Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Such a course of action would violate his own principles, but nonetheless, he knew he would resort to it if he had to. Everything he knew of magic, everything he had learned from his experiments or from the Blue Mage or the leech-god or the southern magicians, led him to believe that this final experiment was the route to what he sought.

  At last Brook came down in her lift, and Black marched down the stairs, and the three of them sat down to talk.

  They spoke for hours, and while any number of opinions on lesser issues were adjusted by the exchange, the core positions of the three did not change: Arlian intended to offer Brook the elixir, Brook intended to drink it, and Black hated the idea, but acknowledged that he could not prevent it without bringing even greater personal catastrophe on himself and his family.

  The possibility that Black, too, would drink was discussed, and shelved; he would wait and see what the effect on Brook might be.

  Arlian promised to allow him access to the remaining venom should he later choose that path.

  "You know, Ari, I think that promise, more than anything else, tells me how important this is to you," Black remarked.

  "I believe it may be the most important thing I have done since I first plunged an obsidian dagger into a newborn dragon's heart in the cave beneath the Desolation."

  "Then let us do it," Black said, pushing himself back from the table.

  "Enough talk; let us be about it." He pulled at his sleeve, baring his left forearm. "I believe you need blood. If my wife is going to drink human blood, then let it be mine."

  "I thought I would use my own," Brook said.

  "You need your strength," Arlian said, taking hold of Black's wrist and raising the knife.

  A moment later, while Black was bandaging his arm, Arlian let a few drops of venom fall from the bottle into the cup of blood; the mixture bubbled and smoked, but Brook snatched it up.

  "Before my courage fails me," she said, gulping the stuff down.

  Black went rigid, staring at her. Arlian hastened to cork the bottle and pull it away.

  Brook gagged, then spasmed; the cup tumbled from her hand and shattered on the floor. She jerked, choking, and tumbled from her chair; one elbow caught on the table but failed to hold her, and neither man had his hands free to catch her before she fell.

  Black released the half-knotted bandage and dove for her, barely in time to keep her head from hitting the stones. He lifted her to a half-sitting position and turned her so she did not choke on her vomit.

  Arlian made sure the bottle was safe on a shelf before he returned to the subject of his experiments.

  "By the dead gods, that's foul!" Brook gasped, between heaves.

  "Alliri," Black said, brushing her soiled hair away from her face.

  "Alliri, I love you." He looked up at Arlian. "You've poisoned her."

  "It's the same thing I drank, the same thing every dragonheart drank," Arlian said, as he fetched rags to wipe up the vomit and collect the shards of the cup. "Yes, it's foul, but she'll live, and the baby will live."

  "You don't know that," Black growled. "That stuff may have gone rancid in that bottle you've been carrying around—all the rest of you got it fresh from the source."

  Arlian opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said, "Why did no one mention that possibility until now?" He knelt beside Brook, wiping her face gendy with a clean rag. "It smelled no different, but that may mean nothing. If that's why all my animals died . . . "

  "I'm not going to die," Brook whispered. Then she closed her eyes.

  "Alliri?"

  She did not answer—but she was still breathing.

  "I think she's sleeping," Arlian said. "I lost consciousness when it happened to me, but I awoke well enough."

  "Help me get her to bed," Black said.

  Arlian obliged.

  An hour later Brook was safely in her bed, sleeping normally, with Black at her side; the kitchen had been cleaned, and Arlian was in his own chamber, preparing to retire. The strain of helping transport Brook had reopened the wound in his side where Black's swordbreaker had cut him; Arlian dabbed at it with the bandage, then tossed the bloody linen on the night-stand before applying a fresh cloth. When he was done he dipped his hands in the basin by the bed.

  A thin swirl of blood stained the water, but Arlian paid it no heed as he pulled off his boots and stockings. He glanced at it as he began to He back on the bed, and froze.

  The meager trace of blood had shaped itself into a faint and shadowy image, the image of a face Arlian recognized.

