by Angus Wells
I shook my head. “No, Great Lord. We do not come to conquer—no more than we’ve conquered Dharbek or Ur-Dharbek. We come to speak of peace.”
He laughed then, and I realized that I understood these people hardly at all. There was genuine amusement in his laughter, and the hardness quit his face a moment as he threw back his head, guffawing like any common soldier. Behind him, his retinue sent back polite echoes.
He swept a gauntleted hand in the direction of the dragons and said, “You come astride these creatures across the Kheryn-veyhn to ravage my armada, to sunder the dozijan of the Attul-ki and slaughter my priests, and you tell me you come peaceful?”
I found it hard to understand all this, and Tezdal must interpret for me. When he had, I said, “Great Lord, forgive me, but your language is not yet easy to my tongue. Might Tezdal speak for us? He is one of our number, and one with our enterprise.”
The Khe’anjiwha studied me in silence. Then he looked at Tezdal again, and his eyes grew again cold. He said, “Tezdal Kashijan does not exist. Tezdal Kashijan died when his skyboat fell. His death led his wife down the Way of Honor. More—when word came from our allies that a Kho’rabi knight chose to live as friend to the Dhar, Tezdal Kashijan’s father took the Way, and his mother, for they could neither live with such dishonor.”
I heard Tezdal wail then, and when I turned, he was on his knees, his hands locked about his head. Urt went to him and knelt beside him, holding him. I saw the dragons stir restless and felt their growing anger. I feared new slaughter should commence, and all our dreams fall down in bloody ruin. I went to Tezdal’s side and bent my knee that I might speak soft and urgent in his ear.
I said. “Tezdal, listen to me! I am sorry, but set your grief aside for now. You must! Lest the dragons take offense, and the Khe’anjiwha be slain, and all we’ve planned collapse. You must play your part, or none of this has any meaning.”
He said, “You do not understand.”
I said, “No, but I’d learn. I’d learn about you Ahn and know you well as I do my own people. What else has this been for? Do you fail us now, then all the lives spent are wasted and we are only traitors to our dream. Shall you let that happen?”
He said again, “You do not understand. I am a traitor.”
Rwyan drew closer then and dropped to her knees before Tezdal and set her hands upon his cheeks, lifting his fallen face so that she “looked” directly into his eyes as she said, “Tezdal, I’ll not hear you name yourself thus. Do you heed me, for this hangs on a knife’s edge now. Do we not understand one another, then it shall surely come to fighting. The dragons will attack, and your people will fight. And those Attul-ki will look to destroy me first, for we are all sorcerers, and I shall be the first target of their power.”
He shook his head and answered, “No,” and it was a cry from the depths of a lost soul.
Rwyan said, “Then make this Great Lord of yours understand what we intend, that there be no further bloodshed.”
Tezdal closed his eyes and groaned. Rwyan bent closer, touching her lips to his, and whispered something I could not hear, nor ever asked what. I saw Tezdal sigh, and wipe his moistened cheeks, and climb wearily to his feet. In faltering Ahn (she’d never my facility with language) Rwyan said, “Great Lord, as Daviot tells you—we’ve not such understanding of your tongue that we are able to clearly explain—we need Tezdal as spokesman. Shall you allow that?”
The Khe’anjiwha met her blind green gaze and then let his own travel past to survey the dragons. A fatalistic smile played upon his thin lips. “Have I a choice?”
Rwyan said, “Yes, Great Lord. Do you refuse to listen, then we shall go away.”
Now those proud features displayed surprise, that rapidly swallowed by disbelief. “What do you tell me, lady? That you’d come here to wreck my people’s dream and go away? That you’d defeat all the might of Ahn-feshang and not take the spoils? You’d go away? No more than that? No tribute paid, no lands taken? Only go away?”
Tezdal translated this, and I answered for us all, “Yes. We do not come to conquer; only to speak of peace.”
The Khe’anjiwha frowned, for the first time disconcerted. Then he said slowly, “This is not easy.”
I said, “No. Peace is always harder than war. War is simple: slay your enemy. It is much harder to name him friend and learn to live with him. But it may be done.”
