by Stephen Deas
“So I can stumble in with one lifeless leg dragging behind me? No, thank you.”
“It’ll be months before you can walk without help. If you ever can. You need to be crowned, Jehal. There are far too many realms without a proper king. Right.” Jeiros straightened up. “There. The stitches are done. The dressing is changed. You’re rid of me for another day. Before you’re crowned, there’s another ceremony we should have, you and I. I suppose you know most of it already, but there are certain secrets that my order holds that we like to share with our kings and queens.”
Jehal rolled his eyes. “You mean things like, oh, by the way, the dragons you fly on are only dumb pliable beasts when they’re drugged to the eyeballs with your special potions.”
“That’s the start of it, yes. It can take anything between a week and a month for the effects to wear off. Did you know that?”
“And then they’re ravening vengeful monsters. I do know what happened at the redoubt, Jeiros.”
“Then you know how clever they become. The white one’s been seen again. Did you know that, Your Holiness?”
“No. I heard it was dead with the rest.”
Jeiros cocked his head and flashed a grimace. “That’s what princes get to hear. Kings get to hear that the white has been seen in the Worldspine. Without a rider this time. It burned exactly half a town to ash. Some of Valmeyan’s riders went to investigate. Three of them didn’t come back; nor did their dragons. By now it could be more.”
Jehal sniggered. “No wonder the King of the Crags is in such a hurry to be home. And I suppose Zafir is positively brimming with enthusiasm to rally the realms and her riders to hunt your mysterious rogue.”
“This is not funny.”
“You keep them in dim servitude. Are you surprised they’re so angry when they wake up?”
“The Order keeps us all alive, Prince Jehal. We’d be nothing to them but food otherwise.”
“If anyone did something like that to me and was then foolish enough to let me slip, I’m quite sure I would prefer something more lingering than simply eating them.” Are you listening, Vale Tassan?
The alchemist shook his head. “There’s a lot more. Where they come from, where they go when they die. Even we don’t know that. But we know that their spirits go in an endless cycle. They’re not like us. They remember their past lives, or rather they would, if they awoke. Do you know how many times dragons have escaped us and awoken from their stupor?” Jehal had never heard of such a thing happening at all, at least not until the white dragon at the redoubt. It must have shown on his face because Jeiros smiled. “No, Prince Jehal, the redoubt was not the first time. There are dragons out there among us who have awoken before. Who have awoken and been destroyed. Who have returned as a hatchling, remembering everything that happened to them. Knowing everything that we do to them.”
“And then you do it to them again.”
“If we can, yes.” Jeiros nodded. “If we can’t then they die. You see, Prince Jehal, there is a great deal that even you don’t know. Knowledge we hold for kings and queens and the masters of our order, and for them alone.”
“Kings and queens and master alchemists? Why so miserly?”
“Knowledge is dangerous, Prince Jehal. You of all people understand that. Knowledge is a means to power. “
Jehal laughed, even though that always hurt. “And there I was, imagining that you were hoarding all this knowledge simply to give your order a reason for being.”
The alchemist didn’t bite. If anything, he sounded sad. “Seventy years ago, a rider happened upon some of our secrets. He took it upon himself to free his dragon of our potions. He thought they would be more powerful, and indeed they are. His dragon ate him. Then it ate a lot of other people too. It destroyed a realm. Nor was that the first time.”
“I’ve never heard of this!”
“Oh you but have, Prince Jehal. You know almost everything about it. The story of a realm ripped apart by its own royal family’s infighting? Their eyries destroyed, their riders slain, their dragons stolen? A realm rendered so weak that those around it simply helped themselves to the pieces. A realm that barely exists anymore, with no king, no queen. A realm whose people shift in endless wandering though the Sea of Sand . . .”
“The Syuss.”
“The Syuss. You see. You do know the story.”
“But that was . . . I thought that was . . .”
