“Go on,” the dragon said, waving an enormous talon at him, “ask your questions. It’s easier if you start.”
“Easier if I start,” Gialyn whispered. He scratched behind his ear and stared at the ground in front of the beast.
“Yes, Gialyn; it’s easier if you start.” The Dragon grinned at him. Well, more of a curled lip than a grin. “I already know what you’re going to ask, but most find it… disturbing if I blurt out the answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet.” The dragon gazed expectantly while drumming his talons on the ground.
Gialyn's mind flashed with a thousand questions, but he could not drag even one to his lips.
“Very well, I’ll start,” the dragon said. “My name is Bausamon. Yes, this place is real. No, you’re not stuck here, and no, you’re not dead.” The dragon folded its… arms. “Your turn.”
Bausamon, although white, had a tinge of pale blue about him. Not everywhere; mostly around the face and along the sharp angles of his massive body. It was clear to Gialyn that this dragon was related in some way to Tor and the others—he had a similar face—but Bausamon seemed more animal-like. His body was closer in shape to that of a huge horse, and, although he had taloned claws, Gialyn didn’t think this dragon would be able to gather firewood or throw stones. Indeed, his claws looked more like those of a gigantic cat. Bausamon had more horns, too. Yes, he had the two big horns on top of his head, but there were also smaller ones along his jaw. Strangest of all, this dragon had what appeared to be a flared collar of bone attached to his neck. All in all, he looked… older than Tor—a dragon from a time when their species were less human-like. Not that Tor looked human, but his legs and “arms” were similar, sort of.
Gialyn felt sick. He knew, somehow, that Bausamon was telling the truth—he had hoped it was a dream. Standing straight, he asked, “Why me? Or do you just drag anybody here?”
Bausamon smiled. He looked pleased—maybe it was the right question. “You are here because you were one of three who appeared in Brea Loian’s vision. How the visions work is another story, but it is enough to say that you, your mother, and Elspeth, each have something we need. A gift, if you like.”
“‘A gift?’ What gift?” And what does my mother have to do with anything?
“You are like your mother, Gialyn. We might have chosen her if she were available. Women are usually much better at handling all this.”
Gialyn pushed his fingers through his hair. He took a step to the side. Yes, the ground felt real. Blinking, he tried to concentrate, attempted to push the questions to one side and listen to what the dragon was telling him. I’m not dead! Why did he say that? Was I supposed to be dead? He thought about the knife that had punctured his stomach. Again, he felt for a wound, a mark… anything. Nothing but unbroken skin met his touch. There should be a scar! How can I be here, if there’s no scar?
“You’re not making any sense,” Gialyn said. “Maybe you should start again. Choose one of us…? And why are we the same?”
“You are good, Gialyn, very good. And so is your mother, Elspeth, Daric, and Olam. This war will be like nothing you have imagined. The Balance will be our battleground; light and dark, good and evil, the Black and the White, our struggle is, as always, a matter of equilibrium. A few people, you amongst them, are sufficiently ‘good’ to be of use. We dare not give powers to those with… questionable motives.”
The sick feeling was coming back. Powers, what powers? And why me? “Wouldn’t Olam be a better choice?” he asked.
“Olam has his duty, so does Daric. Elspeth already has power. Besides, none of them died inside the Barrowstone. That’s the key, that’s what has connected you to us—you died near one of the Stones.”
“Died!” Gialyn yelped. It took a moment for the thought to sink in. “But you said I was not dead! And… uh… ‘Elspeth already has power’? When did that happen?”
“You’re not dead, not now. But you were, briefly, long enough for it to count. Elucia brought you back, with a little help from me. Though I doubt she’ll give me any credit. And as for Elspeth, she is a wet-witch, one of many who have the potential to learn the Voice.”
Gialyn couldn’t help but sit. “Elspeth is a witch? And I was… dead?” he whispered. “I don’t remember dying. Is this some kind of trick?”
“Of course not. And nobody remembers dying, not at the end, at least. We spare you that much—if you’re good.” Bausamon stood. “Now, you must come with me. We haven’t got long, and there’s a lot to tell you.”
