Mistress of Dragons (5 page)

His
was, by necessity, a stoic nature, and he felt nothing more than mild curiosity
as he walked the dark, subterranean corridors that led to the Hall of
Parliament. He carried no lamp or torch. He did not need light. He had the
ability to magnify ambient light and so the darkness was light to him, albeit a
gray-silver, hazy sort of light, as on a night when the light of a full moon
can be seen through low-lying ground fog.

He
was strong, well-muscled, bronze-skinned from his years of sojourning. He had
gray-streaked black hair that he wore clubbed and tied at the back of his neck
with a leather thong. He wore leather breeches and a leather vest and leather
boots. He bore no sword. He carried a knife, which he used for hunting and
eating, and a walking staff, which served to settle any difficulties he might
encounter. He had brown eyes hooded by low, dark brows. In some light his eyes
glinted red, but he tended to keep out of that sort of light. He had a mouth
that was tight-lipped, rarely smiling, never laughing. He spoke little and then
always to purpose. He made no friends, took no lovers, for that would mean
becoming involved with humans. He was the only one of his kind in the world. He
walked the winding corridors carved out of rock that led deeper and deeper
underground and he was comfortable and at home. At times, the cavern tunnels
were so cramped and narrow that he was forced to crawl through them, at the
cost of cuts and scratches and scrapes on his fragile human flesh. More than
once rock slides blocked his path, forcing him to stop to clear them. He jumped
chasms, waded a dark river. All around him was silence, except for the
occasional drip of water or the fall of a pebble somewhere in the distance. He
liked silence, preferred silence.

He
could not hear them, and he might have thought himself alone, but he could feel
their movement in the ground that shuddered sometimes beneath his feet. They
were here and they were waiting for him—the Parliament of Dragons.

He
squeezed through a narrow tunnel that opened up into a vast cavern. Although he
had been here many times, he tended to forget, over the years, the
magnificence, the grandeur. Standing upright, he paused, as he prepared to
enter the Hall of Parliament, to catch his breath and to marvel.

The
cavern was immense. He had been in human cities, teeming with thousands of
people, that could have been picked up whole and dropped into this cavern. The
ceiling was far, far above him, so far that it seemed like heaven’s dome,
without the stars. The dragons had constructed an entrance at the very top of
the mountain, hidden from sight by clouds and magic, and dim light filtered
down from above. A dragon was just arriving. He watched the massive body soar through
the entry-way far above him, watched the great beast slowly spiral round and
round in the dim, gray light; head peering downward to find a place to land. He
lowered his gaze, looked around him. He could see them now and hear them.
Eleven dragons of the twelve houses of dragons, the elders of each house: the
Parliament.

The
twelfth dragon landed on the cavern floor and settled himself, bowing his head
to the others, shifting his bulk to make himself comfortable, pulling his wings
into his sides, adjusting his tail so that it wrapped around his legs. He made
his apologies for being late. The others murmured their acceptance.

Dust,
disturbed by his fanning wings, clouded the air. Had the dragons been in the
sun, the light would have sparkled and danced on their bright scales. A
brilliant sight, one to dazzle the eye and the mind, for when a dragon moved,
the gleaming scales rippled, clashing golden as the sunlight on ocean waves. He
saw the wondrous image in his mind, not here in the cavern, for in the dim
light the scales of all the dragons were gray, the same gray as the stone walls
surrounding them. Only the slit eyes gleamed red.

He
stood at the entrance to the Hall, waiting patiently. The twelve arranged
themselves in a circle, with the Minister at the compass point, north. The
dragons were recumbent, resting on all fours, their tails wrapped around their
hind legs, the tips touching the front talons planted firmly on the ground in
front of them. They held their heads upright. The eyes gazed at him, unblinking.
He heard their breathing, the rasping of their wings, the scrape of claws.
These were the only sounds that broke the silence, the only sounds that would
break it. Dragons communicate with thought alone, not with spoken words.

