Master of Dragons

Chapter Six

Yethanial looked up from her work, irritated. She had slipped with her last stroke, jabbing the tip of the quill across the vellum. The servant was well aware of his crime, and waited nervously.

‘I told you I was not to be disturbed,’ said Yethanial.

‘Yes, my lady, but he would not accept my word. He is highborn, and refuses to leave.’

Yethanial looked down at her work again. At times she wondered why she cared so much. No one other than her would ever read it.

‘Tell him to wait in the great hall,’ she said. ‘I will see him there.’

The servant bowed, and made to leave Yethanial’s chamber.

‘Wait,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Caradryel, of the House of Reveniol.’

‘I have never heard of it.’

‘From Yvresse, I believe.’

Yethanial shook her head. ‘There are more noble houses in Ulthuan than there are trees in Avelorn. What does that tell us?’

The servant looked uncertain. ‘I do not know, my lady.’

Yethanial shot him a scornful glance. ‘Deliver the message. I will come down when I am ready.’

He was waiting for her in Tor Vael’s great hall. ‘Great’ was somewhat optimistic; the space was modest, capable of holding no more than several dozen guests, bare-walled and with only a few drab hangings to lighten the stonework. The fireplace was empty and had not been used for years. Yethanial did not often entertain guests; as she had often complained to Imladrik, she found their conversation tiresome and their manners swinish.

The present occupant lounged casually in one of the two great chairs set before the granite mantelpiece. His long blond hair was artfully arranged, swept back from a sleek face in what Yethanial supposed was the latest fashion in the cities. He wore a long robe of damask silk, a burgundy red with gold detail. It looked fabulously expensive.

Yethanial walked up to him. He did not rise to greet her.

‘My servants tell me you will not leave,’ she said.

Caradryel raised a thin eyebrow. ‘That is not much of a greeting.’

‘I have important work. State your business.’

He settled into the chair more comfortably. ‘Ah, yes. The scholar-lady. You are spoken well of in Hoeth.’

Yethanial paused. ‘Hoeth? You bring word from the loremasters?’

Caradryel laughed; an easy, untroubled sound. ‘Loremasters? Not my profession, I’m afraid. I only use parchment to light fires.’

Yethanial folded her arms. She knew that she must look impossibly drab next to him in her grey shift and barely-combed hair, and cared nothing for it. ‘Then you are running out of time here.’

‘Something I am sure you must be short of, so I will come to the meat of it.’ He pushed himself up higher in his seat. ‘I was serving in the fleets, sent there by a father who despairs of my ever performing gainful service to the Crown. He is wrong about that, as it turns out, but that is not something you or he need worry about. My time aboard ship turned out to be instructive, though not in the way he hoped for.’

‘I am just burning to know how.’

Caradryel flashed her another smile — the effortless, artful smile of one who has spent his life flitting through the privileged circles of courtly classes. ‘I saw a strange thing. We were attacked by corsairs. I have never been one to scare easily, being of the view that my destiny is almost certainly a great one and thus the gods have a clear incentive to keep me alive, but I admit that I did not like the way the situation looked. I had made my preparations to meet death in a suitable manner when, quite unexpectedly, salvation came out of an empty sky.’

Yethanial struggled to control her impatience. Caradryel clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice and fancied himself a storyteller. She could see the steady confidence radiating from his languid frame and wondered what, if anything, justified it.

‘A dragon rider, my lady,’ Caradryel went on. ‘Rare enough even on the fields of war. Vanishingly rare in the open seas. When the shock of it had faded, I reflected on that. I could not help but feel that my earlier judgement had been vindicated: I am being preserved for something special. That is a comfort to me, as you might imagine.’

‘Or a delusion.’

‘Quite; time will tell which. But here is the thing: the rider was your husband, the King’s brother. When this became known, the crew of the ship fell into the kind of fawning adulation that is embarrassing unless directed at oneself. And that prompted me to think further on it.’

‘Any brevity you can muster would be welcome,’ sighed Yethanial.

‘Our beloved ruler, Caledor the Second, has returned to Ulthuan. His victory in the east has bolstered his strength at court, but he is not without enemies, who think him vain and unwise. Factions exist that wish for an end to the fighting in Elthin Arvan. They would not move against him openly, but there are other things they can do to undermine a king. I know how the courts work, my lady, and so does he. The crown does not suffer rivals. Caledor will act; he may have already done so. Your husband, you should know, will not be suffered to remain in Ulthuan.’

