“I am not Baron Shadamehr’s social secretary,” said Rigiswald as he fastened the gold clasp that held the cloak securely in place. “I do not plan his engagements.”
“You are his friend, sir. You should advise him that paying homage to his king is something he must do.”
Rigiswald hefted the satchel. He did not offer to shake hands. “Good-bye, Tasgall. Congratulations on your elevation in rank.”
He started toward the door.
Tasgall picked up the packet, toyed with it.
“The baron’s family has held that land for generations. His income derives from the produce of that land and from the fees he collects on those who travel downriver. If Shadamehr loses his barony, he will be an impoverished exile, with nowhere to go, no friends to speak up for him, no refuge.”
Rigiswald halted, turned around. “I hear that the head of the Order of Inquisitors died yesterday.”
Tasgall did not immediately reply.
“He died of…what was it? Heart failure?” said Rigiswald.
Tasgall stared down at the packet. “He has been in poor health for some time. An inquest held that he died of natural causes.”
Rigiswald smiled, tight-lipped. “I should watch out for those natural causes, if I were you, Tasgall. I hear they are going around.”
Tasgall crossed the room in three steps, caught hold of Rigiswald’s arm.
“Tell the baron that all he must do is bend his knee and swear his loyalty to King Dagnarus.”
“That is all?” Rigiswald regarded him mildly. “My friend, that is everything.”
Rigiswald walked alone down the city streets, which they were still scrubbing, and exited the city gate, which they were still repairing. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Vinnengael’s new flags, featuring a golden phoenix rising up from the blood red flames, fluttering in the smoke-filled air.
WOLFRAM THE UNHORSED HAD NOT PLANNED ON STAYING LONG at the monastery on Dragon Mountain. Because of the reward, given to him by the late Lord Gustav, Wolfram was a lord himself. He was lord of a manor house—a human manor house in human lands—and he was looking forward to entering that house as its owner, there to astonish and dismay the steward and servants by announcing that they now had a dwarf for a master.
He told himself every day that he was leaving. Every day, he found some excuse to stay. Weeks passed, and the dwarf still hung about Dragon Mountain. The truth was, Ranessa was learning how to be a dragon, and she was having a hard time of it. Wolfram didn’t like to leave her.
He didn’t know why he should be surprised. Ranessa hadn’t been a rousing success as a human. She had alienated her family and the entire Trevinici tribe into which she’d been born. After that, she had managed to insult or offend nearly every single person she’d met on their journey. Wolfram conceded that some excuse could be made for her misanthropic attitude. Ranessa had spent all the years of her life up to this point thinking she was human (and hating it), only to suddenly realize in one overwhelming and catastrophic moment that she wasn’t human. She was a dragon.
After he himself had recovered from the shock (a recovery that had required numerous mugs of the monks’ good nut brown ale to sustain him), Wolfram had hoped that the discovery of her true nature would transform Ranessa from an irritable, irrational, and half-mad human female into a relaxed and easygoing dragon. As it turned out, Ranessa was still irritable and irrational. The only difference was that before becoming a dragon, she had used her sharp tongue to snap off a man’s head. Now she had the sharp teeth to go along with it.
The monk, Fire, who was Ranessa’s dragon mother, assured Wolfram that Ranessa’s behavior was normal. All freshly “hatched” young dragons experienced similar problems growing accustomed to their new shape and form and the new way they must learn to look at themselves and the world around them.
“After the first euphoria in realizing her true nature wears off, the young dragon is confused and upset. She may feel angry and betrayed and find it difficult to adapt to such a completely new way of life. The reaction is not dissimilar to that seen in newly Unhorsed dwarves,” Fire added coolly.
Being an Unhorsed dwarf himself, Wolfram understood exactly what she was talking about, but he perversely maintained that he didn’t.
