Stone Dragon (The First Realm)

by Testamark, Klay

  Chapter 2

  Several things happened at once:

  I stumbled back—the box wine fell—Elrond yelled, “The wine!”—and a glyph appeared before my eyes and I poured energy into it.

  Featherfall isn’t a particularly elegant spell. It simply grabs all the air in the vicinity and forces it under whatever’s falling. It’s like hitting a warm feather bed, and for that reason it’s one of the first things taught to elven children. Later on, when they’re old enough for weapons training, it’s also the first thing drilled into them. Elves hate accidents, and especially dying of accidents.

  My ears popped. The windows blew in. Every bottle behind the counter went bang! I winced. Featherfall isn’t for indoor use. In fact, it’s why elven training halls have big open windows.

  The box wine slowed, sank, and hit the floor with gentlest of thumps.

  I became aware that I was holding my fighting sticks. The carvings glowed because I’d teleported them into my hands. My hands were already weaving back and forth.

  My opponent squared off in front of me. Her feet were set wide. She held fists out in a rigid guard. She was dressed from head to toe in black leather. It molded to her body in stiff plates.

  “Come on if you think you’re hard enough!” I heard myself say.

  “Angrod Veneanar and Meerwen Elanesse! Stop this at once!”

  I froze. That didn’t sound like my friendly neighborhood bartender! I looked back and saw Elrond dripping expensive wine.

  “Before you kill each other, I’d like to know which of you is going to pay for this.”

  “I will,” my opponent and I said at the same time.

  I looked at her. She’d oiled her black hair and sculpted it into a sort of helmet, but what I saw of her face was extremely pleasant. And all that leather left little to the imagination.

  There was something else, too. Call it déjà vu. Call it recognition for someone you’ve never met. The entire world leaped an inch to the left—my heart included. I looked into her eyes and almost fell in.

  I wanted to ask if she was feeling the same. Instead I said, “I do apologize, but it was my spell, and I ought to pay.”

  “And I apologize also. I should have opened the door more gently. And I am more than capable of paying my way.”

  “Your pardon, but I am Angrod, apprentice to Master Valandil and youngest son of House Veneanar. I shouldn’t trouble you with the expense.”

  “I beg your pardon also, but I am Meerwen, daughter of Lord Governor Findecano Elanesse, and I am not troubled at all.” I saw that she also wore a cape of sea green, the color of the upstart House Elanesse.

  We saluted each other. I crossed my forearms in front of me and bowed my head over them. Being unarmed, she simply struck her right fist to her chest and bowed her head. My heels touched. Hers clicked.

  “I’ll put it on both your tabs, how’s that sound?” Elrond said, toweling himself off with a counter rag. A clean one, I hoped.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Since it was an accident I’ll give you both a discount.”

  “You’ve never given a discount before,” I said, making my sticks disappear. “This calls for a drink!”

  “Sure, why not.” He brought out a glass and wrung the bar rag over it.

  Meerwen stared. “Er, maybe another time,” she said. “And it’s really no trouble to pay for everything.”

  Elrond chuckled. “This sort of thing happens every time somebody has a birthday. I buy cheap booze from a halfling peddler and re-bottle it. Don’t worry.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  “What can I do for you, young lady?” Elrond said.

  Meerwen walked past. “Do you have the gooseberry wine? Father is having a few guests tonight.”

  Elrond smiled. “I have it right here. He’ll love this vintage—and his guest will be sure to remark at the packaging.” He disappeared into the back room.

  “Packaging?” Meerwen said.

  “You’ll see,” I said, picking up my box wine. “You know, I’m glad we met. I rarely run into women of such beauty.”

  “And not quite so hard, I hope?” She was smiling.

  “You have the better of me,” I said, and bowed. “I have the feeling we’ve met before, but I’m sure I would’ve remembered such a lovely face.”

  “You needn’t impress me with fine compliments, Angrod Veneanar. Sorry about the door.”

