“My offspring will be a force in this world,” he said proudly, placing his hands on the lid of the tomb and gazing at it with satisfaction. “My armies will conquer human nations. My children will rule them. We dragons will bring order to this world of humans, teach them to obey and respect their masters. I almost wish Ven could be at my side to see it.”
Grald imagined what it would be like to be trapped, suffering, inside this coffin; trapped for years without end, the minutes dropping so slowly, like the blood of the ravaged heart.
“A noble sacrifice, Ven,” said the dragon softly. “One that will be long remembered.”
Grald made certain that the illusion was still in place, that the tomb remained hidden to all eyes but his. Then, his thoughts going on to other matters, the dragon left to apprise Maristara and Anora that their plans had changed, that Draconas had been discovered alive, and that, of necessity, the war must go forward sooner than anticipated.
He did not expect the elder females to be happy about the situation, and he was right.
They weren’t.
The conversation between the three dragons was an explosion of color, blobs of anger hurled onto a mental canvas. Grald and Anora in particular went at each other, accusations sharp as claws tearing and ripping until the canvas was in shreds and came perilously close to being destroyed.
“Stop it!” ordered Maristara, her colors black as hoarfrost. “You both stink of fear.”
The battling dragons went silent, their colors subdued, though still smoldering.
“Not fear,” Grald returned. “Our own damnable reluctance to act.”
“He’s right,” Anora conceded grudgingly. Her colors were gray with fatigue. “We dragons will find any excuse to keep from taking that first step off the ledge.”
“The first step has been taken,” Maristara reminded them. “We must now either flap our wings or fall to our doom into the pit below. You, Anora. You have said that you walk among the humans.”
“I am with them now. The takeover of the latest body went smoothly. No one suspects. I find I am starting to hate this, though,” Anora returned bitterly. “This killing of humans in order to use their bodies. I found this murder particularly reprehensible.”
“Anora is weakening!” was the alarmed thought that flashed from Maristara to Grald.
“None of us likes it,” said Grald, lying, for he enjoyed the killing. “I am going to be forced to slay my own son. You don’t see me whining over it.”
“And when will you kill him?” Maristara demanded. “We cannot make a move until you have taken over the half-dragon’s body.”
“Tonight,” said Grald. “The arrangements are made.”
“And the Walker?”
“Slaying him will be my first course of action once I am in my new body. I will take care of that tonight as well.”
Maristara and Grald waited for Anora to object, but her colors were hidden.
“Good,” said Grald. “Then if all goes according to plan, the army of Dragonkeep will make ready to march against the humans tomorrow.”
“So soon . . .” Anora murmured.
“Is this a problem?” Maristara asked irritably.
“No, I am prepared to act.”
“Not too precipitously, I hope,” Maristara said. “The timing must be right. The humans must be made to think that this cannon of theirs brought about the catastrophe.”
“You have no cause to worry,” Anora returned, her colors taking on a fiery glow. “I know what I am about.”
“Very good,” said Maristara. “Then we will each keep the other apprised. Good fortune to us all. Tomorrow will be a momentous day for all of dragonkind.”
“A day too long coming, if you ask me,” Grald muttered.
“No one did,” said Anora, and her colors disappeared with snap.
20
DRACONAS HURRIED THROUGH THE STREETS OF DRAGONKEEP, hoping to reach home by suppertime so as not to worry Rosa. The hour was sunset, and the streets were crowded with other homeward-bound people. Draconas had to dodge and weave his way along the narrow streets. His disguise as a hoyden aided him in this, for he bumped, shoved, jostled, or pushed people as needed and received in turn nothing more than a muttered scolding or a threat to box his ears, whereas an adult behaving in a similar rude manner would have ended up in a fistfight.
Worrying about someone worrying about you is not a dragon trait. Independent, solitary beings, dragons enjoy the freedom of doing what they please when they please without thought or care for any other. Humans, on the other hand, need to care and be cared for in return. That Rosa and Anton were coming to care deeply for the young girl who had intruded into their lives was becoming increasingly apparent to Draconas. Their caring was an added and unexpected burden, a burden he did not need right now.
No good telling himself he should have foreseen it. In the split second he’d had to make his decision, he’d been thinking only of his own survival, not looking ahead to see how that survival might impact the lives of humans.
As a walker, he was supposed to have as little effect on human lives as possible—a rule he’d effectively scuttled years ago when he had started on this disastrous enterprise. Since then, he’d ended up entangled in more human lives than he wanted to think about.
“It’s like one of their blasted round dances,” Draconas grumbled to himself as he ran down the street, his long braids flying out behind him. “You start out with one human and things are going fine, then suddenly the music changes and you’re handed off to another human, then another after that, and before you know it, you find yourself a long way from where you want to be.”
As if fate were determined to prove him right, Draconas’s need to race home caused him to burst into the house without first doing what he would have normally done—taken a careful inspection of his surroundings. If Draconas had been paying attention, he would have seen the monk loitering in the street, and he would have known immediately that this night he should not go home. He should have let the humans worry.
