Master of Dragons

Chapter Seven

Thoriol lay back against the cushions, feeling his muscles relax. Soft lute music filled the background, calming him, easing the tensions that had filled his mind during the long descent from the mountains.

He didn’t like to think back over the journey. He had taken a steed from one of the hardscrabble settlements just outside Kor Evril and ridden along stony tracks down to Lothern, weathering incessant salt-thick wind until Eataine’s gentler land had taken hold.

The country of Caledor had always left him cold, and he had never understood what his father saw in it. To his eyes, it was all black rock and smouldering craters, scoured by the elements and beset by legends of past glory. In comparison to Cothique, his mother’s land, where grass-crowned cliffs stood proudly against the ocean and the air was sweet from the woodlands of Avelorn, it seemed a meagre, desolate place.

As a child Thoriol had been proud of his father’s lineage. He had boasted to his playmates about it, enjoying it when they had stared back at him, mouths open, as he had told them stories about the great dragons. Some of them had even been true.

Thoriol smiled as he remembered. It was hard not to smile. After nearly half a decanter of heliath the whole world seemed essentially benign.

He looked around him. The house of pleasure was much like most of the others he had spent time in, though, this being Lothern, more richly appointed. Long drapes of diaphanous silk hung from high ceilings, wafting from the gentle movement of bodies. The tinkle of a fountain sounded from somewhere close by, part-masked by the hum of conversation. He saw lissom figures drifting in and out of the various private chambers, both male and female, all with the flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes that spoke of exotic consumptions. The light was subdued; a dim cloud of reds and purples, thick with curls of smoke.

Thoriol shifted on his couch, enjoying the give of it against his skin. After so long in the saddle it felt good to be somewhere more civilised. You had to be discreet — such places were secretive by nature — but if you knew the right palms to press it was always possible to find what you were after.

The failure with the Sun Dragon barely troubled him now. It had troubled him, badly, just after it had happened. For a time he had allowed himself to be tortured by familiar feelings of inadequacy, the same feelings that had dogged him ever since he had been old enough to understand that his boastful tales of dragons and battles would need to be replaced one day with deeds of his own. After a while even his old playmates had stopped thinking of his heritage as a blessing — none of them had had such achievements to live up to as they reached gingerly towards adulthood.

Thoriol had his mother’s temper in so many things. He had loved the books she had shown him as a child, poring over them, tracing the runes on the parchment, committing the sacred words to memory. He had imagined he would end up as a loremaster like her, locked in some isolated tower studying the mysteries of the aethyr or the poetry of the sages.

But his mother had never pushed him to follow that path, and when his father had begun to school him in the lore of the dragon riders, she had supported him.

‘This is important,’ she had told Thoriol, smiling reassuringly. ‘Think of it: you are the heir. One day you will ride the great ones into war. Part of me envies you, for I will never understand them, but do this for him. Do this for both of us.’

He had wanted to tell her then, but somehow the words never came. As the months passed it had become harder to change course. His tomes of lore had been left in Tor Vael, slowly mouldering — after that he had worked to grow used to the cold and the hardness of life at Kor Evril. He had studied diligently, memorising the rites of summoning, learning the mental disciplines, spending hours in caverns in an attempt to decipher the tremors and hisses that gave away the rousing of a dragon below.

On some days he had truly believed he could master it. There had been times — not many, but they had existed — when he had looked up into Caledor’s bleak skies and seen the raw beauty in them that so excited his father.

But he had never truly fooled himself. He had always known the truth, and had festered away in resentment of it. There had been times when he had wanted to shout it out aloud, to rage at his father who had worked so patiently with him.

‘Can you not see it?’ he had wanted to yell. ‘I have no talent for this! You know every nuance of these creatures — are you no judge of my own?’

Throughout it all Imladrik had never been cruel, never domineering; it was just that he had never understood, not even for a moment, why one of his bloodline would not leap at the chance of becoming a dragon rider. Imladrik was doing what a father should — passing on the keys to greatness, schooling him, nurturing the talent that surely lay somewhere buried deep within.

Thoriol took another long draught of heliath.

At least the deceptions were over. That, along with much else, was a comfort.

‘You are new here,’ came a lilting voice close to his ear.