  “It’s nothing, Meerwen Elanesse. You know, my friends call me—”

  “Angie?”

  I spluttered. “Roddy, actually.”

  There were footsteps. “—this is the best-tasting gooseberry wine in all of Drystone, I stake my reputation on it,” Elrond said, coming out with another little barrel.”

  “It’s got corners,” Meerwen said.

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  She turned to leave. “Well, Angrod, it’s been an interesting meeting.”

  I bowed again. “I look forward to our next one and truly hope it is much longer.”

  “And without doors, I’m sure,” she said, and left.

  Elrond and I watched her leave. Oddly enough, the hang of her cape didn’t keep me from enjoying the view.

  “That’s quite a woman,” I said. Absently I picked a glass off the table and took a sip. “Pfaugh! That’s awful!”

  “I know,” Elrond said. “They say if you drink enough you start talking to giant weasels. Keep drinking and they start talking back. I’m not sure you should be trying to impress that girl. She is the daughter of the most powerful man in the First Realm.”

  “Damn, I forgot. The Lord Governor of Drystone wouldn’t take too kindly to me as Meerwen’s boyfriend, would he?”

  “I shouldn’t think so, no.”

  “I’ve been in this city a long time. Why haven’t I seen her?”

  “She’s just recently returned from the convent.”

  “She’s a nun?”

  “The Fighting Nuns also train lay persons. They say when fist meets face, anyone can die.” He took out a broom and began sweeping up the broken glass. “Don’t you have a job to do? Other places to be?”

  “I’ll be going,” I said. “Hey, in the interest of never tasting it again, what was that wretched wine?”

  Elrond shrugged. “It goes by many names, but the most popular is El Vagabundo.”

  * * *

  I went straight to Valandil’s home before heading for the beach. It wouldn’t take a moment to gather the white sand, but there was no telling how long to find the cave. After setting the wine on the kitchen table I stepped into the courtyard and teleported to the beach.

  Teleport is one of the first spells an elf learns upon beginning a wizard’s apprenticeship. Considering all the assignments a master is wont to give, it’s not hard to guess why. I’ve often wondered whether the chores came about because apprentices could teleport, or whether the spell came about because masters gave so many chores. Either way, it gets lots of practice.

  Carrying a shovel and a stack of wooden buckets, I cleared my mind, closed my eyes, and jumped into the air. As the ground dropped away, I concentrated on the beach, while trying hard to forget about the courtyard. For a crucial second I believed I was at the beach and that my feet would land on midnight sand.

  My boots hit the ground with a crunch. I opened my eyes and saw the ocean.

  * * *

  The wind blew strongly landward, carrying spray in from the sea. The ocean looked restless and full of secrets, but that was probably just the tail end of last night’s drinking. There seemed to be a storm coming.

  I set the buckets down and filled nine of them with black sand. Then I slipped them into hammerspace and looked for white sand.

  Hammerspace is why elf clothing doesn’t have many pockets. Think of it as your own personal twilight zone. Have you ever lost something, only to find it hours later, even though you’d checked that pocket? Did you think you didn’t search enough? Elves know the truth. Pockets aren’
t hard to search. It’s just that stuff drops out of existence sometimes.

  Being a practical folk, we’ve harnessed this phenomenon. It’s easy: Take something in hand, slip it out of sight, and forget you’re holding it. We don’t know where it goes, but it keeps well. We’ve learned a few other things. For instance, the elsewhere place can only carry items you can hold in one hand, and only you can retrieve what you put away. Rabbits and doves can be stored with no ill effect, even for months. Food won’t go bad and ice won’t even melt, which might mean that time doesn’t flow in there.

  … The wind was cold, so I twirled the shovel and tossed it from hand to hand to stay loose…

  Hammerspace seems to have unlimited capacity, but it’s unpredictable. Things with moving parts often come back disassembled, even combined with other objects. Knives tend to return without their sheaths, their blades absurdly sharp. And from time to time objects will disappear completely, perhaps to a hammerspace within hammerspace.

