The Blind Dragon

by Peter Fane

  She looked past the Gate; saw Mother, Penelope, and Wendi. Penelope and Wendi were cheering and yelling their heads off, hands cupped to mouths, and Mother . . . Mother was crying. Anna had never seen it before. Mother's chin was up, her back was straight, but tears streamed down her cheeks. She held the destroyed Dradón war banner tightly to her chest.

  Anna looked her in the eye, raised the lance again, for her and for her alone, and the crowd roared their approval. Mother laughed, shook her head, then bowed and clapped her hands, grabbing up Wendi, squeezing her to the banner at her chest. "Lemme go! Lemme go!" Anna could see Wendi say.

  Behind her family, Master Khondus, Master Zar, and Master Borónd smiled. Anna saw Gregory snap at Master Zar's fingers, the stocky Anorian promptly kissing the little dragon on the nose and shoving a gob of bloody meat into his mouth.

  High Lady Abigail raised her little scepter and the crowd went immediately quiet. Then she spoke, her voice high, true, and perfectly trained.

  "Step forward, Anna Dyer, Dragon Rider of House Dradón, Defender of Dávanor!"

  Total, absolute chaos. The entire Square seemed to buckle on its foundations. Sky blue flags waved everywhere. The dragons' roar shook the heavens.

  "And step forward, Moondagger, Prince of Dragons!"

  Anna's breath caught.

  She knew he'd been treated. She knew he was better. But he'd been on Kon the entire time, under the direct care of Lord Garen at the Tarn, or so Master Borónd had said. And none of them had said anything about him coming back.

  At the High Gate, the House Dradón adepts raised their voices in song, and the Gate flared to life, its brilliant silver shining brighter than the sun, its noiseless sound like a high, clean hymn, totally familiar—eternally unknowable.

  And then Moondagger was there.

  He stepped through the Gate, scales pure white, wings like sails, huge eyes glowing like silver moons. He wore new gear, as well. A new war saddle of molded blue leather trimmed with silver. New reins of soft Abúcian hide. A new banner of Eulorian silk crossed his chest emblazoned with the House Dradón crest: a white dragon rampant on a field of high blue. His claws had been polished and his whiskers had been carefully trimmed. His fully-sprouted horns had been burnished until they glowed like white fire, just a touch of black beginning to show at their tips.

  And he was huge.

  Almost twice the size she'd last seen him.

  His eyes sought her out immediately, connected, and she walked straight down the blue carpet towards him, trying to be solemn and dignified like they'd told her, but she realized suddenly that she didn't care, that her dragon was home, and that she just couldn't wait.

  So she ran, dropped the lance to the carpet, and threw her arms around his neck, pushing her cheek into his scales. The crowd went completely berserk, but the noise seemed not to exist. She pulled back and looked into his eyes. He leaned forward and touched his smooth forehead to hers. Together, they closed their eyes, his warmth filling her mind with everything she'd ever need.

  This and only this.

  Forever.

  70

  THERE WERE SPEECHES. And then there were more speeches, and then Anna gave a little speech that they'd prepared for her, and then there were more speeches. Through all of it, Anna kept her hand on Dagger's neck, savoring the feel of the coiled power beneath his warm white scales.

  He wanted to fly. They both did. The way his broad tongue tasted the air, the way his muscles bunched and shifted, the way his claws dug into the new blue carpet, his eyes rolling with what seemed like exasperation every time yet another speaker would step up onto the dais to commend their bravery and dedication. But then it was done, there was a final cheer, and then the tables and the mead and the food started coming out, the celebration beginning in earnest.

  Wendi ran across the courtyard and leapt into Anna's arms.

  "Now can I ride him?" Wendi giggled as Anna gobbled her ear.

  "Of course." Anna smiled.

  Mother, Penelope, Master Khondus, and Master Zar came over and surrounded her, hugging her, patting her on the back, squeezing her shoulders. Little Gregory squeaked and Zar gave him some more meat.

  "You keep that up, Zar," Master Khondus grinned, "he won't be able to do his job. Be wider than he is long."

  They laughed, Gregory snarled, and Master Zar gave him another bloody scrap.

  "Can't help myself." The squat Anorian shrugged.

