She gently cupped the bird and drew it out of the crate. It was so weak it didn’t even struggle. “Today I brought some sesame seeds,” Riza said. She set the pigeon onto her bed and sprinkled the seeds from her pocket. It stared at her, its beady eyes unblinking. Then, it poked its beak at the food.
“That’s good. You need to keep up your strength.” She smiled and stroked its soft head. It paused now and again to peer up at her, and each time it did, she felt it studying her. Almost as if there was something quietly wise behind its eyes.
“I don’t know how you keep hurting yourself,” she said. “Maybe I’ll leave you out of the crate tonight, and give you more room. When you’ve finished dinner, I’ll pour you a bath, and clean up all those scratches, and then we’ll both rest.”
There was no reply from the pigeon, of course. She pressed her elbows to her bed, propped her chin on her fist, and watched it eat.
* * *
Blackclaw stomped out of the dank prison room. He swung his tail clear of the door and slammed it. The iron hinges wobbled, and granite powder filtered like snowfall. “I am losing my patience with that human.”
“He is stronger than we realized,” said Whitetail, who had left the room ahead of him.
“You are certain no one has been sneaking him food? No water?”
“I have guarded him myself for many hours. The other dragons posted in my stead I would trust with my life.”
Blackclaw pounded his fist against the door. “The wizard is too old to be so resilient on his own. I searched him myself for crystals and powders. He hasn’t an orifice left to contain them.” He lurched along the hall, back to his quarters. He smelled of human sweat and urine and couldn’t wait to rid himself of the stench with a bath. “If he will not give us information about this Red, we will have to discover it ourselves. It is clear the wizard is willing to suffer, rather than cooperate. He is of no use to us.”
“It is possible he speaks the truth,” said Whitetail. “Perhaps what you have in your possession is the one true circlet.”
Blackclaw stopped, his thick claws scraping the stone floor. He swiveled his head and stared down Whitetail. “It is not possible.”
“I have consulted our own conjurers,” Whitetail said, his face lowering. “They concur that a pure and intense crystal such as the bloodstone is extremely sensitive to subtle tones of emotion. That which makes it so powerful also makes it complicated to use. The slightest portrayal of dark desires—”
“Are you saying my motives are impure?” Blackclaw could feel the acid heat in his stomach churn. His nostrils flared.
“Not at all, your Honor. That is not what I meant.” Whitetail’s nose brushed the floor.
Blackclaw shifted toward Whitetail, ringlets of smoke billowing with each word. “You are at death’s door. I suggest you stop knocking.”
He spun away with a growl. “Announce the wizard’s pending execution. If the human will not lead us to the Red, we will bring the Red to us. And Whitetail,” said Blackclaw, pausing without looking back. “There is plenty of room on the execution block for those who defy my leadership.” He turned the corner of the hallway.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jastin cursed. A boulder the size of his fist had broken loose from the mountain face and crashed against his knuckles, bloodying them. He suckled the wound as he paused to assess. He clung near the base of Orin’s Peak, the smallest of Leland’s mountains, situated between the dying woods of Durance and rest of the rocky chain.
He’d run Blade hard through the night and day, chasing the Red through withered trees, over brown hills scattered with granite rubble, and over deep chasms once flowing with crisp waters. It had been easier to follow the scent than he’d expected. Mingled with the stench of musty dragon scales was the odor of festering tissue. The dragon had been wounded, after all.
Come dawn, Jastin had found the spotted trail of blood that the Red had been so thoughtful to leave behind. It was this trail he’d followed to the mountain. There was a large splash of blood above him on the rocks. It was dry, but fresh enough that the dragon might still be up there somewhere, perhaps fainted. Perhaps dead.
He dragged himself another foot up the mountain, scrabbling for hold. He couldn’t leave the Red’s death to chance this time. He had to know, and had to finish the job he was given all those years ago, on his first visit to the Leland Mountains.
