The Crown and the Dragon

by John D. Payne

  “Not wine, not a horse,” said Aedin. “Nothing you’ll want.”

  Elenn untied the rough burlap bundle. Inside were gifts that Aedin had intended to give to Nywen—silk cloth from Sarin, and several pieces of jewelry. Aedin watched as she ran her hands over the treasure, her mouth open in astonishment.

  “Sithian gold!” said Elenn. “And this!” She held up the shimmering silk cloth. “This must have been made for a queen!”

  Elenn immediately put on the bracelets, and the tiara. Aedin cursed quietly. The look of delight on Elenn’s face was just too much like the delight he had hoped these gifts would inspire in his wife.

  “Do you have a mirror?” Elenn asked. She wound the silk cloth around herself and then turned to Aedin. She was resplendent, but the sight of her just dredged up painful memories.

  “Best take those off,” said Aedin, as gently as he could manage. “They were meant for someone else.”

  ”Oh?” said Elenn archly. “What spoiled woman gets these?”

  Aedin grimaced, searching for a suitable answer. Elenn finally caught his mood and took off the jewelry and unwrapped the cloth.

  “I’m sorry, Aedin,” she said.

  “No matter,” Aedin replied. “You didn’t mean anything by it.” He shrugged uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to dealing with someone who apologized so much, especially since each apology made him feel somehow guilty. It was unnerving.

  Elenn came and sat near him, watching him turn the rabbit.

  “Aedin, why are you sad?” she asked. “What happened to you?”

  “Ancient history,” said Aedin.

  “Tell me,” she said, touching his hand. “Please.”

  Aedin was silent for a long moment. These were stories he didn’t like to share. Old wounds he had no desire to re-open. But what did it matter? She was drunk. In the morning, she wouldn’t remember much of this, if anything.

  “After the invasion,” he began, “I wanted to fight. Wanted to help defend my country. Joined up.” Of course there was precious little a twelve year old boy could do in war, but he had run off all the same, thinking it a selfless act.

  On the road he had met some distant Scylfing cousins, also on their way south to fight. It had wounded him when their Laird said he was too young to pledge fealty, but his cousins kept him on as a spear-carrier and messenger boy. That got him to Tantillion Castle, where he burst with pride to be among the vast host of Deiran Warriors shouting an oath to serve as “man and soldier” to King Elfraed.

  That was how he had ended up on the hills near Drumney beach, twenty years gone, a witness to the fiery destruction of Elfraed’s mighty host. A few remnants had struggled valiantly against the second Vitalion invasion fleet, and Aedin had been among them. For years they fought, even after the surrender of the false Council of Knights. All in vain.

  “Kept fighting, long past sense,” he said aloud. “We all did, I suppose.”

  Aedin examined the rabbit, and decided it was cooked. Trying not to burn his fingers, he pulled off a small morsel of meat. It was good, so he ripped off larger pieces for himself, and for Elenn. She took the meat wordlessly from his hand, and for a while they both just nibbled.

  “When I finally went home,” Aedin continued, “there was nothing left. My home and kin, just about everyone I’d ever known were gone.” Abandoning his apprenticeship in Heortigsport put his family in debt to his old master. His father had died in debtors’ prison.

  He wiped hands on his tunic. “So, I fight other men’s fights now, and pick up things on my travels when I can. Things I think others might pay for…” He snorted. “It’s been a life of little meaning.”

  “No,” said Elenn, “it’s romantic.” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and adoring. “Always on the run, living by your sword and your wits.” She sighed.

  “Seems that way now,” said Aedin, “sitting by a warm fire—bellies full of food, heads full of wine.” He looked down at her. She was beautiful. Young, and beautiful and drunk, and in his care. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Come morning,” said Aedin, “you’ll remember the misery and loneliness again.” But with any luck, you won’t remember this conversation, he added silently.

  Aedin stood and tossed the rabbit bones into the fire. He was suddenly tired. Tired of conversation, tired of sad memories, tired of blowing down the road like a fallen leaf. He wanted to go to sleep.

  “Do you know,” said Elenn loudly, “I’ve never really done anything? My aunt dragged me all over Deira, and all I ever did was make tea.”

