Dragonwing

by Margaret Weis

  Glancing about him, nodding to friends here, noting enemies there, Sinistrad moved without haste through the large hall.

  Made of marble, the Guildhall was bleak, empty, and unadorned. No tapestries graced its walls, no statues decorated its doorways, no windows admitted the sunlight, no magic dispelled the gloom. The dwellings of the mysteriarchs in the Mid Realm had been renowned throughout the world as the most marvelous of all human creations. Remembering the beauty from which they had come, the wizards found the starkness and austerity of the Guildhall in the High Realm chilling. Hands thrust into the sleeves of their robes, they stood well away from the walls and appeared to try to avoid looking anywhere except at each other or their leader—Sinistrad.

  He was the youngest among them. Every mysteriarch there could remember him first entering the Guildhall—a well-built youth, inclined to be servile and sniveling. His parents had been among the earliest of the exiles to succumb up here, leaving him orphaned. The others felt sorry for the young man, but not unduly. There were, after all, many orphans at that time. Immersed in their own problems—which were monumental—no one had paid much attention to the young wizard.

  Human wizards had their own version of history that was, much like any other race’s history, distorted by their own perspective. Following the Sundering, the Sartan had brought the people—not first to Aristagon, as the elves would have it—but here, to this realm beneath a magical dome. The humans, particularly the wizards, worked extremely hard to make this realm not only habitable but beautiful. It seemed to them that the Sartan were never around to help, but were always off somewhere on “important” business.

  On the infrequent occasions when the Sartan returned, they lent their assistance, utilizing their rune magic. Thus it was that fabulous buildings were created, the dome was strengthened. The coralite bore fruit, water was in abundance. The human wizards were not particularly grateful. They were envious. They coveted the rune magic.

  Then came the day when the Sartan announced the Mid Realm below was suitable for habitation. Humans and elves were transported to Aristagon, while the Sartan remained above in the High Realm. The Sartan gave the reason for the move the fact that the domed land was getting too crowded. The human wizards believed that the Sartan had cast them out because the wizards were becoming too knowledgeable about the rune magic.

  Time passed, and the elves grew strong and united under their powerful wizards and the humans turned into barbaric pirates. The human wizards watched the rise of the elves with outward disdain and inward fear.

  They said to themselves, “If only we had the rune magic, then we could destroy the elves!”

  Instead of helping their own people, therefore, they began to concentrate their magic on finding ways to return to the High Realm. At length, they succeeded and a large force of the most powerful magi—the mysteriarchs—ascended to the High Realm to challenge the Sartan and take back what they had come to see as rightfully their land.

  This the humans called the War of Ascension, only it wasn’t much of a war. The mysteriarchs woke one morning to find the Sartan gone, their dwellings empty, their cities abandoned. The wizards returned victorious to their people, only to find the Mid Realm in chaos—torn by war. It was all they could do to manage to stay alive, much less try to use their magic to move the people to the Promised Land.

  Finally, after years of suffering and hardship, the mysteriarchs were able to leave the Mid Realm and enter the land their legends held was beautiful, bountiful, safe, and secure. Here, too, they hoped to discover at last the secrets of the runes. It all seemed a wonderful dream. It would soon turn to a nightmare.

  The runes kept their secrets and the mysteriarchs discovered to their horror how much of the beauty and bounty of the land had depended on the runes. Crops grew, but not in the numbers needed to feed the people. Famine swept the land. Water was scarce and became scarcer—each family having to expend immense amounts of magic in order to produce it. Centuries of inbreeding had already weakened the wizards and further inbreeding in this closed realm produced frightful genetic defects that could not be cured with magic. These children died and, eventually, few children were born. Most horrifying, it became obvious to the mysteriarchs that the magic of the dome was fading.

  They would have to leave this realm, yet how could they, without proclaiming their failure, their weaknesses? One man had an idea. One man told them how it could be done. They were desperate, they listened.

