Mistress of Dragons (23 page)

Trees
meant solid ground, a ledge, a way off the mountain.

Draconas
hoped to find a shallow cave or a thick stand of trees—someplace where he could
safely stash the two humans, allow them to rest and recuperate before
continuing their trek down the mountainside. A cave would be preferable, for he
could heat it with his magic. He didn’t mind camping on Maristara’s mountain,
so long as they weren’t inside her lair. In her dragon form, she would have
been able to search the mountainside and find them, but she couldn’t use her
dragon form. She had to continue to hide her true nature from those she had
fooled for so many, many years.

She’d
foiled herself.

With
a feeling of well-earned satisfaction, Draconas walked out the opening.

A
wall of flame erupted around him. The heat was intense and seared his skin. He
flung up his arm, and then his brain took over.

The
fire vanished, as did the heat.

Illusion,
all illusion.

The
flames might have stopped humans, though probably not for long, not if they
were intelligent enough to see what Draconas had seen—that the crackling fire
was feeding off rock. Maristara was slipping. She should have at least added
some illusionary fuel.

Draconas
started to step through the illusion, then came to a sudden halt.

A
man, shapeless in black robes, stepped out from the shadows of the trees. He
stared intently into the flames that flared in his dark, wild eyes. Moonlight
glinted off a tonsured head.

Draconas
sucked in his breath, let it out in a whistling sigh. He had once again
underestimated Maristara. The illusory fire was not meant to repel. It was
meant to alert.

“I
know you are in there, foul hell-spawn,” cried the monk. “And so does God!”

The
monk raised his scrawny arms to heaven. “I call upon Him to smite—”

Draconas
flung aside his staff and barreled into the monk, driving his shoulder into the
man’s solar plexus.

Draconas
had hoped simply to disrupt the monk’s spell-casting by taking the man off his
feet and knocking the breath from his body. To his astonishment, the monk
crumpled at the blow. Bones cracked and snapped. Draconas felt as if he’d
smashed into a bundle of dry kindling.

Repulsed,
Draconas scrambled to his feet.

The
monk’s breath whistled oddly. Blood flowed out of his mouth. He began to
writhe, his body jerked in spasms. The monk gave a gargle and died.

Draconas
was sickened. He could still feel the bones snap, hear the agonized gasp as the
monk’s shattered ribs sliced into vital organs. Wiping a bad taste from his
mouth, Draconas bent down to examine the body. The monk’s bones were thin as
larch needles. His head could have been that of a cadaver, it had so little
flesh.

Hearing
footsteps behind him, Draconas jumped to his feet, whipped around, and almost
ran down Edward, who stood swaying on unsteady feet, his sword in his hand.

“Another
one?” he said, staring at the dead monk.

“Where’s
the woman?” Draconas demanded.

Edward
looked back to the cavern as if it held every treasure ever dreamt of by
mankind. “In there,” he said, his voice softening.

“You
shouldn’t have left her.” Draconas shoved him aside, heading back toward the
cavern.

“I
heard voices and I saw the flames,” Edward returned. “I thought you might need
help.”

“Well,
I didn’t,” said Draconas, with a glance of disgust for the monk. “The woman is
your responsibility. You wait here. I’ll go fetch her—”

He
felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he met Edward’s fist, smashing into his
jaw. The blow sent Draconas staggering, though it didn’t knock him on his ass,
as the king had promised.

“She
has a name. Her name is Melisande,” said Edward.

Sheathing
his sword, Edward stalked back into the cavern.

Draconas
waited outside, massaging his aching jaw, and thinking how much he was starting
to like Edward.

It
was all a damn shame, really.

MARISTARA
WAS SHOCKED AT THE SUDDEN LOSS OF her new body, more shocked than angry, at
first. Events had come crashing down on her, literally. One moment she was
going to rip out a human’s heart and the next the ceiling collapsed.

Draconas,
the walker. The meddlesome walker.

And
that youngling Braun.

They
were both in this together. The son should have died along with the father.
Well, all in good time.

Maristara
was calm now. She had been so incensed, so infuriated at the disruption of her
plans that she had almost lost her head, let rage consume her.

