The Veiled Dragon

by Denning, Troy

  Tang gave his punt another shove and stepped into the bow, praying his weak knees would have enough strength to hold him up when he leaped onto Number One Raft. Before he arrived, Cypress raked his black talons down the length of the raft, severing the lashings that held it together.

  The logs rolled apart, plunging all who had been standing upon them into the swamp. Tang’s punt continued to glide forward, and somehow—perhaps because he was too frightened to move—the prince found himself standing fast in the bow, with a clear flank shot and Cypress looking the other way. The prince clamped his arms around his halberd and gathered his rubbery legs beneath him, determined that the dragon would not shrug off this strike as easily as the wyvern had shrugged off his first.

  Tang was staring at the scale through which he intended to drive his halberd, so he did not see Cypress’s wing sweeping toward him on the backswing. He simply heard an earsplitting thump, then found himself sailing over the toppled tree trunk with his gold-trimmed helmet flying in one direction and his weapon in another. He splashed into the warm water, sank to the bottom, and nearly got tangled in a bed of fish skeletons before he recovered his wits and kicked free.

  His head ringing and his body aching, Tang broke the surface and peered over the log. The bog scum had erupted into a pink-tinged froth, with the dragon standing waist-deep in blood and shark skeletons, battering his foes with wings and tail and calmly tearing their bodies apart with gore-dripping talons. The prince’s warriors could do little to defend themselves. The legs of most were hopelessly tangled among the fish bones, and the rest could barely hold their chins above the water, much less swing their heavy blades powerfully enough to pierce Cypress’s thick scales.

  The voice inside Tang’s head shrieked through the lasal haze, reminding him that he was a Shou prince and should have fled long ago. He managed to ignore it for a short time, but when the alligators appeared at the fringe of the battle and began to drag away the wounded, the voice began to sound wise. Tang pushed away from the log and, moving very slowly to avoid attracting alligators, he slipped beneath the surface and swam toward the mountain.

  Twelve

  A sliver of pearly light split the midnight gloom between the gate towers, and Ruha realized the guards of Moonstorm House were opening the gates for her. She lashed her mount with the ends of her reins, urging the exhausted Shou prancer into the ragged semblance of a gallop. The two packhorses behind her snorted in protest, but had little trouble adjusting to the new pace. They were both larger than the witch’s mount and, loaded with four sacks of ylang blossoms each, far less heavily burdened.

  From behind Ruha came the clatter of firing crossbows, followed instantly by the ringing echoes of iron bolts skipping across cobblestones. One of the packhorses screamed, and the witch’s prancer stumbled as the train slowed. She twisted around and saw the last beast hobbling badly. Like the animal ahead of it, its chest was covered in lather, and its eyes were bulging with fear and exhaustion.

  Thirty paces down the deserted street, two dozen of Hsieh’s guards lashed their mounts madly, making a last desperate effort to catch Ruha. As planned, they were closing the distance and doing everything possible to make it appear they truly wanted to succeed. The lead rider accepted a loaded crossbow from the man at his flank, then raised the weapon and fired. A dark streak flashed between him and the hobbling horse. The beast screeched and would have fallen had the other animals not dragged it along, stumbling and staggering.

  Cursing her pursuers for heartless killers, Ruha blew a sharp breath in their direction and uttered a simple wind spell. A howling gust tore down the street, blasting the first three riders half out of their saddles. As they struggled to regain their balance, they were overtaken by the galloping throng at their backs; two more soldiers raised their crossbows. Hsieh had commanded his men to make a convincing show of the chase, and Shou were nothing if not obedient.

  A chorus of strumming bowstrings sounded from atop the gate towers. The leading Shou riders sprouted arrows in their chests and fell from their wooden saddles. The rest of Hsieh’s men whipped their reins around, guiding their horses into a sheltering alleyway.

  Ruha’s prancer clattered through the dark gateway of Moonstorm House into a spacious, hexagonal courtyard of ornamental trees and twining garden pathways. The witch reined in her mount, bringing the entire train to a halt and drawing a relieved nicker from the wounded packhorse. The enormous garden was enclosed by a milky wall, with slender, cone-roofed towers standing at each of the six corners. The castle had no central keep, nor, as far as the witch could tell, any sort of inner defensework at all.

