Master of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  She knelt down beside the bowl and took a moment to try to compose herself. That proved impossible. Anna trembled more. She poured the holy water from the pitcher that stood beside the bowl with a hand that shook so she splashed water onto her gown. Yet another infraction.

  Anna forced herself to concentrate. She gazed steadily into the water, into the lapis lazuli iris of the sacred Eye at the bottom of the bowl, into the jet pupil of that all-seeing Eye, and waited for the water to cease sloshing about. Watching the water calmed her and when the last ripple smoothed from the surface, Anna spoke the ritual prayer that she said every morning, the same prayer that Melisande had said every morning, that every High Priestess before her had said every morning in a confident and even tone.

  “Open wide, you that guard our realm, and let my eye see what you see.”

  The Eye showed her what she always saw: the valley, the mountains, the city, the monastery of the Order of the Sacred Eye. She took it all in and breathed out a sigh of relief, only to snatch it back swiftly in a gasp that was as much bewilderment as it was astonishment.

  The High Priestess of Seth did not see what she had feared and dreaded and expected to see. The Eye did not show her dragons flying toward her kingdom, bent on attacking and destroying them.

  The Eye showed her a young man.

  Anna rubbed her eyes and blinked and stared, wondering how the sacred Eye could have made such a mistake. The young man came from the river. He climbed over the mountains. He walked across the valley. He was a comely young man—about sixteen, perhaps, with blond hair and blue eyes that looked straight into hers.

  Anna was puzzled and confused, and then she noticed something strange, grotesque. The young man had the legs of a beast. The legs, more specifically, of a dragon.

  Anna did not know what to do. Was this half-man/half-dragon a threat? It must be so, or the Eye would not have revealed him to her. Yet, how could one young man, beast-man though he was, be a threat to an entire kingdom?

  Then she saw that there were more like him, coming up behind him, crossing the river and climbing the mountain: a young woman with the body of a dragon and delicate wings sprouting from her shoulders; a boy, strong and muscular, his human form covered all over with scales; and little ones with claws for feet or hands, and scaly arms and tails, yet all with human eyes that gazed, unblinking, into hers.

  The young man was quite close now, and Anna realized, with a start, that he could see her as clearly as she could see him. His face, especially the eyes, was familiar to her. She had the feeling she’d known him a long time.

  Anna gripped the sides of the marble basin to keep herself from sinking down into a heap on the marble floor.

  “Who are you?” she cried.

  In his answer, though she did not understand it and did not, at first, believe it, Anna heard what would prove to be the destruction of the peaceful tranquillity of the people of Seth.

  “We are your children.”

  36

  “OUR CASTLE AT RAMSGATE IS THE TARGET, FATHER.” MARCUS SPOKE in gasps, keeping his sentences short. He had broken ribs, which made the drawing of each breath an agonizing experience. “More to the point, the cannons. We have to ride back there at once.”

  Prince Wilhelm’s physicians would have doused Marcus with poppy syrup to ease the pain, but he needed to be clear-headed, at least until he had convinced his father of the danger. He had already lost a night, for he had passed out from the pain when the physicians wrenched his dislocated shoulder into place. They’d given him the poppy syrup when he regained consciousness and refused to let him speak to anyone until he’d rested.

  Even drugged, he’d spent a restless night, slipping into and out of strange dreams. In one, experienced just before waking, it seemed to him that a gigantic eye was staring down at him. He might have thought it a dragon’s eye and been afraid, but he felt the watcher’s awe and wonder, sorrow and dismay. When Marcus woke, he insisted on talking to his father, refusing to take any more physics or even let the leeches into his room until his command was obeyed.

  “Those dragons could destroy the cannons with ease,” Edward remarked. “Why don’t the beasts attack the castle?”