Thoriol turned to see a hostess curled up on the couch next to him. She had dark hair, as straight as falling water, and almond-shaped eyes. The scent of cloves rose from her high-collared dress.

‘True,’ he replied, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at her.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction?’ she asked.

‘Quite, thank you.’

‘I can fetch more heliath. Or a dream-philtre.’

‘Dream-philtre?’

She smiled conspiratorially. ‘The poppy.’

‘Ah. I thought that was… prohibited.’

‘You have a trustworthy face. I believe you can keep a secret.’

Thoriol laughed. ‘I keep many secrets.’

‘Tell some to me?’ the hostess asked. ‘I am as discreet as the night.’

‘I’m sure.’ Thoriol held his goblet up to the diffuse light. The cloudy blooms from the lanterns reflected in the cut crystal. ‘I did not come here to talk. I came here to forget.’

‘We can help you with that. We can help you with anything.’

Thoriol saw his reflection in the glass. He gazed at it wearily. ‘Can you help me to escape?’

‘That is a speciality.’

‘You do not know whom I am escaping from. He is powerful. Very powerful.’

‘Many powerful figures come through these doors,’ said the hostess.

Thoriol found himself looking at her lips as she spoke. They were such soft lips.

‘They are all much the same as one another,’ she added, ‘once you get under the robes.’

Thoriol laughed again. For some reason, he found himself wanting to laugh at almost everything she said. ‘I like you.’

‘I am glad. Tell me more about where you wish to go.’

‘As far as possible,’ said Thoriol wistfully. ‘I would go where nobody knows me. I would spend my days with no expectations. I would take time, I would think. Perhaps I would reconsider some choices I have made. Perhaps I would change a great deal.’

The hostess nodded. Her hair shimmered strangely as her head moved, as if it were a single sheet of silk.

‘Do you see that one, over there?’ she asked, pointing directly ahead of her.

Thoriol followed her manicured fingernail. In a booth opposite lounged a tall elf in a white gown. He was drinking from a goblet, watching the people move around him absently. He had a blunt face for one of his race, by the look of it bitten by a life in the open air. A scar ran down his right cheek, pale and raised.

‘What of him?’ asked Thoriol.

‘I think you might get along,’ replied the hostess.

‘Maybe we would.’

‘Perhaps I might introduce you.’

‘Maybe you should.’

The hostess smiled at him. It was a comforting gesture; almost maternal. ‘Your glass is empty. More heliath?’

Thoriol looked at his goblet. He hadn’t noticed that he’d drained it. ‘What was the other thing?’

‘A dream-philtre. I can get that for you. Just ask.’

Thoriol lay back on the couch, stretching his arms lazily. A languor spread throughout his body, warming him pleasantly. ‘That would be nice.’

The hostess placed her hand on his arm lightly. ‘Whatever you wish,’ she said. ‘You are amongst friends here.’

Draukhain plunged through the night sky. He let slip a grating roar, like metal being dragged across an anvil. He was in a savage mood.

Imladrik gave him his head. He too was in a savage mood.

Together they wheeled and dived above a seething mass of cloud. The layers below them were unbroken, lit vividly by the stars and the world’s moons. An undulating carpet of mingled silver and green rippled towards the curve of the horizon. The two of them might have been in another dimension of the universe, locked away from the world and sustained only by starlight and infinity.

I feel your wrath, sang Draukhain. The last time you summoned me you were angry. Is this how it will be from now on?

Imladrik laughed harshly. The wind raced through his bronze hair. Your spirit is wrathful too.

Because you are, kalamn-talaen. You are angry; so am I.

Imladrik had kept his son’s sword with his own and the two scabbards hung at his belt, clattering against Draukhain’s heaving hide. The dragon flew very, very fast. Every so often Draukhain would unleash his potency to the full. Even after centuries steeped in dragons and their ways, Imladrik could still be taken aback by it.

You awaken this in me, Imladrik sang. You are wild.

Draukhain grunted, dropping low and skimming across the landscape of vapour. Believe that if you wish, he sang, inflecting the harmonies with sceptical humour.

On Ulthuan I am equable, sang Imladrik. I live a modest life. I sleep on the ground beside my troops.