  The face of the dragon that had killed his grandfather.

  What have you done? the dragon asked.

  Arlian grimaced wearily. "We won't know that for some time yet, I'm afraid."

  You are meddling in the workings of Fate.

  "Fate is meddling in my work," Arlian retorted.

  Then he tapped the bowl, shattering the fragile image; he blew out the bedside candle and lay down to sleep.

  41

  Unwelcome Guests

  Unwelcome Guests

  Brook slept through much of the following day, but by the day after she had returned to normal—as had her child, it appeared.

  Arlian had used the time to hire half a dozen guards for Obsidian House, and give orders that the rooftop catapults were to be loaded and made functional as quickly as possible. He did not really think a dragon would dare venture so far into the heart of Manfort, past the encircling defenses, but it did no harm to be cautious. The hired guards would be of little use against dragons, of course, but the dragons could well send human agents—in fact, such a tactic was far more likely than the monsters coming themselves, and that was the entire reason for employing these men.

  Arlian had not called on any of the Duke's guards for this duty because that would have required too much explanation, and because such men would have divided loyalties—they might be withdrawn at the Duke's whim. Instead he had hired men who were experienced caravan guards, and dressed them in his own livery.

  He had also made certain that everyone in the house understood that Brook's unborn child might prove to be of very special importance, and must be protected at all costs, even more than any other unborn babe.

  And now, it seemed, all was well, and Brook and the child recovered from the elixir's initial impact.

  "I felt it kick," Black told Arlian, smiling, as the three of them moved down the upstairs hallway, Brook in her chair and the two men walking behind her. "It's still alive."

  "Of course it is," Arlian replied. He glanced at the back of Brook's head, and debated mentioning his brief sorcerous exchange with the dragon. He had, as yet, said nothing of it.

  He now regretted his haste in breaking that contact; had he not been so exhausted, mentally and physically, he would have asked a few questions, tried to elicit more information. As it was he could barely recall any of the exchange. The dragon had asked him what he had done, he remembered that, but what else? Something about meddling with Fate . . .

  Well, wasn't that what he had intended to do? And hadn't the dragons themselves meddled ten thousand years ago? The thing in Tirikindaro said the dragons had betrayed and killed the gods then, and that it had drunk the blood of a god.

  It belatedly occurred to Arlian to wonder how the dragons had accomplished this, and what had been able to tear open the throat of a god. He remembered Patch's fangs opening the throat of that last kitten.

  Could the creature growing in Brook's belly eventually become some monstrosity capable of ripping out a god's throat? Was it something so terrible that even the dragons feared it?

  What had he done?

  He decided he would continue to say nothing of the image in the bowl—and he might attempt to contact the dragons again, when he had an opportunity. He had not spoken to them directly in more than a decade, nor had he tried to, but perhaps the time had come to reconsider.

  He stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the great hall and gazed down over the rail.
The construction was complete, and the furnishings largely in place; the room was elegant, yet inviting. The sky outside the broad windows was dark with gathering storm clouds, but even so the hall was brighter and airier than any part of the Grey House.

  This was a far more pleasant residence than the Grey House could ever be, and now that his experiments were apparently complete Arlian thought the time had come to relocate and dispose of Enziet's old home once and for all.

  "Black," he said, "I want you to arrange to transfer the remainder of the household from the Grey House to Obsidian House, and to find a broker to sell the Grey House. I'd say this should be done before the birth—I suspect you may be too busy for some time afterward to give the matter your full attention."

  Black hesitated. "Are you certain, my lord? We do not yet know just what you may have done to the child—how do we know we will have no use for some of the facilities Lord Enziet installed?"

  Arlian glanced at him warily. "You mean the barred rooms and the chains?"

  Black did not answer.

  "If we need anything of that nature, we will provide it here," Arlian said. "I have had my fill of Lord Enziet's legacy."

