SummerDanse (12 page)

This was not at all what I expected, and despite myself, I listened keenly to him.

“You have great power, girl, and you know its flavor, its feel, its scent. You know what it is to use the power for good. That is what we intend to do, to wield the power for the good of the people.”

I stared at him. He was talking about treason. Real treason. Not breaking some petty rule to which the king had attached the name “treason,” but the real thing. And with a sinking sense of doom, I realized how neatly the trap had been sprung. Having told me this plan, he would never, ever let me go.

A smile blossomed on Zhantar’s face. “I see you understand.” He rubbed a hand along his jaw. “That is enough discourse for today. I will leave you now. To think.”

He rose in a fluid motion and a moment later was gone. I heard a bolt slide, locking me in.

To think, indeed.

I would never leave this place. Not as a free person. Zhantar seemed to think that he could convince me to join the dragonmasters, but he would learn how wrong he was. I would die first. I gasped at that thought. But, yes, I
would
die first. I would never give in, so sooner or later, while I was yet young or when I was old, I would die in captivity. Just like so many generations of dragons. Cooped up, trapped in a net, enslaved to someone else’s will. That unhappy thought accompanied me to sleep.

I was awakened I don’t know how much later by my door slamming. Anazian stood there, no longer dressed in his fine black clothes but wearing simple tan trousers and tunic, and holding a basket in one hand.

I leapt out the opposite side of the bed. My vision went black from getting up too fast, but I backed up until I was against the wall. When I could see again, he hadn’t moved, but he was giving me a lopsided grin.

“Get back into bed, Donavah.”

“Come and make me.” It was the first thing that came to mind to say, and childish though it was, at least it wiped the smile off his face.

“Few things would give me more pleasure,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “But I daresay the pleasure would be all mine and none of yours. I suggest you think carefully before giving me such an invitation again.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. A fleeting thought passed through my mind, wondering whether I could be sure of dying if I were to jump out the window. But such a thought was not only distasteful but also unworthy. It certainly couldn’t be construed as a victory for me, even if it did deny my adversaries victory.

Anazian took another step. “Come here. Now,” he said in a low voice. “Or I will make you.”

I stood a moment longer trying to gather my wits and courage. Then, slowly, I went back to the bed and sat on it, every muscle tensed.

He set the basket on the table next to the bed. “I have come to tend to your hands. Move over here and sit quietly.”

He took my left hand and examined it. Waves of pain washed over me as, with an ungentle touch, he slathered salve over the blistered skin. The right one was even worse. When he unwrapped the bandages, I saw that the gashes from the broken window had been deep enough to require stitching. Anazian smeared an ointment on them that stung, then more of the other salve on my palm.

He put his things back into the basket, then took my chin and forced me to look up at him. With his free hand, he stroked my face. His fingers lingered on the mark on my left cheek. He traced the design with a fingernail, sending a shiver down my spine. “I will find out the story behind this,” he said. “But now, business calls.” He took his basket and left the room.

Tears of frustration sprang to my eyes, but I dashed them away. In that moment, I came to myself as if from a long, exhausting dream. I was in a tight spot, no point in denying that. A tight spot from which it didn’t appear likely I would extricate myself. But that didn’t mean I had to act like a victim. I needed to start thinking clearly, paying attention to what was said to me, and forming a plan. Range their Talismans around me as they might, I would make Anazian and Zhantar dance a merry dance if they wanted to Secure the Queen’s Heart.

Nilla brought my breakfast and left. I ate slowly, trying to make the meal last as long as possible. After I dressed, I stood at the window, gazing out at a grey sky that suggested rain later. I heard a noise behind me. Whirling round, I found Zhantar sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other and hands folded primly on top of a large book in his lap. I turned my back on him and stared out the window. How dare he slip into my room like that! I concentrated on remaining calm and not letting the DragonLord rattle me.

“Good, good,” said Zhantar in a pleased voice that aggravated me. “Now, sit.” He gestured at the other chair.

Not wanting to push too much and overstep myself, I paused only a moment before sitting down.

“You have a pleasing voice, and I wish you to read to me.”

He lifted the book from his lap. Its ancient leather binding had no writing or decoration that I could observe. The edges of the pages were cut unevenly, and ribbons of many colors spilled out from where they marked pages. Zhantar opened to a page marked with a wide scarlet ribbon, then turned the book around and placed it on my lap. He licked his upper lip, gave me a sly look, and placed a finger at a particular point on the page.

“There, let us see what you make of that. Begin reading.”

The words contained herein are for the eyes of the worthy. Read on, if you dare, but beware the consequences.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing. It can lift a ruler up in one breath and cast him down in the next. Like a double-edged sword, it cuts both ways

If knowledge you seek, be pure of heart and of pure blood. None others shall find what they seek. Instead, they shall find death and destruction, or, if favor shines on them, they shall simply find nothing. For knowledge must be guarded, hid from the undeserving, protected from those who might corrupt it.

