Authors: Margaret Weis
Marcus lay awake, unable to sleep, though he was tired past any weariness he’d
ever before experienced. They had ridden several miles along the riverbank
before coming across the small village where they had left the horse in the
care of a farmer and purchased a rowboat. Marcus could row a boat; Gunderson
had made certain he’d learned, just as Gunderson had made certain that the king’s
son could handle a sword and wield an axe and shoot an arrow. Marcus was not
particularly good at any of these, for he did not enjoy physical exercise,
though he improved at rowing that day—it was either improve or endure Bellona’s
caustic comments. His arms ached and his blistered hands stung, but it was not
pain that made him wakeful.
It was the cairn, the rain running down his mother’s name, the blood on
Bellona’s fingers, the hailstone hitting his cheek. It was the story of his
birth.
It was anger at Edward, his father.
“How could he treat her that way? How could he treat me that way? How could
he father a child and never try to find out what became of the mother? Why did
he never take me to her tomb? Why didn’t he tell me the truth? He should have
told me the truth. . . .” And so on and so forth.
When weariness finally overcame Marcus and he slid into a drowsy half sleep,
he let go of his anger and relaxed into dreams of his brother. The brother he’d
known, yet never known. Marcus had always envied the bond between his elder
brothers. He watched them quarrel and squabble, compete against and fiercely
love each other. Though they treated him kindly enough, there was no bond
between him and them. He longed for such a bond, for love and acceptance, and
secretly grieved that he would never have it. For who could understand his
magic? Not even his own father and mother.
His father loved him, but didn’t love the magic that was part of him. Edward
often intimated that if Marcus would only try harder, he could overcome this
weakness, as if he were a glutton overcoming a craving for suckling pig. Ermintrude
came the closest to understanding him. He knew, however, that her prayer every
night was for him to lose the magic, for him to be normal. Seeing the magic
through her eyes, Marcus saw what any woman would think of it, what any woman
would think of him. Dust motes wearing acorn caps. Broken crockery. A life of
broken crockery. For that reason, Marcus avoided women. Avoided even thinking
about women.
His brother would understand. His brother possessed the magic. His brother
would sympathize.
My brother,
Marcus reflected as sleep finally laid claim to his
bruised and battered spirit.
He realized, as he was dropping off, that he did
not know his brother’s name. Bellona had never once referred to his brother by
name.
Marcus woke to the smell of roasting meat and the sight of Dra-conas,
squatting by a fire to watch over the cooking of some sort of small bird.
Startled, Marcus sat up and looked about for Bellona. He saw her some distance
away, whetting and polishing her sword blade. By the dark expression on her
face, Marcus guessed she would be glad to use it on their unexpected visitor.
“Bellona is not pleased to see me,” Draconas announced, as Marcus walked up
to stand over him.
“I’m not sure I am either,” Marcus said cooly. “Did my father send you?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Draconas rotated the stick holding the birds so
that they cooked evenly. “Hungry?”
Marcus was extremely hungry. He’d eaten next to nothing yesterday, for he
had been too shocked, dismayed, elated—what have you—to think of food. His stomach
thought of it, though. The meat sizzled. Juices dribbled down the spit and his
mouth watered.
“I have to talk to Bellona” was all he would commit to, however.
She did not look up from her work, but continued to run the small stone over
the blade with smooth, even strokes.
“What is
he
doing here?” Marcus asked her.
“I didn’t invite him, if that’s what you are implying. I found him here when
I woke.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
Bellona shook her head and continued her work. The whetting stone scraped
against the metal with a sound that jarred every tooth in Marcus’s head. He
left her to her work, walked back slowly across the sandy beach.
As he came close to the fire, Draconas raised the spit, held it out to him. “Be
careful. They’re hot.”
Marcus drew his knife, stabbed one of the birds, and slid it off the spit.
He squatted down beside Draconas, who was already picking apart his bird,
sucking the meat from the bones.
“Why didn’t you tell me I had a brother?” Marcus demanded.
“Because it would have been dangerous.”
“For me?” Marcus flared, ready to be angry.
