Dragon Wing

45

Swift as its name, the quicksilver dragon bore Sinistrad to new hope, the capital city of the High Realm. The mysteriarch was fond of using the dragon to impress his own people. No other wizard had been able to exert a hold over the highly intelligent and dangerous quicksilver. It would not hurt, in this critical time, to remind the others, once again, why they had chosen him to be their leader.

Sinistrad arrived in New Hope to find that the magic had already been cast. Shining crystal, towering spires, tree-lined boulevards—he barely recognized the place. Two fellow mysteriarchs, standing outside the Council Chamber were looking extremely proud of themselves, also extremely fatigued. Dipping down from the sky, Sinistrad gave them time to fully appreciate his mount; then he released it, ordering the creature to remain within call and await his summons.

The dragon opened its fanged mouth in a gaping snarl, its red eyes flamed with hatred. Sinistrad turned his back on the creature.

“I tell you, Sinistrad, someday that dragon’s going to break free of the spell you’ve cast over him and then none of us will be safe. It was a mistake to capture it,” said one of the wizards—an aged mysteriarch—eyeing the quicksilver askance.

“Have you so little faith in my power?” inquired Sinistrad in a mild voice. The mysteriarch said nothing, but glanced at his companion. Noting the look pass between them, Sinistrad guessed correctly that they had been discussing him before he came.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Let us be honest with each other. I have always insisted on that, you know.”

“Yes, we know. You rub our noses in your honesty!” said the old man.

“Come, Balthazar, you know me for what I am. You knew what I was when you voted me your leader. You knew I was ruthless, that I would allow nothing to stand in my way. Some of you called me evil then. You call me that now, and it is an appellation I do not deny. Yet I was the only one among you with vision. I was the one who devised the plan to save our people. Isn’t that so?” The mysteriarchs looked at Sinistrad, glanced at each other, then looked away—one turning his gaze on the beautiful city, the other watching the quicksilver dragon vanish into the cloudless sky.

“Yes, we agree,” said one.

“We had no choice,” added the other.

“Not very complimentary, but then, I can do without compliments. Speaking of which, the work you have done is excellent.” Sinistrad gave the spires, the boulevards, the trees a critical inspection. Reaching out his hand, he touched the stone of the building before which they were standing. “So good, in fact, I was forced to wonder if this wasn’t all part of it as well! I was half-afraid to enter!”

One of the mysteriarchs smiled bleakly at the wizard’s little essay into humor. The other—the old man—scowled, turned, and left him. Gathering his robes about him, Sinistrad followed his companions, ascending the marble stairs and passing through the glittering crystal doors of the Wizards’

Guildhall.

Inside the hall, talking in solemn and hushed voices, were gathered about fifty wizards. Male and female, they were clad in robes similar to Sinistrad’s in make and design, although widely varying in color. Each hue designated a wizard’s particular devotion—green for the land, deep blue for the sky, red for fire (or magic of the mind), light blue for water. A few, such as Sinistrad, wore the black that stood for discipline—iron discipline, the discipline that admitted no weakness. When he strode into the room, those present, who had been conversing together in low, excited voices, fell silent. Each bowed and stepped aside, forming an opening in their ranks through which he walked.

Glancing about him, nodding to friends here, noting enemies there, Sinistrad moved without haste through the large hall. Made of marble, the Guildhall was bleak, empty, and unadorned. No tapestries graced its walls, no statues decorated its doorways, no windows admitted the sunlight, no magic dispelled the gloom. The dwellings of the mysteriarchs in the Mid Realm had been renowned throughout the world as the most marvelous of all human creations. Remembering the beauty from which they had come, the wizards found the starkness and austerity of the Guildhall in the High Realm chilling. Hands thrust into the sleeves of their robes, they stood well away from the walls and appeared to try to avoid looking anywhere except at each other or their leader—Sinistrad.

He was the youngest among them. Every mysteriarch there could remember him first entering the Guildhall—a well-built youth, inclined to be servile and sniveling. His parents had been among the earliest of the exiles to succumb up here, leaving him orphaned. The others felt sorry for the young man, but not unduly. There were, after all, many orphans at that time. Immersed in their own problems—which were monumental—no one had paid much attention to the young wizard.

Human wizards had their own version of history that was, much like any other race’s history, distorted by their own perspective. Following the Sundering, the Sartan had brought the people—not first to Aristagon, as the elves would have it—but here, to this realm beneath a magical dome. The humans, particularly the wizards, worked extremely hard to make this realm not only habitable but beautiful. It seemed to them that the Sartan were never around to help, but were always off somewhere on “important” business. On the infrequent occasions when the Sartan returned, they lent their assistance, utilizing their rune magic. Thus it was that fabulous buildings were created, the dome was strengthened. The coralite bore fruit, water was in abundance. The human wizards were not particularly grateful. They were envious. They coveted the rune magic.