The battle with the Red vassal for the Circlet of Aspira had been brutal, but he’d been young enough back then to outmaneuver the huge beast. Once the poison arrow had brought him down, Jastin had moved into ground fighting. As with any wounded dragon, it had only been a matter of time until Jastin had managed the fatal blow to the base of the beast’s tail.
That’s when the fledgling had appeared from nowhere. Jastin had heard a squeal, and then it was there, draped over the bleeding vassal, howling and pleading for his father’s life. Jastin hadn’t planned on killing the youth. He hadn’t been hired for that.
But Blackclaw strode out of the woods. “Quite convenient,” he’d said. “Finish them both.” He’d tossed Jastin a bag of gold, and then lumbered away.
Jastin had swung his sword for the powerful blow that would separate the young dragon’s head from his neck. Then the father had groaned, and rumbled something in dragonspeak. A burst of warm light had suddenly roared in his ears like the surf, and had blinded him with painful jabs like fingers to his eyes. When the light faded, there had been only the dead father.
He’d sliced off the Red’s hind toe, as he always did, for his trophy. Then he’d spent a few minutes searching for the young one. There’d been no tracks, and no lingering scent on the wind. When he’d heard shouts and running footsteps, he decided it was time to get out of there.
He couldn’t have guessed that he’d return to this land, called again to the service of the black dragon. When the Red had shown himself in the dragon village, it had appeared to surprise the White. That was good. Now was his chance to kill the beast before anyone had time to realize the truth.
But he wasn’t going to find the dragon this way. He was making no progress up the mountain, and he was only exhausting himself. He really was getting too old for this. He slowly picked his way back down, toes and fingers searching in turn for holds, until he was low enough to jump.
Blade whinnied from afar. He tracked the horse to a field of crunchy grassland. “Ho, boy,” Jastin called. “You’re going back to town. Wrong way.” Blade drew up, shook his mane, and splattered foamy spittle to the ground. “I’m thirsty, too,” said Jastin. “But we can’t go home. Not yet.”
He tugged Blade to follow. As he turned, something glinted at the corner of his eye. He peered into the shadowed crevices. It wasn’t glinting after all; it was glowing. Jastin crept forward, sensing a throb of energy pulsing from the object like a ripple of heartbeat. He frowned. Magic.
A purple stone, though. Probably amethyst. Either way, it was a valuable chunk of rock, and he tugged it free. It wasn’t very large, only the length of his fist, but it was fastened to a strip of leather as an amulet. There was something familiar about the piece. He dangled it before his eyes.
The wind shifted and brought an acrid sting to Jastin’s nose. The Red! He was near. He stuffed the amulet into his pocket, swung up onto the leather saddle, and led Blade in a trot.
After several yards, he came to face a looming wall of rock. He was forced to turn sharply north. There was a patch of level ground just beyond a sandy incline, and he guided Blade upward. There, the dragon stench was so powerful it nearly knocked Jastin off the saddle.
In the times he’d trailed Riza to the mountains, she’d never led him directly to the creature’s lair. Now he found it. And the dragon was inside it.
He slid from Blade, both feet landing so softly not even the dust was stirred. He inched forward, drawing his sword. Anticipation of the battle brought familiar emotions, but there was an undercurrent of something less recognized. Uncertainty.
This would be his third confrontation with the dragon. No dragon before him had ever lived for even a second battle. Was he losing his edge? He quickly swallowed this thought, along with the salty taste of perspiration from his upper lip.
He paused at the gloomy cave entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust. He could make out a lumpy, dragon-shaped shadow against the wall. No sound, not even breathing, stirred the darkness. Jastin crouched, ready.
The dragon shifted. His fat tail flopped toward Jastin’s feet. A faint shaft of light beamed directly across his rump. Right on target. He would need to split the dragon’s artery on the first try, because if the dragon awoke with full strength, it would have the advantage in this dark place.
But the dragon was already awake. Jastin’s eyes finally adjusted enough to realize the beast’s eyes were fixed straight on him. No teeth bared. No blast of sulfur. Just brown eyes, wide and staring. Jastin hesitated. Was there to be no fight at all? So be it. He swung his sword up high to strike.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Riza stacked two gravy-smeared plates atop each other and balanced an empty mug in the center. She didn’t usually clear the plates from the tavern proper, but business was slow. With few meals to cook, she wanted something else to stay busy with, and to help keep her mind off the last couple of days.
