At the north end of the chamber stood an altar made of white marble. So large was the altar that a man could have rested his body full-length upon the altar and still found room to stretch. The altar was known as the First Miracle, for it was so wide that it could not have fit through the door and so heavy that a hundred men could not have lifted it. Yet, here it stood. According to the teachings, the earth itself had given the altar to the First Mistress as a gift.
The marble altar was wonderfully carved in relief, portraying images of dragons. The altar was obviously old, for the white marble was starting to yellow with age. Dust had crept into cracks and crevices so that each carved scale of every dragon was clearly outlined in black.
The top of the altar was smooth. An iron brazier, formed in the shape of two nurturing hands, stood beside the altar. One of the most important duties of the Sisterhood was to keep the sacred flame burning, for, the first Mistress had prophesied, if the sacred flame was ever doused, the dragons would win and Seth would fall. The fire’s fuel was peat, dug from the bogs down in the valley, formed into bricks and hauled up the mountain by peat men, the only males ever permitted to come close to the monastery (with the exception of the men chosen monthly for breeding). The men brought the peat to within five miles of the Sanctuary. The warrior women hauled it from that point the rest of the way.
The sisters themselves carried the peat down the stairs to a small cavern off the main Sanctuary, where the bricks were blessed and sanctified by the Mistress. Incense and perfume were added to the peat to further purify the fire. A shaft in the ceiling carried the sacred smoke out the top of the mountain. On a cloudless day, the people in the city of Seth could look up into the mountains and see the thin curl of smoke rising from the brazier and take comfort in the knowledge that the Mistress was watching over them.
Each sister knelt on a small wool rug decorated with the symbols of the Watchful Eye, the Nurturing Hand, and the Hand Defending. In one hand was the spear, in another the thunderbolt, symbolizing the two means of combating the dragons—the spear of the warrior and the thunderbolt of the Sisterhood’s magic.
Melisande entered to find the sisters at their stations, kneeling, forming a circle around a large Eye that had been carved into the granite floor. The Eye was the Second Miracle, for it was said to have appeared the day the Mistress knelt before the altar and proclaimed that here she would fight the dragons. The sisters arranged their rugs so that each faced inward, toward the Eye. Their heads were bowed in prayer, their voices murmuring. All were here. All except the Mistress. Melisande wondered uneasily if the strain had proved too much for the elderly woman, if perhaps she had fallen ill. She was about to go search, when several of the sisters caught sight of her and bowed low to their High Priestess.
Melisande could not leave now. Her sudden departure would cause consternation among the sisters, disrupt their concentration. The Mistress was a proud woman. She would not thank Melisande for coming to fetch her, as if she had forgotten or neglected her duty. If the Mistress was detained, she must have her reasons.
Melisande bowed to the sisters. Gliding across the floor, she took her place at the head of the circle, in front of the marble altar. The sisters wore their sacred garments—gowns of pure white lamb’s wool, embroidered with symbols of the Hands and the Eyes along the hem of the gown and sleeves. Melisande’s gown was similar, except that her gown was black and trimmed in golden thread, to mark her standing as High Priestess.
She inspected each of the sisters, to make certain that each had come properly prepared. Finding all in order, Melisande sank down thankfully onto her rug. The warmth of the fire from the brazier felt good. She realized only then that she was chilled to the bone and shivering. She had not noticed before now.
She began to speak the ritual words of prayer, “O, Mistress of the Dragon, come to us in our time of need ...”
The words held new meaning for her now and she prayed them with a fervor she had never before felt. And, as if in answer, the Mistress of Dragons entered the chamber.
She wore the trappings of her high office: a full-length gown of wool that had been decorated with thousands of tiny beads, designed to resemble the scales of a dragon. Twenty women had worked for five years to construct the gown. Every color scale in the stone jars was represented in the colors of the beadwork and the gown shimmered and gleamed in the firelight. The Mistress wore a golden crown formed of clasped hands, holding the Watchful Eye, a beautiful sapphire.