  Black glanced upward, a glance Arlian knew was not directed at the innocuous vaulted ceiling, but at the obsidian spearheads that now adorned perhaps half the iron catapults on the roof, and at the dragons that obsidian was meant to pierce.

  "I know I will never be free of my inheritance from Enziet," Arlian said, "but I need not cling to all of it. Let the Grey House be sold, and my soul freed of that particular burden."

  "As you wish, my lord," Black said. He turned and headed for the stair.

  Brook, for her part, headed down the corridor toward her special lift.

  Arlian remained on the balcony for a time, thinking.

  If his experiment succeeded, and Brook's child possessed a dragon-sized share of magic but was otherwise healthy and to all intents and purposes human, then he would still need to create more of these new beings before he could continue his campaign to wipe out the dragons.

  T h e Lands of Man would need one of these magical people, these fey folk, for each dragon slain.

  T h a t would mean contaminating dozens, perhaps hundreds, of pregnant women, putting them through the same brutal illness Brook had just survived, and later cutting the hearts out of new mothers so that they could be cleansed of the draconic taint. T h a t would not be a pleasant undertaking. He knew Rime still bore a gruesome scar on her chest, and Arlian supposed the other former dragonhearts did, as well.

  He glanced back toward the lift. It seemed horribly unfair that poor Brook would have to suffer through that, and would bear the scar until she died; were not her missing feet scars enough for one lifetime?

  Arlian sighed and turned back to the rail, still thinking. Henceforth when he killed dragons he would need to gather venom from the dead in each lair, as Lord Rolinor had, to ensure an adequate supply. He would!

  need to recruit women to bear the magical children.

  This plan's resemblance to the loathsome practices of Kaltai Ol struck him, and he frowned. He did not like that.

  But these children would not be murdered, would not be fed to monsters; they would be cherished for their part in freeing humanity of the dragons. T h e y would be useful only alive, not dead.

  But that brought up another question he had not yet considered—-

  how long would the children live? And could they reproduce themselves without dragons to provide venom, or would their children be merely human? It might be necessary to keep one dragon alive, to ensure that the supply of venom was maintained.

  T h a t was hardly an appealing prospect.

  And what would the children be like? W h a t if they proved as dangerous in some way as the dragons?

  Well, he knew a silver blade had killed Patch easily enough, presumably silver would be able to kill the children, as well, should it prove necessary.

  Arlian could not imagine that it would. This child would be magical, yes, but it would be the child of Black and Brook, sibling to Kerzia and Amberdine and Dirinan; how could it be anything that needed to be killed?

  T h a t a member of Black's family might prove unacceptably dangerous or evil seemed incredible—but what would he do if it was?

  W h a t if the experiment failed entirely, and the child had no magic, or was just another dragonheart? W h a t would he do then?

  He could go back to poisoning cats, he supposed, and create a swarm of monstrous kitten-things, then kill the ones that seemed dangerous or unbalanced. He wondered where Smudge was, and what

  would become of him and of Bee. Patch had been mad, and had seemed eager to die, but Smudge had shown no such tendency. Bee was still too young to judge.

  Bee was beginning to show human traits, though, exactly as Patch and Smudge had—apparently the admixture of cat's blood had made no great difference.

  Arlian sighed. The kittens were, to say the least, not a great success; he certainly hoped Brook's child proved a superior alternative.

  He wandered along the balcony and down the stairs, glancing out the windows at the sky. The clouds were thick and dark, so dark that it looked more like twilight than mid-morning, but so far no rain had fallen.

  "My lord."

  Arlian turned, startled, to see Wolt holding out a folded scrap of paper.

  "A messenger just brought this. He says it's urgent."

  Arlian accepted the paper and read, "Must see you at once, at the Citadel." It was signed, "Rolinor."

  He frowned, puzzled. What business would Rolinor have with him?

  But then he remembered the image in the bowl, and who Rolinor now represented. It seemed that the dragons wanted to talk to him, and if he would not speak to them directly then their agent would serve.

