My temerity in saying these words astonished even me. Zhantar’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.
“Have a care, girl. There is much I will tolerate from you, but if you push me too far, you will regret it.”
I turned my back on him. “There is little more you can do to me.”
He laughed. “Oh, there is much I can—and will, if necessary—do to you.” A long pause stretched between us. “But, come, Donavah. I have no wish to do things to you. How much better if we did things together? For despite your bitter words, you are one of us. And when you know the truth, you will confess it. Will you not listen to what I have to say?”
I didn’t answer.
“Or perhaps you would prefer for me to turn this conversation over to my son.” He paused, making sure there would be no mistaking his meaning. “Come,” he finally spoke again, and now his voice took on a kindly, coaxing tone. “We needn’t be adversaries. I understand why you feel as you do, and I don’t blame you. But I hope ... well, what I hope can wait until another time. Come, sit back down.”
And I did. I despised myself for fearing Anazian so deeply that the mere threat of seeing him was enough to frighten me into submission.
Zhantar placed a hand on the book that still sat on the table. “This is an ancient tome written by Wals, DragonLord of old and passed down from each DragonLord to the next. Wals was a mighty man, living far beyond his natural years. He gathered knowledge of all sorts, both arcane and mundane. And he recorded the deepest, darkest secrets in this book.” He stroked it reverentially. “This very book, from which you just read. And you lived.”
I frowned but stopped myself from asking what he meant, sure that that was exactly what he wanted me to do, and sure, too, that he would tell me whether I asked or not.
He gave me a piercing look that in a way reminded me of Yallick. His voice dropped in volume and increased in intensity. “That book is Wals’ Cursed Book of Knowledge. Cursed, because anyone unworthy who even looks on its pages, much less tries to read it, will die. A slow, painful death.”
I couldn’t help it: I looked at the book in astonishment. How could a book kill someone?
“If you don’t believe me, I can arrange a demonstration.”
“No!” I exclaimed, turning my attention back to him. “No. I believe you.” And, in truth, I did. There was something earnest in his manner, in the way he held himself, the way he spoke the words, that told me he was speaking the truth. There was only one way he could know for sure. I shivered.
“And I will now tell you another thing. I have never read from the book.”
“You coward!” He wouldn’t read it himself, but he’d set it before me!
He laughed. “Oh, Donavah. I do so much prefer you like this. You are much more interesting than the mousy little Dona who thought herself safe in a rich lord’s house.
“But you misunderstand. It is not cowardice that kept me from reading the book. You see, it shows its words only to Wals’ direct descendents.”
Those words froze me in my seat. I could hardly draw breath.
Zhantar rose to his feet. “I think that is enough for our first talk. I daresay you have enough to think on for awhile. I will return in the afternoon, for I have another treasure to show you.” He picked up the book and left.
I left the lunch tray untouched. Memories of the morning’s events swirled through my mind. A book that could kill people, and—in its own way more shocking—revealed that I was a descendent of some ancient DragonLord. The thought left a disgusting taste of bile in my mouth.
Nilla came to take away the tray, and she frowned when she saw I hadn’t eaten. She carried it over to me, but I put up my hand and shook my head. A tiny voice of common sense suggested that going hungry wasn’t going to help, but I silenced it. I didn’t have any intention of starving myself; I just didn’t feel like eating now.
When Zhantar eventually returned, he carried a basket whose contents were covered with a black velvet cloth. He set it on the floor next to the table, then turned to look at me.
“Have you given thought to what I said earlier?” he asked.
“I have. And as you well know, it doesn’t mean much of anything.”
He raised his eyebrows, much as I would’ve expected Yallick to do had I answered him in the same way. “Do go on.”
“There are probably thousands of descendents of Wals. It’s hardly significant if I’m one of them. It means exactly nothing.”
“True enough that there may be thousands. But only one brought back the red dragons.”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut when I realized there was nothing I could say to rebut that.
