Dragon's Bane

  under Zyeme's spells, your father may not be capable of

  fathering a child. And Zyeme needs a child, if she's to go

  on ruling."

  Jenny looked away from them, thinking about what it

  would be, to be that child. The same wave of sickness

  Gareth had felt passed over her at the knowledge of what

  Zyeme would do to any child others. She would not feed

  upon it, as she fed upon the King and Bond; but she would

  raise it deliberately as an emotional cripple, forever

  dependent upon her and her love. Jenny had seen it done,

  by women or by men, and knew what manner of man or

  woman emerged from that smothered childhood. But even

  then, the twisting had been from some need of the parent's

  heart, and not something done merely to keep power.

  248 Barbara Hambly

  She thought of her own sons and the absurd love she

  bore them. She might have abandoned them, she thought

  with sudden fury at Zyeme, but even had she not loved

  them, even were they got on her by rape, she would never

  have done that to them. It was a thing she would have

  liked to think she herself could scarcely conceive of any-

  one doing to an innocent child—except that in her heart

  she knew exactly how it could be done.

  Anger and sickness stirred in her, as if she had looked

  upon torture.

  "Jenny?"

  Gareth's voice broke her from her thoughts. He stood

  a few paces from her, looking pleadingly down at her. "He

  will get better, won't he?" he asked hesitantly. "My father,

  I mean? When Zyeme is banished, or—or is killed—he

  will be the way he was before?"

  Jenny sighed. "I don't know," she replied in a low

  voice. She shook her mind free of the lethargy that gripped

  her, a weariness of the spirit as much as the ache of hei

  body left by the battering of Zyeme's spells. It was not

  only that she had badly overstretched her own newfound

  powers, not only that her body was unused to sustaining

  the terrible demands of the dragon's magic. She was aware

  now that her very perceptions were changing, that it wa?

  not only her magic that had been changed by the touch

  of the dragon's mind. The dragon in you answered, he

  had said—she was starting to see things as a dragon saw.

  She got stiffly to her feet, staggering a little against the

  shored-up doorpost of the well house, feeling physically

  drained and very weak. She had watched through the

  night, telling herself it was for Zyeme that she watched,

  though in her heart she knew the enchantress would not

  be back, and it was not, in fact, for her that she waited

  She said, "It isn't the spells that she holds him under that

  are harming him. Zyeme is a vampire, Gareth—not of

  the blood, like the Whisperers, but of the life-essence

  Dragonsbane 249

  itself. In her eyes last night I saw her essence, her soul;

  a sticky and devouring thing, yes, but a thing that must

  feed to go on living. Miss Mab told me of the spells of

  the Places of Healing that can shore up the life of a dying

  man by taking a little of the life-energy of those who

  consent to give it. It is done seldom, and only in cases of

  great need. I am certain this is what she has done to your

  father and to Bond. What I don't understand is why she

  would need to. Her powers are such that..."

  "You know," John broke in, "it says in Dotys' Histories

  ... or maybe it's in Terens... or is it the Elucidus Lapi-

  darus... ?"

  "But what can we doT Gareth pleaded. "There must

  be something! I could ride back to Bel and let Dromar

  know it's safe for the gnomes to reoccupy the Deep. It

  would give them a strong base to..."

  "No," Jenny said. "Zyeme's hold on the city is too

  strong. After this, she'll be watching for you, scrying the

  roads. She'd intercept you long before you came near

  Bel."

  "But we have to do something!" Panic and desperation

  lurked at bay in his voice. "Where can we go? Polycarp

  would give us shelter in the Citadel..."

  "You going to tell the siege troops around the walls

  you want a private word with him?" John asked, forgetting

  all about his speculations upon the classics.

  "There are ways through the Deep into Halnath."

  "And a nice locked door at the end of 'em, I bet, or

  the tunnels sealed shut with blasting powder to keep the

  dragon out—even if old Dromar had put them on his

  maps, which he didn't. I had a look for that back in Bel."

  "Damn him..." Gareth began angrily, and John waved

  him silent with a mealcake in hand.

  "I can't blame him," he said. Against the random browns

  and heathers of the bloodstained plaid folded beneath his

  head his face still looked pale but had lost its dreadful

  250 Barbara Hambly

  chalkiness. Behind his specs, his brown eyes were bright

  and alert. "He's a canny old bird, and he knows Zyerne.

  If she didn't know where the ways through to the Citadel

  hooked up into the main Deep, he wasn't going to have

  that information down on paper that she could steal. Still,

  Jen might be able to lead us."

  "No." Jenny glanced over at him from where she sat

  cross-legged beside the fire, dipping the last bite of her

  griddlecake into the honey. "Even being able to see in

  darkness, I could not scout them out unaided. As for you

  going through them, if you try to get up in under a week,

  I'll put a spell of lameness on you."

