Winterlands 2 - Dragonshadow (19 page)

The diagram incorporated Centhwevir, who sat up on his haunches and folded his wings. The blue and gold star-drake seemed unhurt, and settled more still, John thought, than he had seen other dragons sit. When he had accomplished the diagram and completed the sigils of power and of healing, the dragon-wizard—demon-wizard—drew from his knapsack another of the slivers of crystal and, as he had before, drove it into the back of Nymr’s head. When Centhwevir turned his head and the wind caught the fur and feathers of his great particolored mane, John saw the blink of crystal there under the horned neck-frill. The dragon-wizard took something—some of the dragon’s blood, John thought, but could not be sure—in a cup of gold and nacre, and carried it to where Ian lay. Opening the boy’s wrist, he let the blood drip down to mix with that of the dragon, and from out of the cup took a talisman of some kind. It looked to John as if he pressed it to Ian’s lips, and then to his own; then unfastened the breast of his robe and slipped the talisman he had made inside.

Probably, thought John with a queer cold dispassion, into a locket around his neck, to keep it safe.

Ian lay where he was while the wizard bandaged his wrist. John could not see whether his eyes were open or shut, but as the wizard walked away the boy moved a little, so John knew he lived. The wizard returned to Nymr, this time crossing carelessly over the traced lines of power. John lowered the telescope from his eye. He was sweating as if he had been struck with some grievous illness, and the only thing in his mind for a time was his son’s face and the face of the dragon-wizard—demon-wizard—working over Nymr.

Demon or no, thought John, he’s wounded. Centhwevir’s wounded. Ian, or what once had been Ian, is laid up as well.

If I’m to kill them, now’s my chance.

John unloaded the crates and struts and casings from the Milkweed through the white mild summer night, though weariness seemed to have settled into his bones. Twice he checked through his spyglass, but the blue dragon and the blue and gold still lay on the beach. Ian remained where he was, covered with a blanket.

Stay there, John whispered desperately. Just stay there and nap. I’ll be along in a bit. He didn’t let himself think about what would happen then.

He assembled and counted out the various pieces of his second machine on the little level space at the bottom of the cleft that split the island. Toward midnight the twilight there deepened, but overhead the sky still held a milky light, and never did it grow too dark to see what he was doing.

Sometime after the turn of the night he lay down in the warm sand and slept. His dreams were disquieting, dark humped shapes scurrying through them, green pale eyes glistening and the smell of fish, scalded blood, and sulfur everywhere. He thought he saw things like shining lizards creep up out of the surf and dance on the narrow beach of the turtle-shaped island, thought he saw the dragon-wizard sitting in their midst, letting them drink from his cup of gold and pearl. The old wizard first, he thought, rising from his sleep. He set in the plates of triple-thick crystal, the wheels and gears and the gimballed steering-cage that was the heart and core of the dragon-killing machine. Maybe that’ll end it.

There was a demon in Ian as well, and he knew that wouldn’t end it, but he tried not to think about that. He found himself wishing he’d been able to learn more from Morkeleb about the crystal spikes in the dragons’ skulls, the nature of possession when it came to dragons … They were going to strike somewhere, almost certainly before he could make it back to land himself.

Body and bones, his father had said. Body and bones.

He mounted the metal plates to the wooden ribs and transferred all but two of the Milkweed’s catapults to the Urchin’s tough inner hull. It looked indeed like a rolled-up urchin when he was done with it, bristling with spikes as the dragons bristled. If he could not have the maneuverability and speed that a horse would give him, he would need armor and weight and surprise. Common sense told him that he needed to rest, to hunt, to eat. He felt the reserves of his strength trickling away as the moon set and the long summer morning climbed toward noon. At an hour before noon he wound the gears and springs of the gnome-wrought engine and, in the great wheel of the guidance cage within it, urged it out onto the beach. The Urchin lurched and jolted, then spun in a small circle, refusing to move farther no matter how John swung and pulled his weight. Cursing, he threw over the brake levers, let the tension out of the springs, and dismantled the engine again. Surf beat on the rocks. Gulls cried. Shadows moved. He wondered what was passing on the turtle-shaped island but dared not stop to look. The second trial worked better. The machine ran smoothly on its wheels, scrunching unsteadily in the soft sand. John had long ago mastered the complicated acrobatics of weight and balance needed in the cage. He turned, swung, swiveled the machine with its spines and its catapults, his half-naked body slick with sweat. Right. When I build this thing for keeps, it gets vents. He was gasping for air when he braked again, unlatched the lid and climbed the cage to put his head and shoulders out …

And saw, across the spaces of the water, two dragons rising from the island to the south.