  Despite the excitement of the phony chase, Ruha found herself completely and utterly exhausted by the long ride from the Ginger Palace. This was her second night without sleep. She kept yawning behind her veil, and her eyes were burning with the need to close. She braced her hands on her saddle pommel and fought to clear her head; she could not allow herself to even think of resting, not until she had laid her trap.

  Captain Fowler rushed from a gate tower’s narrow doorway, followed closely by Vaerana Hawklyn, Tombor the Jolly, and Pierstar Hallowhand. Though the hour was well past midnight, they were still dressed in jerkins, tunics, and trousers. They had, no doubt, been up planning tomorrow’s assault on the Ginger Palace.

  Fowler stopped beside Ruha and took her mount’s foam-covered reins. “Are you well, Witch?” The half-orc scowled at the lather on his hand, then wiped it on his pants. “And what have you done to this poor beast?”

  “Galloped him all the way from the Ginger Palace, by the looks of it,” said Vaerana, joining them. She turned to Pierstar. “You’d better have someone rouse John the farrier and his boys. These horses need some attention.”

  Pierstar stopped beside the wounded beast and winced at the two bolts lodged in its rump, then turned toward a tower in the back of the castle.

  “I’ll do it myself,” he said. “And I’ll send a patrol of Maces after those riders. I doubt we’ll catch them, but I don’t want them in the city. Those Shou can be sneaky.”

  Tombor the Jolly went to the first horse and stood on his toes so he could reach the knots. “Perhaps we should unload. Since Ruha risked her life to bring us this cargo, I assume it is of some importance.”

  “It is.” The witch glanced at the cleric just long enough to nod, then stifled a yawn and dismounted. ‘It’s the last ingredient the Cult of the Dragon needs to steal Yanseldara’s spirit—ylang blossoms. They arrived on the Ginger Lady with Minister Hsieh.”

  “Then you’ve saved Yanseldara!” Fowler’s outburst was as much question as exclamation, but that did not stop him from folding Ruha into his arms. “Maybe now you can get me my gold.”

  “Not so fast.” Vaerana went to help Tombor unload the pack train. “As I understand things, stopping the cult’s not the same as saving Yanseldara.”

  “That is correct. I have bought us more time, but Yanseldara is still in danger until we recover the staff.”

  Vaerana tossed a sack of ylang blossoms on the ground. “I don’t suppose you can tell us where it is?”

  The witch shook her head. “I am sorry. Lady Feng’s familiar was gone. It was all I could do to return with the ylang blossoms.”

  Vaerana sighed wearily. “I guess I’ll have to do this myself.”

  “I am sorry I failed you.”

  Vaerana shrugged. “I’m sure you did your best.”

  The Lady Constable probably did not mean to be insulting, but her patronizing tone vexed Ruha and made the witch burn to expose Tombor’s treachery. Unfortunately, vindication would have to wait. Until the cleric was gone, Ruha could not tell Vaerana about his treachery, or about her plan to trick him into leading them to Cypress’s lair.

  “What are you planning to do?” Ruha tried to sound genuinely sorry for her failure. Once she sprang her trap and exposed Tombor, it would be Vaerana’s turn to apologize. “Perhaps I can help?”

  Vaerana rolled her eyes,
but managed to make a civil reply. “Why don’t you get some rest? You look like you need it, and this is better done alone.”

  “Then you’ll try to snatch a member of the cult?” asked Fowler.

  Vaerana nodded and reached across a horse to untie another sack of ylang blossoms. “I know a couple of likely places to find one.”

  Tombor shook his head. “Even if you’re lucky enough to catch someone who knows where the lair is, he won’t tell you. If you want to make him talk, take me along.”

  “Sorry, Tombor. We’ll be moving fast tonight.” Vaerana patted the cleric’s stomach. “I don’t think you can keep up.”

  “You’ll have to torture them.”

  Vaerana nodded grimly. “I won’t enjoy it.”

  Somehow, Ruha suspected the Lady Constable of being less than honest.

  “Vaerana, before you go, we should talk.” Ruha could hardly explain why in front of Tombor, but the last thing she wanted was for Vaerana to leave Moonstorm House. “I should tell you of some other things I learned in the Ginger Palace.”

