon, a fight that would be both physical and mental.

  Ven had no idea how this was to be accomplished. He was not ready for such a battle. He knew enough about the dragon-magic to defend himself against Grald, but that was all. Ven thought back to the time when Draconas had offered to teach him about the magic. The child, Ven, had refused. He didn’t want the dragon-magic that was part of him, as he didn’t want the dragon legs, the dragon claws, the dragon-blood.

  He still didn’t want it, any of it. The monks regarded him with supposed reverence, but he could see the fear and loathing in their eyes. The same fear and loathing that he’d seen, briefly, in Marcus’s eyes. The same that he saw, always, in Evelin
a’s eyes.

  Much as they loathed him, they could not loathe him as much as he loathed the dragon part of himself. He had to overcome that. The man, Ven, felt differently than the child. He had to learn how to use the magic. He would need it to destroy Grald.

  One thing Ven had learned or at least guessed from his mental battle with Grald.

  The dragon had no idea what had become of Draconas.

  6

  THIS WAS ONLY THE SECOND SESSION OF THE PARLIAMENT OF Dragons the young female, Lysira, had ever attended. Anora’s urgent summons to convene Parliament had come unexpectedly. Given the current crisis, the unexpected was only to be expected, or so Lysira concluded.

  She was pleased at the prospect of the meeting—not so much because of the meeting itself, although she found those fascinating. She was pleased because this meant she would have another chance to see the Walker, Draconas. If Lysira had been a human female, her heart would have fluttered at the thought. Being dragon, Lysira’s heart thudded calmly. Her dreams trembled.

  Dragons prefer to live their lives in isolation, free to dream their dreams alone and undisturbed. They come together to mate and raise their young, and that only grudgingly, for neither much enjoys the physical process of mating, and both are glad to have it done and over with as swiftly as possible. For dragons, love is the mating of two minds, not two bodies; the blending of two wondrous dreams, the merging of fantastic colors and delightful images. The true mating ritual takes place in the minds of the pair and may go on for years, as they work together to build the nest that will house their young and create the elaborate labyrinthine illusions that baffle intruders and keep the young safe from harm until they are old enough to dream their own dreams.

  Lysira had been enchanted by the images she saw in Draconas’s mind—so different from those of other dragons. His view of the world was different, for he saw it at ground level. He saw the world walking. He walked with those strange creatures—humans. He spoke to them, touched them, had even learned to think like them. The minds of other dragons were like her own, filled with colors that were lovely, tranquil, serene. Draconas’s colors—his human colors—were garish, jagged, jarring, ugly, and beautiful, achingly beautiful.