  Marcus heard the note of respect in his father’s voice, and that warmed him more than the poppy syrup. His only deep regret was that the lives of thirty good men had been sacrificed in order to gain it. Marcus had taken a solemn vow, with his hand on the Holy Scriptures, that if he survived this battle, he would build a chapel and dedicate it in their honor, as well as form a new order of knights in their memory, an order that would be known as the Lions of God.

  “I don’t know the answer, Father, and neither does Draconas. He believes, however, that this attack was a feint, a ruse, to draw us away from Ramsgate,” Marcus said. “Draconas thinks the dragons have something more devious in mind.” That long speech cost him two pain-filled gasps.

  Edward frowned at the mention of Draconas, but he could hardly say anything disparaging, since the dragon had been responsible for the fact that the king’s army had not been utterly wiped out.

  “Where is Draconas?” he asked.

  “Keeping watch over the movements of the dragon army.”

  Edward rose abruptly to pace the room. “He could destroy them with a breath.”

  “Father . . .”

  “Oh, I know what you told me about him. How he will not kill humans in cold blood,” Edward said impatiently. “I suppose I must honor him for his stand, but it is damn hard on us!”

  Marcus tried to raise himself off the pillows. “Father—”

  Edward saw what he was about to do and hastened to his side. “You must not move, Marcus. You’ll undo all the work that the leeches did for you. Lie back and rest easy. I agree with you and with Draconas. I will ride to Ramsgate with all haste. I’ll leave this day.”

  Marcus propped himself up on his good elbow. “I’m coming with you,” he said through teeth clenched against the pain.

  Edward looked down on him with affection and some amusement. “My son, you cannot even sit up in bed, much less ride a horse.”

  “Then fill a wagon with straw and haul me back like a sack of wool,” said Marcus. “You need me, Father! I may not be able to lift a sword, but I have another weapon—the magic.”

  Edward said nothing. He glanced away from his son and looked out the window. Marcus saw a nerve twitch in his father’s jaw, saw his face go dark and closed, as it always did whenever Marcus brought up his magic. In the past, Marcus would have let this ugly subject drop, let it fall to the floor, then kick it into a corner, so that both could pretend it wasn’t there. Now Marcus held fast to it, held it up so that his father had to look.

  “When I was a child, you locked me away in that little room and hid me from sight and made up a story that I was off visiting relatives. I know that was for my own good,” he added, speaking in gasps and fits and starts, but never thinking of stopping. “But it was for your own good, as well, Father, because you didn’t have to face the truth about me. And when I came back with Draconas, with the magic so bright and beautiful in my hands, you forbade me to use it. You made me feel that it was something of which I should be ashamed. Even Mother, though she loves me dearly, wishes it would all just go away . . .”

  Marcus had to pause. Sweat rolled down his face, and he bunched the sheets up in a great wad beneath the blanket in order to keep the pain at bay as he plunged ahead.

  “Father, if I can use my gift openly, to save the kingdom, so that all the people can see it, then you and mother will never have to be ashamed of me again.”

  His strength gave out. He fell back among the pillows. Edward remained standing in silence, his face averted, so that his son could not guess what his father was thinking. Edward had his hands clasped behind him, and the fingers clenched and opened and clenched. He glanced back at Marcus and then walked out of the room.

  Marcus would have sighed in bitter disappointment, but it hurt too much. Outside
the room he could hear raised voices, among them his father’s. Marcus assumed the king was giving orders for the knights and what was left of his army to return to Ramsgate, though it did sound as though someone was daring to argue with the king. His father’s voice grew cold with anger, and that ended that. There was silence.

  Marcus’s shoulder throbbed. Every breath hurt. Add to that the pain in his heart, that no amount of poppy syrup could ease, unless he took enough to ease him out of this life. Realizing he was thirsty, he was eyeing the water pitcher and thinking in frustration that he would have to summon a servant just to fetch him a drink, when the door opened and the court physician entered, accompanied by several assistants bearing rolls of linen bandages.

  They all bowed to the prince, then continued a conversation started before they had entered the chamber.

