The Dragon Revenant

by Katharine Kerr

  “I am Krysello, who, great wizard though he is, is but a humble beggar compared to the exalted and lofty status of this assembled company.” The showman bowed deeply. “I am honored beyond dreaming that you would so graciously allow me to present my little marvels in your presence.” He straightened up and waved a hand at the first brazier. Red flames shot up and towered before sinking back to a pink glow. A woman yelped, then stifled her scream. “Do not fear, exalted one. You behold merely a barbarian display of small, small magicks from the far, far north.” He waved his hand again, and the second brazier plumed gold fire. “And now, let me present my beauteous barbarian handmaiden, the Princess Jillanna.”

  To a scatter of applause the red drapes parted, and out stepped a blonde woman, wearing a gold-brocaded tunic clasped in by a sword belt, from which hung a very real-looking sword and a silver dagger. Rhodry recognized the hilt the moment it winked in the lamplight. His breath was gone, his head strangely heavy as he forced himself to look at her face. Somehow he had known, he realized, that it would be her, that Jill would be standing on stage, smiling vacantly at the crowd as her sharp blue eyes searched desperately, smiling always smiling at the magician’s little speeches as he juggled scarves this way and that, but she was turning now, looking right at him—and for a moment her smile went rigid as she too caught a painful breath before she looked away, smiling still.

  Rhodry began to shake. He could no more stop shaking than he could have told anyone who this woman was or why he loved her whether he remembered her identity or not. With the shakes came a cold sweat, running down his back. The Wildfolk gathered round, patting him, stroking him, their twisted little faces all gape-mouthed concern as he carefully slipped off the edge of the table, staggered back to the garden wall, and sat down on the ground where no one would see him tremble. He was just getting himself under control when a burst of light from the stage made him look up. Krysello was dancing and weaving round the stage, his arms flung over his head, and above him burst streaks and bolts and firefalls of colored light, reds, golds, purples, ceruleans, all shot with silver sparks and blinding white barbs. The crowd was gasping and sighing like children while Wildfolk skipped across the stage in time to the wizard’s music, the high-pitched wailing chants of elven war songs.

  Although Rhodry began to shake again, he was mesmerized, feeling that he’d been turned to stone with his eyes forced eternally to this tiny stage where elven dweomer swelled and flooded the world with artificial stars and massive rainbows, sheets of pure-colored mists and opaque-tinted fogs while miniature lightning shot and thundered. He heard a voice screaming in his mind: it’s real, it’s all of it real dweomer! Don’t these fools know what they’re seeing? Apparently not, because the crowd was laughing and clapping, calling out words of praise and giggling while the wizard danced and wove his spells, the stage now an inferno of illusionary flames all red and white-hot gold. In the midst of it all Jill stood unmoving, her arms crossed over her chest, her smile gone, her mouth set in barely suppressed rage as she stared across the garden, apparently at nothing. Once he saw a gigantic wolf prowling beside her; then the beast disappeared in a gust of turquoise smoke. Rhodry could watch no longer. He lowered his head to his knees and merely trembled until at last the show ended in a deafening howl of laughter and applause.

  As the clapping died away he heard voices, irritable voices, demanding wine, demanding service, but all he could do was clasp his arms tighter round his knees and shake. In his terror he was remembering another night that he’d crumpled into this posture and shaken this way. While he knew that he’d nearly died for Jill, that somehow defending her from insult had nearly gotten him hanged, the details were far beyond him. Then close at hand he heard a woman’s voice, one full of concern.

  “Alaena, come here!” It was Malina, hovering over him. “Your footman’s been taken ill. Here, boy, tell me where it hurts. Is it your stomach?”

  The idea of his having a stomachache was so preposterous that it broke the spell. Feeling cold sweat run down his cheeks and neck, Rhodry managed to raise his head and look at her.

  “I’m not sick, Mistress Malina.” His voice was a dry rasp. “Don’t you see? That was real magic. It was all real.”

  “Oh by Baki’s toes!” A dark male voice burst out laughing. “The poor boy’s scared stiff! He thought one of his barbarian witch men was making big magic up on stage. Don’t worry, boy. We won’t let him throw fire at you.”

