The Crown and the Dragon

by John D. Payne

“What does that mean?” asked Elenn, clenching her fists.

  “Security,” he said. “In case you can’t keep your temper and you claw up someone I can’t scare off with a pen knife?”

  “I can … write you a letter of credit,” Elenn stammered. “The Leodrine Sisters will honor it, in Ghel or anywhere else you find them.” How could he want more? She was giving away a very generous portion of her ancestral lands, more than any Barethon or Adair had surrendered in centuries. Already she wondered if her ancestors would ever forgive her.

  He laughed. “You’re already paying me in promises. I need something tangible.”

  “You’re too late,” said Elenn. “Everything we had has already been taken—the cart, the horse, our supplies, my clothes, even my poor little bird. There’s nothing left!”

  “No,” he said, “you’ve got something left: whatever it is your aunt didn’t want to show the Sithians.”

  The Falarica. Here at last was the truth. She was a fool to ever have thought him anything but a bandit.

  “That’s what Leif was looking for when he tore apart the campsite,” Aedin continued. “Don’t think he found it. Think you’ve got it on you.”

  “No,” said Elenn, stepping back.

  “You’ll get it back. Soon as I’m properly paid.”

  “It’s not mine to give.” Ethelind had died rather than give it up. How could she give it away now?

  “Then here we part,” said Aedin.

  “So let it be,” said Elenn quietly.

  He shrugged, arms stretched out helplessly, and walked away.

  “Wait,” she said. There was, unfortunately, one other thing she had to give. She reached into her kirtle and pulled out the chain from which was suspended her mother’s gold ring. “Here.”

  Aedin came back and took the ring. He rubbed it between his fingers, held it up to the light, and bit it. Elenn wanted to wrench it from his greedy hands.

  “It’s real,” she said. “And it’s valuable.”

  “I can see that,” he said, slipping the chain over his head.

  “So do we have a deal?”

  He smiled and stepped closer. Reaching up behind his right shoulder, he pulled out the eagle-headed Sithian saber.

  Elenn’s heart raced. What was he doing? Panicking, she tried to summon a defensive spell, but her aunt’s teachings fled from her mind.

  For a long moment, he looked in her eyes, his gaze weighing her as surely as a merchant’s scales. “As much land as I can ride around?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly.

  “I choose the horse,” he said, raising one eyebrow.

  She nodded.

  He knelt, and with sword in hand, said, “On the haft and hilt, I am thy man and soldier.”

  To Elenn, it had the sound of a pledge of fealty. Aunt Ethelind would have known what kind, and how it should be returned. Not knowing what else to do, Elenn reached down and put her hands on his. “I accept your oath,” she breathed.

  Standing, he sheathed his weapon. “Name’s Aedin Jeoris.”

  “Elenn,” she replied. “Elenn of Adair.”

  Shaking his head, he picked up her chest and walked off swiftly and silently into the thick undergrowth. “All right, lass, follow me. East to the Leode. We’ll be keeping to the trees.”

  Elenn hoisted her leather sack, and rushed after him, dry sticks breaking beneath her feet.

  ***

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stepping through the sturdy door to the culverhouse, Magister Corvus had to fight the impulse to slam the door closed. Reminding himself that anger was his servant, not his master, he shut the door with a careful, quiet click.

  Of course, it was not for the other denizens of the culverhouse that Corvus had chosen to be quiet. The hundreds of ravens inside took no notice of his entry, croaking and cawing to each other.

  Most other Deirans found their cries to be disconcerting, but even as a child, Corvus had found them soothing. It was to the rookery that young Bartram Pugh had gone to think, to dream, to escape his tutors and his lordly duties. This unusual habit had led his Vitalion nursemaid to give him the nickname Corvus—“crow”.

  In the center of the room was an overturned wooden stool, next to which sprawled the traitor, Ranulf. Dozens of ravens perched atop his corpse, their leathery feet clawing at the fabric of his clothing, their black beaks pecking into broken skin.

