Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  * * *

  In a small dinghy Jurgan and Steph took turns rowing and bailing. Despite their best efforts, they, among several others, were falling steadily behind the main body of the fleet. The mountainous waves had made them seasick at first, but once they had emptied their stomachs, they had felt marginally better.

  Jurgan dumped a load of water from the nutshell he used for bailing, and stared at Steph. Steph, as he rowed, was constantly craning his neck, looking up into the cloudy sky.

  “You’ve been staring out like that ever since we reached the strait,” said Jurgan. “I’d like to know why.”

  “I’m looking for windships,” Steph said.

  Jurgan snorted in disbelief. “As if we ain’t got enough trouble! Floating every which way in these waves, falling behind the rest of the fleet, and you’re looking for windships!”

  “I can’t help it,” Steph said, and sniffled. “I’m scared.”

  “Look,” Jurgan said. “It’s hard enough keeping this leaky washtub afloat in these waves. So if you’re gonna cry, do it over the side.”

  Steph made no reply to that, and Jurgan saw that his companion was really quite scared. “Well,” he said, “we’re not doing this for ourselves, Steph. It’s for Fandora.”

  “You’re a fine man to talk! Was you who had second thoughts in the first place!”

  “True enough, but that was just sore back and ax blisters talking. Listen, we can’t let these Sim come swooping down on us without even an if-you-please. We got to show them what’s what!”

  “Let Jondalrun show them what’s what,” Steph said. “Me, I’m turning this boat around!” He began to scud with one oar. A large wave caught them broadside and nearly overturned them, despite the lightness of the craft.

  Jurgan seized the oars. “You can’t do that, Steph! It’s treason!”

  “It’s good common sense!” Steph glowered at Jurgan. “All right, then,” he said, “I’m swimming home!”

  “You’re crazy, too! You think swimming in this mess is like paddling across Mossybottom Pond? You wouldn’t last a minute! I’d be eating a puney fish someday and find that wooden ring of yours breaking my teeth! Now, sit down and start bailing! The way out of this is straight ahead!”

  Steph hesitated, then seized the nutshell and began bailing sullenly. Jurgan slipped the oars into the water. The waves had turned the boat, and in the fog, he now had no idea which way to go. The last of the other boats had passed them. Jurgan began to row determinedly in the direction he hoped was correct.

  * * *

  “Evirae . . .” said Kiorte.

  His wife turned on the stairs outside their tree castle. She blinked in amazement. “My dearest Kiorte!” she cried. “You’ve returned!” She hurried down the stairwell toward the garden where he stood, not far from a large pillow plant. She was genuinely excited. Then she saw his face.

  He knows! He knows everything! she thought. She slowly crossed the patio and waited for her husband to speak.

  He did not speak. Instead he studied her, looking through her beautiful face and full figure, oblivious of the scent of orchids and the glint of sunlight in her auburn hair.

  “Kiorte, darling!” she said at last, desperate with anxiety. “So many things have happened since your departure! Come inside where we may discuss them alone!”

  Prince Kiorte frowned, and the sight of that expression, coupled with his silence, was more frightening to Evirae than any threat she had ever heard.

  “My darling,” she asked shakily, “are you ill?”

  Again Kiorte did not reply. Confused now, and frightened by the thought of what her husband might know, Evirae adopted a more arduous tone. “Kiorte!” she said. “Talk to me. I have not seen you for so long.”

  Kiorte at last replied, but his words burned like the fire of a Sindril jewel. “You have lost me forever,” he said. “You have dared to misuse my name and besmirch my honor in an attempt to win support for your plans. You and I are—”

  “No!” Evirae screamed. It was a cry that came from the depths of her soul. Tears filled her eyes, and she found it difficult to speak. “You must tell me what you know, my darling! You cannot possibly understand what I have done!” The obvious sincerity of her cry unnerved Kiorte. He had not expected such emotion. With deliberation he responded in a softer voice, “I know you have used my name to conspire against Hawkwind. The Overwood is filled with the news of your confrontation. I know, too, that you have slandered Hawkwind to the Northwealdsman Willen. Yet these things are minor compared to the union of my name with your call for war!”

