Authors: Margaret Weis
Draconas washed the blood from her face. A faint flush of life returned to
her pallid skin. She ceased to moan and her breathing evened out.
“She is a strong woman,” said Draconas. “That was a horrific beating she
took, but all she has is a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs.”
“The thieves couldn’t find the money,” Ven said as if he felt he needed to
provide explanation. “They looked in the wrong place.”
Draconas glanced at the boy. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Ven. I saw
the attack. Both attacks,” he added pointedly.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Ven turned away, and walked to the fire.
Crouching down, he poked at the glowing wood with a stick to stir up the blaze.
“They were thieves.”
Draconas shrugged. So that was the game.
“I heard Bellona call you ‘Ven,’“ Draconas said in friendly tones, to put
the boy at ease. “That’s an unusual name, one I’ve never heard before. What
does it mean?”
“It’s short for Vengeance,” the boy said offhandedly.
Draconas sat back on his heels, surprised and not surprised. What a dreadful
burden, he thought. Still, he supposed he could understand.
“The best cure for Bellona is sleep,” Draconas said briskly. “You must be
hungry. I have food in my pack.”
Ven shook his head. Squatting on his beast’s legs, he continued to play with
the fire. He did not look at Draconas or at Bellona. He kept his gaze fixed on
the flames.
“Are you tired?” Draconas asked. “Ready for sleep?”
Again, Ven shook his head.
“Good,” said Draconas pleasantly, easing his back against a tree trunk. “That
gives us a chance to talk.”
Now Ven looked at him, peering out warily from beneath a mass of lank, fair
hair. He frowned. “I don’t want to talk.”
“But I do,” said Draconas. “We need to talk about what happened back there
on the road. About why you killed that man.”
Ven poked at the fire. Sparks flared, drifted upward with the smoke. “I didn’t
kill anyone,” he said in calm, matter-of-fact tones. “How could I?”
“Like this.” Draconas seized a bolt of lightning and, taking careful aim,
threw it at Ven.
The bolt struck the ground right next to the boy. The blast bowled him over.
The flaring light blinded him. The white-hot heat singed all the hair off his
arm.
Shocked, burnt, and dazed, Ven lay on his back, gasping and panting.
“You can lie to humans, Ven,” said Draconas. “You have to lie to them, in
order to survive. You can try lying to me, though I’ll tell you now it won’t
work. Never lie to yourself. You killed that man and you know it.”
Ven said nothing.
“I’m not saying he didn’t deserve to die,” Draconas continued. “But you
killed for the wrong reason. You killed out of fury, out of rage. You killed
because you lost control. You killed because it felt good to kill.”
Ven sat up slowly, nursing his burnt arm.
“Dragons kill for one reason, Ven. Dragons kill to survive. And, even then,
we don’t kill humans.”
Ven stood up, tossed his stick into the fire.
“Where are you going?” Draconas demanded.
“My arm hurts. I’m going to put cold water on it.” Ven walked off, heading
back toward the river.
“You heard the holy sister say that, didn’t you?” Draconas told the boy’s
back. “You heard her call you ‘the dragon’s son.’ “
Ven paused, but he didn’t turn around. “I didn’t hear her say anything.”
He limped away, favoring his injured leg. Draconas watched him, his dragon
vision seeing the red warmth of the human part of the boy, following him with
his gaze to the riverbank. Ven squatted at the water’s edge, dunked his arm
into the swift current and let the chill water flow over the wound, easing the
pain.
Draconas could imagine the pain burning inside Ven. Nothing could ease that.
Except maybe telling yourself it wasn’t there.
Ven lingered beside the river a long time. He kept glancing up the hill
toward the grove of trees. Perhaps he was hoping Draconas would go away.
Draconas stayed put and eventually Ven had to come back. He had his excuse
ready. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”
“I have to talk with you about this, Ven. If I don’t, your father will. He’ll
never give up looking for you. Either he or his people will find you and next
time I might not be there to help. Next time they might kill Bellona.”
Ven circled around to the opposite side of the fire, as far from Draconas as
he could manage. The child flung himself down, curled up in a ball, his beast’s
legs drawn up to his chin. He hugged his arms around him, closed his eyes.
