Mistress of Dragons (34 page)

Draconas
slammed the rock into the side of Grald’s head.

The
blow would have crushed a human’s skull. Grald grunted and tottered back on his
heels. The blow stunned him enough that he loosened his grip on Draconas, who
managed to wrench free. He staggered to his feet, still clutching the rock.

Blood
trailed down the side of Grald’s face. He gave his head a shake, as a dog
shakes off water, and then rose ponderously.

Draconas
had been lured into this trap for one purpose—to penetrate his mind, find out
what he knew and, more importantly, what he planned to do with his knowledge.
Grald had accomplished his purpose and there was nothing Draconas could do
about it. Grald saw everything, knew everything. He knew about Braun, knew
about the plan, knew about Anora and the potion she had sent, knew about Edward
and Melisande.

Grald
could put an end to the threat with the simple expediency of killing everyone
involved—Draconas, Edward, Melisande, Braun, and possibly even Anora, if the
dragon could arrange it so that the other members of Parliament did not
suspect.

Yet
Grald had not escaped from this encounter unscathed. Much like emptying the
contents of a cask of wine into a jug, Grald had been forced to open a part of
his mind in order to receive the mind of Draconas.

And
Draconas had seen something fascinating. Unlike Draconas, whose dragon form was
human and his human mind dragon, Grald had two minds—the mind of a human
and
the mind of the dragon. The two were not compatible.

The
dragon’s mind was the stronger, more powerful of the two. It had, in fact,
completely consumed the human’s, so that very little of the true Grald still
remained. Still, the human mind remained, covering the dragon’s like
cheesecloth. The dragon’s thoughts had to be strained through it. Which meant
that Grald would be slow to react.

Draconas
brought his magic to hand. No use hiding his skills now. Grald had seen
everything. He knew how Draconas fought, knew all his stratagems, knew his
secret ploys and talents. Draconas readied a powerful magical spell, the spell
he would customarily cast in these instances—a concussive blast of magical
energy intended to knock the victim senseless, quickly incapacitate him.

Grald
could see the colors of the spell forming in Draconas’s mind and Grald raised
his hands, making ready a counterspell to block the blow. He would have another
spell—a lethal spell—to follow.

Dropping
his spell at the last second, Draconas turned and ran like a rabbit.

Caught
flat-footed, Grald tried to halt his own magic. The dragon mind could have
swiftly reversed the spell, but the human mind was slow to react and the spell
proceeded to its conclusion. An enormous shield of energy, designed to deflect
Draconas’s attack, appeared in front of Grald. So long as the shield was
raised, the dragon could not use his own magic. The shield acted to block all
spells—his own and the enemy’s.

Grald
would have to take time to lower the shield. He would have to rethink the spell
he was intending to cast, come up with another, and all that would have to be
strained through the cheesecloth of the human’s mind. The process would take
seconds only, but those few seconds were precious to Draconas. Head down, legs
pumping, he raced for the dark water. Grald chose to abandon all magic, fling
down shield and spear, and go after his victim with his bare hands, utilize the
strength of the human body he had chosen.

Draconas
heard heavy feet pounding behind him and he cursed the dragon’s cunning.

Grald’s
long legs ate up the space that separated them. Draconas reached the bank, but
before he could jump, Grald lunged, caught him in the midriff, and carried him
into the river.

Dark
water closed over Draconas. Grald shifted his hold on him. His huge hands held
Draconas underwater, trying to drown him. Grald was not able to get a good grip
on wet and slippery human flesh, and Draconas managed to wriggle free. He swam
desperately for the exit.

If
he could have stayed beneath the water, he might have escaped, but after only
moments, his lungs began to burn. He fought on, until he was desperate for air.
Pulling himself upward with powerful strokes of his arms, he broke through the
surface with a gasp.

Strong
hands caught hold of him beneath his armpits and lifted him out of the water.
Grald hurled Draconas up against the rock wall.

