Dragons of a Lost Star

17 Mistaken Identity

While Tasslehoff was recalling with fond nostalgia his travels with Gerard, it may be truthfully stated that at this time Gerard was not thinking fond thoughts about the kender. He wasn’t thinking any sort of thoughts about the kender at all. Gerard assumed, quite confidently, that he would never have anything more to do with kender and put Tasslehoff out of his mind. The Knight had far more important and worrisome matters to consider.

Gerard wanted desperately to be back in Qualinesti, assisting Marshal Medan and Gilthas to prepare the city for the battle with Beryl’s forces. In his heart, he was there with the elves. In reality, he was on the back of the blue dragon, Razor, flying north—the exact opposite direction from Qualinesti, heading for Solanthus.

They were passing over the northern portion of Abanasinia— Gerard was able to see the vast shining expanse of New Sea from the air—when Razor started to descend. The dragon informed Gerard that he needed to rest and eat. The flight over New Sea was long, and once they started out over the water there would be nowhere to stop until they reached land on the other side.

Although he grudged the time, Gerard was in wholehearted agreement that the dragon should be well-rested before the flight. The blue extended his wings to slow his descent and began to circle around and around, dropping lower with every rotation, his destination a large expanse of sandy beach. The sea was entrancing seen from above. Sunlight striking the water made it blaze like molten fire. The dragon’s flight seemed leisurely to Gerard until Razor drew closer to the ground, or rather, when the ground came rushing up to meet them.

Gerard had never been so terrified in his life. He had to clamp his teeth tightly shut to keep from shrieking at the dragon to slow down. The last few yards, the ground leaped up, the dragon plummeted down, and Gerard knew he was finished. He considered himself as brave as the next man, but he couldn’t help but shut his eyes until he felt a gentle bump that rocked him slightly forward in the saddle. The dragon settled his muscular body comfortably, folded his wings to his sides and tossed his head with pleasure.

Gerard opened his eyes and spent a moment recovering from the ordeal, then climbed stiffly from the saddle. He’d been afraid to move during much of the flight for fear he’d fall, and now his muscles were cramped and sore. He hobbled around for a bit, groaning and stretching out the kinks. Razor watched him with condescending, if respectful, amusement.

Razor lumbered off to find something to eat. The dragon looked clumsy on land, compared to the air. Trusting that the dragon would keep watch, Gerard wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the sun-warmed sand. He meant only to rest his eyes. . . .

Gerard woke from the sleep he had never meant to take to find the dragon basking in sunlight, gazing out across the water. At first, Gerard thought he had been napping only a few hours, then he noted that the sun was in a much different portion of the sky.

“How long have I been asleep?” he demanded, clambering to his feet and shaking the sand out of his leathers.

“All the night and much of the morning,” the dragon replied. Cursing the fact that he had wasted time sleeping, noting that he had left the dragon burdened with the saddle, which was now knocked askew, Gerard began to apologize, but Razor passed it off.

At that, the dragon appeared uneasy, as if something were preying on his mind. Razor looked often at Gerard as if about to speak and then seemingly decided against it. He snapped his mouth shut and twitched his tail moodily. Gerard would have liked to have encouraged the dragon’s confidences, but he did not feel they knew each other that well, so he said nothing.

He had a bad several minutes rugging and pulling the saddle back into position and redoing some of the harness, all the while conscious of more precious time slipping by. At last he had the saddle positioned correctly, or at least so he hoped. He had visions of his grand plans ending in failure as the saddle slid off the dragon in midflight, dumping Gerard to an ignominious death.

Razor was reassuring, however, stating that the saddle felt secure to him, and Gerard trusted to the dragon’s expertise, having none of his own. They flew off just as dusk was settling over the sea. Gerard was concerned about flying at night, but as Razor sensibly pointed out, night flying was much safer these days than flying by daylight.

The dusk had a strange smoky quality to it that caused the sun to blaze red as it sank below the smudged horizon line. The smell of burning in the air made Gerard’s nose twitch. The smoke increased, and he wondered if there was a forest fire somewhere. He looked down below to see if he could spot it but could find nothing. The gloom deepened and blotted out the stars and the moon, so that they flew in a smoke-tinged fog.

“Can you find your way in this, Razor?” Gerard shouted.