Yethanial smiled thinly. ‘And you understand all of this from one chance encounter at sea.’

Caradryel shrugged. ‘That was the start of it. I have friends in all sorts of interesting places, and they tell me the same thing. A story is being whispered all across Ulthuan, passed from shadow to shadow.’ He gave her a sad, almost sincere, smile. ‘Lord Imladrik will be sent back to the colonies, my lady. Nothing can prevent it.’

Yethanial felt her face grow pale. ‘Is this why you came?’ she demanded. ‘To pass on tittle-tattle and gossip?’

‘Not at all. I can do that far more productively in Lothern.’ Caradryel rose from his chair and bowed floridly. ‘I came to offer my services.’

For a moment, Yethanial was lost for words. As she struggled, Caradryel kept talking.

‘They say your husband is the greatest dragon rider since the days of the Dragontamer. Having seen his prowess at first hand, I have no doubt they are right. When it comes to the arts of state, though, he is a neophyte. My guess is that he thinks statecraft beneath him, as do you. You despise the likes of me; you think us gaudy parasites on the real business of life. Of course you are right: we are parasites. But necessary ones.’

Caradryel fixed her with a serious look, the first he had given her.

‘I can help him,’ he said. ‘I can guide him. When he is alone in Elthin Arvan, beset by enemies on both sides of the walls, I can give him counsel. Believe me, he will need it.’

Yethanial’s surprise ebbed, giving way to anger. Caradryel must have been half her age, and yet felt free to lecture her as if speaking to a child. She drew closer to him, noticing for the first time that she was taller.

‘Save your counsel,’ she said coldly. ‘It, and your presence here, are not welcome. I do not know to whom you have been speaking, nor do I care to. My husband’s business is here in Tor Vael and it is no one’s concern but his and mine. You clearly have little regard for the sensibilities of this house, so let me enlighten you: three dozen guards stand ready on the far side of this door. Should I order it, they will rip those robes from your back and drive you all the way back to Yvresse for the sport of your long-suffering subjects. I am close to giving that order. If you disbelieve me, feel free to provoke me further.’

Caradryel met her gaze for a little while. His blue eyes flickered back and forth, as if testing her resolve, or perhaps his own. Eventually they dropped, and the smile melted from his face. ‘So be it,’ he said, adopting a breezy, resigned tone without much conviction. ‘I made the offer. That is all I can do.’

Yethanial said nothing. For some reason, her heart was beating hard.

Caradryel bowed. ‘I was told you were a shy soul, my lady, much taken up with books. I see that you have been undersold.’ He started to walk away. ‘Should you change your mind-’

‘I will not change my mind.’

‘Just in case, I can be found at Faer-Lyen. You will not have to look hard; I have many friends who know me well.’

‘How fortunate for them.’

Caradryel smiled again ruefully, reached the doors, and took the handle. He almost said something else, but seemed to change his mind. He bowed, turned on his heel and slipped through them. As he departed, his damask robes gave a final flourish.

Yethanial watched him go. Only once the doors had closed did she look down at her hands. They trembled slightly.

She had spoken as firmly as she was able, something she disliked doing. Perhaps it had fooled him. She had not fooled herself, though. His prediction had shaken her; his assertiveness had shaken her.

She stirred herself, ready to climb the stairs to her chamber and start the process of writing again. As she prepared her mind for the labour, though, she knew it would not come easily this time. The moment had gone. Other thoughts would preoccupy her now, ones that she had believed consigned to the past over thirty years ago.

Lord Imladrik will be sent back to the colonies, my lady. Nothing can prevent it.

That was not true. It could not be true — those days were done with, over.

Yethanial moved away from the fireplace, forcing a measure of calm onto her speculating mind. She pushed Caradryel’s infuriating smugness from her thoughts, returning to the labour of scholarship that had occupied her before his interruption.

I will not permit it. I have my dignity.

She reached the stairs and started to climb, her grey robes whispering across the stone.

Nothing can prevent it.

Imladrik had never loved Kor Evril. Its walls were dark, hewn from the volcanic rock that riddled Caledor and gave the kingdom its untamed aspect. They were as old as the bones of Ulthuan, having been raised in the days when Aenarion still walked the earth and daemons sang unchecked in the aethyr.

