Rhespen conjured a burst of raw force, barely visible as a colorless ripple in the air. The attack jolted the green, bloodied its flank, and made it stumble.
"Over here, stupid!" he shouted. "I'm the one you want."
The maddened wyrm pivoted and ran at him. Rhespen stood his ground for as long as he dared. Every moment the drake focused on him was another moment his warriors could assail it in relative safety.
When it was several strides away, he released another of the spells bound in the truesilver rod. The enchantment of levitation shot him skyward like a cork bobbing to the surface of a pond.
The green's fangs clashed shut just below his feet. It reared up on its hind legs, snatched and narrowly missed again with its fore claws, then he rose too high for it to reach.
Meanwhile, arrows pierced the drake. When their missiles were exhausted, the men-at-arms drew swords, readied axes, screamed war cries, and charged in to cut and hack at their foe. No doubt they were afraid, but they also knew aggression was their only hope. If they didn't kill the green, it would surely slaughter them.
They instantly started dying. The dragon struck and caught two at once in its fangs. Its talons raked out the guts of a third, a flick of its tail pulped the torso of a fourth, and a swat from its wing broke the neck of a fifth. Yet the soldiers' blades gashed it in its turn, and its blood spurted to darken the snow.
Still floating above it-a position that allowed him to attack it without fear of striking his allies-Rhespen hammered it with spells of flame and blight. It kept on fighting. The elf took a chicken bone from one of his pockets, snapped it, and declaimed yet another incantation.
The green stumbled and shrieked as a number of its own bones fractured. The legs on its right side gave way, toppling it. It writhed, seemingly attempting to scramble back onto its feet, but it evidently couldn't accomplish that or anything else. Not yet. The pain of its internal injuries was simply too great.
Rhespen suspected the dragon's incapacity would only last a moment, but it provided an opportunity, and the men-at-arms took full advantage. Howling, they plunged their weapons into the green's body over and over again. Rhespen split its flank with a screech of focused noise.
The green thrashed. The warriors had to scramble back to avoid being crushed. Rhespen assumed the reptile would rise. But in fact, its convulsions gradually subsided, until at last it lay motionless, and the gleam in its yellow eyes dimmed away to nothing.
The warriors stared at the huge, gory corpse as if unable to believe what they were seeing. Then one cheered, and the others followed suit, the jubilant clamor echoing from the snowy hillsides.
Rhespen floated back down to the ground to join them, whereupon Serdel thumped his list against his chest in salute. "Hail, dragon slayer," the soldier said.
The air was blessedly mild. The trees were putting forth tender new leaves, and meltwater murmured down the mountainsides in glistening torrents. It was all lovely, but on that day, though he was an elf, Rhespen had no inclination to stand and savor the sight. He was too eager to see Winterflower.
His men were equally eager to greet their loved ones and partake of the ease and rewards they'd earned, but that still didn't mean they could ascend the road to Dawnfire at speed. Over the course of the campaign, they'd lost the hearty warhorses they'd started out with to the weapons of their foes and the hardships of the season, and replaced them with whatever mounts they could steal. Those nags had been of indifferent quality to begin with, and hard use and hunger hadn't improved them. Their riders were lucky they could make the climb at all.
Before beginning, Rhespen dispatched a messenger from the fort at the foot of the mountains to ride ahead with the report he'd written and news of his impending arrival. He had a responsibility to inform Orchtrien of the outcome of his mission as soon as possible, and besides, if Winterflower learned he was mere hours away from the Bright City, perhaps she'd ride down to meet him.
But in fact, it was Maldur, dyed silver mane gleaming in the sunlight, who met him three quarters of the way up the highway.
"Welcome home, Milord," the human wizard said.
"Thank you," said Rhespen, perplexed.
Following their duel, he and Maldur had made some effort to obey Orchtrien's command and bury their rancor, but the dislike still simmered beneath the surface. Thus, it seemed unlikely that Maldur would volunteer to escort his rival into the city, yet it would be just as odd for the king to order one of his principal deputies to perform such a trivial task.
