Mistress of Dragons (20 page)

Melisande
eyed him balefully. “Lay her upon the floor. Have a care. She is very weak.”

Edward
did as he was told, bending his knee to lay the elderly woman, wrapped in the
silken coverlet, gently upon the stone floor of the chamber. As he did so, he
placed his hand beneath her head, as when holding a baby, so as not to let her
head strike the stone. He looked full into her eyes and he looked into a
darkness that was darker than the last night of the last day of the end of the
world. In the darkness, he saw a malevolence that was a growing, breathing,
living thing, a thing that clamped onto his heart with cold, strong hands and
started to squeeze it, so that he found it hard to breathe.

Shuddering,
he shrank back, so horrified that he lost his balance. His leg that was
supporting him slipped and he fell onto his knees. He could not take his eyes
from the terrible eyes of the old woman. She held him in thrall.

“Now
you will punish him, Melisande,” the Mistress instructed.

He
tore his gaze free of the old woman, looked to the face in the topaz, the face
in his dreams.

Ice-pale,
blue-fire, Melisande stretched forth her hands.

Ropes
made of light, flaring purple-white, twisted from her fingers, twined around
Edward’s body. Grasping the rope-light, she lifted him up, and flung him
against the stone wall.

Blinding
pain burst behind his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt himself
falling into the malevolent darkness of the old woman’s eyes.

He
struggled against it and heard, as he did so, Melisande’s soft voice say softly
and anxiously, “Mistress, are you all right? Did he harm you?”

And
he heard a feeble voice reply, “All is well, Melisande. Do not fret. You must
see to our assassin. I thought I heard him move.”

“I
will, Mistress. He will trouble you no more.” Pale beauty stood over him.
Darkness pounced and devoured.

ON
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ILLUSION, DRACONAS waited in the darkness that for him
wasn’t dark, because at last he had some glimmering of the truth. He had to act
quickly, for, if he was right, he did not have much time. He knew the illusion
was still in place, for he’d seen Edward searching for him. Poor Edward, still
fooled by it.

Other
eyes, eyes more knowledgeable than Edward’s, could penetrate it, however, and
those eyes must not see him.

Moving
slowly, so as not to draw unwanted attention, he stood up, put his back against
the wall. His mind filled itself with the image of the mountain. He wrapped
himself in the bones of the mountain. He became the mountain.

The
king lay very close to the illusory wall, so close that Draconas might have
reached out to touch him. He did not touch him, not even to see if he was alive
or if he was dead. Hidden in his own illusion, Draconas watched and waited.

Her
work done, her magic cast, Melisande hastened back to the Mistress, knelt down
beside her.

The
Mistress’s breathing came in shallow, gargling gasps. Every breath seemed a
struggle.

Melisande
slid her hand beneath the pitiably thin shoulders, lifted her head, pillowed it
on the bunched-up folds of the coverlet. She eased the Mistress back down.

“The
floor is chill. You should not be lying here. Can you stand?”

The
Mistress shook her head. “Let me . . . rest a moment.”

Melisande
was frightened. The Mistress looked so very ill.

Taking
hold of the Mistress’s thin, wrinkled hand, Melisande pressed the hand to her
cheek, wet with rainwater and tears of fear and self-reproach.

“Mistress,
I am so sorry. I should have been there to guard you. Forgive me.”

“Melisande,
hush,” whispered the Mistress. She took hold of the soft young hand in her
thin, feeble one, caressed the hand gently, as if reveling in its youth and
strength. Her gaze wandered in the direction of Edward, but she could not see
him. “Is he dead?”

“Dead
or unconscious,” said Melisande, casting the body a brief, uncaring glance. “If
he is dead, we are spared the trouble of a trial. If not, he will be brought to
justice for his crime. Now, I will carry you back to your room. Then I will
summon help—”

“Not
yet, Melisande,” gasped the Mistress, holding onto the hand more tightly,
struggling to speak. “First there is something . . . you must do.”

