Sea Dragon Heir

by Constantine, Storm

  Your loving brother,

  Bayard

  9

  DRAGON QUEEN

  VARENCIENNE LAID THE LETTER in her lap and leaned back against the cold stones of the window casement. Outside, huge snowflakes fell out of the sky to hiss upon the ground, the walls, the treetops, and blew in to turn to water on her hands. She felt a poignant melancholy, especially for the unfortunate Khaster. Whatever Bayard said about him, Varencienne felt in her heart that Khaster had been a good man. If he had taken a male lover, it was hardly surprising. After hearing of Pharinet’s betrayal with two men, he had probably sought solace that would not remind him of his faithless wife. As for Bayard’s suspicions concerning Khaster’s alleged death, they were undoubtedly impossible to prove one way or another. There would be more to the story, of course, because there always was, but this time Varencienne had little hope of discovering the truth. If it survived at all, it lay deep in the hostile land of Cos. She hoped that Bayard was right in his assumptions, though. She hoped that Khaster was alive, had escaped the anguish of his life and now lived somewhere in Cos, freed from pain. Bayard’s revelations to Khaster had been cruel and needless, yet from the tone of his letter her brother clearly thought his actions were justified. Varencienne went back down to the main area of the castle, but sought to avoid Pharinet. The knowledge Bayard had revealed hung heavily within her. Should she tell Pharinet or not? In her position, Varencienne would want to know, but then the information was hurtful. Pharinet claimed not to have loved Khaster, but Varencienne did not think this was wholly true. She had merely not loved him as much as she loved Valraven. Also, Varencienne felt angry with Pharinet, because she had lied. She?d implied Bayard had left Caradore directly after the rite at the shore. Now, Varencienne knew the truth. Pharinet, Valraven and Bayard had been possessed by the Dragon Daughters, who?d used their flesh as vehicles for their own pleasure. Pharinet had taken part in that act only hours after the ocean had taken her sister-in-law and friend. The carelessness of this unfeeling act, plus the nature of other information Bayard had imparted, made it impossible for Varencienne to approach Pharinet now. Neither could she confide in Niska. Yet the need to unburden herself was great. Ultimately, there was only one person to whom she could whisper these terrible things. Varencienne put on her thickest cloak of wolf fur and took the slippery path down to the beach. She had to be careful to avoid prying eyes, for she knew that anyone in the castle would prevent her from making this excursion. She carried the future Dragon Heir in her belly, and the weather outside was foul. People died on more clement days. The air was thick with soft snowflakes that leached all sound from the world. There was no wind, although the air was bitterly cold. Varencienne’s tears turned to ice upon her cheeks, which were mostly hidden by the hood of her cloak. She told herself she felt so upset because of the hormones that now controlled her body, preparing it for motherhood. The sea was like molten lead, hardly moving, and the sky above it was dirty grey. Varencienne sought the shelter of a rocky arch near Pharinet’s sea-cave. It was peaceful there, and so quiet. Varencienne clambered up the rocks, and here there were echoes thrown back from the arch above her: the scrape of her feet, her breath. She found for herself a small niche and sat back into it. From there, she could observe the waves. Grandma Plutchen’s words came back to her: “That family carries pain like a posy. Do none of you know the meaning of joy?” It was true. A maelstrom of thoughts whirled around Varencienne’s mind, mixing into one another. She should feel love for the new life she carried, yet her heart was numb. She should love her husband, but how could anyone love so cold and cruel a man? The Palindrakes had made mistakes, which had ruined and ended lives. But perhaps it was not entirely their fault. They acted in ignorance. What would Caradore have been like if the empire had not consumed it? Foy and her daughters might still be manifest in the land, through their channels, the Dragon Heir and his sea wife. And, more recently, if Bayard had not come home with Valraven that time, Ellony and Thomist would still be alive, perhaps even Khaster. But if that was so, Varencienne would never have married Valraven and come here. What would she be doing instead? Did all these separate elements comprise the parts of one big dilemma? Varencienne sighed and closed her eyes, pressing her head back against the rock. “Foy, if you sleep out there, let me enter