You say that as if it were something to be proud of.

It is.

Mortals, snorted Draukhain contemptuously. Modesty is perverse. Revel in the superiority you have been given.

Imladrik laughed again. And be more like you.

It would improve you.

It would improve my mood.

They hurtled into the north-east, swinging far out over the cloud-wreathed ocean. They had left the rugged shoreline of Chrace behind them a long time ago; now all that remained below the cloud-veil was open sea, black as pitch. No birds flew so far out, no ships plied those waters.

I have been ordered to the east, said Imladrik.

Good. I grow tired of the Annulii.

It is against my will. Duty compels me.

Draukhain let a long stream of fire wash over his body, rolling amongst it as he powered through the air. I will never understand your obsession with duty.

I know you won’t.

You could disobey.

I could. It would break Ulthuan apart, and the druchii are not slow to take advantage of weakness.

At the mention of the dark kin, Draukhain let fly with a furious spout of smoke-edged flame. Nothing, save perhaps the daemons of the earth, was more likely to rouse a drake to fury than the mention of the druchii, who enslaved and broke dragons whenever they were able.

That is the one thing I will miss, sang Draukhain. Every druchii that dies under my claws makes me live a little more.

You may find some to kill in Elthin Arvan.

Not enough of them. But still — I am glad we are going. I will bring terror to the wilds.

Imladrik smiled grimly. Draukhain was perfectly capable of that. All the dragons under his command brought terror in their wake. They were perhaps the only weapons they had that the dawi didn’t understand.

But dragons were not ‘weapons’ — he had admonished his brother for saying the same thing.

I will not fight this war the way he wishes me to, Imladrik sang. He thinks the dawi will crumble on the first charge. I know they will not. I have seen their stone halls. We could break against those holds for eternity and they would never crack.

Draukhain rolled to one side, pulling across a buffeting squall of wind and angling expertly along in its wake. I would relish taking apart a hold, he sang. It would be vengeance for all my kind they have slaughtered. They think of us as beasts — did you know that?

I did. And many asur think the same way about them. He looked up at the stars above them, cold, distant and uncaring. That is the easiest step to take: to see one’s enemy as an animal. He thought of Thoriol, and winced inside. None of us are brutes. We should not even be fighting.

But we are. That cannot be changed now.

Perhaps, perhaps not. That shall be my first battle.

Draukhain began to sheer downwards, dragging his wings closer to the thick carpet of moonlit cloud. So when shall we commence this? Shall I bear you to Elthin Arvan this night?

Imladrik shook his head. Not yet, great one, he sang. His mind-voice became low, almost reluctant. Did I say my first battle? No, I have one more ahead of me before I leave. Take me to Tor Vael.

Yethanial awoke with the first rays of sunlight bursting through open shutters. She had slept poorly — just a couple of hours, her mind unable to break itself away from the worries that circled endlessly in her head. For a moment she stared groggily at the pale grey arched window. She could smell salt on the breeze, and something else too: charred metal.

She pushed herself free of the sheets abruptly, suddenly worried that something in the kitchens had been left to burn. Then she remembered what else in her life routinely smelled of a blacksmith’s forge.

‘My lady,’ said Imladrik from behind her.

She turned to face him. ‘How long have you been there?’

Imladrik came over to join her on the bed. ‘Not long. I did not wish to wake you before the dawn did.’

Yethanial smiled cautiously. ‘My lord,’ she said and reached for him.

Imladrik pulled back.

Yethanial frowned. ‘What is it?’

Imladrik rarely looked truly uncertain. He had an understated confidence that resonated with those around him; it was one reason why he was popular with his troops. In the absence of that, Yethanial felt her anxiety return.

‘Where is Thoriol?’ he asked.

‘I thought he was with you, in Kor Evril.’

‘He did not come back here?’

‘No. What happened?’

Imladrik seemed to slump inside. ‘He failed with a drake. He blames me. He may be right to. It was not the proper time.’

Yethanial reached for his hand. ‘He will recover, though? It does not always succeed the first time — that is what you told me.’

‘I do not know. For the first time, I begin to doubt.’ He looked up at her. Again, uncertainty was etched deep on his face. ‘He might never do it.’