White,
jagged pain lanced through Draconas. Bones cracked. Blood mingled with the
water in his eyes, in his mouth. He fought and struggled to escape the man’s
grip, but the man’s hands were like iron bands. Desperate, Draconas latched
onto Grald’s head, thrust his thumbs into Grald’s eyes.

Grald
gave a bellow and flung Draconas away from him.

Draconas
sank beneath the dark water. Drawing breath was agony. Movement of any kind was
agony.

Draconas
could feel Grald thrashing about in the water, searching with those huge hands,
trying to find him. Grald’s dragon brain reached out, as well, searching for
the colors of Draconas’s mind.

Draconas
let those colors fade, grow dim and dusky: How blissful to sink beneath the
dark and still water, let it close over my head, seep into my lungs, ease the
burning, ease the pain, ease the guilt. . . easeful, easy death . . .

He
let Grald see those thoughts. Let Grald think he was dying. Draconas just had
to make certain the thought didn’t become reality.

Grald
floundered about in the water for long moments. Thinking each time he’d caught
sight of his foe, Grald lunged here and he lunged there, waggling his hands and
kicking out with his feet.

“You’ve
lost him,” said Maristara, appearing suddenly in Grald’s mind. “Let him go.”

The
two communed mind to mind, as dragons are accustomed to doing, but with the
problem that their two human minds continually intruded. Grald hauled his
massive human body out of the river, shook himself.

“He’s
gone, mind and body both,” said Grald sullenly. “I think he drowned.”

“That
was easy,” returned Maristara. “Too easy.”

“You
didn’t have to fight him,” Grald muttered, wincing as he put his hand to the
bruised and bloody gash on his temple. “You think he’s still alive?”

“Of
course.”

“Very
well.” Grald grunted. “I’ll go after him.”

“Not
yet. We have more urgent matters.”

“The
human female, you mean. The one with the dragon magic. I saw his plan. I know
where the humans are hiding. I’ll kill them first, then—”

“Kill
the male,” Maristara interrupted. “But not the female. I have a better idea.
You have long been complaining that the dragon magic in the blood of the human
males was growing tainted.”

“I
think that’s why we’re turning out raving madmen,” said Grald.

“It
has been a long time since we’ve had a fresh infusion of dragon blood,”
Maristara admitted. “Not since the early days in the monastery, with those very
first women. If you’re right about the blood becoming tainted—and I’m not
saying you are, mind you. My women are stronger in magic than ever—you could
try an experiment with this human. Draconas has done all the preparation for
us. It would be a pity to let that go to waste.”

“Yes,
you’re right.” Grald chuckled. “A good idea.”

“Once
you have done what is necessary, bring her back to me. I’ll keep her prisoner
until the babe is born, then we’ll get rid of her.”

“What
about Draconas?” Grald asked. His human mind bore a grudge.

“First
things first,” said Maristara.

Draconas
kept submerged underwater, taking no chances. This proved difficult, for he
could not use his left arm. He used his good right arm to propel himself along
until he saw shafts of sunlight slicing down through the water and realized
that he was out of the cavern. He was vaguely surprised to find the sun
shining. It seemed to him that darkness must have consumed the whole world.

He
kicked his legs, propelled himself up to the surface, and looked about swiftly
for Grald.

No
sign of him and that was not good.

He
struggled toward the shore. The current helped, and he washed up against the
long, gnarled roots of a tree. Draconas dragged himself out of the river. He
crawled a few feet, then collapsed onto the warm sand.

Breathing
was like inhaling fire. He had a broken rib, maybe several. His left arm was
crushed and useless, the jagged edges of the bone sticking out through purple,
inflamed skin. He retched, vomited river water, and sank back, weak and
shivering from cold, from shock.

The
river rose, washed over his head, pulled him into the dark water. . . .

Draconas
woke with a shuddering gasp. He stared at the sky. He had no idea how long he’d
been unconscious. Some time, apparently, for the sunlight was fading. Either
that or he was losing his eyesight. He shook so with the cold that his
chattering teeth had bitten through his tongue. He tasted blood in his mouth.

He
could heal himself, but he had to remain conscious to work the magic. He had to
be able to think of the spell, but pain stirred all the colors into a blob of
black.