  She lay down on the furs and wrapped the blanket around her. Aedin lay down on the dirty rock across the fire from her.

  “I’m useless,” Elenn mumbled thickly, wrapping the blanket around her head and hiding her face. “Ornamental only. No purpose.”

  “Get some sleep,” said Aedin.

  “The only thing I can do,” said Elenn, from inside the blanket, “is get married.” She blew on her hands to make a rude noise. “Marriage!”

  Aedin laughed. “About sums up my experience.”

  Elenn pulled the blanket down from her face and gazed over at him, starry-eyed. “But maybe it would be lovely,” she said. “He could be lovely and beautiful and rich. And clean.” She wrinkled her nose at Aedin. Her face was smudged and her hair matted.

  “Clean would be nice,” said Aedin, smiling a little.

  “Very nice,” said Elenn quietly. She closed her eyes. “Nice husband, nice marriage, nice little babies.” She sighed contentedly, almost asleep. “And no vows.”

  “Go to sleep, my Lady of Adair,” said Aedin.

  She murmured something inaudible and her breathing slowed. Aedin closed his eyes.

  “Aedin,” said Elenn.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re nice, too. Very nice.”

  He looked over at her, but her eyes were still closed, and in moments she was asleep and snoring gently.

  Aedin found himself now wide awake. He lay on his back listening to the waterfall for a long while. Then he got up and took a walk in the moonlight. More than once he heard the scream of the dragon echoing across the land. Aedin supposed it was frustrated in its hunt. It was that kind of night.

  Late at night, in what had once been the steward’s chambers of Tantillion castle, Magister Corvus sat dejected at the steward’s desk, looking over a report from his spies on Garrick’s rebellion. The cramped room was crowded with a chest of scrolls and papers from his previous, more spacious quarters.

  Garrick and his so-called Council of Knights were on the move. Rumor said they had fled east into Ghel, or perhaps north into Minnaeus. Corvus suspected he was making his way south to Iliak. But what did it matter? He had been rendered entirely impotent. Dejected, he crumpled the report and threw it in the fire.

  Just six days ago, all things had seemed possible. The Leodrine rider, Ranulf, had fallen into his hands, and had confirmed the existence of both the lost half of the Falarica and the lost Barethon sister. The revelation had left him almost giddy. And they were within his grasp, like quail eggs found in the meadow.

  But the Naihmant had failed him. The ravens had returned three days after flying out, looking somewhat the worse for wear. But they could not speak; they were mere crows again. The demon spirits would not answer his summons, despite his sacrifices and entreaties. So he lacked even the knowledge of how and why they had failed to locate the Falarica.

  Imperator Strabus had made it all but impossible for him to pursue the Falarica by conventional means. He had no soldiers and had lost his interrogation chamber. And the trail had gone cold, anyway. The Barethon woman was dead, slain by highwaymen. And his agents had found no sign of the Falarica among her possessions.

  Corvus sighed and reached into a nearby chest. He pulled out a scroll and flattened it on his desk, holding it down with a heavy pewter candlestick and a dagger. Drawn on the scroll in charcoal was a picture of the Falarica—intact, rather than just a fragment
like the one he had in his Yaltese-runed stone box.

  As he often did, Corvus ran his fingers along the scroll absently as he mused on the object’s power and significance. Years of study and experiment had taught him that even a piece of the Falarica could open a breach into unknown worlds, worlds where resided both the Gods and demons that people of this world worshiped and feared, including the Deirans.

  Twenty years ago, the commander of the Vitalion expedition to Deira—a Praetorian Legate named Volusus Flavius Ambustus—had summoned a dragon. It had been centuries since one had been seen, and many people had come to believe they were mythical. Since the Legate had died that day on Drumney beach, no one knew how he had done it, or how to get rid of the terrible thing now that it was here.

  Corvus was convinced that the dragon had been conjured with a fragment of the Falarica, although he had been unable to find it. With his own fragment, Corvus had learned to summon otherworldly creatures like the Naihmant, and to compel them to serve him. His experiences had led him to believe that the Falarica could be used to command the dragon—although it would be folly to attempt to control a creature of such immeasurable power without more information.

