Dragonfire

by Charles Jackson

  We have nothing further to discuss. Rest now, and we shall speak again tomorrow.

  “As you wish…”

  As he pushed himself awkwardly out of the chair, knees threatening him vaguely with the possibility of arthritic pain, De Lisle allowed himself the luxury of an exasperated sigh as the light faded from both the Shard crystal in his pendant and the larger piece set into the chair back behind him. Shuffling over to the door with more confident steps as the stiffness in his joints began to loosen, he pulled it open and turned to the sentry standing at attention outside, exactly where the cardinal had expected him to be.

  “Guard; have a message sent through to Prelate Roland immediately…” he began, the man starting with fright over his unexpected appearance. “Tell him that there’s been a change of plans, and that I will be leading the Endweek ceremony tomorrow.”

  “At once, Your Grace!” The guard barked far too enthusiastically for that time of evening, immediately executing a regimental-perfect about-face and marching off down the corridor at a cracking pace. De Lisle had already closed the door on his retreating back and turned toward his bed, determined to ensure there’d be no more disturbances that evening.

  IV

  The Night Dragon

  Princess Charleroi sat quietly, just one person among a hundred or more as Cardinal De Lisle himself stood before the faithful, preparing to dispense the Shard Blessing that always formed the closing ceremony of the Endweek Service. The Royal Chapel was large and well-appointed, with long, comfortable pews cut from golden pinewood taken from the tall trees that gave the Kingdom of Huon its name. Most of the fittings – the pulpit, choir box and the rest – were all ornately carved from the same stock and all had been stained and immaculately polished as befitting the finest chapel in the kingdom.

  Several huge, candle-dotted chandeliers hung from a high-arched ceiling supported by walls of polished basalt that rose dark and lustrous on four sides, all fitted with tall, lead-framed windows of stained glass, while vases of fresh tulips dotted the columns, adding bursts of colour to the polished darkness of the stone. Also known by the commoner’s name of ‘black granite’, the stone was actually an extremely dark grey and was found in abundance right across Huon, particularly in the midst of the country’s central ranges where Fortress Cadle lay.

  Dominating everything else in the room of course was the great mural, referred to privately by any number of colloquial nicknames throughout the known world that were rarely spoken aloud for fear of denunciation as a heretic. Its correct title was Cleansing: The Coming of the Night Dragons, and the original – a dozen metres high and twice as many wide – hung as a great tapestry from the walls of the Great Chamber of The Brotherhood’s headquarters at Kraal. The name covered both the castle and the independent city-state that surrounded it, nestled within the south-western provinces of the Blacklands and far away across the Deepwater Strait that separated Huon and Taas from the rest of The Osterlands.

  Charleroi had never left the grounds of Fortress Cadle but her mentor, Randwick had told her that just about every chapel or Brotherhood temple displayed a copy of that original tapestry, invariably hung somewhere prominent where it could be seen by all. The one she glanced up at now wasn’t as large, hanging behind the pulpit and the ceremonial altar at the centre of the main stage, but it nevertheless measured at least five metres by ten and was quite imposing in its own right.

  Every man, woman or child throughout The Oster knew that painting well enough. The ruins of a burning city lay at the feet of Nethug the Bicephalus, screaming his defiance as a multitude of acolytes faithful to Way of The Shard stood witness in the foreground and the destruction of the Night Dragons rained down from the dark and boiling heavens. The followers depicted there were the last survivors, spared by the Shard Gods for their unquestioning piety, and every single one of them held aloft their Shard prayer books as testament to their faith, the glow of the Crystal’s holy blue light enveloping both the books and the hands holding them.

  The intent of the image was brutally clear: only the righteous would be saved come their time of judgement, and the wicked would fall into the pits of fiery damnation, where they would spend the rest of eternity as playthings for the Dark-Dweller himself.