“I’ll get those,” said Rusic, as he came around from the behind the bar. “Why don’t ye go drain the brine from the pickle crock, and re-salt ‘em?”
Riza waved him away and moved to another table of dirtied mugs. “I don’t mind clearing, Rusic. I drained the pickles yesterday.”
He glanced toward the door. “What about the meat pies? Isn’t it time to check ‘em?”
“I just did. I put them out to cool.” She followed his gaze toward the door. Outside, three farmers argued, their arms waving. One of them pointed toward the tavern. “Is that Jemiah Rode? He looks angry about something.”
“Never you mind about that. Just take those dishes to the kitchen, and get roasting some chickens for dinner.” He tugged her arm, rattling the dishes in her hands. He gave her such a push that she stumbled and nearly dropped them.
“Rusic! What’s—”
“Just go on, now. I’m expecting a crowd here tonight, and they’re going t’be hungry.”
She’d never seen him acting so nervous. But she obeyed, and, frowning, she went into the kitchen.
She plunged the dishes into a half-barrel of hot water. Then she set the spit in the stone oven and stoked the fire. She had the uncomfortable sense that Rusic didn’t really need a lot of chickens for dinner, but it wasn’t an unusual request, so she ignored the feeling.
She was just plucking out her third chicken when she heard a shout on the other side of the kitchen door. She wiped her hands down the front of her apron and crept toward the door. She gave a little push, and leaned her ear against the crack.
“The girl’s got to answer for what she done.” She didn’t recognize the voice. She tried to peek through the crack, but couldn’t see anything except a shaft of floor and bar shelves.
“The girl’s in my keep, and as long as she is, ye’ll leave her be. Ye got lies and rumors, and nothing else,” she heard Rusic say. “Yer cackling like a brood of old hens! I’ll not turn her over t’yer witch hunt.”
“She brung a dragon to my farm!” shouted Jemiah Rode. “We ain’t seen or heard of dragons around here until she showed up. Now she brung one to my farm!”
“There she is!”
The door swung open. Before she could pull back, hands grabbed her arm and wrenched it. A stranger’s face scowled down at her. He forced her around the bar, and planted her in front of a group of several men.
Rusic yanked the man’s hand off her arm and wedged himself between. “Yer stark crazy. Look at her, she’s a wisp of a thing. What’s her profit in bringing dragons down on us?”
“Ask her yerself! Look at her clothes!” Jemiah shook his fist. Clenched in his hand was a muddied strip of patchwork cloth. He held the cloth toward her nose, and his eyes hovered like a swarm of black bees. “How did a piece of yer clothes get stuck on my fence, girl?”
Riza felt the room lurch.
“Up t’yer room, Riza,” said Rusic. “Lock the door.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rusic spun her around and shoved her toward the stairs. “Now.”
She stumbled for her room.
Behind her, the men’s voices grew louder. “She’s got to answer for what she’s done! If she brought one dragon, she can bring two!”
“She’s a witch!”
“She’s worse than a witch, she’s a dragon-lover!”
Riza’s temples pounded, and her shaking hands struggled to move the door handle. Finally, the latch clicked, and she tumbled into her room. She slammed the door against the thunder of voices that bellowed up the stairs.
She didn’t understand. It all seemed fuzzy and unreal. She should take a bundle of things with her. Where was she going? Her bed wasn’t made. Her bird was gone. They took her bird. Odd thoughts jumbled against each other. Her brain wouldn’t work. She crumpled to her knees and hugged the empty bird crate to her chest.
The voices pounded up the stairs, and bashed against her door. What should she do? Should she just sit there in the room until the voices broke through the door and reached in to get her? Wasn’t there someone who could stop them? Rusic? Even Jastin? Kallon?
“Kallon!”