"According to your dispatch," Maldur said, "you performed brilliantly. I bring His Majesty's congratulations, along with clean garments, freshly groomed mounts, banners, and all the other appurtenances required to make a brave show as you ride to the palace in triumph." He waved his hand, sparkling with jewels, at the string of servants, horses, and laden donkeys behind him.
"That's excellent. The men deserve some acclaim for the job they've done."
"I'm sure." Maldur twisted in the saddle as if to give an order to the lackeys hovering behind him, then turned back around. "Oh, I nearly forgot. I have one more thing to tell you. A bit of news concerning one of the elf prisoners the king placed under your governance."
Rhespen's mouth felt dry as dust. "What is it?" f "For the past two months, Lady Winterflower has been the king's mistress." Until this moment, Maldur had kept his expression bland, but now a gloating smirk showed through. "The king thought it best you learn before entering the city. He thought it might forestall some manner of awkwardness."
"I… " Rhespen's fist clenched on the reins. "I'm not sure what you mean, Milord, but of course I appreciate the information. Tomorrow, or the next day, I'll have to check and see how all the hostages are getting along. For now, though, let's attend to the business at hand."
For the rest of the ride, Rhespen felt numb and sick. He told himself Maldur had lied, but couldn't make himself believe it. The human was spiteful, but also too proud to perpetrate a falsehood that must inevitably collapse as soon as Rhespen and Winterflower came together. In the aftermath, he'd look petty and ridiculous in everyone's eyes, including his own.
Even feeling as he did, Rhespen tried to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd, for his men's sake, and because it was an obligation of his station. It was obvious heralds had carried news of his exploits throughout the city-otherwise, folk wouldn't have understood what they were supposed to celebrate-and a good many people shouted, "Dragonslayer! Long live the dragonslayer!"
He steeled himself before entering Orchtrien's great hall, but even so, faltered when he saw that the king had opted to preside over his court in the form of a bronze-skinned, topaz-eyed elf. There had to be a reason he favored that shape, and when Rhespen spotted Winterflower among the throng, it was plain what it was. She'd abandoned the clothing and jewelry she'd brought from her homeland, and likewise the love tokens he'd given her, in favor of all-new attire and ornaments agleam with gold. She smiled at him-he was, after all, the guardian who'd treated her kindly-but the expression betrayed no excitement and promised nothing. The warmth came back into her face when she returned her gaze to the dragon on his throne.
I truly have lost her, Rhespen thought. Grief and fury surged up inside him, and he strained to hold them in. Because he hadn't lost everything, no matter how it felt. He still had his position, the life he'd worked so hard to achieve, and he wouldn't throw them away with an hysterical outburst. He wouldn't give them-Maldur, Orchtrien, and Winterflower herself-the satisfaction.
He kneeled before the dais and laid his staff at his master's feet.
"Rise," Orchtrien boomed. "Rise, my friend, and let me look at you. Stone and sky, you're thin as a straw!"
"It's a pleasure to see Your Majesty again. As I hope was clear from my report, the warriors you gave me performed wonders in your service."
"As did you. You actually killed one of the greens, all by yourselves?"
"We had little choice. I called for help, but neither you nor an
y of the princes appeared to succor us." He hadn't meant to bring it up, but somehow it slipped out anyway.
Orchtrien hesitated for a heartbeat then said, "The message never reached me."
"Of course, Majesty. I assumed that for whatever reason, the magic failed."
"Be glad it did. Your victory over the green demonstrated your prowess as nothing else could. In a month or so, when we march to war in earnest, you'll be one of my chief marshals."
Rhespen reminded himself it was what he'd always wanted, and struggled to appear grateful. "Thank you, Majesty. I'll strive to be worthy of your trust."
Orchtrien smiled. "But not immediately. You've striven enough for the time being, and now I want you to relax and enjoy yourself."
Relax and enjoy himself. In its way, it was a royal command, and Rhespen endeavored to obey it like any other of Orchtrien's orders. He choked down delicacies that weighed in his stomach like stones, guzzled drink that tangled his feet and tongue but only darkened his mood, and bedded ladies and servant girls whose affections left him feeling lonely and hollow even at the moment of release. Through it all, he smiled and chattered as the court expected, and whatever the entertainment, be it banquet, hunt, ball, or play, endeavored to ignore Winterflower's presence.