  Magister Corvus picked up the wooden stool and pulled it aside. He perched atop it, gazing absently at the body. The rebel had been dead no more than a day, but much of the flesh had already been removed from his bones. The ravens had feasted.

  Being well acquainted with the habits of ravens, Corvus understood better than most why they might be reviled. Deirans associated them with death, the underworld, deception, and war—and rightly so. But in his travels, Corvus had learned that not all peoples saw them the same way.

  In Yall, they said that the raven created the world, albeit by accident. The first raven flew away from the world of spirits, they said, and found the sea. Seeing what it thought was a fish in the water, the raven plucked it out. But it was only a pebble, and the raven dropped it again. Instead of sinking, the little pebble grew and grew until it became the earth.

  Most people dismissed myths like these as the idle tales of ignorant savages, but Corvus listened. More than that, he scavenged for stories like these wherever he traveled, and he wrote them down. Then he tore the stories into pieces and puzzled over them, looking for patterns, just as he did now with the information that came to him by rumor and by confession. He picked them apart and devoured the delectable morsels of hidden knowledge, the secret learnings lost for centuries.

  Corvus fished out the scroll upon which he had written his request for more soldiers. He stared at it, and then crumpled it in his hand. The very idea of having to request troops was galling—but to be denied! And by an officious simpleton like Strabus. Corvus had traveled half the length of the Empire!

  Corvus threw the crumpled scroll violently at the body of Ranulf, briefly scattering some few of the ravens perched atop it. They looked up at him with their shiny black eyes, regarding him with that curious sideways stare of theirs. It reminded him eerily of the way Strabus had looked at him when he had asked about the culverhouse.

  “Curse Strabus, and curse his imperium,” Corvus muttered angrily. “Curse the man for a blind old fool.”

  He sighed.

  “But not blind enough.”

  Corvus stood and walked to the door. He barred it, and secured the panel that allowed people outside to peer in. Then he returned to the center of the room, near Ranulf’s body. Since he could no longer rely on having the culverhouse to himself, it was time to remove its deepest secret and most precious treasure.

  Gently pushing aside a few ravens with his boot, Corvus crouched and used his dagger to pry up a stone in the floor. Underneath the stone was dirt. With his hands, Corvus dug down, carefully setting aside the soil on a nearby scrap of cloth that had once been part of Ranulf’s coat.

  It took a few minutes, during which time the rest of the ravens in the culverhouse fluttered out of their nests to gathered around and watch. Finally, his fingers encountered something hard and unyielding. Corvus smiled. He scrabbled around in the dirt until he encountered a leather strap. Taking hold of the strap, he pulled a small stone box out of the ground.

  The box was about a foot long, and three inches wide and deep. It had been buried standing up. Brushing off the mud, Corvus slid the lid off. Inside was an even narrower wooden case, adorned with brass filigree. And a lock.

  Reaching inside his doublet, Corvus pulled out a brass key, which hung around his neck on a leather thong. He put the key in the lock and turned it. With a slight click, it unlocked. Fingers trembling, Corvus opened the wooden case and sighed with relief.

  Still here.

  With bated breath, Corvus removed his fragment of the Falarica from its case. It was slender and delicate, a seven-inch sec
tion of straight horn that tapered to a point. It was decorated with tiny figures and symbols carved in between two strands of filigree silver that had been laid into the horn in a helical twist.

  Holding it in his hands, Corvus reverently traced the carved patterns with his fingertip. Then he laughed.

  “Who needs soldiers?” he said aloud.

  The ravens noisily chattered their reply.

  Tucking the wooden case into his jacket, Corvus rose to his feet. He glanced at the door again. Still barred. He held the Falarica out in front of him and slowly used it to outline a winged shape in the air in front of him, as if he were painting a picture.

  “In the name of Uran, the first raven,” Corvus said, speaking in the tongue of Yall, “whose bright eyes first saw this world.”

  The ravens fell silent. All of them watched at him.

  “In the name of Uran,” said Corvus, “whose generous spirit released this world from his grasp.”

  The Falarica felt hot in his hands. Corvus began to tremble.

  “In the name of Uran, whose clever tongue first named this world.”