  For years, he had searched for the personal papers of the commander, a Praetorian Legate named Volusus Flavius Ambustus. He had finally obtained some of the Legate’s writings, at great financial cost, but had learned little thus far. The man wrote in Sarinese riddles, full of bizarre metaphors about reproduction. But Corvus still studied his words, determined to understand what had happened that day on the beach.

  There was a knock at the door. Corvus frowned. He wasn’t sure what the hour was, but he thought he had heard the watchman cry midnight quite a while ago. Rolling up the scroll, he glanced out the small window, trying to catch a glimpse of the moon.

  The knock came again.

  “Enter,” Corvus called, placing the scroll in a nearby chest.

  A legionary entered, leaving the door open. It was Septor Bruttius, one of the guards Corvus sparred with. In fact, Corvus had broken his nose less than a week ago. Corvus smiled slightly, remembering the bout.

  Sadly, the sparring sessions were no more. Strabus said it was conduct unbecoming a Vitalion Magister. The more likely reason was that these sparring sessions forged close bonds between himself and his men, and Strabus was trying to break those bonds.

  “Hail, Magister,” said Bruttius, with a salute. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, his brow furrowed.

  “It is late, Septor Bruttius,” said Corvus, speaking Vitalae. “Why are you here?”

  “I beg pardon for disturbing you, sir,” the guard said, “but Hostus Hostilius and I thought you should speak with this prisoner.”

  “You know that I no longer supervise the interrogation of prisoners,” Corvus said. He leaned back in his chair and gave the legionary a stern look. “But let’s not get hung up on protocol. Bring the man in.”

  The tension left the guard’s face and he waved a beckoning hand to someone standing outside the door. A prisoner in shackles was pushed into the room by another of the guard, Hostus Hostilius. He had a thin red scar running down one cheek—also a gift from a sparring session.

  “Hail, Magister,” said Hostilius, saluting.

  “Hail, Hostilius.” Corvus returned the salute.

  The prisoner rolled his eyes. He was a great ugly brute, bald as a stone. Despite his chains and the multitude of cuts and bruises that decorated his face and body, he stood proud as a prince.

  “Who is he?” Corvus asked.

  “Magister,” Bruttius said, “this man was captured three days ago during an attempted robbery and assault. To save himself, he offered up information on the rebels, who he swore were his comrades.” Bruttius paused. “He even asked for money.”

  Hostilius spat. “Treacherous dog.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Corvus tilted his head and looked the man over. “And what desperate lie did this knave try to sell you? The secret whereabouts of Garrick?” He laughed.

  “Among the various outlandish and unbelievable stories he told us,” said Bruttius, “he spoke of an incident in which a Leodrine Sister was slain on the road north of Anondea.”

  Corvus sat up.

  “We remembered that you had been inquiring into the death of this woman, Magister,” Bruttius said. “And we thought you might like to hear his tale.”

  “Well done,” said Corvus to the two guards. “I will remember this.” He smiled. It cheered him greatly to know that some of the men were still his, despite Strabus’s best efforts. Loyalty like this, he reflected, couldn’t be bought with money. Still, he would have to think of some way to reward them for this. “You may wait outside. Thank you.”

  The two guards saluted and left the chamber.

  Corvus looked the rebel up and down.

  “Well, they treat you pretty good for a Deiran,” said the man, impudently. “You must be kissing all the right rings.”

  “You put on a brave front,” said Corvus, switching back to his native Deiran. “But courtesy would serve you better than empty bluster. You address Magister Bartram Valerius Pugh, also called Corvus.”

  “The old crow himself,” said the brute. “Well, it’s about time they brought me to you. I’ve got information to sell you.”

  “What is your name?” said Corvus.

  “Call me Leif,” said the big man.

  Corvus smiled. “I will not buy your information, Leif,” he said. “But I am a man who knows how to reward those who serve faithfully and well. Do you wish to serve the Empire, and your country?”

  Leif shrugged, his chains clanking as he did so. “Sure, let’s play it that way.”