  When everyone laughed, Rhodry tried to struggle to his feet, but Malina pushed him down with a surprisingly strong hand.

  “Don’t mock the boy, Tralino! He’ll never get over it if you’re all laughing at him. Oh good, there’s Prynna. Oh, Prynna, can you hear me? Come over and pour wine, girl. The guests are waiting. Now Rhodry, there’s no such thing as real magic, so you’re perfectly safe.”

  “Yes, you silly!” It was Alaena, smiling down at him with her wine cup in her hand. “You just rest for a while. We’ll be going home soon, anyway. There’s no danger at all.”

  “My dearest guests, do go get some wine and some dessert.” Malina’s voice snapped with command. Once the guests had dispersed, she turned to Alaena and whispered. “The poor boy! I wonder what caused this? Has he ever shown any signs of falling sickness?”

  “None. I …”

  There was a waft of incense and perfume, and the rustle of long silk robes as the wizard Krysello swept into their circle. His pale hair gleamed, slicked back with sweat.

  “My dearest ladies!” He was all smiles and bows. “You look distressed! What’s happened? Aha, I see a man from Deverry, and the poor fellow looks terrified! He knows true magic when he sees it.”

  “Oh by the Goddesses themselves!” Malina snarled. “Don’t start him off again, will you! Tell him, please, that you were merely playing tricks up there!”

  “Madam, I shall do better than that.”

  When the wizard knelt down beside him, Rhodry looked him straight in the face and spoke in Deverrian.

  “Are you the man who took Jill from me?”

  “So,” he answered in the same language. “You remember somewhat, do you? I’m not. I swear to you on the gods of my people that I’m only a friend of Jill’s and naught more. Now, you’re going to forget about Jill for a little while. You’ll forget until you see the sun tomorrow. Then you’ll remember everything. Everything.”

  With a limpid smile Krysello placed one long-fingered hand on Rhodry’s forehead. Rhodry felt warmth, a palpable thick warmth that seemed to seep into his mind through the space between his eyes, then spread, flowing down his neck, his spine, and across his shoulders. The trembling stopped, and he smiled, wondering what could possibly have upset him so badly. With a satisfied nod, Krysello took his hand away.

  “Mistresses, forgive me,” Rhodry stammered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Terror, boy, and superstition.” Malina gave him a motherly sort of smile. “If you believe something long enough and well enough, it becomes real to you. No doubt your mother filled your head with stories of witches and sorcerers, and in your primitive country they must have seemed quite plausible. Alaena, I really must go make sure the desserts are being properly served.”

  And she marched away fast, no doubt to prevent herself from wondering just how a fake wizard could have calmed the slave down in such a magical way. Alaena, however, stayed, clutching her wine cup tightly in both hands as she stared at Krysello. In a rustic of silk he bowed to her.

  “Madam, I am informed that you are greatly desirous of having your fortune told. Shall I attend you on the morrow morn?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was back to normal, with an edge of cool amusement at total variance with her awestruck eyes. “Two hours before noon would do splendidly, if it’s convenient.”

  “Madam, waiting upon the merest whim of a woman like you is my definition of convenient.” He bowed again, then turned to glide away into the crowd.

  For a moment Alaena stood starin
g after him, then turned to Rhodry.

  “Can you walk now?”

  “I think so, mistress. I truly am sorry for …”

  “You don’t need to apologize.” Her voice lost its sophisticated edge. “I was frightened myself. I believe you, Rhodry. I think that was real magic, too. I just had to pretend in front of Malina.”

  His surprise brought him to his feet. He realized, then, that the wizard’s cure had worked so splendidly—he felt not in the least tired from his long terror—that he was more sure than ever that the man’s magic was genuine.

  “You certainly were a strange ship to come hoving into view,” Alaena went on. “Bringing all sorts of even stranger things in your wake.” She glanced around, saw that the party had receded to the other side of the garden on one of those tides that parties have, and reached up to kiss him on the mouth. “I want to go home.”

  When she kissed him a second time, her hungry excitement was as much frightening as arousing.

  “As you wish, mistress, of course. Shall I go get the litter ready?”