As it was, Draconas was in too much haste to notice. He arrived to find that Rosa was out, and he had time to chop the carrots and the onions, ready to add to the meat that was already in the stew pot, when Rosa opened the door.
“It’s good to come home to a warm house and supper already started,” said Rosa, taking off her scarf and giving the girl a hug. She gazed at Draca and added, with a frown, “But what have you been up to? You look as though you’ve spent the day crawling about in a cave! I trust you washed your hands before you started the cooking.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Draconas, exhibiting hands and arms that were clean to the elbow, if not much beyond that.
“Your face is filthy and you’ve even got dirt in your hair,” said Rosa, scandalized. “You had best go wash up before Anton comes home. Though, poor man”—she sighed—”I think it likely he’ll be late again this night.”
Draconas thought so, too, since Anton was helping to make the weapons of war that the dragon army would carry into human lands. As he poured water into the crockery bowl the family used for washing, he thought of the daughter that Rosa and Anton would never see again, and he thought of the hideous grandchild that she had borne them—a grandchild that resembled the daughter they loved except with clawed feet, or perhaps wings and a tail.
He would never tell them, of course. In this dance, the music would not change. The partners would not shift. The dancers would keep dancing until the final beat of the drum.
There came a knock at the door.
“Strange time for visitors,” said Rosa, turning from the bubbling stew pot, over which she had been hovering, to peer out the window. She gave a little gasp. “It’s one of the Blessed!”
Draconas knew in that instant that he’d made a mistake. He should not have come back to this house. He’d been discovered. Perhaps Ven had given him away, although Draconas didn’t think that likely. Ven was one to keep himself to himself. Draconas co
nsidered it far more likely that someone in the “palace” had seen through his illusion and tracked him down.
Rosa opened the door and there was the exact monk of the bridge, sane eyes and all.
“Good evening, Brother,” said Rosa nervously, with a strained smile.
“Good evening, Mistress,” said the monk. He was relaxed, his tone natural. His gaze, as he glanced about the house, was casual. If he saw Draca, standing at the back of the room, he took no special notice of her. “This is the home of Master Anton, the blacksmith, is it not?”
“Yes, Brother—” Rosa hesitated.
“Brother Leopold. Is your good man about?” the monk asked politely.
“No, Brother Leopold, he is working late this night,” Rosa replied. “You will find him in the smithy. I can show you, if you will come . . .” As she started out the door, she was closing it behind her.
“Bless you,” Draconas said to her softly.
Unfortunately, the monk stopped her. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said, smiling affably. “I would not think of interrupting his work. I will wait for him here, if my presence is not an inconvenience.”
Rosa murmured something and, with a frightened glance at Draca, she opened the door to allow the monk to enter.
The monk walked into the house and stood politely until Rosa offered him a chair. He sat down and his gaze went over the house again. Rosa remained standing, twisting her skirt in her hands.
“Whatever you are cooking smells delicious,” Brother Leopold said, glancing at the stew pot, from which a fragrant aroma of onions and meat and spices was rising. “You wait until your good man comes home to dine, I take it.”
Rosa murmured something unintelligible and then did not know what to do with herself. She continued to stand near the door, twisting the cloth. A tense silence fell—tense on the part of Draconas and Rosa. The monk appeared to be quite at home. Smiling, he settled comfortably in his chair and continued to look about, apparently quite taken with what he saw.
“You are a good housekeeper, Mistress Rosa,” he said, and his gaze went at last to Draca and remained on her. “Your daughter must be a great help to you.”
Rosa gulped, unable to answer.
“What is your name, child?” Brother Leopold asked.
“Draca,” answered Draconas. He forced himself to meet the monk’s gaze with the frank and unabashed stare of a curious child.
“Come closer, Draca,” said the monk, reaching out his hand. “You are not afraid of me? Good. So many children are,” he added sadly to Rosa. “It’s too bad, really.”
Draconas walked over to the monk. He could not figure out what was going on. One minute he thought the monk knew exactly who and what he was, the next he thought he didn’t. Perhaps this was just business with Anton.
“You are very pretty, Draca.” The monk took hold of her hand. “Smart, too, I’ll wager. Are you smart, Draca?”
“I hope so, Brother,” Draconas answered.
“And you like to walk, don’t you, Draca?” said Brother Leopold. He patted her hand. “I’ve seen you walking about town, haven’t I? Quite the ‘walker’ . . .”
Draconas stared hard at the monk. Still smiling, still affable, still patting Draca’s hand, the monk gazed intently at him.
“Quite the walker,” the monk repeated.
There was no doubt now in Draconas’s mind that the monk knew who and what he was and that he was telling Draconas he knew. Draconas tensed, waiting for the attack, waiting to be arrested, waiting for who knew what . . . The monk released the girl’s hand with a final pat and turned back to Rosa.
“Do you mind if I invite myself to dinner, my good woman? Truly, the food smells wonderful. We get no such meals in the monastery, I assure you. It would be a treat for me.”