  As time passed and Sinistrad did well in his magical studies, surpassing many of the elders in his power, he ceased to be servile and began to flaunt his abilities. His elders were displeased and disgusted when he changed his name to Sinistrad, but they thought little of it at the time. Back in the Mid Realm, a bully might call himself Brute or Thug or some other tough-sounding name in order to garner respect he hadn’t earned. It meant nothing.

  The mysteriarchs had ignored the name change, just as they had ignored Sinistrad. Oh, a few spoke out—Iridal’s father being one of them. A few tried to make their fellows see the young man’s overweening ambition, his ruthless cruelty, his ability to manipulate. Those who spoke the warnings were not heeded. Iridal’s father lost his only loved daughter to the man, and lost his life in Sinistrad’s magical captivity. None of the wizards knew that, however. The prison had been created so skillfully that no one ever noticed. The old wizard walked about the land, visited his friends, performed his duties. If any remarked that he seemed listless and sorrowful, all knew he grieved over his daughter’s marriage. None knew that the old man’s soul had been held hostage, like a bug in a glass jar.

  Imperceptibly, patiently, the young wizard cast his web over all the surviving wizards of the High Realm. The filaments were practically invisible, light to the touch, barely felt. He didn’t weave a gigantic web for all to see, but deftly wrapped a line around an arm, wound a toil around a foot, holding them so lightly that they never knew they were held at all until the day came when they couldn’t move.

  Now they were stuck fast, caught by their own desperation. Sinistrad was right. They had no choice. They had to rely on him, for he was the only one who had been smart enough to plan ahead and make some provision to escape their beautiful hell.

  Sinistrad arrived at the front of the hall. He caused a golden podium to spring up from the floor and, mounting it, turned to address his fellows.

  “The elf ship has been sighted. My son is aboard. In accordance with our plans, I shall go to meet and guide it—”

  “We never agreed to allow an elven vessel inside the dome,” spoke out a female mysteriarch. “You said it would be a small ship, piloted by your son and his oafish servant.”

  “I was forced to effect a change in plans,” replied Sinistrad, his lips creasing in a thin and unpleasant smile. “The first ship was attacked by elves and crashed on Drevlin. My son was able to take over this elven vessel. The child holds their captain in could have dealt with thirty elves. But now …” Her voice trailed away as she shook her head.

  “That is why we have worked our magic, created the illusions.” Sinistrad gestured toward the outside of the Guildhall. “They will be intimidated by the sight alone. We will have no trouble from them.”

  “Why not meet them at the firmament, take your son, and let them go on their way?” demanded the aged mysteriarch known as Balthazar.

  “Because, you doddering fool, we need their vessel!” Sinistrad hissed, clearly growing angry at the questioning. “With it we can transport large numbers of our people back down to the Mid Realm. Before, we would have been forced to wait until we could either acquire vessels or enchant more dragons.”

  “So what do we do with the elves?” asked the woman.

  Everyone looked to Sinistrad. They knew the answer as well as he did; they wanted to hear him say it.

  He said it, without pause, without hesitation. “We kill them.”

  The silence was loud and echoing. The aged mysteriarch shook his head. “No. I won�
�t be a party to this.”

  “Why not, Balthazar? You killed elves enough back in the Mid Realm.”

  “That was war. This is murder.”

  “War is ‘us or them.’ This is war. It is either us or them!”

  The mysteriarchs around him murmured, seeming to agree. Several began to argue with the old wizard, trying to persuade him to change his stance. “Sinistrad is right,” they said. “It is war! It can never be anything else between our races.” And “After all, Sinistrad’s only trying to lead us home.”

  “I pity you!” Balthazar snarled. “I pity you all! He”—pointing at Sinistrad—“is leading you, all right. Leading you around by the nose like fatted calves. And when he’s ready to dine, he’ll slaughter the lot of you and feed off your flesh. Bah! Leave me alone! I’ll die up here sooner than follow him back there.”

  The old wizard stalked toward the door.