  Master Khondus took Anna by the shoulders and looked down into her face. His eyes shone.

  "You've made us so proud, Anna. There're hardly words to—."

  "What's this?!" Penelope cried, from the other side of Moondagger.

  Dagger snorted, and they all moved around to his opposite side to see what Penelope was pointing at. There, in a scabbard of blue Abúcian leather, was a short saber of high silver. It was slung on Dagger's left side, so that it could be cross drawn with ease from the rider's right. Its handle was slender and freshly wrapped with a blue leather cord. The circular cross guard had been meticulously shaped as the open mouth of a roaring dragon, the blade extending through its open fangs.

  Tied to the scabbard was a slim, leather message tube. It was capped with a roundel of burnished silver that had been stamped with the six-pointed Dallanar Sun. Everyone looked at each other curiously.

  Anna unclipped the sword and held it beneath the cross guard. Ancient, indestructible, priceless; it weighed almost nothing. She handed the sword to Penelope, unfastened the tube, and withdrew from it a single sheet of clean cotton paper. On it, in an elegant, formal hand, was written the following missive:

  To Anna Dyer, Dragon Knight, House Dradón—

  Few indeed are those willing to live and die for their Honor and Word. Yet here you are, Anna, alive and victorious. The Kingdom owes you a most Solemn Debt, and I salute you, your Dragon, and your Great Achievement. Yet there is more Good Work to be done. Complete your Training—then join us. Let this Letter mark not the End of your Journey, but its Beginning.

  -Lord Bellános Dallanar, Duke of Kon, High King of Remain

  p.s. The last Owner of this Sword was Anna Dallanar, second-born daughter of Hakon the Terrible. I am told that it was crafted early in the Founding, perhaps by the Great Alea herself. Regardless, it has served my House for many Years and on many Worlds, and it is yours, a Symbol of your Strength, Honor, and Dedication. Use it well, in the Service of Remain.

  p.s.s. If Khondus and Zar are there with you, please do remind them that they still owe me ten Gold Suns for their Wager on the Bear, and that I intend to collect—one way or another!

  Anna looked from the letter, to the high silver sword, to her friends and family around her. Dagger growled and shifted his weight, still hungry for the sky. Everyone looked at her expectantly.

  "Well?!" Penelope cried finally. "What's he say, for the Sisters' sake?"

  Anna shook her head with wonder. "He says it's the beginning."

  71

  THE CELEBRATION LASTED all afternoon and continued well into evening. But at last, as a huge white moon climbed the night sky, the final glass was raised, the final toast was given, and the final song was sung.

  Mother, Penelope, and Wendi had left for home several hours earlier after many hugs and kisses, with Wendi making Anna promise—actually demanding that Anna swear a formal oath—to visit next week with Dagger and to take her on her long-awaited dragon ride. Master Khondus and Master Zar had ended up challenging each other to some kind of bizarre table game that involved several jugs of mead, a brass bowl, and the counting of the moments between little Gregory's hiccups. "An ancient Anorian tradition," Master Zar grinned, his purple eyes bright. Master Khondus had nodded seriously. Now the two of them were loudly recounting some insane adventure they'd had with Bellános fifty years past while Captain Fyr and her men roared with laughter, pounded the tables, and shook their heads in disbelief. Master Borónd had pushed his wire-framed spectacles up onto his nose and had respectfully aske
d Anna if he could take Moondagger down to the lower stables to measure the dragon's growth and to give Dagger the last of his medicine as prescribed by Lord Garen. Anna had agreed, gently holding the scholar's destroyed hands. She knew that Voidbane's son would receive the very best of care.

  And now it was time for bed, but she wasn't tired, and she had something she wanted to do anyway. So she slipped away from the High Square without anyone noticing and walked down to the Dragon Steps with only the moon to light her path. From there, she made her way to the lower stables and crossed that last series of bridges to the main door. She opened it and stepped down the stone staircase into the stable proper.

  That's odd.

  She cocked her head.

  Halfway down the stable's central hallway, she could see Dagger's stall door. It was cracked open and warm lantern light spilled onto the ancient flagstones. She heard him snort at her presence as she approached.