  What he said relieved Evirae slightly. There is a chance, she thought, that he does not yet know about the spy. She cried again, this time with more theatrics than emotion, “You have not been told the entire truth, my husband!”

  Kiorte stared at her. “I have had enough of your truths, Evirae. My journey to the Northweald has cured me of your lies. I will never endure them again!”

  Kiorte walked past Evirae toward their home. “I will stay with Thalen until the Senate,” he said. “I suggest you prepare for it. My speech may lack the flourish of your words, but I guarantee it will be remembered.”

  Evirae placed her long nails on his shoulder. “Darling,” she pleaded, wiping tears from her eyes. “I tell the truth! There is an invasion! There is a war! I have learned of these things from a Fandoran spy.”

  The Prince turned. “A spy?” he asked.

  She brightened. “The Fandoran! Surely your ‘sources’ have told you of the spy.”

  “No games!” said Kiorte. “I have no more patience for games.”

  Evirae answered quickly. “When you left, a message came concerning a Fandoran captured in the strait. I interrogated the spy myself, in the presence of Tolchin and Alora. He told us of the Fandoran plans for an invasion. I rushed with the news to Hawkwind, but he refused to take action. He dismissed it as a mad accusation in a plot to remove him from the palace. I was very worried. You were missing. So I called for the public meeting. The Overwood had to be told of the threat to Simbala, my darling. In your absence, what else could I do?”

  Kiorte frowned. “This spy—where is he?”

  “In the tunnels. I can take you there now.”

  “If this is a trick,” said Kiorte, “I will—”

  “It is the truth,” said Evirae. “I will show you myself!”

  * * *

  The coldrakes’ warrens were filled with howling as the creatures flew about them in confusion and fright. The Darkling had taken the coldrakes to the icy cliffs, where they had seen the frozen dragon and the glowing caverns. Within them, they had seen the ruins and the bones of dragons, and the sight, coupled with their growing hunger and desperation, caused many to shriek in fear. The Darkling knew then that they could be compelled to defy the dragons’ edict.

  Even those who thought the dragons would return could not deny what the others had seen. Those who would still obey the edict could be driven by the cold to abandon the warrens.

  The Darkling crouched on a peak and brooded over his next decision.

  Their panic would pass, he knew. They would turn to him. Having seen the caverns, few would challenge his plans. He spread his wings against the cold wind, secure in that thought. The frost numbed him, reached deep into him, seemed to penetrate and chill even his innermost being, and the secret that burned there. He was tempted to reveal that to them, the secret of his birth, to tell them that the race of dragons had not vanished entirely; that the secret lived on within him. But he did not dare. It was something no coldrake had ever possessed; they might not comprehend how he came to have it. It was better to keep it hidden.

  Arching his neck, the Darkling made a piercing sound. In response, a coldrake rose from the mists below and approached the Darkling. He was huge, even for his race.

  The Darkling spoke with him. The Guardian had reported seeing a human fly. This situation had to be confirmed. If all humans could indeed fly, then a major adva
ntage was lost to the coldrakes.

  The creature circled slowly about the peak, listening to the Darkling’s instructions. Then he flew away toward the east, to search for mountain goats and other game. He would need energy for the long flight to the south.

  The Darkling remained upon his lonely pinnacle, watching the coldrake disappear into the clouds. He thought about the humans. Few coldrakes had seen them. They were so small, so insignificant in appearance, but they were dangerous. They would have to be dealt with cautiously. The Darkling had told the others what the Guardian had discovered. A fury against the humans had been aroused and would not soon fade. He could afford to act slowly now, to ensure the coldrakes’ survival.

  * * *

  That evening in Simbala, the Northwealdsfolk, informed by windship of the Senate, made preparations for the heads of their families to journey south. These were grim preparations, and there was little doubt as to which way they would vote. Each felt a responsibility to the family of the child.