  “We will bind His Highness’s arm tightly to his side,” the leech was saying, the wide, full sleeves of the gown that marked his office billowing around him importantly as he walked. “And wrap the bandages tight around the rib cage. That might keep His Highness from puncturing a lung,” the physician added with a sniff that indicated he’d be shocked if it did.

  “What’s going on?” Marcus demanded.

  “We’re making you ready to travel, Your Highness,” said the physician, his mouth pursed and his face pinched. “His Majesty’s command. Against my advice.” He sniffed again. “If this journey kills you, Your Highness, don’t blame me!”

  “I won’t,” Marcus promised, jubilant.

  They filled a wagon with straw, hoping to cushion the journey for Marcus as much as possible. The roads were rough. He would be bounced and jolted unmercifully. To protect him, the physician wrapped Marcus in so many layers of bandages that they would have probably stopped an arrow better than plate armor. The leech handed him a cup filled with a honey posset, liberally spiked with poppy syrup. Marcus eyed it, but didn’t immediately drink it. He knew he would probably need it eventually, but he didn’t like the feeling it gave him of stumbling about in a dreamy haze.

  Though the physician had warned against movement, Marcus forced himself up and out of bed, grimacing not only at the pain of his injuries but also at trying to move while swaddled like a newborn. He was struggling into a shirt, trying to pull it over his head with one good arm and his teeth, when he felt a hand touch him. Warmth flowed through his body. Warmth that healed, not dulled.

  Marcus couldn’t see—the shirt was over his face—but he recognized the touch.

  “Draconas,” he said, thankfully. “Where did you spring from?”

  “Hell—if you believe the gossip that is running rampant through your populace,” Draconas replied grimly. “Hold still and let me work my magic on you. I can only give you ease. I cannot heal you fully. There is not time.”

  “Thank you for that, at least.”

  “Don’t thank me. My motives are purely selfish. I need you and I can’t have you dying on me.”

  “At least you’re honest.” Marcus managed to poke his head up out of the shirt collar. “Now that you’re here, you should speak with Father—”

  “I haven’t time. Besides, Edward does not trust me much, and he’s going to trust me less after he hears the news I bring. I cannot find the dragon army.”

  Marcus paused with his arm half in and half out of the sleeve. “What? I don’t understand. You should be able to see them clearly from the sky.”

  “You are right. I should be able to see the army from the air, but I can’t. I have spent the night searching for them. My dragon eyes should be able to detect them, even in the dark. I know they are out there, but I cannot find them. And it is not due to Maristara.

  She has retreated back to Dragonkeep, to nurse her wounds and save her strength for the final battle. My guess is that the female warriors are responsible for hiding the army from my sight. They have the dragon-magic, and they are as strong in it as your mother and the other priestesses of Seth. They used such magic to fend off my kind for hundreds of years.”

  Marcus slowly realized what this meant. “The army could be anywhere—right on our doorstep—and none of us would be able to see them—”

  “You can see them, Marcus. That’s why I’m telling you. I believe it is because the magic they use is akin to the magic you use. It is the human factor in all this that plays havoc with my ability to penetrate the illusion. I will continue to search. The women who cast this magic have to rest sometime. The magic weakens them— the ‘blood bane,’ Melisande called it. The magic will take its toll, and if their spells weaken or falter, I may be able to locate them. In the meantime—”

  “I will keep careful watch.” Marcus tried to sound confident, though his heart sank. That heart sank still further, as he watched Draconas’s expression grow darker. “Yes, what other bad news do you bear?”

  “I was not going to tell you this, Marcus, because I did not have enough information to give you. I have to tell you, now, however, even though my fears are vague and ill-defined. There is another dragon involved in this plot to conquer humankind. She is powerful, one of the most powerful of my kind. Indeed, she was, for many years, our leader, honored and respected. Fear changed her. Fear consumed her. She is your most dangerous enemy, Marcus. Far more dangerous than the late Grald or the wounded Maristara.”

