Mistress of Dragons (4 page)

Melisande
bowed to the sisters. Gliding across the floor, she took her place at the head
of the circle, in front of the marble altar. The sisters wore their sacred
garments—gowns of pure white lamb’s wool, embroidered with symbols of the Hands
and the Eyes along the hem of the gown and sleeves. Melisande’s gown was
similar, except that her gown was black and trimmed in golden thread, to mark
her standing as High Priestess.

She
inspected each of the sisters, to make certain that each had come properly
prepared. Finding all in order, Melisande sank down thankfully onto her rug.
The warmth of the fire from the brazier felt good. She realized only then that
she was chilled to the bone and shivering. She had not noticed before now.

She
began to speak the ritual words of prayer, “O, Mistress of the Dragon, come to
us in our time of need ...”

The
words held new meaning for her now and she prayed them with a fervor she had
never before felt. And, as if in answer, the Mistress of Dragons entered the
chamber.

She
wore the trappings of her high office: a full-length gown of wool that had been
decorated with thousands of tiny beads, designed to resemble the scales of a
dragon. Twenty women had worked for five years to construct the gown. Every
color scale in the stone jars was represented in the colors of the beadwork and
the gown shimmered and gleamed in the firelight. The Mistress wore a golden
crown formed of clasped hands, holding the Watchful Eye, a beautiful sapphire.

The
sisters bowed low, their heads touching the stone floor. Melisande bowed, then,
rising to her feet, she took the Mistress by the hand and led her ceremoniously
to the altar. The Mistress took her place beside the flaming brazier. Melisande
bowed again and left to return to the head of the circle.

One
of the sisters spoke. Her voice was low, but so silent was the chamber that it
could be clearly heard.

“Melisande
has blood on her sacred garment, Mistress.”

Some
of the sisters sucked in their breath, so that a soft sibilant gasp went
through the chamber. Melisande had no need to search for the speaker, for she
knew quite well who had spoken. Lucretta was five years Melisande’s senior and
she had been certain she would be chosen High Priestess. The Mistress had
chosen Melisande, however, and Lucretta had been furious. She had taken out her
wrath on Melisande, who suffered her slights and insults in silence, knowing,
as Lucretta should have known, that petty jealousies must not ever be allowed
to break the divine unity of the Sisterhood.

Melisande
looked down at the hem and saw the gold thread stained with red, probably from
the cuts on her feet. Lucretta must have looked very hard to have seen that.
Her body suffused with an unpleasant warmth, Melisande glanced back to where
the Mistress stood behind the altar.

“Mistress,
I—” Melisande began.

The
Mistress made a swift negating motion with her hand, and Melisande fell silent.

“The
blood upon the sacred garment of our High Priestess proves her devotion to the
cause,” said the Mistress, her tone and expression stern. “Melisande, take your
place and lead us in prayer.”

As
Melisande knelt upon her rug, she cast one swift glance at Lucretta. The woman’s
face was hidden, but the back of her neck was flushed an ugly red. This
incident would only further enrage her. Melisande put Lucretta and her petty
jealousies firmly out of her mind. They had to battle the dragon.

She
faced into the center of the stone Eye carved into the floor and began to
recite the ritual Battle Prayer, asking the Mistress to grant them the magic to
fight their foe. As she spoke, she extended her hands, one to the sister on her
left (thank the Mistress it wasn’t Lucretta!) and one to the sister on her
right. Behind her, she could hear the creaking voice of the Mistress reciting
the words to the magical spells that were known only to the Mistress of the
Dragons and taught to her successor on her deathbed.

One
by one, the sisters clasped hands until they had formed a ring around the stone
Eye. As Melisande prayed, her elation grew, her voice gained in strength and in
power. The sisters joined in the chant and their voices were strong and
fervent, so that the chamber rang with their chanting. The sisters began to
rock back and forth, holding hands, swaying with the words. The Mistress raised
her own voice, her words counterpoint to the chanting of the sisters.

Melisande
felt the sisters’ hands she was holding burn with unnatural warmth. The magic,
called the “blood bane,” acted on her and the others like a fever, making the
skin hot to the touch, sometimes bringing on delirium if the sisters were weak.