The Khe’anjiwha stroked his shaven chin. His skin was very smooth. I was minded of my stubble and my doubtlessly unkempt appearance. Also, my stomach began to complain: we had not eaten in a long time.
The Khe’anjiwha granted me a small smile and turned to confer with his retinue. Then he said, “Tezdal Kashijan is dead, but I shall allow this gijan to speak on your behalf.”
I did not know what that term meant, but it was redolent of contempt. Tezdal shuddered like a hound cowed by a ferocious master. The dragons, in subtler ways than mine, understood, and began to shift angrily, readying to attack.
I looked to Bellek and said, “Hold them back!”
And Bellek chuckled and answered me, “They’re yours now, Daviot. Yours and Rwyan’s, and Urt’s and Tezdal’s. You hold them back.”
And we did. We bade them be still, for we spoke with men, who lacked the knowledge of dragons and saw only their own desires, not the greater concerns of the world and the places between, and could not think as dragons do. And somewhat to my surprise, they obeyed us and settled. So that we might—through the gijan, Tezdal—deliver our terms to the Khe’anjiwha and tell him what we’d do, and how the new world should be ordered under the wing shadows of the new Lords of the Sky.
We spoke with the Great Lord of Ahn-feshang, the Khe’anjiwha, in that courtyard with our dragons perched all around like harbingers of dreadful retribution, and he listened to us.
We told him—through Tezdal—what we’d done in Ur-Dharbek and in Dharbek. He was not easy of convincing, but the dragons stood emblems of our power, and he was pragmatic in defeat. We sat in his Council chamber, with dragons menacing on the balconies outside, their great-jawed, fanged faces peering in to remind him of our wrath. And he listened. I suppose he had little other choice, save the reaving of his land; and already that dream he’d shared with Tezdal was gone: the skyboats and the braver of the Attul-ki were gone, and so he’d not much more hope of the Conquest.
So perhaps only because of that, he listened, and we told him of our peace, and of the consequences did he argue it. As we did, the dragons filled the paneled chamber with their meaty breath and watched, alert, for sign of danger. And the Khe’anjiwha knew that, and knew that we could slay him, and all his armies, surely as the Lord Protector Taerl had known that irrevocable fact.
We slew his dream; but we gave him another in its place. Just as we’d slain Allanyn’s dream and given Urt’s people another. Just as we’d slain Jareth and shown Taerl a new vision.
And he listened—for which I was thankful, for I’d had enough of bloodshed and would not see more could I avoid it.
So …
We quit the islands of Ahn-feshang in hope, winging back to Dharbek with promises. Though our own were paramount: that there should be no more war, but only our demands met. All of these forced true by the dragons, lest we bring them again against those who’d oppose we newcome Dragonmasters.
None argued with us.
How could they?
We owned the skies: neither Dhar magic nor Ahn’s could defeat us. We could rend the Sky Lords’ boats from the air and loose their enslaved elementals. We could tear apart the Sentinels and, after, ravage every city and keep in Dharbek: we dictated our terms.
Was I corrupted by power? Were we all?
I think Rwyan was not. I think she only pursued our dream in honest belief. I think that Urt was not, for he’d only see a better world made for his Changed kind. Tezdal was not, I am sure.
Bellek?
Perhaps he was. Or gone so long into Dragonmastery that he no longer cared. Nor did he any longe
r see the world through human eyes, but only from that different view. It no longer matters, nor did much then, for we were only bent on the achievement of our goal and had no time for fine philosophical musings. Those should come later, when the Great Peace was secured.
For now, we’d much to do. As I’d feared, there were some few amongst the aeldors of Dharbek and the Kho’rabi of Ahn-feshang who would not accept, and we brought the dragons against them. I had hoped the bloodshed ended with our coming, but we spilled more as we destroyed those rebels. And when that last fighting was done, we must travel the land a while in reminder, so that any who still harbored notions of conquest or vengeance might look to the skies and know their thoughts were better left unspoken.