The master alchemist was smiling again. “Prince Kazan? Civil war? A revolt against the oppressions of King Tiernel? No. Kazan was the rider stupid enough to awaken his dragon. Twelve other dragons went missing trying to find him. Fortunately half of them didn’t have time to wake and still it took the intervention of three neighboring realms and Speaker Ayzalmir to put an end to it. Hundreds of riders were killed. Most of what you think you know is true, the picking over the pieces afterward, the destruction of the realm as it was. But the beginning . . .” Jeiros grinned broadly. “Not what you think. There are always the same number of dragons in the realms, Prince Jehal. This is why you have so many eggs in your eyrie and yet so few of them hatch, because no egg can hatch until another dragon dies. But do you know why? Do you know how many? When they do hatch, a quarter of hatchlings only last a few days. Again, do you know why? Do you know how the dragons were tamed? No, you don’t.”
“No, there you are wrong, Master Jeiros.” Jehal screwed up his face as he shifted slightly in his bed. “I know that story. The last of the great wizards sucked all the magic out of the realms in one mighty spell . . .” He stopped. Jeiros was trying not to laugh.
“Forgive me, Your Holiness. The stories of the Adamantine Spear and of the last great wizard and other such mumbo-jumbo. These are stories for children, not for kings, not even for princes.” He cocked his head. “You know how the dragons at the redoubt were defeated, poisoned by their own greed. The Embers trace their traditions back to the first free men. We fed our first potions to the wild dragons in the only way we knew. Then we sought out their eggs. At first we killed the hatchlings, but then we found we could use them. It made finding the rest a lot easier.” He chuckled. “No, the symbols of the speaker are a ring and a spear, but that is all they are, symbols. They might have had a power once, but not any more.”
Jehal narrowed his eyes. “Are you lying to me, Master Alchemist? I had thought the Silver King tamed the dragons.”
Jeiros’ face didn’t give anything away. “We guard our secrets well and if you understood them, you would guard them too.” He reached the door and bowed. “Good evening to you, Prince Jehal. When you are a king, we will speak of these matters some more.”
“One moment, Master Alchemist. How much of this does Zafir know?” Jeiros shook his head. “She is a queen, Your Holiness, and the speaker. She knows as much as she needs to know. More than you.” With that, he bowed one last time and left. Jehal closed his eyes. That’s a lot to think about and I don’t have the strength these days. One at a time then. The Syuss. He reached into his memories, trying to think, but all the stories he could remember were filled with holes. He could feel himself drifting, losing his concentration. That was the Dreamleaf messing with him. Better Dreamleaf than constant burning agony. He shuddered. If anyone ever wanted to torture him again, all they’d have to do was bring him back to this room, pull out a chamber pot and wave it at him.
Jeiros is bound to have a book. He can lend it to me. Maybe he can lend me someone to read it too, so I don’t have to find the energy to sit up.
He wasn’t sure whether what happened next was a dream or a memory. He was drifting into sleep and then he was wide awake and the room was much darker; in between, he’d been the speaker, riding to war, clutching the Adamantine Spear in one hand and a cage full of birds in the other. When he let the birds out of their cage, he wasn’t sure whether he was Ayzalmir, bringing order and peace to a ruined realm, or whether he was Zafir, and the birds were chaos and death.
A cold certainty gripped him, that som
eone else was in the room. He strained his ears. Kazah was snoring gently but Kazah didn’t count. He could feel someone else. A presence lurking in the shadows, silent and invisible and yet very much there.
“Who are you?” He spoke quietly, almost at a whisper, but in the stillness the words sounded loud. Calm though. At least they sounded calm.
Now he saw a shadow move. He started to rise, but that sent a spear of pain through him.
“Shall I light a candle?” asked the shadow. “I don’t want to wake the boy.”
“I don’t converse with ghosts and shadows. Let me see your face.” Jehal slipped his hand under his pillow. He had a knife there, always.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure, thank you.” I should be shouting for the guard, except most likely they let him in.
“Very well.” The shadow walked away from Jehal’s bed to the far corner of the room where a night candle burned. The shadow lit another and slowly returned. Now Jehal could see. The shadow had a man’s face. One he’d seen before.
“I know you. You were one of Shezira’s men.” Now I really should be shouting for the guard. But the voice. That was much more recent.
The man laughed very softly. “Are you afraid of me, Prince Jehal?”
“I am unaccustomed to strangers slipping into my room at night. It sets me on edge.” The voice. I know the voice. He wasn’t a rider.
