Master of Dragons

Chapter Twenty-Three

Liandra headed across the piazza feeling, if not exactly content, then certainly partially satisfied. The days since her recovery had passed quickly, dulling some of her lingering grief over Vranesh. It had taken an almighty effort of will not to kill Drutheira when she had spoken to her last, but the witch’s unmistakable reaction to the news of what Liandra intended had almost been worth it on its own. Vengeance would come in time and would be all the sweeter for the wait.

She reached the western end of the piazza, passed under a shaded portico, and ascended a long train of stone stairs. It had not taken long for her to recover from her ordeal out in the wasteland, especially since Oeragor’s people had plied her with medicinal draughts and restorative tinctures.

Their care had been welcome, but now impatience was beginning to drive her again. She was mindful of the fact that her disappearance from Tor Alessi had been sudden. Imladrik would not know why she had gone; he might attribute it to her awkward outbursts during their last conversation, perhaps even cowardice in the face of the dwarf advance. The matter needed to be settled quickly, not least as she had no means of knowing how the talks were faring, nor indeed if they were even still in progress.

As ever, the lack of certain knowledge was troubling. For far too long she had been guessing at shadows and half-truths, just as they all had. Such was always the way in Elthin Arvan, a land of enormous distances, choked by forests and hampered by lurking dangers under the shade of every branch.

At the end of her climb she reached a sunlit chamber with arched colonnades around the edges. She passed across a marble floor, up another spiral stair and into the interior of a large octagonal tower. By the time Liandra emerged at the topmost balcony she could feel the pricking of sweat in the small of her back.

She had not quite recovered, then; not yet.

A tall figure in long ivory robes waited for her, standing against the balcony railing and staring out northwards. His hands and face were tanned a rich light brown, much like the rest of Oeragor’s population. It was an attractive counter-point to the washed-out colouring of temperate Ulthuan.

‘How is our guest?’ the tall elf asked.

‘Talkative,’ she replied. ‘Not that I am much interested in what she has to say.’

Kelemar, Regent of Oeragor, nodded in satisfaction. ‘I am glad you’re happy, though I warn you my people are not. There has been talk of breaking into the dungeons and dragging her out.’

‘I can understand that. Believe me, I will rid you of her as soon as I may.’

Kelemar looked back out over the balcony’s edge. ‘That would be appreciated, but I don’t know how you’ll do it.’

Below them lay the tight-packed towers of Oeragor’s northern slopes. The city had been built at the heart of the wide, sun-baked plain and the buildings clustered together as if for protection from the elements. Every surface was whitewashed. The walls gleamed under the sun, making Liandra’s eyes water if she looked at them for too long.

It was not a large settlement. She had often wondered why Imladrik had chosen such a site. Oeragor’s foundations had been sited over a deep well of pure spring water, an oasis amid the bleakness; so it did at least have enough to drink, as well as a surplus to irrigate some modest gardens and terraced plantations. The city stood on the site of a truly ancient road, one that predated even the dawi presence in Elthin Arvan, though none could say who had made it or why. Its population numbered some five thousand, almost as small as Kor Vanaeth though far more remote. Even with recent reinforcements it stood at a little over seven thousand, leaving plenty of room within the whitewashed walls for more.

Liandra once asked Imladrik why he had adopted the far-flung location. He hadn’t been very forthcoming.

‘We cannot restrict ourselves to the coast,’ he’d said lightly. ‘We must push into the wild places, taming them one by one.’

It wasn’t much of an answer. Liandra had always suspected he’d had designs on making the place his home one day, a refuge away from the scheming of Ulthuan and the grimy hardship of the coastal colonies. She could certainly imagine Draukhain out here, coasting effortlessly over the empty lands, his sky-blue hide sparkling in unbroken sunlight.

Even if that were true, though, she knew he’d never be given the freedom to pursue the dream. Caledor had summoned him back to Ulthuan to oversee the everlasting war against the druchii, then given him the command that had taken him to Tor Alessi. One way or another, his brother had frustrated any plans Imladrik might have once had for Oeragor.

