Dragon's Winter (31 page)

It was the oddest occurrence of the ride, so far; stranger even than the sudden appearance of the Bear: not the apparition of the mage, but the effortlessness with which she drew and held their attention.

“At the time of this story, magic thrived in Kameni. Throw a stone, hit a sorcerer, the saying went. And as it happened, this man was a sorcerer, celebrated throughout Kameni for his spell-working. But in his heart, the sorcerer was dissatisfied with the incantations and illusions of sorcery. He desired more than enchantment and artifice: he desired to be a mage.”

Karadur said, “A mage is greater than a sorcerer?”

“The province of sorcery, fundamentally, is spell-working. Most spell-working is trickery, fantasy, illusion.” The mage scooped up a pebble, and threw it into the fire. A red rose bloomed within the fiery amber heart. Leaning forward, she reached into the flames, plucked the rose, and handed it to Karadur. As his fingers closed on the thorny stem, the flower dissolved into thousands of tiny ruby fragments. Like scarlet sand grains, they ran glittering from his hands.

“A spell can be countered, can be changed, or undone. Magery is knowledge. The first true knowing a mage is granted, whether he wants it or not, is the knowledge of the place and time and manner of his own death.” The pleasant voice remained composed. She might have been describing the weather. “Some cannot endure this learning: they leave all magery behind, and exhaust life running from their own deaths. Some turn magic inside out, searching frantically through their arts for the means to avoid it.

“This man was one of those. There are spells that can extend life. He found them. There are spells to guard and to protect against injury and illness: he used them to render himself invulnerable. Death and its workings became the center of his attention. And as his attention constricted, so also shrank the nature of the man, until nothing remained of him but hunger and terror: hunger for life and terror of his own death.”

“Because bodies die, he discarded his. Because lovers and friends and kinsmen die, he abandoned human ties. The manipulation of death became his instrument. Evil men employed him for their own designs. He took their money, did their bidding, and outlived them. He seduced lesser magicians to him, and devoured them. As his knowledge grew, it pleased him to use it to frighten and torment, until he had divested himself of all human qualities, save those nourished by darkness. He became known as Ankoku, the Hollow One, the Dark Mage.” Karadur stirred. “You know the name, my lord?”

“I have read it.”

“Then you know, perhaps, what happened next. The great wizards of Ryoka cried, Enough. They brought their own magic against Ankoku’s foul spells.” She paused, a hand to her throat. “Forgive me,” she said huskily. “I am not used to long speech.”

Rising from the fire, Azil walked toward the nearest circle of men. He mimed drinking. They shoved a wineskin into his gloved hands. He brought it to the fire, and offered it to her.

“Thank you,” the mage said. She drank, and gave it back to him.

“Ankoku built a stronghold in the north. He called it the Black Citadel. Historians name this struggle the Mage Wars, but that .miscalls them, makes them sound as if the combatants all were sorcerers and magicians. But it was not so. Battles raged over the northern plains. Men and women fought in these battles, and died, and rose again. The green fields of Kameni became a battleground for wraiths.” The fire flared. The mage spoke softly to it. It turned white, green, blue, amber, and for an instant, black.

“At last, putting forth all strength, the magi broke the Dark Mage’s power. He was defeated, and captured. But his might was such that his conquerors, though they had beaten him, could not destroy him. They brought him to the Hill of Anor, in Kameni. Once it was the center of the great city, and home to kings. Later, it became known as the Place of Stones. On its crown, in a time so lost to us that we cannot name it, the ancients erected a great henge. The stones are broken now, or hidden under the earth, but in Ankoku’s day they stood, tall and silent, and a deep magic flowed through them.

“The magi set the Empty One within that circle, and made spells far beyond the province of ordinary magic. They built a prison, not of stone walls, but of enchantment, a magic so complex and so powerful that nothing would ever counter or change or undo it.”

Karadur said, “Then the Dark Mage still lives?”

“He does. He has no human body, no eyes, no ears, no tongue. But he survives, and even imprisoned as he is, and bodiless, he is capable of terrible mischief. But to make it, he must be summoned, by one who knows the Calling Spells, and has the will to say them, and to pay the price.”