We were the watchmen of the skies, and ambassadors betwixt the three lands. We even carried Taerl to Ur-Dharbek and to Ahn-feshang. The Lord Protector was besotted with the dragons as I’d once heard he loved horses. I think that had he not that greater duty, he’d have asked us to take him with us and he endeavor to become a Dragonmaster, but he must satisfy himself with those rides we allowed. How young he looked as he climbed astride Deburah, his face all lit with wonder as she spread her wings and launched herself into the heavens! He had no fear at all but whooped with glee as we flew.
Certainly it impressed the Khe’anjiwha that the Lord Protector of Dharbek should come to him and promise him a welcome in Kellambek. They got on well together, those two; like warriors met in the aftermath of battle, respectful of one another. Or like two young men lonely in their power, each finding in the other an equal with whom he might share a little of that solitude. It did our cause no little good that they were able to meet as friends.
In Ur-Dharbek, too, Taerl acquitted himself admirably. He met with the new-formed Raethe, and they spoke lengthily together, and I began to hope that we should not much longer need to patrol the skies but leave the world to run itself again. Though that should not be quite yet, for our plan was grand whilst the arguments and envies and rivalries of men are mostly petty and require much debating ere agreement is reached. We’d brought the world to peace and held it there, but it were better we leave the folk who should live in it after us to settle their differences than entirely force them to our will.
“Let them firm out the details of it,” Rwyan said, “so that they can, after, believe it was as much their doing as ours and not resent what we impose.”
That was wisdom, and it largely worked, and I felt happy. Rwyan, too; and Urt. Tezdal and Bellek, however, became increasingly withdrawn, as if they felt their roles in this drama were played out and would exeunt, like mummers whose parts are ended.
In those busy months I was too occupied with all those affairs of state to notice much how reserved they grew. Or when I did, to speak with them as I should have done: another charge laid against me.
Also, as that first year of peace aged to a second, I felt the growing difference in me. I must more and more force myself to patience as I sat with Taerl and the Khe’anjiwha, with the Changed Councilfolk, the priests of the Attul-ki and those of my own land. I found it ever harder to spend—to waste!—so much time on the ground but would mount Deburah and taste the heady joy of dragonflight again. I realized I missed those fierce mountains that bordered Tartarus as I’d not missed any place before, not even my home. And with that realization came the knowledge that I had no longer any home but that Dragoncastle; that I’d return there—where Deburah’s egg lay. And even did she tell me it was safe and I’d no need for concern, still I’d know for myself. Touch it and be sure: I felt it was as much mine as hers or the bull’s that seeded her.
The bonding of Dragonmaster and dragon is a powerful thing, seductive. It gets inside your blood and holds you firmer than any chains men have ever forged.
I knew that, or sensed it, and consequently should have known better what Bellek felt and likely might do.
I remember walking with Rwyan, that second year, in those fabulous gardens of Trebizar. The Council building lay in ruins behind us, and Taerl was with Urt and Tezdal in the town, deep in discussion with the Changed and those Kho’rabi stranded in Ur-Dharbek by our destruction of their skyboats. It was Taerl’s intention (and his idea, not ours) to offer them ships, that they might go south to Kellambek or home across the ocean. Bellek had taken the dragons off hunting. It was a hot summer’s day, and it was a comforting feeling to know that ordinary summer now held sway in Dharbek and that the magic of the Attul-ki should no longer stifle the land. I heard birds singing. Rwyan leaned close against me. The sun was warm on our faces, and she’d tied a scarf about her hair, so that she minded me of a beautiful fisherwoman.
I thought on how different this place now seemed and how it was no longer tainted with Allanyn’s crystal-born madness. I asked, “Should we hunt out the crystals? Destroy them all?”
Rwyan laughed and shook her head, which sent tendrils of sun-bleached red against my face because I was trying to kiss her neck as she spoke. I sneezed. Her hair had tickled my nostrils, and the air was heavy with pollen.
She said, “I doubt we could. The crystals are part of this land, like those fire mountains of Ahn-feshang. Could we stopper them? And if we did, what should it do to those islands?”
I frowned. I thought such a task impossible; and that were it possible, it should seal up that molten breath like a brewer bunging his casks too early—to see them explode as the sealed-in fermentation grew too powerful for its confines. I thought those islands must explode: I said as much.