“No,” said Draconas. “For him.”
Marcus didn’t know what to say to that. He concentrated on eating. “What is
his name?”
Draconas glanced over at Bellona. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if she had.”
“His name is Ven.”
“What’s Ven like? Have you met him?”
“Once. Long ago. When he was six.”
“Is he like me?” Marcus asked. Draconas crunched on a bone.
“I take after my father, they say.” Marcus prodded. Draconas glanced up,
looked back down.
Marcus grew angry. “I saw my brother when I was little. I told you how I saw
a hand reaching out to me. You could have at least told me who he was!”
Draconas shook his head. “If you had known, you would have tried to contact
Ven and you would have succeeded. That is what the dragon hoped for. That is
the reason he goes prowling about your mind. He would have heard any
communication between the two of you through the magic. He would have used you
to find Ven.”
Draconas tossed the bones into the river, wiped his hands. “Now he’s using
Ven to find you.”
“So I was right,” Marcus said accusingly. “Edward sent you. You
are
here
to try to stop me from going.”
“Going where?” Draconas stood, hands on his hips.
“Where? . . .” Marcus floundered. “To find my brother.”
“And where is he?”
Marcus was silent.
“Where is he? Your brother?” Draconas persisted.
“He’s with the dragon,” Marcus said at last.
“He’s with the dragon,” Draconas repeated. “And you said yourself that
wherever he is, he wants to be there.”
“I think Ven
thinks
he is where he wants to be. I’m hoping that
meeting me may change his mind.”
“Because you care?” Draconas snorted. “Do you know what his true name is?”
Marcus was startled. “You said it was Ven.”
“Short for Vengeance.”
“Good God!” Marcus exclaimed, shocked. “She named him that? Why?”
“Because she raised him to avenge his mother. To her Ven is a weapon,
nothing more.”
“You’re wrong. Bellona cares about him. She came all this way to find him.”
“I know that. But I don’t think Ven does. As far as he’s concerned, he’s
been used all his life. Now it’s his turn.”
“He reached out to me,” Marcus insisted. “I think he wants to see me—”
“It’s a trap,” said Draconas flatly.
“I don’t believe you. You’re trying to keep me from going.”
“I’m not here to stop you,” said Draconas. “If you weren’t going, it would
be my job to make you go. Never mind.” He waved off Marcus’s questioning look. “I
came here to offer my help, if you want it. The dragon put Ven up to this. The
dragon wants both the sons of Melisande, not just one.”
“Why? What does the dragon want with me?”
“I’m not sure yet. Nothing good, we can assume.”
“You’re very cool about this,” Marcus said.
Draconas shrugged. “We dragons have a dictum. ‘A trap is a trap only if the
victim doesn’t know it’s a trap.’ “
“Victim. That’s comforting,” Marcus muttered.
“I don’t want you to be comfortable. I want you to keep your wits about you.”
“I will. I have a brother, Draconas. A brother! There are things I want to
tell him. Things I want to share with him. I have to do this. I have to find
him.”
Yes, you do,
Draconas said to himself.
A trap is a trap only if
the victim doesn’t know . . . and neither does the bait. . . .
The three held a strategy meeting that morning. Bellona was not pleased that
Draconas was involving himself, but, once assured that he also wanted to find
Ven, she accepted his presence, if not his advice.
“I can guarantee that if you try to find this city on your own, Bellona, you
won’t,” Draconas stated. “You’ll find nothing but trees, see nothing but tree
trunks, limbs, and leaves.”
“His plan does make sense, Bellona,” Marcus added. “If he’s right about
these baby smugglers, they will lead us to their stronghold. The moon is full
tonight and you yourself said that they travel to Seth every month during the
full moon.”
“Unless they do not make the trip this month or they have already been to
Seth and come back,” Bellona argued. “In •which case, we will have to wait
until next month or the month after that. No. I say we go into the cavern and
proceed from there on our own. Marcus knows how to find Ven.”