  “Then talk.” Vaerana continued to help Tombor unload. “I don’t have all night.”

  Ruha forced herself not to look in Tombor’s direction. “First, Cypress is back.”

  Vaerana’s jaw fell, and she let a sack of blossoms slip from her grasp.

  “I saw him in the spicehouse,” Ruha explained. “He was smaller than the first time I saw him. He could not speak or use his magic, but it was definitely Cypress. By kidnapping his cult members, you may be drawing his attention to you.”

  Vaerana turned back to the pack train. “Better to face him in Elversult than in his lair.” There was not much conviction in her voice. “What else?”

  “Cypress is not stealing Yanseldara’s spirit so his cult can control Elversult.” Ruha was frantically trying to think of something that would keep the Lady Constable inside Moonstorm House without arousing Tombor’s suspicions. “The dragon wants her spirit for himself.”

  “For himself?” Vaerana echoed.

  Ruha nodded. “I think Cypress is in love with Yanseldara, or believes he is.”

  Tombor raised his brow. “You seem to have learned quite a lot during your visit!”

  Behind her veil, Ruha bit her lip and wondered if she had said too much. Her mind was as weary as her body, and she found it difficult to be subtle when her thoughts were so sluggish.

  “I overheard a conversation between the prince and the dragon.” Then, doing her best to sound indignant, Ruha said, “I am not entirely inept.”

  “No one said you were—er, at least not lately.” Vaerana motioned Fowler over to hold the wounded packhorse. “But Cypress doesn’t have any reason to love Yanseldara. She’s the one that killed him!”

  “You don’t know much about men, do you Lady Constable?” Fowler gave her a roguish, yellow-fanged grin. “There’s a fine half-elf tavern wench over in Saerloon who slams an ale tankard against my head every time I see her, and I keep coming back for more. What’s that tell you?”

  “That you let your orcish blood get the best of you,” Vaerana growled. “You ought to know when to quit.”

  Fowler shrugged, trying not to look hurt. “Maybe, but what I’m saying is that I don’t quit. I keep wanting what will never be mine. Seems like that’s what Cypress is doing. Yanseldara killed him—maybe Sharee’ll kill me with that tankard someday—and now he’s trying to steal her, just as he stole all that treasure that belonged to someone else. He wants what he can’t have. It’s part of being male.”

  Vaerana pulled the last of the ylang blossoms off the wounded horse. “Fair enough. Let’s say I don’t understand men—not that I’d want to—what does it matter?” The Lady Constable dropped the sack on the ground. “It doesn’t change anything I’ve got to do tonight.”

  Vaerana turned to walk toward one of the towers, and Ruha, desperate to keep her from leaving, caught her by the arm.

  The Lady Constable frowned at the witch’s hand. “What now?”

  “Do you have an oil press?” Ruha asked.

  “In the kitchens,” Tombor answered. “Why?”

  The witch hesitated. She had already baited the trap, and she worried that in her exhaustion, she would explain too much and alert Tombor to her trap. On the other hand, if she did not explain, Vaerana would not stay to see the traitor take the bait.

  “The members of the Cult of the Dragon are not the only ones who need the ylang oil. After we recover the staff, we must pour the ylang oil over Yanseldara to draw her spirit back into her body.” Ruha continued to hold Vaerana’s arm. “But if the oil is poured over a vessel containing the spirits of both Yanseldara and Cypress, the two will be joined together forever. That is why I believe the dragon is in love with Yanseldara.”

  “And how did you learn so much about the uses of ylang oil?” Tombor asked.

  “I am a witch,” Ruha replied, trying to dodge the question with a cryptic reply. “So is Lady Feng.”

  In fact, Minister Hsieh had explained how to use the ylang oil. He had also provided Ruha with another Shou potion, one with which she was to send a message through Yanseldara to Lady Feng.

  Vaerana studied Ruha for several moments, then asked, “So, you’re saying we need to press the oil ourselves—and be damned sure the cult doesn’t steal it back?”

  “Yes.” Actually, this was only what Ruha wanted Tombor to believe. The blossoms in the sacks were the old, unsuitable ones; the fresh ylang was still in the Ginger Palace, being pressed in the spicehouse refinery. “That is what I’m saying.”