Zhantar’s face took on an eager light. “Do you not see? You have proven yourself to be a dragonmaster, whether you wish to acknowledge the title or not.”
“No one can truly master a dragon.”
He laughed at that. “You think not? Tomorrow, I shall disabuse you of that notion. For now, there is something I want you to see.”
He sat in one chair and motioned for me to sit in the other. He took the velvet cloth from the basket and covered the table with it. Then he lifted a crystal sphere, about eight inches in diameter, out of the basket and placed it on the velvet. I stared, wide-eyed.
“You recognize this?” he asked.
I nodded. As a matter of fact, I’d seen a sphere exactly like it. Oleeda had it in her quarters back at Roylinn Academy’s retreat house, and she’d used it to view a memory I’d long repressed. Is that what Zhantar intended to do, to view my memories for his entertainment?
“A marvelous instrument, this is,” Zhantar said in a silky voice. “It can reveal what is, what has been, and to the truly skilled, what will be.” He gazed into the cloudy depths of the sphere for a moment, then slowly lifted his eyes to me in such a way that he could have been caressing me. I shivered. “Let us see what it has to tell us today.”
He held the sphere cupped in his hands. Where his skin touched the surface, colors began to appear and spread. Slowly, like morning haze burning away under the strengthening sun, the murk disappeared, leaving an image behind. Unable to resist, I bent closer to see better. The sphere filled with a view of Penwick, the golden roof of the palace gleaming in the bright sunshine.
“Yes, yes,” Zhantar said. He blew softly on the sphere, and the image changed. Now the palace filled the crystal. The image was so clear I could see the leaves on the trees fluttering in the breeze. Eyes closed in concentration, Zhantar nodded twice, then blew again.
Now the sphere showed a room, long and narrow, down the center of which ran a table. Women sat working at this table, women who looked weary and dejected. Some had blackened eyes or bruised cheeks. All sewed. None spoke. Watching them work, I could feel their sadness as if it were a physical thing, their bitterness as if they knew I looked on their misery and wished me ill for it.
Then I noticed something else. The nearest woman had her back to me, but something about her looked familiar. Her dark, plaited hair hung down her back, which was hunched over her work. She gave her head a little shake and lifted the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture that I knew.
Mama!
It struck me like lightning and seemed to stop my heart. As I watched, she reached down to rub her ankle, which was shackled to the chair.
“Mama!” My spirit screamed the word, but my mouth merely whispered it. I slipped from the chair to my knees, trying to get as close to the crystal as possible, to try to understand where she was ... and why.
“Do not touch the glass,” Zhantar said in a quiet voice.
Just then, a woman in a uniform walked up behind Mama. I heard the woman shout, as if it were from a short distance away, “Get back to work, you lazy dog,” and she clouted her across the back of her head.
“No!” I shouted. “Leave her alone!”
Zhantar let out a low chuckle. “We can hear them, but they cannot hear us.”
“Where is she?” I cried, rising to my feet and looking back and forth from the DragonLord to the sphere. “What’s going on?” Tears poured down my face. Mama! Chained to a chair, being beaten. Oh, Mama!
“She is in the palace, of course. As a slave.” As matter-of-factly as if he were telling me that the grass was green and the sky blue.
“A slave? Why?” I walked to the window, then back to the table in agitation. “Why would someone make her a slave? And where’s Papa? Is he a slave, too?” I dashed my tears away, only for them to be replaced.
Zhantar watched me with narrowed eyes. “I do not deem the time right to reveal your father’s plight. Not yet.”
I scarcely heard his words as I knelt down to look into the crystal again. But the image was fading, turning back into white haze.
“Now, let us talk about your mother. She leads a weary life. Sewing all day from sunup to sundown. Not allowed to speed the passing of time with chatter. Crammed into tight sleeping quarters with little food. And it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
I gaped at him for a moment, then with no thought of the consequences, I flew at him. My attack caught him off guard, and I managed to strike him hard in the face before he realized what was happening. But my outburst of rage hadn’t accounted for him being a very powerful magician.