He preferred the open sky. Walls made him restless; towers made him feel confined. Perhaps it was the dragons that had done it to him; once one had ridden on the high paths, circling under the sun with the whole world laid out like a crumpled sheaf of parchment, the confinement of mortal chambers became hard to bear.

Imrik, his father, the one known to Ulthuan as Caledor I, had warned him of it. ‘They say steed and rider become alike,’ he had said. ‘They get into your mind, the dragons. Beware of that: they are creatures of another world. Never believe you control them. They only come to you if they see themselves already inside you — the dragon becomes you, you become the dragon.’

Imladrik knew the truth of that. He had started to speak like Draukhain, even to think like him. When they were apart, which was most of the time, he would sometimes catch himself pondering strange images of far-off mountains or shorelines. He knew then that Draukhain was on the wing, perhaps thousands of leagues distant, and that the great creature’s mind was reaching out to him.

Did he share such an understanding with any of his own kind. With Thoriol? With Yethanial? He wanted to say that he did.

But he had never shared their minds as he had shared Draukhain’s. He had never become one with them, lost in the joy of flight, of killing, in the perfect freedom that had existed since before the coming of the ancients and the ordering of the earth into its mortal realms and jealousies.

At times he felt like one of the poor fools who sipped the nectar of the poppy, forgetting themselves, gradually slipping from the real world. They, too, lost themselves in dreams. How different was he to them? If he wanted to, could he break free of it?

Possibly. But the question was moot; he would never want to.

He approached Kor Evril’s gates on foot. A clarion sounded and the heavy wooden doors swung inwards. Guards raced out to greet him, bowing the knee and lowering iron spear tips in homage. They bore the colours of his House — crimson, bone-white, black.

Imladrik strode past them, barely checking his stride. ‘Where is my son?’

‘He has not been seen, my lord,’ replied one of the guards, hurrying to follow him. ‘I thought he was with-’

‘He was,’ said Imladrik grimly. ‘He chose to descend alone.’ He walked briskly through the narrow streets, ignoring the startled looks of his people. They stared at him from narrow windows. They were not used to seeing their lord travel without an escort, with the black dust of the mountain caking his robes and with two swords in his hands. ‘He was not seen on the road?’

‘He was not,’ said the guard. ‘I will send out patrols.’

‘No need. I know where he has gone. I will go after him myself.’

The guard bowed, struggling to keep pace as Imladrik pushed up towards the citadel’s main tower. ‘My lord, there is something else.’

‘Make it brief,’ snapped Imladrik, maintaining his pace. His failure with Thoriol still rankled. The ceaseless war with the druchii would call him away again soon, so he needed to make his peace before then. The two of them needed to speak, like a father and son should. His duties had always taken him away. That was the cause of the rift — it could be healed, given time, given patience.

‘The King is here, lord,’ said the guard, looking up at Imladrik’s stern face with some trepidation. ‘He arrived last night.’

By then Imladrik was approaching the central tower, his own keep, and he could see it for himself. Two banners hung over the gateway: one the gold and white of the Phoenix Kings, the other the pale blue of Caledor II.

He felt his heart sink. He gazed up at the high window, knowing that Menlaeth would have installed himself in there with his entourage, waiting for his subject to come to him.

It was a petty indignity. Imladrik paused, toying with the idea of turning on his heels. He was the inheritor of the title once carried by his illustrious ancestor, and need bow to no living monarch.

‘My lord?’ asked the guard, hovering uncertainly. ‘Shall I send word that you are coming?’

Imladrik briefly glanced up at the sky — a wistful look. He half expected to see Draukhain up there somewhere, spiralling in the emptiness, his long sapphire body twisting in perfect freedom.

The dragon becomes you, you become the dragon.

‘Do no such thing,’ he said dryly, pushing the doors open and walking inside. ‘I shall announce myself. It is always nice to give my brother a surprise.’

Imladrik’s audience chamber was a long, many-pillared space, lit by tall arched windows that sent clear bars of sunlight across the stone floor. At the far end stood a low dais, upon which sat a throne of obsidian. Imrik’s old battle-standard hung behind the throne, scorched at the edges. The dragon’s-head device had faded over the years.