  The Endweek Service was the latest of the hundreds Charleroi had attended in her sixteen summers so far. She was a tall, elegant young woman who’d taken the best of both her parents to combine a flawless, almost tanned complexion with large, dark eyes, long brown hair and a wide, perfect smile. Already almost as tall as her father, the king considered his only child to be the greatest of all his life’s achievements.

  She turned her head and glanced up as he sat there at her left shoulder, briefly smiling down at her with a faint nod before turning his own eyes forward once more. She did the same: the cardinal was moving toward them now, the king naturally first to receive the blessing and as princess, it followed that Charleroi would be next. Without turning his head, her father reached out his hand and took hers, holding it close at his side between them as he always did during Endweek and squeezing it a few times in silent reassurance as the blessing approached.

  Cardinal De Lisle, Chief Primus of The Brotherhood of the Shard halted before them, bowing once as the king automatically slipped from his seat and fell to one knee with his own, crowned head lowered in respect. The cardinal lifted his right hand, his wrist wrapped in the chain of the holy pendant he normally wore about his neck as part of his ceremonial robes. Dangling beneath his open palm, the Shard Crystal flickered softly with a faint, blue glow, its intensity building as he lifted it toward the king’s forehead.

  “In the name of The Crystal, I absolve your sins, deliver you from Nethug, the Bicephalus, and welcome you back to The Way of the Shard…” he prayed solemnly with eyes closed, the glow pulsing in time with his words as he spoke the Endweek Absolution. “May The Word lead you to paradise everlasting, in this life and the next…”

  “In the name of The Crystal…” the king murmured softly in response.

  There was a pause of perhaps a second or two, where both cardinal and king swayed together as if two blades of grass caught in the same breeze, before normality returned, the priest took a step back, and the monarch resumed his seat as if nothing had happened.

  Taking a step to his right, De Lisle now stood before Charleroi, and she too fell to one knee, accepting his bow with a single nod of recognition.

  “In the name of The Crystal, I absolve your sins, deliver you from Nethug, the Bicephalus, and welcome you back to The Way of the Shard. May The Word lead you to paradise everlasting, in this life and the next…”

  “In the name of the Crystal…”

  Charleroi’s head swam for just a moment, a faint dizziness sweeping through her and then immediately dissipating as she slid back up into her seat and her father once more took her hand and squeezed it tightly. For his part, De Lisle gave her no more consideration than he had her father, moving on to the next nobleman in line: with a hundred or more to get through, there was little time for pointless niceties. Behind him and keeping an appropriately-discrete distance, Prelate Roland followed on behind, nodding his own far more familiar greeting to each of them in turn.

  Charleroi had never known anyone else to take the Endweek other than Roland, save for just once when the prelate had been ill and it had instead been performed by one The Brotherhood’s chief investigators: a Quisitor by the name of Silas who’d been one of De Lisle’s most avid acolytes for as long as anyone could remember. She hadn’t liked him at all: he’d looked at her strangely as he’d delivered the Absolution, and for a little too long, and it had left her feeling very uncomfortable about the whole experience.

  The Absolution took perhaps an hour to complete, meaning it was close to midnight as the king and princess were escorted out at the end of the ceremony, leading the procession of royalty and nobles as they left the chapel and separated, heading for their own quarters for some well-earned sleep. T
he intention, as always, was to finish as close to midnight as possible, symbolically and literally recognising the end of the past week and the arrival of the next.

  As they crossed the main courtyard, heading for the palace entrance hall, Charleroi took note of lesser nobles and local barons’ families preparing their wagons and carriages for the journey back to their nearby farms and mansions. A palace it might be, but all were welcome at Endweek: no one was refused entry for the service, and that included serfs and workers also, although admittedly there was a larger but less ornately decorated chapel on the opposite side of the courtyard for their use.

  She frowned as she noticed men and boys helping their mothers, sisters, daughters and aunts to correctly place visards – ceremonial blindfolds – over their eyes and face in preparation for their journeys outside the castle walls. Generally a single, oval-shaped piece of reinforced velvet, the visard was seated around the top of the head by a loose-fitting strap and kept in position by a small bead sewn to the inner face, which could be held between the lips or teeth to prevent the mask from coming away from the wearer’s face.