“It seems a rum way of doing things, ma’am,” he argued. “Unnatural. Why don’t you dragons raise your children yourself, instead of palming them off on us poor unsuspecting mortals? Raising babies isn’t easy, what with all the crying and puking and messing their drawers, if you know what I mean. Still, we put up with it. We don’t go handing off our kids to you. No offense, ma’am.”
“None taken, Wolfram,” Fire replied, and he was relieved to see that she was amused, not angry.
A shape-shifter, Fire had gone back to her dwarf form, and she walked along beside him as any right and proper female dwarf would walk along beside him. Since she could change into her true dragon form at any moment, Wolfram didn’t want to make either form mad at him.
The two strolled through one of the gardens that surrounded the monastery. Five dragons guarded the monastery, kept the monks safe from harm. Four of these dragons were representative of the world’s elements: Fire, Water, Earth, Air. The fifth dragon represented the absence of the elements, the Void.
The people of Loerem were aware that dragons guarded the monastery, but few knew that the dragons also ran the monastery, for the dragons disguised themselves as monks when dealing with the other races. Wolfram had discovered the truth quite by accident, having inadvertently witnessed Fire transform from a female dwarf into a magnificent red dragon.
Lies, that’s what it is. All a pack of lies, Wolfram thought indignantly. Not that he himself was above telling lies. A lie or two came in handy on occasion. This wasn’t the same, though. These lies affected people’s lives.
“People come to care about people,” said Wolfram gruffly. “People come to care about people as people, then they find out they’re dragons. Some people might get hurt. That’s all I’m saying, ma’am.”
“I understand, Wolfram,” said Fire.
The garden was built on the edge of a steep cliff and provided a wonderful view of the land spread out beneath the tall mountain peak. The two came to a halt at a stone wall placed there to prevent anyone from taking a tumble off the side of the mountain. Wisps of clouds scudded below them. Far below, the river was a blue thread winding among red rock.
Ranessa was out there among the clouds, practicing her flying. She loved flight, she told Wolfram. Loved soaring on the thermals or diving down upon some panic-stricken goat. She loved circling the tall, snow-capped peaks, knowing herself high above the world and its problems.
But Ranessa couldn’t fly forever. She had to land, had to come back down to solid ground. For some reason, Ranessa just couldn’t seem to get the hang of landing. The first time she’d tried, she’d flown in too fast, skidded, put her head down too soon, flipped nose over tail, coming at last to a crashing halt up against the monks’ stables, wrecking the building and killing two of their mules.
Wolfram had been certain Ranessa had killed herself in the process. She’d come out of the disaster with most of the scales scraped off her nose, a torn leg muscle, and an avowed determination never to fly again. Blue sky and clouds and freedom called her forth, however. Daily, she practiced her landings (in a large, empty field). She claimed she was getting better. Wolfram didn’t know. He could not bear to watch.
Wolfram rubbed his nose, scratched his beard, and looked out to see Ranessa flitting restlessly among the peaks. Her red scales glittered orange in the sun. She was a graceful and sleek winged beauty. He wished, suddenly, that she could see herself as he saw her. Perhaps that would help.
“Our reasoning for placing our young among people is not completely selfish,” Fire stated. “We discovered that living among people gives some of the young an understanding of you, how you think and act.”
“Too bad the reverse isn’t true,”
Wolfram said grumpily. “I’ve been wondering about something. Ranessa felt compelled to come here. She saw the Dragon Mountain in her dreams. Does that happen with all your young?”
“Only to a few,” Fire replied. “It happens to those dragon children who are dissatisfied with their lot in life. To those who are searchers, seekers. Those who do not fit in. Like Ranessa. They know that life holds something special for them, and they do not rest until they find out what that is. Her search led her here, to me.”
“And what happens to the rest? Those who like being human or dwarven or elven?”
“They live and die as humans or dwarves or elves, never knowing that they were anything else. Thus, we lose some of our children. We know this is a danger, and we accept it.”
Gazing out at Ranessa, Fire smiled with pride. “Ranessa needs a friend now.”
