Reawakening (33 page)

“His treasures,” Gard said impatiently. “Gold, silver, and the like. Although Tarn seems to collect people too.”

Ia hummed thoughtfully. “More than that, from what I’ve read. I’ve seen what’s left in the museum of Shara. Some of those things were never worth much in gold, but they’d all been prized by someone.”

Aline laughed, light and incredulous. “That? That’s what people think now? Oh, they all had their trinkets, no doubt, but that’s not their real hoard. Dragons live on love, as gods thrive on the worship of their followers. His hoard is everything and everyone he loves best in the world. He never wanted to own you. From the first time he looked at you, Tarn decided to
love
you.”

It hadn’t been quite that simple, of course. He had loved the desert from the first moment, but Gard himself had been an unexpected miracle. That desire had grown with every touch and quarrel, until it was not just the place, but the spirit of the place, that he loved so well.

Tarn felt the shift in the air, the sudden change in pressure that signaled Gard’s mood altering.

Then Gard said, his voice strained and shaking, “Get out. Now!”

He didn’t move until the door closed, but Tarn could feel him standing there, like the sky before the lightning breaks.

Then the bed creaked under Gard’s weight, and his face pressed against the back of Tarn’s neck. Gard’s arms were around his waist, and Gard was saying, voice cracked and furious, “Why can’t you just use the same words as everyone else, you ridiculous lizard? Have you any idea how confusing it was when you just kept courting me and kissing me, and all the time I thought you wanted to control me, so I
couldn’t
love you, even when I wanted to.”

It was like the sun on his back, warmer and warmer by the moment. Gard’s affection felt like the desert, warm and quick and full of life, spilling around him as Gard talked.

“… because I do love you, big, bullying, unbearably arrogant, infuriatingly heroic anachronism that you are, and if you think I’m going to let you sleep away the next few centuries, you must be mad. I’ll plague you every day, I swear, Tarn—put sand in your bed and fleas in your hair, and sing outside your windows, and send drummers to march outside your door until you just
wake up!
”

His lips were soft against Tarn’s nape as he talked, and his hands were very tender, curling across Tarn’s chest. With each touch, Gard’s affection felt more like a river, rushing through Tarn as clearly as the tiny mortal threads of his hoard. He let it flood back out of him, his own heart spreading back into Gard.

Gard gasped, a low sound of wonder, and Tarn opened his eyes, blinking the last sleep away. He turned in Gard’s arms as Gard said, “Does this mean you’re part of my hoard too, because this really doesn’t feel one-way, and if you had just bothered to explain that properly—”

Tarn kissed the words out of his mouth, soft and grateful, and Gard sighed and pulled him closer, his arms tightening around Tarn.

“Mine,”
Tarn thought at him, smug and satisfied.

Gard sighed into his kiss, shifting a little closer.
“Well, if you insist, but only because you’re just as much mine, which makes the whole thing tolerable. More than tolerable, if you keep kissing me like this, and stop sacrificing yourself protecting me when I’m quite capable….”
Tarn slid his hands into Gard’s clothes, and the stream of complaints frayed into a long sigh, and a murmur of “Oh, yes, Tarn, yes. Don’t stop touching me, you stupid lizard, my own great fool, my love.”

T
HE
NEXT
time he woke, Gard was gone, though Tarn could feel him, the echo of a second heart beating in time with his own. There were more tangible reminders too—the pink marks of rough kisses on his neck and the pleasant lovely ache between his legs. He sighed, rolling his shoulders, and sat up.

Esen was sitting beside his bed, her knees tucked up as she read a thick book. She put it down as he sat up, and smiled at him shyly. “Feeling better?”

“Myself again,” Tarn told her, touching on her thread. She was tied to both him and Gard, another thread binding them, and there was no hint of the Shadow left in her. “How are you feeling?”

She sighed, shrugging. “I can’t even tell you yet. I’m just so glad it’s gone, and I can’t feel anything else, not yet. I want to go home, and I can’t, because my father’s dead and everything’s gone. I should be upset, shouldn’t I? I just feel empty, as if there’s a space inside me waiting for some other horror to come sweeping in.”