Gold and blue they flashed in the light as they turned. Gorgeous as sunlight and flowers they wheeled, dipped low over the surf. Catching up his telescope John followed them, and saw the man with his embroidered cap tied close over his head and the boy with his cowl blown back, his dark hair blowing free.

“No …” John was shivering in the sea-wind on his wet shoulders and face. “Don’t.”

But they were winging away north again, and westward, not even stopping at the island where they’d camped.

“Come back here!” he screamed, dragging himself from the dragon-slaying machine’s round belly, watching the great glittering shapes dwindle to hummingbirds. He was alone on his island, with the crabs and the dummies and the sheep. Bowing his head, he beat on the metal side of the Urchin and wept.

“Fool!” Commander Rocklys slapped the scroll down onto her desk so hard the sealing-wax shattered. “A thousand times a fool! Grond’s beard, who the … ” She looked up angrily as the chamberlain stopped short in the doorway, and her face altered when she saw Jenny at the man’s slippered heels. “Mistress Waynest!” She sprang to her feet, reminding Jenny of a big tawny puma. “Thank the Twelve you’re back safe!” Genuine concern twisted her brow. “Did you find this bandit wizard? Did you bring her here?”

Jenny inclined her head. “And I think you’ll find her more than amenable to the idea of a school. Please …” She caught the Commander’s arm as Rocklys made to stride past her into the anteroom. “She’s very young,” she said, looking up into Rocklys’ face, “and she has been badly used. Be very, very gentle with her.”

Rain pounded on the wood shakes of the roof. The parade ground beyond the window was a dreary piebald of rain-pocked gray mud in which the eight surviving members of Rocklys’ original twenty-five unloaded their meagre gear. The Commander counted them with a glance, turned back to Jenny with shock and rage in her eyes. “The bandit Balgodorus …?” “Was gone the third morning after the mage left his forces,” said Jenny. “I believe he still had nearly seventy men with him, out of close to three times that at the outset of the siege.” “Siege?” the Commander said sharply.

Jenny nodded. “At Palmorgin. We barely reached the walls before the bandits were upon us.” Rocklys began to speak, outraged, then seemed to see for the first time Jenny’s dripping plaids and drawn face. “You’re soaked.” She laid a hand on Jenny’s arm, roughly solicitous. “Gilver …” The chamberlain disappeared promptly and came back a moment later with a servant, towels, a blanket, and a pitcher of hot mead. This last he set on the table while Rocklys steered Jenny firmly to the folding chair and brought the brazier over. “This bandit mage … she’ll serve the Realm?” pressed the Commander, planting one foot on the seat of the chair opposite and leaning her elbow on her knee.

“I think so.”

“Good. Good. Another came in yesterday—my cousin may be a fool, but at least he’s had the sense to send out word in the south begging those with the inborn power to come forward. The old man kept it secret for years. As if anyone still enforced the old laws against wizards! Bliaud—that’s his name, a decent old stiff—has been using magic to keep caterpillars off his roses and prevent himself from losing his hair. Idiots, the lot of them!” She shook her head in disbelief.

“And he came?” Greenhythe was a sleepy backwater of the southern Realm. Jenny couldn’t imagine a retired gentleman undertaking the perils and discomforts of the journey.

“He took some persuading, and my cousin sent a decent escort.” Rocklys made a face. “His family didn’t want him to come—magic ’isn’t done’ by gentlemen.” Her voice flexed with scorn. “Which was why I told Gareth that Cair Corflyn is the only place we could have such a school, away from the prejudices of the south. Can you imagine trying to teach anyone anything of magic with imbeciles like Ector of Sindestray—that’s my cousin’s treasurer-general—whining like frightened slaves about the old laws?

“The province of Imperteng in full revolt now—and that fool Gareth has taken the King with him to the siege camp at Jotham!—tax revolts in the Marches, upstart merchants in the Isles thinking they’re aristocrats, a pardoned traitor, if you’ll excuse me saying so, in charge of Halnath …” Her fist bunched in exasperation.