“Ignore it, then,” said Draconas, rising to his feet. “Maybe the fear will
go away. I guess I can’t blame you for trying.”
He shook out a blanket from his bedroll, draped it over the boy’s thin
shoulders, tucked it around the dragon-scaled legs.
“When you’re ready to face the truth, go to your mother’s tomb. I will meet
you there and I will tell you the story.”
Draconas picked up his staff. “I have to leave now. So long as I’m here, I
put you in danger. It’s doubtful Bellona will remember the attack. You can tell
her what you want and she’ll believe you. Rest easy. I’ll keep watch from a
distance. No further harm will befall you—this night, at least.”
Ven did not move. His breathing was soft and even, his cheeks flushed, his
hair tousled. He might truly be asleep.
With a shrug and a sigh, Draconas left the grove,
and struck out across the open fields.
Ven waited until the sound of the man’s footfalls had ended, then cautiously
opened his eyes a slit and peered around to make certain that the man was truly
gone. He was alone with Bellona. The fire was dying.
Throwing off the blanket, Ven tossed on more wood. He went to check on
Bellona. Laying his small hand on her forehead, he felt it cool and damp. She
was deep in sleep.
He thought he would go back down to the river, to soak his arm, which burned
and stung. As he walked to the edge of the grove of trees, movement caught his
eye and he froze in the shadows.
Draconas stood in the center of the field. As Ven watched, the man lifted up
his arms to the night and the sparkling firmament reached out its hands to him.
Wings, thin and delicate, so that the starlight shone through them, spread out
from his human arms. Scales, shining red, overspread his human body,
obliterated it. A long neck, graceful, curving, stretched up to the sky. A head
with eyes of flame lifted its gaze to the stars. Catching hold of him, the
stars pulled him up into the heavens.
The dragon sprang off the earth and took to the skies. Ven followed its
flight, watching the dragon soar higher and higher, until his tears washed it
away and all he could see was a blur of cold, white starlight.
He stumbled back to his bed. Stuffing the blanket
into his mouth, so that no sound should wake Bellona, the dragon’s son gave way
to his fear. The blanket muffled his choked and aching sobs.
DRACONAS KEPT WATCH FROM THE SKIES UNTIL VEN AND Bellona reached their
isolated forest home in safety. He waited tensely for Ven to use the magic
again, but perhaps the incident had frightened the boy. Ven kept his colors
dark. Once assured that they had not been discovered, he immediately set out
for Idlyswylde, to see what could be done to safeguard Melisande’s other son,
her human son, born with royal blood in his veins.
The blood of kings and the blood of dragons.
Draconas had also kept circumspect watch over King Edward’s son during the
six years since his birth, traveling to Idlyswylde periodically to catch up on
the local gossip concerning the child. Draconas customarily timed his visits to
Idlyswylde to coincide with the anniversary of the boy’s birth. The birthday of
the prince was always celebrated with the month-long festivities due a royal
child, and if there was news of young Prince Marcus, for good or for ill,
Draconas was sure to hear it at this time.
He entered the prosperous city of Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston through the main
gate, his thoughts going back to another time he’d entered that gate,
proclaiming himself a “dragon hunter.” Now he told people he was a traveling
merchant, newly come from the Fairfield faire, breaking up the tedium of his
journey by seeing the wonders of the capital city. Draconas strolled the
streets, eyes and ears open. What he saw disturbed him. Or rather, what he didn’t
see.
No garlands put up in doorways to honor the birth of the prince. No bunting
in the royal colors draped over balconies. He wondered if he’d got the date
wrong—dragons have very little sense of the passage of time-—-and he stopped
into an apothecary’s shop to check the date. He was right. This month was the
natal month of Prince Marcus, youngest son of King Edward and Queen Ermintrude,
or, at least, youngest son of King Edward. Gossip chewed hungrily on the
subject of the boy’s mother.
Troubled, Draconas forewent visiting his usual haunts, instead going
straight to an alehouse whose proximity to the castle made it popular with
off-duty guardsmen. No matter what his dress, Draconas could, by a change in
speech, air, and manner, become any sort of human he wanted. He could speak
knowledgeably of war implements with a soldier, trade sea stories with a
sailor, or converse with a seamstress on the best way to sew a feathered hem
stitch.