  “And so you will, graybeard,” muttered Sinistrad beneath his breath. “Let him go,” he said aloud, when some of his fellows would have gone after the wizard. “Unless there are any others who want to leave with him?”

  The mysteriarch cast a swift, searching glance around the room, gathering up the tendrils of his web and tugging it tighter and tighter. No one else managed to break free. Those who had once struggled were now so weak with fear, they were eager and ready to do his bidding.

  “Very well. I will bring the elven ship through the dome. I will remove my son and his companions to my castle.” Sinistrad might have told his people that one of his son’s companions was a skilled assassin—a man who could take the blood of the elves on his own hands and leave those of the mysteriarchs clean. But Sinistrad wanted to harden his people, force them to sink lower and lower until they would willingly and unquestioningly do anything he asked. “Those of you who volunteered to learn to fly the elf ship know what you are to do. The rest must work to maintain the city’s spells. When the time comes, I will give the signal and we will act.”

  He gazed at them all, studied each pallid, grim face, and was satisfied. “Our plans are progressing well. Better than we had anticipated, in fact. Traveling with my son are several who may be of use to us in ways we had not foreseen. One is a dwarf from the Low Realm. The elves have exploited the dwarves for centuries. It is likely we can turn the Gegs, as they call themselves, to war. Another is a human who claims to come from a realm beneath the Low Realm—a realm none of us previously knew existed. This news could be extremely valuable to all of us.”

  There were murmurs of approval and agreement.

  “My son brings information about the human kingdoms and the elven revolution, all of which will be most helpful when we set about to conquer them. And, most important, he has seen the great machine built by the Sartan on the Low Realm. At last we may be able to unravel the mystery of the so-called Kicksey-winsey and turn it, too, to our use.”

  Sinistrad raised his hands in a blessing. “Go forth now, my people. Go forth and know that as you do so you are stepping out into the world, for soon Arianus will be ours!”

  The meeting broke up with cheering, most of it enthusiastic. Sinistrad stepped down from the podium and it disappeared—magic had to be carefully rationed, expended only on that which was essential. Many stopped him to congratulate him or to ask questions, clearing up small details about the plan of action. Several asked politely after his health, but no one inquired about his wife. Iridal had not been present at a council meeting in ten cycles, ever since the guild voted to go along with Sinistrad’s plot—to take her child and exchange it for the human prince. The guild members were just as well pleased Iridal did not attend the meetings. They still, after all this time, found it difficult to look into her eyes.

  Sinistrad, mindful of the need to commence his journey, shook off the hangers-on who crowded round him and made his way from the Guildhall. A mental command brought the quicksilver dragon to the very foot of the stairs of the hall. Glowering at the wizard balefully, the dragon nevertheless suffered the mysteriarch to mount its back and command it to do his bidding. The dragon had no choice but to obey Sinistrad; it was enthralled. In this the creature was unlike the wizards standing in the shadowy doorway of the Guildhall. They had given themselves to Sinistrad of their own free will.

  CHAPTER 46

  THE FIRMAMENT

  THE ELVEN DRAGONSHIP HUNG MOTIONLESS IN THE THIN, CHILL AIR. Having reached the floating chunks of ice known as the firmament, it had come to a halt, no one daring to proceed further. Ice floes ten times larger than the vessel loomed above them. Smaller boulders circled the more massive chunks; the air glistened with tiny droplets of frozen water. The sun’s glare off the floebergs dazzled the eye; no one could look at them directly without being blinded. How thick the firmament was, how far it reached, was anyone’s guess. No one, except the mysteriarchs and the Sartan, had ever flown this high and returned to give an account of their journey. Maps had been drawn from speculation, and now everyone on board ship knew them to be inaccurate. No one had guessed the mysteriarchs had passed through the firmament to build their realm on the other side.

  “Natural defense barrier,” said Hugh, peering with narrowed eyes at the awful beauty outside the porthole. “No wonder they’ve kept their wealth undisturbed all these years.”

  “How do we get through it?” asked Bane, The child was standing on tip-toe to see.

  “We don’t.”