The sisters bowed low, their heads touching the stone floor. Melisande bowed, then, rising to her feet, she took the Mistress by the hand and led her ceremoniously to the altar. The Mistress took her place beside the flaming brazier. Melisande bowed again and left to return to the head of the circle.
One of the sisters spoke. Her voice was low, but so silent was the chamber that it could be clearly heard.
“Melisande has blood on her sacred garment, Mistress.”
Some of the sisters sucked in their breath, so that a soft sibilant gasp went through the chamber. Melisande had no need to search for the speaker, for she knew quite well who had spoken. Lucretta was five years Melisande’s senior and she had been certain she would be chosen High Priestess. The Mistress had chosen Melisande, however, and Lucretta had been furious. She had taken out her wrath on Melisande, who suffered her slights and insults in silence, knowing, as Lucretta should have known, that petty jealousies must not ever be allowed to break the divine unity of the Sisterhood.
Melisande looked down at the hem and saw the gold thread stained with red, probably from the cuts on her feet. Lucretta must have looked very hard to have seen that. Her body suffused with an unpleasant warmth, Melisande glanced back to where the Mistress stood behind the altar.
“Mistress, I—” Melisande began.
The Mistress made a swift negating motion with her hand, and Melisande fell silent.
“The blood upon the sacred garment of our High Priestess proves her devotion to the cause,” said the Mistress, her tone and expression stern. “Melisande, take your place and lead us in prayer.”
As Melisande knelt upon her rug, she cast one swift glance at Lucretta. The woman’s face was hidden, but the back of her neck was flushed an ugly red. This incident would only further enrage her. Melisande put Lucretta and her petty jealousies firmly out of her mind. They had to battle the dragon.
She faced into the center of the stone Eye carved into the floor and began to recite the ritual Battle Prayer, asking the Mistress to grant them the magic to fight their foe. As she spoke, she extended her hands, one to the sister on her left (thank the Mistress it wasn’t Lucretta!) and one to the sister on her right. Behind her, she could hear the creaking voice of the Mistress reciting the words to the magical spells that were known only to the Mistress of the Dragons and taught to her successor on her deathbed.
One by one, the sisters clasped hands until they had formed a ring around the stone Eye. As Melisande prayed, her elation grew, her voice gained in strength and in power. The sisters joined in the chant and their voices were strong and fervent, so that the chamber rang with their chanting. The sisters began to rock back and forth, holding hands, swaying with the words. The Mistress raised her own voice, her words counterpoint to the chanting of the sisters.
Melisande felt the sisters’ hands she was holding burn with unnatural warmth. The magic, called the “blood bane,” acted on her and the others like a fever, making the skin hot to the touch, sometimes bringing on delirium if the sisters were weak.
The colors burned in her mind, shimmering and whirling and sparking.
Louder and louder the chanting grew. The Mistress’s magic fed the fire in the brazier. The flames leapt high. Those in the valley below, waiting fearfully for the battle, would see the smoke belching from the mountain and they would cheer. The dragon would see the smoke, too, but he would not know its portent.
The Eye carved into the stone blinked and then began to widen and Melisande wondered f
earfully if she was delirious and then she realized, with a thrill that banished pain and fever, that this was the miracle of the magic. Melisande had never seen the miracle and she was awestruck.
The stone floor vanished. Blue sky appeared with the snowcapped peaks of the mountains. The chamber filled with sunlight.
From behind the mountain flew the dragon.
The Mistress gave a great cry that seemed torn from her frail body, a cry of fury and hatred and triumph. The dragon heard it or seemed to, for he turned his head suddenly and stared with narrowed eyes directly at them.
The colors of her mind, colors imprinted on the backs of Melisande’s eyes, took shape and form—spiking yellows and sharp iron grays, stabbing and piercing. The colors blended with the colors of the other sisters, working on the dragon’s mind, confusing him while protecting them from the spells he might cast.
The Mistress unleashed the power of her magic, a burst of energy that rose, swirling, with the smoke.
