Silver Dragon Codex

by R. D. Henham

  Through the slat, Jace could see Worver placing a hand over his heart in mock sorrow. “Someone has to keep this circus going, and you were about to place a nail in our coffin.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Belen sank to her knees, covering her face with her hands. “I trusted you!”

  “I cared for you, my dear girl, like a daughter! But I cannot allow you to return those werewolves—nor, in fact, can I allow you to leave the circus.” His voice fell to a dark hiss. “Ever.”

  Jace felt his stomach sink. “Worver, you can’t get away with this. People will notice!”

  “Who will notice? Did you speak to anyone before you left the tent with me?” Worver laughed.

  Jace admitted to himself that he had not, and the realization dried his throat, making it feel as if it were filled with ash.

  Worver continued, “Hautos found those wonderful beasts—he was following your trail when he came across them in the forest. Luckily for us all, Hautos relishes a good fight. He managed to to catch a few and bring them here for the show. They’re better off in the circus, you see? We’ll take care of them, ensure they’re fed, and keep them from any harm.”

  “Worver!” Belen burst out, shocked. “You can’t do that! Those are people!”

  “So you say, but they’re not people right now. They’re revenue, dear Belen. And now that you have betrayed me, so are you.” Worver frowned, steepling his hands around a trinket that hung from a chain around his neck. He twirled it back and forth, rolling it between the pads of his fingers thoughtfully. “I’d make this easier on us all, my dear, but I’m afraid you’re a dragon. You’re immune to my usual tricks—blackmail, threats, mesmerism, the standard things I use to keep all the acts working under my big top. I’m forced to use something more vulgar—like your friends.

  “’I don’t enjoy this, my dear, I hope you understand that. I’m not the kind of man who would abuse a delicate jewel such as yourself, but you’ve pushed me to the limit! My entire circus is at stake, and quite frankly, that means more to me than your good humor.”

  “You’re horrible!” Belen burst out.

  “Tut-tut, my dear! Come, I’m asking you again to change your mind. Just think of the money we’ll make! Can you imagine how famous we’ll be with you in our midst? Worver’s Amazing Celestial Circus of Light—now, with a real dragon! People will ride for miles in every direction just to attend the shows. Children will plead to return again and again. Ticket sales will go through the roof, and still, people will pay hard-earned steel just to catch a glimpse of you! I tell you what, Belen. I’ll give you, hmm, three percent of the entire take per season. What do you say?”

  She clenched her fists and spat back at him, “Never!”

  Cerisse’s jaw hung open, and she and Jace shared a look of horror. They’d known Worver was a greedy man, but they’d never suspected the lengths he’d go to just to make a profit. Unfortunately, now that they knew, they were in serious trouble.

  “I won’t do it,” Belen said through gritted teeth. “I’m not a circus animal!”

  “You’re a performer, Belen. You were when you danced in the big top, and you were just as much one when you came in from the woods, weeping and moaning and claiming you didn’t remember anything. A magnificent performance, my dear, a sign of true quality. At the end of these last five years, even I was beginning to believe you. You have a sincere dedication to the bit, and I commend you for your fortitude!” Worver chuckled deep in his throat. “I’ll speak to Mysos about it, convince him that the best punishment for you is to stay right where you are. We might have to call it a charity function—give a little bit to the people of the area, so on, so forth, but still! Extremely lucrative, I’m sure you’ll see. Best of all, if you refuse, I can convince the White Robes of Palanthas to swoop in and take you away.”

  Jace shuddered at the sight of Worver’s toothy, mustached smile beyond the thin opening in the wagon slats. He wasn’t sure if the ringmaster would go through with his threats, but at this point, Jace wasn’t sure of anything that had to do with Worver. The ringmaster twisted his hands together as if he were already counting the coins.

  “We will earn glorious amounts of money! Hand over fist!” Worver chuckled. “In time, you’ll be glad I did this, Belen. If not for me, this circus would have failed a hundred times. Our headliner, Jordan the Undaunted, was gone! No one will come to see a circus without a headliner.” Worver twisted his mustache. “In any case, I must bid you farewell. The trapeze act is about to end, and they need me to introduce the contortionists.”