The
colors burned in her mind, shimmering and whirling and sparking.

Louder
and louder the chanting grew. The Mistress’s magic fed the fire in the brazier.
The flames leapt high. Those in the valley below, waiting fearfully for the
battle, would see the smoke belching from the mountain and they would cheer.
The dragon would see the smoke, too, but he would not know its portent.

The
Eye carved into the stone blinked and then began to widen and Melisande
wondered fearfully if she was delirious and then she realized, with a thrill
that banished pain and fever, that this was the miracle of the magic. Melisande
had never seen the miracle and she was awestruck.

The
stone floor vanished. Blue sky appeared with the snowcapped peaks of the
mountains. The chamber filled with sunlight.

From
behind the mountain flew the dragon.

The
Mistress gave a great cry that seemed torn from her frail body, a cry of fury
and hatred and triumph. The dragon heard it or seemed to, for he turned his
head suddenly and stared with narrowed eyes directly at them.

The
colors of her mind, colors imprinted on the backs of Melisande’s eyes, took
shape and form—spiking yellows and sharp iron grays, stabbing and piercing. The
colors blended with the colors of the other sisters, working on the dragon’s
mind, confusing him while protecting them from the spells he might cast.

The
Mistress unleashed the power of her magic, a burst of energy that rose,
swirling, with the smoke.

The
dragon tried to veer away, but it was too late. The magic caught the dragon in
its vortex. Trapped in the maelstrom, the dragon flapped his wings violently in
an effort to escape, but the magic spun him as if he were a foam bubble churned
up by the spell’s whirling torrent. The energy whipped his head back and forth
and beat against him, buffeting and pummeling his body, and he roared in pain
and anger. Round and round the magic tossed the hapless dragon, dragging him
downward, to dash his body on the jagged rocks.

He
was young and strong and he fought to avoid his terrible fate, but Melisande
could see that he was weakening. He was within range of the warriors now.
Spears and arrows soared upward in deadly arcs, one tearing through a wing,
another bouncing off his scaled hide. He was being sucked down, inexorably, and
there was no escape.

Suddenly,
the Mistress’s words faltered, became garbled. Melisande glanced over her
shoulder, saw the Mistress clutching at her throat.

“Mistress!”
Melisande cried, frightened.

“Maintain
... the spell!” the Mistress gasped. Clasping hold of the altar, she struggled
to remain standing, but she was too weak. She slid to the floor. The sisters
faltered. The chanting petered out. Panic-stricken, they stared at the
Mistress, lying on the floor behind the altar. One began to scream
hysterically, another burst into tears.

Melisande
tried to keep the chanting going, though she knew it was hopeless. Without
their Mistress, the sisters were no match for the dragon. The fire in the
brazier sank down, so that the smoke was a thin trickle, barely visible.

The
dragon realized he was free.

A
flap of his leathery wings carried him safely out of range of the spears and
the arrows. As he flew off, Melisande noted that one foreleg sagged limp
beneath his body, the skin of one wing was torn, and countless arrows stuck out
of his flanks. Blood marred the bright green of his scales.

That
was the last she saw of him, for the Eye shut out the view, closed on the
sunlight and blue sky. The light of the brazier failing, the chamber was dark,
filled with the smell of smoke.

The
fever of the blood bane left them all weak and drained, yet many of the sisters
managed to stagger to their feet, crying out for the Mistress. Melisande heard
hysteria in their voices and she feared that this would lead to panic.

“Stop
it!” Melisande ordered sharply, blocking the way to the altar. “Regain control
of yourselves. Your mad raving will do our Mistress more harm than good.”

Glancing
behind the altar, she saw the Mistress lying on the floor, mouth open, feebly
gasping for air. “Fetch me cool water and blankets. Make haste.”

The
sisters stared at her, helpless to obey. Those who had strength enough to stand
were being forced to lean on each other for support. Like them, Melisande was
weak and lightheaded as a patient rising from a fever bed. None of them had the
strength to fetch anything.

“Then
pray for her,” said Melisande.

Most
of the sisters looked ashamed of themselves and, sinking to their knees, began
to pray fervently. Lucretta alone did nothing. She glared at Melisande, her
hatred and envy plain in her eyes.

