“Yes. Come in,” Linden called when she was ready. He turned to her. She had his breeches ready and tossed them to him. He pulled them on as Varn slipped into the room. Maurynna jumped off the bed and went to her clothes chest at the foot of it. She grabbed the first tunic and breeches that came to hand, and stood up to listen.
The usually cheerful kir was frowning. “I thought you might want to know,” he said, “the Saethe is meeting. Now.”
This early? Why, half of them must have been rousted out of bed, Maurynna thought in surprise.
“Why?” Linden asked.
“I don’t know for certain,” said Varn slowly.
“Kitchen rumor, then,” Linden snapped.
Maurynna remembered Linden once telling her that nine times out of ten, whatever came out of the servants’ quarters was correct.
Varn nodded. “Word is that the truedragons suspect it’s either Dharm Varleran or a truedragon named Pirakos in Jehanglan. That Morlen had a Seeing: it will take magic or magical beings to free the captive, so asking a band of truehumans to invade is out, even if they could get into the kingdom.”
The kir paused; he rubbed his short-muzzled face. The next words came out as barely more than a whisper. “Word is that it will take them a few days to make ready, but … The truedragons … The truedragons are going to war.” Tears slid down his furred cheeks.
“Gifnu’s bloody hells,” Linden swore softly. He turned away.
Tunic and breeches slipped from Maurynna’s fingers, and she put her hand over the icy pit where her stomach used to be.
“Dear gods, no,” was all she could say.
Thirteen
It was beginning.
Sulae Shallanan, in dragon form to bring medicine to an isolated family of kir shepherds, saw them first. She mindcalled the other Dragonlords at the Keep. The word spread from them, and soon everyone who could was outside, watching.
“Here they come!” someone cried. The sky to the north grew black across the narrow mountain horizon. Many wept openly. Such a thing had not happened in centuries, not since the shaman’s war that unleashed the wild magic that had created the Dragonlords. No one had ever wanted to see it again.
The truedragons were going to war.
Linden stood with Maurynna, Otter, and Raven. Taren stood to one side. Fear etched the man’s face. Fear and … anger.
Aye, well might Taren be angry. For Linden was angry as well, that the truedragons should try this way first and go so much against their natures. But who were any of them to tell the great lords of the sky their business?
The truedragons were nearly overhead now. Like a swarm of monstrous locusts they came on, one after another. The sky grew dark overhead as they passed over and those upon the ground watched in silence. But all too soon the pale blue of the autumn sky reappeared.
“Morlen couldn’t stop them?” Maurynna whispered.
“No.” Lleld came up. “He was outvoted.” For once Lleld did not look happy to be the bearer of tidings. Her brown eyes brimmed with tears. “All save the very old, the very young, and the infirm are with their army.”
“And Morlen?” asked Maurynna. “I thought I—” Her voice shook.
“And Morlen, love,” Linden said. He stroked her hair. “I recognized him.”
“He wouldn’t leave the others to face this danger; though he’s old and his magic isn’t what it once was—his words, I heard the Lady say—it’s still strong. He doesn’t agree with this plan, but he won’t desert them,” said Lleld. Her voice quivered, and she turned her face away to watch the truedragons once more.
“May the gods help them,” Otter said after the last truedragon disappeared beyond the range of mountains to the south of Dragonskeep.
“And see them safely home,” Linden said. To himself he said, I had no idea there were so few of them. Gods help us all, what if the Jehangli magic is stronger than theirs?
It could mean the end of the truedragons. He shut his eyes against the thought. “Avert,” he whispered against Maurynna’s hair. “Avert.”
His master slept. Hodai stood in the doorway and listened to Pah-Ko’s deep, even breathing, broken by an occasional whimper brought on by surges of the pain that was a nira’s constant companion. He was glad his master could find even this much relief in slumber. That Pah-Ko napped also meant Hodai could go outside to play for a time.