  “Wait, what about us? Are you just going to leave us here?” Cerisse pounded on the wall of the wagon.

  “Oh, goodness no.” The ringmaster chucked. “I’m going to kill you. I do regret it. It’s a terrible pity that Belen won’t agree to my terms. Jace will never redeem his family name, and Cerisse, I really will miss your exceptional act. When you juggle those little flaming rods—magnificent! I don’t expect to replace you quickly, that’s a certainty.”

  “What’s to stop me from just turning into a dragon and tearing out your throat?” Belen bristled.

  Worver smiled at her through the thin opening. “If you change form now, Belen, you’ll crush this entire wagon—and make your friends little more than stains against those bars.” His smile faded, and his dark eyes were sad. “I’m afraid I must, my dear. Killing them is for the best. Not only will it convince you that I’m serious, but it will also prevent anyone from telling the White Robes what’s gone on. By the time this is over, I’ll have a writ from the White Robes to keep you here under my control, and if you should break that writ or attack me … well, I think that being hunted down by the White Robes of Palanthas and destroyed should be deterrent enough.”

  “I’ll tell them what you’ve done, Worver, I swear it!” Belen screamed in anger.

  “Go ahead, my dear. No one is going to believe a murderous dragon who’s lost her memory. This is probably just another episode, you see.” He sighed and looked up at the sun to gauge the time. “Now, I’m afraid I really must go. Farewell, all. Belen, I’ll see you when you’re feeling a bit more reasonable.” The sliding window snapped shut, and Jace heard a latch being thrown on the far side of the wall.

  Jace heard the back of the wagon slide open. Beyond was another cage, one of the mobile ones, now locked against the wagon’s side. Jace could see Hautos levering the front panel of iron bars aside so that the monster could enter the traveling wagon safely.

  And what a beast it was! Clicking its horrible crab claws together, the creature scuttled forward into the wagon on thin, clawlike legs that were serrated like dagger blades. Thick, chitinous armor, like the carapace of a lobster, covered its upper body.

  “Arcox,” Cerisse choked, backpedaling. “That’s the arcox!”

  With a snort of laughter, Hautos slammed the wagon bars shut once more, lowering the side of the wagon swiftly to seal them inside the dim cage area. Jace could see the bars through the other cage, past the arcox where the mobile cage’s bars were open rather than wood. Worver waved his high black hat at them. “Good-bye, dear friends,” Worver bellowed. “Belen, we’ll discuss the terms of your first performance after I speak with Mysos. I’m certain he’ll be very understanding.” From Worver’s smile, the ringmaster was certain that his victory was just a matter of time. Tsusu, his horrible monkeylike pet, did a flip on Worver’s shoulder as the arcox stepped in and the big wooden door of the wagon slid closed between the mobile cage and the creature’s rear. Outside, Jace heard the sound of locks being shot all around the wagon.

  “Cerisse!” He backed up, keeping an eye on the gigantic monster at the far end of the wagon. “Do you have any weapons?”

  “I set my backpack down in the big top. I didn’t think I’d need it!”

  He gulped. “Don’t you keep spare daggers on your belt? For practice?”

  “Well, uh, let me see what’s in my pockets. I’ve got an apple, three darts … a couple of candles, and
some pocket lint. You?”

  “Not even that much.” They took a few more steps back as the monster turned to face them, clicking its horrible claws in eager anticipation of a meal. Belen gripped the bars of her cell, shaking them and calling to the creature. For a moment, it turned toward her, snapping claws on the bars, but it was unable to reach through them to hurt her. Bored with prey it couldn’t attack, the arcox moved back toward Jace and Cerisse.

  Jace scanned the bars, hoping to climb them, but saw no handholds. Even if he were pressed against the ceiling, the arcox’s long claws could probably reach him. Frustrated, he moaned, “This is it. We’re done for. Worver wins.”