  For a moment he considered going back upstairs, drawing a little blood, and seeing whether he could conjure up an image—but then he decided that no, he did not particularly want to talk to a dragon.

  He did not particularly want to talk to Rolinor, either, but he might learn something if he did. He might find out whether the Dragon Society knew anything about his experiments. He might get a sense of whether or not the dragonhearts were in full accord with their masters about recent events.

  And while he was at the Citadel he might speak to Lord Zaner, or even the Duke, about the nature of his experiments. He had not kept them informed of his progress, lest they interfere, but perhaps the time had come to let them in on his little secret. Perhaps they would want to elaborate on the city's defenses still further if they knew something the dragons feared was soon to be born here.

  They might well already know something of what had happened, of course; the Duke had his spies, and the kittens had been known to everyone in Obsidian House.

  T h e messenger is waiting, my lord," Wolt said.

  Arlian looked up.

  "He says his instructions are to wait and accompany you to the Citadel."

  That did not sound as if Rolinor merely wanted to talk; that sounded as if this was setting up yet another inept assassination attempt.

  Well, Arlian had no objection to ridding the world of another would-be assassin. "Fetch my sword, and the steel-lined hat," he said.

  Half an hour later the obviously nervous messenger ushered him into a small bare chamber in the Citadel's outer wall, where Lord Rolinor sat waiting. No assassin had struck, a fact that troubled Arlian. Why ask him to accompany the messenger if not to regulate his pace and mark him as the target? If the business was truly urgent, Rolinor could have come to Obsidian House in person. If there was a third party Rolinor wished him to meet, or something Rolinor wished to show him, he saw no sign of it in the empty meeting room.

  Rolinor, too, appeared nervous as he gestured for Arlian to sit.

  "I prefer to stand, my lord," Arlian said. "Now, what is this urgent business you have with me?"

  "First, my lord, let me say how very pleased . . . " Rolinor began
.

  Arlian, suddenly concerned, interrupted him. "What is this urgent business, my lord? I have business of my own to attend to."

  "Ah, of course. It would seem, my dear Lord Obsidian, that you have taken something that does not belong to you."

  A thought was growing in the back of Arlian's mind, but he suppressed it long enough to ask, "What are you talking about?"

  "I refer to a quantity of dragon venom. I am informed t h a t . . . "

  He stopped in mid-sentence because Arlian had turned to go.

  This was obviously not urgent. This was not something that required an immediate meeting. This was an excuse to ensure that Arlian was in a particular place at a particular time. He had thought that was to locate him so that assassins could strike, but now he realized there was another possibility.

  They wanted him here so he would not be somewhere else.

  The timing gave it away; the messenger from Rolinor had arrived mere minutes after Black had departed. He had probably been waiting in the street, watching for that departure.

  They wanted both Black and Arlian out of Obsidian House. The

  hired guards were still there, but presumably Rolinor's employers knew that and had planned accordingly.

  Arlian was not absolutely certain what the target was, but it didn't really matter; he strode out the door before Rolinor could react.

  "Stop him!" Rolinor called after him. "Stop that man!"

  Arlian broke into a run.

  At the Citadel gate he bellowed "Follow me!" and beckoned to the guards as he passed. He did not pause to see if they obeyed, but he could hear one of them asking the other "Was that Lord Obsidian?" as he passed.

  They would follow, he was sure, but perhaps not immediately, and perhaps not certain whether they were aiding him or pursuing him. In any case, he did not trouble himself about that, but ran full-tilt down the street. He drew his sword as he rounded the old gatepost, and by the time he reached Obsidian House had his swordbreaker out, as well.

  He could see as he approached that he had been right in his concern; the front door stood open, and one of the front windows had been smashed in. The hired guards were nowhere to be seen—and he saw one of the livery jackets discarded, as if tossed aside by someone fleeing.