Melisande
had no time to worry about Lucretta. Weak and shaking, her body covered with
sweat, Melisande made her way to the altar and to the Mistress. She sank down
beside her.

The
Mistress could not speak, but she formed the words with her lips. “The dragon!”

“He
was grievously wounded and he fled,” said Melisande. Taking hold of the
Mistress’s hand, she pressed it to her lips. “Dear Mistress, you saved us from
the beast. The people are safe.”

The
Mistress struggled to speak.
“Not
dead?”

“You
drove him away and he will not be back soon,” said Melisande. “You must think
now of yourself, of resting and getting well.”

The
Mistress shook her head in frustration. She fell back, limp and exhausted. She
motioned to Melisande with a crook of a shaking finger.

“Come
closer.”

Melisande
caught back the coil of her hair, bent her head to hear.

“I
have failed you,” the Mistress said in a gasping breath.

“No,
Mistress, please—” Melisande could not go on for her tears.

“Come
to me . . . tomorrow. We start. . . the final training.”

The
Mistress fell back. Her eyes closed. Her body went limp.

“She
is dead!” cried Lucretta, and a wail rose from the sisters.

“No,
she sleeps,” Melisande returned, her voice firm to quell the panic. “She cannot
remain here. She must be carried to her chamber.”

But
how she was going to manage that, she did not know. She would be lucky to walk
ten steps, much less try to carry the Mistress.

The
sisters gazed at her in dismay. Their training had not prepared them for this.
They had never supposed the Mistress would fail them, that she would need their
aid.

“I
will go for help,” said Melisande. “The rest of you wait with her, do what you
can for the Mistress while I am gone.”

Placing
her hands on the altar, she used it to support her weight and pulled herself
up. She paused a moment to gather her strength, then, bracing herself, she
walked toward the door. Dazed and ill, the others watched her. They could not
help her. They could barely help themselves. Melisande concentrated on her
destination. Slowly, slowly, the doorway drew near. She couldn’t even think
about the long walk through the corridor, back to the bronze doors. She managed
to reach the entrance, before her strength gave way. She leaned against the
wall, clutched at it to support herself. Her one thought, that she could not
let herself fall.

“I’ll
rest... a moment. . .”

Strong
arms caught her, lowered her gently to the floor. Bellona’s voice, giving
orders, echoed through the Sanctuary. Warriors surged past her into the
chamber. They carried litters with them, blankets, water, and brandy wine.

Melisande
looked into Bellona’s dark, anxious eyes. “I am all right,” she said. “Don’t
worry. It is just the weakness of the blood bane. You must tend to the
Mistress.”

“She
is being cared for,” said Bellona. “I will take her to her chamber, then send
for the healers. Rest now, Melis, and leave all to me.”

“The
Sanctuary is sacred. You should not be here,” Melisande said, trying to sit up.

“You
can clean the chamber of our defilement later,” returned Bellona, pressing her
back down.

Melisande
gave up the struggle. “How did you know there was trouble?”

“When
the magic failed, I knew something had gone wrong.”

The
warriors placed the Mistress on a litter and bore her to her chamber. Other
warriors helped the sisters, aiding their faltering steps, carrying those who
were too weak to walk.

“You
see?” Bellona told her. “All is in hand. The dragon fled. It was a glorious
battle, even if we did not kill the beast. You should rest now, Melis. You are
exhausted. I will take you to your chamber.”

“No,
my love,” said Melisande, as sleep, strong and warm as Bellona’s arms, enfolded
her. “Take me to yours.”

MANY
YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE HE HAD RECEIVED A summons. Their silence had not
surprised him, for the world was lurching along fairly well—as well as could be
expected with humans running it—and his services had not been needed. He’d
spent the years roaming the world, moving from place to place, watching,
observing, reporting back if circumstances warranted.

His
reports were reassuring. The humans were doing as they had always done down
through the centuries—making a mess of their own lives, yet somehow managing
not only to survive as a species but even to progress. Thus he wondered about
the summons. Nothing was amiss, so far as he knew. And they never summoned him
unless something was amiss.