And of course there was his wife, the scholar-lady of Tor Vael. Liandra could not imagine her willingly uprooting and coming to the desert. The relationship between the two of them had always been a mystery to her, one that perhaps only they themselves truly understood.

But that was uncomfortable to think about.

‘You say the roads north are still too perilous?’ Liandra asked, shading her eyes as she looked out over the honey-yellow landscape.

‘The dawi are marching. They have emptied their holds to the east, destroyed our outposts all across the northern edge of the Blight.’

‘The Blight. I can see why you called it that.’

‘Nothing else seemed appropriate. You were lucky to last out there for as long as you did.’

Liandra pushed a stray length of copper-blonde hair from her face. She could already feel her skin tightening in the heat. ‘Why stay here, Kelemar? What keeps you?’

‘Because we were ordered to. And because we have our task here: to turn the barren land into a garden.’

Liandra had thought much the same of Kor Vanaeth. Elthin Arvan was dirty, dangerous and feral, but the vision of the colonists had been to tame it, to make it a paradise. If they were fighting for anything noble, that was it.

‘And, of course, it is Imladrik’s place,’ Kelemar went on. ‘We are all his people. We would work ourselves into the dust for him.’

Liandra shook her head gently. ‘Why is this? He inspires this… devotion.’

Kelemar pursed his lips in modest disapproval. ‘In the early days he laboured with us here. He carried stones on his back with the rest of us. He could have followed the life of his brother and lived in a palace in Lothern. Whatever it was that took him away from us, we know he did not choose it.’ He smiled regretfully. ‘Does that give you your answer?’

‘There’s some secret to it, to be sure.’ She found herself wishing to change the subject and withdrew from the bal-cony’s edge, pulling out of the direct sunlight. ‘So the passage north is closed, and there is nothing to the south, west and east but empty rock. I need to find some way to reach Tor Alessi.’

‘I think you have missed your chance. The dawi will be here soon.’

Liandra looked out north again, seeing no more than haze and heat-shimmer.

‘How long?’

‘A few days, if we are lucky.’

Liandra drew in a deep breath. Oeragor was a world away from Tor Alessi, where, she had to assume, hostilities were still suspended. To end up stranded in some sweaty skirmish on the margins of civilisation while the real war in the west had been interrupted… The frustration was almost unbearable.

‘There will be a way,’ Liandra said, doggedly. ‘The witch cannot die here. I do not intend to die here. By Isha, there will be a way.’

Caradryel pushed back in his chair, feeling irritable and at a loose end. He hadn’t slept well for days, kept awake both by his memories of the siege — which were terrible — and his frustration at how the events beforehand had turned out.

Everything he had touched had turned to swill. Confidence, a quality he had never struggled to lay hold of, was in short supply. He had considered speaking to Imladrik about it, perhaps even suggesting that his service had been a mistake and he would be better employed back in Ulthuan.

That, of course, would have been a mistake. Having offered his assistance so brazenly, Caradryel knew there would be no backing out of it now.

In the days since the siege had ended he had barely exchanged a dozen words with his master. Imladrik had looked exhausted in the aftermath of the battle, his face drawn with a dull kind of horror. He’d remained punishingly busy, striding from one end of the city to the other to oversee repairs, rebuilding and restocking. Given the damage inflicted, it would be weeks before full order was restored.

Beyond the walls, the battlefield reeked. Mists rolled in from the sea, turning everything mouldy and sodden. Huge funeral pyres had been constructed to dispose of the dead but they had burned sullenly, leaving thick shrouds of foul-smelling smoke suspended in the air around them. Days later the plain still smouldered under grey clouds, its soils blackened and clotted.

Caradryel had found few things to occupy himself during those days. He had followed up on a few loose ends from the Caerwal affair. He had ensured that his informants were paid, and had kept several of them on to ensure he knew what was going on while the city slowly recovered its equilibrium.