your dreams. Show me a way to bring joy back to Caradore. Give me the knowledge of healing.” She didn’t know what else to say and rested her head on her raised knees. Snowflakes, which had formed a crust on the fur, melted against her closed eyes. Could Foy ever be an agent of healing? All the legends she’d heard suggested otherwise. Then why bother to plead at all? You are doing what you can already, Varencienne thought. Surely children would bring joy to the Palindrakes? She was quite sure she’d give birth to a boy and a girl. But another, darker voice whispered within her. Yes, but they might only grow to suffer the same fate as Valraven and Pharinet. When the Magravands took Caradore, they took more than land or dignity. The emperor was afraid of the Caradoreans, Varencienne decided. That was why their heritage was kept from them. How could she change that? Despite the fact she could feel no great surge of love for her growing son, she did not want to surrender him to the empire. She felt that allowing him to be lord of Caradore was the only way for the wound in the Palindrakes’ collective soul to be healed. But how could she convince her father of this? Could her mother be an ally? Ideas and imagined conversations spun round in Varencienne’s head. None seemed practicable. Maybe she should just give birth to her child and carry on, as Pharinet did, dreaming of a possible future. She felt it, then; a vibration beneath the rock. For one terrible second, she thought an earthquake had come, or subsidence, and that she would be swallowed whole by cracking stone. The sound travelled up her spine and settled in her brain. It was then that she recognized it as a cry: despairing, yet defiant. It was a trumpet call that blazed with light and streamed banners of memory. It was the song of Caradore in strength, the song of victory. It was the voice of Foy. Varencienne braced herself against the rock. Her frozen hands were numb against the stone, their fingernails turning blue. “I am here,” she said aloud. “Speak to me, great Foy. Show me.” She pushed herself back against the sharp icy stone. Her head felt full of pressure, and a needling pain started up behind her eyes. The air pressed down upon her like gloved fists. She felt she must burst. Without warning, her mind broke free of her body. She felt it tear away, instantly and shockingly. She was shooting up into the sky, and looking down, could see herself slumped among the rocks. She was sprawled like a discarded doll, or as if all her limbs were broken. Her face, her hands, were the white of death. The sea below pulsed with distant blots of light that seemed to rise from some great depth. They were a beacon that called to Varencienne’s spirit. Like a diving bird, she swooped down towards them. The sea closed over her and she was travelling down so fast, she could perceive no details of her surroundings. Nuggets of light shot past her, mere blurs. The experience was having far more effect on her senses than the visions and impressions she’d had at the Chair. This felt so real: as bizarre as a dream, yet she was awake. She could feel the cold water rushing past her, smell its fishy saltiness. Bubbles crackled in her ears. Her descent was so speedy, it took only a few minutes, but perhaps it was difficult to judge the passing of time in this state. Gradually, Varencienne became aware of being surrounded by a weak green radiance, which grew increasingly brighter. Her plunge began to slow. She passed through an immense soft tangle of iridescent weed, and beyond it, a scene revealed itself to her. She found herself on the edge of a precipice, looking down on what could only be the place Pharinet had once described to her: the sunken kingdom of the Ustredi. It must be a dream, yet it clearly was not. She was really there, hanging in the water above the astounding ruins. They were so big they dwarfed Magrast. Giants must have built the city and lived there?or dragons. Pharinet thought that, at one time, it must have been above sea level, but Varencienne did not agree with that. This was a sea kingdom. It had always been