The dragon tried to veer away, but it was too late. The magic caught the dragon in its vortex. Trapped in the maelstrom, the dragon flapped his wings violently in an effort to escape, but the magic spun him as if he were a foam bubble churned up by the spell’s whirling torrent. The energy whipped his head back and forth and beat against him, buffeting and pummeling his body, and he roared in pain and anger. Round and round the magic tossed the hapless dragon, dragging him downward, to dash his body on the jagged rocks.
He was young and strong and he fought to avoid his terrible fate, but Melisande could see that he was weakening. He was within range of the warriors now. Spears and arrows soared upward in deadly arcs, one tearing through a wing, another bouncing off his scaled hide. He was being sucked down, inexorably, and there was no escape.
Suddenly, the Mistress’s words faltered, became garbled. Melisande glanced over her shoulder, saw the Mistress clutching at her throat.
“Mistress!” Melisande cried, frightened.
“Maintain ... the spell!” the Mistress gasped. Clasping hold of the altar, she struggled to remain standing, but she was too weak. She slid to the floor. The sisters faltered. The chanting petered out. Panic-stricken, they stared at the Mistress, lying on the floor behind the altar. One began to scream hysterically, another burst into tears.
Melisande tried to keep the chanting going, though she knew it was hopeless. Without their Mistress, the sisters were no match for the dragon. The fire in the brazier sank down, so that the smoke was a thin trickle, barely visible.
The dragon realized he was free.
A flap of his leathery wings carried him safely out of range of the spears and the arrows. As he flew off, Melisande noted that one foreleg sagged limp beneath his body, the skin of one wing was torn, and countless arrows stuck out of his flanks. Blood marred the bright green of his scales.
That was the last she saw of him, for the Eye shut out the view, closed on the sunlight and blue sky. The light of the brazier failing, the chamber was dark, filled with the smell of smoke.
The fever of the blood bane left them all weak and drained, yet many of the sisters managed to stagger to their feet, crying out for the Mistress. Melisande heard hysteria in their voices and she feared that this would lead to panic.
“Stop it!” Melisande ordered sharply, blocking the way to the altar. “Regain control of yourselves. Your mad raving will do our Mistress more harm than good.”
Glancing behind the altar, she saw the Mistress lying on the floor, mouth open, feebly gasping for air. “Fetch me cool water and blankets. Make haste.”
The sisters stared at her, helpless to obey. Those who had strength enough to stand were being forced to lean on each other for support. Like them, Melisande was weak and lightheaded as a patient rising from a fever bed. None of them had the strength to fetch anything.
“Then pray for her,” said Melisande.
Most of the sisters looked ashamed of themselves and, sinking to their knees, began to pray fervently. Lucretta alone did nothing. She glared at Melisande, her hatred and envy plain in her eyes.
Melisande had no time to worry about Lucretta. Weak and shaking, her body covered with sweat, Melisande made her way to the altar and to the Mistress. She sank down beside her.
The Mistress could not speak, but she formed the words with her lips. “The dragon!”
“He was grievously wounded and he fled,” said Melisande. Taking hold of the Mistress’s hand, she pressed it to her lips. “Dear Mistress, you saved us from the beast. The people are safe.”
The Mistress struggled to speak. “Not dead?”
“You drove him away and he will not be back soon,” said Melisande. “You must think now of yourself, of resting and getting well.”
The Mistress shook her head in frustration. She fell back, limp and exhausted. She motioned to Melisande with a crook of a shaking finger.
“Come closer.”
Melisande caught back the coil of her hair, bent her head to hear.
“I have failed you,” the Mistress said in a gasping breath.
“No, Mistress, please—” Melisande could not go on for her tears.
“Come to me . . . tomorrow. We start. . . the final training.”
The Mistress fell back. Her eyes closed. Her body went limp.
“She is dead!” cried Lucretta, and a wail rose from the sisters.
“No, she sleeps,” Melisande returned, her voice firm to quell the panic. “She cannot remain here. She must be carried to her chamber.”
But how she was going to manage that, she did not know. She would be lucky to walk ten steps, much less try to carry the Mistress.