Many of the regiments were now being prepared for marches elsewhere. The dragons flew constantly in the skies over the harbour, as if giving visible reminder of the might of Ulthuan before the troops were sent off into enemy-infested swamps to an uncertain fate. It felt as if everything was unwinding, slowly dissipating like the smoke over the slain.

He tipped his chair on to two legs and swung back on it lazily. When the knock came on the door of his chamber, he nearly sent it — and himself — toppling over.

‘Come,’ he snapped, righting himself and brushing his robes down.

The door opened and Geleth entered with a female elf in tow. She looked like a beggar, her shift dirty and ragged, her hands and face dirty from the road.

‘My lord,’ said Geleth, bowing. ‘Something I thought you might wish to hear.’

Caradryel shot a superficial smile at the newcomer. ‘Welcome. Be seated.’

She remained standing. She had a hunted look in her eyes. Her hands turned over one another in a nervous pattern.

Caradryel glanced at Geleth, who returned a look that said give her time.

‘Perhaps you would like some wine?’ Caradryel tried again. ‘Something to eat?’

The elf shook her head. ‘Are you Imladrik?’

Caradryel just about suppressed a smile. ‘No, not really, but if there is something you wished-’

‘I came here for Imladrik.’

‘He has many things to worry him. The best way to get a message to him is to entrust it to me. So, let us see if we can get things started. What is your name?’

She looked uncertain. For a minute Caradryel thought she might make a break for the doors.

‘Alieth,’ she said.

‘Good. Alieth, where are you from?’

‘Kor Vanaeth.’

Caradryel raised an eyebrow. ‘Kor Vanaeth was destroyed.’

Alieth’s face flickered with momentary anguish. ‘It was. I walked here.’

‘On your own?’

‘There were others. Not many.’

Caradryel found himself getting interested. Geleth stood calmly by her side, saying nothing.

‘You should sit,’ Caradryel said, motioning to a chair opposite him. ‘You look like you need it.’

Gingerly, Alieth shuffled over to it, perching on the edge as if afraid it would fall apart.

‘You are among friends,’ Caradryel went on. ‘Tell me everything. No dwarf can get to you here.’

She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t the dwarfs.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Kor Vanaeth. It was not destroyed by the dwarfs. We never saw them.’

Caradryel frowned. ‘The reports we have-’

‘They are wrong. That is why I have to speak to Imladrik. We know he is close to the Lady.’

‘Liandra?’

Alieth nodded. ‘We came because we had nowhere else to go. When we arrived here we heard rumours.’ She frowned. ‘Foul rumours. They are saying the Lady broke her commands, that she caused the dwarfs to attack. It is lies.’

Caradryel crossed his legs and leaned forwards, listening carefully. ‘Tell me everything. From the beginning. Can you do that?’

‘We were attacked. A black dragon ridden by a sorcerer. She destroyed the city. The Lady came to our aid, and they fought above us. I saw it. I saw the red dragon take on the black, driving it out over the mountains.

‘A black dragon?’ asked Caradryel. He’d never heard of such a thing.

Alieth nodded vigorously. ‘A monster, covered in chains. The Lady pursued it. That was the last we saw. Some tried to follow, but they moved too fast.’ She started to rub her hands together again. ‘Imladrik must know. The Lady is in danger. There were no dwarfs at Kor Vanaeth.’

‘Please calm yourself. If what you say is true-’

‘It is true.’

‘-then I will pass it on to Lord Imladrik. Are you prepared to vouch under oaths to Asuryan?’

Alieth nodded firmly.

Caradryel reached out and rested his hand on hers. It was a tender, reassuring gesture, one he had always been proud of.

‘Then I want you to keep remembering,’ he said soothingly. ‘Think carefully, hold nothing back. Lord Imladrik will be made aware, but first you must tell me what happened next.’

