Northern Storm ac-2

by Juliet E. McKenna

  ‘Who’s there?’ Velindre asked calmly, collecting herself, ‘Dev.’ The voice was faint but she recognised him at once.

  The circle of magic was now the size of a hand-held looking glass. Velindre stood before it. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ Magic flowed down the ochre disc like thick golden oil trickling down a coloured window. ‘The Archipelago and a long way south.’

  ‘I can see that.’ The blurred radiance cleared and Velindre could see Dev’s bald head and that familiar wicked grin. ‘What do you want with me? You’re Planir’s eyes and ears in the Archipelago, aren’t you?’ she said waspishly.

  ‘Still sulking?’ Dev’s grin broadened. ‘I heard he’d passed you over for Cloud Mistress. You didn’t really think you’d be raised so high, did you?’

  ‘Go and impress Planir with your mastery in working a bespeaking over such a distance.’ Velindre turned her back on the magic.

  ‘It’s you I need.’ Dev’s irritation set the spell ringing like a plucked wire.

  ‘Why?’Velindre turned back to study the circumscribed vision within the burning circle. Where exactly are you?’ She sat down on one of the upright chairs and picked up her wine, blotting the spillage with the muslin that had wrapped the cheese. ‘What have you got yourself mixed up in now? Is that armour you’re wearing?’

  The spell flickered a little as it widened. Which was hardly surprising given the countless leagues the magic was reaching over, Velindre thought privately. She saw Dev standing on the deck of a small sailing boat on an open stretch of sparkling cobalt sea. The Aldabreshin sun was so bright in the dimness of her room that she could almost feel its heat on her face.

  ‘You’re never going to believe this,’ grinned Dev. .

  ‘Wait,’ Velindre interrupted sharply, sitting forward to peer through the clouded magic. ‘Who in Saedrin’s name are those two?’

  A dark-skinned man in richly exotic Aldabreshin armour stood some way behind the wizard. The Archipelagan was braced protectively in front of a slightly built girl wearing loose creamy trousers and tunic and a vivid red scarf over her shock of black hair.

  Dev moved aside and extended a mocking arm. ‘Velindre Ychane, mage of Hadrumal, may I present Chazen Kheda, warlord of the Archipelago’s most southerly domain. Oh, and Risala, who’s probably spreading her legs for him, though that’s the least of her considerable talents.’

  ‘Who presumably don’t speak Tormalin,’ said Velindre caustically. Both Archipelagans were squinting suspiciously at the circle of the spell, with no sign that they had understood Dev.

  ‘I speak some of your northern tongue.’ The girl surprised both wizards with her retort. ‘So don’t think you can lie to us about what she’s saying, Dev.’

  The bald mage recovered quickly. ‘A girl of considerable talents raised in a northern domain that evidently trades with the mainland.’

  ‘And she’s got your measure.’Velindre noted the female talking to the warlord. ‘Tell me, how are you expecting to escape an Aldabreshin warlord without being skinned alive now that you’ve openly worked magic in front of him?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ Dev grinned.

  ‘One you don’t want to tell Planir?’ Velindre guessed shrewdly. ‘What makes you think I want to hear it?’ Instead of answering, Dev asked his own question. ‘What do you know about dragons?’

  ‘Dragons?’ she repeated with a frown.

  Dragons,’ confirmed Dev with smug excitement.

  ‘Those dragons that survive live in the far north, beyond the far peaks of the Mountain Men’s territory.’ Velindre spread her hands, mystified. You won’t see them in the Archipelago.’

  ‘We’re seeing one now,’ said Dev robustly, ‘come from somewhere to the south. And there are mageborn living out somewhere beyond the southern horizon, because they turned up here last year and wreaked every kind of havoc. They’re nasty bastards, Velle.’

  ‘With dragons to command?’ Velindre let him see her scepticism.

  ,ast year it was just howling savages throwing spears and handfuls of fire.’ Dev was suddenly all seriousness. Which, as you can appreciate, was remarkably effective against these Archipelagans who pride themselves on staying free of filthy sorcery. Kheda here had the sense to find me to put paid to the wild wizards and plain steel cut their followers down nicely enough after that. We thought we’d come and mop up the stragglers and soon be on our way home for wine and cakes, but a dragon’s turned up and it’s eating anyone it reckons looks tasty. We must have let one of their mages slip through our net,’ he concluded with savage bitterness.