  “Yes. And when we get home, don’t wait too long to come to my chamber.”

  “Please, don’t say that kind of thing here.”

  “Don’t be tedious.” She slapped him across the face. “Get the litter. I’ll meet you at the gate.”

  By the time they reached her house, only the drowsy gatekeeper was still up and waiting for them. Rhodry sent him off to bed, then got the litter boys locked in for the night and put his ebony staff and the whip away in their cupboard in the kitchen. For a moment he stood in the darkened room, watching the dim glow from the banked fire and catching a moment’s peace before he went, slowly and reluctantly, to his mistress’s chamber.

  The sight of her took away some of his reluctance. Wearing only a shift of white silk gauze, she was perched on the edge of the bed and running an ivory comb through her curls. In the light of the oil lamps her coppery skin glowed like fire itself. When he shut the door she looked up, smiling, and tossed the comb onto the floor.

  “Do you think I’m beautiful, Rhodry?”

  “Of course I do.” He felt like a man in a ritual; every time they made love, she asked him the same thing. “I’ve never seen a woman as beautiful as you.”

  He sat down next to her, caught her face in both hands, and kissed her on the mouth. She laced her hands together behind his neck, gave him a slow and calculated kiss, then suddenly pulled back a little to study his face. He could have sworn she was frightened by something she found there.

  “What’s wrong, mistress?”

  “Nothing, oh nothing.” Yet she hesitated, glancing this way and that before she spoke again, a breathless burst of words. “Rhodry, I need you so much. I’ve been so lonely. I worry, too, about what could happen to us, but I need you so much.”

  He realized that at last he was seeing not her carefully arranged surface, but her self. “Well, here I am.”

  This time, when he kissed her, all his reluctance vanished. In his arms she turned into a greedy little animal, teasing him, pretending to fight him, while he laughed and kissed and finally caught her.

  Afterwards they fell asleep in each other’s arms. He woke just as the oil lamps were guttering themselves out and realized that it was only an hour or so until dawn. Even though everyone in the household knew of the affair, he had no desire to be in the mistress’s bed when Disna came in first thing of a morning. Carefully and slowly he worked free of her lax embrace and slid out of bed, grabbing his clothes and sneaking out like a thief to dress in the hall.

  By then he was wide-awake and troubled by a sense of unease that had nothing to do with his dangerous love affair. Walking silently on bare feet he went to the kitchen, got the heavy staff, and slipped outside to take a turn round the compound. In the graying light nothing moved out in the garden except a shiver of cool breeze through the silvery eucalyptus; there was no sound at all on the street or from the sleeping neighborhood. Yet when he came to the gate, Wildfolk appeared to shake the hem of his tunic while they looked up with distressed eyes.

  “Is something dangerous outside?”

  When they nodded a yes, he tossed the staff up onto the flat roof of the gatekeeper’s kiosk, jumped onto an ornamental planter, and scrambled up. The kiosk was just high enough for him to lean on folded arms onto the top of the thick outer wall. Across the street, in the shadows of a pair of trees, stood a man, wrapped in a light cloak and watching the house. Rhodry was so sure of his status in the household by then that he called out without thinking twice.

  “You! What are you doing there?”

  The man turned and bolted down the street, whipped into an alley and disappeared. Although Rhodry’s first impulse was to start shouting and raise an alarm that would bring the archon’s men, he decided to rouse Porto first and ask his advice. He realized, too, that there was something familiar about the man he’d seen … Gwin? Gwin, by the gods! He went cold all over, thanking his luck that he hadn’t just opened the gates and chased after. Then he jumped down and ran into the house to wake Porto and tell him what had happened without, for some reason that he couldn’t put into words, telling him Gwin’s name. Yawning and stretching, the old man got up slowly and stood thinking for a moment.

  “Well, whoever he was, he’s probably far away by now,” Porto said at last. “And the archon’s men are just going off watch, too. I’ll go down to the guardhouse later and report this to the watch captain, and tonight they’ll have a patrol swing by here at regular intervals. Let me see, what’s happening this morning? Any visitors?”

  “That wizard from the marketplace is coming to tell our mistress’s fortune, about two hours before noon. She invited him last night at the party.”