She
had come within a snarling word of using her magic to blast apart the rock
slide that blocked the cavern, going in after them, hunting them down like
vermin, breathing her fire down the tunnels, poisoning them with the fumes,
incinerating their miserable flesh.

She
had stopped herself, just in time.

The
blast would be heard and felt by everyone in the monastery and half the people
in the kingdom of Seth. The sisters would be in turmoil, weeping and wailing and
demanding answers, demanding leadership, crying to the Mistress for help . . .
and there would be no Mistress. Only the corpse of a desiccated old woman with
a gaping hole in her chest. And a dragon.

Maristara
turned away from the pile of rubble, twisting and maneuvering her body in the
small, cramped Sanctuary, and mulled things over.

“Let
them go for the time being, the humans and the walker.” She rolled the term
with hatred on her tongue. “They will not get far. I will see to that. First,
there must be a new Mistress of Dragons. Whom shall I choose?”

Her
mind ranged over the sisters, studying, selecting, rejecting. And then the one.

“Melisande’s
rival, of course,” said Maristara. “Imminently suitable. Jealousy and desire
cloud her vision. She will not think to question ...”

The
dragon snuffed out the fire burning in the brazier. Hunkering down in the
darkness, grasping the locket in a fore claw, she fixed her eyes upon the door
and, in the weak and dying voice of the former Mistress, the dragon called out
softly, “Lucretta. Come to me, Lucretta. I have need of you.”

Bellona
woke at the sound of footsteps outside her door. When the knock came, she was
halfway out of bed.

“Commander.”

“Yes,
what is it?” Bellona spoke softly, so as not to disturb Melisande.

“A
summons from the Mistress’s chambers. You are wanted. The matter is urgent.”

Dawn
was near. Pale, gray light illuminated the room. Bellona glanced over to see if
Melisande was awake, only to find her side of the bed empty.

Bellona
reached out her hand and smoothed the pillow which still had the impression of
the beloved head. “So it has happened,” she said to herself softly. “Poor
Mistress. Yet she has lived a long life. May she join the blessed ranks of the
goddesses who watch over and protect us.”

“Commander
...”

“I’m
coming,” Bellona called, rising and reaching for the soft tunic she wore
beneath her armor.

“You
have leave to enter. There’s no trouble with the men, is there?” she asked
sharply.

A
young warrior thrust open the door, walked into the room. “No, Commander. The
summons came from the Mistress’s guard.”

Bellona
nodded and sighed. She remembered that she’d been going to ride out to the
pass, to investigate those strange intruders. She would put that off, of
course. Melisande would have need of her here.

The
Mistress is dead.

Bellona
had known this time was coming. She had thought herself prepared, but now that
it was here, she found she was deeply and profoundly saddened. She had known no
other Mistress in her lifetime. This Mistress had presided over Bellona’s
birth, had watched her grow from a harum-scarum girl-child, always getting into
scrapes, into a soldier noted for her skill and bravery. This Mistress had
promoted her to her present rank. Melisande would be Mistress, and Bellona was
glad for her lover. But, for now, there were tears for the dead.

“It
is hard, isn’t it, Commander,” said the young warrior softly.

“Yes,
very hard.” Bellona roused herself. There was much work to be done this day,
starting with escorting the men out of the compound. They mustn’t guess that
anything was amiss. “Help me on with my armor.”

As
the warrior buckled the ornate breastplate over the tunic, Bellona wondered
that she had slept through Melisande’s departure. Bellona was a deep sleeper,
but she had trained herself to rouse at the slightest sound. There must have
been the urgent knock at the door, whispered conversations, Melisande dressing.

“And
I slept through it all,” Bellona marveled, annoyed at herself. “I should have
been there for Melisande, supporting her with my prayers and my love, if
nothing else.”

Emerging
from the barracks, Bellona came upon a group of soldiers clustered together in
front of the barracks, talking in low voices. Their faces troubled, they looked
immediately to Bellona. Seeing her dressed in her formal armor, they exchanged
glances. Some shook their heads. Others hastily averted their faces. One
brushed her hand over her eyes.