“Strangely enough, I can, sir,” Razor returned. He fell into one of the uncomfortable silences again, then said abruptly, “I feel obliged to tell you something, sir. I must confess to a dereliction of duty.”

“Eh? What?” Gerard cried, hearing only about one word in three.

“Duty? What about duty?”

“I was waiting for your return at about noon time yesterday when I heard a call, sir. The call was as a trumpet, summoning me to war. I had never heard the like, sir, not even in the old days. I. . . I almost followed it, sir. I came close to forgetting my duty and departing, leaving you stranded. I will turn myself in for disciplinary action upon our return.”

If this had been another human talking, Gerard would have said comfortingly that the man must have been dreaming. He couldn’t very well say that to a creature hundreds of years older and more experienced than himself, so all he ended up saying was that the dragon had remained and that was what counted. At least Gerard knew now why Razor had appeared so uneasy.

Talk ended between them. Gerard could see nothing and only hoped that they would not fly headlong into a mountain in the darkness. He had to trust Razor, however, who appeared to be able to see where he was going, for he flew confidently and swiftly. At length Gerard relaxed enough to be able to pry loose his fingers from the saddle horn. Gerard had no notion of the passing of time. It seemed they had been flying for hours, and he even dozed off again, only to wake with a horrific start in a cold sweat from a dream that he was falling to find that the sun was rising.

“Sir,” said Razor. “Solanthus is in sight.”

He could see the towers of a large city just appearing over the horizon. Gerard ordered Razor to land some distance from Solanthus, find a place where the blue could rest, and remain safely in hiding, not only from the Solamnic Knights, but from Skie, otherwise known as Khellendros, the great blue dragon, who had held his own against Beryl and Malystryx. Razor found what he considered a suitable location. Under the cover of a cloud bank, he made an easy landing, spiraling downward in wide sweeping circles onto a vast expanse of grasslands near a heavily wooded forest.

The dragon smashed and trampled the grass when he landed, digging gouges into the dirt with his clawed feet and thrashing the grass with his tail. Anyone who came upon the site would be able to guess at once that some mighty creature had walked here, but this area was remote. A few farms could be seen, carved out of the forest. A single road wound snakelike through the tall grass, but it was several miles distant. Gerard had sighted a stream from the air, and he was looking forward to nothing so much as a swim in the cool water. His own stench was so bad that he came near making himself sick, and he was itchy from sand and dried sweat. He would bathe and change clothes—rid himself of the leather tunic, at least, that marked him a Dark Knight. He’d have to enter Solanthus dressed like a farm hand—shirtless, clad only in his breeches. He had no way to prove he was a Solamnic Knight, but Gerard was not worried. His father had friends in the Knighthood, and almost certainly Gerard would find someone who knew him.

As for Razor, if the dragon asked why they were here, Gerard was prepared to explain that he was under Medan’s orders to spy upon the Solamnic Knighthood.

The dragon did not ask questions. Razor was far more interested in discovering a place to hide and rest. He was in the territory of the mighty Skie now. The enormous blue dragon had discovered that he could gain strength and power by preying on his own kind, and he was hated and feared by his brethren.

Gerard was anxious that Razor find a hiding place. The dragon was graceful in the air, his wings barely moving as he soared silently on the thermals. On the ground, the blue was a lumbering monster, his feet trampling and smashing, his tail knocking over small trees, sending animals fleeing in terror. He brought down a stag with a snap of his jaws, and, hauling the carcass by the broken neck in his teeth, brought it along with him to enjoy at his leisure.

This made conversation difficult, but he answered Gerard’s questions concerning Skie with grunts and nods. Strange rumors had circulated about the mighty blue dragon, who was the nominal ruler of Palanthas and environs. Rumors had it that the dragon had vanished, that he’d handed over control to an underling. Razor had heard these rumors, but he discounted them.

Investigating a depression in a rocky cliff to see if it would make a suitable resting place, Razor dropped the deer carcass by the bank of the stream.

“I believe that Skie is involved in some deep plot that will result in his downfall,” Razor told Gerard. “If so, it will be a punishment for slaying his own kind. If we even are his own kind,” he added, as an afterthought.

“He’s a blue dragon, isn’t he?” Gerard asked, looking longingly at the creek and hoping the dragon settled himself soon.

“Yes, sir,” said Razor. “But he has grown so that he is far larger than any blue ever seen on Krynn before. He is larger than the reds—except Malystryx—a great bloated monster. My brethren and I have often commented on it.”

