Sea Dragon Heir

by Constantine, Storm

  4

  GHOSTS

  IN THE EARLY MORNING, Varencienne went down to the beach. It was barely dawn, and sea birds flew low over the ocean. The storm had come in the night, and gone. She had lain beneath Merlan in his bed, while the wind had shaken the stones of Caradore. They had conjured the storm. It raged inside them. Now, Varencienne felt drained, but the feeling was languorous. As she walked upon the weed-strewn sand, she decided she must return with Merlan to Norgance. She needed to focus her thoughts and believed that a visit to the Chair might help. She would go there alone, whatever objections anyone else might try to put in her way. Merlan had given her much to think about. She was torn between thinking that his ambitions were unrealistic and selfish and the certainty there was sense in his words. Valraven as emperor? Was that possible or even desirable? Her father was a comparatively young man. Was Merlan talking about some far-future event, or something more sinister? Valraven as emperor. Varencienne sat down upon a low rock, her chin in her hands, gazing out to sea. What Merlan was talking about of course was Caradore as emperor. Valraven would just be convenient figurehead, a glamorous icon to use as a focus. Was Maycarpe in on this, and other high-ranking Magravandians? Merlan had implied that some of her father’s trusted staff felt he was stretching resources too far. Cos was a burden and a worry; it should be resolved around a table, not on the battlefield. Poor Mewt; conquered first by Cos, then by Magravandias. Mewt was not a worry to the empire. It had learned to look inwards, to remove itself from the world of politics and war. Strangers might believe they controlled the land, but they did not know what they controlled. Merlan had said to her that Magravandias ruled the flies that skittered over the surface of the pond. Because the sun made a mirror of the water, no one could see beneath it, so they believed the mirrored surface was all there was to rule. They were ignorant of the huge dark fish sliding in the darkness beneath, quick slippery predators that could rise to the surface for a single second and devour a hundred flies. Caradore and Mewt were just two lands. Varencienne knew there were many others, both big and small. Madragore had once revealed to Malagashes that he was the god of the world, and therefore his general would be king of the world. Her father must still believe this. It was ingrained into the blood of her family.

  VARENCIENNE KNEW THAT at some point she would have to speak to Pharinet about this matter, but for the time being her sister-in-law seemed to be avoiding her. The previous night, Varencienne had been certain Pharinet would have waited up for her, or would at least have come to her room first thing in the morning. But there had been no sign of her. Perhaps instinct had advised her Varencienne had spent the night in Merlan’s bed in the guest wing. Varencienne was unsure exactly of why Pharinet should mind about this. Could it simply be jealousy? Surely not. Pharinet would have done the same thing when she’d been Varencienne’s age. After breakfast, at which Pharinet did not make an appearance, Varencienne informed Everna and Oltefney that she intended to ride back to Norgance with Merlan and spend the afternoon there. His sisters had returned home the previous evening. Everna did not question this, nor did she inquire about the previous day’s trip to Old Caradore. But her mien did not suggest a mood that Varencienne would have to deal with later. Oltefney was more curious, and asked questions. Varencienne was careful with her answers, aware that Everna might easily be upset. Merlan was quite a somber presence at the table. Did he regret the previous night? He would not meet Varencienne’s eyes. Later, as they began the journey to Norgance, Varencienne wondered if this tension and discomfort would persist, but once they were away from prying Palindrake eyes Merlan became easy in her company again. His earlier reticence had obviously been because he didn’t want anyone to guess how intimate they’d become. Now, it was as if they’d been together for years. As their horses galloped along the road to Norgance, with the sun cutting through the morning chill and burning away the mist, Varencienne imagined what it would be like if she were married to Merlan instead of Valraven. He would be a companion and a lover. They would do things together, talk. Halfway there, they turned off the main track onto a twisting pathway through the woods. Here, they dismounted and made love again, among the ferns. Varencienne had never felt this way for, or with, a man, and she could tell that pleased Merlan. What his feelings for Valraven were, she could not tell. He spoke about him as if he didn’t really know him, yet was prepared to serve beneath him. There was no liking in his voice, not even admiration, just a businesslike acceptance of what the Dragon Heir represented. Perhaps he hated Valraven for what he’d done to Khaster. As they lay together in the breathing green of the forest, Varencienne said, “Here is the light of day, pure and radiant. What of your subversive plans now?” “I meant what I said,” he replied. “Don’t believe it was my intention to say or do any of these things before I came here. It was only once I’d met you and spent a little time in your company that I knew I could be honest with you.” “Why? You don’t really know me.” “I feel I do. I know you are Valraven’s wife, and the daughter of the emperor, yet you are still yourself, first and foremost.” He covered any responding remark from her with a kiss. She sensed this was mainly to silence her. Why did he trust her so much?

  AT NORGANCE, NISKA CAME out to meet them, eager to hear about their trip to Old Caradore. None of the other Leckery women were present, perhaps to make a point. “Something happened to you there, didn’t it?” Niska said excitedly. “I can tell. What was it?” “I will tell you all about it later,” Varencienne replied. “First, I need to visit the Chair again.” Niska’s eyes were round. “You received information, saw something at Old Caradore? I must come with you to the Chair!” “No!” Varencienne made an effort to smile. “I really need to be alone, Niska. Please respect this.” “Of course.” Niska tucked her hand through her brother’s arm. “Merlan can tell me what he saw while we’re waiting for you.” “I saw nothing,” Merlan said, laughing. “Just a ruined castle.” Niska pulled a face. “Then make something up!” She rolled her eyes and led him into the house. Varencienne watched them go. Suddenly, she as if she was on the outside, looking in.