  “Wait a second,” Cerisse blurted out. “Where’s Ebano?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  y name is Ebano Bakr Sayf al-Din ibn Ceham, prince of Sayf, a people who once belonged to the tribe known as Khur. Now, the Sayf are dead, buried in the deep deserts of our homeland. I have traveled many lands and seen many wonders, praise Keja who united us, and curse his seven sons. The truth has been revealed to me, my family taken from me, and I have nothing left in this world except the fire of life and the water of forgiveness. Thus I move in honesty. Thus I act with integrity. Thus I kill without malice. Hear my sole prayer, noble gods: grant me an honorable death. Alak-al-saham-din-al-bhar, may the blessings of the gods be upon the world.

  Ebano folded his arms together, watching as the ringmaster led the others away toward the wagons. Their slow language sounded of drool and slick stones, and too often it bored him beyond hope of understanding. This was not important. The mage in the robes of death—he, and only he—could free the lady dragon from her curse. That was important.

  He had never before met a true wizard in these cold lands. Ebano thought at first that they did not exist, that these strange Westerners could not grasp the difficult arcane studies needed to master the powers of the arcane. Then this “Palanthas wizard” arrived, dressed all in white. He looked like a mourner at a funeral, forbidden to wear color or go out for seventy days—ten days for each of Keja’s gods-cursed sons, as tradition dictated.

  Then he had seen the man in white robes, and at last, Ebano understood. To become a wizard here was to commit oneself to death alone. No wonder the crowds stared at Ebano for even the simplest of tricks. They assumed that he, too, was death-touched like their own spell-casters.

  I must find him, and I must face him, Ebano thought. He made the sign of blessing before his eyes. One of the contortionists waved back at him, and Ebano smiled. As usual, these primitives did not understand. No matter. The gods would judge them, heretics and heathens alike.

  Ebano’s eyes narrowed as he strode through the narrow causeways, ignoring the roar of the crowd seeping through the thick canvas of the big top. I will face him, this western wizard who threatens the dragon girl, and I will make him undo what he has done.

  The fluttering canvas of the big tent drew his mind back to other days. He remembered raw sand beneath his crunching boots, the whinny and storm of horses, ready to race against the sandstorms of the desert and win. These things, simple memories, came back to him when he least deserved their comfort but most needed it. Blessing the hand of Keja and the gods, Ebano paused to bow and touch his forehead, lips, and heart in supplication. If his family’s souls were with him, then he could not fail, no matter if he lived or died.

  It was easy to find the wizard, even in this sea of tents haphazardly thrown together. They looked like desert flotsam at a stagnant oasis. The ringmaster was a man consumed with the sin of Hachakee, Keja’s fourth son, who bore the curse of pride. Worver would keep the death wizard close. There. Beside the ringmaster’s magnificently painted wagon stood another, smaller and less ornate. Worver was forcing the wizard into small quarters, cramped and uncolored, to humble him. Ebano felt his lip curl. These people know no end of insults to their betters, he thought. This death wizard must be strong indeed to accept such affronts. Challenging him will be honorable. I hope he dies well, or kills me with swiftness.

  Ebano knocked upon the door of the wizard’s dwelling, amused as always at the strange custom of rapping one’s knuckles on stiff, heavy wood. Someone inside gave a customary greeting, one which Ebano recognized needed no reply. Was he to go inside, then? The mesmerist closed his eyes, praying to Keja for patience, and knocked again.

  This time, the death wizard pulled the door open and faced him, white funeral robes swirling in the wake of the heavy wooden door. He stared at Ebano as if expecting a message. Of course, Ebano thought. He does not know who I am, or how to respect me, because I do not wear the deathly white robes. I must educate him. A small thing to do for an honorable opponent.

  “May the peace of Keja, blessed is his name, be upon you.” Ebano bowed, once more making the gesture of blessing—forehead, lips, and heart. The traditional words of challenge in his native tongue came to him easily, even after so many years. “I am Ebano Bakr Sayf al-Din ibn Ceham, prince of Sayf, master of the arcane arts, and I challenge you to a formal duel. My honor has been tarnished, and your blood must wash it clean.”