  ‘You think this wizard summoned the dragon? Why now?’ Velindre demanded. ‘Why not summon it when you attacked him and his allies with your magic? What exactly did you do?’

  Never mind,’ said Dev impatiently. ‘What I need to know more about is dragons and just how they’re summoned. Maybe this mage has simply lucked into the trick of it.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s something you stumble on by accident,’ retorted Velindre. ‘Otrick was the only mage in Hadrumal who had the knack of summoning a dragon and he was the finest Cloud Master inside the last ten generations. And I’m sony, Dev, haven’t you heard? He’s dead.’ The usual dull grief gnawed beneath her breastbone.

  ‘I know that, and I know you were his longest-standing pupil and closest to him in every sense.’ Even in his intensity, Dev couldn’t restrain a lascivious smile. ‘Come on, Velle, didn’t he let something slip by way of pillow talk?’

  ‘Otrick didn’t need to boast about his magical prowess to convince any girl to slip between the sheets with him,’ Velindre said pointedly.

  ‘It was always worth your while bedding me, don’t pretend differently.’ Dev grinned, unrepentant. ‘There must be something—in Otrick’s journals, in his records. He was a secretive old bastard but he knew what he owed to wizardry as Cloud Master. There must be some clue.’ His voice gained an edge. ‘If one of these wild mages is still alive and he’s learned how to summon a dragon, there’s nothing to stop him between here and Hadrumal. I’ve seen these bastards let loose and I wouldn’t give—’

  Dev clapped his hands to his ears as the girl’s piercing scream startled him. In the same instant, the Aldabreshin warlord began shouting, a torrent of words that rang with horror. The ship rocked madly from side to side, all three of them staggering. The girl would have lost her footing but for the warlord’s strong arm catching her.

  ‘Ah, shit!’ The bespeaking dissolved on Dev’s raw yell of fear and fury.

  ‘What is it?’Velindre shouted impotently at the empty air. Dev!’

  The only reply was a faint ringing struck from the crystal water jug.

  Velindre sprang to her feet, the chair falling away behind her. She ran to a cupboard beside the fireplace and flung it open. Pulling out a shallow silver dish, she sent pewter plates bowling noisily across the floorboards. Ignoring them, she reached up to a neatly ordered row of stoppered and sealed bottles. Her hand hesitated, then, biting her lip, she snatched at one, leaving the cupboard door swinging as she hurried back to the table by the window.

  She emptied the crystal jug of well water into the silver bowl and, hands trembling, tried to unstopper the little bottle. Her fingers slid on the wax, bitten fingernails giving no purchase. Velindre slammed the bottle down on the table before taking a deep, calming breath and then carefully working the stopper free of the neck. She let a few drops of dark-green oil fall into the water, the piercing aroma of volatile herbs stinging her eyes for an instant. Ramming the stopper home, she set the bottle aside and placed her hands on either side of the bowl.

  ‘If you can bespeak me over that kind of distance, Dev, you bilge rat, I can sure as curses scry back to you.’ She stared into the water with grim intensity.

  The drops of oil spread into an infinitesimal rainbow lustre on the surface of the water. Emerald fire flared in the depths of the bowl, reflections striking back from the curved silver sides.
The radiance shimmered against the oily sheen, fluttering, darting back to the bottom of the bowl before striking up again only to meet the same bather. The light doubled and redoubled, still confined within the bowl. Velindre stood motionless, hazel gaze fixed on her spell. Only when the captive brilliance rivalled the lightning now flickering in the clouds beyond her window did the magewoman release the magic.

  In a flash, the surface of the water reflected the distant scene she sought. Velindre flinched, then froze, poised over the bowl, mouth open on an incredulous gasp. All she could see was some portion of a massive scaly back and the flexing of a great leathery wing. The scales were dark crimson, thick and uneven along the creature’s spine, the wing a lighter red, more vivid, almost waxy with the sun shining off the ridges of the bones.

