The Dragon of Despair (103 page)

He was impressed that Melina had managed to learn not one but two foreign languages. Moreover, judging from what he could catch of Melina’s inflections, she understood what she was saying. This chant was not being sounded out from an ancient text but being spoken, and, he realized as he listened further, improvised upon.

The reluctant admiration Peace always felt for his opponent rose within him, then fluttered and died as he realized just what it was Melina was saying…and who she had with her.

Whether guided by some long-ago writings or by her own flawless sense of drama, Melina had positioned herself at the apex of a delicate arching bridge that spanned the hot waters of the underground river. She was attired in rich and brilliant robes after the fashion of the Founders, as was the small figure standing beside her. Indeed, the small one was Melina’s silent copy, imitating her every gesture a moment after it was made.

Citrine,
Peace thought, surprised only by his own pain at seeing the girl so deeply in thrall to her mother’s will, trapped within a prison far worse than the one in which he and Edlin had been kept.

Well, Citrine had—if inadvertently—helped free himself and Edlin. Now Peace must do his best to free her.

Following Firekeeper’s steady guidance, Grateful Peace moved closer until even his weak vision could distinguish who else accompanied Melina. On this side of the bridge, Idalia and several members of her family stood positioned near various braziers, each one holding a glittering ornament.

On the other side of the bridge stood four others, two other members of Idalia’s family, a man Peace vaguely recalled as a spy in the Healed One’s service, and Toriovico. The Healed One’s hands cupped a golden vase, his face held the same expression of detached entrancement that Peace saw on the faces of his sister and her family.

Did Toriovico become careless?
Peace thought.
Or did Melina somehow learn of his involvement in our escape? Columi’s nerves were so on edge that even a less astute judge of human character might think to question him….

Grateful Peace had no attention to spare for such thoughts. At last he was close enough to follow Melina’s speech in full.

He listened carefully, trying to judge just how much time they had—reaching out to place a restraining hand on Firekeeper’s arm. The wolf-woman had drawn her omnipresent knife and was apparently preparing to attack—never mind that four people stood between her and Melina.

“Wait,” Peace cautioned. “We may yet have time.”

“Not much,” came Firekeeper’s reply, her voice even huskier than usual. “Dragon say.”

Peace nodded, but kept his hand on her arm, though he knew such light restraint would serve no purpose if Firekeeper was determined to act. He concentrated on Melina’s words.

“Dragon!” she was saying in what Peace recognized as a verse within a series of invocations he had been hearing for some time now. “See you the gifts we have brought for your honor. Symbolic, they are, of the respect we feel for your power. Flames send them to you, substantial, insubstantial, to give you form and strength.”

As Melina spoke the phrase “form and strength” she dropped a golden dagger into the brazier in front of her. At the same moment, her lackeys dropped the items they held into the braziers before them. The actions were so perfectly coordinated that Peace knew Melina must have used her power to make certain that no one would spoil the moment.

As the items were engulfed by flame, the braziers flared high, devouring what smelled like scented woods and curling the soft metals into wisps of colored flame. The smoke was intense, even at the distance where Peace crouched listening, and he had to shove his sleeve against his mouth to keep from coughing aloud. Firekeeper—lacking a sleeve—had to settle for her forearm and Peace could see that her dark brown eyes were running with tears.

Weirdly, neither Melina nor her servants appeared to be at all affected by the smoke, a thing that made Peace shudder inside even as a cynical corner of his nature was wondering what precautions had been taken in advance.

The smoky onslaught lasted only a short while and was forgotten even before it had faded. The white smoke was being sucked in by the farther wall, etching upon the wall’s curved and polished surface the lean skeletal form of an enormous reptilian figure. Within moments the lines of a dragon were present, complete to every bone and joint, its sinuous curves fleshed out in living flame.

Grateful Peace could not smother a gasp of wonder, but his imprudence did not give him away, for each of Melina’s retainers had shouted aloud—an echoing cry that mingled exaltation and fear. Only Melina and Citrine stood stiff and silent.

Then, when even the echoes had faded, Melina stepped back and knelt behind Citrine, her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, her lips close to the girl’s ear.

“Dragon!” cried Citrine’s childish treble, her inflection not as perfect as her mother’s, but no less intense. “I am here to free you. My life will be bound with yours as you are now bound within rock and water. My honored parent has opened the way. Accept myself as the final offering to…”

Loud and terrible, belling from the polished walls and echoing from every stony surface, twin wolf howls overwhelmed the slender notes of Citrine’s voice.

One with the sound, Firekeeper and Blind Seer leapt forward, pent up energy exploding from coiled muscles so that they were halfway to Melina before anyone thought to interfere.

How did Firekeeper know?
Peace asked himself, even as he was rushing forward.
The dragon must have told her, somehow. What advantage would there be for it in that? Certainly it wants its freedom.

And then Peace thought he knew and his heart wept acid as he realized what the dragon must expect. It was not relinquishing its freedom out of some sense of righteousness. It was bartering with another master—one who it must think would not exact nearly as much from it.

And who would be the master and who the slave?
Peace wondered before there was no room for wondering.

Idalia had seen Peace coming and her hatred for him was greater even than her desire to protect Melina. Keening in a shrill parody of the wolves’ howl she was rushing toward him, a long-bladed dagger raised high.

Peace never doubted Idalia could use the weapon. Despite their association with the Illuminators’ sodality their parents had not been well off, their earnings hardly enough to keep their growing family. Especially when Idalia was a girl, the family had lived in the less prosperous parts of Dragon’s Breath and knowing how to defend oneself had been a necessity.