Melisande
was wet and shivering, starting to feel the ill effects of the blood bane. She
feared that soon she might be too weak to carry the Mistress and she dared not
leave her alone with the assailant. “I will do anything you ask, Mistress, but
first, let me move you to where you will be more comfortable—”

“Do
you defy me, Melisande?” asked the Mistress and she seemed more sad than angry.

“No,
Mistress,” Melisande faltered. “I am concerned for your welfare.”

“Then
do as I tell you.”

The
Mistress fell back, gasping. Her eyes closed. She lay still a moment, her body
so frail that the beating of her heart shook her entire form.

Her
eyes opened, and their dimming gaze wandered past Melisande to the far end of
the chamber. “Go to the altar.”

Melisande
glanced uneasily at the body of the assailant. He was still now, but only a
moment before she thought she had heard him stir, give a muffled groan. He wasn’t
dead. She hadn’t killed him. Any moment, he might regain consciousness.

Melisande
rubbed her arms to try to ease her shivering. She was tempted to ignore the
Mistress’s commands, which were hardly rational at a time like this, and lift
her up despite her protests and carry her to her room. She would then summon
Bellona, who would know how to deal with the situation. Melisande had never
wanted her lover’s strength more than now.

“Melisande,”
said the Mistress, her feeble voice sharpening. “What I ask of you is
important. Go to the altar.”

All
her life, Melisande had obeyed the commands of the Mistress, obeyed out of love
and respect, not out of fear. She could not now disobey, especially as this
command might be the Mistress’s last.

Melisande
kissed the Mistress’s hand, laid it across her breast. She cast one final, hard
look at the man. He lay still. Maybe that groan had been his last. Satisfied
that for the moment, at least, he posed no threat, Melisande walked to the back
of the chamber, where the marble altar stood.

The
Mistress had barely strength enough to turn her head. Her eyes were the only
part of her that seemed alive and they followed Melisande’s every movement, a
hunger burning in them. The Eye carved into the floor watched, too.

Arriving
at the altar, Melisande knelt in front of it, on her blanket, where she was
accustomed to kneel. She staggered as she sank down. Shock and fatigue and the
blood bane were combining to weaken her. She closed her eyes, clasped her hands
together tightly, and prayed a small prayer for herself, asking for strength.

“I
am here at the altar, Mistress,” said Melisande, keeping her voice from shaking
through a great effort of will. “What is it you would have me do?”

“Ask
no questions, Melisande,” said the Mistress. She sounded eager, impatient. “Do
exactly as I command you. Stand up and go into the alcove behind the altar.”

Melisande
turned to regard the Mistress in wonder. She felt vaguely uneasy, though she
could not tell why. The Mistress did not sound like herself.

“Stand
up,” said the Mistress insistently, “and go into the alcove.”

Melisande
rose unsteadily, not certain she had heard right. “Only the Mistress of Dragons
may enter the alcove—”

“And
you will be Mistress soon, won’t you, Melisande. Do as I tell you.”

Troubled,
Melisande did as she was bade. From when she had first entered this chamber as a
novitiate ten years before, she had viewed the mysterious and shadowy alcove
behind the altar as the most holy place in the world, sacred and sacrosanct,
awful and wonderful. When she had dared to dream that one day she might become
Mistress, she had allowed herself to dream of what it would be like to come
back here, to walk up the three stairs that separated the alcove from the rest
of the chamber, to move past the burning brazier, to take her place at the
altar, to look out over the faces of the sisters gathered around the Eye, faces
that looked to her with trust and confidence.

This
was not the moment she had dreamed. There was something wrong, something
ghastly. She was not the Mistress. She had no right to be here. Melisande moved
slowly, reluctantly, hoping that the Mistress would change her mind and order
her to halt. Her foot on the first stair, Melisande turned around.

“Mistress,
please. It is not right. Let me take you back—”

“Proceed,
Melisande,” said the Mistress and her voice was iron-cold and iron-sharp.

Sighing
deeply, trying to reassure herself that this could not be sacrilege, for the
Mistress herself had ordered it and the Mistress was wise in all things,
Melisande climbed the three stairs and entered the alcove.