so. The gigantic buildings were dark and deserted. All light came from the sea bed itself. There were no merpeople twisting in and out of the cyclopean doorways. Varencienne no longer felt completely human. She had a body of silver light. Had she created this herself? She was still unsure how much control she had over this vision, but twisted her ethereal body and discovered she could move like a fish. Whatever this form was, and however she had come to possess it, it was lissom and quick. She launched herself over the precipice and undulated swiftly towards one of the great black openings in the stone. The buildings could have been temples or palaces. They exuded an aura of sacred power that was both dangerous and holy. The walls were covered in strange inscriptions and carvings, their fine detail blurred, smudged with weed and colonies of tiny black molluscs. Varencienne entered the nearest building, a minnow swimming into a drowned cathedral. Inside, it was lit dimly by the unearthly greenish radiance. She found herself in an immense domed chamber whose walls were ribbed like the interior of a sea creature’s shell and covered with strange lumpish projections that suggested ornamentation. The floor was littered with cubes of stone of various sizes, some as small as dice, others the size of houses. Varencienne could not discern their purpose. The floor was also ribbed and blended seamlessly with the walls. There were several doorways leading off the chamber, and from some of them came disturbing vibrations. Varencienne hovered tiny in the immensity of this underwater space. She was so small that if anything did still occupy the building, she was sure it would not even notice her. She was drawn towards one of the doorways and swam through it. Beyond was a triangular corridor. Varencienne darted down it. Colossal statues with the mouths of fish lurked in the weedy shadows. Between them were openings into other, smaller chambers, whose floors were draped in carpets of fluorescent green sea-foliage. Shifting veils of weed obscured the walls, in which fishes swam and crustaceans crawled. Otherwise, there was no sign of life. Varencienne explored the building for what felt like several hours. She became lost within a labyrinth of passageways and chambers, yet felt no fear. She was here for a purpose and sensed strongly that once she had fulfilled that purpose, she would find her way out very easily. The vibrations she had perceived earlier were louder now. It was almost as if a choir of very deep voices sang somewhere nearby, and she was drawing closer to it all the time. She came at last to a gargantuan pointed archway. Streamers of rotting black weed hung down from its apex and slow-moving, slug-like molluscs oozed through them, emitting a wan light. Varencienne shivered through the gently-waving ribbons. Beyond, was a chamber so vast she could barely comprehend it. The floor was heaped with sea treasure. Sunken ships lay on their sides like discarded toys. She saw the pale glint of gold and the seductive shimmer of jewels. Torn sails drifted on the gentle current, the garments of drowned giants. Varencienne swam slowly across the chamber, between the clawed spars of the ships. She expected to see skulls grinning at her from the wrecks, but there were none. The vibrating sound was a constant hum now and the meager light began to grow dimmer around her. She entered a realm of shadows, and here something pale moved. It was huge, a shifting mass of detritus: weed, wooden spars, rocks and netting. Varencienne swam closer and a long narrow head snaked out of the mass, fixing her with a yellow feline eye. “Foy,” murmured Varencienne, and the name came out of her in a stream of glittering bubbles. The Dragon Queen heaved her great mass upon the floor, splintering galleons beneath her bleached claws. Each movement seemed to pain her. She was old and decaying. Her bat-like wings were spread out across her haul, full of holes. Here there were bones aplenty, but they could also have been part of the queen’s body. “Speak to me,” Varencienne said. “Tell me my purpose. Tell me what should be done.” The dragon could not speak. She was a creature without a voice, an elemental force reduced to stagnation. But looking at her, Varencienne became aware of knowledge. She saw in her mind the figure of a man, young and straight-limbed, his hair blowing about his shoulders. This image Foy gave to her as an aged grandparent might impart a jewel of her youth to her daughter’s child. “Is this my son?” Varencienne asked. “Is this what you show me?” But no, she knew this man. It was Khaster Leckery. Did this mean he was alive? Did he have some part in her future? A scene revealed itself to her as if a magical mirror was held before her eyes. It was like looking out of a window. She saw a mill next to a dark pool, and a boy diving into it. When he emerged, he was a man, and he held a shining chalice in his hands. She did not know this person. Could he be her son? As if her mind conjured the image, she saw him then in battle, red darkness all around him, smoke and blood. She could hear terrible screams of agony. Then, the image shifted and she saw herself with this man, running away from Caradore. She saw Valraven in the castle, looking more like a demon than ever, his face ugly with rage. Then the man she thought might be her son was standing like a gigantic