Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (28 page)

"I am neither priest nor mourner, and have no skill at music," Arlian protested—but then he realized what he was doing, what he was refus-ing, and hastily added, "I must have a moment to compose myself."

Nothing answered; he stood alone in the corridor. He closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to recollect an appropriate song.

He had not sung in many years; in fact, he could not recall ever having sung since his parents' death. He knew no songs by heart. He had listened to several over the years, under various circumstances, but he had never attempted to join in, had never troubled himself to learn the lyrics.

He could remember a few tunes—though the ones that came to

mind were all children's nonsense songs he had heard his mother sing when he was very young. He struggled to fit words to one of them.

"I am a foe of the dragons," he sang at last, in a voice that rasped unpleasantly. He stopped, cleared his throat, and began again.

"I am a foe of the dragons

Who has come to you seeking your aid.

I know not what coin I can offer

Should you demand to be paid.

"My houses are at your disposal

My gold I would lay at your feet

But surely you need no such baubles;

Your wealth is forever complete."

Arlian was not at all happy with the last line of that second stanza, nor with his tendency to slip out of key at the end of each line, but he was doing the best he could. Even as he was aware that his performance was inept, he found a certain pleasure in using his voice this way, and in fitting words to his chosen tune—even if the tune was a children's song originally about a lover gone to sea, and completely inappropriate for propitiating a demigod.

"Your power, the subject of legends

Is said to be almost divine

And I can but hope that your mercy

Extends to these few needs of mine."

And with that, he stopped; his invention had exhausted itself, and he had no idea what to say in a fourth stanza, nor how to say it. He was rather pleasantly surprised he had managed to get through three, strained meter and off-key voice notwithstanding, without completely losing control of his song. He took a deep breath, and let it oat slowly.

How curious, that the gods of old took such pleasure in songs of praise. Your
improvisation is clumsy, but so were many of the prayer songs of old. The gods
reveled in such music; I find nothing exalting in it.

"I'm sorry," Arlian said. "I am no singer. Perhaps I could arrange for musicians..."

No.

He bowed toward the golden light. "As you please."

Always.

Arlian straightened. "If I may ask, does it please you now to hear my request?"

I know your request. You have come seeking knowledge that will permit
you to rid your homeland of the dragons without subjecting it to the indignities
of wild magic.

"Indeed," Arlian agreed. "You come directly to the heart of the matter."

I loathe the dragons that drove me here, and have no great love for the
foolish chaos of the lands surrounding my own, but I have little aid to give you.

Arlian looked around again, at the apparently solid marble walls and the elaborate painting overhead, and said, "I find it hard to believe that a being as powerful as yourself can mean that."

To doubt me in my place of power is not wise.

Arlian managed a crooked smile. "I have never claimed to be wise,"

he said.

You amuse me, you and your awkward little song, and our shared hatred of
dragons has bought you my brief indulgence. Ask questions, if you like.

"And you will answer?"

Until I grow bored and cast you out, or become angry and destroy you.

That was hardly an appealing choice, but Arlian supposed it was the best he was going to get. "What are you?"

I am that which has no name.

"Some say your name is Tirikindaro."

Arlian could sense the smile in the reply.
In the tongue of my native
land, a tongue a thousand years dead,
tir i kin daro
means simply """ that which
has no name."

"Dead a thousand years? How long have you existed, and how long have you ruled here?"

I no longer remember. Thousands of years, possibly tens of thousands.

"How can that be? The Blue Mage told me that no wizard can exist for more than sixty years."

I am no mere wizard.

"My Aritheian associate believes you to be a god."

There was a pause before the reply.

I do not believe I am truly a god.

That was interestingly equivocal, Arlian thought. "Then how can you live so long?"

There are dragons as ancient as I; one need not be a god.

"Nonetheless, such longevity is surely extremely rare; how did you achieve it? Was it a mere happenstance, a part of your nature?"

No. Long ago, perhaps ten thousand years, I drank the blood of a dying
god, one of the dead gods you swear by, and became what I am now.

That was an intriguing answer, one with any number of possible ramifications, but Arlian did not allow himself to be distracted. He wanted to learn the nature of a magical being that was neither a dragon nor a true god, yet lived for millennia. "And what is that?" he asked.

"What were you before you drank this divine essence? How did you happen upon this bleeding deity?"

There is no name for what I was, nor for what I am. I had been a creature
of magic, a parasite of minds and dreams, and I dreamed of being more. I had
taken the form of a man, imposing that shape and as much of human charac-teristics as I could on the body of a nightstalker, a body I had stolen. I had fought
my way up as far as I could through my own devices, consuming wizards and
possessing the nightstalker, and I was not satisfied. I petitioned the gods for aid,
and when the dragons betrayed the gods and destroyed them 1 was there, and I
drank the blood that spilled from a god's torn throat. Then I fled, lest the dragons turn on me, as well
.

Arlian sensed a sort of hesitation, a thoughtfulness, and then the thing spoke again.

Do you know, O man, I have not remembered those times in centuries? You
have reminded me of where I came from, and I am unsure whether to thank
you for it, or condemn you to decades of torment.

"I would prefer the former," Arlian replied, as he tried to comprehend what the thing had said.

I am aware of that.