‘He is young. He can turn his mind to anything.’ She tried to smile, to make light of it. ‘Perhaps he might become a scholar. Would that be so bad?’

‘It might have been something I did. Perhaps I pushed him too fast. The summonings come easily to me; I forget that others need more time.’

‘You are hard on yourself. Did your father ever give as much time to you? You have devoted yourself to that child, and when he comes to his senses the two of you will speak and this will be forgotten.’

‘We will not speak.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I will not be here.’ Imladrik’s face took on a grimmer aspect; it was the way he looked before taking his leave for the next battle.

Yethanial withdrew her hand. Caradryel’s final words to her entered her mind. ‘What do you mean?’

Imladrik looked at her steadily. ‘I have been ordered back to Elthin Arvan.’

Yethanial felt as if her stomach had been turned inside out. ‘Refuse,’ she said, her voice hard. ‘Refuse him.’

‘I cannot.’

‘You can.’ Her shock made her sharp. ‘You can refuse anything you like. You command legions. You command mages, you command ships, you command dragons. Tell Caledor to finish his sordid war for himself.’

Imladrik looked back at her, his face an agony of understanding. He did not need to be told such things. ‘That is why I cannot refuse. He will not change his mind. If I oppose him, my troops will remain loyal. War will come to Ulthuan. I will not see that.’

Yethanial wanted to rage at him. His resignation was infuriating. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she accused, pushing herself angrily away from him. ‘You could do it if you wished.’

‘He is the King. He has the mandate of the Flame.’

Yethanial got out of the bed and strode over to where she had discarded her robe the night before. She wrapped it around herself. ‘He is your jealous brother. He is a fool.’

‘Listen to me.’ Imladrik rose too. ‘This is a chance to mend the damage he has done. He thinks that by sending me away I will be mired in fighting for years. He thinks I will do as he would, and take the fight to the dawi, but I will not. He does not know them as I do. I can end it. Think on it, Yethanial: I can end it.’

She shot him a scornful look, reaching up to tie her hair back. ‘Did you think that up on your way here?’

Imladrik stiffened. ‘Do not use those words.’

‘And what words do you expect me to use?’ she shouted, surprising herself with her vehemence. ‘Do you expect me to say: my blessings go with you? Is that what you want? You will not get it! You belong here, with me, with those who love you.’

‘You think I wanted this?’ Some colour returned to his cheeks, some wounded pride.

‘Yes! Yes, I think you did want this! Half your soul has been there, ever since you came back. You could not scrub its mud from your hands, you could never forget what you did there.’

‘Yethanial, you are-’

‘You could never forget her.’

As soon as she said it, she wished she could gulp the words back down and bury them deep. She stared at Imladrik, her mouth open, her eyes still flashing with anger. Imladrik stared back at her. Silence fell between them, tense and febrile.

‘That was unworthy,’ said Imladrik at last. His voice was soft, though it too resonated with anger.

‘Was it?’ asked Yethanial.

‘If you understood me at all, you would know it.’

Imladrik pushed his cloak back from where it had fallen over his shoulder. His expression was dangerous — like a thunderhead curdling on the horizon. He said nothing more, just turned and walked from the chamber. As he left, he kicked the door closed behind him, making it slam and shiver in the frame.

Yethanial stayed where she was, frozen by the emotions running through her.

Why did I say it? she thought, as angry and confused with herself as she was at him.

Then she remembered Caradryel again.

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

She rushed at the door, yanking it open and going after him. There were things she needed to tell him. Parting on such terms would leave a wake of bitterness. It would weaken him, and it would weaken her.

But by the time she had run down the stairways and across the empty hall and pushed her way through the great gates, she was too late. She stood on the wet grass, her robe rippling around her in the morning breeze, watching the long tail of Draukhain disappear into the far distance, already high out over the sea.

She watched the dragon for a little while longer, then the haze of the horizon defeated her.

‘Sundered again,’ she breathed, ignoring the shouted queries after her welfare from the guards on the walls. She heard them hurrying after her, no doubt with cloaks and hoods to ward against the dawn chill.

She felt cold to her soul, though the elements did nothing to worsen that. Some words, some thoughts, could not easily be taken back.