  Despite those quirks, the pocket dimension is tremendously useful. For safety and easy recall elves keep only a few things in there, about as much as a large purse could hold. We learn to use hammerspace from a young age—children keep their toys in it, which is how it gets its name, elf girls having a nasty sense of humor.

  I saw no one else as I walked. It was easy to see why: the sky was overcast and the wind was turning wild. It was the wet season, and every elf knows not to stand on a beach during a thunderstorm.

  White surf on black sand made for a nice contrast. A long time ago the sand had been volcanic rock. Now it was flecked with lighter grains. They glittered in the early-morning sun.

  The black sand was plentiful and easily gathered, even by unskilled laborers, so it took care of most of Drystone’s construction needs. White sand, meanwhile, was only for ornamentation. It made some beautiful detail work but only Valandil had a ready supply. It was one reason he was in such demand as a builder.

  He’d always gotten the sand himself, and until today I’d never known where the source was. I had never expected him to tell me either. A master isn’t required to share every secret with a soon-to-be competitor.

  Did this mean he wanted me to take over the business? I shook my head and smiled. It was a sweet gesture, but I didn’t see myself being a builder for the rest of my life.

  I saw the cave. The current and the waves had carved a door into a wall of rock.

  Chapter 3

  There was a deep tide pool directly in front it, so I teleported to the mouth of the cave.

  Some wizards say teleporting isn’t really teleporting. You’re actually jumping into a parallel universe that’s maybe ninety-nine percent identical to the original. It’s not noticeably changed, but it is different. According to those wizards, you ought to say goodbye to your family the first time you teleport, because you’re never seeing them again.

  But then, it would be hard to get anything done without teleporting, so people do it anyway. Convenience wins over metaphysical doubt.

  It grew dark as I made my way into the cave, so I snapped my fingers and produced a small flame. It hovered in front as I walked deeper underground.

  I had gone some distance when the flame bumped into a dead end. It looked natural, but I recognized the style Valandil used when he was going for the organic look. I put down the buckets, raised my hands in front of me, and pressed them against the wall. A pulse went through my palms and down my arms. The rock wall dissolved. I shook my boots free of the resulting sand and stepped through.

  It was a large cavern. The floor was white sand raked flat. There was also a camp bed, a couple of folding chairs, and a table. A glass, a box wine, and a lit gas lantern were on the table.

  “Thanks for the mulberry wine,” Valandil said. He sipped the wine from one of the chairs.

  Imagine an elf—tall, lean, and high-shouldered, with a shaved skull, long green eyes, and a white braided mustache. Invest him with a dry intellect, no detectable sense of humor, and an endless capacity for assigning chores. Imagine that awful being and you have a picture of Valandil Telrunya, former royal advisor and my mentor.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I was about to return to the shop.”

  “I came over to talk. I’ve been waiting for you. Look, you’d better sit down.”

  I took the other chair rather nervously. While it was up to the other masters to decide if I’d passed my apprenticeship, I still needed Valandil’s blessing to take on any work. I didn’t see myself doing much building, but I wanted as many options as possible.

  “Is this about my pub crawl? Because I didn’t think you needed the sand until this afternoon.

  He waved it away. “It’s not that, although I was hoping to see you earlier. Do you know I used to advise King Galdor?”

  “How could I forget? You advised him that heads were going out of style.”

  He coughed. “I told him to withdraw to a more secure location.”

  “In other words, run for cover?”

  “A king never runs, he only advances in a different direction.”

  Here it comes. I started counting down.

  Valandil looked like he was about to say something, but stopped. He sighed. “Things used to be better then.”

  Ask any elf over nine hundred and he’ll usually tell you the past was so much nicer. People were less petty, children obeyed their elders, and musicians were respectable. Plays were deep and socially relevant, as well as funny as hell. It seems everything went into the midden once we started trying out this newfangled democracy.

  There had been a revolution. Not a terribly violent one, but the king had been executed. Power had devolved to the governors of every city, and that’s how it’s been for nearly a millennium.