“Whereas I am very much accustomed to it. I’ve been in here with you before. Do you remember? We made an agreement. As deathbed visions go, I like you. That’s what you said. Ringing any bells?”
“Ah.” Jehal’s mouth felt very dry. “I’ d rather hoped you were a hallucination. I liked you a lot better that way.”
“And I liked you a lot better when you were nearly dead.”
“Who are you?”
“I have many names. Kithyr will do. I am a blood-mage. No one else could have saved your life and I meant every word about putting the poison in your blood right back where it came from. I have it stashed carefully away, should I ever need it. You are mine, Jehal.”
“Right.” Jehal’s fingers closed around the hilt of his knife. Never mind the pain. One quick strike and it’s over. Then you can scream. “So now you want something from me in return for my life. And if I don’t give it to you, you’re going to kill me? Do you really think that’s going to work?”
The candle threw strange shadows over the blood-mage’s face. It made his features shift and blur and change so they were almost impossible to read. “Taking the poison out of your wound also took a great deal from me, Prince Jehal. I told you then that what I truly want for that is not yet something that is yours to give. What I want now is more of a first instalment, and much more in your gift. What interests me now is money.”
The fingers gripping the knife relaxed. “Money? How very tedious of you. Still, if you say you saved my life . . .”
“Not your money.” The mage seemed genuinely annoyed. “The speaker’s money. She offers her own weight in gold for each of the Red Riders. That is a tantalizing prospect, is it not?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Jehal yawned. “She’s rather small and skinny.” He cocked his head. “Anyway, if that’s what you’re after, you seem to have slipped into the wrong bedchamber, blood-mage. I do not appear to be the speaker.”
The mage uttered a soft laugh. “Even if I abased myself before her throne, I could not be sure that Zafir wouldn’t have me put to death simply for being what I am.”
“Zafir is nothing if not a pragmatist.” Now Jehal laughed as well. “Ancestors ! If Shezira was prepared to have a blood-mage around, well, the Edict of Vishmir might as well not exist.”
“Whatever else she is, Zafir is a daughter of the Silver City. Her blood and ours have a very old score to settle. As for Queen Shezira, she had no idea what I was.”
Which had to be true, and so it must have been Shezira’s knight-marshal who’d found the blood-mage. A woman of true vision. Brave and bold and cunning and ruthless. Everything I have in Meteroa and more, and so fanatically, obstinately loyal. He sighed. Such a pity. Now, do I shout for the guards or not? Where are we going with this, blood-mage? There was still the knife, still quick and easy to hand.
“I want the Red Riders, Prince Jehal. They have served their purpose and now I want them gone. I can give them to you and you can give them to the speaker. You will get her gold and her favor. Half the gold you will give to me. The favor you can keep. By this we shall see that we can trust each other.”
Trust? Ha! “Really. You can give them to me?”
Kithyr blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. “Really. Drotan’s Top, Prince Jehal. When Valmeyan is safely back in his mountains. Sooner or later they will strike again at Drotan’s Top. When they do they will be yours for the taking.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the poison goes back in your blood, Prince, and you die.”
“I will be a king after this.”
Kithyr stood by the door. “And at the speaker’s right hand again, and neither will save you, Jehal. It’s a simple enough thing that I ask. It costs you nothing and gains you a great deal.”
“That is true.” Jehal smiled and watched the mage go. Then he wiped his palm, lay back and stared at the ceiling. Very true. “Sooner or later is somewhat vague, blood-mage. I might have deduced that for myself.”
“Yes, you might.” The voice wafted from across the room. “Then how about this, Prince? In four weeks to the day they will strike again at Drotan’s Top. Does that suit you better? I could have it be sooner, but I imagine you will need some time to prepare. I hope, when you see that I am right, you will understand with whom you are dealing and think long and hard about our other agreement.”
Jehal didn’t answer. He heard the door whisper open and closed again. When he was sure he was alone, he breathed a deep sigh. His heart was racing.
“Yes,” he whispered to the night. “Long and hard. I think I shall.”
He had to wait a long time before sleep came to him again. He felt alive, more alive than he had for weeks, more alive than he had since Hyram’s fall. When he did finally sink into slumber, he was grinning.