Like a bright-eyed mouse, Hodai left the chambers of the nira and slipped through the halls of the temple complex that crowned Mount Kajhenral. Whenever he couldn’t avoid being seen, the little Oracle trotted purposefully along, knowing that if he seemed to be on an errand for the Holy One, no one would stop him.
Not even Haoro. Hodai pattered down the curving stairs that led to the back exit by the temple storerooms.
But as if the thought were a summoning, Haoro was standing at the bottom of the stairs, talking to one of the lesser priests who oversaw the storerooms.
“I wish more of the new incense to be sent to my rooms. The scent is most pleasing.”
Hodai stumbled to a halt. He tried to turn around, but in his terror, his legs betrayed him. They gave way and he sat with such force that a pained grunt forced its way out.
Haoro instantly looked up the stairs and saw him. The Oracle could only stare back, too frightened to move. The priest studied him for a moment that went on and on as Hodai’s blood pounded in his ears like thunder. He thought he would faint. When he saw the smile that crept at last across Haoro’s face, he nearly did.
Haoro knew.
With a flick of his hand, Haoro dismissed the lesser priest. The man hurried away. Hodai willed his legs to stand, to run, but they had all the strength of melted wax. He could only watch the priest mount the stairs toward him, each stride as slow and deliberate as a stalking tiger’s.
“You’ve something to tell me.”
Hodai trembled. No! he wanted to shout, to jump up and run away. But the gift of speech was not his, nor would his body obey him. The best he could do was lock his fingers together so hard it hurt and vow not to—
The priest’s hand gestured. Once more the ghostly, beautiful voice sang in the air. Once more the sound smote Hodai to the heart. He listened hungrily; it died away too soon, leaving him aching for more.
“That can be yours, Hodai. Yours for as long as the phoenix lives.”
Still under the spell of the voice, Hodai unclenched his hands and, like one in a trance, began forming words with trembling fingers.
When Hodai was done, Haoro said, “Yet he has said nothing of actually undoing the binding?”
Hodai shook his head vigorously, his paralysis of terror finally breaking. No, he signed again and again.
“Then I shall let him dig this tiger pit a little deeper for himself.” To Hodai’s relief, Haoro continued up the steps past him. The young Oracle stared rigidly ahead, willing Haoro far, far away.
But the reprieve was cruelly short. For Haoro, stopping just behind him, said, “You’re loyal to Pah-Ko, aren’t you, little Oracle. For this didn’t happen today, did it?”
Hodai stiffened. How did—?
“I always know, boy. So don’t think to warn Pah-Ko, Hodai. For if you do, I’ll know that as well. And then you shall die. Do you understand?”
Hodai nodded stiffly, still not daring to turn his head. Not until the last echoes of footsteps were long gone, and his buttocks were nigh as cold as the stone he sat upon, did Hodai dare to move.
When he did, he trudged back up the stairs, all thoughts of play forgotten, as empty inside as a ghost.
Taren sat close to the fire after a dinner few had the appetite for, a heavy shawl over his shoulders and a blanket covering his lap. His sallow face looked even yellower in the firelight. The string of white worry beads flashed as they slipped endlessly through his fingers.
Jehanglan must be warm indeed to have thinned Taren’s blood so much, Linden thought as he leaned on the mantel near the former slave’s chair. He looked across at Otte
r, who wore only a woolen tunic and breeches against the chill of the autumn night. Even Otter is comfortable, and he’s older than Taren.
His gaze traveled among the others ranged throughout the chamber. The bard sat in the chair on the other side of the fireplace from Taren, his face grave, studying the goblet in his hand. His harp leaned against the far wall. Linden wondered if Otter would have the heart to sing tonight. Raven sat on a low stool by his great-uncle’s knee, resting his chin in his hands, staring into the fire. He looked troubled.
Lleld and Jekkanadar were curled up together in the room’s only double chair. The little Dragonlord’s fiery red head rested on her soultwin’s shoulder; Jekkanadar put his arm around her. Neither spoke.
