by Stephen Deas
The speaker cocked her head. 'And do you know anything about this, Tyrin?' Tyrin was a decade younger than Jehal and clearly wanted to follow him in every possible way. He was looking at Zafir right now; his eyes were stripping her naked and he was wondering how long it would be, with Jehal gone, before she came looking for another lover.
A muscle twitched in Vale's cheek. Were they always so transparent?
Tyrin licked his lips. 'I went to the eyrie with him. He offered to let me ride with him back to the south but I declined. My place is here, Your Holiness, to serve you in any way I can.' He half-smiled, half-leered. If Zafir couldn't see what was on his mind then she was surely the only one in the room.
'Why, Prince Tyrin, did he go?' Her face changed. An almost imperceptible smile, perhaps. A slight change of posture, a slight widening of the eyes, the raising of an eyebrow. Vale couldn't say exactly what had changed but the effect was electric. Yes, she seemed to say. You might yet have me. Even Vale felt it, though the look wasn't meant for him. Tyrin's jaw hung open. If Tyrin hadn't been sitting down, Vale was sure he would have fallen over. Instantly, Speaker Zafir had made him her slave.
He felt a grudging admiration. That was what a speaker did. A speaker ruled. This is why we don't think, he reminded himself. We are the speaker's swords and spears, her shield and armour. Nothing less and nothing more.
'He may, ah, be gone for some time, I think, Your Holiness.' Which wasn't the question Zafir had asked at all but Tyrin's mind was too firmly set on one thing to be working properly any more.
Zafir's face didn't change. No twitch of anger or impatience, despite her rage of only a few minutes ago. 'Why, Prince Tyrin? What do you think will be keeping him in Furymouth.'
'He said he'd had a premonition, Your Holiness. Someone was going to die, someone very close to him, he said. He needed to go back, he said. To see if they could be saved.'
'And who was this someone, Prince Tyrin? Did he say?' Vale heard the slightest change in Zafir's voice. A brittleness beneath the seductive softness. To Vale the danger seemed obvious. Zafir had set a bear trap right right in front of Tyrin's feet. He wondered if the prince would manage to spot it.
'His father, King Tyan, I assume. They say he's been getting steadily worse ever since he returned home.' Vale kept his face still. Well done, little boy. But was that deftness or blind luck?
Zafir pursed her lips. She sat back into her throne, lounging there with the same affected boredom as Prince Jehal would have done. And Tyrin too, if he hadn't been so on edge. 'Very well. Let us begin then. Away, Night Watchman. Jeiros, dazzle us with news from the Order.'
Acting Grand Master Jeiros, acting head of the Order of the Scales and chief alchemist of the realms, stepped nervously out in front of the throne. He'd taken a long time to adjust to his position, Vale thought, but was just now starting to act the part. His predecessor, Bellepheros, who should have lasted a good few years more, had simply vanished one day nearly six months ago. Coincidentally, on his way back from Furymouth. Vale supposed that Grand Master Jeiros had spent most of the first few months expecting his former master to reappear.
'Your Holiness,' he began. He sounded confident these days. 'We are continuing to audit eyries in an attempt to ascertain whether-'
'Yes, yes, yes. You're still counting dragons, trying to work out whether the one that got away died or survived.' Zafir straightened and stamped her foot. 'When you have an answer, I'll be delighted to hear it. Until then, I do not wish to hear daily complaints about how difficult it is.'
'Your Holiness, if you would order a search of the Worldspine-'
'And give Jaslyn and Almiri an excuse to fly their dragons right up to my doors? They might say they were searching, Grand Master, but that would not be what they were doing. If the white dragon is dead then it has been reborn to an eyrie. If it isn't, it hasn't. As you are so fond of reminding us, the number of dragons in the world never changes, so if the white died of your poisons, you can answer your question by counting them. Counting, Grand Master, is surely not too great a challenge, is it? Even Prince Tyrin can count. So when you can tell me that one of them is still missing then I shall listen with more open ears. Until then, no more excuses, alchemist. Now bring me other news.'
Jeiros paused for a moment. He was angry, Vale saw. That's how far his confidence had grown. A month ago he would have been quivering. The speaker and her master alchemist were at odds. In their own different ways they were the two most powerful figures in the realms. Things like that made Vale uneasy. As Jeiros talked about the rebuilding of the alchemists' redoubt, Vale carefully catalogued all the other things that made him uneasy. The Red Riders.
Queen Shezira locked in the Tower of Dusk. Anything about Prince Jehal. The speaker's council – the council had long ago become a farce, that was worst of all. Three of the dragon-realms didn't even have a voice and Speaker Zafir was plainly bored by them. Now that Jehal was no longer present to entertain them with his wit, who would be first to abandon it? Prince Tichane, who spoke for the King of the Crags? Lord Eisal, who listened for King Sirion? Prince Sakabian, Zafir's own cousin? One of the others? The alchemists, perhaps? Or would the speaker herself be the first to go?