As
such, the language of dragons is a language of images, textures, shapes, color,
and emotion, playing upon all the senses. A dragon hearing of a storm from
another dragon would be able to feel the cold rain, hear the clash of the
thunder, and see the wind-driven waves crashing upon the shore. The brush that
paints the images conveys the feelings of the dragon and the dragon receiving
the image knows if he is being warned of an approaching storm or merely hearing
the tale of a storm long past. Thus the dragons, living solitary lives, can
communicate with their brethren if need arises.

A
human mind is not made to communicate in this manner. When he had first
undertaken this task, the images and colors and emotions had seemed to explode
in his brain, splintering into many colored, sharp fragments, like a
stained-glass window struck by lightning. He had very nearly gone mad until he
had learned to distill the thoughts into simple words and pictures and shapes.

The
dragons, for their part, took care to keep their thoughts gray-tinged, with
rounded edges, so as not to overwhelm him.

He
had not communicated with any dragon for a long time, and it took some moments
for him to transition himself from human speech and thought patterns to those
of dragons. He saw himself in the Minister’s mind, saw himself walking to the
center of the Hall, saw his image surrounded by bright sunlight.

“Approach,
Draconas,” said the Minster, adding, politely, “It is good to see you again.
Thank you for coming.”

Draconas
walked forward to stand across from the Minister at the southern compass point.
He made his bow. The members of Parliament bowed their heads.

“I
am honored to be called,” Draconas answered in the same silent language.
Distilled through his human mind, his thoughts would appear to them like the
scrawlings of a child. “I look forward to serving this august body in any way
that I can.”

The
fact that he could not have ignored the summons if he’d tried made this
pointless, but dragons are invariably polite and aware of the importance of
formality and ceremony, particularly within their own society. Dragons are not
given to interaction with other living beings, including their own kind. A
mated pair may love each other dearly and yet not live within several hundred
miles of each other. They may communicate on a daily basis, but see each other
only once every few centuries. Hatchlings are sent into the world as soon as
they are able to hunt on their own and they are generally as glad to leave the
nest as the parent is glad to have them depart. If forced to come together,
dragons grate on each other’s nerves. Tempers flare and things are said that
were never intended. The icy waters of polite speech and observance of the
formalities keeps the fire in the belly under control.

Such
formality also means that dragons come straight to the point. They do not
blather on about nonentities as do humans, for which Draconas was grateful.

The
Parliament of Dragons was an ancient institution, dating back to the fourth and
final horrific Dragon War, at the end of which the exhausted dragons realized
that unless they developed some means for keeping peace among the noble
families, dragons as a race would vanish from the world that they had ruled for
centuries, a world that bore their name.

Few
humans know of the Dragon Wars, for they were fought when humans were still
primitive beings, wandering the primordial forests with clubs in their hands,
living in caves, and dancing around their campfires. In those caves, however,
can be seen primitive paintings, depicting enormous monsters battling in the
skies, with blood raining down upon the land and fire lighting the heavens.

The
Dragon Wars had ended by the time the humans moved out of their caves and into
villages. The Dragon Parliament established laws by which the dragons governed
themselves and, later, laws that were used to govern the fledgling race of
wingless creatures known as humans, who had developed an intelligence which,
while not approaching that of the dragons, made them a species worthy of some
notice.

The
Parliament elected one of themselves to serve as Prime Minister. The dragon
elected held the office for life. Anora was the current Prime Minister. An
elder dragon, she was matriarch of a powerful family—Draconas’s family, she
being his great-aunt. Anora had been Minister for many centuries. She was old
by the reckoning of dragons, which meant that she was ancient by the reckoning
of humans.

It
is difficult to tell a dragon’s age by appearance, for there is no hair to go
gray, as on humans, no skin to wrinkle or brittle bones to snap. Draconas could
see that Anora had aged in the years since he had last seen her and he was
saddened. She had always held her head proudly upon its graceful, curving neck.
Now her head sagged forward, as though it had grown too heavy for her to bear.
The skin around her eyes was puffy, the eyes had sunken. When she spoke, he
noted that the upper and lower fangs and teeth were worn, smooth and rounded.
On her body were patches of bare flesh, where scales had fallen off and not
grown back, as they would with a younger dragon. Anora turned her gaze again on
Draconas and her eyes shone with the same bright intelligence he had come to
know and respect. Her jaw was just as firm, her thoughts strong and resonating.