  A dragon born of fire, mused some dispassionate corner of her mind even as the rest of her wits went begging for some explanation.

  She slid one palm around the side of the bowl. The vision shimmered for an instant and then shifted, as if Velindre was now some bird, like one of the great white wanderers that drifted on the winds of the southern oceans. She flew high above the dragon on the wings of her spell to get a better look at it. Now she could see what the beast was about. A chill went through her that had nothing to do with the wintry storm now enveloping Hadrumal.

  The dragon was circling the ship she’d seen Dev on. Twisting in the sky with startling agility for such a mighty beast, it bated like some enormous hawk before darting around in the other direction. The downdraught from its wings tossed the vessel this way and that like a child’s nutshell boat on a puddle. The little ship’s sail hung in rags from its ropes. Velindre held her breath as Dev’s boat rolled over on to its beam ends, wallowing for an agonised breath before hauling itself back upright once more.

  Where was Dev? Where were the other two? Velindre searched the deck. There was nowhere for them to hide and no one to be seen. Had they gone below?

  The dragon obscured her view, diving closer to scour the deck with a sheet of flame from its gaping razor-toothed maw. The wood blistered and charred, remnants of canvas and rigging flaring to blow away as ash on the wind. The dragon drew a tight circle around the ship and lashed at the single mast with its sturdy tail. The pine cracked and splintered, crashing down on to the deck

  Velindre’s spell brought her no noise of the distant destructioin. The only sound in her dim study was her own breathing, harsh with helpless distress. The dragon smashed its tail down on the burned decking, making surprisingly little impression. Mouth wide in a soundless snarl, it shot up into the air, wings beating strongly. Tumbling over itself, it dived straight down towards the crippled ship.

  Velindre whispered, disbelieving. Surely a dragon born of fire couldn’t risk diving into the sea? At the last instant, the dragon pulled out of the stoop, swinging its hind legs forward to pound the scorched deck into broken splinters even as it clawed at the sky with its forelegs. Wings beating, it dragged itself away from the murderous embrace of the ocean, climbing back into the sky.

  There was no escape for the boat. The weight of the dragon, even for that fleeting moment, had pushed the shattered deck below the surface of the ocean. White seas roiling with the downdraught of the dragon’s passing flooded across bow and stern and poured through the cracked and broken planks. The ship floundered helplessly as more and more water cascaded into the hold, relentlessly forcing the hull beneath the waves. In a final convulsion, the vessel’s bow came up, stern disappearing into the blue depths. The sharp prow slid down, vanishing in a flurry of foam. The dragon swooped low one last time, circling the hidden grave of the little ship. It flapped its wings and flared a crest of scales around its head in what looked uncomfortably like triumph.

  Velindre searched the bland face of the ocean. Had Dev died in the ship’s hold, dragged down into the drowning depths? A fire mage, even one of his talents, would be hard pressed to work any magic to save himself, engulfed by the very antithesis of his element. Had he swum for it before the beast made its final attack? What about the other two. All she could see was nameless detritus floating up from the wreck, nothing big enough to be a man’s or a woman’s body.

  The inconvenient beast was filling her view once more. She could see its head clearly for the first time, as if it were coming straight towards her. Ruby eyes glittered above its broad, blunt muzzle, heavy crimson scales fringing its jowls and bristling in a mane of spines around the back of its head. It opened its mouth and she saw its brilliant daggerlike teeth.

  Longer than daggers, that same dispassionate voice within her mind commented silently. The dragon’s red tongue flickered in and out and she noted a searing red illuminating its eyes from within. The light playing on her face turned from blue-green to greenish gold.

  Velindre cursed the beast absently under her breath and drew back from the bowl, waving a hand across the water to lift the spell’s vision still higher above the sea, to give her a wider view of the immediate area Was there an island close enough for Dev to have swum to?

  Nothing happened. The dragon still filled the spell. Now its wings were lost beyond the edges of the magic, just its head and body visible. With every beat of its wings, it grew bigger within the silver confines of the bowl. Now all she could see was its head. It opened its mouth and a coil of flame burst out towards her, white hot with unstoppable magic.