  He was waiting for her, curled in the golden straw, his nose resting on his white tail, his huge eyes glowing like twin moons. To the right of the door, directly beneath a suspended lantern, someone had carefully laid out his new saddle, his new tackle, and the rest of his new gear on a trio of wooden rigging stands. Someone had known that she'd come.

  It took her about half a bell's time to get Dagger saddled and harnessed, and she still wore her new riding gear from the day's festivities, so there were no issues there. Ready to go, she slid his stall door wide and walked him down the hallway, up the far ramp, and out onto the broad flight deck.

  The moon was bright and enormous, floating high above the piling clouds to the west. The air was cool but not cold, with just a touch of breeze, just enough to stir her dark hair and to flicker the torches in the far towers.

  Perfect flying weather.

  She smiled and patted Dagger's neck, closing her eyes, savoring the smell of the wind. Dagger grunted impatiently and bumped his head against hers. She chuckled and opened her eyes. His scales shone white in the moon's pale glow.

  She mounted and clipped on, the new saddle soft and sturdy beneath her. It was rather different from their old scout rig, and it felt great; snug and perfect. She gave herself a solid checking over, tugging and pulling and twisting to make sure everything was in order, put her helmet on, and brushed out her goggles.

  You ready?

  Dagger snorted and tutted, as if to say that he'd been ready for the last month. She smiled, placed her goggles over her eyes, and put her hands on his neck for a long moment, feeling the rippling power beneath his smooth scales. She settled deeper into her saddle, closed her eyes—and the night opened up before her.

  "Go," she whispered.

  They launched into moonlight.

  EPILOGUE

  "I AM DEFEATED," High Lord Dorómy Dallanar whispered to himself.

  He touched the blue-grey disc of polished agate in front of him. The disc represented the world of Dávanor. It was a small but important duchy, ruled by a small but important High House.

  Dorómy Dallanar stood in the Chamber of Worlds, the great map room of the mighty citadel of Káladar. He cut a striking figure: tall and broad of chest; full, black beard, carefully trimmed and shaped to a point at his chin; and dark eyes, widely set, glittering with strength and cunning. His garb was simple: a standard silver-grey uniform of the Silver Legions, well-worn jack boots of black Abúcian leather, and a black leather belt. A dagger of high silver was scabbarded horizontally across the small of his back and an ancient revolver was strapped beneath his left armpit. He sported no jewelry save a wide band of high silver on his right index finger, a gift from his brother Bellános, long ago. No marks or insignia showed his status. Like his legionaries, he wore his dark hair in a short soldier's crop.

  Dorómy cleared his throat. A small, silver token sat on top of the blue-grey disc. The silver token meant that the world belonged to him, that the High House of that world was loyal to his cause, that he could count on the ruler of that world to support his war with men, arms, and blood.

  All that could have been true. All that should have been true.

  But it wasn't.

  And Dorómy didn't know why.

  Dorómy tapped the disc of Dávanor, then turned away and gazed out the windows to the west. The citadel of Káladar loomed high atop the sun-drenched crags of Dothar, the steepest cliff on the great world of Paráden. Looking out over the Sea of the Sun, it was the Kingdom's most ancient High Keep, a soaring mass of tawny stone and golden battlements that heaved itself skyward, towering above the land and waters as if built by titans of old. Primordial, vast, indomitable, the Káladar was the center of the Realm, the site of the Kingdom's first and oldest High Gate, an eternal symbol of the Remain's strength, durability, and power.

  "And yet, for all that," Dorómy murmured to the sea, "I am defeated."

  He'd never speak those words in public, of course. Not even in front of his most trusted advisors, few as they might be. He was the "Silver King," after all. The Gate Master. The Prince of the Sea of the Sun, the Grand Duke of Paráden, Ward of Káladar, the Protector of the Realm, and the High King of Remain. As such, his every word and deed must embody the very essence of authority. Indeed, for the Silver King, there could be no such thing as "defeat."

  Right.

  Dorómy scoffed at the thought and smoothed his thick, black beard. Years of political maneuvering, court intrigue, and outright war had taught him many lessons regarding moments like these. And one of the most important was this: A man who would keep his power could lie to everyone else forever, but he could never lie to himself. The moment you began to trust your own pretense—the moment you started believing your own lies—was the moment you gave your life and your position to your enemies.