“And Ven knows how to find Marcus,” Draconas said patiently. “Do you sneak
into an enemy camp, then announce your arrival with a trumpet blast? Or do you
take the enemy by surprise, slip in silently, under the cover of darkness? At
least wait until tonight to see if the baby smugglers make their monthly trip
to Seth.”
Bellona glowered at him, hating him for making
sense. “I’ll wait one night.”
Bellona rowed the boat to the entrance of the drowned cave. She had muffled
the boat’s oars with rags and greased the oarlocks and they traveled over the
water in relative silence. Marcus offered to work his magic, mask the boat in
illusion. Draconas shook his head.
“You’re good, but not that good. Remember, Grald’s people are familiar with
dragon magic. They’ve used it all their lives. It won’t be as easy to fool them
as it was to fool that jailer. You’re more likely to reveal yourself to them by
misusing the magic.”
“How can you be sure that Ven is with the dragon?” Bellona was still
inclined to argue.
“I’m not sure of anything,” Draconas returned. “But it seems a likely place
to start looking.”
In his mind, he was sure. Ven had been born into this world for a reason,
and Draconas was beginning to think he knew what that reason was. He had not
mentioned this to anyone, not even to Anora, because he hoped he was wrong. He
did not want to alarm her unnecessarily or set off a panic among the members of
Parliament. Ven was an experiment in breeding. One that had succeeded, where
others had failed. If the dragon had created one son like Ven, perhaps there
were others. . . .
They hid the boat beneath an outcropping of rock, a location that allowed
them to keep the cave in sight, yet prevented anyone in the cave from spotting
them. The boat had no anchor and they moored it by tying it to a tree limb.
This late in the season, the river ran sluggishly. The boat bobbed gently in
the water with only a very slight tug on the tether.
Draconas sat in the stern, wondering what he was going to do if Bellona was
right and the baby smugglers did not appear. Bullheaded as she was, she would
charge right in and ruin everything.
He need not have worried. Dusk was just beginning to steal over the river
when a boat slid out of the cave, quickly followed by three more. The boats
were large, with several rowers in each, and people manning the tillers. Squat
figures, shapeless in black garb, who sat in the middle of the boats, were the
women who would tend the babies on the journey back. Draconas searched for
Grald, but did not see him.
The boats carrying the baby smugglers changed direction once they were clear
of the cavern. They would travel westward until they reached the fork in the
river; then they would bear north toward Seth. The rowers were strong and
experienced. They would make good time. Draconas calculated they would return
near midnight. He slipped over the side of the boat, plunged into the water.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?” Bellona demanded.
“Keep your voice down,” Draconas cautioned, treading water.
“These canyon walls magnify every sound. I’m going to swim to the cave to
find out if they’ve left a guard.”
He dove beneath the water before she could start another argument and
surfaced some distance away from the boat. He swam as a dragon swims, keeping
his head above water, his legs and arms below. His strokes were powerful, yet
he was careful not to break the surface. Silently, he entered the cave,
listened, looked, searched the darkness.
No one about. Grald had not come with them this trip.
So far, so good.
“Well?” Bellona asked curtly, as Draconas pulled himself up onto the
outcropping of rock. “Is anyone inside?”
“No.” He wiped the water out of his face and eyes and then shook himself
like a wet dog. “No guard. That makes things easier. Once the smugglers return
and enter the cave, give them to the count of one hundred, then follow them.
Make certain you keep them in sight. The entrance to this stronghold of theirs
is well concealed—”
“But I thought you were coming with us,” Marcus interrupted, suspicious. “Where
will you be?”
“Believe me, I would like to come with you,” Draconas stated emphatically. “I’ve
tried to think of a way.” He shook his head. “It’s impossible. It wouldn’t
work.”
“Just as well,” said Bellona.
“No, it’s not,” Marcus returned angrily. “I want him with us, not off
fetching my father. I don’t see why you can’t come. You can disguise yourself—”
“I am already in disguise. Look at me,” Draconas added impatiently. “What do
you see?”
“A man,” said Marcus.
“And?” Draconas prompted.
Marcus cast a sidelong glance at Bellona.