Vale, however, was the commander of the Night Watch, and so he would come as he was called and he would listen, even if it was to the empty walls. Today what he heard was the master alchemist of the realms explain how they were still rebuilding the redoubt where the Order made the potions that kept the dragons in check. He heard Jeiros describe in terse detail the damage that had been done by the smoke that the white dragon had blown into the caves, the current poor quality of the whatever it was that they harvested in there, their shortages of men and resources. In a very roundabout way, what he thought he heard was that the potions that kept the realms alive might soon run short. That a wise man would begin planning now for a cull of dragons. No one else though seemed to quite hear the same thing. When Jeiros was done, Zafir batted him away with some scalding remark. No more men would be forthcoming. The same answer as she'd given him day after day after day for weeks now. Vale, who had ten thousand soldiers sitting idle in their barracks, couldn't help but wonder why.
Other men came and went, most of them with little to say of any interest. Vale listened anyway. A war was coming. It was obvious, and yet no one seemed concerned. The council was split, Vale decided, into two equal halves. Those who were too stupid to see and those who simply didn't care.
And then there was him, who would likely be expected to fight it. Presumably none of the rest of them were that bothered if the odd city full of their own people burned, as long as they kept their precious eyries. A cull. His heart beat faster at the thought. Would that not be for the best? At the very least it would make them pause and think.
At last the one man who might have something interesting to say got to his feet. Zaster, the old palace spymaster. 'Your Holiness, there have been movements among the dragon-knights of the north.' Even Zafir straightened very slightly. Now she was only pretending to be bored.
'Go on.'
'Princess Jaslyn has left Outwatch and returned to Sand. Several dragons have been seen heading for the Desert of Salt. She may remain reluctant, but she is negotiating her marriage with King Sirion's son, Prince Dyalt.'
Zafir glanced at Lord Eisal, who shrugged. 'Shezira promised her to my lord in exchange for his support.'
'And then murdered Hyram, my husband and your lord, when that wasn't enough.' Zafir wrinkled her nose and turned back to Zaster. 'And what about Almiri and Evenspire?'
'My spies have seen several dragons flying from the Spur to Almiri's eyrie. And a war-dragon flying back again, heavily laden.'
'Is that it? You've seen a dragon? I could have told you that myself. My riders have eyes too, Zaster.'
'Yes. The war-dragon your riders saw, Your Holiness.' Zaster bowed low. 'B'thannan. Rider Hyrkallan's mount. It confirms that he is leading the rebellion, Your Holiness.'
'Pshaw!' Vale winced. The speaker had half a goblet of wine dangling from her fingers. She'd been known to throw it at councillors who annoyed her. 'What else? Will you dazzle us with the revelation that the sun rises in the morning and sets at night? Of course Hyrkallan leads this insurrection. And Almiri? How much is she helping them? What about Sirion? Does he send aid to them too? Tell me something useful or be silent. I want proof of these treasons, not hearsay!'
Zaster had always been too quick to take offence. His lips drew t ight together. He started to sit down; as he did, Vale found himself rising. It was such a surprise that he didn't quite understand what was happening at first, and then had to wonder whether some sorcery was at work. But no, his own legs, nothing more. He looked from face to face, suddenly uncertain. He wasn't supposed to have opinions, so what in the realms could he he needing to say?
His lcj›s seemed to know what they were doing though, so he extended the same trust to his mouth.
'Hyrkallan won the Speaker's Tournament a decade ago when Hyram took the Speaker's Ring, Your Holiness. And a decade before that as well, when it was Iyanza.'
Zafir gave him a scornful look. 'Since when do Guardsmen speak in the Speaker's Council?'
He bowed and fell silent, but he'd done enough. The spymaster nodded. 'When the talk is of warriors, Your Holiness,' he murmured. 'Hyrkallan is a clever man, a good rider, strong, brave, with all the best qualities. Most of all he has experience and respect. The other riders of the north will follow him. They are much more dangerous with him than without, Your Holiness. As they have already shown.' A thundercloud passed across Zafir's face. No one spoke about Drotan's Top, but it hung in the air throughout the palace. Hyrkallan had bloodied her nose there and it still stung, even if she'd bloodied him back since.
'Give me dragons!' shouted Prince Sakabian. 'Let me smash them!'
Zafir glared him into silence.
He's right though. Any other speaker would have summoned a hundred dragons, sent out the Guard and crushed this nonsense. Zafir does nothing. Why?
Vale felt he ought to have been sitting down but somehow he wasn't. Instead, there were more words coming out. 'Why is he doing this, Lord Zaster? Why did he not go north all along? He has the whole of the north as his weapon if he chooses to use it, for they would follow him. He could force Jaslyn off her throne and come at you with ten times the dragons that follow him now. Why does he not?'
Zafir glared at him. 'If you'd done what was asked of you, Guardsman, then Hyrkallan and his Red Riders wouldn't even exist, would they?' She spat the words out. The fingers holding her goblet were twitching. 'If you'd taken all of Shezira's riders. If you hadn't let Almiri, of all people, escape. I should have removed you from your post there and then.'
Vale bowed. He sat down.
'They need to be dealt with, Your Holiness,' snapped Zaster.