“Yet he fought in the War of the Lance,” said Gerard. “Is this satisfactory? There don’t appear to be any caves.”

“True, sir. He was a loyal servant to our departed queen. But one has to wonder, sir.”

Unable to find a cave large enough to hold him, Razor pronounced the depression a good start, declared his intention to widen it by blasting chunks of rock out of the side of the cliff. Gerard watched from a safe distance as the blue dragon spat bolts of lightning that blew huge holes in the solid rock, sending boulders splashing into the water and causing the ground to shake beneath his feet.

Certain that the noise of the splitting rock, the blasting explosions, and the concussive thunder must be heard in Solanthus, he feared a patrol would be sent out to investigate.

“If the Solanthians hear anything at all, sir,” Razor said during a rest break, “they will think it is merely a coming storm.”

Once he had created his cave and the dust had settled and the numerous small avalanches had stopped, Razor retired inside to rest and enjoy his meal.

Gerard removed the saddle from the dragon’s back—a proceeding that took some time since he was not familiar with the complicated harness. Razor offered his assistance, and once this was done and Gerard had dragged the heavy saddle into a corner of the cave, out of the way, he left the dragon to his meal and his slumber.

Gerard traveled downstream a good distance until he found a place shallow enough for bathing. He stripped off his leathers and undergarments and waded, naked, into the rippling stream.

The water was deep and cold. He gasped, shivered, and, gritting his teeth, plunged in headfirst. He was not a particularly good swimmer, so he stayed clear of the deeper part of the stream where the current ran swift. The sun was warm, the cold tingled his skin, felt invigorating. He began to splash and leap about, at first to keep the blood flowing and then because he was enjoying himself.

For a few moments, at least, he was free. Free of all his worries and anxieties, free of responsibility, free of anyone telling him what to do. For a few moments, he let himself be a child again.

He tried to catch fish with his bare hands. He dog-paddled beneath the overhanging willow trees. He floated on his back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin and the refreshing contrasting cold of the water. He scrubbed off the caked-on dirt and blood with a handful of grass, all the while wishing he had some of his mother’s tallow soap.

Once he was clean, he could examine his wounds. They were inflamed but only slightly infected. He had treated them with a salve given to him by the Queen Mother, and they were healing well. Peering at his reflection in the water, he grimaced, ran his hand over his jaw. He had a stubbly growth of beard, dark brown, not yellow, like his hair. His face was ugly enough without the beard, which was patchy and splotchy and looked like some sort of malignant plant life crawling up his jaw.

He thought back to the time in his youth when he’d tried in vain to grow the silky flowing mustache that was the pride of the Solamnic Knighthood. His mustache proved to be rough and bristly, stuck out every which way like his recalcitrant hair. His father, whose own mustache was full and thick, had taken his son’s failure as a personal affront, irrationally blaming whatever was rebellious inside Gerard for manifesting itself through his hair.

Gerard turned to wade back to where he had left his leathers and his pack, intending to retrieve his knife and shave off the stubble. A flash of sunlight off metal half-blinded him. Looking up on the bank, he saw a Solamnic Knight.

The Knight was clad in a leather vest, padded for protection, worn over a knee-length tunic that was belted at the waist. The flash of metal came from a half-helm that covered the head but had no visor. A red ribbon fluttered from the top of the half-helm, the padded vest was decorated with a red rose. A long bow slung over the shoulders indicated that the Knight had been out hunting, as evidenced by the carcass of a stag hanging over the back of a pack mule. The Knight’s horse was nearby, head down, grazing.

Gerard cursed himself for not having kept closer watch. Had he been paying attention, instead of larking about like a schoolboy, he would have heard horse and rider approaching.

The Knight’s booted foot was planted firmly atop Gerard’s sword belt and sword. The Knight held a long sword in one gloved hand. In the other, a coil of rope.

Gerard could not see the Knight’s face, due to the shadows of the trees, but he had no doubt that the expression would be grim and stern and undoubtedly triumphant.

He stood in the middle of the stream that was growing colder by the second and pondered on the odd quirk in human nature that makes us feel we are far more vulnerable naked than when wearing clothes. Shirt and breeches will not stop arrow, knife, or sword, yet had he been dressed, Gerard would have been able to face this Knight with confidence. As it was, he stood in the stream and gaped at the Knight with about as much intelligence as the fish that were making darts at his bare legs.