Arlian ignored that as he attempted to match the creature's words—

or thoughts, or whatever he was receiving—with what he had thought he knew of the ancient past. The old tales spoke of a time when gods strode the earth, and the dragons were their dark and sometimes rebellious servants; then the gods had departed or died, and the dragons had reigned over the land for thousands of years, oppressing humanity, holding all the Lands of Man in bitter servitude. For centuries men and women had hoped and prayed for the return of the gods, but eventually most understood that the gods were never coming back; then a few brave men had risen up and begun the Man-Dragon Wars, which in time drove the dragons into their caves and left humanity free at last.

But no one had ever explained how the gods died. Arlian had always assumed no one knew.

Apparently, no one had asked the master of Tirikindaro.

"You said the dragons betrayed the gods?" Arlian said. "We have no record of such an event."

There were no human observers. Only the gods, the dragons, and myself.

The dragons would hardly tell you what they had done, and the gods could
not—and until now, no one had asked me.

"I find that hard to believe, given how long you have lived."

Few dare question me. Few dare address me at all. Even fewer of those who
attempt it survive to tell the tale.

"If you will forgive me, you do not seem so very dreadful; so far I have found you delightfully accommodating."

I am not always so. You amuse me—your fearlessness is most unusual, and
your song was comical. Your actions please me—you have slain dragons. Thus,
I speak freely with you—though I may yet kill you, or transform you, or
imprison you. I have lived long and seen much, and thus I can foresee many
things, but I do not predict my own whims.

"Thank you for the warning."

It will do you no good.

"Nonetheless, I am glad to have it, and hope I will have no use for it."

You begin to bore me now. What is it you would have of me, beyond your
own life?

"You said it yourself—I want a way to destroy the dragons without unleashing wild magic in the Lands of Man."

I know of none.

"But you do not deny that one is possible?"

There was of old a time when the gods ruled your lands, and dragons did
not. Perhaps such a time can come again. I have no knowledge to the contrary.

"Gods?" That was not anything Arlian had considered.

Or some other beings. The magic of your lands, even when ordered, is not
restricted to the form of dragons.

"Can the magic be destroyed, or removed and sent elsewhere? Must every land have magic?"

I am magic, given form, just as the dragons are, or wizards, or demons, or
any of the lesser creatures—do you think I would tell you how I might be
destroyed, even if I knew? The corridor shimmered, and the golden glow
was shot through with red. Arlian decided not to pursue that particular
line of inquiry.

"Then is there some difference between the magic of the dragons and the magic of the southern lands? Why is our northern magic always bound up in dragons, while the southern magic takes thousands of different forms?"

At root it is all magic, all the same essence of the land—I have tasted it in
both realms and know this to be true. In the north the dragons pass it from parent to child, while in the south it arises spontaneously from the earth and air.;
and returns to air and earth when each magical creature dies.

"But why? How did this difference come about?"

How it began I do not know; that happened long before I arose myself. How
it continues is plain enough; the dragons' greatest magic is not their long lives,
nor their strength, their armor,; their wings, their flame, nor even their mas-tery of the weather, but their venom, the venom that permits them to pass on
their form to a new generation. No southern creature has any such gift. It is
from this venom that all else derives.

"But... then other magical creatures cannot reproduce their own kind?"

They cannot. We cannot.

"Then why do the same forms recur? How can we tell a wizard from a demon, or a nightstalker from a nightmare? I know they vary far more than dragons, but why are there any patterns? Or if they all arise in the same fashion, why are they not all the same?"

Magic cannot take form from nothing,, the thing replied. Some, such as
demons, are deliberately created by wizards or magicians, but those that arise
naturally, like natural creatures, must have two parents. Where natural creatures are born of a male and female of the same kind, magical creatures are
born of one magical parent and one natural one. In the north the parents are
always dragon and human, and the result is thus always a dragon; in the south
the magical parent is always the land itself but the natural parent can be a
man, a serpent, a tree—any living thing at all down to the lowliest weed or
worm. The form of the new creature, as with any species, is determined by its
parentage—a human will produce a wizard, a predatory beast will yield a
nightstalker, and so on.

That accorded so well with what Arlian already knew—what he had been taught of the dragons by Enziet, what he had been taught of wizards by Isein and the Blue Mage—that he could not doubt it, and instead wondered why he had never guessed it himself.

"And these creatures contain the magic that created them? They use it up? And when they die, the magic returns to the earth, to begin the cycle anew?"

You seem to understand.

"And the dragons use up so much magic that nothing else can arise in the Lands of Man? And this is why the only magic humans can use there is either sorcery, which draws on the tiny remnant of power the dragons have left unused, or magic that has been carried in from other realms?"

Obviously.

"So if I could find some other magical creature, some benign one, that could reproduce itself, then that could replace the dragons?"

As the dragons long ago replaced the gods, yes—if such a benign creature
existed, which to the best of my knowledge it does not.

"Because the only way any magical creature can reproduce itself is the way the dragons use their venom, combining it with human blood and having a person swallow it? And no other creature can do that?"

No other means is known to me, nor do I know of any other magical creature that produces such a venom—nor do I know of a benign magical creature
of any sort, not since the gods died.

"But why are there no benign magical creatures?"

I do not know.

That was a profoundly unsatisfactory answer. This nameless thing that ruled Tirikindaro was the closest Arlian ever expected to come to finding a living god, or a reliable oracle, and to be told that it could not answer a question was thoroughly frustrating. He tried to think of some other way to approach the issue.