  There were a multitude of different, sometimes colourful designs printed to the outer faces of the masks, and some of the beads might be pearl rather than ceramic or metal, however the general effect was the same for all: to prevent the wearer from seeing anything while being worn and, in practical terms, to also limit conversation through the need to keep one’s lips closed over the positioning bead. She knew the reasons why, of course: the Keepsake Law… one of the most important of the Shard Laws enforced by the brotherhood. It was in place for one purpose only: to limit the identification of Keepsakes and, by definition, the spread of witches and witchcraft.

  She’d seen this process followed after countless Endweeks over the years, and the concept had irritated her for as long as she could remember: the idea of women and girls of any age or class being forced to cover their eyes while in open or unknown countryside while they were led blindly by their menfolk either by the hand, on horseback, or inside windowless carriages seemed utterly abhorrent.

  Shaking her head, Charleroi turned and headed back toward the palace’s main entrance, forced to speed up awkwardly to catch her father, who’d continued on ahead. She was in the lead as they reached the huge main doors, towering two storeys above and thrown wide open for the Endweek service, and she drew near, something new caught her eye. Directly below a burning torch mounted to one of the towering pillars that rose on either side of that great doorway, a mark had been left against the stone for all to see. The princess couldn’t recall seeing it when they’d come through earlier, bound for the chapel, and judging by the gasps and frowning comments made by others in the entourage as they also drew near, it was most likely no one else had seen it before either.

  Daubed in dark red paint, a hastily-scrawled and very basic drawing had been left of what appeared to be a two-headed serpent, coiled about a sword. There was no need to guess what it represented: everyone recognised a depiction of Nethug, the Bicephalus well enough. Described as the essence of evil throughout the Book of the Shard, Nethug was known as the Corpse-Eater, the Soul-Destroyer… the Dark-Dweller that was the very reason the Shard Gods had rained the fire and death of The Cleansing upon the world.

  “Have the guards questioned…” she heard her father behind her, speaking softly with one of the Cadle commanders on duty, noting that he was taking great pains not to show any great annoyance or concern. “Find out who did this and report to me immediately.”

  As she passed close by, she could see that it was indeed quite fresh, with faint trails of wet paint still oozing slowly down the stone below. Charleroi began to slow down again, thinking to stop and take a closer look, but the gentle press of her father’s hand at her back instead propelled her onward, the king one step ahead in knowing when to choose discretion over curiosity. Placed at the rear of the main group, De Lisle, Roland and a trio of followers also took note of the fresh graffiti as they passed. Not a word passed between them, yet both the prelate and the cardinal knew there would be dark discussion on the matter soon enough, and as he walked on through those doors and into the palace, De Lisle’s expression was one of grim determination.

  It was past the hour by the time she made it back to her bedchamber, a fire already crackling in the hearth and spreading its warmth and comforting light throughout the room. Floors of the same polished basalt were covered by a multitude of sheepskin rugs, while at least half a dozen wardrobes were positions about the walls on either side of her huge, four-poster bed. A dresser with a single chair and huge mirror sat close to the fireplace on the other side of the room, while opposite the only entrance, one whole wall was comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows bordered by thick drapes, with a glass-paned doorway leading out onto a wide, walled balcony.

  “There’s a bed-warmer already inside, Your Highness…” Matron Griselda advised as she carefully made some adjustments to the placement of the gowns hanging in the nearest of the robes. “Your travelling clothes are ready for the morning, and your trunks have been packed…”

  “I can’t believe I’m really going to be gone for two whole Endweeks!” Charleroi burst out excitedly. She’d quite literally spent her whole life growing up within the boundaries of the Fortress Cadle, and the thought of her very first journey outside its walls filled her with an incredible, almost breathless anticipation.

