The Dragon Lord (34 page)

“You
have
seen it, Gemmel—or something very like it. Yes, that’s
t’Chaal
as I remember seeing it. But you forgot the frame.”

“Frame?”

“Yes: gold filigree, crusted with emeralds. The jewel-not-jewel is mounted in it.”

“Of course—because of the coldness, and because of the way that it’s worn. I see.”

“And what is it, if it’s not a jewel? Tell me that.”

“It’s…” Gemmel hesitated, seeming reluctant to take the final step. “It’s what my son was carrying; what I lost when he died. And what Aldric will try to steal for me.”

“What!”

“That was the last message I locked into his mind, because I thought—the way people and events were explained at that time—that he would be in no danger. No real danger. Then everything went wrong. At Seghar. When the killing started. And even after that I thought he would have been all right, because he would return to Alba rather than risk himself on a venture gone sour. And he must have tried—God, how he must have tried!”

“Until Rynert handed him over.”

“Because of those rotten, stupid, petty messages? Because he was determined to prove his support for the Emperor, to show how far he would go, how many loyal vassals were willing to sacrifice themselves for his cause. And because we knew the truth behind it, he tried to have us killed! Just as what I put into Aldric’s mind is going to get him—my son—killed again…”

“Not if we can reach him first—that’s why we came here, Gemmel. But you said that you would tell me, and you’re trying not to do it;
what is’t’Chaal
?”

“It’s a primary control. A circuit.” Just one glance was enough to show that Dewan understood no more than the thing’s importance. “It’s a key, Dewan, a gateway for me to control the lightning which will… It’s my road home.”

“Home?”

“You know—or at least you guess. Aldric does and you’ve spoken to him. Because when you learned for certain of my hold in the mountains, you said ‘under Thunderpeak.’ A name I hadn’t mentioned even once.
Meneth Taran
: The Mother of Storms: Thunderpeak. That place has had something of a reputation for years now. And Aldric surely told you what he saw beneath it… within it. Didn’t he, Dewan?”

“He hinted. That the mountain itself was… hollow. Filled with lights. And power, incalculable power—the very air sang with it. But there was something else.” Dewan’s voice faded into silence and he stared at the fire as though hoping for inspiration or for strength before slowly raising his eyes to Gemmel’s face. The old man’s expression had not altered by even the flicker of a muscle; it remained as neutral as an unwritten page, not prompting, not pressing for a reply, just waiting. And Dewan finished at last, in simple, undramatic words that asked neither for proof nor for denial. “Aldric said he… He thought it was a ship.”

“He was right. My ship. A ship that once could sail between the stars. Because I am now as I told the dragon, Dewan. Alone. And very far from home.”

Aldric stopped smiling directly the common-room door closed at his back. A smile was not the sort of expression he felt like wearing right now; raising his right hand and holding it in front of his nose, he could see—as if he needed visual confirmation—the tremor in the fingertips, The hell with that! He was trembling all over, because saying those few words to
Hautheisart
Voord had brought on as bad a fit of reaction-shakes as anything he had done these past few tense days. He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes; not in an attempt to eavesdrop, even though the conversation he had primed and left behind him would be well worth listening to, but merely to let the hammer of his heart drop to something like its normal rate. There would be no eavesdropping through that door anyway—it was oak plank three fingers thick and hadn’t even shifted in its frame as his full weight was leaned upon it—but likewise there would be no hearing Aldric as he drew in huge gasps of breath. Stupid to provoke such a man as Voord—utterly crazy. But just as crazy to let him think that
everyone
was ignorant of his private dealings.

Straightening again, Aldric glanced at the long black and silver rank-robe draped across his arm. Bruda was right, of course. It was badly creased, too badly for a man of—or assuming—high rank and dignity to wear it on the public street. Not that Aldric cared overmuch about the dignity of the Imperial military, but if it likely gave the lie to what he was pretending, then best follow what had been suggested. He stopped off at the doorway to the servants’ hall and handed the garment oyer with a few suitably terse words of instruction.

Then he made his way quickly and quietly to his own room. No matter what he might have said to Voord, no matter that it was still something like twelve days to the full moon, he was not going outside with the wolfskin
coyac
on his back. The jerkin made him feel uneasy. At another time, in another place—and most certainly with another coat—he would have laughed at the notion of a garment having such an effect on a hardened cynic like himself. Except that he was no longer quite so cynical as he once had been, particularly where this black wolf-pelt was concerned. He had seen enough. More than enough, far too much.