“Of course, Brother Leopold,” Rosa stammered. “We . . . we would be honored. Draca, run and fetch Anton. Tell him we have a guest—”
“Oh, do not make Draca walk over there,” protested the monk. His gaze fixed on Draconas. The monk’s eyes were focused and intense and alert and in no way mad. “Draca has walked such a lot this day. She should rest. I am in no hurry. I have been working at the site of the blast,” he added, continuing to look at Draca. “A terrible thing. So many buildings and lives destroyed. Fortunately, that part of the city was only sparsely inhabited. We are indeed lucky that the blast did not occur in this neighborhood. Many more would have died. Hundreds upon hundreds. Including Anton and Rosa and our little Draca here and other children just like her.”
The monk smiled at Draconas, then added, “There are those who believe that human life is cheap. That the life of a human is not worth that of say—a dragon, for example. What do you think, Draca? Such a great walker as yourself must have an opinion.”
“Some believe that,” Draconas replied, meeting the monk’s gaze.
“But not you,” said Brother Leopold.
Draconas paused, then said steadily, “Once I did. But not anymore. I would not want anything bad to happen to the people of this neighborhood.”
“Good for you, child,” said the monk with a nod. “We may all look forward to a quiet evening at home this night.”
Rosa stood staring from one to the other in confusion.
“Ah,” said Brother Leopold, rising. “Here is our good blacksmith, now! Greetings, Master Anton.”
Anton, considerably astonished, stood stock still in the door. Rosa sidled up to him and nudged him and he came to himself. Mumbling his greetings, he entered the house. When the monk resumed his seat, Anton took the opportunity to flash an alarmed and questioning glance at his wife.
Rosa shook her head and shrugged helplessly.
Both of them looked at Draca.
Draconas knew more than they did. He knew why the monk had come. The monk had made that plain. Draconas was to spend a quiet evening at home this night. If he did not, something bad would happen, not only to Rosa and Anton, but to every human living in this part of the city.
Draconas offered to go lay the table for supper. The monk sat at his ease, talking with a bemused Anton about how his work was coming. Rosa followed Draca into the kitchen to look distractedly at the stew.
Draconas spread the well-worn cloth and set out the crockery bowls and the horn spoons. As he placed the human utensils on the table and prepared to eat the human food, he realized that he had just made his decision. He had declared where he stood in this war between humans and dragons.
He sided with humans against his own kind. He felt a deep and abiding sorrow at this, but he did not regret his decision. His own kind were wrong.
The four of them sat down to the simple meal. Rosa ladled out the stew into the bowls. Draconas dipped his spoon into the broth. He was shoving aside a detested carrot to get at the meat, when Ven came hurtling out of the cave in which he’d hidden himself for all the years of his life.
Ven came running straight at Draconas. Grald chased him. The dragon’s claw reached out for Ven, for his heart . . .
Draconas dropped the spoon in the bowl, splashing hot broth all over the table and startling everyone.
“Draca?” asked Rosa anxiously. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Draconas looked up to find the monk’s sane eyes fixed on him.
“Nothing is wrong, Rosa,” said Draconas, after a pause. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean up the mess I made.”
The irony of the words struck him. All along, it was what he’d been trying to do. Clean up the mess.
He left the table to get a cloth. He could not help Ven. He could not save him. Melisande’s son would have to save himself.
Or rather, Melisande’s sons. Perhaps he could do something, after all.
Demurely, keeping his eyes lowered, Draconas went back to the table and began mopping up the spill.
The monk could stop his dragon body from leaving this house. The monk could not stop his dragon mind. Draconas’s colors flared, purple and gold.
“Lysira! Are you there
?” he cried silently, as he kept an eye on the monk.
“Yes, Draconas,” said the young female immediately.
The monk was rising to his feet. He had quit smiling.
“You seem to be deep in thought, little girl,” said the monk.
“Lysira,” said Draconas, knowing he did not have much time. “Find Marcus. Enter his mind—”
“Enter his mind! The mind of a human! Draconas, I’m not sure—”
“You can do it. You must! Tell him . . .”
Brother Leopold reached out his hand, placed it on Draconas’s head. “You do not look well. I think now is time for rest.”
Draconas squeezed out one burst of color before darkness overtook him and he sagged to floor.
“She’s had such a busy day,” said the monk solicitously. Lifting Draca in his arms, he carried the unconscious girl to bed.
21
DRACONAS’S PLAN TO ALERT MARCUS TO HIS BROTHER’S DANGER was an excellent one. Sadly, Draconas forgot his own mantra— humans are unpredictable. Even after hundreds of years among humans, Draconas could have never predicted Evelina.
Marcus woke about midafternoon from a deep sleep that left him feeling sluggish and thick-headed. Alarmed to find the day so far advanced, he hastened out to ask if young Thom had been sent for the king’s men. The patriarch assured Marcus that the young man had left that morning. Due to the rain, however, the earliest the king’s men might be expected was sometime tomorrow.
Master of Dragons Page 16