But a royal favorite had no reasonable hope of avoiding proximity to the king's mistress, and besides, for all his intentions to the contrary, Rhespen often found his eyes drawn to her. He supposed it was the same impulse that prompted a person to pick at a scab, or to probe a sore tooth with his tongue.
So it was that he stared after her as Orchtrien escorted her out of a masked revel. She apparently said something flirtatious, because the transformed dragon laughed and took her in his arms. As they embraced, Rhespen could see Winterflower's face with its winged half-mask of white swan feathers over his master's shoulder. For just a moment, it was as if a second mask dissolved away behind the first, and she regarded him with the same desperate, miserable expression she'd worn the first time the king danced with her. Then her eyes sparkled once more, and her amorous smile returned. His arm around her waist, Orchtrien led her onward, no doubt to the bed they shared.
At the center of Dawnfire stood the royal palace, a sprawling hive that was home to a legion of servants, guards, and courtiers. Within that complex rose the high keep containing Orchtrien's personal apartments, and the quarters of those he wanted closest. Prowling the benighted garden adjacent to the tower's southern aspect, inhaling the fragrance of brunfelsia, Rhespen pondered how best to slip inside, and wondered too if he was mad.
Wasn't it likely that, half-drunk as he'd been, he'd imagined Winterflower's momentary change of expression? Even if he hadn't, even if she was secretly unhappy, what could he do about it? Nothing! Whereas he was all too likely to forfeit his life by probing any further into the matter.
Yet something inside him demanded to know the truth. He shifted his shoulders to work the tension out, gripped his staff, and strode to the keep's primary entrance.
At the top of the steps leading to the arched double doors, a long-legged pair of half-dragon guards saluted. "Milord," they said in unison. "The king isn't in residence tonight," the one on the right continued.
"I know," Rhespen said. He'd chosen tonight for this harebrained escapade precisely because Orchtrien had flown south to confer with barons busy recruiting and training warriors to replace those slain in last year's battles. He drew twin pulses of power from his staff. The half-dragons swayed, and their eyes opened wide, as the magic touched their minds. "But I need to retrieve an important document I left inside. So please, admit me."
Ordinarily, they might not have cooperated, his rank notwithstanding. But thanks to the charms he'd cast, they trusted him completely, and made haste to swing open the small door set in the middle of the huge, dragon-sized one on the right.
Once they closed it again, leaving him to his own devices, he took a wary glance about to make sure nobody else was watching. No one was, so he whispered the words to veil himself in invisibility, then stalked onward, his elven boots muffling the sound of his passage through the sleeping tower's hushed and shadowy chambers.
Orchtrien invariably installed his mistresses in the apartments directly above his own; it was an open secret that a concealed staircase connected one bedchamber with the other. As he approached the entrance to Winterflower's suite, Rhespen was disheartened to see that no additional sentries guarded the way. Their absence cast doubt on the forlorn hope that the king was somehow compelling the elf girl to serve as his concubine.
I could still turn back, Rhespen thought, before I humiliate myself or worse. Instead, he touched the head of his staff to the door. The lock clicked, disengaging, and the panel swung ajar.
He closed it behind him and stalked on through the darkened apartment. He found Winterflower lying on a couch in front of an open casement, immersed in Reverie or simply staring into the gloom. Whichever it was, she bolted upright as soon as he dissolved his spell of concealment.
"Milord!" she exclaimed, glaring. "Are you insane, to intrude here?"
"Probably, for I perceive that I'm unwelcome."
"Of course you are."
"From which I infer that the look you gave me meant nothing."
"I don't even know what you're talking about."
"Then I'll leave. Unless you'd care to scream for the guards." He realized he didn't much care if she did or not.
"I should. You've betrayed the king, compromised me-" Her face twisted. She snatched hold of his hand and squeezed it hard. "What am I saying? Forgive me!"
He shook his head. "To forgive, I need to understand."