Then came the day when the Sartan announced the Mid Realm below was suitable for habitation. Humans and elves were transported to Aristagon, while the Sartan remained above in the High Realm. The Sartan gave the reason for the move the fact that the domed land was getting too crowded. The human wizards believed that the Sartan had cast them out because the wizards were becoming too knowledgeable about the rune magic.

Time passed, and the elves grew strong and united under their powerful wizards and the humans turned into barbaric pirates. The human wizards watched the rise of the elves with outward disdain and inward fear.

They said to themselves, “If only we had the rune magic, then we could destroy the elves!”

Instead of helping their own people, therefore, they began to concentrate their magic on finding ways to return to the High Realm. At length, they succeeded and a large force of the most powerful magi—the mysteriarchs—ascended to the High Realm to challenge the Sartan and take back what they had come to see as rightfully their land.

This the humans called the War of Ascension, only it wasn’t much of a war. The mysteriarchs woke one morning to find the Sartan gone, their dwellings empty, their cities abandoned. The wizards returned victorious to their people, only to find the Mid Realm in chaos-torn by war. It was all they could do to manage to stay alive, much less try to use their magic to move the people to the Promised Land.

Finally, after years of suffering and hardship, the mysteriarchs were able to leave the Mid Realm and enter the land their legends held was beautiful, bountiful, safe, and secure. Here, too, they hoped to discover at last the secrets of the runes. It all seemed a wonderful dream. It would soon turn to a nightmare.

The runes kept their secrets and the mysteriarchs discovered to their horror how much of the beauty and bounty of the land had depended on the runes. Crops grew, but not in the numbers needed to feed the people. Famine swept the land. Water was scarce and became scarcer—each family having to expend immense amounts of magic in order to produce it. Centuries of inbreeding had already weakened the wizards and further inbreeding in this closed realm produced frightful genetic defects that could not be cured with magic. These children died and, eventually, few children were born. Most horrifying, it became obvious to the mysteriarchs that the magic of the dome was fading. They would have to leave this realm, yet how could they, without proclaiming their failure, their weaknesses? One man had an idea. One man told them how it could be done. They were desperate, they listened.

As time passed and Sinistrad did well in his magical studies, surpassing many of the elders in his power, he ceased to be servile and began to flaunt his abilities. His elders were displeased and disgusted when he changed his name to Sinistrad, but they thought little of it at the time. Back in the Mid Realm, a bully might call himself Brute or Thug or some other tough-sounding name in order to garner respect he hadn’t earned. It meant nothing. The mysteriarchs had ignored the name change, just as they had ignored Sinistrad. Oh, a few spoke out—Iridal’s father being one of them. A few tried to make their fellows see the young man’s overweening ambition, his ruthless cruelty, his ability to manipulate. Those who spoke the warnings were not heeded. Iridal’s father lost his only loved daughter to the man, and lost his life in Sinistrad’s magical captivity. None of the wizards knew that, however. The prison had been created so skillfully that no one ever noticed. The old wizard walked about the land, visited his friends, performed his duties. If any remarked that he seemed listless and sorrowful, all knew he grieved over his daughter’s marriage. None knew that the old man’s soul had been held hostage, like a bug in a glass jar.

Imperceptibly, patiently, the young wizard cast his web over all the surviving wizards of the High Realm. The filaments were practically invisible, light to the touch, barely felt. He didn’t weave a gigantic web for all to see, but deftly wrapped a line around an arm, wound a coil around a foot, holding them so lightly that they never knew they were held at all until the day came when they couldn’t move.

Now they were stuck fast, caught by their own desperation. Sinistrad was right. They had no choice. They had to rely on him, for he was the only one who had been smart enough to plan ahead and make some provision to escape their beautiful hell.

Sinistrad arrived at the front of the hall. He caused a golden podium to spring up from the floor and, mounting it, turned to address his fellows.

“The elf ship has been sighted. My son is aboard. In accordance with our plans, I shall go to meet and guide it—”

“We never agreed to allow an elven vessel inside the dome,” spoke out a female mysteriarch. “You said it would be a small ship, piloted by your son and his oafish servant.”

“I was forced to effect a change in plans,” replied Sinistrad, his lips creasing in a thin and unpleasant smile. “The first ship was attacked by elves and crashed on Drevlin. My son was able to take over this elven vessel. The child holds their captain in thrall. There are no more than thirty elves on board the ship, and only one wizard—a very weak wizard, of course. I think we can deal with that situation, don’t you?”