Gialyn followed Bausamon up the hill. The path wound around a rocky knoll that appeared to have been dropped on top of the hill. Looking back, Gialyn noticed the fog had begun to clear. Below, the land looked much like any other. Square fields, hedgerows, buildings that could be farms: no towns or villages, though. At least none that he could see. At the top, he saw the entrance to a cave. It didn’t look very inviting.
“You’re angry,” Bausamon said, without looking at him.
Gialyn couldn’t help but scoff at the dragon’s comment. “I would like to have had a choice. I wanted to go home when all this is over.”
Granted, he would also like to think he would have chosen to help. Had Bausamon led him to his death somehow, so the dragon could use him? What did he say? That he had been dead “long enough for it to count”?
“Greatness is often forced on us, Gialyn,” the dragon said. His voice was calm, and he spoke with what sounded like a measure of understanding. Maybe he had been forced into his role, too. “After all, where would we be if good men sat idle?”
Gialyn had to laugh. “You sound like Olam,” he said, shaking his head.
“It is an ancient saying. Come now. I’ll not keep you much longer.”
After a pause, to peer into the cave, Gialyn followed Bausamon inside. It was dark—very dark!
* * *
Brea perched on the edge of a chair in the sitting room of Elucia’s apartments. They were in one of the smaller towers—the Ein’rann Tower, if memory served. For the tenth time in as many minutes she crooked her neck and peeked into the room where Gialyn was resting on Elucia’s bed. He was being tended to by a very possessive Elspeth; after Brea had briefly talked about her vision, Elspeth had all but blamed her for Gialyn’s condition. Ealian wasn’t looking too kindly at her, either. Which was odd; she did not think he liked Gialyn.
It had been four hours since the battle had ended, with forty-two Eiras and twice that number of Kel’madden dead. They had acquired two more dragons: Salini, the pregnant one, and the large male Arfael had injured during the fighting. All that death and destruction and Vila still managed to escape with her Shard. They might as well have given it to her.
“Why are you looking so troubled?” Elucia asked her. The witch was sitting opposite, on a long lounger, sipping a cup of tea, staring at her over the rim. “What’s done is done, we must move on.”
“I’m not… ‘troubled,’ I’m… concerned,” Brea told her. She didn’t really want to say that much. Her thoughts were none of the witch’s business.
Brea glanced at the witch, half expecting a rebuttal. However, the woman just sat, sipping her tea, occasionally leaning back for a quick look into her bedroom. She seemed untroubled by the day’s events. Brea wondered how the woman could stay so calm? Parts of her city lay in ruin. Her guards had been killed by the dozen. One of her precious Twelve was a traitor—she had not heard the last of that; how could Elucia not have known?—and Vila had escaped.
Brea straightened, and sat back in the chair. There were things she would like to ask the witch. Such as, why was there only one guard on Vila’s cell, and why had it taken so long for help to arrive from the barracks? The woman should have increased the guard and called in extra soldiers. Elucia might have been over four hundred years old, and brimming with the Knowledge of Ages, but what had happened to her common sense? No, the witch was over-confident… arrogant, even. And she dared to ask why she was looking “troubled.”
Elucia leaned forward. “Gialyn will be fine,” she told Brea with a dismissive tone. “I doubt he will be chasing the girls any time soon, but he will recover fully. You have bonded your stone with ours, so you can countermand Vila’s control over the dragons. And in a few days, you will all be fit to travel home—with more dragons to help in the battle, I might add. You must learn to see the good news, Brea, not dwell on the bad.”
“A few days might be too late,” Brea said. “Vila will arrive at Bailryn sometime tomorrow, she will have two days, maybe three, to attack the city before we get back. Thousands will die. And dragons… one pregnant, one with a damaged wing, and one too young to be fighting. This is not ‘good news,’ Elucia, none of it.”
Geraldine, the other witch in the room, let out an almost imperceptible snigger.
“You have something you wish to say, Geraldine?” Elucia asked, not looking up from her teacup.