The
light of the brazier could not penetrate the shadows that had been here when
the alcove was hollowed out of the rock hundreds of years ago. The shadows were
cool and dark and did not threaten, but they did not welcome either. Melisande
sought for the holy peace that must reside here, but she could not find it. The
shadows seemed like hounds, waiting to leap on her at their master’s bidding.

“Nonsense,”
she said to herself. “It is only a fancy of the sickness.”

She
was no longer shivering, but hot with fever. She turned to face the Mistress,
found herself looking into the Eye. It was huge and all-encompassing, and it
stared straight at her.

Melisande
leaned her elbows on the altar, clasped her hands and rested her burning
forehead against them. She had to be strong. If she collapsed, the Mistress
would be alone and helpless.

“Mistress,”
said Melisande, “forgive my weakness, but I am not well. Let me go—”

“You
will be well, Melisande,” said the Mistress. “Well and young and strong and
invincible. Open the sarcophagus.”

“There
is no sarcophagus, Mistress,” Melisande said. Her heart ached with pity. She
saw now that the Mistress had slipped into the delusional state that came
sometimes to the very old. “There is only the marble altar. I am going to take
you back to your room now—”

The
Mistress sprang to her feet. The silken coverlet spilled from around her
shoulders and lay in a gold-threaded puddle around her bare ankles. Her thin
body quivered with intensity.

“You
are not Mistress yet, Melisande!” she cried and there was something terrible in
her tone. “Obey me.”

Melisande’s
throat constricted. Her mouth went dry. If this was madness, it might be best
to humor it, lest the Mistress would come to more harm in her unnatural
excitement.

“Very
well, Mistress. I will lift the lid of the ... sarcophagus.”

Melisande
spread her hands upon the top of the marble altar, examined it searchingly. The
altar was long and narrow and it did have the look of a tomb, though she had
never noticed that until now. Perhaps that is what had put this idea into the
Mistress’s enfeebled mind. The top of the altar might well be a covering, for
its marble rim overlapped the main part. She looked up, to find the Mistress’s
eyes on her.

“The
lid is heavy,” said the Mistress, “but if you push hard, using both hands, you
can move it.”

If
this was madness, it spoke with the voice of reason. Queasy with a fear to
which she could put no name, Melisande placed both hands upon the top of the
stone altar and shoved, hard, as the Mistress had told her. The top moved.

Melisande’s
hands shook. Her mouth dried up, her palms were wet with sweat. She felt sick
and was afraid she might pass out.

“Push
harder,” said the Mistress.

“No,
Mistress, please,” pleaded Melisande, a prey to terror.

“Open
it!”

With
the last of her strength, Melisande shoved. The marble lid moved, grating,
grinding.

Within
was darkness, deep and endless as the final darkness that closes our eyes,
never to open them. Air wafted cool, but with a strange smell, not musty or
dank, as of a tomb, but a horrible smell of fresh blood. Melisande gagged and
would have drawn back, away from death and the smell of blood, but she could
not move.

Fear
gripped her, held her fast.

The
marble lid slid open of its own volition. Shuddering, unwilling, but unable to
help herself, Melisande looked into the tomb.

The
Mistress stared back at her.

A
shudder of horror drove through Melisande’s body. She could not scream or make
a sound. She gripped the altar for support or she would have fallen.

The
Mistress lay inside the tomb. Her face was the same beloved face that Melisande
had known all her life, lined with the passing of the years, but on that face
was an expression of indescribable torment and agony. The smell of fresh blood
came from the gaping, hideous wound in the woman’s chest.

Her
heart had been torn out of her body. Yet, by some power, the Mistress lived.

The
eyes that stared into Melisande’s were horrifyingly aware. The woman’s hands
were clenched to fists to endure the unending pain. The mouth gaped wide in a
scream that could never be heard. She could not move. She could not cry out.
She could not breathe. Yet she could not die.

How
long had she lain here like this? How long had she been a prisoner in the
unending darkness, a prisoner of pain and terror?

Melisande
lifted her frightened gaze to the living Mistress, who was now approaching her,
moving closer and closer, and Melisande knew the time had been long, very long.
Years and years of agony, endless darkness, unbearable loneliness, fear.