  "Cheat."

  "Watch me." She wiped her fingers on the end of her

  plaid. "Morkeleb guided me through to the heart of the

  Deep; I could never have found it, else."

  "What was it like?" Gareth asked after a moment. "The

  heart of the Deep? The gnomes swear by it..."

  Jenny frowned, remembering the whispering darkness

  and the soapy feel of the stone altar beneath her fingertips.

  "I'm not sure," she said softly. "I dreamed about it..."

  As one, the horses suddenly flung up their heads from

  the stiff, frosted grass. Battlehammer nickered softly and

  was answered, thin and clear, from the mists that floated

  on the fringes of the woods that surrounded Deeping Vale.

  Hooves struck the stone, and a girl's voice called out,

  "Gar? Gar, where are you?"

  "It's Trey." He raised his voice to shout. "Here!"

  There was a frenzied scrambling of sliding gravel, and

  the whitish mists solidified into the dark shapes of a horse

  and rider and a fluttering of dampened veils. Gareth strode

  to the edge of the high ground of the Rise to catch the

  bridle of Trey's dappled palfrey as it came stumbling up

  the last slope, head-down with exhaustion and matted

  with sweat in spite of the day's cold. Trey, clinging to the

  saddlebow, looked scarcely better off, her face scratched

  Dragonsbane 251

  as if she had ridden into low-hanging branches in the wood

  and long streamers clawed loose from her purple-and-

  white coiffure.

/>   "Gar, I knew you had to be all right." She slid from

  the saddle into his arms. "They said they saw the dragon—

  that Lady Jenny had put spells upon him—I knew you

  had to be all right."

  "We're fine. Trey," Gareth said doubtfully, frowning

  at the terror and desperation of the girl's voice. "You look

  as if you've ridden here without a break."

  "I had to!" she gasped. Under the torn rags of her white

  Court dress, her knees were trembling, and she clung to

  Gareth's arm for support; her face was colorless beneath

  what was left of its paint. "They're coming for you! I

  don't understand what's happening, but you've got to get

  out of here! Bond..." She stumbled on her brother's name.

  "What about Bond? Trey, what's going on?"

  "I don't know!" she cried. Tears of wretchedness and

  exhaustion overflowed her eyes, and she wiped them

  impatiently, leaving faint streaks of blue-black kohl on her

  round cheeks. "There's a mob on its way, Bond's leading

  it..."

  "Bond?" The idea of the lazy and elegant Bond trou-

  bling himself to lead anyone anywhere was absurd.

  "They're going to kill you. Gar! I heard them say so!

  You, and Lady Jenny, and Lord John."

  "What? Why?" Gareth was growing more and more

  confused.

  "More to the point, who?" John asked, propping him-

  self up among his blankets once again.

  "These—these people, laborers mostly—smelters and

  artisans from Deeping out of work, the ones who hang

  around the Sheep in the Mire all day. There are Palace

  guards with them, too, and I think more are coming—I

  don't know why! I tried to get some sense out of Bond,

  252 Barbara Hambly

  but it's as if he didn't hear me, didn't know me! He slapped

  me—and he's never hit me, Gar, not since I was a child..."

  "Tell us," Jenny said quietly, taking the girl's hand,

  cold as a dead bird in her warm rough one. "Start from

  the beginning."

  Trey gulped and wiped her eyes again, her hands shak-

  ing with weariness and the exertion of a fifteen-mile ride

  The ornamental cloak about her shoulders was an indoor

  garment of white silk and milky fur, designed to ward off

  the chance drafts of a ballroom, not the bitter chill of

  a foggy night such as the previous one had been. Her long

  fingers were chapped and red among their diamonds.

  "We'd all been dancing," she began hesitantly. "It was

  past midnight when Zyeme came in. She looked strange—

  I thought she'd been sick, but I'd seen her in the morning

  and she'd been fine then. She called Bond to her, into an

  alcove by the window. I—" Some color returned to her

  too-white cheeks. "I crept after them to eavesdrop. I know

  it's a terribly rude and catty thing to do, but after what

  we'd talked of before you left I—I couldn't help doing it.

  It wasn't to leam gossip," she added earnestly. "I was

  afraid for him—and I was so scared because I'd never

  done it before and I'm not nearly as good at it as someone

  like Isolde or Merriwyn would be."

  Gareth looked a little shocked at this frankness, but

  John laughed and patted the toe of the girl's pearl-beaded

  slipper in commiseration. "We'll forgive you this time,

  love, but don't neglect your education like that again. You

  see where it leads you?" Jenny kicked him, not hard, in

  his unwounded shoulder.