Alieth began to speak again then, a little more fluently as she gathered confidence, explaining how she and her companions had survived the onslaught and subsequently made their way through the forest towards the coast.

Caradryel listened, making mental notes of the portions he would pass on to Imladrik. Even as he did so, though, another, more encouraging thought made its presence felt.

This will make me useful again.

So it was that as he listened, despite the impropriety of it, despite his attempts to quell it, Caradryel could not help a furtive smile creeping along the corners of his elegant mouth.

Night fell, though the skies above Tor Alessi remained blood-red from the fires. Labourers worked tirelessly, building as fast as their exhausted limbs would allow. Detachments of soldiers still prowled the streets, though their numbers had been thinned following losses and reassignments.

The world’s moons rode high in a cloud-patchworked sky. A lone dragon flew lazily to the north, its black outline stark against the silvery feathering of the heavens.

Thoriol did not spend time watching it. His whole body throbbed. It felt as if his wound had opened up again; a hot, damp sensation had broken out just under his ribs.

He didn’t stop walking. He limped through the dusk, ignoring those around him just as they ignored him. He passed fire-scarred walls and piles of rubble. Somewhere in the distance he heard weeping. There had been weeping every night since the siege and the passing of time did little to lessen it.

Thoriol kept going, averting his face from the glow of the torches.

It had been easy to deceive the Master Healer, who was more adept at creating poultices than he was at reading intentions. With all else that had transpired, the few guards there had been preoccupied with other matters and were not looking for a lone charge seeking to evade their attention.

In any case, there was little they could have done to stop him leaving. He was a prince of a noble house, the Dragontamer’s House no less, and they would have been bound to accept his orders if he’d been forced to give them.

For all that, Thoriol had been glad no confrontation had taken place. Giving orders was not, and had never been, his strength.

He limped down a long, crooked street in the south quarter of the lower city. It looked different to the last time he’d been there. Then again, much of the city looked different. The buildings seemed to crowd a little closer, their pointed roofs angling like furled batwings into the night.

He found the door he was looking for, and paused. Two narrow windows shone with hearth-rich light from within. He could hear voices from the other side, voices he recognised. Someone was laughing; a tankard clinked.

Thoriol smiled. His father was wrong. He did not understand such things. Comradeship, companionship — Imladrik had never known such closeness. He’d probably never fought alongside another living soul in his life, save for the great beasts that carried him into war.

Thoriol reached for the door and rapped hard. He heard more laughter, the sound of something being knocked over, then it opened.

‘Greetings!’ said Thoriol, trying to look carefree against the pain of his wound.

Taemon stood in the doorway. His mouth opened. It took him just a little too long to close it. He stood there, stupidly, a tankard in one hand, the door-latch in the other.

‘Well?’ asked Thoriol good-naturedly. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

Taemon stammered an apology and stood aside. Thoriol limped into a crowded chamber. Loeth sat in a chair by the fire, his leg bandaged and raised on a stool. Rovil stood over the mantelpiece, looking as if he’d just been speaking. Florean sat across a rough table. He’d been carving the skin from an apple, knife still in hand.

All of them stared at Thoriol as he entered. Their laughter stilled.

‘Silent?’ asked Loeth, squinting up at him as if unsure it was really him.

Thoriol nodded, grinning. Already he felt better; the marble chambers of the old city now seemed like some kind of fleeting aberration. ‘They would not tell me where you were, but I hoped nothing had changed. What happened to your leg?’

Loeth looked down at the bandages, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Dawi quarrel,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Thigh. But it’s healing.’

Thoriol gazed around the room. He smelled the familiar aromas of rough wine, straw, cooked meat.

None of them spoke. The fire spat. Rovil stared at the floor; Florean kept his knife in hand, frozen in the act of peeling appleskin.

‘Well?’ asked Thoriol, wanting to laugh at their shock. ‘Have you all lost your tongues?’

Taemon closed the door and stood against it, arms folded. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

That was the first sign. Taemon’s voice was blunt with suspicion.

