by K. E. Mills
Behind him Lional was crooning again, a ceaseless, sibilant, disconcerting song. Startled, he recognised it as the human voice he could feel through his contact with the dragon's hot hide.
Which meant the other voice belonged to the dragon. No words, there. Just a burning stream of thought and feeling, like lava flowing down a mountainside.
As the countryside unrolled beneath them like a map unfurling, as fields surrendered to houses and paved roads, he tried to see and hear more clearly… and was startled almost into falling to his death.
Lional and the dragon's voices — their minds — were twining like two separate cords, crimson and black, weaving and counterweaving through and about each other to form one dissoluble thread. Soon there would be no unravelling one from the other. They would be a single entity, a unified intelligence. A man-dragon. A dragon-man.
Despite the seething fear and the pain as he blistered his fingers on the dragon's wings, Gerald turned around. Lional's face was frozen in an expression of bliss, lips soundlessly framing the words he could still hear as faint echoes in his reeling mind.
'Stop it, Lional!' he shouted. 'You're losing yourself! The sympathetica — it's backfiring! Break free of the dragon while you still — '
And then he cried out in terror, because Lional's hand was anchored to his shirt collar and Lional's inhumanly strong arm was lifting him off the dragon's back — was dragging him over the dragon's side — was dangling him above the roofs of the houses passing beneath them. His shirt collar was strangling him, his bare flailing feet kicked at thin air. Then Lional hauled him back again and settled him safely behind the dragon's wings.
'Hush, Gerald,' he whispered. 'Didn't your mother tell you? It's rude to interrupt."
Speechless, Gerald clung to the dragon and stared at the ground beneath the creature's belly. At the horse-drawn carriages milling in disarray on every street of the capital. At the pointing, shouting people of New Ottosland whose lives were being torn to pieces even as they clutched one another, weeping, or ran away as though running could save them.
The dragon swooped down on them, its terrible jaws open, fire and poison falling like rain. Gerald stared, sick with horror.
Fire? Fire? How can there he fire? It was only a lizard, it couldn't breatheJlamesl
Except that everyone knew dragons breathed fire. In every story ever written about dragons, in every painting ever put on canvas, there was the dragon… and there were the flames.
/ did this. I changed the lizard to fit my imagination. I didn't know I could do that. I can't believe I made things worse…
He heard the screaming, smelled the smoke of carriages burning, horses burning, people… burning. Saw them burning, silhouettes of flame.
'Lional, nol What are you doing? Those are your subjects, you took an oath to protect them!'
Lional said nothing, he was communing with his dragon. The beast swooped lower, almost skimming the ground. Its massive tail lashed side to side, smashing the nearest buildings to rubble, splintering trees like so much kindling, tossing men and women and carriage horses through the air as though they were made of paper. Perhaps they were.They burned like paper.
Gerald hid from the sight behind one blistered hand, overwhelmed by annihilating grief. It's my fault. It's my fault. I was right. I'm a murderer.
With a last roaring cry the dragon wheeled away from the city and headed back to the hidden valley. As they left the chaotic streets and the broken buildings and the dead and those mourning them far behind Lional fell silent, along with the dragon. Because they had nothing further to say, or because they no longer needed speech, Gerald didn't know. He didn't want to know.
The dragon landed like thistledown at the mouth of the cave. Lional pushed Gerald to the ground and stared down at him disdainfully from the dragon's high back.
Shivering like a man with fever he staggered to his feet. 'Lional, why did you do that? Why did you attack your sovereign subjects?'
Lional shrugged. The dragon shrugged with him. 'Because we wanted to. Because it amused us. Because we are their king and they are ours to play with.'
We. Us. He didn't want to think about that…'It was wrong. They were innocent. And they're not yours, you don't own them.'
Lional and his dragon sighed. 'Ah, Gerald. We hoped you would see. We hoped at last you would understand. But you do not. Your thoughts to us are clear as glass, and empty. No greatness in you for all your powers. You are puny and your purpose is served. Crawl into your cage and wait for us, little man. We will return when you are required.'
I could refuse. I could defy him. The dragon would kill me and this would be over.