Caledor filled the throne out pretty well. His fur-lined robes spilled over the arms. His longsword, Lathrain, rested against the obsidian, still sheathed in its ancient wound-metal scabbard. Hulviar, the king’s seneschal, crouched on the steps to one side, wearing a high-collared jerkin of worsted wool and a thick cloak.

Imladrik smiled to himself. Hulviar had always felt the cold.

‘Brother,’ said Caledor warmly, rising from the throne and coming to greet him.

Imladrik met the embrace, kissing his brother on both cheeks.

‘You look terrible,’ Caledor said. ‘You smell terrible. Have you been rolling in charcoal?’

‘I have been in the mountains,’ replied Imladrik, thinking much the same about his brother’s primped and perfumed attire. ‘It takes its toll.’

‘Your people told me you were up there,’ said Caledor, returning to the throne and brushing his robes down. ‘I asked when you would return and I was told that no one knew. It could be tomorrow, it could be in a month, they said.’

Imladrik stood upright before the dais. He could feel his muscles ache from the long hike down but did not send for a chair. ‘What do you want, Menlaeth? I am tired, I have much to do. If you’d wanted me I could have come to Lothern.’

‘I know, brother, but are you not grateful? I have come to see you. Not every King would have made such an effort. Can you imagine our father doing it?’ Caledor’s face clouded. ‘Can you imagine him ever pulling himself away from his wars long enough to speak to either of us?’

‘No, I cannot.’

‘Now I am back from wars of my own, and it has been too long since we spoke. So I am here, and I am glad to see you, though I am not sure I would have waited a month for the privilege.’

Imladrik glanced at Hulviar, who studiously ignored his gaze. ‘I heard your reception in Lothern was worth seeing.’

Caledor inclined his head modestly. ‘It was. And our passage across the seas was equally splendid, thanks to the escorts you arranged. I am grateful.’

Imladrik paused. Was he being sarcastic? He couldn’t read his brother’s expressions any more. For that matter, he couldn’t read anyone’s expressions any more. ‘Please, Menlaeth,’ he said. ‘Tell me why you are here.’

‘Very well,’ said Caledor. ‘I am sending you back to Elthin Arvan.’

Imladrik stood stock still. The words hit him hard. For a moment, he thought he might have misheard. Then he thought that Caledor might have misspoken. Then he realised that no error had been committed — that was what he was being told.

‘This is an honour for you,’ Caledor went on. ‘The dawi are easy prey: we will have victory after victory. I have seen for myself the glory it brings. You too will earn a reception in Lothern, and they will greet you as they did me — like a god.’

‘Madness.’ The words seemed to spill out of their own accord. ‘You were barely there a year. You have seen only a tithe of their strength.’

Caledor shot him an indulgent look. ‘No doubt! No doubt there are thousands more, and you can root them out, one after the next. You can take the dragons, too, as many of them as will cross the ocean. Imagine when the dwarfs see them. I don’t think they truly realise what a weapon they are.’

‘They are not weapons,’ said Imladrik, his voice low.

‘Of course, no, they are not: they are ancient and wonderful beings. I forget that sometimes, so it is good to have you here to remind me.’

Imladrik struggled to keep his anger down, mindful of where he was and whom he spoke with. ‘I cannot go back,’ he said. ‘Not now. We are taking the war to the druchii. A thousand plans are in motion. My troops-’

‘-will serve just as ably under another commander,’ said Caledor coolly. ‘And what is this “I cannot”? Is that how you were schooled to talk to Kings?’

‘I am used to Kings making wiser choices,’ said Imladrik.

Hulviar pursed his lips. Caledor’s face went a shade paler.

‘This is not a request, brother,’ he said, his tone frostier. ‘I am still the regent of Asuryan in this realm. Unless, that is, you can think of a better candidate.’

Imladrik laughed, suddenly understanding. ‘Is that what this is about? You should find yourself abler counsellors.’ He took a stride towards Caledor, and his metal-shod boots clinked on the stone. ‘I have no desire to sit on your throne, nor to wear your crown. By the gods, I have no desire to lead armies at all — if duty did not demand it I would happily spend my days in the Dragonspine. Forget those who whisper in your ear; we are winning the war against the druchii, and I will not leave it.’