“You are my prisoner,” said the Solamnic, speaking Common. “Come forth slowly and keep your hands raised so that I may see them.”

Gerard’s discomfiture was complete. The Knight’s voice was rich and mellow and unquestioningly feminine. At that moment, she turned her head to glance warily about her, and he saw two long thick braids of glossy blue-black hair streaming out from beneath the back of the halfhelm. Gerard felt his skin burn so hot that it was a wonder the water around him didn’t steam.

“Lady Knight,” he said when he could find his voice, “I concede readily that I am your prisoner, at least for the moment, until I can explain the unusual circumstances, and I would do as you command, but I am . . . as you can see . . . not dressed.”

“Since your clothes are here on the bank, I did not think that you would be,” the Knight returned. “Come out of the water now.”

Gerard thought briefly of making a dash for it to the opposite bank, but the stream ran deep and swift, and he was not that good a swimmer. He doubted if he could manage it. He pictured himself floundering in the water, drowning, calling for help, destroying what shreds of dignity he might have left.

“I don’t suppose you would turn your head, Lady, and allow me to dress myself?” he asked.

“And let you stab me in the back?” Laughing she leaned forward. “Do you know, Knight of Neraka, I find it amusing that you, a champion of evil, who has undoubtedly slaughtered any number of innocents, burned villages, robbed the dead, looted, and raped, are such a shrinking lily.”

She was pleased with her joke. The emblem of the Dark Knights on which her foot rested, was the skull and the lily.

“If it makes you feel better,” the Lady Knight continued, “I have served in the Knighthood for twelve years, I have held my own in battle and tourney. I have seen the male body not only unclothed but ripped open. Which is how I will view yours if you do not obey me.” She raised her sword. “Either you come out or I will come in after you.”

Gerard began to splash through the water toward the bank. He was angry now, angry at the mocking tone of the woman, and his anger in part alleviated his embarrassment. He looked forward to fetching his pack and exhibiting his letter from Gilthas, proving to this female jokester that he was a true Knight of Solamnia here on an urgent mission and that he probably outranked her.

She watched him carefully every step of the way, her face evincing further amusement at the sight of his nakedness—not surprising, since his skin was shriveled like a prune, and he was blue and shaking with the cold. Arriving at the bank, he cast one furious glance at her and reached for his clothes. She continued to stand with her foot on his sword, her own sword raised and at the ready.

He dressed himself in the leather trousers he’d brought with him. He was going to ignore the tunic, that lay crumpled on the bank, hoping that she might not notice the emblem stitched on the front. She lifted it with the tip of her sword, however, and tossed it at him.

“Wouldn’t want you to get sunburned,” she said. “Put it on. Did you have a nice flight?”

Gerard’s heart sank, but he made a game try. “I don’t know what you mean. I walked—”

“Give it up, Neraka,” she said to him. “I saw the blue dragon. I saw the beast land. I marked its trail and followed it and found you.” She regarded him with interest, all the while keeping the sword pointed at him and dangling the length of rope in her hands. “So what were you intending to do, Neraka? Spy on us, maybe? Pretend to be some loutish farm lad coming to the city for a good time? You appear to have the lout part down well.”

“I am not a spy,” he said through teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. “I know that you’re not going to believe this, but I am not a Dark Knight of Neraka. I am a Solamnic, like yourself—”

“Oh, that is rich! A blue Solamnic riding a blue dragon.” The Lady Knight laughed heartily, then flicked her hand and, with alacrity tossed the loop of rope over his head. “Don’t worry. I won’t hang you here, Neraka. I mean to take you back to Solanthus. You can tell your tale to an admiring audience. The inquisitor has been in low spirits these days. You’ll cheer him right up, I’m sure.”

She jerked the rope, grinned to see Gerard grab it to keep from choking.

“Whether you arrive there alive, half-alive, or barely breathing is up to you.”

“I’ll prove it,” Gerard stated. “Let me open my pack—”

He looked down on the ground. The pack was not there.

Gerard searched frantically along the riverbank. No pack. And then he remembered. He had left the pack with the letter hooked to the dragon’s saddle. The saddle and the pack were back in the cave with the blue dragon.

