Shatterwing: Dragon Wine 1

by Donna Maree Hanson

  Neither of them wasted time on idle chatter because they didn’t want to give offense to their host. Laidan quickly unrolled her spare tunic from her pack and hastily washed from a bowl. Thurdon unpacked his things and beat some of the dust from his own shabby robe. As Laidan dressed, she wondered if Thurdon would notice if she improved her outfit with a braided belt, a souvenir from the last town. It was a relatively simple braid in cream and red, not embellished with lace or beading, but it did draw in the drab pale blue tunic at the waist and show a little of her figure. It had been a gift from a young woman who had found Laidan’s fair coloring and pale blonde hair pleasing as well as a novelty.

  She decided at the last that she would wear it, and after fixing it round her waist she vigorously brushed her hair out until it was glossy and straight. Since she’d begun to wash it regularly three years before, her fair hair had always won her comments. Prior to that, Thurdon hadn’t insisted on cleanliness and hadn’t minded that she looked no different from the rest of the street urchins and unruly children in any town.

  “Ready?” he asked her.

  She stepped out from behind her curtain. “Yes … and I’m starving. Shall we go?”

  Thurdon’s gaze flicked to her belt and then to her face.

  “We will have to speak with the Master Elder at the observatory tomorrow. I see nothing but danger in this trend of yours.”

  Laidan put her hands on her hips. “What trend?”

  Thurdon opened the door and ushered her out. “To be beautiful despite all your disadvantages and my efforts,” he said in a somber voice. “And beauty is a curse to you.”

  “Oh?” Laidan smiled, pleased by the compliment, although she worried at the regret she detected in Thurdon’s words. How could being nice to look at be a curse?

  The reception room where the meals were held was a large, grand room. It was only here in Vanden that someone as important as a prince took an interest in them. “Thurdon, welcome to my brother’s house,” Lenk, the prince’s brother, said. “And, my lady Laidan,” he added, picking up her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You grow even lovelier every time we meet.”

  Lenk’s dark eyes twinkled and there was something in his gaze that both frightened and excited Laidan. Her skin prickled and her breath caught in her throat, just for a quick, tantalizing second. Lenk held her arm as he led her to the table. Thurdon intervened when Lenk tried to seat her next to him.

  “Pray excuse me, my lord, but I need Laidan to assist me to eat. I am not as young as I used to be.” To Laidan’s surprise the old man did a pretty good job of seeming doddery and leaned hard on her shoulder when she came to stand next to him. Her glance at Lenk was full of disappointment. Lenk’s response was a smile before he seemed to forget all about her and concentrated on his meal.

  When it was time for dessert, Lenk stood up, offering around sweetmeats on a tray. After offering them to the prince and his wife, he brought the tray over to Laidan. “Some pickled liaberries, my lady?” he asked, presenting the tray. Laidan was about to refuse when Lenk pulled the tray away. With a bow, he said, “Forgive me, I recollect that you are allergic to them. I’ll remove them from your presence.”

  And with that he walked away without offering any to Thurdon. She did wonder at his lapse of manners, but was soon distracted when the princess turned to her and struck up a conversation. Laidan couldn’t help but be spellbound by the pretty little woman. Her dress was so beautiful. Even Laidan knew enough about clothes to realize that it must be amazingly valuable. Such cloth, such workmanship; The prince must love her dearly to buy her such a gown, she thought as she chatted.

  When they were preparing for bed, Thurdon spoke of his worry. “Did you notice how strained the conversation was?”

  “Mmm … a little,” she replied rather absently. Her mind had been on that kiss on her knuckles and the look in Lenk’s eyes.

  “We must leave as soon as we can. I fear the situation is dangerous. Something dreadful is going to happen.”

  “What, in Vanden? It has always been peaceful here. I don’t think …”

  Thurdon cut her off. “Go to sleep now. I am not certain what is going on, only that something is. We must leave first thing in the morning. Indeed, I regret my decision to stay here even this night.”

