The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And he began the serious study of sorcery, with the occasional assistance of Lady Rime, once she had returned from inspecting her nearer estates. Although she was centuries old, her own knowledge of the magical arts was still limited; Arlian knew it would be decades before he could accomplish anything beyond the most basic level.

  At one session, when he had botched a simple ensorcellment, he remarked, "Sometimes I wonder, my lady, why you bother to help me."

  She looked at him oddly.

  "Sometimes I wonder the same," she said. "After all, you're but a twentieth of my age, and given your habits and obsessions it seems quite unlikely you'll survive your first century. If I become too involved with you, I may well not survive another century. In my saner moments I avoid you, Arlian. I am here today because my inexplicable fascination with you over-came my good sense." Then she turned her attention back to the crystals they had been working with.

  "Shall we try it again?"

  Arlian wondered, after that, whether or not she had been joking about avoiding him. He could never find a polite way to ask, and he could never decide whether the decreased frequency of their contacts was coincidental or intentional, the result of distractions or deliberation.

  Caught up in his weapons and plans and sorcery, he did not take time to visit the hall of the Dragon Society again; he had no interest in another confrontation with Toribor, or perhaps the meddlesome Lord Zaner. There would be time to deal with his enemies there later; the dragons were more urgent. He did keep himself ap-prised of Lord Wither's whereabouts and activities; as yet Wither had not left the city, nor openly sent any hirelings southward, so Arlian did not feel particularly concerned. He also paid close attention to any reports that might indicate draconic activity of any sort, but otherwise did not trouble himself to stay current with the perpetual flow of news and gossip that swirled through Manfort.

  He did continue to visit Hasty and Vanniari, and to take meals with his several houseguests and spend some time each evening chatting with them. He paid closer attention to Brook, and concluded that she and Black had indeed gotten to know each other well.

  Cricket had taken an interest in cookery, and had taken a liking to Stammer, who was eager to defer to her. As a result Cricket was now unofficially in charge of the kitchen staff.

  Kitten was still reading her way through the palace library, and expressed an interest in continuing on to Enziet's bookshelves when the volumes at the Old Palace were exhausted. Lily and Musk had not yet found lasting interests, but seemed content with their lot. The weather grew warm, trees blossomed and tamed green, spring flowers bloomed and faded, but Arlian did not devote much time to appreciating the progress of the seasons; he was too concerned with what a bout of dragon weather might bring.

  No dragon sightings were reported. No villages ceased to communicate with their neighbors. But, Arlian told himself, the weather was not yet as hot as it would become. Toribor's dire prediction could still come true.

  He heard nothing more from Lord Hardior for some time. At last, however, as spring gave way to summer, the Duke's chief adviser paid a call on Lord Obsidian.

  Nominally, this was just a casual visit between friends—but Arlian knew better than to treat it as such.

  When he received word that Hardior hoped to find him at home the following day he dropped everything else and began preparations for a proper reception for the Duke's representative.

  A year ago he wouldn't have bothered—but a year ago he had seen the Duke and his entourage as irrelevant to his own needs. He had been intent on finding and killing Lord Dragon and other human foes.

  Now, though, he was preparing to fight dragons, and then to destroy the entire Dragon Society, and that was, he now realized, not something he could reasonably hope to do single-handed—or even with the help of his comrades, Black and Rime and the Aritheians. At the very least, he did not want to find himself fighting the Duke's guards at the same time as he fought the dragons.

  Accordingly, he consulted the kitchen staff to make sure a variety of delicacies were on hand, and Cricket assured him, from the high stool where she directed all matters culinary, that she would personally guarantee a fine table would be set. He arranged with Thirif for a few little illusions to create the proper atmosphere, and Black undertook, on his own initiative, to ensure that the appropriate rooms were spotless and the six palace footmen on their very best behavior.

  And then they waited for Lord Hardior to arrive.

  It was a good two hours past midday when Lord Hardior's coach rolled to a stop at the gate, timing that clearly meant Hardior did not care to stay for an entire meal—it was very unlikely that Arlian could stretch the visit until suppertime, and of course luncheon was past and done.