  The death wizard said something incomprehensible, furrowing his brow. Alas, the man did not know a civilized tongue. Ebano tried again, using the simple words in their language that he had been taught, to better communicate with these foreigners. “This one is Ebano,” he said, using their awful-sounding language. “Fight.” There. That should be straightforward enough.

  “Fight?” The walker of death tried to look behind Ebano, searching for something that was not there. Ebano was not fooled.

  “Fight.” He considered, and then remembered one of the formal phrases that the ringmaster had taught him to impress the crowd. He babbled it carefully, remembering the syllables by heart without knowing their meaning. He was moderately sure that one could be a threat, as most of the people who heard it during his act would stare at him afterwards, wide-eyed and pale faced.

  The death wizard only looked more confused. He said something in his thick tongue, but the only words that Ebano caught were “Worver,” “time,” and “dragon.”

  Dragon! Yes, the dragon, Ebano nodded enthusiastically. This all comes down to her, he thought. My honor, my shameful past, the deaths of my family—here and now, I can redeem them all!

  He readied himself for the first rush of magic, the flow of adrenalin and combat, but the death wizard pushed right past him and out into the courtyard, where he stood with his hands on his hips, looking around. He turned back to Ebano and gestured impatiently.

  Idiot. Ebano ground his teeth in frustration. This time, the death wizard would not mistake Ebano’s meaning. The prince of Sayf strode out to meet him, scooped up a handful of dust, and blew it straight into the bearded mage’s face.

  So, too, will you become dust.

  May the peace of Keja be upon both of our souls.

  He followed that up with a punch, knocking the white-garbed wizard backward.

  While the other wizard was spluttering to regain his footing, Ebano began to summon the power of his art. Dark and fell tide, rise at my call! I summon the spirit of Fin-Maskar, the seventh son of Keja, whose sin was wrath.

  Fire exploded around Ebano’s hand, lighting the dark-skinned mesmerist in flickering splendor. His enemy’s eyes widened, and Mysos managed to chant a few words that quickly raised a shield of energy between them as Ebano’s flame roared down. The shield held, and fire licked out all along the ground, spilling over the sides, ripping in a hiss through the air from Ebano’s raised hand.

  The instant that the fire stopped, the death mage was ready with retaliation. Bolts of energy flew forth from his outspread fingers as the shield moved aside. They uncoiled in arcing white stripes of light, launched directly toward Ebano’s purple eyes. Before they could strike him, Ebano waved his hand, clearing the air of energy as if he were swatting flies. Each of the wizard’s bolts struck lightly against Ebano’s fingers. They hissed like hot irons plunged into snow and vanished.

  F
acing his opponent with more respect, the man in mourning robes squared off and studied Ebano. He said something in their thick language that sounded aggressive, and Ebano smiled. “Let action, not words, dictate our understanding.” Never before had the words of Keja felt so appropriate, even if the wizard in white robes made a confused squawk in response. Ebano began the spell again, gathering energy like the reins of a desert horse, feeling it slip through his fingers as he wove and tugged, drawing each thread into a cloak of power. With a spin, Ebano released it, watching it coalesce into silvery mist that hurtled through the air to a spot just above the other wizard’s head. It exploded like fireworks, sending a shower of sparks raining through the air.

  The mage rolled, getting dust all over his white robes, but he was too slow. Wherever the sparks touched—his clothing, the grass—stone grew like a crust. Struggling against the enchantment, the other man coiled his magic, lashing out at the charm again and again until the stone began to shatter. Despite Ebano’s hope that it would overcome the wizard, he broke free, slapping his hand against the ground in a violent display. The earth broke open and a crack raced toward Ebano, forcing him to use his levitation trick to jump away before he was consumed by the earth.

  By now, they’d drawn a crowd. Several of the performers had spilled out the back of the big top, staring in shock and awe at the open displays of sorcery erupting in the rear clearing. Two of the trapeze artists huddled in one another’s arms, squealing as sparks from Ebano’s spell blew too near. The mesmerist straightened his shoulders, throwing his head high. Fear or admiration? It did not matter. In this moment, he was once again a prince defending his honor, protecting his people from their enemies. This was the purpose Keja had given to his life, the purpose he had lost, when—