And Rwyan nodded and said, “No more can we destroy the crystals. Would you tear up all Tartarus, all of Ur-Dharbek, to find them?”
I said, “But might it happen again—that seduction—should we not seek to find them and destroy them?”
Rwyan said, “Can you halt hate, Daviot? Can you excise envy from men’s minds? Can you end greed?”
I said, “No.”
She said, “No more, nor better, can you find all the crystals. Nor perhaps should you. We’ve done what we’ve done. By the God, we’ve ended a war that not even you, Mnemonikos, can trace down all its years. Is that not enough? I think we’ve done our part, only to bring that about.”
I said, “But the crystals—”
And was silenced by her finger on my lips. She said, “Are power. Lessened somewhat, now; and perhaps a lesson learned. We’ve taught the world a different way; let those who come after us learn to use the crystals better. But let them make their own decisions!”
I said, “But we decided. We found our power and forced our will on the world. And spilled blood in the forcing.”
She said, “Because we followed that dream. We only chased what we thought right. Perhaps, after we are gone, there shall be others with a different dream; and they’ll pursue it no less fierce than we.”
I said, “But is that right?”
And Rwyan smiled and turned her face to me, so that I was met by her blind gaze; and then she took my face in her hands. “I think it so. I’ve done what I’ve done because I saw no other way, and I do not feel guilty. I regret the blood we shed, aye. But—do I remember this aright?—‘you cannot cook a fish without gutting it first, lest after you fall sick.’ That’s what we’ve done, Daviot: we’ve gutted the world’s fish and presented it for the eating. Would you have it otherwise?”
I looked at her and shook my head: “No.”
She said, “Good,” and kissed me again, harder.
We were walking hand in hand when the dragons came, like thunder out of the northern sky.
We both stopped silent in our tracks, a tocsin ringing loud in our souls. My grip on Rwyan’s hand tightened, and hers no less on mine. We turned to the north and saw them coming fast and low from the hills. I felt a fear of what message they brought.
And then it was delivered.
Deburah and Anryäle landed before us in a great skirling of dust from the sun-dried ground. Kathanria winged restless overhead. I felt their emotions, but they were so flustered I could not
immediately comprehend what they told us: only that they were mightily disturbed and brought bad news. I felt a leaden weight descend on my soul and was utterly confused.
Rwyan interpreted better. She went to Anryäle and stroked the mottled cheeks of her dragon. I felt Deburah nudge me, and staggered, and turned to find her lustrous eyes fixed hard on mine. I swear, could dragons cry, she’d have been weeping then.
I said, “What’s amiss?”
And Rwyan answered me, “Bellek! He’s gone.”
I said, “What? How mean you, gone? Gone where? Lost?”
Rwyan and Deburah both answered me, and from above, Kathanria: No, not lost Gone: dead.
I was astride Deburah’s saddle before I knew it: sometimes action runs faster than thought. Rwyan was not much slower, and we climbed into the sky as if the hounds of all the gods I could not believe in were snapping at our heels.
We winged furiously north. To where Bellek had taken the dragons to hunt. And then farther north still, over those southern foothills of the Dragonsteeth Mountains to the Dragoncastle.
The ramparts were filled with dragons. I think all the broods were there, and all filling the sky with their belling. My head rang with it. It echoed off the mountain walls and drove me to cover my ears for the promise it sounded. It was a sad sound, and as Deburah landed in the yard. I felt a new weight of dread fill my soul.
Her emotions were a turmoil I could not properly understand: only that Bellek was dead.
He had told us nothing of that valley. Perhaps because he knew he would go there, once he was confident his dragons had new masters, and was, perhaps, afraid that it should deter us from that inheritance. I think it would not have: I think that bonding is too strong.
It was high amongst the peaks to the north and west, where crags fell down in jagged lines like dragons’ fangs on a line that let in the morning sun and saw its eventide setting. No trees grew there, nor any water ran, and the topmost hills were yet blanched with snow. It was a still place, the only sound the keening of the wind. It was filled with bones, more bones than I’d ever seen, all white and stark, no flesh on them. Or not on most of them: amongst the tangles of ribs and wingbones and skulls lay a little fragment that wore Bellek’s gear.