“We’ll keep you safe,” Tarn promised her. “Wherever we make our home.”

She smiled at him, a little wistfully, and shrugged with one shoulder. “I think I might want to stay here, when I can think properly about it again. Aline said once that she could teach me. I’d like to learn that, to fight as well as dance, especially if the Shadow is still somewhere in the world.”

“It might be,” Tarn told her. “It was badly injured, but it cannot be destroyed, only weakened and scattered. The best we can hope for is that it is broken into such small pieces it will never be able to reform.” He didn’t mention that swords were no defense against something that stole into your soul.

Esen understood, though. She shrugged again, her hair falling in her face, gawky in a way she had never been while the Shadow rode her. “I’ll feel safer, understand. That might help.”

“It sounds wise,” Tarn told her, and they both looked up at a tap on the door.

Aline was there, looking grave and quiet. She reminded him of Myrtilis suddenly, a new dignity carried on her shoulders. He needed to find out the implications of their losses. Who led the Court of Shells now the last veterans of his old hoard had faced the Shadow for a final time?

“Myrtilis would like to see you,” she said, “if you’re well enough.”

Walking with her along the hall, he let his strength flow into her and felt her tiredness ease a little. The shift must have registered with Gard, because Tarn felt a quick jab of inquiry and a sense of the open sky before the flood of power between them settled more securely again. This was how it should be in a true hoard, strength flowing through the keeper of the hoard and shared by those in need.

In Myrtilis’s room, Aline stepped forward to wake her queen gently, brushing a soft kiss on her withered cheek. Then she backed away, leaving Tarn in the quiet.

It was a cool room, shady and sighing with running water, and great tubs of flowering shrubs stood in each corner, scenting the air. There was a spear hanging over the hearth, and a corselet abandoned at the foot of the bed, as if it had been shrugged off in haste.

Myrtilis’s sword was by her side, though, her fingers curled loosely around its hilt. She saw Tarn looking and said, her voice still fierce despite the quaver, “I always expected to die in battle. If age is going to take me, I’ll fight until the last moment.”

“Good,” Tarn said and sat beside her. He had been here before, in peaceful ages, with too many mortal friends. Age often seemed to charge them down faster than the wind, but he was bitterly aware now that it had been an illusion before. It had never come this fast. He had expected more years with Myrtilis. “I’m sorry. I could have stopped it.”

She laughed at him, and it was still bold, although it did not bell out as clearly as it had before. She looked ninety, at least, pared down to lean, dauntless determination, even though her hand shook as she raised it to smack his arm. “I had one purpose in my life, Tarn, and that was to bring the Shadow down. I have helped do that twice now. I should have died the first time, but Gard healed me. This is just overdue.”

“I thought you planned to fight,” Tarn said, covering her hand.

“Oh, always, because I was born to the battle.” She grinned at him. “I won’t be bitter about it, though. There are some fights none of us can win.”

“You helped,” Tarn told her. “When I knew you lived, and the whole hoard was thinking of me, that was the strength I needed.”

“Thank Ia for that,” she said. “She kept my heart beating, and Gard forced me to live, and said enough that I knew you needed us.”

“Can he heal you completely?” Tarn asked.

“No, no. Ensure that time does not touch us in this one little corner of his domain, yes. Reverse the effects of time? No one can do that, Tarn. The world changes. Empires fall, oceans run dry….”

“… and little desert spirits rise up to challenge the great powers of the world,” Tarn finished for her, and knew his smile was fond.

“Challenge some and love others.” She drew a breath and pushed herself up against the pillows. “So, I may live another ten years, and be cranky with it, or I might drop flat in my sleep tonight. There are matters I must attend to, to ensure all is done correctly.”

He nodded and kept his hand on hers, giving her strength to concentrate.

“Firstly, Aline is my heir. Everyone I brought out of the north is gone now, and the youngsters will be lost without them. I trust her as much as I love her. She will be a good queen.”

“I agree,” Tarn said.

“It’s not for you to agree or not, Tarn, my love, but the next bit concerns you. She rules over my girls, and they may choose where to give their loyalties, but the Court of Shells is yours. Build your new hoard here, my king, and build well.”