Before my second blow could land, he raised a hand, palm outward as if pushing me away, and I sailed through the air, crashing against the far wall and falling in a heap. The collision knocked the breath out of me, and for a few seconds I concentrated on trying to get it back.
But I couldn’t breathe. Zhantar, his eyes blazing, stood over me, hands on hips, just watching. It was as if someone had their hands around my throat, choking me. My lungs burned and my tongue seemed to swell. I tried to stand up, to do something that would break the casting of the spell, but the best I could do was rise to all fours.
I forced my lungs to expand, but nothing filled them. Tumbling over onto my side, I looked up at Zhantar in terror. He stood as immobile as stone staring at me.
When consciousness returned, I lay where I’d fallen. After a few moments of trying to get my bearings, I pushed myself to my feet and went to lie down on my bed.
What had gotten into me, to attack Zhantar like that? Yes, his mocking had enraged me, but what a stupid thing for me to do.
No food was sent to me that night, and I had to make do with just water. I went to bed before it got dark and fell into a heavy sleep.
In my dream, I fell upward. I sped through a purple sky, with lights of every color flashing around me. A voice, ancient and deeply rooted as the hills, spoke. “Why do you disturb my rest?” The words shook my very soul and arrested my flight. Now I floated, slowly spinning in place, trying to fight off dizziness and the tightening pain that coursed through my body. A voice of ancient power told me its story, infusing me with its own strength. A strange sensation passed through me. It started at my toes and worked its way upward, making me feel both warm and cold, weak and strong. I wanted to laugh and weep, sing and dance and stand quiet and still, all at the same time.
Then it all faded away, and I wept for what I’d lost.
I woke up with tears on my cheeks and damp spots on my pillow. Sitting up and stretching my arms, I thought about the dream. It was such a keen reminder of the strength Etos had given me—strength I’d lost.
Or had I?
Perhaps the dream had been sent to remind me not of what I’d lost, but of what I had. For I was strong. Strong enough to gather sufficient power to bring the red dragons back to Hedra. Strong enough that Zhantar wanted me to become a dragonmaster. Strong enough, surely, to find my way out of what I faced now. I would just need to be canny and careful.
It was well that I made this resolution.
Nilla brought my breakfast tray, her face looking grey and worried. She hustled me into eating quickly, and I wondered what could be up. When I finished, she took the tray away, but was back only minutes later carrying a large bundle of clothes. Black leggings and tunic, rich purple and blue sash, black boots that fit perfectly, though I hadn’t been measured for them. And, to go over it all, a floor-length black cloak. I resisted putting this on last, knowing full well that it would make me look like a dragonmaster, but Nilla kept looking toward the door and nearly wept with panic. I relented and let her put it on me.
She took a small metal compact from her pocket and opened it. It contained some pink powder, a bit of which she rubbed into my cheeks. She then ran a brush through my hair and pulled it back neatly into a queue.
The door opened, and Zhantar swept into the room, resplendent in his black clothes and cloak, his gold belt and torc, his jeweled fingers and handsome face. He looked every inch the DragonLord. The power radiated from him so that I could practically taste it.
“I see you are ready,” he said in a harsh voice that left me in no doubt of his continuing displeasure.
I felt myself cower away from him, then remembered my dream, remembered Etos. Straightening up and lifting my chin a little, I looked straight into his eyes. “Ready for what?”
The muscles in his jaw tightened, and it was several heartbeats before he replied. “Ready for your lesson. The one you earned yesterday.”
I swallowed and looked away, deeming it wise not to stand so firm that his only choice would be to break me. He took it as acquiescence.
“You will come with me. You will behave exactly as I expect you to. And if you are tempted to disobey me in any way, you will remember how very easy it is for a fire to start in the king’s sewing room and how unlikely it is that many of the slaves could be unshackled in time.”