Except he couldn't. That would be taking the coward's way out. As long as he lived there was a chance… no matter how remote… of somehow finding a way to stop Lional. To undo the damage. To make good, in part at least, his terrible mistakes.
He backed up slowly till he stood once more in his rocky prison. 'When will that be? When will I be… required… again?'
'We do not know.' As Lional smiled, poison dripped smoking from the dragon's open mouth. 'But we do have news for you. We saved it for this moment.' 'What news?' 'The bird has returned.'
Reg. Disbelieving joy surged through him, momentarily banishing grief. 'She came back? She's all right? Can I see her?'
Lional's smile widened; the dragon hissed. 'If you like.' He snapped his fingers and a moment later was holding something limp. Feathered. Dangling. Lional tossed it. There was a thud as it landed in the dirt at Gerald's feet. He couldn't look at it.
Lional stroked the dragon's crimson and emerald hide. All its spines stood upright, glistening. 'Yes, my friend, the bird came back,' he said dreamily. 'And it was rude. So Lional killed it.'
Gerald staggered sideways, groping for the solidity of the cave wall. He still couldn't bring himself to look at the thing at his feet. Lional snapped his fingers.' Vanishati!
The air before Gerald's eyes rippled. Solidified. Became rock. Once more he was imprisoned inside the cave, with a few bobbing lights to alleviate the dark. Only this time he wasn't alone. After a long, long moment he lowered his gaze to the floor.
Bent and broken feathers. Brown, with a tracing of black. Creamy flecks on breast and face. A brown band across the glazed unseeing eyes. Reg.
Without warning all the little lights still clustered against the roof went out and the cave was plunged into utter darkness.
Gerald fell to his knees. Fell further. Lay face down in the dirt, and wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Sultan of Kallarap s palace was a modest, single-level, twenty-room affair built of mysteriously acquired blue and grey marble slabs. Located in the middle of a small but fertile oasis, it basked in shade provided by groves of date palms. The desert's dry air tinkled with the music of fountains and songbirds, thrummed with the rushing eagerness of cunningly designed miniature waterfalls. Gentle breezes stirred perfume from lovingly tended flowerbeds. Peace; tranquility; reverent calm: all surrounded the sultan's home, drowsy in the sunshine.
Mid-morning's hush roused briefly as a camel barked from the comfort of its bed in the stable yard beyond the gardens, where the sultan's peerless racing team lived in luxury.
Moments later all the camels were barking as a train of their brethren returned from a long hot journey beneath the burning sun, across daunting miles of sparkling sand and treacherous, shifting dunes.
As camel boys tipped out of their hammocks and raced to succour their weary charges, Shugat slid creakily from his saddle and blessed his beast, for it had carried him well and the gods liked their children to be appreciated. Then he turned to the sultan's regrettable brother and said curtly, 'You will wait in the gods' room while I seek their guidance. Once the will of the Three is revealed we will report to the sultan, may he live forever, the outcome of our mission.'
Nerim slid off his camel in such a rush that he nearly sprawled on the mud brick ground. 'But Shugat, the gods have alre
ady spoken! Zazoor must — '
He stepped close to the prince and glared. 'Be silent!' he hissed, with a quick glance to make sure the camel boys weren't listening, it is not for you to say what was seen and heard in the court of New Ottosland's oath-breaker king. Remain silent or I shall petition the gods to shrivel your tongue and your manhood both! Now do as I bid you, Blood of the Sultan, may he live forever. I will join you presently'
Chastened, with the whites of his eyes showing his proper fear, Nerim clasped his dirty hands palm to palm before his chest and bowed. 'I hear and obey, Holy One.'
Shaking his head, Shugat glared after Zazoor's foolish brother as he hobbled away, then collected his staff from his camel's saddle, silenced the protests from his aged muscles and turned his back on the chattering camel boys to seek the solitude and wisdom of his gods.
Surely they would speak to him here in holy Kallarap.
