Mistress of Dragons (33 page)

So
many, he thought, gazing down the long, long row. So many and where have they
gone? All he had were memories: a face, the sound of laughter, the lifting of a
hand in farewell. All of them, bidding farewell and turning away, to vanish in
the dust. To become the dust.

Two
more. Two more to join that long line. Six hundred years from now, he would
look back and he might see a face, the flash of a smile, the lifted hand.

Or
he might see only the dust.

He
poured the potion into the water skin, replaced the stopper. He cast a circle
of enchantment over the camp, so that they could sleep undisturbed, then spread
his blanket and laid down in its center.

In
his dreams, he was always a dragon. He never dreamed of himself in his human
body. As he was drifting into sleep, he extended his wings over them, his
dragon soul keeping watch, while his human heart slept.

DRACONAS
WOKE TO BRIGHT SUNLIGHT SHINING FULL in his eyes, and the sound of splashing.
He propped himself up on one elbow, watched Edward scoop a fish out of the
water with his bare hands and fling it up onto the bank. Several fish lay there
already, flopping about, gasping.

“I’m
impressed,” said Draconas.

“It’s
a trick I learned as a boy,” Edward said. “My father taught me.”

He
made a dart, a dive, and another fish flew through the air, scales gleaming.

“I
think that should be enough for breakfast,” he commented, wading out of the
water.

Shaking
his arms, shivering in the cool morning air, he toweled himself with his
blanket, pulled his shirt on over his head.

“I
thought you were going to sleep the day away,” he added, grinning at Draconas. “Now
that I caught the fish, you can cook them. That’s your punishment for not
waking me for my turn at watch.”

Draconas
glanced at the water skin, saw that it had been moved. The sand beneath the
stopper was damp.

“Where
is Melisande?” he asked, looking around and not finding her.

“She
wanted to bathe. I rigged her up a screen.” Edward gestured to a blanket,
draped over a tree limb. “She’s in the water downstream.”

Draconas
heard the sounds of humming from behind it. He seemed to vaguely recognize the
tune, then remembered it as one of Edward’s songs.

But
winter’s gone and spring is going And by thine own fireside I’ve been, And told
thee dear, with garments flowing I met thee when the spring was green . . .

Her
voice was low and sweet. Draconas went to the shore, plunged his hands into the
river, vigorously scrubbed his face and laved cold water on the back of his
neck. He found Edward standing idle, a wriggling fish in his hands. He was
staring at the blanket, listening breathlessly to the song.

“So,
what are the plans for today?” Edward asked, starting guiltily. He added the
fish to his catch. “Are we going to continue to hunt for baby smugglers?”

“I
plan to go have a look at that sunken cave we passed.”

“Good,”
said Edward. “I’ll come with you.”

“You’re
a pretty sort of knight-errant,” said Draconas. “Who’s going to guard Melisande
with both of us gone?”

A
slow flush mounted in Edward’s cheeks. He threw down one fish, picked up
another, then dropped it back to the sand.

“Then
you stay with her, Draconas. Let me go investigate the cave.”

“Out
of the question. I know what I’m looking for. You’re not yet recovered from
your wounds. You both could use the rest. I found a shelter in the woods
yesterday, while I was out hunting. A sort of natural lean-to made by a fallen
oak tree. You can sleep, cook your fish . . .”

“It’s
just that I don’t think I should be alone ... I don’t trust...” He paused,
changed the subject. “How far do you think we are from home?”

Home.
Wife.

Draconas
liked Ermintrude, liked her cheerful practicality, liked her concern for her
husband. He remembered her tears, and how close a single tear had come to
falling on him, revealing him for what he was. He glanced again at the water
skin, wondered if she’d drunk from it. He guessed, by the song, that they were
both under the potion’s influence.

Melisande
came out from behind the screen, her hair sleek and shining from the river
water. Lacking a comb, she dragged her fingers through it and it fell in lazy,
wet curls around her shoulders and down her back. Edward gazed at her dumbly,
with such naked love and longing in his eyes that he did not have to speak it.
She looked at him, only at him, and smiled.