“Good luck finding one,” Wolfram remarked. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Have a safe journey,” Fire replied, and departed, walking back into the monastery.
Wolfram stood watching Ranessa, his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather breeches, a scowl on his face. He could see she was growing tired, for her head was starting to droop. She was probably putting off landing as long as possible.
Wolfram shook his head, then went inside the monastery, telling himself he was going to see to his packing. Instead, he ended up heading out to that barren field.
He found Ranessa lying amidst a heap of boulders, beating her wings in a fury, sending up clouds of dust.
Fanning away the dust with his hand, Wolfram walked around to where she could see him.
“What are you doing here?” Ranessa demanded. “Come to have a good laugh?”
“I came to see that you didn’t break your fool neck,” Wolfram returned. “You’re improving.”
“Meaning what?” Ranessa glared at him.
“Meaning…you’re improving,” said Wolfram. “You didn’t land in the lake.”
The dragon glowered. “If you must know, I was aiming for the lake. I missed.”
Ranessa heaved her massive body out of the jumble of rocks, kicking aside boulders with her feet, lashing her long, scaly tail in irritation. One of the boulders bounded very close to Wolfram, sending the dwarf scrambling to escape being crushed.
“Sorry,” Ranessa muttered.
She spread her wings in the sunlight. The late-afternoon sun shone through the transparent red-orange membrane, making it seem as if the dragon was lit by an inner fire. Red scales blazed. Her elegant head, set on the sinuous neck, arched and dipped, as she forced herself patiently to search the membrane to make certain there were no minute rips or tears, for even the smallest hole in the wing can expand rapidly during flight, causing severe damage if left untreated. Not being much given to patience, Ranessa had learned this lesson the hard way.
“Why did you want to land in the lake?” Wolfram asked.
Sometimes, when he saw her like this, shining in the sunlight, he was moved to tears. He cleared his throat and glanced with a shudder at the icy blue water of the snow-fed lake.
“I thought landing in the water would be easier,” Ranessa replied sulkily. “Softer.”
She shook herself all over, scales rattling, then folded her wings at her sides. Heaving a sigh, she lowered her head to the rock-strewn ground, her nose on a level with Wolfram. She jerked her head off the ground. She’d set her chin down on a small pine tree. Breathing an irritated gout of flame, she reduced the pine to cinder. Sighing again, she lowered her head, nestled comfortably into the sun-warmed earth.
“I like doing that,” she said.
“Setting things on fire,” said Wolfram.
“Yes. That and the magic. Except I’m not very good at either.”
“Fire says you’re doing fine,” Wolfram tried to reassure her. “It takes time, that’s all.” He paused a moment, then said nonchalantly, “Maybe you’d like to go back to the way you were? You can, you know. You can change back to your old human self.”
The dragon’s slit eyes were green, glittered with the brilliance of emeralds in contrast to the fiery orange scales. Wolfram looked into the eyes, searching for the Ranessa he’d known: the wild, untamed human woman. A small part of that Ranessa was there—the part that was frustrated, impatient, afraid. That part was receding, however, growing more distant every day. The dragon part, the part he couldn’t understand, was taking over.
“No,” she said.
Wolfram rubbed his nose, stared gloomily down at his boots, which were worn with the road. He was leaving tomorrow. Most definitely.
“I don’t know if you can understand this or not,” said Ranessa, and, from the way she spoke, it seemed she was trying to understand it herself. “But I was never comfortable in that body. Once, when I was little, I saw a snake shed its skin. How I envied it! My own skin felt so small and tight and constricting. I wanted nothing more than to rip open my back and slough it off. Now I have, and I don’t ever want to crawl back inside that skin again. But I don’t expect the likes of you to understand.”
“As a matter of fact,” Wolfram stated with dignity, “I do understand. I shed my own skin once.”
“What? How? Tell me,” Ranessa urged, her green eyes widening.
“Never you mind,” said Wolfram. “It’s a long story, and I just came up here to tell you I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“You said that yesterday,” Ranessa pointed out. “And the day before.”