  Velindre recoiled as the water within the bowl boiled, steaming and spitting, sending splashes leaping over the rim to mar the polished table top. She thrust her hands out before her, repudiating the magic she had worked. The water calmed but the scrying held, vivid emerald light shining up from the bowl with a halo of sunset gold. The magewoman moved slowly forward, irresistibly drawn by intolerable curiosity. The breath catching in her throat, she looked warily down into the water.

  The dragon looked back at her. There could be no question of it. Against all she had ever been taught. Contrary to all she had ever read or surmised of this scrying spell. In defiance of everything Hadrumal’s wisest men and women had told her about remote magics. The dragon could see back through the spell as clearly as if it were looking through a pane of clear glass. More than that, the beast was looking straight at her, wild curiosity lighting its fiery eyes. The water began boiling again, and with some sense that she could not explain, Velindre could feel the dragon’s intent. It wanted to find her. It wanted to destroy her with the same savagery it had loosed to annihilate Dev, his companions and the very boat they had been standing on.

  Velindre knocked the bowl off the table with a wild sweep of her ann. It went flying, water splashing to stain the plaster below the window with oily streaks. Irrational fear seized her and the crystal jug followed, shattering into countless fragments. Upturning the table completely, Velindre stumbled backwards, tripped over the chair she’d discarded earlier and fell heavily to the floor.

  The room remained gloomy and grey, the sun far distant behind the clouds now wrapped around Hadrumal. The only sound was the distant crack and rumble of the storm. None of the drops and puddles of spilled water glowed with any hint of magic. Velindre lay motionless for a few moments, skirts in disarray around her stockinged legs, waiting for her pounding heart to slow.

  Sitting up slowly, she rubbed her bruised elbow thoughtfully. She smoothed down her gown and stood, absently rubbing her hip, still stinging from the impact of her fall. Leaving the calamitous scene of by the window, she went to recover her boots and pulled them on, face pensive. A pang of hunger surprised her and she spared a glance for the bread and cheese and plum bread that had bounced across the floor. Shards of glass and earthenware now rendered it all wholly inedible.

  No matter. She had better things to do than eat. Moving briefly to the mantel, she tugged the bell pull to summon some nameless maid to deal with the mess. Leaving the door ajar behind her, she ran lightly up to the floor above, her urgent steps echoing down the stone spiral. Heart racing once again, she laid a pale hand on the latch of the
study door and whispered the old mage’s name under her breath. The tumblers of the lock clicked obediently and the door swung open.

  What would Otrick have said to that? To the notion that a dragon had been looking back through the magic of a scrying spell to see who was working it at the other end? He’d have been intrigued by the idea. He’d have been utterly, resolutely determined to learn how such a thing might be so, to ascertain how he might do just such a thing in turn.

  The faceless maids came here, too. The table was polished and gleaming. Even the haphazard parchments on the bookshelves were somehow kept free of dust. The cushions in the corners of the tall winged chairs on either side of the fireplace were plump and neatly placed. The hearth was laid ready with kindling and coal.

  A fall of soot prompted by the dampness in the air had spotted the hearthstone and the raw smell caught in the back of her throat. Velindre shivered with distaste. This ordered emptiness wasn’t Otrick’s. The sideboard had been cleared of the old pirate’s prized collection of cordials and wines summoned from merchants trading from one end of the long-lost Tormalin Empire to the other. He had always boasted that he had the finest palate on Hadrumal, even with his breath redolent of the acrid sweetness of chewing leaf.

  Velindre turned her back on such bittersweet memories and studied the bookshelves with a frown. There were gaps. Too many gaps. Some of the general tomes had doubtless been returned to the archives and libraries. The old mage had been an inveterate borrower of books and remarkably negligent when it came to returning them. Where were his journals, and those carefully bound records of his own thoughts and investigations into every aspect of the elemental air he had been born to command? Otrick had been meticulous in recording his conclusions and his musings on how he might make further trial of his affinity, of his powers and how they might rival or complement those of other wizards born to different disciplines.