  After a nod to him, she slipped behind the curtain. She wondered what had come over her master. First his obsession with how she looked, and now suspicions about the situation in Vanden. She hoped he wasn’t turning senile. She slipped off her clothes and climbed onto her pallet. Her bed was not luxurious by any means, but it was better than hard ground liberally sprinkled with pebbles. The wine she had drunk at dinner filled her thoughts with frivolous things like pretty dresses and warm kisses as she started to doze off.

  Not long after, Thurdon asked if she was awake. Her eyes flew open. “Yes, I’m awake. Are you well?”

  “Yes, I’m well. I’ve been thinking, Laidan …’tis time.”

  “Time?” Her heart rate quickened. “For what exactly?”

  “Laidan, you know that I have been searching all these years … searching for someone like me.”

  “Yes, I know …”

  “But there is more to it than that. ’Tis time you learned about the greater world and the mysteries I guard.”

  “So you’ll be staying with me, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Thurdon.”

  As she closed her eyes, a story he’d once told her, long ago when she was seven or eight, came to mind. She hadn’t really understood it then and she wasn’t sure she did now. The story was about a father and his twin sons. The father had an inheritance, a special inheritance, but he found it hard to decide which son to give it to, for both were equally worthy. For many nights the father pondered what to do, until he had a dream. In this dream he foresaw that he had to split the inheritance in two, so that each could have a share. The effort to split his gift killed the father, but the split was successful. Thurdon told her that he was one of the inheritors of that gift and he was searching for the carrier of the other one.

  When Laidan woke rather late the next morning, Thurdon was absent from the room. The sun was already up, sending its rosy light to bathe the walls. Laidan took her time to wash while Thurdon was out and then laundered her dirty tunic. She had to rinse it in fresh water many times before the water ran clear. She hung it by the window and frowned when she recollected that Thurdon had wanted to leave early. She wondered where he was.

  A soft knock at the door interrupted her chores. To her surprise a guard stood there with a tray of food. Without a smile or greeting, he said, “The cook sends you a breakfast tray, courtesy of the prince.” He thrust the tray into her hands.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the food. How odd that a servant didn’t bring it, she thought as she placed the tray on the table. While she was looking at what the prince had sent for their breakfast Thurdon walked in. His eyes darted around the room and his brows drew together into one gray line.

  “Laidan, we must leave, right now. Are you packed?”

  She found herself answering him calmly. “Well, not really … and we have some breakfast courtesy of the prince.”

  “I’d rather not delay. Please pack your things.” He gestured to her pallet and then turned to where his own belongings were.

  “But I’m hungry … Can’t we eat first and then leave?”

  With his back to her he picked up his things and threw them haphazardly into his pack. “Eat then, but hurry up about it.”

  Laidan sat down and poured herself some watered wine. Next she took some bread and munched on it while she watched Thurdon pace absently. “Won’t you eat something? It is a long walk up the mountain.”

  His gaze met hers. “Wing dust! You’ll be the end of me.” Seeing her affronted expression, he shrugged before scraping his chair across the floor and sitting in it. “Don’t look at me like that … yes, yes, you are right. We should eat first, but I don’t
want to linger.” He picked up some pickled liaberries and ate them absently, spitting the pips onto the tray.

  Laidan sat quietly, sipping her wine and eating her bread, daydreaming. Thoughts of what Thurdon would teach her and the way her life would change when she lived permanently at the observatory figured predominately. A slight choking sound roused her from her reverie. Thurdon sat across the table from her, pale and sweating. It took a few moments to register that something was wrong. Her heart lurched painfully, and she swallowed once before speaking. “Master?”

  His gaze slid to hers, unfocused and glazed. “Laidan …?”

  Immediately she was possessed with a terrible fear and surged out of her chair, letting it crash to the floor in her haste to go to him. Gently she touched his arm and said in a shaky voice, “Master? What is it? Master—”

  *

  Laidan squeezed her master’s hand, feeling the dry, papery skin. Consciousness came and went as the old man battled his illness—one minute he was mumbling something that seemed coherent, the next his mouth was slack and his eyes dull. With a cool cloth she wiped his brow and spoke soothing words to him. She said the same kind of silly nothings he’d said to her when he had nursed her through childhood illnesses.