Edward
and Melisande. I revealed them to Grald. I told our plans to Grald. He knows
where they are hiding.

A
clever trap. So very clever. I met Maristara’s cohort. I spoke to him, fought
him, and I have no idea who he is. He never revealed his true form. I might sit
next to him at the next session of Parliament and never have a clue.

I
have failed. I’ve failed Edward and Melisande. They are probably dead by now,
or will be shortly. I can do nothing to save them. I got them into this, and I
got them killed.

Anger,
bitter as bile, rose in him. Anger so hot and black that it came near to
choking him. He was angry at them all, at Maristara, at Braun and Anora, at
himself. What right had we to get involved? Any of us? Ever? Even those
long-ago dragons who gently lifted the humans out of the mud of creation. They
did not do that out of altruism, but only out of curiosity.

“Let
us conduct an experiment,” they said. “Let us see how this very clever species
turns out.”

The
anger strengthened him, acted as a stick to clamp in his teeth as he sought out
the magic he needed. He seized hold of it and sent it flowing through his
shivering body. The magic flooded him with warmth, numbed the pain.

He
lurched to his feet, took stock of his situation. He was not thoroughly healed.
The process required at least a day of uninterrupted sleep and he didn’t have
time. His head ached, but it was only an ache, not brutal, skull-bashing pain.
Breathing hurt him, for his ribs were being held together only by the baling
wire of his magic. The same was true of his broken arm. He could move it and
wiggle his fingers and that was about the best that could be said for it.

He
looked around to get his bearings, to try to locate landmarks, for he had no
idea where he’d washed up. The river was silky gray with the coming of evening,
smooth and tranquil, for no wind blew. It rolled along, singing softly to
itself. He stared along its bank, up and down. He stared out over the water. He
could not find anything that looked familiar and he was puzzled. He hadn’t
drifted that far.

He
lifted his head, looked up at the sky, into the luminous sunset.

The
sun was setting behind him.

Draconas
swore a bitter oath and smashed the fist of his good hand into the trunk of a
cottonwood tree.

He
was on the wrong side of the river.

He
was on the western shore. Edward and Melisande were on the east.

And
so was Grald.

EDWARD
AND MELISANDE FOUND THE FALLEN OAK more by instinct and good fortune than
because either of them was paying attention to the trail Draconas had so
carefully marked. Their arms entwined, they walked in tandem, his strides
matching hers.

They
did not speak of the future. The future did not exist here in the wilderness,
out of sight of any signs of man or his handiwork. They were the only two in
existence. The world had been created just for them. They had no past, for they
were just this moment newly born. They had no future, for neither wanted to
think of that. They had only to live and breathe and love.

Edward
did feel, for a moment, the odd sensation of standing apart from himself.
Edward gazing at Edward in bleak dismay. He could see himself reaching out a
hand to stop himself, to seize hold of himself and drag himself away. At the
last moment, the hand fell to his side. He bade himself go on. This was what
love was, what it was meant to be. He glanced back, but he could no longer see
himself and he was glad, for he wanted to see only her, his beloved.

Melisande
had no such vision of herself. She was living moment to moment, breath to
breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. She was hiding from the past with its wrenching
pain and its horror. Everyone she had ever loved had betrayed her, and so she
ran away from them, ran until she could no longer hear their voices or see
their faces. There was only his face and his hands and his love and reassurance
that she was alive and breathing and beloved.

Arriving
at the fallen oak, they were both suddenly shy and hesitant. Anticipation
quickened the pulse, set the blood burning, but they were strangers to each
other and although they knew where it must naturally end and looked forward
with aching desire to that ending, neither knew how to begin.

“You
must be thirsty,” said Edward, grasping at the only action he could take that
seemed innocent of design. He removed the water skin, which he was carrying
slung over his shoulder and, pulling out the stopper, he offered it to her.

She
put her lips over the opening and there was something so sensual in that
movement that his heart lurched and his hand jerked. He sloshed water in her
face, spilled it down the bodice of her gown.