  "And then?" she asked.

  "I heard her say, 'I must have the Deep. They must

  be destroyed, and it must be now, before the gnomes hear.

  They mustn't be allowed to reach it.' I followed them

  down to that little postern gate that leads to the Dock-

  market; they went to the Sheep in the Mire. The place

  Dragonsbane 253

  was still full of men and women; all drunk and quarreling

  with each other. Bond went rushing in and told them he'd

  heard you'd betrayed them, sold them out to Polycarp;

  that you had the dragon under Lady Jenny's spells and

  were going to turn it against Bel; that you were going to

  keep the gold of the Deep for yourselves and not give it

  to them, its rightful owners. But they weren't ever its

  rightful owners—it always belonged to the gnomes, or to

  the rich merchants in Deeping. I tried to tell that to

  Bond..." Her cold-reddened hand stole to her cheek, as

  if to wipe away the memory of a handprint.

  "But they were all shouting how they had to kill you

  and regain their gold. They were all drunk—Zyeme got

  the innkeeper to broach some more kegs. She said she

  was going to re-enforce them with the Palace guards. They

  were yelling and making torches and getting weapons. I

  ran back to the Palace stables and got Prettyfeet, here..."

  She stroked the exhausted pony's dappled neck, and her

  voice grew suddenly small. "And then I came here. I rode

  as fast as I dared—I was afraid of what might happen if

  they caught me. I'd never been out riding alone at night..."

  Gareth pulled off his grubby crimson cloak and slung

  it around her shoulders as her trembling increased.

  She concluded, "So you have to get out of here..."

  "That we do." John flung back the bearskins from over

  his body. "We can defend the Deep."

  "Can you ride that far?" Gareth asked worriedly, hand-

  ing him his patched, iron-plated leather jerkin.

  "I'll be gie in trouble if I can't, my hero."

  "Trey?"

  The girl looked up from gathering camp things as Jenny

  spoke her name.

  Jenny crossed quietly to where she stood and took her

  by the shoulders, looking into her eyes for a long moment.

  The probing went deep, and Trey pulled back with a thin

  cry of alarm that brought Gareth running. But to the bot-

  254 Barbara HamUy

  torn, her mind was a young girl's—not always truthful,

  anxious to please, eager to love and to be loved. There

  was no taint on it, and its innocence twisted at Jenny's

  own heart.

  Then Gareth was there, indignantly gathering Trey to

  him.

  Jenny's smile was crooked but kind. "I'm sorry," she

  said. "I had to be sure."

  By their shocked faces she saw that it had not occurred

  to either of them that Zyeme might have made use of

  Trey's form—or of Trey.

  "Come," she said. "We probably don't have much time

  Gar, get John on a horse. Trey, help him."

  "I'm perfectly capable..." John began, irritated.

  But Jenny scarcely heard. Somewhere in the mists of

  the half-burned woods below the town, she felt sudden

  movement, the intrusion of angry voices among the frost-

  rimmed silence of the blackened trees. They were coming

  and they were coming fast—she could almost see them

  at the turning of the road below the crumbling ruin of the

  clock tower.

  She turned swiftly back to the others. "Go!" she said

  "Quickly, they're almost on us!"

  "How..." began Gareth.

  She caught up her medicine bag and her halber
d and

  vaulted to Moon Horse's bare back. "Now! Gar, take Trey

  with you. John, RIDE, damn you!" For he had wheeled

  back, barely able to keep upright in Cow's saddle, to

  remain at her side. Gareth flung Trey up to Battle-

  hammer's back in a flurry of torn skirts; Jenny could hear

  the echo of hooves on the trail below.

  Her mind reached out, gathering spells together, even

  the small effort wrenching at her. She set her teeth at the

  stabbing pain as she gathered the dispersing mists that

  had been burning off in the sun's pallid brightness—her

  body was not nearly recovered from yesterday. But there

  Dragonsbane 255

  was no time for anything else. She wove the cold and

  dampness into a cloak to cover all the Vale of Deeping;

  like a secondary pattern in a plaid, she traced the spells

  of disorientation, ofjamais vu. Even as she did so, the

  hooves and the angry, incoherent voices were very close.

  They rang in the misty woods around the Rise and near

  the gatehouse in the Vale as well—Zyeme must have told

  them where to come. She wheeled Moon Horse and gave

  her a hard kick in her skinny ribs, and the white mare

  threw herself down the rocky slope in a gangly sprawl of

  legs, making for the Gates of the Deep.

  She overtook the others in the gauzy boil of the mists

  in the Vale. They had slowed down as visibility lessened;

  she led them at a canter over the paths that she knew so