Read on, if you dare, but I deny all culpability if what you find is not that which you seek but instead ends in death and destruction.

I read from the book. But as I did, a strange thing happened. I couldn’t remember a word I’d read. Startled, I looked up to find Zhantar leaning forward and watching me with an eager expression on his face.

“Carry on,” he said, making an impatient motion with his hand.

When I looked back down to the page, the words I’d already read had disappeared. I stared.

“Read,” he demanded, tapping the page.

With an uncomfortable feeling that something was very, very wrong, I resumed. The next hour had an unreal quality to it, as I read out pages and pages of whose contents I had no memory. When I paused to turn a page, Zhantar didn’t speak or move; he sat as still as a statue, he green eyes glittering with a hunger I didn’t understand.

After an hour, he stopped me, took the book, and set it on the table.

“You are still alive, I see,” he finally said.

“Yes,” seemed to be the only possible reply.

He nodded thoughtfully. “I am not surprised. No, indeed, on the contrary, I am pleased. You are one of us.”

Anger boiled out of me. I leapt to my feet and walked to the opposite side of the room. I took several deep breaths to keep my voice from shaking before I said, “No, I am not one of you. And nothing you do or say can change that.” I gathered up as much courage and dignity as I could, then turned to face him. “You might as well just kill me now.”

He beamed. “Ah, now this is much better. I had begun to believe that my son had brought me the wrong girl.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe your precious son isn’t very good at getting things right. He certainly didn’t manage to kill me the first two times he tried.”

My temerity in saying these words astonished even me. Zhantar’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

“Have a care, girl. There is much I will tolerate from you, but if you push me too far, you will regret it.”

I turned my back on him. “There is little more you can do to me.”

He laughed. “Oh, there is much I can—and will, if necessary—do to you.” A long pause stretched between us. “But, come, Donavah. I have no wish to do things to you. How much better if we did things together? For despite your bitter words, you are one of us. And when you know the truth, you will confess it. Will you not listen to what I have to say?”

I didn’t answer.

“Or perhaps you would prefer for me to turn this conversation over to my son.” He paused, making sure there would be no mistaking his meaning. “Come,” he finally spoke again, and now his voice took on a kindly, coaxing tone. “We needn’t be adversaries. I understand why you feel as you do, and I don’t blame you. But I hope ... well, what I hope can wait until another time. Come, sit back down.”

And I did. I despised myself for fearing Anazian so deeply that the mere threat of seeing him was enough to frighten me into submission.

Zhantar placed a hand on the book that still sat on the table. “This is an ancient tome written by Wals, DragonLord of old and passed down from each DragonLord to the next. Wals was a mighty man, living far beyond his natural years. He gathered knowledge of all sorts, both arcane and mundane. And he recorded the deepest, darkest secrets in this book.” He stroked it reverentially. “This very book, from which you just read. And you lived.”

I frowned but stopped myself from asking what he meant, sure that that was exactly what he wanted me to do, and sure, too, that he would tell me whether I asked or not.

He gave me a piercing look that in a way reminded me of Yallick. His voice dropped in volume and increased in intensity. “That book is
Wals’ Cursed Book of Knowledge
. Cursed, because anyone unworthy who even looks on its pages, much less tries to read it, will die. A slow, painful death.”

I couldn’t help it: I looked at the book in astonishment. How could a book kill someone?

“If you don’t believe me, I can arrange a demonstration.”

“No!” I exclaimed, turning my attention back to him. “No. I believe you.” And, in truth, I did. There was something earnest in his manner, in the way he held himself, the way he spoke the words, that told me he was speaking the truth. There was only one way he could know for sure. I shivered.

“And I will now tell you another thing. I have never read from the book.”

“You coward!” He wouldn’t read it himself, but he’d set it before me!

He laughed. “Oh, Donavah. I do so much prefer you like this. You are much more interesting than the mousy little Dona who thought herself safe in a rich lord’s house.

“But you misunderstand. It is not cowardice that kept me from reading the book. You see, it shows its words only to Wals’ direct descendents.”

Those words froze me in my seat. I could hardly draw breath.

Zhantar rose to his feet. “I think that is enough for our first talk. I daresay you have enough to think on for awhile. I will return in the afternoon, for I have another treasure to show you.” He picked up the book and left.

I left the lunch tray untouched. Memories of the morning’s events swirled through my mind. A book that could kill people, and—in its own way more shocking—revealed that I was a descendent of some ancient DragonLord. The thought left a disgusting taste of bile in my mouth.