31
THE MAUSOLEUM
Jaslyn left Evenspire as soon as politeness allowed. They barely said goodbye. She didn’t tell Almiri where she was going; in fact, she didn’t tell anyone. Jaslyn and Hyrkallan and the half a hundred dragons she’d brought with her to Evenspire. North toward home, for the sake of any prying eyes, high over the Blackwind Hills until they passed Far-dale and Southwatch and the Last River. Up in the north there were no foothills, no grassy rolling slopes. Just ash and pale silver sand, rippling in giant waves until they crashed against the immense white and gray cliff faces at the edge of the Worldspine. No rivers, no trees, no grass, only ash and sand. Ash and sand. That’s all there was to the north. Endless days of dead nothingness before the land slowly changed once more.
When they were well and truly out of sight, they parted ways. Most flew on, back to Outwatch, Southwatch and Sand. The places they belonged. Jaslyn, though, turned west, toward the Worldspine, with Hyrkallan and two others that he’d chosen beside them. Hyrkallan didn’t like it, had sternly advised against it. Hyrkallan could go screw himself. In the safety of the deep dead peaks, they turned back south and began their long journey toward the sea. Little streaks of green began to appear in the valleys below, desperate little strips of life clinging to the shady spaces where a few tiny streams would flow on those rare days when the rain came. Out here even the mountain stones seemed bleached white by the heat. Then they crossed the deep gash that seemed to run like an open wound all the way as far as she could see, even into the immeasurable heart of the Spine. The valley of the Last River. The last water in the north, the blood of her realm that ran past the edge of the Blackwind Hills and Southwatch and Sand and all the little hot and dusty towns of Ishmar’s Valley until it staggered away into
the desert again and finally expired, if it was lucky, in the Lake of Ghosts.
She thought of turning west again, of launching herself even deeper into the Worldspine if only to see what she might find. She always thought of that when she came out here. The Worldspine was rumored to be filled with hidden valleys, or else to rise up ever higher, until it touched the sky, so high even dragons couldn’t pass over. Or else, some said that beyond the Spine lay other realms, another speaker, another palace, yet more dragons, a world a mirror of this one. Up here, this far north, no one would ever find her. The Worldspine belonged to the King of the Crags, or so they told her, but here, she was quite sure, it belonged to no one but itself.
Yes, a part of Jaslyn was minded to explore but that part would have to wait. For now, she had a duty to her sisters. To Almiri, who sat on her dead husband’s throne, who was so still that she might have been a statue, whose face looked as brittle as fine glass. Almiri had not taken the news well, though it had hardly come as a surprise. Her husband and their mother, beheaded by a dozen soldiers. No one there to bear witness. No one to hear their last words. Their bodies hung in cages outside the palace instead of being fed to their dragons. And all Jaslyn could do was wonder: What if they were guilty? What if mother did kill Hyram? What if she did try to have Zafir murdered? Is it so unlikely? I wasn’t there, I didn’t see it all unfold, so how do I know it’s not true?
And to Lystra, most of all to little sister Lystra. The last news was that the Viper was going to live after all. Which was a pity, and was what had finally convinced her to fly south and not north. She needed her sister. She needed Lystra to tell her who to fight. To tell her that Jehal was a monster to be slain. Or to tell her that she was wrong. Or, more simply, she needed Lystra to be there. Next to her. In the flesh, alive and breathing. To hug and hold and laugh and tell her that life was not quite so bleak as these mountains. So she stayed her course and watched the valleys below spring into timid uncertain life, still clinging to the great rivers and the few little streams that fed them. They stopped for a night in a valley looking down over the Blackwind River, four riders and four dragons, surrounded by emptiness. In the morning they flew on, steadily south, and as they came closer to the Purple Spur, it seemed as though a line of shadow speckled with stars crossed the spines and ridges of the mountains. Snowfields sprang up, the greens of the valleys thickened and filled with trees and rushing water. Valmeyan’s realm. Hyrkallan guided them uneasily now, took them low into the valleys where there was little to see but the rush of trees below and snow-spattered cliffs to either side. But the mountains were empty; King Valmeyan’s dragons were ensconced around the Mirror Lakes, slowly eating their way through the speaker’s cattle.