“I know your name,” she said, a tiny smile forming. “Everyone does. They’re saying you have the blood of a dragon in you. Is that true?”
“In a way,” he replied. “My family has a special connection to dragons.”
“My mother says it's unnatural.”
“And what do you think?”
Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know. You seem normal to me.”
Looking at this timid child, Martok was even more convinced that he had been right to help her. Whatever the consequences, he would accept them. “You should go before you are missed and get into trouble,” he told her.
She nodded. “You're right. I should. But I really hope nothing bad happens to you.” Having said that, she quickly turned and hurried away.
Martok laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. Her visit had complicated matters in his mind even further now. He would of course do his best not to cause trouble for his uncle. All the same, in spite of his promise, he knew for certain that if he was once again faced with the choice of whether or not to 'do the right thing', he would still follow his father's advice.
Another hour passed before finally Sylas returned. Martok could see that his face was tight and his eyes dark.
“What happened?” he asked. “Am I in trouble?”
“We have reached an accord with the families of the four boys,” he replied.
“What kind of accord?”
Sylas took a seat on the edge of the bed. “This isn’t going to be easy for you, I’m afraid.”
Martok frowned. “What do you mean?”
“After a long and very heated debate it was decided that the families would receive compensation for your aggression toward their children.”
“Are you saying you had to pay them?”
“That was one option, yes.” He was unable to look Martok directly in the eye. “The other was for you to receive a lashing with a wooden cane.”
A chill shot down Martok's spine. “And what did they choose?”
“Three families chose to receive gold. Only one chose the alternative.”
He did not need his uncle to tell him which family that was.
“I need you to be brave,” Sylas added. “Can you do that?”
Martok closed his eyes. So this was the price. He had already decided that whatever punishment came his way, he would face it with courage. But he had seen grown men being caned and heard them wail from the pain of it. His hands began to tremble, though it was only for a second or two. In that very moment of need, the distant call of the dragons echoed in the corner of his mind, filling him with courage and steeling his resolve.
He looked up. “When will they do it?”
“Immediately.”
“And then what?”
Sylas refused to speak further. He simply rose from the bed and crossed over to the door.
Martok allowed the dragons’ voices to rage through him. “Then let’s get on with it.”
He followed his uncle through a labyrinth of corridors until reaching an open courtyard. Standing ominously in the very center of this, he immediately saw a tall whipping post with a large iron hook embedded halfway up. Evelyn Bronstar was waiting alongside Kytain Prustoni a short distance back, while a grinning Desmond clutching a four-foot long cane roughly as thick as a man’s finger had already positioned himself close to the post.
“I insisted that no one else be allowed to witness this,” his uncle whispered.
“Thank you,” he replied. It was hard enough coming to terms with the fact that it would be Desmond himself administering the punishment. The added humiliation of being a spectacle for the entertainment of the guests would have made it almost unbearable.
Sylas led him over to the post. “He’s allowed to strike you five times. No more.”
This was at least a small comfort. The canings he had seen in the past had often involved twenty or more lashes.
Kytain approached holding a pair of leather bindings that he placed on Martok’s wrists. “I am truly sorry it has come to this,” he said quietly. “But your uncle tells me you possess great courage for one so young. I am sure you will endure.” With a quick movement, he lifted Martok completely off the ground. “Place your bindings over the hook,” he ordered.
Martok did as he was told. He could hear the wretched sound of Desmond giggling behind him.
“Let us not prolong this,” Kytain said curtly to the boy. “Have your retribution and be done with it.”
Suspended against the post, Martok concentrated his mind totally on the dragons. He was there with them, sharing their raw power and passion as they streaked across a clear sky. The exhilaration of the hunt and the blood lust of the kill. He could almost feel the wind on his face.
When the first blow came it landed squarely across his shoulders, sending waves of pain shooting through his entire body. Clenching his jaw and sucking his teeth, he forced himself to remain focused. Show them no hint of suffering, he kept telling himself. Stay with the dragons. Then the second blow came. Harder than the first, it snatched him violently back to earth and into the dreadful realm of agonizing reality. Still, from somewhere deep, he found the strength not to cry out.
“Harder, Desmond,” Evelyn urged. “The lesson must be learned properly.”
The third blow landed on his lower back. Desmond grunted loudly from the sheer effort it took to deliver. But to Martok's amazement, rather than increasing his suffering, this time the pain was nothing more than a dull sensation. Then, with a rush, he understood what was happening. A primal rage from the other side of the world had filled him. The dragons could feel his pain, and they were lending him their strength. He let out a soft laugh.
“You should have taken the gold,” he goaded. “You’re no better at this than you are at magic, Desmond.” He thought he heard a chuckle come from Kytain, but he could not be sure.
His torturer screamed with rage as he landed the fourth blow. It was all to no effect. Martok now felt as if his skin was covered in hard scales. He laughed again, this time far more loudly.