Nilla came to take away the tray, and she frowned when she saw I hadn’t eaten. She carried it over to me, but I put up my hand and shook my head. A tiny voice of common sense suggested that going hungry wasn’t going to help, but I silenced it. I didn’t have any intention of starving myself; I just didn’t feel like eating now.

When Zhantar eventually returned, he carried a basket whose contents were covered with a black velvet cloth. He set it on the floor next to the table, then turned to look at me.

“Have you given thought to what I said earlier?” he asked.

“I have. And as you well know, it doesn’t mean much of anything.”

He raised his eyebrows, much as I would’ve expected Yallick to do had I answered him in the same way. “Do go on.”

“There are probably thousands of descendents of Wals. It’s hardly significant if I’m one of them. It means exactly nothing.”

“True enough that there may be thousands. But only one brought back the red dragons.”

I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut when I realized there was nothing I could say to rebut that.

Zhantar’s face took on an eager light. “Do you not see? You have proven yourself to be a dragonmaster, whether you wish to acknowledge the title or not.”

“No one can truly master a dragon.”

He laughed at that. “You think not? Tomorrow, I shall disabuse you of that notion. For now, there is something I want you to see.”

He sat in one chair and motioned for me to sit in the other. He took the velvet cloth from the basket and covered the table with it. Then he lifted a crystal sphere, about eight inches in diameter, out of the basket and placed it on the velvet. I stared, wide-eyed.

“You recognize this?” he asked.

I nodded. As a matter of fact, I’d seen a sphere exactly like it. Oleeda had it in her quarters back at Roylinn Academy’s retreat house, and she’d used it to view a memory I’d long repressed. Is that what Zhantar intended to do, to view my memories for his entertainment?

“A marvelous instrument, this is,” Zhantar said in a silky voice. “It can reveal what is, what has been, and to the truly skilled, what will be.” He gazed into the cloudy depths of the sphere for a moment, then slowly lifted his eyes to me in such a way that he could have been caressing me. I shivered. “Let us see what it has to tell us today.”

He held the sphere cupped in his hands. Where his skin touched the surface, colors began to appear and spread. Slowly, like morning haze burning away under the strengthening sun, the murk disappeared, leaving an image behind. Unable to resist, I bent closer to see better. The sphere filled with a view of Penwick, the golden roof of the palace gleaming in the bright sunshine.

“Yes, yes,” Zhantar said. He blew softly on the sphere, and the image changed. Now the palace filled the crystal. The image was so clear I could see the leaves on the trees fluttering in the breeze. Eyes closed in concentration, Zhantar nodded twice, then blew again.

Now the sphere showed a room, long and narrow, down the center of which ran a table. Women sat working at this table, women who looked weary and dejected. Some had blackened eyes or bruised cheeks. All sewed. None spoke. Watching them work, I could feel their sadness as if it were a physical thing, their bitterness as if they knew I looked on their misery and wished me ill for it.

Then I noticed something else. The nearest woman had her back to me, but something about her looked familiar. Her dark, plaited hair hung down her back, which was hunched over her work. She gave her head a little shake and lifted the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture that I knew.

Mama!

It struck me like lightning and seemed to stop my heart. As I watched, she reached down to rub her ankle, which was shackled to the chair.

“Mama!” My spirit screamed the word, but my mouth merely whispered it. I slipped from the chair to my knees, trying to get as close to the crystal as possible, to try to understand where she was ... and why.

“Do not touch the glass,” Zhantar said in a quiet voice.

Just then, a woman in a uniform walked up behind Mama. I heard the woman shout, as if it were from a short distance away, “Get back to work, you lazy dog,” and she clouted her across the back of her head.

“No!” I shouted. “Leave her alone!”

Zhantar let out a low chuckle. “We can hear them, but they cannot hear us.”

“Where is she?” I cried, rising to my feet and looking back and forth from the DragonLord to the sphere. “What’s going on?” Tears poured down my face. Mama! Chained to a chair, being beaten. Oh, Mama!

“She is in the palace, of course. As a slave.” As matter-of-factly as if he were telling me that the grass was green and the sky blue.

“A slave? Why?” I walked to the window, then back to the table in agitation. “Why would someone make her a slave? And where’s Papa? Is he a slave, too?” I dashed my tears away, only for them to be replaced.

Zhantar watched me with narrowed eyes. “I do not deem the time right to reveal your father’s plight. Not yet.”

I scarcely heard his words as I knelt down to look into the crystal again. But the image was fading, turning back into white haze.

“Now, let us talk about your mother. She leads a weary life. Sewing all day from sunup to sundown. Not allowed to speed the passing of time with chatter. Crammed into tight sleeping quarters with little food. And it’s all your fault.”