  The shadows of the ravens played across the stone floor as they took flight and wheeled

  around the room.

  “I, a child of this world,” said Corvus, “open a door to the world of spirits and allow the passage of the Naihmant—children of Uran, servants of the Baydh Rignu, queen of phantoms.”

  The shadows of the flying ravens became a distinct swirling mass. Flying closer and closer together, the shadows overlapped and merged until they coalesced into two solid silhouettes.

  “I, a child of this world,” said Corvus, “greet you and welcome you here.”

  Two man-sized figures stood before Corvus—black-feathered shoulders, heads bent and hooded.

  “I, a child of this world,” said Corvus, “name you, Suspicion and Vengeance.” He touched each one in turn with the fragment of the Falarica. “And I command you to obey me.” He lowered his arms slowly to his sides. “Do you know me?”

  “Yes, master,” they answered him in the Yaltese tongue, croaking in guttural, inhuman voices.

  “Do you know this thing?” said Corvus, holding up the Falarica.

  “Yes, master,” they said. “It sings to us.”

  “It is incomplete,” said Corvus. “Another piece of it is carried by a woman many miles from here. Do you know this missing piece?”

  “Yes, master,” they said. “The song is faint, but we hear it.”

  “Your brother heard it,” said Corvus, “but he failed me.” This was not entirely true. The Naihman had located the other half of the Falarica, and had seen the woman who carried it—an agent of the Orders, he was sure.

  “You know his fate,” said Corvus. “Do you wish to share it?” Corvus himself did not know precisely what happened to a Naihman when the flock that served as its temporary body was irrevocably dispersed, but he had previously deduced that it was not pleasant.

  “No, master,” said the Naihmant.

  “Then find the missing piece,” said Corvus. “Bring it to me. Kill those who carry it.”

  The chamber was suddenly filled with a sickening tearing sound, then a tumult of flapping wings and screeching cries. Corvus’s vision was obscured by dozens of jet-black birds, filling his view. In an instant, they were gone, flown out of the culverhouse.

  Corvus smiled. Then he knelt down and began replacing the dirt from the hole in the middle of the stone floor.

  ***

  Chapter Sixteen

  The first day was not so bad. Aedin spent much of the day scouting ahead, which gave him time to think about who his traveling companion was.

  The girl’s wild claims to be Lady of Adair were pure mince, obviously. On the other hand, the heartbroken look on her face when she had to hand over that fat gold ring said that it was hers for true. So Leif’s accusation that she was a thieving Lady’s maid was wrong. She came from money. And whether her father was a merchant or a Laird, anyone who could part with such a fine piece must have something more to give. As they said in Heortigsport, if you find one cockle in the sands, get your rake. So Aedin was raking.

  The odd thing was that he was actually enjoying the journey. The lands they passed through were sparsely inhabited because of their proximity to the dragon, but with a little woodcraft and some luck a man could live quite happily here. Having both, Aedin fashioned a crude sling as he walked and brought down two squirrels.

  That night after sunset there was an orange glow to the sky in the southeast, but faint enough that the dragon had to be far distant. So he spit-roasted the squirrels, and they ate them with some penny-bun mushrooms he had found in the forest. Warm and dry and with food in their bellies, they exchanged stories about their childhoods.

  As Elenn recounted tales of the Fortress of the Leode, Aedin decided that she truly was connected with the Leodrine Sisters somehow. Perhaps her promises of further payment when they reached the Fortress were not just the lies of another desperate refugee. It was a pleasant thought to sleep on.

  But the second day made Aedin wonder if he had made a smart deal, or if he had been tricked into a sucker’s bargain by a pretty face. A pre-dawn rain shower woke them, which was an inauspicious beginning. It didn’t get better.

  Clouds hid the sun all morning as they entered the hills, so their clothes didn’t dry out. Perhaps it was because his wet feet were by now nothing but a mass of painful blisters, but everything just seemed to turn bitter. Elenn certainly did.