  Galdor had been a decent king, but the council of governors had also done quite well. I’m not saying the government was any less corrupt, but at least we never elected leaders like King Myrdal the Mad, who had squandered the treasury on wars, and also drooled all the time.

  “I don’t see how they could be better,” I said. “We’ve got peace, security, and brisk trade with the human kingdoms.”

  “Ugh,” Valandil said, shaking his head. “A pack of starving dogs. If it weren’t for the royal guard they’d have invaded long ago. That’s right, the royal guard.”

  He began to lecture on all the things that used to be better when we had an off-with-his-head kind of leader. Humans and dwarves had looked up to elves, he said. They took our word seriously on every subject. No corner of the earth was ignorant of our flag. The way Valandil put it, elves had been covered in glory once, though to me that glory looked suspiciously like blood.

  By this time I’d filled my own glass (Elrond was right, it was convenient) and settled in the other chair. I was into my second drink before he finally slowed down.

  “… and another thing, the days used to be longer,” he said, breathing hard.

  I frowned. “I’m sure that’s not something anybody can control. Not even a king.”

  “We shall soon see,” he said. “Before long, Brandish shall once again be a kingdom.”

  “Impossible,” I said. Errol Lissesul, the crown prince, had been abroad when his father died. He rushed home but died in a shipwreck. Having no children, siblings, or even cousins, this meant the royal line died with him.

  “I’ve always wondered why Prince Errol came from a long line of only sons,” I said. “Is it just me, or was House Lissesul terribly infertile? Even by elf standards it wasn’t a big family.”

  “The Kings of Brandish have always allied themselves with queens of the highest breeding,” Valandil said.

  “So, inbred.”

  “I prefer the term rarefied blood.”

  “Rare is right. Not a drop is to be found these days.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong! For you see, my apprentice, I have reason to believe there are several quarts of it in this very cave.”

  I looked into my wine glass. T
hen I glanced around the chamber and settled back on Valandil. “A secret heir, in this place?” I said. “What’s he been doing all this time?”

  “Well, right now he’s sipping mulberry wine.”

  I did a spit-take. “You’re the heir to the throne?”

  “No, you are, Angrod. I’ve searched a long time, and I believe it’s you.”

  I wiped my mouth. “Very funny, sir. I know some masters like to play pranks on their apprentices, but I never imagined you’d be the type.” I took a breath. “I’m House Veneanar! Strictly minor aristocracy! Ours is an ancient line, but our claim to the throne is no stronger than any other family’s. By what complicated manner did I suddenly gain royal status?”

  “If you’ll let me finish,” he said, “I will tell you.”

  * * *

  If you can believe Valandil, the chambermaid did it.

  They say you never really know anyone until you’ve been friends a couple of decades. I’m starting to believe this is true—I had no idea my mentor was a part-time genealogist.

  Although there hadn’t been a royal sex scandal since King Lavin the Loverboy (not as famous as King Fingol the Finger…biter) Valandil reasoned every prince had to have an affair or two, because who wouldn’t?

  I had to agree. If you have money, power, and a title, all you need to get women are working genitalia. Sometimes you don’t even need those—witness King Cameron the Straperon.

  Valandil interviewed every associate of Prince Errol’s, hoping to uncover some secret assignation or drunken encounter. He sent letters to consuls, base commanders, and even former squires. Nothing. Errol had been no Prince Charming.

  “No women in his life? How about men, then?”

  Valandil grimaced. “If only. There is precedent for transferring title to the heirs of a same-sex lover—recall Princess Iminye—but the Crown Prince had no lovers of any kind.”

  My mentor then decided to look at the elder Lissesul, who presumably had more time for close encounters of the sexy kind. It took decades, but Valandil finally tracked down everyone who’d ever spent time in the royal palace. In the end, he did find something: Queen Orlinde, Galdor’s wife, had once sent a chambermaid to the dungeons for stealing silverware.”