  Representatives of the miners’ families also made ready to appear in the underground cavern where the voting would take place. These people, smudged with the black dirt of the mines, their casual jewelry startlingly bright and colorful against their pale skin, were supporters of Hawkwind, but some had their doubts. Strange things were happening in Simbala these days. There was also much talk about Ceria, the mysterious Rayan woman who was more than Hawkwind’s closest adviser.

  * * *

  The exterior of the house of Baron Tolchin and Baroness Alora was eclectic and individual. The Baron had designed it himself, incorporating the features of many buildings he had seen in his travels. A hanging roof garden, filled with scented flowers, touched the breezes with ginger and jasmine. The building itself was low and open, with an atrium and fountains. Its windows and entrances were of ivory and elkwood, heavily carved with friezes depicting caravans en route. Connected to the building was the large tree in which could be found both the parlor where Evirae had been entertained and the boudoir in which Tolchin and Alora now prepared themselves for the Senate meeting.

  Members of the Royal Family were not allowed to vote during these meetings. They were designed for the citizens of Simbala alone. Each citizen’s family, a term encompassing all the branches stemming from a specific ancestry in the ancient days of Simbala, was to send a representative. The representatives were distinguished by their matriarchal or patriarchal robes, which functioned both as the escutcheon on which the family flanche was embroidered and as the required garb for the meeting.

  As he dressed, Tolchin speculated on the outcome of the Senate. “Hawkwind is in trouble,” he said.

  Alora reviewed a multicolored selection of fans for a complement to her attire. “Do you really think the people in Overwood view him as a traitor?” she asked.

  “Some do,” Tolchin replied, “although not one-tenth of the number that must feel that way in the Northweald.” He buttoned a beige doublet around his midriff with difficulty. “There are many reasons to view Hawkwind with disfavor, my dear. There are many in Simbala who would profit from his removal.”

  Alora sighed. “After twenty years in the Bursars,” she said, “I think there is more to profit than took as in the treasury. Hawkwind cannot be removed from office for economic reasons. For the Family to act, there must be proof of a traitorous act. For all her charges, Evirae is without evidence.”

  “She will use the spy,” said Tolchin.

  Alora shook her head. “No proof of any misdeed there, Tolchin. Evirae can dispose of Hawkwind only if Monarch Ephrion decides to remove him from office, and there is no reason to think that Ephrion would give that suggestion a moment’s thought.”

  “You seem almost pleased, my dear.” Tolchin lifted his coat from the bed. “Hawkwind’s removal would do much to cure the dissent he has caused in the Family.”

  Alora held a wide silk ribbon in the air. “Ah! The blue snood, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t ignore me!” said Tolchin.

  His wife smiled. “I am not ignoring you, dear. It is just that I have reservations about any plan of Evirae’s. Certainly you can understand that.”

  Tolchin adopted a conciliatory tone. “I must tell you, Alora, that it would be a lot easier for Hawkwind without that Rayan woman. What business does she have in the palace?”

  “They love each other,” Alora said, and her face softened as she thought of it. “It’s so obvious, darling. It is a type of love I have not seen in years.”

  Tolchin snorted. “Aye, and that also worries me. Can you imagine a marriage between Hawkwind and Ceria? The Royal Family would burn down the palace!”

  Alora laughed, and remembered her own days of youth.

  * * *

  In the caverns below the palace the door to the empty cell stood open, its lock dangling from the splintered wood. Evirae stood before it, eyes wide, palms pressed against her cheeks.

  “Where is your Fandoran, Evirae?” asked Kiorte. His voice was not mocking. Obviously, somebody had been there.

  “He was right there, locked within this cell, and a guard sat on that chair!”

  “He must have been quite powerful, to burst the door open like this,” Kiorte said, examining the ruined jamb.

  Evirae stammered, “He was half your height! There is no way he could have done this!”

  Kiorte looked at her closely. She was quite pale, and obviously distressed. He held his torch low to the corridor’s floor and looked in both directions.

  “There,” he said, “and there as well. Small footprints, and the larger ones of the guard. Come, Evirae.”