  “This is deliberate,” she accused, just before noon. “You’re picking the most difficult route for us.” Footing was treacherous because of loose rock and numerous tiny rivulets of water making their way down the hill. And the hillside was covered with thorny bramble bushes. Carrying her leather sack, Elenn was red-faced and sweating.

  “Right you are, my Lady of Adair,” Aedin said, employing his most genteel accent. Holding Elenn’s small, battered chest under his right arm, he helped her up the rocky slope with his free hand. “If it please my lady, this is the roughest terrain for miles in any direction.”

  “Why would that please me?” she asked, flabbergasted.

  “Because that’s what you asked for,” he said.

  “I most certainly did not,” she said, sounding nettled.

  Aedin shook his head. “Thought ladies like you had tutors,” he muttered.

  “I did,” said Elenn, more quietly.

  “Didn’t teach you much,” he said. He turned and began picking a path north and east through the scrub-covered hills that led into the highlands. Every step chafed his raw and blistered feet, but the sooner this was done with, the better.

  “They taught me… a great deal,” she said, out of breath. “Mathematics. Theology. Languages. Music. Poetry. And all the arts… of home and hearth.”

  “Poetry, eh?” he asked. “That helping you today?”

  “Yes, thank you—oop!” There was a brief yelp as she lost her footing and slipped.

  He tried to stifle his laughter without much success. “Can see that.”

  Elenn made no reply, struggling to keep up with him.

  “I’m always ready to learn,” said Aedin, “so if you have a poem, or a song, that you think is fitting, I’m all ears.”

  “Why do you mock me?” she asked. “I can only think it is because you resent the circumstances of my birth—about which I can do nothing.”

  “Not your fault you’ve had a soft life. True,” replied Aedin. “But no one is forcing you to whine like an infant, or to babble whatever fool thing occurs to you without thinking first.”

  “What?” Elenn cried angrily, rising to his bait.

  “You want an example?” Aedin asked, prodding further.

  He turned to see her explode with anger, but she merely folded her arms and raised one eyebrow—even in the face of one of his most infuriating grins. It was a disappointingly mature reaction.

  “You accuse me of taking the worst and most diff
icult path,” he continued. “You were the one who asked for the most direct route to the Leode. Told you to take the road. Don’t blame me. Not my fault you’re not riding in a gilded carriage.”

  “There must be some other way, though,” she exclaimed. “Smugglers’ trails or some such thing.”

  “Where you’ll find smugglers.” Aedin rolled his eyes. “No virtuous folk left in this part of the Riverlands.” He knew that from personal experience. “Farmers and herders got burned out. No one here that you’d want to meet.”

  “But surely,” she said, “even the meanest villains must offer each other some measure of society, or how would they survive?”

  “Want to find out first hand?” Aedin asked. “Could take you to a nice spot not far from here where a particularly sociable outlaw has made his hideout. Bat your pretty eyelashes at him, bet he’d invite you in to dine. Darling little soiree that'd be.”

  He leaned in close and smiled in a sickeningly sweet simper. “Once you were well pashed on wine, he’d say, ‘Sleep well, fair princess’. Wake up at the slave market.”

  He turned around and pushed his way through the brambles and up the slope, picking wild blackberries as he went. A moment later, he heard Elenn following him. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of the two of them fighting their way through the brush.

  Once he was through a particularly nasty tangle of brambles, he looked back. She was wrestling to free herself from a particularly nasty tangle of brambles, with a look of supreme determination on her face.

  He set down the battered chest and inched back down. When he reached her, he relieved her of the leather sack she carried over her shoulder and then helped free her of the brambles. A few minutes later, they reached a large flat rock, next to a little trickle of water which burbled its way down the hill.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, finally.

  “We should rest,” said Aedin. “A few minutes.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They drank deeply and did what they could to wash themselves. Both of them needed it. Aedin couldn’t see himself, but Elenn’s hair was a great mass of snarls. Her face and arms were covered with scratches. Her scarlet dress was still stained and the hem was in tatters, ripped into shreds by the wicked brambles. She dipped her hands in the rivulet and splashed her face with water, leaving trails where the grime was washed clean all down her neck and disappearing into the top of her dress.