  “And let me guess,” said Marcus. “You can’t find her, either.”

  “I’m still looking for Anora, and so are others,” Draconas said. “But, in the meantime, you must remain vigilant and on your guard, both in your little room and out of it.”

  Draconas picked up the draught of the opiate and tossed it into the slop bucket. “Sleep if you must, Marcus, but keep one eye open and one ear uncovered. And ride to Ramsgate as swiftly as you can.”

  37

  INSIDE THE CASTLE OF THE KING, SURROUNDED BY EVERY LUXURY, fed three meals a day—or more, if she wanted them—Evelina was not happy She paced back and forth, back and forth inside her chambers. A cage—even a gilt one—is still a cage.

  The axe-faced woman dogged Evelina’s every step. She was not permitted to go out of her room except in the company of Axe-Face, the reason being that no proper young unmarried girl— and it seemed to Evelina that the woman spoke that hateful word with a relish—would think of venturing into public without a chaperone. Evelina chafed against this. She was certain at first that she was being singled out for punishment. She was forced to concede, however, that whenever she caught sight of the Lady Izabelle (which was as often as the jealous Evelina could manage), the lady was always in the company of an older woman.

  Evelina was not permitted to speak to any one, particularly any man, which stricture she considered extremely harsh and unfair. There were several very comely men—particularly among the Her Majesty’s knights—who would have been glad to amuse her. Although the Queen’s Guard were preoccupied with news from Aston Castle, receiving daily reports from the messengers who were riding back and forth, some found time to take note of the pretty girl who, it was bruited about, had caught Prince Marcus in her web of golden curls, amongst other attractions.

  One or more of these knights had taken to being on hand whenever Evelina was outdoors for her daily walk in the garden. She was, of course, stalked by Axe-Face, who actually pinched Evelina’s arm when she smiled at a handsome young lord who had first smiled at her. The unsightly bruise pained her for days, and Evelina never picked up a knife to slice her meat but that she indulged in fond thoughts of slicing up her chaperone.

  Evelina was not permitted anywhere near the Royal Quarters, and thus she was forced to give up a notion she’d entertained of chumming about with the Queen and endearing herself to her. Evelina saw the Queen or the ladies-in-waiting only from across a vast expanse of lawn or at the end of a mile-long hallway she wasn’t allowed to enter.

  The only other person Evelina was allowed to talk to was the serving girl who brought her meals to her. This was also the only time Evelina ever escaped Axe-Face, who dine
d with other high-ranking staff members of the Royal Household. The serving girl loved to gossip, and Evelina was an avid listener, so they got on well.

  At first all the servant could talk about was the war. The news was good at the start. The king had ridden off to Aston Castle merely to humor Prince Marcus, who everyone knew was mad. (“Begging your pardon, m’lady, but that’s what Cook says an’ she’s worked here for nigh on twenty years and the stories she tells, you wouldn’t believe, and it’s only proper you should know, seein’ the horrible way they’re treating you, which isn’t right, you being a fine lady yourself, if you are down on your luck . . .”)

  Then something went wrong.

  According to the servant, a messenger arrived in the middle of the night. They woke the Queen, and she and Gunderson and some barons who’d been hanging about eating the king’s food and drinking his wine held an emergency meeting, after which the barons looked grim, the guards on the walls were doubled and the local militia was drilling in the courtyard.

  The next day, dark rumors started. A stable boy overheard a groomsman who overheard one of the barons saying that the king’s army had been defeated by an army of demons who had the fires of hell at their command. By that night the rumors had spread into the city—Satan’s army was on the march. This was the Apocalypse.

  Shops closed. Inns emptied. Churches filled. The atmosphere around the castle grew increasingly tense. So pervasive was the mounting tension that it roused all Evelina’s instincts for self-preservation. Her interest in Marcus waned considerably as she heard horror stories from the servant about castles under siege, cut off from food supplies for months, so that the people inside were forced to eat rats, until they ran out of rats and eventually ate each other.