“What is the price?” Karadur asked.

“Enslavement. Emptiness. Death.”

Lorimir said, “Why would any man or woman choose to do that?”

“A good question, Captain. But few who call Ankoku know what waits for them. The magis died, you see, all but one, and with them died their memories.” The mage’s voice was soft and sad. “And even if they did know, most would not turn aside from what he offers them.”

“Which is?” the dragon-lord said.

“Power,” the silver-haired woman answered. “Wealth beyond their dreams, mastery of magic, even immortality. It is a lie, of course. But they do not know that.”

Azil said, “But—the mages died. How did those who call Ankoku learn what to say?”

“Knowledge is never destroyed. And there is a place in Ryoka where all is remembered. Your brother Tenjiro, my lord”—she nodded at the dragon-lord—”came to that place, one still summer day. Turgos, its guardian and keeper, saw him and knew him.
A neat lad, glittery as a sunflower.
He came seeking power; not the power already in him, but a greater gift, which he did not have, and had no right to. He did not find it.

“But he found its shadow.”

“Is he dead?” Karadur asked.

“No. He is
changed.
He is no longer Tenjiro Atani: he is Koriuji, the Winter Worm. He woke Ankoku from his sleep, and now he himself has become Ankoku, the Empty One, who must devour others to live. Ask your friend, my lord. He knows.”

Karadur said,
“
Why?
There are men who would sell their children for what he was born to: grace, wealth, nobility...” The mage did not answer. The dragon-lord took a long breath. Like an actor donning a mask, the terrible control returned to his face.

He said, “Who is Gorthas? Do you know?”

“Gorthas is a warg-changeling. Once he was human, a fearsome warrior, and Ankoku’s most trusted captain. Long ago he pledged himself wholly into the Dark Mage’s service. Like the wargs and the Citadel itself, he lives when his master calls him.”

“Can he die? I have promised myself his death.”

The mage said, “He can be killed. I do not know if he can die.”

A deep vibration, like the tremble of a mountain before it falls, boomed from the clouds. Lightning slashed across the sky; thunder broke over the suddenly unsettled camp like a wave tumbling toward shore. Horses bugled in terror; voices shouted from the horse lines. Rising, Lorimir raised his strong voice above the clamor. “Rogys, go help Herugin with the horses. Orm, Irok, Finle, Lurri, keep your eyes on the black castle! You others, raise the tents, quickly!” Lorimir turned. “With your permission, my lord—”

“Go,” Karadur said, not looking at him. Lorimir strode into the darkness. A man’s shirt fluttered by them, flung by the driven wind. They heard the stutter of hoofbeats: a panicked mule cantered past them, tether trailing. Two men on horseback followed it.

Karadur lifted his head. “And my brother?” he asked harshly. “Can he die?”

“I do not know,” said the mage gently. “But whatever he has done to you, pity him, if you can, my lord. His fate is terrible. Ankoku has consumed him. He is bound to the darkness. And in the end, Ankoku will betray him.”

The dragon-lord said, “He killed my people. He threatens my land. I cannot pity him.” A wind, hot and dry as the Nakase khamsin, swirled over the barren ground. A feral incandescence began to play beneath Karadur’s skin. “I believe I know your name, mage.”

“Do you, my lord?” She rose, facing him as if she faced a judgment.

“I believe you are Senmet of Mako, who killed my father. Tell me I am mistaken.”

“No, my lord. You are not mistaken.” She leaned heavily on her staff. “Shall I tell you how it was? Kojiro Atani, the Black Dragon... I had never seen anything quite so beautiful. A running horse or a soaring eagle or a dolphin leaping from the sea is beautiful, until you see a dragon in flight. His scales were obsidian. A brilliant scarlet crest adorned the arch of his head. His wings were wide as a field. His fire was white, not blue, or yellow, or red, as is earth’s fire: it was white, and hot as the fire that burns at the core of a star. That is what dragonfire is.