Jenny toyed with the idea of objecting to the term pardoned traitor in reference to the Master of Halnath, who had revolted against the takeover of the old King’s mind by the witch Zyerne. Given Zyerne’s abuse of power, in fact, the prejudices of the south were understandable. Instead she said, as tactfully as she could, “Perhaps Prince Gareth thought his father would be safer with the army at Jotham if there are tax revolts along the Marches. The Marches aren’t that far from Bel.”

Rocklys’ mouth hardened, but she said grudgingly, “Well, it’s an argument. More like some fool thought the Twelve Gods wouldn’t grant victory if his sacred hoary head wasn’t on hand for their silly rites every morning.” Her voice twisted with impatience and contempt. “The old man’s so fuddled these days all a rebel would have to do is lay hands on him to convince him to oust Gareth from the regency and appoint his captor in his stead.”

Behind her, through the open shutters, Jenny watched the red-hooded priests of Grond Firebeard, the Lord of War, process slowly into the camp temple, three and three, with a crowd of men-at-arms in their train. Their candles showed pale in the gloom beneath the colonnade. “All the more reason for us to teach mages to use their powers and use them responsibly, for the betterment of the Realm. Thank the Twelve … Yes, what is it?”

The red-robed priest in the doorway discreetly held out to her a beeswax taper, part of the ceremonial crossing the court: Jenny recalled that the Firebeard’s altars needed to be kindled by the commander of the company that guarded His temple. Father Hiero had long ago given up trying to get John to perform the chore. Evidently Rocklys’ Legalism was as entrenched as John’s belief in the Old God, for the Commander simply stuck the wick into the stove. “Well, mum for all that.” The Commander waved the priest brusquely from the room and turned back to Jenny. “You got her here, and you’ll be teaching her, and Bliaud … What’s the girl’s name?”

“Yseult.”

“Yseult.” The Commander dipped her hand into the tribute box, turned its stones over to catch the light. Jenny wondered what merchant she’d pried those gems out of. “If what your man told me was right, if there’s a mage abroad who’s managed to enslave a dragon to his will, we’ll need whatever help we can get.”

Jenny listened to Rocklys’ account of John’s visit with a growing chill in her heart. She had watched John for days in her scrying-stone, in fire and in water, since she had seen him emerge unharmed from the Deep of Tralchet; had watched him turn, not south to Alyn Hold but west across the dark oceans, and guessed at last that he was bound for the Skerries of Light to seek Morkeleb for help or advice. Dear Goddess, does he think Morkeleb will help him? she’d wondered desperately. What had he read that made him think that was the only way? Save a dragon, slave a dragon.

A wizard who had used John as a cat’s-paw to harm Centhwevir enough that the wizard could then save the dragon’s life. Who had enslaved Ian and carried him away. Rage burned her, prickling at her scalp. Rage and guilt that turned her sick. And because there was no other help, not even novices here at Corflyn, John had sought Morkeleb.

Morkeleb would kill John on sight. Ian.

She closed her eyes, the Commander’s voice running on past her, willing herself to hear and not to think about the past. Not to think about years spent seeking her own powers, leaving the boys—whom she had never wanted to bear—to be raised by John. The years spent putting her magic before her love of John. I want your children, Jen, she heard John’s voice. I want any child I have to be yours. It’s only nine months, not long… And her own fears, her hesitations; her unwillingness to take the time, to spare the energy she knew it would demand. She saw herself standing by the hearth at Frost Fell, her back to him, arms folded stubbornly, shaking her head. Oh, John. My beloved John.

It had been nearly three weeks since she’d last seen him in the heart of the fire, leaning against the mast of that ridiculous flying boat, gazing across the waking sea where dragons circled the spires of the shining islands. After that the dragon-magic foxed and splintered the visions, vouchsafing her only an occasional glance: John alone, patiently cranking his engines; John patting bannocks together beside a fire; John playing the hurdy-gurdy where dawn-tinted water curled to a beach. And once, terrifyingly, John with one knee on the Milkweed’s railing as a star-drake leaped, blue as lapis, blue as cobalt, blue and violet as the summer sea straight up out of the waves, and dove toward him in a sparkling maelstrom of music and spray.

“—be sending a messenger to Alyn Hold in the morning.”

“What?” Jenny jolted back to the present, looked up to see Rocklys standing by her chair. “Oh I’m … I’m sorry, Commander. I …”