“This is an outrage!” cried Evelyn. “There must be some protective spell or ward at work.”
“I assure you there is not,” Kytain told her. “I would know if there were. The boy is simply stronger than you…or I, had anticipated. Strike once more and finish receiving the compensation you required.”
Martok smiled, his mind crossing the vast expanse that lay between him and the dragons. Then the clatter of wood striking the ground caught his attention. From the corner of his eye he saw Desmond leaving, his grandmother following close behind. They were done. He hadn't even been aware of the final lash landing.
He felt himself being lifted from the hook and placed gently back down. The moment his feet touched the tiles, the bindings on his wrists dissolved in a puff of red smoke.
Martok turned to see Kytain eyeing at him curiously. “Where is my uncle?” he asked.
His question was ignored. “Come with me, Martok Dragonvein. I would speak with you.”
He stood defiantly. “I have taken your punishment. Where is my uncle?”
“Come with me, boy,” Kytain repeated, his voice stern. “You are brave. But you are also a guest in my house. I will not tolerate discourtesy. Your uncle did not wish to witness your punishment. A pity actually. He would have been proud of you.”
The sting of the caning was now beginning to creep in. But Kytain’s words filled him with pride, helping him to push it away.
Nonetheless, something of it must have shown through. “Lift your shirt and let me see your injuries,” Kytain said. This was a command, not a request.
Martok did as instructed.
“Would I be correct in guessing that your connection with the dragons helped you through this ordeal?” the lord asked.
Martok hesitated. Such topics were rarely spoken of outside of the family. The general public opinion of the Dragonvein's bond had made it an uncomfortable subject. Sylas frequently warned him n
ot to do anything that might draw attention to it. But Martok did not sense the same prejudice in Kytain that he saw in others.
“They helped, yes,” he admitted.
“Interesting.”
Very quickly he felt healing magic soothing his wounds. In only a few seconds, the pain was gone entirely. He lowered his shirt and bowed in gratitude.
“Does your uncle allow you wine?”
“With meals,” he replied.
Without another word, Kytain started from the courtyard, clearly expecting Martok to follow. He led him along a series of hallways and through a massive ballroom before arriving in a dimly lit study. The walls here were adorned with a variety of rare and spectacular works of art, while the furniture had the dual look of being both masterfully crafted and extremely comfortable. Kytain jerked his head sharply, prompting a cheerful looking fire to jump up in the marble hearth.
After pointing Martok to a chair, he crossed the room to retrieve a bottle and two glasses from an elegantly carved cabinet. “If you insist on a meal with your wine, I can have something brought,” he said.
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
He poured them each a glass and sat down in the facing chair. “What do you think of my home?”
Martok found this to be a strange question. “It’s magnificent, of course.”
Kytain cocked his head. “Do you really think so? I find it a bit too much at times. Too many halls and chambers.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But what can I do? It was built by my family long ago and is the ancestral home.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you do. You miss your own home, do you not?”
Martok nodded. “And my father.”
“Ah, yes. The mysterious Ralmar Dragonvein. Off living amongst the dragons. How long has he been away?”
“Three years.”
“And when do you anticipate his return?”
Martok shrugged. “I’m not sure. Soon, I hope.”
“And what do you plan on doing while he is away?”
“I suppose I’ll continue my studies and help my uncle take care of our lands and manor.”
“What if I told you that you would not be returning home?”
Martok froze. The look in Kytain’s eyes told him that his words were not spoken in jest. “I am going home,” he insisted.
“One day,” he agreed, sitting his wine glass on the side table. “But you are to remain here with me for a while.”
Martok shot from his chair. “My uncle would never allow that. And you have no right to keep me here.”
“I have every right,” he corrected coolly. “And believe me when I tell you it will be much to your benefit. So please, sit back down and allow me to explain what is happening.”
Martok hesitated, but in the end did as he was told. “I think my uncle should be here,” he said.
“Your uncle is preparing to leave as we speak.”
Martok started to rise again, but this time Kytain waved a hand, pinning him back down with an unseen force. After a brief struggle he realized it was useless. None of the spells he tried had any effect whatsoever. Kytain waited patiently until he'd given up before continuing.
“Your little spat with Desmond and his friends has given Evelyn Bronstar precisely what she wanted. A husband for her daughter and a powerful mage to teach her grandson.”
“But I thought the caning was the punishment?”
“For you, yes. But Sylas understands just how cunning and ruthless the Bronstar family can be. Particularly Evelyn. During the meeting she made sure Sylas understood very clearly that her intention was to bring down your house as retribution, regardless of what was done to you. And given the circumstances, along with the fact that the other houses fear her, no one would have objected. Some might have even helped. That meant Sylas had little choice but to go along with her wishes.”
All of Martok's worst fears were materializing. “If my uncle is to go with them, then I must return to Dragonvein manor.”
“No. I’m afraid you are too young to be left with that responsibility. Should I allow you to return home, the other great houses would seize the opportunity to take your lands away.”