  “But we have to!” The prince’s voice shrilled. “I have to get to my father!”

  “Kid, one of the ice boulders—even a little one—hits us, and our bodies will be just another star twinkling in the daytime sky. Maybe you better tell daddy to come get you.”

  Bane’s face smoothed, the flush of anger faded. “Thank you for the suggestion, Sir Hugh.” His hand clasped around the feather. “I’ll do just that. And I’ll be certain to tell him all you’ve done for me. All of you.” His glance encompassed everyone from Alfred to a beauty-dazed Limbeck, to Haplo’s dog. “I’m certain he’ll reward you … as you deserve.”

  Skipping across the deck, Bane plunked himself down in a corner of the hold and, closing his eyes, apparently began to commune with his father.

  “I didn’t like that little pause he put in between ‘reward’ and ‘deserve,’” remarked Haplo. “What’s to keep this wizard from snatching his kid and sending us up in flames?”

  “Nothing, I suppose,” answered Hugh, “except that he wants something and it’s not just his little boy. Otherwise, why go to all this trouble?”

  “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

  “Alfred, come here. Look, you said that this Sinistrad came to the castle at night, switched babies, and then left. How’d he manage that with guards all around?”

  “The mysteriarchs have the power to transport themselves through the air. Trian explained it thus to His Majesty the king: the spell is done by means of sending the mind on ahead of the body. Once the mind is firmly established in a particular location, it can call for the body to join it. The only requirement to the spell-caster is that he must have previously visited the place, so that he can mentally call up an accurate picture of where he’s going. The mysteriarchs had often visited the Royal Palace on Uylandia, which is nearly as old as the world.”

  “But he couldn’t, for example, send himself to the Low Realm or the elven palace on Aristagon?”

  “No, sir, he couldn’t. Not mentally, at least. None of them could. The elves hated and feared the mysteriarchs and never allowed them in their kingdom. The wizards couldn’t travel to the Low Realm that way either, since they’d never been there before. They’d have to rely on other means of transport… Oh, I see your point, sir!”

  “Uh-huh. First Sinistrad tried to get my ship. That failed, and now he has this one. If he—”

  “Hush, company,” murmured Haplo.

  The door to the brig opened and Captain Bothar’el, flanked by two crew members, entered. “You”—he pointed to Hugh—“come with me.”

 
; Shrugging, the Hand did as he was told, not sorry to get a glimpse of what was going on above. The door slammed shut behind them, the guard locked it, and Hugh followed the elf up the ladder to the top deck. It was not until he arrived on the bridge that he noticed Haplo’s dog trotting at his heels.

  “Where did that come from?” The captain glared at the animal irritably. The dog gazed up at him, brown eyes shining, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

  “I don’t know. He followed me, I guess.”

  “Midshipman, get that thing off the bridge. Take it back to its master and tell him to keep an eye on it or I’ll toss it overboard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The midshipman bent down to pick up the dog. The animal’s demeanor changed instantly. Its ears flattened and the tail ceased wagging and began a slow and ominous brush from side to side. The lips parted in a snarl, a low growl rumbled in the chest.

  “If you are fond of those fingers,” the animal seemed to say, “you better keep them to yourself.”

  The midshipman took the dog’s advice. Putting his hands behind his back, he looked questioningly and fearfully at his captain.

  “Dog …” tried Hugh experimentally. The animal’s ears lifted slightly. It glanced at him, keeping one eye fixed on the midshipman but letting Hugh know it considered him a friend.

  “Here, dog,” ordered Hugh, clumsily snapping his fingers.

  The dog turned his head, asking him if he was sure about this.

  Hugh snapped his fingers again, and the dog, with a parting snarl at the hapless elf, ambled over to Hugh, who patted it awkwardly. It sat down at his feet.

  “It’ll be all right. I’ll watch him—”

  “Captain, the dragon is closing on us,” reported a lookout.

  “Dragon?” Hugh looked at the elf.

  Captain Bothar’el, in answer, pointed.