  “Good,” said Corvus. “Now, I am told you were recently witness to the death of a Leodrine Sister.”

  “It weren’t me,” said Leif. “Aedin did her in, and the Sithians, too.”

  “This woman,” Corvus said, idly playing with the dagger on his desk, “was there anyone with her?”

  “Aye,” said Leif, “a treacherous minx. Elenn, she called herself. Said she was a lady or some such, but she was just another thieving slattern. She jumped all over me and then ran off with Aedin. He’s the one killed them people. And he’s a rebel.”

  “Interesting,” said Corvus. “Can you tell me where they went?”

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Elenn woke up the next morning feeling like she was going to die. Her head hurt her terribly, her stomach was queasy, and everything seemed very bright and loud. Elenn screwed her eyes shut and wrapped the blanket over her head. Then she smelled the blanket, and nearly retched.

  Something prodded her in the backside. A boot, perhaps.

  “Go away,” said Elenn crossly.

  “Wake up, my Lady of Adair,” said Aedin, his voice nearly a shout.

  Elenn moaned. It was just too cruel.

  “Let me die,” she said.

  Aedin laughed. He reached down and lifted her to a sitting position, despite her protests. Then he let go, and of course she fell. This elicited more laughter, which Elenn thought was a needless insult.

  “Come on,” Aedin said, “let’s go.”

  He tried to pull the horrible, smelly blanket off her head. Elenn curled up in a ball and resisted him. Eventually Aedin gave up. She heard the noisy slap of his leather boots on the damp stone floor of the cave. Elenn settled down to try to sleep again.

  Suddenly, cold water was poured over her head, soaking her through the blanket. Elenn coughed and spluttered, clawing herself free.

  “Need to get moving,” Aedin said, without a trace of apology or sympathy. “Long way to go, starting with a climb back up the cliff to get where we were yesterday.”

  “I need rest! I nearly drowned yesterday!” she cried.

  “Three jugs of wine,” he said. “I remember.”

  “No!” she said. “I fell in the Cataracts.” She lay back down with a groan. Even the dim light of the cave seemed
to hurt her eyes, so she squeezed them shut.

  “Jumped,” said Aedin, “if I recall correctly.”

  Opening one eye, Elenn saw that the horrid man had the audacity to grin.

  “I really hate you,” she said.

  “I hear that a lot,” Aedin said. “Get up.”

  Elenn didn’t move, but she was too weak to resist when Aedin pulled her roughly to her feet. The sudden rise made Elenn’s head scream with pain, so she tried to sit. But Aedin jerked her up again, and grabbed her chin with his hand, forcing her to look in his eyes.

  “We’re leaving,” Aedin said. “This is dragon country. Stay in one place too long and something bad finds you—bandits, those things from yesterday, maybe even something worse.”

  He picked up a leather pack which looked heavy. “I’ll carry all the gear,” Aedin said. “But we can’t wait any longer. We move.”

  He grabbed Elenn by the arm and pulled her along behind him. Elenn tried to shut out the terrible blinding daylight with her other hand, but she could no more hide from the sun than she could avoid getting soaked as they passed through the waterfall curtain.

  Once outside the cave, Aedin took them to his secret path up the cliff face. Elenn cried and swore that she could not make the climb, but he pulled and pushed her all the way to the top. Then he dragged her through the woods toward Ghel. Every time she fell down, he picked her up again, with an infuriatingly cheery smile.

  After a couple of hours, Elenn found herself able to stumble along behind Aedin on her own. The movement and exertion helped a little to clear the fog in her head, although it did nothing for the pain. Sometimes it was all Elenn could do to stay vertical, especially since she needed at least one hand to hold her throbbing head together.

  Staggering forward as best she could, she was smacked in the face by a tree branch which sprang at her out of nowhere. The blow dumped her flat on her back, and knocked the wind out of her.

  “Aedin!” she cried, holding her aching head with both hands. She did not know what she had done to merit this monstrous injustice.

  Without warning, he was on top of her, holding his hand over her mouth. Frantic with the fear of being suffocated or worse, Elenn struggled and tried to scream. She pummeled him with her fists and even bit, but he did not move his hand.