  “Aye, Miss… a whole two weeks indeed, and a two-day journey as well, there and back…”

  Griselda of Westerland, who as a child had survived arduous journeys across the breadth of the Osterlands, had been Charleroi’s Matron and primary female mentor the princess’ entire life. A simple, no-nonsense woman of forty-four summers, she was short and tending to the plump side, with a broad, open face that could be quite pleasant on those few times she actually allowed her smile to be shown in public.

  “And do I really have to travel the whole way with the shutters closed?” She asked in a softer voice, the faint tone of dismay creeping in now.

  “Aye, Your Highness… you know The Law as well as I…” Griselda replied apologetically. “You know it’s for your own safety as much as anythin’ else.”

  ‘The Law’… The Keepsake Law: it stood as a linchpin of society, binding the Osterlands together, and its importance was second only to the Book of The Shard itself. Everyone knew The Law, for it was drummed into every child from the moment they were old enough to understand.

  “But, why must all women be covered while travelling? Why…?” The princess persisted, standing by the foot of the bed as the older woman finished fussing over the sheets.

  “You know very well why, My Girl…” the matron snapped in return, shorter than Charleroi by a half-head but intimidating her all the same as she loomed up into the girl’s face and waggled an accusing finger under her nose. “You can see the gates from that balcony out there, and I know you watch everyone who comes and goes. You’ve seen them all and you know that there’s not one woman or girl who passes out those gates who don’t cover the windows o’ their carriages, or blindfold themselves and let their man lead ‘em out safe and sound. It’s the will ‘o The Shard, and no good ever came o’ gettin’ on the wrong side o’ The Brotherhood.”

  “But… but it seems so… ridiculous…!” She exclaimed eventually, unable to find any better word to describe how she felt. “What possible harm can there be?”

  “What harm?” Griselda barked sharply, almost scoffing at the idea. “You want to be labelled a witch, do you? Trussed up against a pole in the palace courtyard with kindling at your feet?”

  “They wouldn’t dare…!” Charleroi declared regally with all the superiority a spoilt teenager could muster.

  “My word they would, and don’t you ever forget that!” The matron shot back immediately. “King or peasant, it makes no difference to The Brotherhood, and there’s not a damned thing even your father could do to stop them! There’s at least ten Keepsakes we know of o
n the road to Burnii as it is, and there’s always more turnin’ up here and there, ‘specially after a flood or a bad storm. Holding staves only do so much to lock them down, and even then; they don’t do nuthin’ to stop a witch seein’ ‘em…”

  It was an old argument Charleroi had had many times with Griselda, her father and any number of nobles and servants alike in her time at Cadle. Normally the whole thing had been rather an academic exercise, considering she’d never been allowed to leave the safety of those great stone walls but now, with an actual journey imminent, the whole thing now seemed very very real.

  “Lewis doesn’t believe in witches…” she sniffed grumpily, plonking herself down on the bed as Griselda sat down beside her.

  “Lewis doesn’t have to…” the old woman pointed out, her tone softening now. “Lewis is a boy, who might grow into a man – if he’s lucky - and he doesn’t have to worry about whether he sees anythin’ or not… no man does. The fact remains, Princess that The Book of The Shard says quite clearly that witches do exist, and such is any woman who can see the Keepsakes. Whether you believe in them or no, bad things happen when a witch is discovered… both to the witch and to her family or friends, if they try to help her.”

  “It’s just not fair!” Charleroi muttered, staring at the floor and knowing she was never going to win argument against The Shard… no one ever did.

  “No, Young Miss, it isn’t fair…” her father agreed in a kindly voice, standing in the open doorway to her room with arms folded across his chest.

  Hachem Namur, King Phaesus IV, was a tall but otherwise unassuming figure – a man who’s almost willowy frame had definitely been passed down to his daughter, although she’d received her mother’s finer features rather than his larger, hawkish nose and angular cheeks. He somehow looked ill at ease with the crown and royal robes he wore, and it took real effort sometimes for him to remember to keep his shoulders up and his back straight when walking the palace halls, as befitted the style of a true monarch.