“There
is no news yet,” Bellona told them. “Go to your beds, get some sleep. You will
need your rest.”

The
soldiers did as ordered, trailing off into the barracks. Usually they were
jovial, rowdy as they came off duty, looking forward to a hearty meal and then
sleep. This day, they were quiet, subdued.

“You
will let us know, Commander?” one called after her.

Bellona
waved her hand, not trusting herself to speak, and walked on.

The
detail assigned to escort the men out of the monastery was already forming
under Nzangia’s leadership. Bellona received her salute, then beckoned her
over.

“I
must leave the men to you. I am summoned to the Mistress,” said Bellona in an
undertone.

“I
know. I was there when the summons came from the Mistress’s guards. Do you
think ...”

“I
fear the worst,” Bellona answered grimly. “Melisande was called for during the
night. See to it that the men are removed from here quickly. Let no one speak
to them and tell your troops to wipe those mournful looks off their faces. I do
not want the men to catch any hint that anything is wrong. If they do, the news
will be all over the city by midmorning. We must have time to prepare.”

Nzangia
nodded, fully understanding. She and her detail marched off and soon Bellona
could hear them calling out in peremptory voices for the men to wake and get
dressed. It was time to leave.

Bellona
cast a swift glance up at the walls, to see that her soldiers were on duty and
that, outwardly, all appeared normal. She noted only one infraction—two
soldiers stopping to talk when they should have been attending to business. She
made a mental note to reprimand them both, then hastened to the Mistress’s
quarters.

The
walkways were wet and muddy. A tree branch, blown down during the storm, lay
near the iron gong. Raindrops splattered on Bellona’s helm as she walked
beneath the trees. The heads of the roses, heavy with rain, drooped on their
long stems, mourning the Mistress’s passing.

The
guards posted at the double doors leading to the Mistress’s quarters came to
attention as Bellona approached. Their salutes, usually snapping with energy,
were slower, more solemn. They moved quietly, muting all sounds.

“Daniela,
what has happened?” Bellona asked in a low voice.

“I
know nothing for certain, Commander,” the soldier replied softly. “This
morning, when we came on duty, one of the sisters came to us to say that you
must be summoned immediately.”

“One
of the sisters,” Bellona repeated. “You do not know which one?”

“She
was veiled, Commander,” said the soldier. “Her face was covered.”

“Then
the Mistress must be dead,” said Bellona. The sisters would all wear veils in
mourning for the Mistress, keep their faces hidden from sight for thirty days. “That
is what we assumed, Commander.” Poor Melisande, Bellona thought as she entered
the darkened hallway. She has had all this to bear alone. How hard it must have
been for her, to keep the death watch by herself, to say good-bye. She must be
exhausted. And there is still the king to notify and the arrangements to be
made for the people of Seth to come to the monastery to pay their homage to the
new Mistress. I must see to it that Melisande gets some rest, else she will
make herself ill.

At
least, there will be no lying in state, no viewing of the body, no funeral.

The
Mistress was so important to the safety and security of Seth that the very
first Mistress of Dragons had decreed that no one should ever see the Mistress’s
dead body.

“It
is true that the Mistress of Dragons is mortal,” the very first Mistress had
declared. “But she must not be seen to be mortal by those who depend on her for
their very lives. They need to know that their future is secure and thus they
will only ever see a living Mistress. By my decree, the body of the dead
Mistress will be burned immediately after her death, with only the new Mistress
presiding, and her ashes scattered over the sacred Eye in the Sanctuary.”

“I
always considered that a strange custom,” Bellona remarked to herself, padding
soft-footed down the too-quiet hall. “It seemed disrespectful to the dead. But
now I understand. If the people saw the corpse of the dead Mistress, they might
have doubts. They might be afraid. They might wonder if the new Mistress would
be up to the task. This way, they never have a chance to doubt. A new Mistress
is already at hand, already caring for them.”

Bellona
wondered if Melisande had performed that sad duty. The details of how and where
the cremation took place were all highly secret. Only Melisande would know them
and she was bound by her sacred oath never to reveal them until she herself was
on her deathbed.