In the centuries I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Lleld upset like this. I know I’ve often wished that she weren’t quite so … exuberant, but damn! If this is how that wish is answered, I’ll take her ten times worse than she was before.
Maurynna sat cross-legged on the floor nearby. She picked at the long silken fringe of the Assantikkan sash she wore belting her tunic, braiding and unbraiding it. Her goblet of wine sat untouched by her knee.
“I can’t believe they’re going to try it,” Lleld said, breaking the heavy silence.
Linden sipped his wine. “They couldn’t just leave Pirakos or Varleren or whoever it might be there. What else could they have done?” He held up a hand against the anger that blazed in the red-haired little Dragonlord’s face. “No, I don’t agree it was the right thing to do. I just don’t see how else—”
“That’s because you still think like a soldier,” Lleld snapped. “There are other ways of getting to the honeycomb than running your head into a bees’ nest.”
“What would you suggest?” Linden countered.
Lower lip sticking out, Lleld said, “I don’t know. But there has to be a better way.”
Raven looked up. “I’d never really thought about how many truedragons there were before today. But there seemed far fewer than I thought there would be. Why?”
Linden looked to the two older Dragonlords. I wondered about that myself. Do you think a number of them have chosen to pass on?
Perhaps, came the slow answer from Jekkanadar. And if so, what does that mean?
Not something I like the sound of, said Lleld.
Linden agreed with her and said aloud, “We’re not certain. Perhaps the Lady knows.”
No one spoke; the others looked as grim as he felt. What is it that Maurynna says when she’s angry or upset—“Black dog on my shoulder?”Well, that black dog is prowling this room, he thought. The silence grew, leavened only by the crackling of the flames.
It went on so long that when Otter spoke, Linden jumped, almost spilling his wine.
“Taren.” The bard was no longer studying his goblet, but his face was even graver than before. “Taren, what will the truedragons face? What kind of magic do they have in Jehanglan?”
The soft clicking of the worry beads stopped. “They don’t have magic as we have it here,” Taren answered. “There are no mages. Nor do you find someone such as a milkmaid, say, who can make the butter come with a word. You understand me? Odd little talents.”
Maurynna said, “Mm—yes. The little magics that sometimes crop up. There’s a sailor like that on board my Aunt Maleid’s ship. No matter how wet and tangled the ropes, how tight the knot, it will all come free at his touch if he wills it. My uncles have been trying to lure him away from Aunt Maleid for years.” She smiled. “But she also has the best ship’s cook.”
Welcome laughter at that; the gloom filling the chamber eased a little. But Taren’s statement bothered Linden.
“No magic at all?” he said. “How is the land protected, then? For protected it is, from all I’ve heard.”
Taren shrugged and turned a benign smile upon him. “I was but a lowly slave, Dragonlord. All I know is that I was told there is no magic in Jehanglan, that the Phoenix protects the land with its holy might. I never heard of any mages; there are no stories about them, either.”
A land without magic. It seemed inconceivable to Linden. There was magic everywhere—wasn’t there? Images of a world without it filled his mind; he wasn’t certain he wanted to live there. In the back of his mind a voice said, Did you live in such a place, you would have died six hundred years ago.
Not a comfortable thought, that; the skin down his back crawled and he shivered. He muttered, “Goose walking over my grave.” Then, louder, “Are there no creatures of magic, then, in Jehanglan? Surely the Phoenix is a creature of magic. What about dragons, say, or anything else?”
The firelight danced on Taren’s bald pate as he shook his head. “No dragons. The priests of the Phoenix temple teach that the dragons were evil and the Phoenix killed them all long ago.”
“What do priests from other temples preach?” Otter asked.
“There are no other temples.”
The others looked at each other in astonishment.
Otter persisted. “You mean there’s only one way to worship? No choice of gods to believe in?”
“The Zharmatians—a tribe of horse herders who roam the Western Plains-believe differently. So do others that the Jehangli name barbarian, such as the Tah’nehsieh. But they’re few and powerless, small groups of no importance.”