He bowed his head that was dripping wet, too overwhelmed to swear. The hot words were in his heart but they couldn’t make it past the lump in his throat to reach his tongue. Raising his head, he looked at the Lady Knight, looked her full in the eyes that, he noted, were tree-leaf green.

“I swear to you, Lady, on my honor as a true Knight that I am a Solamnic. My name is Gerard uth Mondar. I am stationed in Solace, where I am one of the honor guard for the Tomb of the Last Heroes. I can offer no proof of what I say, I admit that, but my father is well known among the Knighthood. I am certain there are Lord Knights in Solanthus who will recognize me. I have been sent to bring urgent news to the Council of Knights in Solanthus. In my pack, I have a letter from Gilthas, king of the elves—”

“Ah, yes,” she said, “and in my pack I have a letter from Mulberry Miklebush, queen of the kender. Where is this pack with this wonderful letter?”

Gerard muttered something.

“I didn’t catch that, Neraka?” She bent nearer.

“It’s attached to the saddle of the . . . blue dragon,” he said glumly. “I could go fetch it. I give you my word of honor that I would return and surrender myself.”

She frowned slightly. “I don’t, by any chance, have hay stuck in my hair, do I?”

Gerard glared at her.

“I thought I might,” she said. “Because you obviously think I have just fallen out of the hay wagon. Yes, Sweet Neraka, I’ll accept the word of honor of a blue dragonrider, and I’ll let you run off and fetch your pack and your blue dragon. Then I’ll wave my hankie to you as you both fly away.”

She prodded him in the belly with her sword.

“Get on the horse.”

“Listen, Lady,” Gerard said, his anger and frustration growing. “I know that this looks bad, but if you’ll use that steel-covered head of yours for thinking, you’ll realize that I’m telling the truth! If I were a real dragonrider of Neraka, do you think you’d be standing here poking me with that sword of yours? You’d be food for my dragon about now. I am on an urgent mission. Thousands of lives are at stake— Stop that, damn you!”

She had been prodding him with her sword at every third word, steadily forcing him to fall back until he bumped into her horse. Furious, he thrust aside the sword with his bare hand, slicing open his palm.

“I do love to hear you talk, Neraka,” she said. “I could listen to you all day, but, unfortunately, I go on duty in a few hours. So mount up, and let’s be off.”

Gerard was now so angry that he was seriously tempted to summon the dragon. Razor would make short work of this infuriating female, who had apparently been born with solid steel in her head instead of on top of it. He controlled his rage, however, and mounted the horse. Knowing full well what she intended to do with him, he put his hands behind his back, wrists together.

Sheathing her sword, keeping a firm grip on the rope that was around his neck, she tied his wrists together with the same length of rope, adjusting it so that if he moved his arms or any part of his body, he’d end up strangling himself. All the while, she kept up her jocular banter, calling him Neraka, Sweet Neraka, and Neraka of Her Heart and other mocking endearments that were galling in the extreme.

When all was ready, she took her horse’s reins and led the horse through the forest at a brisk walk.

“Aren’t you going to gag me?” Gerard demanded.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Your words are music to my ears, Neraka. Speak on. Tell me more about the king of the elves. Does he dress in green gossamer and sprout wings from his back?”

“I could yet summon the dragon,” Gerard stated. “I do not because I do not want to hurt you, Lady Knight. This proves what I have been telling you, if you’d only think about it.”

“It might,” she conceded. “You may well be telling the truth. But you may well not be telling the truth. You might not be summoning the dragon because the beasts are notoriously untrustworthy and unpredictable and would just as soon kill you as me. Right, Neraka?”

Gerard was beginning to understand why she had not gagged him. He could think of nothing to say that would not incriminate himself or make matters worse. Her argument about the evil nature of blue dragons was one he might have made himself before he had come to know Razor. Gerard had no doubt that if he summoned Razor to deal with this Knight, the dragon would make short work of her and leave Gerard untouched. But while Gerard would have preferred Razor to this annoying female as a traveling companion any day, he could not very well countenance the horrible death of a fellow Solamnic, no matter how obnoxious she might be.

“When I reach Solanthus, I will send a company to slay the dragon,” she continued. “He cannot be far from here. Judging from the explosions I heard, we will have no trouble finding evidence of his hiding place.”