  Porto groaned in distaste.

  “It’s her money, but why doesn’t she just throw it into the gutter if she wants to waste it? I’ll go down to the archon’s when he comes. I can’t abide that sort of nonsense. You stay close at hand the whole time he’s here, boy. I don’t want to find any of the silver missing after he’s gone.”

  “I’ll stay right by the door and keep an eye on him.”

  “Good. Well, dawn’s breaking. You go start chopping the firewood for Vinsima, and I’ll wake the others.”

  Rhodry went outside through the kitchen. As soon as he stepped out the door, the rising sun cast a wash of light across his face. Blinking and swearing, he turned his back and remembered. Jill. He had seen her, she had been there at the party, the woman he loved, the woman he’d lost, somehow, long ago, in Deverry—in Cerrgonney. To that piss-poor excuse for a noble swine Lord Perryn, when they were both fighting in some lord’s blood-feud. He was a silver dagger, then, and he’d been trapped in a siege. First Jill had ridden with the army that relieved it; then they’d gotten separated. How? Why had he left her in Tieryn Graemyn’s dun? Because the King’s herald was coming! He’d ridden out with his hire, Lord Nedd, to greet the herald, and when they’d ridden back, Jill was gone, stolen, or so they said, by Nedd’s cursed ugly cousin. With a toss of his head he laughed aloud, jigging a few steps of a dance right there near the woodshed. He remembered finding Perryn, too, and the exquisite joy of beating him senseless. Then he’d … and then he’d … the fog within his mind rose again and shut away all memory of what had happened after he left Perryn bleeding on the ground by a cowshed wall. No more could he remember anything before he and Jill had ridden up to Lord Nedd’s crumbling roundhouse on a sunny day—how long ago? He had no idea.

  “Rhodry!” Vinsima’s bellow cut through his brooding. “Where’s that kindling? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you feel well?”

  “A thousand apologies! I’m on my way right now.”

  While he worked, he went on brooding about what he’d remembered. Ther e was something especially important about the King’s herald, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring it to mind and eventually gave it up as a bad job. He was going over and over the rest of the precious new memories to fix them in his mind
when it occurred to him to wonder why they’d come back to him. Only then did he remember the wizard Krysello announcing that he would remember “everything” when he saw the sun again.

  “Oh by the gods, so I did.”

  A few at a time Wildfolk materialized around him, two brown and purple gnomes, a delicate pale sprite with needle-sharp teeth, and the gray gnome he’d seen down at the marketplace.

  “Jill’s gnome!”

  The little creature leapt into the air, danced a few steps in victory, then disappeared, taking its fellows with it. Rhodry began to tremble. All at once, he could smell freedom, and now that he’d seen Jill, freedom had meaning again. He realized then that somehow an entire identity had died along with his memories, that what we call a man’s character is little more, at times, than the sum of his memories. The thought gave him a cold feeling on the edge of panic, and he shied away from it like a horse who sees an adder in the road.

  The man who was using the name Pirrallo was short, pale, and pudgy, with a thick neck and full cheeks that would, with age, swell and sag to make him look like a toad. He had a face full of pimples, too, that would, with time, scar and leave dark marks much like the blotching on a toad’s skin. The man known as Gwin was surprised at how much he hated Pirrallo. He had, after all, looked upon many a thing more loathsome in his thirty-two years, but perhaps it was because he knew that Pirrallo was as much a spy as a partner. The knowledge that someone was watching their every move and using magic to report it back to the Hawkmaster would have terrified most initiates of the Hawks; Gwin found it only irritating, because he didn’t care if he lived or died. Another thing that surprised him these days was, in fact, just how little he did care. Although he could have committed suicide at any time, the effort seemed too great for the uncertain reward of being dead, just as the dubious joys of being alive were too little an incentive to make him suck up to the man sent to judge his trustworthiness. He was even willing to make the possibly fatal admission that he’d quite simply failed his assignment back in the farming village of Deblis, rather than whining and making excuses the way most Hawks would have done, but only so long as he admitted it to the Hawkmaster himself, not to a toad like Pirrallo. It was a matter of pride, the small sort of pride that was the only thing he had left in life.