“He soared across forests, and scorched them with his white breath, and they burned; he flew over the river, and breathed fire upon it, and it hissed away into steam. Barges burned, and docks, and bridges fell apart like toys made of twigs. People on the bridges tumbled into the rising steam, and screamed as they died.

“I made a storm, thunder, lightning, rain, hail. I hoped it might drive him away. But the Black Dragon roared—and there is no sound on earth like a dragon’s roar—and soared through the storm, and when lightning struck near him, he opened his jaws and swallowed it.

“I made an illusion of a second dragon, a brilliant golden-scaled dragon, and sent it into the sky, hoping that it would distract the Black Dragon from the city. But the Black Dragon roared again. Every window, bowl, and mirror in the city cracked. He breathed upon the golden dragon, and it shriveled into silver lace. Fiery rain fell upon the buildings. They burned.

“So I extended thought, as magicians are taught to do. I touched the dragon’s mind. I showed Kojiro Atani the blazing buildings, and the river rising into steam, and people, all the people, dying. He faltered in flight, and in confusion and remorse, he changed.

“He fell from a great height, into fire.”

“So that was why they never found his body,” Karadur said. The fire beneath his skin was fading. He rose, and faced the mage. “I hunted for you for two years, all the time I was in Mako. I wanted to kill you. Finally I was informed that you were dead.”

She raised silvered eyebrows. “Who told you so?”

“Erin diMako.”

She shook her head. “If he said so, then he lied. But I do not think Erin diMako would lie to you, my lord. I do not think he could. What exactly did you ask him, and what did he say?”

“I asked him what had become of Senmet of Mako. He said only another wizard could truly say what had happened to you. He said,
There are no wizards in Mako
.”

“Ah.” Her wide mouth quirked. “It was truth, if not all the truth. For years I traveled dazed and silent through city streets, begging food from passersby, sleeping in gardens and stables and in the doorway of a brothel. I did not know my name, nor even that I had once been a wizard.”

Pure astonishment moved across Karadur’s face. “Gods. Why?”

“It is no light thing,” Senmet said softly, “to destroy a dragon. I was within Kojiro Atani’s mind when he fell.”

Thunder cracked overhead, impossibly loud. The air smelled of heated iron. “What woke you?” the dragon-lord asked.

“Ankoku.” A violet rose bloomed at the tip of the mage’s staff. It blackened, and the petals turned to ash and blew away in the wind. “The mind of the Empty One, moving across my city. He brought me from sleep.”

“I wonder that you dared to come here,” Karadur said.

Senmet bowed her head briefly. “The Dark One chose this arena, not I. But”—she looked up, and smiled, and mischief flickered in her emerald eyes—”did you not hear me say that the first true knowing a mage is granted is the knowledge of the place and time and manner of her own death? I know when and how I am to die, my lord Dragon, and it is not here, and not now, and not at your hands.”

A horse barreled toward them. It slowed; Edruyn dropped from its back nearly into the fire.

“My lord, the gate has opened. Gorthas and six soldiers are coming this way, across the mined lands, under truce flag. My lord, the child is with him.”

“Find Lorimir and tell him. Raudri!” Karadur’s voice rolled over the camp. “Sound the Assembly.” He turned to Senmet. “Wizard, can you do anything about this racket? Or is simple weather-working beneath the dignity of mages?”

Senmet pointed her staff at the black, growling sky. The thunder muted. The dense, dark clouds began to slowly draw away from one another. Raudri blew the trumpet. The soldiers dashed for the horse lines.

Mail gleaming, dragon pennant rippling in the wind, the company assembled in crescent formation. Archers sat with arrows taut against their bowstrings. The triple-barbed tips glittered.

Gorthas came steadily onward across the mined land. Six unkempt and sullen armored men marched at his back. One held a torch. A second carried the flag of truce.

Beside and a little behind Gorthas trotted a barefoot, nearly naked, very dirty child. He wore a broad, stiff leather collar around his neck, with a chain clipped to it.

“Come, Shem,” said Gorthas, and snapped the chain.

He moved forward. The child followed. “Sit, Shem,” Gorthas said, and snapped the chain again. Shem stumbled, glanced at him, and crouched, doglike, on the cold ground.