Gerard was reasonably certain that Razor could take care of himself, and that left him concerned for the welfare of his fellow Knights. He decided that the best course of action he could take now was to wait until he came before the council. Once there, he could explain himself and his mission. He was confident the council would believe him, despite his lack of credentials. Undoubtedly there would be someone on the council who knew him or knew his father. If all went well, he would return to Razor and both he, the dragon, and a force of Knights would fly to Qualinesti. After this Knight had made her most abject and humble apologies. They left the wooded stream bank behind, entered the grasslands not far from where the dragon had alighted. Gerard could see in the distance the road leading to Solanthus. The tops of the city’s towers were just visible over the tips of the tall grass.

“There is Solanthus, Neraka,” she said, pointing. “That tall building there on your left is—”

“My name is not Neraka. My name is Gerard uth Mondar. What are you called?” he asked, adding in a muttered undertone, “besides godawful?”

“I heard that!” she sang out. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “My name is Odila Windlass.”

“Windlass. Isn’t that some sort of mechanical device on board a ship?”

“It is,” she replied. “My people are seafaring.”

“Pirates, no doubt,” he remarked caustically.

“Your wit is as small and shriveled as certain other parts of you, Neraka,” she returned, grinning at his embarrasment.

They had reached the road by now, and their pace increased. Gerard had ample opportunity to study her as she walked alongside him, leading the horse and the pack mule. She was tall, considerably taller than he was, with a shapely, muscular build. She did not have the dark skin of the seafaring Ergothians. Her skin was the color of polished mahogany, indicating a blending of races somewhere in her past.

Her hair was long, falling in two braids to her waist. He had never seen such black hair, blue-black, like a crow’s wing. Her brows were thick, her face square-jawed. Her lips were her best feature, being full, heart-shaped, crimson, and prone to laughter, as she had already proven.

Gerard would not concede that she had any good features. He had little use for women, considering them conniving, sneaking, and mercenary. Of the women he distrusted and disliked most, he decided that dark-haired, dark-complexioned female Knights who laughed at him ranked at the top of his list.

Odila continued to talk, pointing out the sights of Solanthus on the theory that he would get to see little of the city from his cell in the dungeons. Gerard ignored her. He went over in his mind what he was going to say to the Knights’ Council, how best to portray the admittedly sinister-looking circumstances of his arrival. He rehearsed the eloquent words he would use to present the plight of the beleaguered elves. He hoped against hope that someone would know him. He was forced to concede that in the irritating female’s place, he would not have believed him either. He had been a dolt for forgetting that pack.

Recalling the desperate situation of the elves, he wondered what they were doing, how they were faring. He thought back to Marshal Medan, Laurana, and Gilthas, and he forgot himself and his own troubles in his earnest concern for those who had come to be his friends. So lost in thought was he that he rode along without paying attention to his surroundings and was astonished to look up and realize that night had fallen while they were on the road and that they had reached the outer walls of Solanthus.

Gerard had heard that Solanthus was the best fortified city in all of Ansalon, even surpassing the lord city of Palanthas. Now, gazing up at the immense walls, black against the stars, walls that were only the outer ring of defenses, he could well believe it.

An outer curtain wall surrounded the city. The wall consisted of several layers of stone packed with sand, slathered over with mud and then covered with more stone. On the other side of the curtain wall was a moat. Gates in several locations pierced the curtain wall. Large drawbridges led over the moat. Beyond the moat was yet another wall, this one lined with murder holes and slits for archers. Large kettles that could be filled with boiling oil were positioned at intervals. On the other side of this wall, trees and bushes had been planted so that any enemy succeeding in taking this wall would not be able to leap down into the city unimpeded. Beyond that lay the streets of the city and its buildings, the vast majority of which were also constructed of stone.

Even at this late hour, people stood at the gatehouse waiting to enter the city. Each person was stopped and questioned by the gatehouse guards. Lady Odila was well known to the guards and did not have to stand in line, but was passed through with merry jests about her fine “catch” and the success of her hunting.

Gerard bore the jokes and crude comments in dignified silence. Odila kept up the mirth until one guard, at the last post, shouted, “I see you had to hog-tie this man to keep him, Lady Odila.”

Odila’s smile slipped. The green leaf eyes glittered emerald. She turned and gave the guard a look that caused him to flush red, sent him hastening back into the guardhouse.

“Dolt,” she muttered. She tossed her black braids, affected to laugh, but Gerard could see that the verbal arrow had struck something vital in her, drawn blood.