Even thinking about it was more than Aldric could tolerate in his current frame of mind; with a convulsive wriggle of his shoulders he squirmed out of the
coyac
as if it had suddenly become something filthy. And maybe it had. He held it by the scruff of the collar between a reluctant finger and thumb white he stripped away its embroidered shoulder-tabs, then pushed open the door of his room and threw it from the corridor haphazardly onto a chair, not caring if it caught there or slithered to the floor. The thing had served its purpose, as a provocation and a flaunting of supposedly-hidden knowledge; let Voord make of it whatever he would and explain it whatever way he could, Aldric had no intention of wearing it again.

Without the wolfskin’s weight across his shoulders, it was as if an equal weight had lifted from the Alban’s mind—a strange sensation, like the removal of a foul smell or the healing of slight nausea, or the dismissal of a… presence.

He glanced just once at the bundled darkness where the
coyac
crouched, half on the chair where it had landed and the rest dangling limply like something newly dead. Then he deliberately turned his back on it and went to his saddlebags to take out an object which was, to his present way of thinking, far more wholesome: the Echainon spellstone; or the Eye of the Dragon. Whatever its proper name, it was a blindfolded eye right now, for the crystal was still wrapped in its covering of fine white buckskin. Aldric bounced it once or twice on the palm of his hand, wondering why Voord—who had certainly either searched his gear in person or had its contents reported to him in detail—hadn’t made some comment. Or even stolen it outright.

Maybe… Just maybe… Loosening the lace which held the pouch of buckskin shut, he pulled it away and the stone lay in his hand. Completely clear, completely innocent, completely without any flaring luminescence pulsing from its heart. It was now as it had been with Kathur the Vixen, and by inference as it also must have been with
Hautheisart
Voord: nothing but a man’s luck-piece of crystal or quartz, set in wrist-loops of polished steel and silver so that it could rest elegantly on the back of its owner’s hand.

Or nestle in his palm. Though they were not to know that, and would not have realized its significance even if they had.

Aldric gazed down at it and felt his mouth stretch into a smile that wanted to do more—wanted to grin, to chuckle aloud, to open wide and shout with laughter. But he did nothing of the sort, knowing full well that such behaviour would have provoked all the questions which the stone had so far avoided. As he fitted it snugly to his left wrist and pulled up the cuff of a glove to cover it, Aldric saw—briefly, just enough to prove the dormant power was still there—a single twisting thread of azure fire at the crystal’s core, minute and fragile as a human hair, yet bright enough for that one instant to splash his shadow harsh and black behind him on the wall and ceiling.

Then everything was dark again, a darkness held at bay only by the shuttered oil-lamp hanging from its chains above his bed. But now it was a comfortable darkness; more comfortable than it had been this long, long time. Too comfortable, perhaps.

The snow was no longer falling when he stepped outside, and the sky had cleared enough for a faint scattering of stars to show—but the air had become icy. Aldric was not overly concerned by that; he was warmly booted, jerkined and gloved and even the—freshly pressed!— Drasalan rank-robe was of the hooded, quilt-lined winter-weight issue. Dressed so, he could appreciate and almost enjoy the bite of the crisp, clean cold.

Even had it been damp and dismal, he would scarcely have noticed; and not at all after the first five minutes, for that short time was all that he required to walk briskly from the tavern to the square—and the festival— and the storytellers.

It wasn’t the eaters of fire or the eaters of swords who interested him; not the jugglers, the acrobats, the singers and players of instruments. The storytellers alone drew him like a moth to a candle-flame. Aldric eased through the crowds towards them—and
eased
was right, for dressed as he was it involved no effort. The first and only pressure of his hand on an arm or shoulder drew an immediate backward glance and his rank-marked clothing did the rest.

He listened, fascinated, regretting that he could spend so little of his time with each, intriguing snippets impinging on his hearing as he moved to and fro. The gloves were off now—perforce, for like so many others he was munching on a sheet of unleavened bread which had been split and stuffed with sliced, spiced meat. Removing his gloves had been a necessity, what with the hot juices running down his fingers, but the Echainon stone remained no more than a handsome clear jewel… with just the tiniest, half-seen strand of blue deep down inside it. Like a flaw, he thought to himself.