  “Oh, Thurdon, please be all right. Please.” This sudden, virulent attack worried her. He was deteriorating before her eyes and she didn’t know what to do. When she had suggested sending for a physic, he had begged her not to.

  He thrust his head from side to side and then became unresponsive—as still as death. No, don’t think that … he’s sleeping, she told herself. She refreshed the cloth in the basin. “It can’t be serious. It just can’t,” she said to herself as she squeezed the water out of the cloth. Just then, Thurdon mumbled once and his eyes opened. She noted that there was some awareness in his fevered gaze. She knelt and cradled his head in her arms so that he could talk to her. His face was transformed by a grimace. Sweat beaded on his lip and forehead.

  “Laidan,” he said, his voice a thin whisper. His sweat-matted hair hung in clumps. For the first time in her life Laidan was truly afraid.

  She licked her dry lips. “Yes. I am here. But you must rest so that your illness will pass.” Some watered wine was in reach. “Please take a sip of this.” He pushed weakly at her hand, refusing to drink. “Please,” she begged, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “It will soothe and allow you to heal.”

  “No, Laidan … will not heal me. Too late … poisoned … die soon.” His voice wavered and cracked.

  “Poisoned? How?” They’d eaten at the same table, so wouldn’t she be poisoned too? They had eaten from the same tray of food, but only he had had the berries … Her eyes dwelled on the breakfast tray. Was that it?

  Thurdon grabbed her hand and shook it. “Laidan … you must listen to me. I have no time … can’t prepare you …”

  Laidan felt the sting of tears and brushed at them with the back of her hand. “No. I don’t want you to die. It can’t be happening …”

  “Can’t stop it … forgive me … I am a fool. Should have prepared you before, but I thought Garan—”

  “Prepare me? For what? Please. I don’t understand. What has Garan got to do with it?”

  With clawed hands his fingers burrowed into her shoulders and he dragged her close. Thurdon struggled with her as she tried to resist. The goblet fell to the floor with a loud clatter, spilling the wine within as he wrenched her close. Eye to eye, nose to nose, he said, “Look at me … see what I see.”

  “No, stop. Thurdon, please. Let me go!”

  Half caught up in fear and loss, her heartbeat thumped in her chest. Was he delirious? Yet there was something, a feeling, which made her cease struggling. Thurdon’s eyes glowed. She’d glimpsed his glowing eyes before, but rarely. When she’d asked him about it, he’d always said he would explain it one day. He had forbidden her to mention it to anyone else, as one misplaced word about strange phenomena could put them both in danger. The light grew brighter, stronger, pulsating and alive. It filled her vision and her mind. Then came the pain, the scouring, rending pain of it. She screamed. What was happening? Even those thoughts were swallowed up in the storm raging in her head. The voices, the whirl of emotions, the white separating into colors …

  Thurdon’s hands no longer dug into the flesh of her shoulders, that much she was aware of, but of the room, the house, she saw nothing. It was as if she existed nowhere. Time suddenly seemed an oddly elastic, measureless concept: should she record it by heartbeat, by days, by years or by lifetimes? Threads of lives seemed joined in her head, stretching back to a dark dot in the past. Deeds, emotions, knowledge, writhed, pulsated and were incomprehensible. Everything else was a bright, searing light, a place beyond thought. Thurdon was gone, dead, yet not dead. He was inside her. His thoughts tumbled, mangling her own. There were other distant voices, swirlings of power that washed over her, drowning her, dragging her down.

  *

  A dull thumping sounded. At first it seemed to be originating from inside Laidan’s head. Then she discerned that it was outside of her and elsewhere. Where was she? In a room … with a door? Someone was knocking. Although she couldn’t see her situation clearly, she felt Thurdon’s body beneath her. There was such an intense light in her head. Objects were shadows and vague outlines haloed in rainbows. Her head felt light, as if she were floating. She sat up and angled her head in the direction of the insistent thumping. It was difficult to think, to move. Part of her grieved for the loss of her master and the other part wrestled with what he had done to her. What had he done? She didn’t rightly know.