Odila led the horse among the crowds in the city streets. People stared at Gerard curiously. When they saw the emblem on his chest, they jeered and spoke loudly of the executioner’s blood-tipped axe.

A slight flutter of doubt caused Gerard a moment’s unease, almost a moment’s panic. What if he could not convince them of the truth? What if they did not believe him? He pictured himself being led to the block, protesting his innocence. The black bag being drawn over his head, the heavy hand pressing his head down on the bloodstained block. The final moments of terror waiting for the axe to fall.

Gerard shuddered. The images he conjured up were so vivid that he broke out into a cold sweat. Berating himself for giving way to his imagination, he forced himself to concentrate on the here and now. He had presumed, for some reason, that Lady Odila would take him immediately before the Knights’ Council. Instead, she led the horse down a dark and narrow alley. At the end stood an enormous stone building.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“The prison house,” said Lady Odila.

Gerard was amazed. He had been so focused on speaking to the Knights’ Council that the idea that she should take him anywhere else had never occurred to him.

“Why are you bringing me here?” he demanded.

“You have two guesses, Neraka. The first—we’re attending a cotillion. You are going to be my dancing partner, and we’re going to drink wine and make love to each other all night. Either that”— she smiled sweetly—

“or you’re going to lock you up in a cell.”

She ordered the horse to halt. Torches burned on the walls. Firelight glowed yellow from a square, barred window. Guards, hearing her approach, came running to relieve her of her prisoner. The warden emerged, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. They’d obviously interrupted his dinner.

“Given a choice,” said Gerard acidly, “I’ll take the cell.”

“I’m glad,” Odila said, with a fond pat on his leg. “I would so hate to see you disappointed. Now, alas, I must leave you, Sweet Neraka. I am on duty. Don’t pine away, missing me.”

“Please, Lady Odila,” said Gerard, “if you can be serious for once, there must be someone here who knows the name uth Mondar. Ask around for me. Will you do that much?”

Lady Odila regarded him for a moment with quiet intensity. “It might prove amusing, at that.” She turned away to speak to the warden. Gerard had the feeling he had made an impression on her, but whether good or bad, whether she would do what he had asked or not, he could not tell. Before she left, Lady Odila gave a concise account of all of Gerard’s crimes—how she’d seen him fly in on a blue dragon, how he had landed far outside the city, and how the dragon had taken pains to hide himself in a cave. The warden regarded Gerard with a baleful eye and said that he had an especially strong cell located in the basement that was tailor-made for blue dragonriders.

With a parting gibe and a wave of her hand, Lady Odila mounted her horse, grabbed the reins of the pack mule, and cantered out of the yard, leaving Gerard to the mercies of the warden and his guards. In vain Gerard protested and argued and demanded to see the Knight Commander or some other officer. No one paid the least attention to him. Two guards hauled him inside with ruthless efficiency, while two other guards stood ready with huge spiked-tipped clubs should he make an attempt to escape. They cut loose his bonds, only to replace the rope with iron manacles.

The guards hustled him through the outer rooms where the warden had his office and the jailer his stool and table. The iron keys to the cells hung on hooks ranged in neat rows along the wall. Gerard caught only a glimpse of this, before he was shoved and dragged, stumbling, down a stair that ran straight and true to a narrow corridor below ground level. They led him to his cell with torches—he was the only prisoner down on this level, apparently—and tossed him inside. They gave him to know that there was a bucket for his waste and a straw mattress for sleeping. He would receive two meals a day, morning and night. The door, made of heavy oak with a small iron grate in the top, began to close. All this happened so fast that Gerard was left dazed, disbelieving.

The warden stood in the corridor outside his cell, watching to make certain to the last that his prisoner was safe.

Gerard flung himself forward, wedging his body between the wall and the door.

“Sir!”—he pleaded—”I must speak before the Knights’ Council! Let them know Gerard uth Mondar is here! I have urgent news! Information—”

“Tell it to the inquisitor,” said the warden coldly.

The guards gave Gerard a brutal shove that sent him staggering, manacles clanking, back into his cell. The cell door shut. He heard the sounds of their feet clomping up the stairs. The torch light diminished and was gone. Another door slammed at the top of the stairs.

Gerard was left alone in darkness so complete and silence so profound that he might have been cast off this world and left to float in the empty nothingness that was said to have existed long before the coming of the gods.