  Deceit can live everywhere, save your own heart.

  It was wisdom that Dorómy had earned the hard way.

  "I am defeated," he said again, letting the words sink in, letting himself taste their meaning. He turned away from the windows, back to the Chamber.

  The Chamber of Worlds was a circular room, sixty paces across, paved with the rich, golden-white marble of Paráden's finest quarries. All its walls, except those that faced west, were hung floor to ceiling with polished bookshelves made of the finest Anorian oak. The western wall was made almost entirely of glass, a wall of leaded windows that opened onto a rock-cut terrace from which you could enjoy unrivaled views of the Dothar cliffs and the Sea of the Sun. The bookshelves were filled with well-ordered atlases, scrolls, maps, navigational tables, and charts—the geographical records of all one hundred and four of the Kingdom's worlds, a library of topographies and landscapes second only to the royal collections of Genonea. Around the Chamber's circumference, lamps flickered brightly, their flames safely caged in fixtures of gilded bronze.

  In the Chamber's exact center, where Dorómy stood, rested the Stand of Worlds. The Stand was a large, circular table, ten paces across and meticulously fashioned of the finest materials. Some scholars argued that the Stand was truly ancient, conceived and crafted by the mad Volzabon, friend and sometimes-lover of the Great Sister Alea the First. Others said that it had been commissioned hundreds of years later, by the great scholar-queen Katherine. Regardless, it was a marvel of artistry. Its innumerable, squat legs were made of Anorian oak, all as thick as Dorómy’s thighs and carved as powerfully muscled telamons carrying mighty burdens. Their feet were perfectly shaped dragons' claws squeezing bulging worlds in their taloned grips. The table top itself, however, was the true marvel. It was a single, massive slab of dark Marsinion granite, its wide, polished edge painstakingly inlaid with an interlaced pattern of high silver ribbons that braided their way around the table's circumference before winding beneath the table to the Stand's central column. From there, the silver ribbons wound into the guts of the Káladar, terminating at the citadel's mighty High Gate.

  But it was the Stand's surface that concerned Dorómy now.

  There, inlaid and polished in the most exacting d
etail, lay a schematized map of the Kingdom's one hundred and four worlds, each duchy represented by a single disc made of some native stone. Each disc was a different size and color. Some were huge, some were large, and some were rather tiny. The disc representing Paráden, for example, was near the middle of the Stand, a huge disc of polished, golden-white marble nearly two palms in diameter. Tóvonok, on the other hand, a duchy from which Dorómy drew some of his most ruthless shock troops, was represented by a blood-red disc no larger than a coin. The great world of Kon, Bellános's wintery home, was represented by a disc nearly as large as Paráden, a scintillating white circle of blue-white quartz. Regardless of its size or color, each disc was connected to several others by a complex pattern of inlaid high silver, hair-fine arcs that represented the High Gates' eternal paths and songs, the songs that bound together the Kingdom's worlds.

  Dorómy frowned and put his fists on the Stand's smooth surface. Millennia ago, during the Founding, when the songs of the High Gates had been at the apex of their power, the Stand had been a living thing, able to be spun, adjusted, and focused so that the user's eyes could rest upon any world at will. (Indeed, it was often said that the great scholar-queen Katherine could control the Stand with such dexterity that she could read a book over a man's shoulder anywhere in the Realm.) But those days were long gone. Nowadays, it took all of Dorómy's strength, and sometimes the assistance of an adept or two, to simply rotate the Stand's surface, and even that could be a slow, draining process not often worth the effort.

  But it had been worth it today.

  In front of him, between his fists, rested that small, blue-grey disc of polished agate.

  Dávanor.

  "I was defeated here." Dorómy touched the edge of the disc with his index finger. The blue-grey stone was cool and smooth.

  Years ago, when this silly war first started, Dorómy had placed tactical tokens made of either silver or obsidian onto each of the Stand's one hundred and four discs. The tokens made of silver designated worlds that he certainly—or almost certainly—controlled. Tokens made of obsidian designated worlds that were controlled by his brother, Bellános. Right now, silver tokens outnumbered obsidian by more than two to one.