My stomach churned at this reminder of what had happened to Mama. Was he taking me to see her? No, that couldn’t be it. He certainly wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble with the clothes just for that.
“Now, come, my novice. Follow me.”
His novice? How dare he be so presumptuous! But mindful of his threat, I bit back the sharp words that rose to my lips and followed him out of my room, down the stairs, and outside.
A splendid carriage stood ready in front of the house. Shiny and black, reflected sunlight sparkled off it. It was drawn by a perfectly matched pair of pure-black horses. A footman held the door open for us, and I climbed in and took a seat in the carriage’s luxurious interior. Another time, I would have enjoyed such a ride as this, but today, I would almost have preferred to be in Anazian’s cage.
We passed through beautiful, tree-lined streets. The horses’ hooves clipped merrily on the cobbles. Overhead, the sky was bright and cloudless.
Zhantar reached over and, taking my chin in his hand, forced me to look at him.
“You will behave as if you are my novice. Should you deviate in the smallest way ...” He didn’t finish the sentence, but instead snapped his fingers. A spark flew from them, glowed for a moment in the air, then went out. His meaning was clear. “And, Donavah, so that you know, my son argued long for me to let him teach you the consequences of daring to lay a hand on me. I was sorely tempted to let him have his way. But my heart tells me that subtlety will be more effective with you. It would behoove you to learn your lesson this time, for if there is a next time, Anazian might persuade me.”
I felt myself flush. Zhantar didn’t speak again until we arrived at our destination. Looking back out the window, I saw the brightly colored awnings of a marketplace.
The carriage stopped, and a moment later the footman opened the door. Zhantar stepped out, then turned and offered his hand to assist me. I would have preferred to spurn his offer, but his eyes, glittering green in the sunlight, reminded me of the part I must play. I composed my face into a pleasa
nt smile, took his hand, and stepped out next to him.
Above me, high into the sky, rose the greenish stone walls of the king’s arena.
The weeks grow long, and despair grows ever greater in my soul. Surely if Donavah were alive, we would have heard something by now.
I sit in a blackening mood, watching Traz learn the danse with Lini, watching Breyard work on flight patterns with the dragons. But to what end is it all? What can be accomplished if Donavah be lost?
No, I must shake off these feelings of doom and dread. I must not imagine the worst has happened. And if, indeed, it turns out that Donavah’s sole purpose was to bring the red dragons back from Stychs, she has done a mightier thing than I shall ever do.
But no one can blame me for wanting a better reward for her than an early death.
My breath caught in my throat. My smile faltered. No, surely he wasn’t going to make me watch executions in the dragon fighting pits. Oh, subtlety indeed. How could I bear such a thing?
“Come, my dear,” he said, keeping hold of my hand with one of his and gesturing toward the grand entrance with the other.
All around us, rich, well-dressed men and women—lords and ladies all, no doubt—drifted toward the arena. Some greeted Zhantar, the men with a heartiness that I recognized to be a cover for their fear of his power, the women with shining eyes for the handsome figure he cut.
I felt many eyes on me as we went along our way. Zhantar tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, and I could feel excitement and tension in him. People moved aside for us, and I soon found how deeply I disliked being on the receiving end of this sort of deferential behavior. Zhantar didn’t seem to notice it, as if he were accustomed to it or, perhaps more likely, as if it were his due.
We had to go through a long tunnel that passed under the tiered rows of seats, but it was high and wide and well-lit with torches. When we came out the other side, I had to suppress a shudder. Last time I was here, I’d seen a dragon eat a man. That horror came full-blown back into my mind, as did the memories of Xyla rescuing Breyard and the dragonmasters attacking me. There would be no Xyla now to save me from their clutches, no Traz to use his staff to break the magic net that held the dragons captive. I was as trapped as the dragons beneath my feet in the stables. Their misery was so great that despite the collar that blocked my maejic, I could still feel it in the air.
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