“Well, this time, I’m leaving,” Wolfram returned.
He waited for her to say something to try to stop him, but she didn’t. The air was freezing cold. He was starting to lose all feeling in his toes, and he stamped his feet to warm them.
“Good-bye, then,” he said, adding stiffly, “Thank you for saving my life.”
That done, he turned away, started the long walk back down the mountain peak toward the monastery below.
He heard the dragon’s tail restlessly smashing against the rocks. A small avalanche of crushed stone cascaded around his feet, nearly tripping him. When he was about halfway down the mountain, Ranessa called after him.
“Thank you for saving mine.”
Wolfram ducked his head, pretended he hadn’t heard.
Circling the west side of the monastery, heading for the front entry-way, Wolfram walked around the side of the building and came to a dead stop. For a moment, he stared, doubting his eyes. Then he ducked hastily back around the side of the gray stone building.
“Damn!” He cursed his luck. “I knew I should have left before now!”
A party of dwarves—about twenty of them—were setting up camp outside the front of the monastery. He couldn’t tell, from this distance, what clan they belonged to. Every clan has some sort of marking by which they identified themselves and, in the dimming twilight, he couldn’t make out any distinguishing markings. He would have to move closer to get a better view and Wolfram had no intention of moving closer.
He might tell himself—he did tell himself—that with a couple of million dwarves roaming the plains of the dwarven lands, the odds that any one of these twenty might know him by sight was remote, odds made better by the fact that he hadn’t been back to his homeland in twenty years. These were Horsed dwarves, too, and Wolfram was Unhorsed. He came from Saumel, the City of the Unhorsed, and while some clan dwarves did occasionally visit Saumel on business, they never stayed long. If they had seen him, they probably wouldn’t remember him.
The “probably” was a chance he couldn’t take.
Watching the dwarves unpack their horses, Wolfram was suddenly extremely curious. What were they doing here? He had never in his life known dwarves to travel all the way from their lands to the monastery on Dragon Mountain. Few Clan dwarves even knew of the existence of the monastery or Dragon Mountain, for that matter. The journey must have been long and arduous; dangerous, too, for the dwarves would have been forced to pass through the lands of the Vinnengaeleans, their ancient foe.
The sun slid down behind the mountain. The sky turned a brilliant gold, the land took on shades of night. Keeping in the shadows of the fir trees, using them as cover, Wolfram crept nearer.
The party was made up of twenty dwarves and double that number of horses: the small, shaggy, sturdy horses bred by the dwarves and honored among all those in Loerem who know horseflesh. The dwarves were heavily armed—customary for dwarves traveling into hostile territory, which was any territory outside dwarven lands. Their arms and weapons were not the crude sort made by most clan dwarves. Wolfram recognized in astonishment the exceptional work of the Karkara Unhorsed, who lived on the eastern side of the Dwarven Spine Mountains. Such marvelous weapons were extremely difficult to come by, even among the dwarven clans, and were highly prized and very expensive.
This must be the escort for a clan chief, and no ordinary clan chief at that. Perhaps the exalted Chief Clan Chief. Scraps of conversation he managed to overhear confirmed this. The dwarves spoke of one called Kolost. Judging by their respectful tones, he was an important personage among them. Whoever this Kolost was, he was inside meeting with one of the monks. Wolfram still couldn’t make out the clan, though, and this puzzled him.
Some of the ponies had markings on them, but others did not. Some ponies sported horse blankets of similar make and design, but not all. Several of the dwarves wore red beads dangling from the ends of their mustaches, while the others wore no beads at all. Another oddity about this group was that the dwarves, while they all acted in concert, treated each other with stiff, marked respect. When not engaged in some task, they separated, clustering together in smaller groups of three or four.
Suddenly, Wolfram figured it out, and he cursed himself for being the world’s greatest dullard. These dwarves were not high-ranking warriors from one clan. This group was comprised of high-ranking warriors from several clans.
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