  That might mean any number of things—that

  Hardior was too busy to spare the time, that the Duke wanted him at the Citadel for meals, that he did not yet want to bestow the consequent social status on Arlian that dining with the Duke's chief adviser would bring, or merely that he did not want to impose on Arlian's hospitality. Black suggested that Hardior was probably just wary of being poisoned, and Arlian murmured amused agreement, but in fact he knew better, Lord Hardior possessed the heart of the dragon, and those who had the heart of the dragon were immune to virtually all poisons.

  Arlian, in his finest black velvet coat with layers of white lace at throat and cuffs, met Lord Hardior at the front door, and personally ushered him in. A footman stood by, ready to serve, but Hardior had not worn cloak or sword; he was attired in a light brown linen jacket, cut short in the latest fashion, over a fawn-colored silk vest and cream-colored shirt. The warmth of these colors contrasted sharply with the stark black and white of Arlian's own costume, and Obsidian's household livery.

  Hardior smelled faintly of powder and perfume; Arlian had never gotten in the habit of using cosmetics, and suspected that any odor he might have was the scent of sweat. Despite the training he had received in the House of the Six Lords, he was still not entirely at home in the role of a wealthy gentleman of Manfort.

  The two exchanged polite greetings and inquired after one another's health; Arlian introduced his steward, and told his guest to consider Arlian's home his own.

  The formalities thus completed, Arlian showed Hardior to the small salon, where a flurry of illusory butterflies danced in the sunlight before vanishing, and where Cricket's underlings had set out assorted pas-tries and candied fruits. Hardior accepted a few of these, along with a glass of pear wine.

  At last, though, Hardior settled into an oak-and-leather armchair, and Arlian closed the doors, leaving the two men alone in the room in apparent privacy.

  "While your presence is a delight, my lord," he said, turning his back to the door, "I suspect that there is a purpose behind this visit beyond simple fellowship."

  Of course there is," Hardior acknowledged. "And I would be pleased to come directly to the point. A few words should do. You know, I had hoped to catch you somewhere else, so that we might have this conversation without putting you to any trouble, but you have been something of a recluse of late, and given me no opportunity."

  "Had I known you were seeking me out, my lord, I would have been a veritable social butterfly. Could you not have invited me to one of the Duke's gatherings, rather than interrupt your busy schedule to attend me personally?"

  "The problem with that, Obsidian, is that I could not be certain that you would accept, and further, that I did not know just who you do not care to share a room with. Would it have been graceless to put you in the same party as Lord Belly, for example?"

  "It might, my lord, though I think I could behave myself on my host's behalf even so. Whatever the circumstances, the pleasure of your company is now mine, and I pray that you feel free to tell me whatever you sought to tell me."

  "I have come not so much to tell you anything, my lord, as to ask a question—and its nature is such as to add further hesitation to any discussion of it less private than thi
s."

  "You intrigue me, my lord. Ask your question, then."

  " Tis simple enough. Why, my lord, are you stockpiling strange weapons?"

  "Ah." Arlian nodded. "I thought that might be it.

  You refer to the obsidian blades and spearheads?"

  "I do indeed. I understand you have had dozens, perhaps hundreds, of these bizarre weapons manufactured and stored."

  "I have," Arlian said. "And my intention is to offer them to the Duke's soldiers, should the need for them arise."

  Hardior cocked his head to one side. "Indeed," he said. "And what occasion could possibly call for blades of volcanic glass, rather than good steel?"

  Arlian seated himself on a silk couch before replying, "You know I am Lord Enziet's heir."

  "Indeed I do," Hardior said. "I find that as bizarre as the manufacture of stone knives, but there can be no question that Enziet did name you as such, and had the right to do so. He knew well that you meant to murder him, so a death that might otherwise invalidate his will does not interfere."

  "If you will pardon me for saying so, my lord, you do not know how Lord Enziet died, and should be wary of making assumptions about the matter."