“No, Elucia, nothing of import,” Geraldine replied. The woman was tall and thin, with a few traces of Eurmac in the lines of her face. Her hair, though, was jet black. She was young—for a witch, or so Brea thought—and had tried, more than once, to call Brea and the others to hand. Unsuccessfully, of course—that had probably annoyed her.
“I didn’t ask if it was important, Geraldine,” Elucia said, still looking at her cup. “You apparently thought something.” She placed her cup on the table, then settled back into the lounger. Arms folded, Elucia stared at the other woman. Waiting.
Geraldine blushed. Straightening her skirt, she raised her chin. “I just think it is a little odd; the way the young girl talks. Anyone would think she is in charge.”
“She may not ‘be in charge’,” Elucia said, now looking straight at Geraldine, “but she is not our subordinate, either. She is a Dragon Oracle, the Soul Guardian of the Gan, Messenger of the Knowledge of Ages, Spirit Ward of Arenthenia. She is more powerful than any within the Circle of Twelve—though she does not know it yet, and last, but far from the least, she is Bausamon’s chosen. The best you can do is hope to assist her. Treating her like a child is not helping.”
It was Brea’s turn to blush. Maybe the woman wasn’t so bad, after all. Still, she noticed Elucia had not included herself when it came to “Treating her like a child.”
That said, there were times when she felt like one: now, for instance. What were they going to do next?
“I would think,” Elucia said to Geraldine. Apparently, she had not finished with the woman, “that an apology would be in order. We don’t treat guests rudely in Bhail, do we?”
Geraldine looked up from gazing at her folded hands. Her face dark with anger, she stood, muttered something Brea could not hear, then left the room. Her bodyguard—they all had bodyguards, now—crossed the floor quickly and followed her out.
Elucia snorted derisively before reaching for her tea. “She’s a good woman, but a little too full of herself, at times.”
The door closed behind Geraldine, just as Elspeth came through from the bedroom.
“He’s awake. He wants to see you,” Elspeth told Brea.
Brea stood and started for the door, but Elspeth raised her hand.
“In a minute. The nurse is washing his wound.”
Brea nodded and sat back down.
She wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. Elspeth was acting so high-and-mighty lately, it was a wonder she could tolerate Brea being in the same room.
“When do you expect Olivia’s next report?” Elspeth asked Elucia.
Brea glanced between Elspeth and Elucia. “Olivia? Who is Olivia?” she asked the older woman.
Elucia sighed. A look of reluctance came over her, or maybe embarrassment. “Olivia is a young girl. Well… she is a princess, actually. She lives in Bailryn Palace. Her father was the old king. Her mother was one of us.”
One of us? A witch in the Bailryn Palace. And a princess! Apart from believing there were only twelve witches, why was one of them in Bailryn? Did the palace know? Probably not, else why the secrecy…
Elspeth continued: “I didn’t ask who she was, Elucia,” the tall girl growled. “I asked when she is contacting you again.”
Elucia looked taken aback, shocked at being ordered about. She answered the question, though. “The day after tomorrow, in the evening.”
Elspeth took a deep breath and folded her arms. She looked even more annoyed… if that were possible. “Then we will be in Bailryn the day after tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow?” Brea whispered. “But how?” she said, loud enough for all to hear.
Elspeth shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him that.” She nodded over her shoulder, towards the bedroom. It seemed even Gialyn had managed to annoy her. “He lost me at… ‘Travelling the Spirit Realm’?”
Elucia eyes widened. “Travelling! Is he out of his mind? Olivia is not strong enough for that.” The older woman stood and began to march towards the bedroom. Elspeth barred her way.
“Leave it to Brea,” Elspeth told her. “Gialyn has… learned something, apparently.”
“Learned what?” Elucia said. She was stood in front of Elspeth now, her fists on her hips. Her face was almost as red as Geraldine’s had been.
“I don’t know. Weren’t you listening? Just… I couldn’t understand what he was saying. But I do know he only wants to see Brea, not you.” Elspeth turned to her with cold eyes. “Though why is beyond me.”