Still clasping his fingers, she rose. "You're a true wizard, not a dabbler like me. I assumed you could tell. After he sent you away, Orchtrien labored tirelessly to seduce me, and always I refused him, even when he hinted that my 'ingratitude' might prompt him to hurt my kin. Until finally, weary of coaxing and threatening, he laid an enchantment on me."
"To alter your affections?" Elves possessed a degree of resistance to magic that clouded and altered thought, but of course no one was impervious to dragon sorcery.
"Yes. Most of the time, I adore him, and yearn for his touch. Only rarely do I remember myself, and my true feelings, and only for a little while." She smiled bitterly. "So you see, there's the real reason no maiden has ever declined to become his harlot."
"It's monstrous."
"I don't suppose Orchtrien sees it as any different than when a person like us trains a hound or a horse. At any rate, I'm glad you know. I wouldn't want you to believe I forsook you of my own free will. Now you truly should go, before you're discovered. Just be happy, and remember me."
"I won't abandon you to this slavery. We'll run away together."
"As you once explained to me, Orchtrien would find us, and all the more easily since I'd struggle with all my strength and wits to make my way back to him."
"I'll lift the curse."
"I know you'd try, but you also told me that neither you nor any other elf commands magic to rival Orchtrien's."
He felt queasy with helplessness, then an idea struck him. It was reckless, mad, but perhaps that was what the situation required.
"No," he said, "not yet."
"What do you mean?"
"For the time being, it's better you don't know, lest you succumb to an urge to tell Orchtrien. It's better if you don't even recall I was here." He twirled his hand through a mystic pass, touched her forehead, and caught her as she fainted. "Forget, and endure a little longer."
Like Orchtrien's personal residence, the sanctum where he and the princes practiced their sorcery was a tower with gardens growing all around. Over time, the forces leaking from behind the thick granite walls had warped the blossoms and shrubs into growths unknown to nature. As Rhespen prowled along, making his reconnaissance, a pine tree writhed, and the needles clashed softly, as if they were made of metal. Pale, fleshy flowers with lidless eyes at their centers twist
ed to watch as he passed.
Before the high iron door stood the semblance of a dragon shaped from the same metal. Though motionless at the moment, Rhespen was sure it would spring to life if anyone approached too close, and that when it did, it would take more than a spell of friendship and a halfway plausible excuse to make it step aside. He also suspected that a simple charm of invisibility wouldn't deceive it.
Best to avoid it entirely, then. The only way to accomplish that was to shift himself through space and into the spire blind, with no foreknowledge of exactly where he'd end up. He might appear right in front of a second sentinel. He might even materialize in a space already occupied by another solid object, and thereby injure himself.
Still, it seemed the best option, so he whispered the proper words and sketched a mystic sign. For a moment, his fingertip left a shimmering trail in the air.
The world shattered into scraps of light and dark, and the fragments leaped at him, or at least that was how it seemed. Then he stood on a stone floor in a shadowy chamber.
He turned, looking for threats, and saw nothing but walls, doorways, and the iron portal with, presumably, the dragon statue still oblivious and inert on the other side.
The absence of immediate danger was only marginally reassuring. Confident of their prowess, Orchtrien and his progeny used only warriors and walls, commonplace measures, to protect their residences and thus their persons. Indeed, one could almost surmise that the golds only bothered with bodyguards and such because they comprised part of the customary pomp and display of a royal court. But they'd taken greater care to preserve the arcane secrets of dragonkind, and Rhespen suspected the iron wyrm wasn't the only guardian-or guardian enchantment-they'd emplaced to foil intruders.
Could he cope? He supposed he'd find out soon enough.
He veiled himself in invisibility-it might help and likely wouldn't hurt-and quickened his eyes with the ability to perceive mystical forces. He'd hoped the enhancement to his vision would enable him to avoid magical snares and likewise help guide him to his goal, and so it might, but only if he peered carefully. Over the centuries, arcane power had so permeated the very substance of the keep that every surface and stone seemed to shimmer. It would be difficult to pick out particular patterns of energy from the overall glow.
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