He paid for his ale, then carried his mug to an out-of-the-way table in a
corner and sat down alone. From the way he walked and his manner of speech, the
patrons of the tavern took him for a former military man of the common sort. He
was like themselves, wounded perhaps, unable to return to duty, pensioned off.
They liked the fact that he did not try to butt in on their conversation and they
rewarded him with nods before turning back to their talk.
One man, bored with his companions, picked up his mug and sauntered over to
the table. “What parts do you hale from, friend?”
“Bramfell,” Draconas answered, naming a town to the north. He answered a few
polite questions regarding his home, but the soldier wasn’t really interested,
and Draconas was able to end that topic and glide with ease onto the next.
“I came to Ramsgate on family business and to see the festivities for the
young prince’s birthday. But I must have mistaken the month, for I see no signs
of a celebration.”
The guardsman took a pull at his ale. The men standing at the bar ceased
their talk and exchanged glances. One said he must return to duty and took his
departure. Picking up their mugs, two others walked over to join Draconas.
“You do not have the date wrong,” one said.
“It is the lad’s birth month, but there will be no celebration,” added his
comrade.
“Not dead, is he?” asked Draconas, sipping at his ale.
“Maybe. Who knows?” said the first, with a shrug. “Naught’s been seen or
heard of the boy for nigh on six months now.”
“Here, now, Robert, you know well that he was sent to visit his grandfather,
the King of Weinmauer, and that the boy’s living a fine life in the royal court
there,” argued his friend.
Robert grunted, watched the foam settle on his ale.
“So the boy’s with his grandfather,” Draconas remarked.
“Maybe,” said Robert. “Maybe not.”
“Watch your tongue, Robert Hale,” warned his comrade.
“Now I’m curious. What is wrong?” asked Draconas. “Has there been murder
done then? What?”
“Not murder,” said Robert, taking a pull at his ale.
“You don’t know anything,” his friend told him.
“I know that servants talk,” returned Robert in an ominous tone.
“And that’s all it is. Talk. I’m leaving.” His friend stood up. Taking his
ale mug, he walked over to join another crowd of soldiers standing at the far
end of the bar.
“You’ve about finished that,” said Draconas, eyeing Robert’s empty mug. “Let
me buy you another.”
“Naw, I’ve had enough,” said Robert. He stared in silence out a mullioned
window into the sunlit street, then said abruptly, “The lad was a good lad. He
always had a pleasant word for a man. There’s more than me wonders what’s going
on.”
“What do the servants say?” Draconas asked, adding, “I do love a good
gossip.”
Robert turned his gaze to him. He was a sun-burnt veteran of about forty
years; a big man, with long, curly black hair. His face was open and honest.
“The servants tell of a wing in the palace where no one’s permitted to set
foot and a room that’s always kept locked.”
“Ah, well, as your friend says, it’s probably just talk,” said Draconas. “I’ll
pay for the ale.”
“I pay my own way,” said Robert and tossed a coin onto the table. He rose to
his feet, started to leave, then turned back. “Our king, God bless him, was
never one for secrets. This one is eating him up inside. It’s high time
something was done.”
He walked out the door and let it slam shut behind him.
Draconas continued drinking his ale, more for show than because he tasted
it. He thought over Robert’s words, assigned various meanings to them—most of
them sinister—and pondered what to do.
His thoughts were driven clean out of his head by an enormous boom that
shook the ground, the building, and the chair in which he was sitting. The
blast rattled the walls and set a stack of crockery mugs clicking like
chattering teeth. Draconas jumped, spilling his ale, and peered out the open
window to see the approaching storm, which must be a terrible one.
No thunderclouds, as he’d expected. Blue sky and bright sunshine. He looked
back to find the soldiers all grinning at his discomfiture.
Knowing that humans delight in thinking themselves superior, Draconas played
up his shock and astonishment.
“What was that awful noise? I thought it was thunder!”
“That was our cannon,” answered several soldiers proudly. “We have the best
in the world. We can knock a dragon out of the skies.”