He lived in a dwelling apart from the palace, but still within its grounds. No elegant marble edifice, his, but a squat and simple mud brick box, its roof a thatching of dried palm fronds plastered against the infrequent rain with cured camel dung. It was part of the arrangement the most senior holy men of Kallarap had made with the Three from the dawn of time: an austere life without adornment, accolades or the trappings of position, with simple clothes of undyed linen, plain meals of dates, camel milk and goat flesh, and every day of their allotted span spent in selfless service; in return they were gifted the glory of the gods' words and power enough to pluck a star from the sky should a single candle fail in the dark of night.
At the first touch of his gods' vast and fiery minds, all those years ago, he knew he had by far the better part of the bargain.
He knelt before their shrine now, still stinking and smudged with the grime and sweat of his long ride home. Devoutly carved into the precious wood, rare mahogany from a distant unknown land, inlaid with crafted and polished andaleya, the Tears of the Gods, they bent their ruby eyes upon him, the Dragon, the Lion and the Bird, waiting with their infinite patience for him to open his heart to their desires.
So he did. And after the long silence that had frightened him as he had never felt fear in his life… the Three heard his prayers and spoke to him. He wept.
When at last they had imparted their desires, he levered himself to his feet with his staff and went frowningly about the business of preparing for an audience with the sultan, who had no chance at all of living forever and moreover, unlike some of his forbears, knew so full well and was at peace with the knowledge.
Which was but one among many reasons why he liked Zazoor and had vowed to protect him and his honour to the last drop of blood and breath in his aged and wasting body.
Most especially he intended to protect him, and all of Kallarap, from the soulless predator known as His Sovereign Majesty King Lional, Forty-third ruler of New Ottosland.
The palace's gods' room was a high-ceilinged, incense-scented place of worship and contemplation. Hand-woven carpets of rich blues and greens covered the marble floor so that the sultan and his dependents might properly prostrate themselves before the Three set high upon their plinth in the chamber's centre.
Sunlight shafted through the attenuated windows, piercing the cool shadows and striking splendid sparks of colour from the gods' silver and gold wrought bodies, their ruby eyes, their diamond teeth and claws. Not wood, these icons, not even for the sultan. Only the most-blessed sultan's holy man, touched by the might and majesty of the Three, knelt before wood in a desert land where no wood was to be found.
As instructed, Nerim was waiting for him beneath the swathes of silk draped overhead from wall to wall. Less expected was the sight of Zazoor, an older mirror image of Nerim but, by some strange alchemy, more real, more vital, by the gods' grace distilled to the purest essence of intellect and honour. Kneeling on the carpets beside his young brother, head lowered and eyes half-closed in concentration, he listened to Nerim prattle breathlessly about -
Shugat frowned. Without hearing a single word he knew exactly what Nerim was prattling about. In his tightened grasp his staff quivered, and the single gods'Tear in his forehead flashed white fire.
Zazoor glanced up. One hand lifted, silencing his brother's rattling tongue. After a long, steady look at his holy man he turned his head, lips brushing Nerim's sun-scorched cheek. He whispered something into his brother's crimson-tipped ear. Nerim nodded, smiled, kissed his brother's hand, placed Zazoor's palm atop his head in formal obeisance and withdrew, skipping past like a camel colt caught in mischief.
Zazoor looked after him, a rueful smile thawing, a little, his natural reserve. 'We both know there is no wilful disobedience in him, my holy man,' he said, voice and dark blue eyes tranquil. 'He was but overwhelmed by his experiences in New Ottosland. Did he drive you to complete distraction?'
Shugat scowled. 'Not quite complete. My sultan — '
Zazoor raised a placating hand, i know. I know. His intellect is… feeble. But he has a good heart and in some ways he is closer to the people than I, their sultan. It's why I sent him with you, Shugat. As a barometer.' 'You think I did not know that?'
'No,' said Zazoor. 'I can hide nothing from my redoubtable Shugat. What did you learn from him?'
He snorted. 'What you already knew, Zazoor. That weak eyes are easily dazzled.'
Zazoor grinned, a rare flashing of white teeth, and uncoiled from the carpet to stand lightly on the balls of his feet, poised for any challenge the Three saw fit to provide. 'So you did not care overmuch for my dear old school chum Lional?'