“We’re
a long way from home,” said Draconas. He waved his hand. “The shelter’s in
there among the trees. I marked the trail. You shouldn’t have any trouble
finding it.”

Turning,
he began walking up the beach, in the direction of the sunken cave.

“But
don’t you want breakfast?” Edward asked, startled at this sudden departure.

“You
can have my share,” said Draconas. “Don’t look for me before nightfall.”

“Draconas,”
Edward called to his back. “What’s going on? What’s the matter with you?”

Draconas
kept walking.

“Draconas?”
That was Melisande. “Be careful.”

He
didn’t turn around. He kept walking, and soon they were both out of earshot. He
entered into the forest and they were out of sight.

Resolutely,
he put them out of mind.

“Where
is he going?” Melisande asked.

“Off
to investigate that cave,” said Edward.

Melisande
was troubled. “He shouldn’t have gone alone. That is a terrible place. I feel
it.” She rested her hand on Edward’s arm. “You should go after him. Stop him.”

Edward
looked down at her hand, which was slender, with narrow, tapering fingers and
short, rounded, pink-tinged nails. He felt her touch through the fabric of his
wet shirt, felt it warm against his cold skin. His desire was a physical pain,
and he wrenched his arm away. Turning abruptly, he scooped up the fish, began
tossing them in the water.

“It
wouldn’t do any good,” he said, his voice muffled. “I already offered to go. He
said I should stay here with you. He’s right, of course.”

“What
are you doing with the fish?”

“Throwing
them back. I can’t stand to see them flopping about. If you’re hungry, I’ll try
to find something else—”

“I’m
not hungry,” she said.

Edward
washed the fish slime off his hands, watched the fish swim away.

“I’m
not either,” he said.

He
felt her close behind him, not touching, but close. He couldn’t stay here,
rooted to the spot. He had to turn around. He had to face her. He had to face
his pain and deal with it.

He
steeled himself.

“We
should go find that shelter,” he said briskly, turning.

He
looked into her eyes, bluer than the river or the sky. A wave of desire surged
out of him. He saw, in her eyes, the wave catch her up and carry her back to
him, carry her into his arms.

They
did not kiss. They stood there on the beach, in the morning sunlight, clasped
in each other’s arms, feeling warmth and softness and the beating of their two
hearts.

“Loving
you breaks every vow I ever took,” Edward told her silently. “It breaks the
laws of my land and the laws of my church. Yet loving you seems to me the only
truth in a life of falsehoods.”

“I
don’t love you,” Melisande told him silently. Her head bent, eyes lowered, she
crowded close to him. “But I need you. I need your hands to tell me that my
flesh is warm. I need your lips to assure me that I am not shut up in that dark
tomb. Love me. Bring me back to life.”

“We
should go find this shelter,” said Edward aloud, his voice husky with his
passion.

He
said they should go, but he did not move. He smoothed back a wet, dangling curl
and looked into her face which was so beautiful and into her eyes, where he saw
himself.

“Yes,”
she said. “We should find the shelter.”

Arms
linked, holding fast to each other, they started to walk up the beach toward
the woods, where Draconas had told them they could find the trail. Halfway
there, Melisande stopped.

“We
should take the water skin,” she said. “If we’re going to be there all day.”

Edward
agreed and, parting from her reluctantly, hastened back to retrieve it. He
lifted it, slung it over his shoulder.

“I
noticed,” she said, slipping into his arms again as he returned, “that the
water tasted different this morning. There was a sweetness to it.”

“Yes,”
he agreed. “It tasted sweet.”

DRACONAS
HAD HOPED THAT HE COULD APPROACH the cave by land, but discovered that he could
not get close to it. The red rock cliff was sheer, with nary a hand- or
foothold in sight. The only way to access the cave was by water. He stripped
down to his breeches, took off his boots, and dove into the river. The water
was cold and he gasped reflexively at the shock. Dragons are clumsy swimmers,
having no liking for it, avoiding water when they can. What he lacked in skill,
he made up for in strength. Kicking and blowing, he doggedly thrashed upriver
to the cavern’s entrance.

The
cold wasn’t so bad, once he got used to it. Treading water, he peered inside
the cave. The feel, the scent, the taste of dragon magic was all-pervasive,
touched all his senses. Draconas was perplexed. He’d never experienced anything
similar.