However, whatever Idalia’s skill with the dagger, it was diminished to some extent by her nearly mindless fury. Melina had twisted a mother’s sorrow and rage, fed it with childhood jealousy, and transformed it—and the heart that held it—into a monstrous parody.

For Idalia at this moment there was no one else in the universe but Grateful Peace. Indeed, as Peace clumsily blocked the first downthrust blow, seeking to disarm his sister but disadvantaged by his single arm and latent injuries, he thought that Idalia probably didn’t even know where she was or what had been about to happen. All she knew was he was there and the restraints that had kept her from killing him when he was her prisoner were no longer in place.

But Peace was not alone. Edlin had been next behind him as their group crept forward and now he leapt to Peace’s defense. He closed the gap with long-legged speed and Idalia’s expression of purest shock as the young man wrested the dagger from her confirmed Peace’s suspicions.

“She is ensorcelled,” Peace warned Edlin in Pellish. “This is not wholly her own doing. Be gentle.”

He was not certain whether Edlin would heed him. The young lord had suffered intensely when Idalia had taken advantage of Peace’s helplessness to torment her brother, and clearly Edlin longed for nothing so much as to pay her back in kind—at least to the extent of a solid blow or two. But Edlin’s innate respect for Peace held his hand and he settled for twisting Idalia’s wrist so that the dagger clattered to the stone floor of the cavern.

“Good thing Derian and I brought more rope, what?” Edlin said, producing several short lengths and starting to efficiently truss the struggling woman.

It was horrid to see how Idalia continued to spit and scream, struggling even as she was restrained, to get at the brother she hated so intensely.

Peace longed for the luxury of mourning this ruin, but he dared not pause.

When Idalia had slowed Peace, Firekeeper had continued her forward rush. Two of Idalia’s grown children had sought to stop her, but Firekeeper and Blind Seer had dodged them as easily as they might a pair of unmoving boulders. The remaining defender on this side of the river, Idalia’s husband, Pichero, had moved to the base of the bridge and stood blocking their progress, a long sword in one hand, a shield hung on his arm.

Like most able New Kelvinese, Pichero had received some military training—a necessity in a land that kept no standing army but expected to raise a competent force at need. Moreover, seeing his stance, Peace suspected that Pichero had taken advantage of managing Melina’s small slave army to polish his fighting skills.

But if Peace feared for Firekeeper’s safety, the wolf-woman herself did not hesitate. Howling, her dagger in hand, she raced at Pichero and when Pichero moved to answer her feint, Blind Seer struck. Smashing his entire weight into Pichero’s shield, the wolf bowled the man back, off balance, and into the river. Pichero screamed as the near boiling waters closed around him, dropping both sword and shield in a frantic attempt to swim for the bank opposite his former opponents.

From behind Peace came running footsteps against stone as Derian and Sir Jared moved into action. Their goals, however, were different. Swinging his weighted stick wildly, Derian took on Peace’s nephew, Varcasiol, as the young man was about to throw something at Firekeeper’s back. Sir Jared, however, paused to make certain that Peace and Idalia had not been injured.

“Here, cousin,” Edlin said, thrusting the rope with which he had been binding Idalia at Sir Jared. “Take over, what?”

Then Lord Kestrel was bounding away, swinging the sword he carried with such enthusiasm that it was no wonder that Linatha, Peace’s niece, balked at confronting him, instead backing away, whatever control Melina had placed on her clearly weakened by her mother’s insanity and her father’s cries of pain.

Yet though the four on the nearer side of the bridge were no longer an obstacle, Peace saw that Melina had not maintained her position on the bridge. Instead she had hustled Citrine to the farther side. Once there, leaving her four remaining servitors to hold the bridge, Melina had once again turned the child to face the dragon-embellished wall and knelt behind her, whispering in her ear.

Melina’s not going to stop!
Peace thought, glancing at the wall and seeing that the outline of the dragon had not diminished. Indeed, it was taking on substance, now no longer a smoky skeleton barely fleshed in fire, but instead a sculpture in low relief, a sculpture that horribly was beginning to ripple like the muscles of a snake moving beneath scaled skin.

About to take on the first of those holding the bridge, the spy, Kiero, Firekeeper suddenly froze, aware on some level none of the rest of them shared of the reinception of the spell.

The wolf-woman stepped back a pace, then darted away from Kiero, moving instead to face the wall. With a howl in which Peace heard a note of purest despair, Blind Seer rushed Kiero’s sword, leaving Firekeeper free to sacrifice herself to the dragon.

XL

WITHOUT THE COMFORT
of Mother’s hands on her shoulders, Citrine would have been terrified. Even with those two warm spots radiating heat through the thin silk of her robe, Citrine was trembling, though from excitement rather than fear—or so she tried hard to make herself believe.

When Firekeeper’s attack had interrupted the orderly progress of the ritual, Citrine had been so deep within the convolution of the spell that she had hardly felt Melina carry her a safe distance away, set her down again, and urge her to resume the repetition of ordered phrases that was taking Citrine into a shadow realm where the dragon within the wall seemed more real than the screaming and fighting across the river.

Deep inside the curving passages of Citrine’s mind, the voices that had been stilled since Mother had discovered Citrine lurking outside the egg cavern had taken advantage of the temporary disruption to shout for her attention. Unwilling to listen, Citrine focused even harder on perfectly repeating the strangely shaped syllables Mother was once again reciting into her ear.

Her ploy worked, for the voices were drowned out as the dragon’s heated presence sliced through her internal fog. The dragon’s intensity burned away the shadows that clouded her vision until Citrine saw herself standing before the dragon, its long tongue snapping like a whip a hand’s breadth from her nose.

Though Citrine had understood perhaps one word in ten of the ornate incantation she had been reciting line by line, she understood every word the dragon said.