Caledor’s face flashed briefly with anger. ‘Will not? Let me remind you, brother, of how things stand. I have the mandate of the Flame. I built the fleets that spread our power over the world. I broke the grip of the corsairs. I slew the prince of the stunted folk and sent his armies reeling.’

Imladrik listened to the litany wearily. Perhaps it sounded impressive to his brother; to his own ears, it sounded painfully insecure. Both of them knew that their father had been gifted the title ‘Conqueror’ by the people. Caledor II was desperate to make a similar mark in the annals and so threw himself into one battle after the other, neglecting all else but war. That might fool the rabbles of Lothern and Tor Alessi, though it fooled no one who had actually known Imrik.

‘And you,’ said Caledor, almost scornfully. ‘The Master of Dragons. What is that, even? An old title from a dusty lineage. They are dying, Imladrik. They have been dying for centuries and nothing will halt it. You have wasted your life with them, trying to coax out a little more ore from a mined-out shaft.’

Imladrik met his gaze evenly. ‘You know nothing of them.’

‘So you have always told me, but by Khaine, brother, your piety riles me! You speak of mystical nonsense and then expect me to take you seriously, and in the meantime there are real wars to be fought. My gold buys the making of a thousand warships. Every day we ferry more soldiers to Elthin Arvan — you think it happens by itself? And all the while you commune with your… creatures in the hills.’

‘I will not go.’

Caledor rose from the throne. Imladrik saw the brittleness there: the raised veins in his neck, the tight line of his jaw. So it had ever been with him, always just one step away from battle-rage.

‘Then I order it,’ said Caledor through gritted teeth. ‘I order you to Elthin Arvan. You will wage the war against the dawi. You will not return until their forces are broken and the colonies are secure.’

‘We do not need to fight them!’ Imladrik shouted, struggling to curb his exasperation. ‘You provoked them, time and again. They are proud, they do not suffer slights, and you shamed them. You shamed them in the worst possible way, and you do not even know it.’

By then they stood only inches apart. Imladrik was the taller, the leaner, but Caledor was the stronger. Thus it had always been with them — the older brother staring up at the younger.

‘And what of you, brother?’ Caledor spat, his eyes flat. ‘You will speak up for anyone but your own kind. They killed thousands at Kor Vanaeth, thousands more at Tor Alessi. At Athel Numiel they butchered infants for sport. What would you have me do — roll over for them? Beg for mercy?’

Imladrik shook his head in disgust. ‘The war is a sham. It always has been. Our father would never-’

‘Do not mention him!’ Caledor’s voice rose in fury, skirting hysteria. ‘This is not his time! It is my time! It is my time!’

Imladrik pulled back as if burned. The frenzy in Caledor’s voice was disconcerting. ‘Gods, listen to yourself. What has happened to you?’ He forced himself to relax, his fists to unclench. ‘Just think. We can take the war to the druchii, just as we were always meant to: my dragons, your ships. There need be no jealousy between us. I have always been content to follow you. Come, you know this.’

Caledor hesitated then. His face remained taut, locked in outrage, but something else flickered across it: embarrassment, perhaps. Imladrik hardly dared to breathe.

Then Hulviar’s silky voice broke the silence.

‘This is false policy,’ interjected the seneschal. ‘We will lose the colonies. My liege, recall the determinations made-’

Imladrik whirled on him. ‘Silence!’

Hulviar recoiled, raising his hands in self-defence. By then, though, the damage had been done; Caledor’s resolve returned.

‘You will go to the east,’ Caledor ordered, his voice firm again. ‘Either you will go by your own will or you will be sent there under the custody of more dependable subjects. You are mighty, brother, but even you cannot defy the will of the Crown. If you try, it will break you.’ His voice lowered, just a little. ‘I do not wish to break you.’

Imladrik’s heart beat hard, the blood thudding in his ears. The twin swords in his hands felt heavy. He felt the potential in them, and for an instant imagined the storm he could unleash if he chose to.

Caledor did not waver. Imladrik stared down at him, his mind a torment of emotions, his face a mask. Then he looked away.

‘You are the Phoenix King,’ he said, softly.

‘And your brother,’ added Caledor, relenting a little with a half-smile.

Imladrik turned away, ready to stride back down the length of the hall. He shot a withering glance at Hulviar, then started to walk.

‘For what’s it’s worth,’ he said.