But
then, he reminded himself, he’d never experienced insane monks before, either.

He
swam inside, paddling with his arms and legs, taking care not to break the
surface, so as not to make any sound. Gentle ripples marking his passing washed
up on the rock walls on either side of him.

This
section of the cavern had a low, arched ceiling. If he’d been in a boat, he
would have had to duck as the boat passed through. If the gigantic Grald came
this way, he must have had to bend almost double.

Draconas
soon left daylight behind. The passageway was not completely dark, however, for
it opened into a much larger chamber, illuminated by an eerie, soft,
orange-brown glow, reminiscent of twilight. He halted before swimming into the
twilit grotto. Moving his legs to keep himself afloat, he found a rock that
jutted out into the dark water and latched onto it, intending to take a good
look around.

The
grotto was larger than the passageway. A tall man could stand to his full
height here. A hole bored though the rock wall permitted a glimpse of blue sky
and accounted for the diffused light. The hole was smooth. He doubted if it was
a natural formation.

The
river flowed through the grotto, and he guessed that this wasn’t a cavern so
much as a large tunnel. That was why he had found no sign of the baby
smugglers. They had entered this passageway. The river carried them through the
tunnel and out the other side. Follow this branch of the river and it might
eventually lead him to Maristara’s human baby farm.

As
Edward had said, the grotto was an ideal hideout for smugglers. The river’s
flow had worn smooth the rock on either side of the waterway to form a natural
landing site. Draconas could see evidence that people had camped here—charred
spots on the rock ledge where they’d lit fires, a few gnawed bones, a length of
discarded rope with a frayed end.

Beyond
the campsite, a blank stone wall curved up to meet the ceiling. The chamber was
empty. If the baby smugglers had been here, they’d left days before.

Draconas
shoved himself off from the rock, entering the grotto, the twilight. He pushed
himself through the water, not swimming so much as shoving the river
impatiently aside. The shadows deepened as he neared the bank, so that he found
it hard to see. He blamed the murky water and he blinked repeatedly to clear
the water from his eyes. Reaching the ledge, he placed his hands on it,
intending to use it to leverage himself up out of the water.

Strong
hands grabbed hold of his wrists.

Draconas
gasped in shock, reacted instinctively. Grabbing the hands that had grabbed
him, Draconas tried to pull the person who had ahold of him into the water.

Draconas
might as well have tried to pull down the mountain. The person didn’t budge.
His grip on Draconas tightened.

Looking
up, Draconas saw Grald standing over him.

Much
as Edward had flung the fish out of the water onto the bank, Grald lifted
Draconas out of the water and flung him, hard, onto the stone floor.

Draconas
groaned and gasped, arched his back, grimacing, feigning pain, feigning shock,
all the while watching Grald.

The
big man came closer. Draconas tensed, figuring to aim a powerful kick at Grald’s
kneecap, hoping to break it.

Grald
foiled him by kneeling down beside him. Taking hold of his chin in a hand that
could have engulfed his head, Grald turned Draconas’s face to the light.

“I’m
disappointed. They told me you were smart. Yet you swam right into my trap.
Haven’t you figured things out yet, Draconas?”

Grald
tightened his grip. His fingers dug into Draconas’s jaw, wrenching it, nearly
dislocating it. The pain was excruciating. Grald jerked Draconas’s head.

“Now
do you see?” Grald asked, and he looked directly into Draconas’s eyes.

Burning
white light shot through Draconas’s brain, illuminating every part of it. He
tried to hide. His ideas, his plans, his thoughts skittered about like
frightened mice, diving into every crevice and cranny. The probing, seeking,
relentless light burrowed and probed, caught and dragged each one out, devoured
them all.

One
poor thought remained, shriveled, hiding from the blazing light.

Grald
was a dragon. An elder dragon, powerful, ruthless, cunning.

Held
fast in the dragon’s powerful grip, Draconas could not move his head or tear
away his gaze. His arms were free, however, and he felt surreptitiously about,
seeking a weapon. His fingers brushed against a rock, closed over it.