  They followed the tracks. The footprints led down forks and side passages seemingly at random, until Evirae admitted to being unsure of where they were.

  “We had better go back and get help,” Kiorte said. “The Senate will convene soon, and we must not be late.” He started to leave, but Evirae did not follow.

  “Just a few yards more,” she said. Then she tried to take the torch from his hand. Kiorte would not relinquish it, however, and she stepped forward without it, peering down the corridor.

  “Kiorte!” she cried. “Look! I think I see the guard—there has been a cave-in in the tunnel!”

  Together they hurried down the corridor. The cave-in filled it. The guard’s body lay half-buried in mud. He was breathing shallowly. Kiorte soaked a handkerchief in muddy water and massaged the guard’s wrists and neck. After a few moments the man regained consciousness. Kiorte dug the mud away from his legs and pulled him free. As he did, there were several ominous rumbles and trickles of mud from the sagging ceiling. The guard looked at Evirae. “Your pardon, milady—the prisoner escaped me.” In a hoarse tone he explained how it had occurred.

  “The spy has no doubt been trapped on the other side of this mound,” Evirae said. “Don’t stand gaping! I can’t dig, but you two certainly can! We must find him!”

  “There’s still danger here,” said the guard, looking up apprehensively. “Perhaps we should go—”

  “Don’t be presumptuous!” This was a disaster she could ill afford, and she intended someone to bear the brunt of her rage. “We must find him!”

  “The guard is correct,” Kiorte said. “As long as we stand here, we are in danger of another cave-in. We must return immediately.”

  “Neither of you understands the urgency of the situation!” Evirae shouted. “We do not have enough time!” She bent and seized the fat white column of a root, suppressing a shudder at its cold sliminess, and pulled. The root dislodged a rock; the rock released a trickle of mud, which, with a roar, swiftly grew into an avalanche. The three barely had time to duck before a second section of the tunnel roof collapsed above them.

  XXI

  The sun rose unclouded that morning, but in the western sky an angry gray wave of storm clouds was gathering. At the entrance to the Cavern of the Falls, the representatives of the families of Simbala were gathering. The heads of the clans and the officials of various me
rchant groups were there, dressed in their finest gowns. All talked of the land to the west, and the possibility of an invasion launched from the shores of Fandora.

  In attendance were prominent members of the Royal Family, including General Jibron and Lady Eselle, the Baron and the Baroness, various Ministers of the Circle, and Monarch Ephrion, who pursued the defense of Hawkwind with much fervor.

  Present also was Mesor, who waited silently for the arrival of the Princess Evirae. He was worried; it was not her nature to be late for such an important confrontation. Although she could not vote, her very presence would be enough to sway opinion. If she did not appear soon, it would be too late. Already it was close to the striking of the third hour, when the doors would be opened for the descent into the underground voting chamber. Mesor looked past the crowd anxiously, hoping to see Evirae in the distance. Instead, he glimpsed Hawkwind quickly approaching from the main entrance of the palace. Ceria was at his side.

  “There are moments when I would rather face a cave-in than a public meeting,” Hawkwind said softly.

  “There is no reason to worry,” Ceria answered. “You have defended yourself admirably against Evirae’s charges. The miners stand behind you, my love, as do the loyal supporters of Monarch Ephrion.”

  “I know, Ceria, but there has been much sympathy for the Northwealdsfolk since Evirae’s speech in the merchants’ quarter. It is difficult for me to echo the sentiment and at the same time take issue with the—”

  The melodious sound of a gong interrupted him; it was time for the Senate meeting. Hawkwind approached the representatives.

  “We shall convene the Senate meeting,” he said simply, and with a ponderous creaking, the doors behind them were opened. Hawkwind led the crowd down the wide stone steps inside. As he descended, Hawkwind felt the eyes of the people upon him. In opposition to Monarch Ephrion’s advice, Ceria had remained at his side. Many, including Baron Tolchin, viewed this as an affront to the Family itself. Evirae’s supporters whispered their disapproval at a level just loud enough to reach Hawkwind’s ears.