  THE BRIGHT DAY HAD been occluded by blue-grey cloud, against which the summer trees burned like green flames. By the time Varencienne entered the forest above Norgance, rain was coming down in warm swathes, making a familiar comforting patter against the leaves. Climbing to the Chair, Varencienne was sheltered by the canopy. The rain invoked rich smells from the earth beneath her feet; it almost steamed with perfume. Once out of the protection of the branches, Varencienne’s hair and cloak quickly became soaked. The rock was slippery beneath her feet, and in the distance thunder boomed among the mountains. She climbed to the perilous seat, taking care to press herself against the lichened wall of rock. It would be so easy in these conditions to slip and fall hundreds of feet to the treetops below. I do not want visions, Varencienne thought, as if addressing whatever agency haunted the Chair. I want a clear mind. She settled herself on the wet stone, pushing her spine against it, and laid her forearms on the arms of the chair. For a while she just sat and listened to the rain. It trickled in a runnel from the rock overhead, creating a waterfall before her face. She was behind a veil of water, gazing out at the land. How many people had sat here in the past seeking answers? She could feel their presence all around her—and the questions: Why? How? Who? Where? When? I don’t even know what I want to learn, she thought. When I first came here, I wanted to know about the dragons, about magic and about the past. The seeds were sown and the shoots came up, but then they withered. The history of Caradore is about people, not magic. But that is wrong. The two are intertwined. Varencienne closed her eyes, willing herself to see something, or at least realize something, but in the darkness all that existed was the patter of rain, and the chuckle of the water running off the rock. She admitted it was difficult for her to look at the political situation in a serious light. She had made her life small, and greater concerns seemed no part of her world. Caradore dreamed on in her mantle of green a
nd mist. Whatever business scurrying humans conducted on the land meant nothing to its great eternal spirit. Sitting there, at one with the rock, as if her own arms were petrifying into the stone, Varencienne could only feel the same way. Yet Merlan was right. Everything changed continuously, like the seasons. The actions of humans seemed so trivial and petulant. She would like to see Mewt. She thought that it had more in common with Caradore than Merlan realized. It had its own personality. The only difference was that the Mewts tolerated the presence of conquerors through negation. It did not matter to them about the possession of land and power, because ultimately nobody could possess them anyway. Lifetimes were too short. Men wanted to stamp their feet and make a loud noise to be remembered, but once you were dead, what was the point? Magravandias was teetering on the brink of change, and some thought that Valraven should be made a figurehead of that change. It made sense. He had the looks for it. If the pain of the past and its fierce legacy could be taken from him, he could make a good emperor. Varencienne could see him in costly robes, his impassive face meting out wise judgments. But she could not imagine herself in this picture. She could not see herself back at Magrast, or in any image that contained both her and her husband. The most she aspired to was one day to be mistress of Caradore. Should that happen, she would send people north to reclaim the old castle. Even if she could not live there, she could have a small part of it made habitable, so that she could go there alone. I am such an isolated creature, she thought. I have children, but there is no overwhelming feeling of love for them that mothers are supposed to have. I would defend them, and protect them, but what else? They should enrich my life, but there is an empty place inside me they cannot reach. Perhaps I have inherited that from my mother. Yet she cares deeply for some of the boys, Bayard in particular. Maybe, if I had a child with someone like Merlan I would feel differently, but that would be unfair on little Rav and Ellony. They are innocent. They are part of me. Varencienne sighed and opened her eyes. On the horizon above the purple mountains she could see a dark column extending down from the bruised clouds. It looked like a tornado. She had never seen such a thing, but once as a child, Bayard had told her about them. He said a whole village had been taken from the coast by a spiralling column of wind. Nothing had been left behind at all. What if such a savage elemental force came whirling over Caradore? Would the castle be dismantled, dragged up into the sky? She shuddered. It could be an omen. She heard a noise and turned her head, to see a figure descending the narrow stairs cut into the rock on her right. “Merlan, you followed me.” He came towards her in a mist of rain, pausing on the bottom step, half hidden in shadow. “It will happen, regardless of what you think or do,” he said. “I thought you needed my complicity. I came here to think about it.” He was silent for a moment, and although she couldn’t see his face properly, she could tell he was staring at her intently. Eventually, he slapped the stone with one hand and turned round. “Someone’s waiting for you at Caradore. You’d better go back.” “Merlan?” She could hear his footsteps as he ascended the stairs. Quickly, she rose from the seat and made to follow him. For one sickening, dizzy moment, her feet slipped and she slithered on her knees towards the lip of the ledge. Her stockings ripped, and the flesh of her knees. Her feet hung over the edge. Desperately, she grasped at the tough ferns that grew out of crevices. “Merlan!” He did not come back. Gradually, she hauled herself back to safety, her heart beating wildly in her breast. How could he leave her like that? Her knees throbbed with pain; the grazes were quite deep. Despite this, Varencienne managed to run up the steps, her heart full of confusion and disappointment. But when she emerged onto the lookout above, there was no sign of Merlan. He must have darted off really quickly. Why was he angry with her? Only a short time ago, they’d been making love. Her knees were bleeding through her torn stockings. The palms of her hands were cut too, and her gown was badly ripped. She must get home. Someone was waiting there. But who? Was the answer to that the reason why Merlan had been angry? Once she reached the forest floor once more, Varencienne felt completely disoriented, realizing how close to death she?d been. What if she?d fallen? She expected that Merlan would be waiting somewhere nearby for her to come down from the rock. She would demand an explanation, act hurt and aloof. Merlan did not appear.