‘They took me to the old city.’

‘That’s what we heard,’ said Rovil.

‘But I’m back now,’ said Thoriol.

‘So you are,’ said Taemon.

Thoriol looked back at them all. The chamber felt suddenly chill.

‘What is this?’ he asked, maintaining a smile with some effort. ‘I know Baelian has gone, but-’

‘Yes, Baelian has gone,’ said Loeth. He plunged his dagger into the table. ‘He was not taken to the upper city. He was burned out on the plain.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Loeth didn’t make eye-contact. He just kept staring at the dagger hilt. ‘Why would you?’

‘I was wounded.’

‘You were highborn,’ said Taemon.

Thoriol felt his cheeks flush. They had never spoken like this, not even on their first meeting out at sea. ‘Does that matter?’

‘Lying does,’ said Florean.

‘He didn’t-’ began Rovil, trying to soften the tenseness in the room, but he was soon talked over.

‘Did you fancy some sport, then?’ asked Florean. ‘See how the rustics live? I hope it was worth it.’

Thoriol’s heartbeat picked up. ‘That’s not how it was.’

‘Why don’t you tell us, then?’ asked Loeth. ‘How was it?’

‘It was Baelian. He was recruiting in Lothern. We spoke, but my memory is hazy. I don’t even remember agreeing to join, but-’

Taemon smiled coldly. ‘He took advantage. You were wine-stupid and you made promises he held you to.’

‘Yes,’ said Thoriol. ‘That’s it. But after that, I worked at it. You saw that I did. It wasn’t about lying, it was about being… honest.’

Loeth shook his head dismissively, smiling in disbelief. ‘Your father, Thoriol. Your father is Imladrik.’

‘And?’

‘You truly do not see, do you?’ murmured Taemon. ‘They won’t permit this, and when they come after us it won’t be you that suffers.’

‘I can prevent that.’

Loeth laughed harshly. ‘No, you can’t. And even if you could, here’s the thing. We don’t want you here.’

Rovil looked uncomfortable then. Even Florean looked a little embarrassed.

Thoriol felt like he’d been struck in the stomach. His father’s last words to him seemed to echo in his mind.

You do not belong there.

With a sinking, almost nauseous feeling in his innards, Thoriol realised how right he had been. Again.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, though he did, perfectly.

‘It’s not just a game for us,’ said Taemon. ‘We can’t leave when the blood starts running. You can.’

‘And you lied,’ said Florean.

‘Baelian did too, but he’s dead,’ said Loeth. ‘There’s no place for you here any more.’

A tense silence fell. Rovil almost said something, his honest face contorted with unhappiness, but a glare from Florean cut him off again.

‘Then it seems I misunderstood,’ said Thoriol stiffly. ‘You should know this, though: I never lied.’

‘You hid the truth,’ said Taemon, as unbending as ever. ‘What’s the difference?’

Thoriol scanned across the room, seeing nothing but hostile faces. They wanted him gone. Not until he left would the drinking start up again, the flow of jests and jibes that would last long into the night. It was a curiously wounding experience, far more so than the quarrel-gash in his side.

‘I won’t say anything of this,’ he mumbled, pulling his robes about him and walking back to the door. ‘And… I wish you fortune.’

‘And to you,’ said Rovil. No one else spoke.

Then Thoriol ducked under the lintel and was out into the night again. The door closed behind him with a dull click. Few people were abroad; the street was quiet, no one paid him any attention.

He looked down the mazy passages, the ones that led deeper into the lower city. There was nothing for him there. Then he turned the other way, facing up the slope towards the spires and interconnected towers of the old city. Their pinnacles reared up like stacked arrowheads, sharp black against the sullen red of the sky.

They looked alien to him, like reminders of a harsher world he had almost managed to leave. Now they beckoned him back, as inexorable as the tides.

Not much use fighting it, he thought.

Slowly, his feet heavy, he started to retrace his steps, back up to where the highborn — his people — conducted their lives.