“We
have summoned you, Draconas,” said the Minister, “because something must be
done about Maristara.”

Draconas
flexed his hands, his mouth twisted into a grimace. So that’s what this was
about. How long had it been? Three hundred years? An eye blink to a dragon,
though generations of humans had been born and died in that time. Something
must have stirred the pot to cause this foul thing to come floating to the
surface.

“Yes,
Minister,” said Draconas, there being not much else he could say, aside from,
What
the devil has taken you so long?,
which would not have been well received.

The
Minister’s red eyes flickered. Her tail twitched. Anora knew quite well what
Draconas longed to say. She made an oblique gesture, lifted a talon, cautioning
him to maintain his composure. She had no need. Draconas knew. He understood.
He waited.

Another
dragon shifted his head to look at the Minister. He was a young dragon, with
shining green scales, muscular, strong, and dangerous.

“I
ask for the wand,” said this dragon. “If there are no objections, I hand the
speaker’s wand to Braun,” said the Minister.

There
being no objections, she handed the jeweled wand that she held delicately in a
taloned forefoot to the young male dragon. Draconas did not know him. Braun was
new to the Parliament and quite young to be head of a noble house. Draconas
knew, though, which house Braun represented. He felt a tingle at the base of
his spine.

“I
am Braun,” said the dragon in tones that were smoldering red and sharp-edged. “As
you undoubtedly know, Maristara is my grandmother.”

Draconas
inclined his head in acknowledgement. Again, there wasn’t much to say, except
I’m
sorry.

“I
am going to begin by reciting the history of events that have taken place over
the last three hundred years. In this, I beg
the
Parliament’s indulgence,
for all of you know the history. You have lived it. I have new information,
however, that I daresay none of you know.”

The
dragons settled themselves. Some exchanged glances, but all curbed their
thoughts. If Braun wanted to publicly review his family’s shameful past, that
was his prerogative. Draconas, being a servant, had no say in the matter. He
didn’t mind hearing the story again, just to refresh his memory, especially as
it seemed he was now going to be a part of it.

“First,”
said Braun, “I would remind you of the laws of Dragonkind, the laws that were
written at the very first meeting of Parliament, thousands of years ago.

“The
first law: Dragons may not take human life. “The second law: Dragons may not
interfere in human affairs. Dragons may not coerce, intimidate, force,
threaten, resort to trickery or extortion in their dealings with humans.

“The
third law: Dragons, with one exception, should have no dealings with humans.”

Here
Braun paused to nod politely at Draconas, to acknowledge him the exception.

Braun
then continued. “Three centuries ago, the dragon Maristara broke all the laws
of Dragonkind by seizing a human realm known as Seth. She established herself
as ruler of that realm and the humans who inhabit it. At that time, the
Parliament acted, sending a strongly worded document informing Maristara that
she had broken the law and ordering her to give up her conquest and depart. No
word came from Maristara. That was her answer.

“A
delegation was sent to speak to her. She raised magical barriers to keep them
out and the dragons, having no authority to try to break through these
barriers, were forced to withdraw. Time passed. The subject of Maristara was
brought up at every Parliament, but no one knew what to do. Nothing like this
had ever occurred in our past. None knew how to handle it. The matter was
debated for well over a century, with some saying that if we let her alone, she
would tire of her toy and depart, and others advocating most strongly that she
be attacked and driven out.

“Eventually,
the Parliament took action that was really no action. My father was given
authorization to fly to the realm to try to reason with his mother. He
attempted to penetrate the magic, but could not succeed. Once more, the
Parliament dithered and debated. At length, after another century or so had
passed, the Parliament decided that they had no choice, they must remove
Maristara by force.”