It was an unexpected gift, but he took it gladly. “Thank you.”

“By now the world is realizing that you’re awake. You’ll want to gather any of your brethren who can be woken, and get some advice before you encounter the world again. Kings are not what they once were, and no one is used to dragons anymore.”

“Do you recommend anyone?”

“I would have said Namik Shan. Cayl and Sethan seem to know the north better than I do, though. Use them.”

“I want to wake Arden, if I can,” Tarn told her. She might not be quite the Myrtilis of old, but this was familiar, talking strategies and resources. “He’s strong, and he always was good with mortal princes. If not him, Halsarr. Much as he irritates me, he’s steady, and doesn’t scare mortals too badly.”

She tired before long and reached over to the table beside the bed. “Enough. I have something for you.”

Tarn held out his hand, puzzled, and she dropped a chess piece into it, a small chunk of jet polished smooth by time.

“I noticed,” Myrtilis said, “that you had the matching piece in your room, and I thought you might like this.”

It was the other king from the set he had played against Killan, in another age. “Where did you get this?”

“Killan came to see me, a few times. He left this here on his last visit.”

“Ah,” Tarn said and looked down at it, the comically fierce little face and the defiant pose. It made him think of something. “The Shadow said he found another lover.”

“Lorchan,” Myrtilis said and smiled, sinking back a little on her pillows. “The whole of the north gossiped about it. He was much younger, and he adored Killan.” She chuckled. “I had my eye on Aline by then, so I encouraged Killan in it.”

“Was Killan happy?”

She thought about it, and Tarn tensed. The answer mattered. No one should have to sacrifice themselves for him.

Then she said, “Yes. He was happy. He said, on that last visit, that some things were worth the wait. The world changes in unexpected ways, and all we can do is live in it and take joy in how it surprises us.”

Tarn carried the piece with him out of her room and back to his own, where he placed the little chessman beside its partner on the shelf beside his bed. He was still pondering it as he made his way outside to the shallow garden, where Gard and Sethan were quarreling over something to do with a map and a trade route, Cayl shaking his head in amusement. The sun was bright, filling his bones with fire, and the sky blazed around it. A hawk circled on the wind, and a little dun mouse was snuffling through the herbs, unaware of its danger.

Tarn clapped his hands to scare it back into shelter and sat down beside Gard, slinging an arm around his waist. Gard kissed him idly in greeting and then went back to mocking Sethan.

Behind them, two warmaids crossed paths, greeting each other in soft voices as they changed the guard. Music drifted out of a high window, and Tarn recognized the player from the long ride south. On the other side of the garden, Barrett was sitting on a bench, trying to write despite the way Dit’s head was pillowed against his thigh.

Here now, in the heat and heart of the desert, was his hoard, and the dragon was content.

A Handbook of Terms for the Student
of The Second Dragon Age

I, Timaeus Esthous of Aliann, have undertaken to write this guide at the (admittedly somewhat indirect) request of Lord Arden. Given the ever-increasing interest in the Reawakening Era from the common reader, it has become apparent that many terms and references which are commonplace among antiquarians are causing great confusion among those who have less time and money to pursue their historical interests. Therefore, since education is one of the ultimate aims of a righteous life, I present this handbook of terms for the student of modern history, and sincerely hope it will be of use to even the most humble student.

My lord patron, I hope this will prove, contrary to your expressed opinion, that there are indeed many humans, both of scholarly and merely curious persuasions, who wish to learn some true and accurate history rather than mere myths and anecdotes. Perhaps, this humble author hopes, it will gain enough popularity to inspire you, most respected patron, to share a little more of your own knowledge of the great and distant past, rather than simply telling unprintable jokes about historical notables.

Tms. Esthous, Professor of History, University of Aliann,
1352, After the Fall of Eyr

Acantha—
A warmaid of the Court of Shells.

Akel Oyazad—
An officer in the army of the Fist of God. Brother-in-law of Durul Parlapour.

Ala Isles—
Islands in the Ala Sea, believed to be the remnants of the hills that crossed the Plain of Emala.