“... a sage,” said one storyteller, “with a slight flaw in his character.”

Appropriate, said Aldric’s mind. “... and then,” said another further on, “the Bridge of Birds lifted above Dragon’s Pillow.” Two tellers and but a single tale. Aldric smiled; he knew that story and liked it well. Each storyteller—all of them—had a raised seat, half-ringed with benches for their audience. Every bench was full and beyond them the fringe of casual listeners who had to concentrate if they wanted to hear every nuance of their chosen story, and who tended to hear distracting phrases from half-a-dozen others anyway. Only paying audiences were beyond the range of interruption. Obvi-ously enough: the spacing was based on professional etiquette, consideration, courtesy among…

Then Aldric’s head jerked around, his smile vanishing; for what he had just heard had to be more than accident, more than just a tale. There was an uncomfortable coincidence between certain memories and the words.

“... the dragons confer honor where
they
will.”

He could feel his hackles lifting. Maybe this
was
coincidence, but it was still too close to what had happened to him, and to what Ymareth had said to him, for him to ignore it safely. Once he had traced her voice above the background babble, the speaker was easy enough to aim for: a stocky, middle-aged, matronly woman whose silvery hair was pulled straight back from her forehead and held there by a bronze clip, and who wore an unmistakable suit and overmantle of turquoise velvet. But more important, and more noticeable even than her own appearance, was the embroidered design on each sleeve: a dragon, crawling from cuff to shoulder.

Moving closer, Aldric waited until she had finished her tale of dragons.
Dragons again
. Call it a dragon in the Empire, call it a firedrake in Alba; call it anything at all, my lady—just tell me why, why,
why
one came looking for
me
!

There, she was done
. Aldric thumb-flipped a coin towards a nearby drink merchant, lifted two of the wooden tankards from his counter, had them filled with the pale, frothy local brew of beer and then made straight for the woman who spoke with such authority of dragons.

“Your throat must be dry, lady,” he said in careful mid-phase Drusalan, proffering one of the mugs of beer.

She hesitated, lifting her eyebrows at him and at his rank-tabs and at his gift; then with the merest ghost of a shrug she accepted the drink, said, “You’re right, commander,” in an accent he had never heard before and took a healthy swallow. After a second or two she smiled. “But until now, I hadn’t realized just how very right that was. Thank you.” The woman bowed politely and Aldric almost echoed it before remembering his supposed character and snapping a half-salute instead. “I’m Aiyyan ker’Trahan; and you are… ?”

“Dirac.
Hanalth
Dirac.” No lie, for the Drusalan form of his name was common enough and besides, Aldric wasn’t about to give the Alban equivalent—with or without a surname—to anyone whose business it was to remember names and events and the stories that went with them.

They made a strange and unlikely pair, subject maybe for a story in itself: a storyteller and a soldier standing drinking beer together in a city square which might have been deserted for all the notice either of them gave the crowds. Aldric did most of the talking, hedging his way like a cat on eggs between one non-specific and another— as non-specific as he could manage and still hope for a useful reply. About dragons, about honor and more warily yet, about the forbidden Art Magic.

Aiyyan watched him all the time he spoke, and the night-dilated stare from beneath her brows was far too shrewd for the Alban’s peace of mind. Those green eyes reminded him of Gemmel, and like Gemmel the lore-woman seemed able to read beyond the outward meaning of his words and to study the unvoiced truths within.

“So…” she said at last. “I
see
.” Aldric felt that she did indeed, far more so than he had wanted; and he was already regretting his own rashness. “Commander,” Aiyyan’s voice was much softer now, much more confidential, “these are hardly subjects for discussion in the public square. Especially since you chose to come here wearing
those
.” She flicked a quick, disdainful gesture at the insignia which glinted in so many places on his dark clothing. “Undress uniform doesn’t fade unnoticed into many backgrounds, does it?” Then she grinned, a flash of teeth that lit up her entire face. “But I make my living from—such subjects of discussion and I’d like to hear more. Lots more. Safer by far if we talk later, in private. Over another drink, maybe. Either there—” she nodded sideways to where a painted tavern sign caught the lamplight, “or…” The woman considered in silence, then came to some inward decision. “I have a small library in my home, commander, dealing with”— again that brilliant grin—”those subjects. Especially the winged, fire-breathing ones. You’d be a welcome guest on your next leave; I find your interest most refreshing.”