  "The nature of his death is indeed unknown to me, my lord, and I did not intend to imply otherwise. Pray continue"

  "Lord Enziet was the most senior member of a certain society to which we both belong, as you know, and while he did not always comply fully with that society's regulations, he did pursue its primary goal with great effect—he knew more about dragons than anyone else in Manfort. I would think you might have heard rumors—from Lord Toribor, if nowhere else—

  that Lord Enziet had made a pact that kept the dragons in their caverns."

  "I have heard this, and dismissed it as nonsense. Do you tell me it is not? And even if this is the case, how does obsidian figure into it?"

  "I tell you thai I do not know what consequences Enziet's death may bring, but that a sortie by several dragons is not impossible. And Enziet's researches, which I have inherited, indicate that obsidian may be able to pierce a dragon's hide where steel cannot.

  While not wishing to alarm anyone, I had thought to have weapons prepared in case dragons do dare to assault die city."

  He spoke as clearly and calmly as be could, and when be had finished he met Hardior's gaze openly and directly.

  Hardior, for his part, leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin upon that hand. He contemplated Arlian's face for a long moment before replying

  "You are obsessed with the dragons, Lord Obsidian," he said at last

  "Indeed. I do not deny it"

  "When last we spoke you asked what I would do if you killed one; I take it that these stone weapons are the method you meant to employ."

  "Exactly."

  "You cannot have tested this theory that obsidian will pierce a dragon's hide."

  "As you say," Arlian answered. "But Enziet's research was quite thorough. He concluded that dragons are a magical manifestation of fire and darkness, while obsidian is a purely physical manifestation of fire and darkness, and thus the two interact in curious ways."

  "And you cannot know that the dragons will come.

  They have been gone for seven hundred years; surely, one man's death cannot be that important to them?"

  "I cannot know," Arlian agreed. "I choose, however, to be prepared."

  "And that's what this is about, then?"

  "What else could it be?"

  "Oh, any number of things. The assumption has been that the obsidian has some sorcerous power, that perhaps you inherited Enziet's sorcery, or brought unknown magic back from Arithei, and that you plan to equip an army with magical weapons."

  "For what purpose?"

  'To carry out your mad schemes of vengeance, of course."

  "I seek vengeance against the dragons. Surely, no one would object to that?"

  "You have also sworn to kill Nail and Belly, have you not?"

  Reluctantly, Arlian admitted, "I have." He was in no hurry to carry out that vow, but he could not deny having made it—he intended to kill all the dragonhearts in time.

  "And now Nail lies ill, while you tinker with what might be hostile sorcery—surely, it's not unreasonable to suspect a connection ..."

  His voice trailed off as he saw Arlian's reaction to his words. The younger man had gone from puzzlement to surprise to extreme agitation in short order, and now leapt to his feet, interrupting Hardior.

  "Nail is ill?" Arlian demanded, hesitating as if uncertain whether to grab Lord Hardior or dash for the door.

  "Yes, he is," Hardior said. "These past three days.

  You hadn't heard?"

  "No!" Arlian exclaimed. He stared at Hardior. 'Tell me the nature of this illness."

  He had a horrible suspicion that he knew its nature far better than did Hardior. Dragonhearts were never ill; no known disease could be carried in their tainted blood, any more than poison could harm them. But the draconic taint itself...

  Lord Stiam, known as Nail, was probably the eldest surviving member of the Dragon Society, almost as ancient as Enziet had been—only Lord Wither might perhaps be his equal, now that Enziet was dead. Nail had lived almost a thousand years—the exact number was unknown.

  And now his time was up, Arlian was sure of it For perhaps a thousand years, no dragonheart had survived to the natural end of his life—long ago, before the Dragon Society was formed, another secret society, the Order of the Dragon, had slain all dragonhearts upon discovery, and only Enziet and a handful of others had survived. Enziet had betrayed and destroyed the Order of the Dragon to save his own life, so that for centuries die dragons were able to contaminate mortals to gestate their young, and those infected were no longer slain.