god above a city in flames. He had the chalice in his hands again, and poured its waters over the fire, extinguishing it completely. The images ceased abruptly. The whole sequence had perhaps taken no more than a few seconds to play itself before Varencienne’s inner eye. The dragon laid her long snout down between her front claws. Her massive sides heaved in a sigh and bubbles trickled out of her splayed nostrils. Her eyes closed, as if by showing the images she had exhausted herself. Varencienne swam closer right up to one of the wrinkled eyelids. When that eye opened again, she would be engulfed in its light. “Poor Foy,” she said, but had no hands to reach out and touch. How could this dragon be summoned to rise in strength? She had no strength. She could not rise. “What is your strength?” Varencienne said. “How can I help you?” The eye did not open. Foy expelled a lamenting groan. Varencienne filled with emotion: despair, sadness, and resignation. She had made demands and they had hurt Foy. She was so weak. Varencienne experienced a fleeting impression of a younger Foy, flying through the sea, swimming through the sky. Her daughters were with her, creatures of light. Now, they were something else, hideous sirens full of hate and lustful revenge, over which their mother had no control. They were not confined to the underwater realm, because human greed had loosed them into the land. Foy’s sorrow engulfed Varencienne’s entire being. The Dragon Queen did not want resurrection; she wanted release. Varencienne was jerked back into her body with a nauseating jolt. Someone was shaking her, calling her name. She opened her eyes and saw Pharinet’s face hanging over her. “By Madragore, I thought you were dead!” Pharinet hissed. “What are you doing out here? Are you mad?” Varencienne groped towards her with numb stiff fingers. “Pharry,” she said in a croak. “I saw Foy. I’ve been down there.” “What?” Pharinet’s voice was the cold hiss of falling snow. “It’s true. I travelled in my mind. I met Foy. I had to do it.” Pharinet seemed frozen, then knelt down and put her arms around the girl. “Why, Ren? Why now? You shouldn’t take risks.” “I wasn’t,” Varencienne said. She shook her head painfully. “It was terrible, Pharry. Foy wants only to die. She cannot live, she cannot die. We help keep her in that state.” “You’re raving,” said Pharinet. “Can you stand up?” “Listen to me! It’s important.” Pharinet sighed. “We can’t talk here.” “We must, because I will never speak of it again. It’s so clear to me now. There are no dragons, Pharry, not in the way that the Sisterhood wants. There is only ourselves. We have the solutions for the future, not fabled beasts. Foy is a captive of human desire. It is cruel.” Pharinet examined her for a few moments. “I understand what you’re saying, but I can swear to you that the power of the dragons is very real. I have felt it in my flesh.” “I know,” Varencienne answered. “They possessed you, along with Valraven and my brother. He did not ride home directly after Ellony disappeared. I know what happened afterwards. He told me.” Pharinet went very still. “How?” “A letter,” Varencienne said. “Didn’t you consider I’d write to him, given what I’ve learned recently?” She gripped one of Pharinet’s hands. “What you experienced was the bitterness of the Dragon Daughters, not Foy’s presence. You must expel any remnant of it from your heart.” �
�Dispel it?” Pharinet snatched her hand away from Varencienne’s hold. “You can’t comment or give me advice about that time, Ren, because you weren’t there. You don’t know what you’re talking about. It was hideous. Valraven, Bayard and I, we came together like monsters. I hated myself for it. Ellony and Thomist were not even cold in their sea grave. Our coupling was like dancing on their tomb. Yet I could not resist. Can I blame Jia for that? I felt her presence within me, yet part of me knows the desire was utterly mine, the selfishness, the heartlessness, the lack of care. Jia smelled it out perhaps and attached herself to it, but I will not blame an elemental force for what took control of me that night. It would be too convenient.? Varencienne stared at Pharinet, unable to speak. She could almost see the steam of raw emotion pouring from Pharinet’s body. Pharinet put her head in her hands. “I vowed never to speak of that night again, not to anyone, least of all you. Look what you have done to me.” “You needed to speak,” Varencienne said. “I did not make you do it.” Pharinet stared up at the sky, blinking away tears. Varencienne could see her trying to control what she felt, the need to weep with abandon until the grief was purged. But perhaps it never could be. An ocean of tears would not be enough. “I want to go home now,” Varencienne said.