“Maybe he knows that Brea has some sense,” Elucia told Elspeth. The older woman turned and sat back down. “Honestly, I’m surrounded by children.”
Brea blushed, then shuffled deeper into her chair. It was going to be a long two days.
* * *
Daric stood at the window and watched as the stars disappeared behind a curtain of cloud. Black, even against the night sky, the clouds were like mountains: menacing and threatening. A storm was coming—a real storm, not just the one waiting for him beyond the north wall. Daric pulled himself away from the window and gazed around the sitting room. The candles were out. The walls were shrouded in shadow, lifeless, and forbidding. It was no longer a welcoming, colourful apartment, it felt… cold. He rubbed his eyes. The weariness of the past few days was catching up with him. Worry had kept him awake the previous night, and now thoughts of the coming battle were robbing him of sleep.
The need to see Gialyn safe pulled at his insides, grinding the strength out of him. Try as he might, he couldn’t focus. Pulling the thick curtains to, he fumbled his way towards the fire. It was set, ready to light—as always. He struck a tup-stick and held it below the kindling. The room wasn’t cold, at least not cold enough for a fire, but he wanted to feel the warmth. And something about watching flames had always made him feel better. He sat in the fat leather chair and watched as the flames grew.
A few minutes passed, and he felt sweat beading on his forehead. “What are you doing, you fool?” he whispered. Taking his tunic off, he pulled the chair back from the flames. Settling down at a more sensible distance, he watched the flames dance around the fireplace and began to relax.
A tap at the door pulled him away from his thoughts. Olam stuck his head in. The man was in his grey-brown robe, his long blond hair tied back with a leather strip that crossed his forehead.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.
Daric wanted to say yes. “No, not in the least. Come in, Olam.”
“Are you… unwell?” Olam asked, after glancing at the roaring fire.
“No, I’m fine. I just like looking at it.”
Olam nodded. “Yes, an ancient power, fire—strange and mysterious.”
Daric wanted to laugh; the man never missed an opportunity to say something profound. “I wouldn’t know about that; I’m only forty-two.”
Olam smiled. Sitting on the lounger, he said, “But your soul is ancient, it remembers.”
Daric sighed. “I don’t know about any of that, either. And honestly, I… I don’t really care.”
He knew he p
robably should care. With all the displays of Power going on around him, he had no doubt that Olam was right, that his soul was a part of this Balance the older man kept harping on about. But what good would come from knowing more about it? Gialyn would still be in danger, the Kel’madden were still camped to the north, and people were still going to die!
“Forgive me,” Olam said. “Sometimes, when I am not sure what to say, I just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. It is an old habit, one that I should stop.”
“Friends don’t need to find the right words, Olam. Sometimes they just need to be there.”
Olam stared into the fire, then nodded slowly. “A lesson I should take to heart. You are a wise man, Daric Re’adh.”
Daric did laugh at that. “Wise? I have no idea what is going to happen tomorrow. I’m three hundred leagues from my wife, gods know where my son is—probably in danger—and I’m cooking in front of a fire I did not need to light. If I’m wise, I would hate to meet a fool.”
Olam laughed, too. Then the man fidgeted, plucking at his robe. “Gialyn will be well, I know he will.” Again, he seemed to fidget. “Brea told me he had an important duty to perform. I do not know what it is, but I believe her. He can hardly fulfil his duty if harm were to come to him.”
“Duty?” Daric whispered. “His duty should amount to staying home with his mother, tending the fields, and looking after Pepa. Duty… he’s too young for that.”
Daric remembered a conversation he had had with Mairi the day before they left Albergeddy. “Duty” was the topic of that discussion, too. Why did he not listen to her? And Olam thought he was wise. Mairi, maybe, but him…
Olam opened his mouth but said nothing. Sighing, he sat back in his chair and looked at the fire.
Maybe the man was going to give Daric another one of his proverbs. If so, Daric was glad he didn’t; the last thing he needed was another speech about “Destiny” or “Choices.” Choices were for men to make, not boys, not Gialyn!
“How do you think tomorrow will go?” Daric asked.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 113