  “Fine.” Vaerana looked to Tombor. “See to it that the blossoms are pressed and well guarded.”

  If there had been any lingering doubts in Ruha’s mind that Tombor was the spy, they vanished when she saw the delighted twinkle in his eye. “The oil will be ready when you get back.”

  Vaerana turned back to Ruha. “If you’re satisfied, now I’ve got to go.”

  With that, Vaerana pulled her arm out of Ruha’s grasp and started across the courtyard. The witch stared after her in bewilderment, then scurried to catch up.

  “Wait, Vaerana! There is one more thing.”

  The Lady Constable stopped beneath the dark branches of a fragrant sweetbay tree. “What is it?”

  Before the witch could explain, Tombor called, “There’s no need to delay Vaerana. If you need something, I’m sure I can help.”

  Ruha glanced over her shoulder and saw Tombor coming after them, his jolly face bent into a mask of solicitous concern. The witch cursed under her breath and turned her back on him.

  “Before you leave, you must visit me in my chamber,” she whispered to Vaerana, “alone!”

  Vaerana shook her head. “I don’t have time—”

  Ruha took her arm again. “You must! Promise me.”

  Vaerana glanced down at the witch’s hand. “Then will you let me go?”

  Ruha nodded and removed her hand. “It is important.”

  “If you say so.” Vaerana looked past Ruha’s shoulder to Tombor, who was already upon them. “Lodge the witch in Pearl Tower.”

  “Pearl Tower?” Tombor echoed, clearly surprised.

  “Pearl Tower.” Vaerana turned to leave. “Are you having trouble with your ears?”

  The cleric took Ruha’s arm, gripping it more tightly than was necessary. “I’ll show you to a chamber as soon as we’ve seen to the blossoms.”

  “Perhaps we could go to the tower first,” Ruha suggested, worried she would not be there when Vaerana came to see her. “I have not slept in two days.”

  Tombor shook his head. “You said yourself we can’t let these blossoms fall into the hands of the Cult of the Dragon. Besides, the kitchen is on the way to Pearl Tower. It’ll take only a few minutes to stop and set up the press.”

  Ruha accompanied the cleric back to the horses. She removed a small satchel of supplies from her saddle, then helped Fowler and Tombor gather up the bulky sacks of ylang blossoms. Leaving the beasts w
ith a guard, they walked down a chain of meandering pathways to a thatch-roofed shed against the back wall of the fortress. The place smelled of animal grease, smoke, and fresh Heartland spices.

  Tombor stopped at the entrance and banged on the wooden door. “Up with you, Silavia! I’ve business in your kitchen!”

  “The cook bars the door when she sleeps,” explained Fowler. “Otherwise, the night guards pilfer her breakfast tarts.”

  They had to wait several minutes before a sleepy voice sounded on the other side of the door. “Go away, Tombor. I won’t have you calling in the middle of the night. You only want something to eat.”

  Tombor looked slightly embarrassed. “I’ve—uh—guests with me, Silavia. We need the oil press. It’s for Lady Yanseldara.”

  Silavia hesitated a moment, then asked, “Truly?”

  “Truly,” replied Ruha. “The matter is urgent, I assure you.”

  “Very well.” Silavia sounded more put-upon than curious. “Let me throw on an apron.”

  From inside the building came several moments of bustling and whispering, which elicited a resentful scowl from Tombor. When a muffled thump finally announced the withdrawal of the bar, the cleric pushed the door open and stepped inside, where a stout, tousle-haired woman stood in a nightshirt and crisp white apron. The flickering taper in her hand illuminated an ashen, moon-shaped face with a bottle nose and plump-lipped frown.

  Tombor dropped his sacks inside the door, then snatched the candle from the cook and went to light several others. A flickering yellow glow soon filled the room, revealing a neatly kept chamber filled with cutting tables, kneading troughs, and spice barrels. The embers of several spent fires glowed in three different fireplaces, one with a roasting spit over the hearth, one with soup cauldrons sitting in the firebox, and one built beneath a brick oven. Silavia’s sleeping pallet lay behind a dough bench, where a burly, black-bearded man stood looking down at a half-eaten honeycake and two empty mead pitchers.