  Enziet had been the eldest of those Arlian knew, and Stiam had been either second or third.

  Enziet had staved off his own end for a few years by sorcery—but Stiam had no idea what fate awaited him, and had done nothing to delay it.

  "He complained of chest pains, as if his heart were swelling within him," Hardior said, hesitantly. "And of a fever in his blood, and weakness in his limbs. And he asked me once whether I heard a voice, when all was still."

  That fit all too well. Arlian turned and strode to the door, calling back over his shoulder, "You think me mad—well, come with me now, and we will see whether I am mad or not! I only hope we aren't too late."

  Then he swung open the door and bellowed,

  "Black! Fetch me a spear at once, and one for yourself! We're going to Nail's estate!"

  Behind him, almost forgotten and utterly baffled.

  Lord Hardior got to his feet and followed.

  They all rode in Lord Hardior's coach—it was still waiting at the gate, still ready, and Lord Hardior, caught up in Arlian's obvious urgency, offered it.

  Black, clutching three of the obsidian-tipped spears Arlian's staff had prepared, rode atop, beside the driver, while Arlian and Hardior rode inside.

  Ariian could scarcely contain himself, so overcome was he by a tangle of emotions. Anticipation and dread mingled inextricably with one another. He wanted to shout nonsense at Hardior, to tell him that he was about to face horrors and see proof that Arlian was not mad, but he forced himself to stay silent.

  Nail was giving birth to a dragon—would Arlian arrive to find a man, or a monster? He had intended to kill die dragonheads to prevent this, but he had apparently left this one until too late.

  If die dragon had already emerged, then here was a chance to slay another dragon, in furtherance of his revenge, and at that a dragon burst from the heart of one of the Six Lords-—but he had almost come to like Nail, who was either the most forthright dragonhead Arlian had ever met, or the subtlest.

  He had the obsidian spears, but what if the dragon had been born an hour or two before? Would the volcanic glass still pierce its hide, or did that armor strengthen with time? The Enziet dragon had lived for only a few moments before Arlian s
tabbed it to death; would the Stiam dragon be stronger?

  And that assumed the dragon had been born. If Nail were still alive and human when they arrived, what could Arlian do? He had sworn not to harm Nail within Manfort's walls, and that oath still held—

  though he did not think anyone would take it to apply to the dragon that Nail would become.

  He could wait at Nail's bedside—but what if the wait took days? He had no idea how long a dragonheart's natural labor might be; Enziet had cut open his own chest to free the creature within, and Arlian did not imagine that Nail would do anything of the sort.

  Who would be there? Who would see the emergence?

  What would this do to Arlian's trove of secret knowledge? For centuries, only Enziet had known how dragons reproduced; before that the Order of the Dragon had closely guarded the information. It had never been common knowledge. Now, though, whoever was in Lord Stiam's bedchamber would see the transformation and would know the truth—servants, guests, physicians, and perhaps others. The secret, like the newborn dragon, would be out.

  A dragon, loose within the walls of Manfort—that was something unknown for seven hundred years.

  And really, Arlian thought, wouldn't this simplify his task? Everyone would know how dragons began, and how they could be ended; surely, everyone would be eager to aid him in his campaign to exterminate the monsters.

  Everyone, that is, but the members of the Dragon Society, who would realize that they, too, had to die.

  The coach pulled to a stop at Lord Nail's gate, and Arlian had die door open before Black could leap down to open it for him.

  A guard stood at the gate, his hand on the hilt of his sword—a cheap guardsman's cutlass, not a gentleman's rapier, but still an effective weapon.

  "We must see Lord Nail at once," Arlian said. "It is of the utmost urgency!"

  "Lord Stiam is unwell, my lord," the guard began.

  "We know that," Arlian snapped. "Open the gate and stand aside!"

  The guard was about to speak again when he realized that Black held a spear to his throat, a spear with a jagged, glassy head. The steward had moved around behind Arlian and approached the guard from the side, unnoticed.