She heard his name explode into the room with her own voice. The voices outside were suddenly silent, and Kallon’s name bounced around in echo. She came to, kneeling beside her bed. She stared at the door, at the bird crate in her hands. Had she tumbled from bed with a nightmare?
Then, outside the door, someone asked, “Did you hear that?”
“Who’s she talking to?”
“Someone’s in there with her!”
The door erupted again in pounding. She jumped to her feet. She grabbed at the oak washstand and grunted as she tried to force it against the door. The door groaned and began to split beneath the barrage.
A coo whispered. She whirled to find her pigeon calmly resting on the ledge outside her window. She ran toward it and peered outside. A long drop. She’d never survive. Where was Kallon, when she needed to fly? “I need to fly,” she told her little bird.
“Mattress,” the little bird told her.
She stared. Now she was really losing her mind. She didn’t have time to think about it, though, because a wood panel of the door shattered, and an arm poked through, grabbing for the handle.
She ran to the door and swung her oil lamp at the arm. “Bloody ‘ell!” shouted a voice, and the arm disappeared. “She broke me arm! The witch broke me arm!”
She tossed the lamp and grabbed for her mattress. She dragged it, lost her grip several times, and left a trail of dust and straw. She paused, wheezing. A jolt knocked the door handle to the floor.
“Push! Almost got her!”
“Shut up, I’m pushing!”
“Something’s blocking!”
She hoisted the straw mattress over the sill. It hung like a dead goose, half in the room, half outside. She pushed. Her feet slipped. She slammed her shoulder against it. It caved into itself, nearly swallowing her. She tugged and lifted and screeched! The mattress finally whumped to the street.
She didn’t look back. She climbed onto the sill, swung her legs to dangle them, and dropped. For a second or two, her stomach went sick with weightlessness. Then she landed hard. Her ankle slapped to the cobblestones. She lay stunned.
A whisper tickled her ear, rousing her. Her pigeon watched her with a tilted head, his wings flapping. Voices spilled out in a tumble from above, and she looked up to find the faces of the men at her window, leering and twisted like gargoyles.
She rolled over to stand. Her left ankle blazed with pain and she cried out. Her leg crumpled beneath her.
“She’s over here,” called someone a few fee
t away, waving a torch. She tried to climb to her feet again, and managed to stand, balancing on her right foot. She couldn’t see. Her eyes were fuzzy. It took her several moments to realize she was crying. She hobbled blindly along the inn’s wall, away from the stranger and his torch.
“Come on, she’s here,” he said again. Her pigeon swooped up from the mattress and dove straight for the man’s face. The man waved his arms, and then dropped the flaming stick when he stumbled.
Then she felt hands gripping and bruising her arms. Her ankle jarred and she screamed again in pain, but her own ears couldn’t hear it; it was invisible against the wall of the mob’s roar.
So many faces, swirling with shadows and torchlight, mouths open and taunting. So many hands, thrashing and grabbing, tugging her arms in their sockets. A yank at her hair snapped back her head. Her face sizzled from the heat of torch flames. She saw a rearing fist, and then pain detonated her cheek, shooting bright lights into her eyes and rattling her teeth. She whimpered, knowing she was going to die. Her muscles went slack.
Moments later, the hands were gone. The cobblestones were a cold compress against her cheek. As the ringing in her ears faded, she heard a new voice call out, “People of Durance, you’re making a mistake!”
She managed to lift her head. The voice belonged to Jastin Armitage. He sat atop Blade, his arms raised. She sobbed in relief, and dragged herself toward him.
Black boots hit the ground and strode closer. Then Jastin crouched, and drew her up to sit. “Riza,” he said. “You should have listened to me.” He stroked her hair away from her aching face.
“What did I do?” she asked through a pinched throat. Flickering light cast over his features, deepening the lines of his bearded face.
“She brung a dragon to my farm!” came a shout.
“She’s a dragon-lover!”
Jastin released her and stood to face the swarm. “You idiots! She’s a girl! Look at her!”
Redheart (Leland Dragon Series) Page 13