A gesture of dismissal, and the clicking of the worry beads began again. “Sometimes the soldiers of the priests descend upon a village and take one or more of the children back with them. No one knows why those children are chosen. Males are given to the temple to become priests. I don’t know what happens to the girls.”
“And I don’t think I like Jehanglan,” Lleld muttered under her breath.
By unspoken agreement, the talk drifted onto other, easier, subjects for a time.
The cliff beckoned him. Crawling on hands and knees to the edge, Hodai looked over. Already the valley below was wreathed in darkness.
But it was no darker than his heart. He had betrayed the man he loved like a grandfather, and who loved him as a grandson. He remembered the first time they’d met, how kindly the nira had treated him. He had given his heart then to the man.
He deserved death. But he was young, and the thought of dying frightened him.
Then the wind sang among the rocks below, and in it he heard an echo of the Phoenix’s voice. His voice—someday.
Hodai crept away.
Taren’s head nodded; the next moment he was drowsing in the manner of a man much older, light and easy, as quick to wake as to dream. Linden held a hand out to Maurynna.
“Come,” he whispered as he pulled her up from the floor. “I’ve a wish to learn more of Jehanglan.”
Jekkanadar heard, whispered in turn, “Ah. You’re thinking the same thing, perhaps, as I?” He pointed at the ceiling.
Linden smiled. “Indeed, yes.”
He led the way from the room, Maurynna’s hand warm in his own. Lleld tucked the shawl a little tighter around Taren’s shoulders as she passed him on her way to the door. Once in the hall, Jekkanadar took the lead, scattering a handful of coldfire ahead like scouts.
“Where are we going?” Linden heard Raven mutter to Otter.
“The library,” said the bard. “I’ll wager Lukai and Jenna are still awake and presiding over their kingdom.”
Jekkanadar grinned over his shoulder. “You’ll not find anyone willing to take that wager, bard, in all of Dragonskeep. We know our archivists too well.”
Taren listened as the soft footsteps vanished down the hall. With an oath, he flung the shawl to the floor. Damn them for asking so many—and such searching—questions. As tired as he was of feigning illness, he was glad he had such a trick to fall back on. He would play it as often as he needed.
A sudden shiver reminded him that it was not all a sham. The sickness still had its claws in him. He picked up the shawl once more and wrapped it around his shoulders.
These were the four. He felt it. These would give the throne of Jeha
nglan to his master—if the cursed truedragons didn’t succeed in their mission.
But they cannot succeed. The rogue Oracle said nothing of such a calamity.
Taren paced the room, giving vent to the foulest curses he knew. The truedragons must fail, he told himself again and again. If they did not, it would completely negate Lord Jhanun’s Oracle. And that could not be.
Yet no Oracle, not even a nira’s, saw everything.
Damn the truedragons.
He hoped whichever way it went, it would be over soon. This waiting was driving him mad.
Jekkanadar led them down the hall to a wooden door. He pushed it open, revealing a narrow stone staircase. It curved around and around; with each step Linden’s feet found the smooth hollows worn in the stone treads, testimony to the many Dragonlords who had sought knowledge or simply quiet in the centuries since Dragonskeep was built.
And how many of us have come this way biting our fingernails because we didn’t complete the lessons our tutors had set us? he wondered, remembering when he was new to the Keep and learning the languages of the Five Kingdoms. He could smile about it now, but old Brithian—his tutor for Pelnaran—had been a terror; a ghost of long-ago apprehension tweaked Linden as he reached the final step. He paused to shut the door at the top of the staircase before following the others down the hall.
They filed into the library. Jenna, the archivist, sat at a table near a window; she looked up in surprise from her book. Lukai, her truehuman counterpart, came out of one of the small rooms used for lessons, feather duster in hand. He blinked owlishly at them. Kir and truehuman looked first at each other, then stared at the newcomers in frank astonishment. The only other occupants were two truehuman men, each at a different table.
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