“They could try,” Martok hissed.
Kytain laughed heartily before pouring more wine. “I know you are extremely powerful for one so young. I could feel that when you attempted to break free of my hold a moment ago. There's no doubt at all you could defend your home as well as most. But in this instance you would not be facing a single enemy – you'd be facing scores of them. And no one would come to your aid. They would justify their attack by hiding behind the law. You cannot legally possess lands until you reach sixteen. They will claim to be holding it in trust for you until you are old enough, or until your father returns. That would be a lie, of course. Once they have their greedy hands on your property, they will never relinquish it.”
“My uncle would not allow this to happen,” Martok shot back. “He would help me protect our home.”
“Don't you see? He is helping you. With an alliance through marriage with the Bronstar family, he will have instantly increased your family’s position.”
“Then who will take care of my home?”
“I will.”
Martok eyed the lord suspiciously. “You? You have no right to control our lands.”
“As your guardian, I most certainly do.”
“My uncle is my guardian while my father is away,” he retorted. “Not you. I demand to see him…right now.” He was barely able to contain his urge to attack the man, even though he knew this would be a disastrous mistake. Still, he would not allow Kytain Prustoni to take away his family home.
Raising a pacifying hand, Kytain allowed his tone to become soothing; almost fatherly. “Calm yourself, Martok. I have no intention of stealing what is rightfully yours. I will simply ensure that upon your father’s return, all will be as he left it. In the meantime, you will remain here with me.”
“Was this my uncle’s idea?” he asked, feeling very much betrayed.
“No, it was mine. And if it soothes your heart, it took no small measure of convincing for him to agree. He was planning to take you with him to live with the Bronstar family…and Desmond. However, I explained to him that it would be far better for you to stay here.”
“But why?” An uncomfortable sense of helplessness was bearing down on him. “Why do you want me here?”
“Because as wealthy as my house has become, and as powerful as I am personally, I need allies as well. And you, dear boy, will one day make a very powerful ally indeed. I foresee great things in you. You already possess more power than many adult mages. And though Sylas is strong, I am stronger. That is not a boast. It is a fact. Even without me as your teacher you will overcome most mages one day. But with my help, there is nothing you will not be able to accomplish.” He leaned forward to lock eyes with Martok. “If you want to protect your home and your family, what better way is there than this?”
Martok’s mind was racing. Something about this felt wrong – as if by staying here he was betraying his father's trust. At the same time, there was no denying that what Kytain had told him was correct. With the house of Prustoni guarding his home, no one would dare to attack it. But of course, Kytain could be lying. The lord may simply intend to use this guardianship as justification to seize possession of all Dragonvein holdings for himself. It was difficult to know the truth.
“I can see you are troubled by all this,” Kytain continued. “But there really is no other choice for you. You are staying here, and that is the end of the matter. You can either benefit from our time together, or not. That's entirely up to you. I cannot force you to take my instruction. Nor would I wish to.”
With a sinking feeling, Martok realized that he was right. There was nothing he could do to change things. He was powerless. Silently, he promised himself that one day it would not be like this. One day, no one would be able to hold power over him. He would b
e in full control of his own destiny. Kytain's instruction could be the key to that.
“Then I choose to learn,” he said, giving a curt nod.
Kytain smiled broadly. “Excellent. I must say that I am greatly excited by the prospect of discovering all that you are capable of achieving.”
“Will I see my uncle before he leaves?”
“No. He wanted to say goodbye, but Lady Bronstar was insistent that he did not.”
“So when do we begin?”
Kytain chuckled. “We already have.”
Chapter Seven
With heart pounding from the exhilaration of the hunt, Martok closed his eyes and focused fully on drawing in long steady breaths. The energy must not rule him. He must harness it.
The bow he held - a gift from Kytain - felt like a perfectly natural extension of his arm; which was to be expected, seeing as how it had been made specifically for him by the finest craftsman in all of Lumnia. The same could be said of the deadly accurate arrows he carried. In fact, together with soft leather shoes helping him to creep silently through the leaf-covered forest floor and deerskin shirt and trousers making him practically invisible, he was the perfectly equipped hunter. The clothes had been a gift too, but from his father. He'd had them made for him solely for this particular type of hunt.
No matter how many times Kytain took him into the dense forests of the Prustoni Estate, Martok never felt quite the same contentment as when he was here, in the places where his father had taught him as a child to track and live off the land – without the aid of magic.
When Kytain had first discovered that his new charge not only possessed these skills, but enjoyed using them, he'd been elated.
“I thought I was the only mage who appreciated such simple tranquility,” he said. “I will insist your father join me on a hunt when he returns home.”
“My father hunts alone,” Martok told him. “He says I’m still too young.”
“Not in this household you are not. Here, you are as much an adult as any other.”
This had pleased Martok to no end. But he quickly found privilege came at a price.
Dragonvein Book Four Page 9