He would have spat, were it not that he stood in the gods' room, in their presence. 'A veritable sand viper, Zazoor, and I fear I slight the snake to say so.' He grimaced. 'Even a sand viper may be spit-and-roasted if starvation is the only other choice. Not so this Lional. The flesh of New Ottosland's king would dissolve a man's teeth in his gums and burst his belly with acid bile.'
'In other words,' said Zazoor, 'he hasn't changed.' He indicated one of the marble benches set into the wall of the gods' room, in deference to the old and the infirm and the very young who found themselves in need of the gods' succour or assistance.'Come. Let us sit and talk, old friend.'
Shugat bowed to the Three, shining in the sunlight, then took his place at Zazoor's side. Leaning back into the seating alcove, right knee drawn up to his chest, arms linked loosely about it, Zazoor considered him, one eyebrow raised in silent enquiry.
'This Lional is a bad man, my Sultan,' he said, shaking his head.'He wishes us nothing but ill.' Zazoor frowned. 'How do you know?'
He bared his stumpy teeth in a grim smile. 'He offers you the hand of his only sister in marriage.'
'Princess Melissande? Yes. So Nerim said.' Zazoor pursed his hps in thought.'I met her. Years ago. A squat child with hair like rusty nails. I don't suppose…'
'Alas, no. Outwardly the lowliest maid in your smallest village is more comely to the eye.'
'Ah.' Zazoor sighed. He was a kind man. 'A pity, then, for her sake.'
'The palace servants say she is strict but fair, honest and overworked,' he added. 'Beauty burns away beneath the sun, Zazoor, but an honourable heart withstands even Grimthak's mighty flame. I judge Princess Melissandes heart to be most honourable. She would make a worthy wife and mother of your sons but she is not for you.'
Zazoor's eyebrow lifted again.'That is not what Nerim says. Nerim says the gods most earnestly desire me to marry Lional's sister.'
'As ever, Nerim snatches at the truth like a child greedy for a sweetmeat, who takes only the wrapping and leaves the real prize behind,' he said, disapproving. 'It is Lional who says the gods desire you to marry the girl.This is untrue. I say it again, great Sultan of Kallarap: the Princess Melissande is not for you. Her destiny lies along a different path.'
'Ah,' said Zazoor, then fell silent. At length he stirred, the merest hint of a rueful smile touching his lips. 'No word yet, I suppose, on who is for me?'
He rapped his staff lightly agains
t the side of the sultan's head. 'When the gods choose your proper wife you will be the second to know.'
Zazoor flattened his hands to his heart, the sign of obedient acceptance. 'Lional thinks, of course, to void the treaties with this proposed marriage. Perhaps more, and worse. Knowing him as I do, his offer does not surprise me.'
'More and worse,' Shugat said grimly. 'You have the right of it. You must refuse the king's offer in such a way that he cannot vent his rage upon his sister. For that, I judge, is the honour of his heart.'
Zazoor smiled. 'As always, friend Shugat, your eyes see a man's soul as keenly as Vorsluk.'Then his smile faded and his face took on a solemn cast. 'Nerim says Vorsluk and Lalchak were present in Lional's court. He says they answered Lional's plea but not your own. He says Vorsluk spoke on Lional's command.' His breath caught in his throat as though he were nearly overcome. 'These are wonders I did not think to hear, Shugat, and I confess I find them hard to believe… but can I deny them? Nerim is my brother and for all his foolishness he does not lie.'
Shugat rested his chin on his chest and sighed deeply. 'Nerim's faith is pure. He looks at the world with the eyes of a child, Zazoor, and in his breast beats the heart of a child. Like a child he cannot conceive of wickedness and perfidy. I may at times long to beat him, but still I would have him thus till the end of his days if to have him otherwise gave him the eyes and heart of a man like Lional. Nerim saw and believed what he was intended to see and believe. There was a bird, and it did speak. But it was not the voice ofVorsluk that Nerim and I heard.'
'Then what was it?' said Zazoor, after a moment of silent surprise.
He shrugged. 'What else but some feathered thing captured and taught to mimic speech? Trained to speak on Lional's command.'
'It is possible, I suppose,' Zazoor agreed, frowning. 'But what of Lalchak? Nerim says the Lion showed Lional great favour and did not smite him with tooth or claw.' 'Lions, too, can be tamed and trained.'