The sisters gazed at her in dismay. Their training had not prepared them for this. They had never supposed the Mistress would fail them, that she would need their aid.
“I will go for help,” said Melisande. “The rest of you wait with her, do what you can for the Mistress while I am gone.”
Placing her hands on the altar, she used it to support her weight and pulled herself up. She paused a moment to gather her strength, then, bracing herself, she walked toward the door. Dazed and ill, the others watched her. They could not help her. They could barely help themselves. Melisande concentrated on her destination. Slowly, slowly, the doorway drew near. She couldn’t even think about the long walk through the corridor, back to the bronze doors. She managed to reach the entrance, before her strength gave way. She leaned against the wall, clutched at it to support herself. Her one thought, that she could not let herself fall.
“I’ll rest... a moment. . .”
Strong arms caught her, lowered her gently to the floor. Bellona’s voice, giving orders, echoed through the Sanctuary. Warriors surged past her into the chamber. They carried litters with them, blankets, water, and brandy wine.
Melisande looked into Bellona’s dark, anxious eyes. “I am all right,” she said. “Don’t worry. It is just the weakness of the blood bane. You must tend to the Mistress.”
“She is being cared for,” said Bellona. “I will take her to her chamber, then send for the healers. Rest now, Melis, and leave all to me.”
“The Sanctuary is sacred. You should not be here,” Melisande said, trying to sit up.
“You can clean the chamber of our defilement later,” returned Bellona, pressing her back down.
Melisande gave up the struggle. “How did you know there was trouble?”
“When the magic failed, I knew something had gone wrong.”
The warriors placed the Mistress on a litter and bore her to her chamber. Other warriors helped the sisters, aiding their faltering steps, carrying those who were too weak to walk.
“You see?” Bellona told her. “All is in hand. The dragon fled. It was a glorious battle, even if we did not kill the beast. You should rest now, Melis. You are exhausted. I will take you to your chamber.”
“No, my love,” said Melisande, as sleep, strong and warm as Bellona’s arms, enfolded her. “Take me to yours.”
3
MANY YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE HE HAD RECEIVED A summons. Their silence had not surprised him, for the world was lurching along fairly well—as well as could be expected with humans running it—and his services had not been needed. He’d spent the years roaming the world, moving from place to place, watching, observing, reporting back if circumstances warranted.
His reports were reassuring. The humans were doing as they had always done down through the centuries—making a mess of their own lives, yet somehow managing not only to survive as a species but even to progress. Thus he wondered about the summons. Nothing was amiss, so far as he knew. And they never summoned him unless something was amiss.
His was, by necessity, a stoic nature, and he felt nothing more than mild curiosity as he walked the dark, subterranean corridors that led to the Hall of Parliament. He carried no lamp or torch. He did not need light. He had the ability to magnify ambient light and so the darkness was light to him, albeit a gray-silver, hazy sort of light, as on a night when the light of a full moon can be seen through low-lying ground fog.
He was strong, well-muscled, bronze-skinned from his years of sojourning. He had gray-streaked black hair that he wore clubbed and tied at the back of his neck with a leather thong. He wore leather breeches and a leather vest and leather boots. He bore no sword. He carried a knife, which he used for hunting and eating, and a walking staff, which served to settle any difficulties he might encounter. He had brown eyes hooded by low, dark brows. In some light his eyes glinted red, but he tended to keep out of that sort of light. He had a mouth that was tight-lipped, rarely smiling, never laughing. He spoke little and then always to purpose. He made no friends, took no lovers, for that would mean becoming involved with humans. He was the only one of his kind in the world. He walked the winding corridors carved out of rock that led deeper and deeper underground and he was comfortable and at home. At times, the cavern tunnels were so cramped and narrow that he was forced to crawl through them, at the cost of cuts and scratches and scrapes on his fragile human flesh. More than once rock slides blocked his path, forcing him to stop to clear them. He jumped chasms, waded a dark river. All around him was silence, except for the occasional drip of water or the fall of a pebble somewhere in the distance. He liked silence, preferred silence.
Mistress of Dragons Page 3