  Feeling emotionally numb, she touched Thurdon, though she could barely see him, so dazzled was she by the light. He was cold and stiff now, but she couldn’t let him go. He’d been like a father to her as well as her teacher and friend. Her love of Thurdon, her sense of loss, sparked a reaction within her mind—an image assailed her, clear and sweet—a memory, not her own, unfolded …

  It was a crisp morning, and Thurdon shivered in spite of himself. He glanced casually at the Duggan Ranges, which lay red in the distance, and then let his gaze roam over the settlement where the previous night’s dust storm had layered the roofs in ochre and brown. Thurdon’s burden beast was packed and ready. Laidan was but a child, half-hanging on to her mother’s ragged skirts, face smudged with grime, legs thin and eyes big and blue. He bargained with her mother, haggled and argued over the price of her.

  A few coins later, she was perched on his shoulders as he carried her away to settle her on his burden beast’s back. The scruffy beast pawed the ground, almost gouging Thurdon’s foot. He used his power to calm the beast and then followed that up with a firm tap on its hairy flanks.

  The image faded; Thurdon’s presence retreated. It was strange to see herself through Thurdon’s eyes. For that was how it had been. His thoughts about obtaining possession of her were rather strange. It was not love or kinship that had motivated the transaction. Thoughts of her value and rarity were in his memories. The word “potential” was all she could clearly make out. He’d bought her for her potential.

  No sooner than that memory had faded, Laidan was assaulted by another more urgent thought that pierced into her mind like an arrow. Lenk! Ware, Lenk! And with that, the cacophony in her mind reached a crescendo. The door sounded like it was being pummeled by a heavy object and many shoulders in turn, but she could do nothing to respond to it. Thurdon’s gift had left her unable to move.

  A final agonized screech heralded the splintering of the door, which smashed open against the wall. Laidan could not move, though she flinched instinctively as she felt a piece of wood hit her arm. She could see the outlines of men and hear clearly, although whether she was processing what she saw and heard correctly she didn’t know. Voices gabbled and bodies shifted and pushed their way into the room. So many men yelling at once added to her confusion. The white haze was everywhere.

  “You there, look at me. Take your hands off the old
man.”

  Laidan tried to obey. It was a guard that loomed in her line of sight. The light shimmered around his breast plate and helmet, his face a globe of moving dark red shadow. He grew larger in her vision as she felt herself dragged to her feet.

  Disoriented, she swayed as the guard yelled in her face.

  “Stand up, poisoner!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The New Prince of Vanden

  A blow to the head knocked Laidan down. Then the guard dragged her to her feet again, shoving her in front of him to face another man.

  Even as dazed as she was, she could tell it was Lenk. The scent of the prince’s brother was particularly strong: wine and spice and something else. He picked up her trembling hands, turning them over gently. “Shall I kiss the hand of an assassin?” he asked. When she didn’t reply, he turned his head to examine Thurdon.

  Damn this light, Laidan thought, I can’t see his expression. I can’t tell if he means me good or ill. She tried to speak but her tongue wouldn’t move and the only sounds that emerged were idiot moans. Panic made her fight Thurdon’s gift, but that made it worse. The light amplified, the whirl of emotions accelerated like a serrated knife edge as it tore through her thoughts. She sagged to her knees and cried out. Lenk squatted down in front of her and spoke to her in a gentle voice. “I heard that there was trouble, Laidan. I heard rumors of poison. I’m afraid we are too late to save your master.”

  A vague sense of warning floated somewhere out of reach, then Thurdon’s presence surged up in a spout of anger and rage. The pain was intense. She heard whimpers and guessed they were her own. Deep voices echoed around her, the sounds of the guards crying out in fear.

  Lenk let go of her hands and surged to his feet. “You! Fetch Tuan quickly.” Someone raced out of the room, leaving a “Yes, my lord” floating in the air.