“Yes, in the old days,” answered a woman. “One of us could have dealt with thirty elves. But now ...” Her voice trailed away as she shook her head.

“That is why we have worked our magic, created the illusions.” Sinistrad gestured toward the outside of the Guildhall. “They will be intimidated by the sight alone. We will have no trouble from them.”

“Why not meet them at the firmament, take your son, and let them go on their way?” demanded the aged mysteriarch known as Balthazar.

“Because, you doddering fool, we need their vessel!” Sinistrad hissed, clearly growing angry at the questioning. “With it we can transport large numbers of our people back down to the Mid Realm. Before, we would have been forced to wait until we could either acquire vessels or enchant more dragons.”

“So what do we do with the elves?” asked the woman. Everyone looked to Sinistrad. They knew the answer as well as he did; they wanted to hear him say it.

He said it, without pause, without hesitation. “We kill them.” The silence was loud and echoing. The aged mysteriarch shook his head. “No. I won’t be a party to this.”

“Why not, Balthazar? You killed elves enough back in the Mid Realm.”

“That was war. This is murder.”

“War is ‘us or them.’ This is war. It is either us or them!” The mysteriarchs around him murmured, seeming to agree. Several began to argue with the old wizard, trying to persuade him to change his stance. “Sinistrad is right,” they said. “It is war! It can never be anything else between our races.” And “After all, Sinistrad’s only trying to lead us home.”

“I pity you!” Balthazar snarled. “I pity you all! He”—pointing at Sinistrad—“is leading you, all right. Leading you around by the nose like fatted calves. And when he’s ready to dine, he’ll slaughter the lot of you and feed off your flesh. Bah! Leave me alone! I’ll die up here sooner than follow him back there.”

The old wizard stalked toward the door.

“And so you will, graybeard,” muttered Sinistrad beneath his breath. “Let him go,” he said aloud, when some of his fellows would have gone after the wizard.

“Unless there are any others who want to leave with him?” The mysteriarch cast a swift, searching glance around the room, gathering up the tendrils of his web and tugging it tighter and tighter. No one else managed to break free. Those who had once struggled were now so weak with fear, they were eager and ready to do his bidding.

“Very well. I will bring the elven ship through the dome. I will remove my son and his companions to my castle.” Sinistrad might have told his people that one of his son’s companions was a skilled assassin—a man who could take the blood of the elves on his own hands and leave those of the mysteriarchs clean. But Sinistrad wanted to harden his people, force them to sink lower and lower until they would willingly and unquestioningly do anything he asked. “Those of you who volunteered to learn to fly the elf ship know what you are to do. The rest must work to maintain the city’s spells. When the time comes, I will give the signal and we will act.”

He gazed at them all, studied each pallid, grim face, and was satisfied. “Our plans are progressing well. Better than we had anticipated, in fact. Traveling with my son are several who may be of use to us in ways we had not foreseen. One is a dwarf from the Low Realm. The elves have exploited the dwarves for centuries. It is likely we can turn the Gegs, as they call themselves, to war. Another is a human who claims to come from a realm beneath the Low Realm—a realm none of us previously knew existed. This news could be extremely valuable to all of us.”

There were murmurs of approval and agreement.

“My son brings information about the human kingdoms and the elven revolution, all of which will be most helpful when we set about to conquer them. And, most important, he has seen the great machine built by the Sartan on the Low Realm. At last we may be able to unravel the mystery of the so-called Kicksey-Winsey and turn it, too, to our use.”

Sinistrad raised his hands in a blessing. “Go forth now, my people. Go forth and know that as you do so you are stepping out into the world, for soon Arianus will be ours!”

The meeting broke up with cheering, most of it enthusiastic. Sinistrad stepped down from the podium and it disappeared—magic had to be carefully rationed, expended only on that which was essential. Many stopped him to congratulate him or to ask questions, clearing up small details about the plan of action. Several asked politely after his health, but no one inquired about his wife. Iridal had not been present at a council meeting in ten cycles, ever since the guild voted to go along with Sinistrad’s plot—to take her child and exchange it for the human prince. The guild members were just as well pleased Iridal did not attend the meetings. They still, after all this time, found it difficult to look into her eyes.

Sinistrad, mindful of the need to commence his journey, shook off the hangers-on who crowded round him and made his way from the Guildhall. A mental command brought the quicksilver dragon to the very foot of the stairs of the hall. Glowering at the wizard balefully, the dragon nevertheless suffered the mysteriarch to mount its back and command it to do his bidding. The dragon had no choice but to obey Sinistrad; it was enthralled. In this the creature was unlike the wizards standing in the shadowy doorway of the Guildhall. They had given themselves to Sinistrad of their own free will.