'You should send Watchman Tassan-' He didn't get any further. Zafir's goblet caught him on the side of his head. Hard. Zaster staggered and put his fingers to his temple. They came away bloody.
'You presume to tell me what I should do?' She waved a hand at Vale. 'Send this idiot to finish cleaning up the mess he should never have allowed in the first place? Now that they have their dragons? And how many of the Adamantine Guard shall I throw away into the Maze?' She snorted. 'Very well, Lord Zaster, if they must be dealt with, and if my dragon patrols are not enough to satisfy you, you deal with them. Hire more sell-swords. Put a bigger reward on Rider Hyrkallan's head. On all of them. My weight in gold for every one of them. And while you're at it, they must be getting their potions from somewhere. Get me proof That Almiri is sending them supplies and I will reduce Evenspire to ash. Let their dragons turn rogue and eat them!'
Jeiros jumped to his feet. 'Your Holiness, Evenspire is a city of thousands! As large as the City of Dragons itself! Your dispute-' He bit his lip. 'Our dispute is with Queen Almiri, not her subjects.'
Zafir snarled: 'Then why don't you find some way to lure her away from her defences, eh, alchemist? But after you have finished learning to count.' She turned back to Zaster. Her face softened a little. 'Spymaster, you have not answered the Watchman's question. Why is Hyrkallan pursuing this foolishness?'
Zaster licked his fingers and shook his head. The look he gave Zafir was venomous. 'Oh I dare say he'll tire of this soon enough. Without him, I'm sure the rest will disperse.' That would have earned him the goblet again, if Zafir hadn't already thrown it at him. The speaker bared her teeth.
'Sell-swords, Zaster. More sell-swords. They are cheap and expendable.'
'Wasn't Rider GarHannas among them?' asked Prince Tyrin suddenly. 'GarHannas of Bloodsalt?' He was looking at Lord Eisal. Eisal pretended he hadn't heard but the damage was done. The council slipped back to doing what it did best, sniping at one another and making sure that nothing useful ever got done. Vale closed his eyes for a moment. Ten thousand men and two hundred riders sat idle at the palace. If he'd been permitted an opinion, it might have been that they should be doing something.
10
Jaslyn
'Is there news, Your Holiness?'
Jaslyn sighed and slid off her dragon. Her new dragon with his glittering silvery black scales. A real prize. Morning Sun, Isentine had named him, but Jaslyn still thought of her old dragon, Silence, every time she flew. In her head, this new one had a different name. Not morning, but mourning. It felt much closer to her heart. They sounded the same too, which kept everybody happy. Her little secret.
She took off her helmet and dropped it on the packed, scorched earth of the landing field. One of the Scales would pick it up later. 'I wish you wouldn't call me that, Eyrie-Master.' She didn't even glance back at the dragon behind her. The sun was low and its bulk cast them both into shadow.
Eyrie-Master Isentine bowed as best his age and stiff back would let him. 'A thousand apologies, your… Your Highness.'
'That's all I am, Eyrie-Master. For as long as my mother… for as long as Queen Shezira is alive. Even imprisoned within the Adamantine Palace, she is your mistress. You should call me student and I should call you master.' That had been one of her mother's last commands. Isentine was getting old and they'd need a new eyrie-master before long. A master or perhaps a mistress.
She tried to smile but it seemed she didn't know how any more. Isentine stared at his feet.
'Not much,' she said after they'd stood in awkward silence for far too long. 'Hyrkallan has plundered Drotan's Top. The speaker's dragons have taken a couple of his riders but so far he evades her grasp. Everyone demands that I call him back and make him knight-marshal in Nastria's place.' She shook her head. 'We don't even know that Nastria is dead. Almiri begs and pleads for us to go to war. My husband-to-be is alive and still hasn't found his way to Sand. His father, King Sirion, continues to shout for revenge for Hyram's death but can't decide whether it's Zafir or Shezira who should feel his wrath. And I, I just feel that my time is running out. I want to climb onto Silence and fly away. Far, far away and never come back. Except Silence is gone.'
Isentine screwed up his face in horror. 'Holiness!'
'Highness!' Jaslyn scowled.
'Highness! You cannot-'
'Cannot speak like that, Eyrie-Master? If not to you then to whom? Our knight-marshal is dead and our queen is imprisoned for treason. I'm surrounded by men and women I barely know who wear long stern faces and expect me to be my mother when I'm not. My elder sister only wants my dragons and my younger sister Lystra is far away, married and a hostage to that monster Jehal.' She clenched her jaw. Sometimes when she thought of Lystra she wanted to cry, but that wasn't allowed, not even where only Isentine would see. 'I miss her most of all, Eyrie-Master. In her letters she, at least, sounds happy.'
'Perhaps, Your Highness, she will persuade…'
'My- Queen Shezira and King Valgar have been in the speaker's dungeons for more than a month. Our knight-marshal plotted with King Valgar to murder Speaker Zafir, and our queen apparently pushed Lord Hyram off a ba
lcony.'
'Lies, Your Highness. All lies.'
'Really? I want to believe you, Eyrie-Master. But their accusers are not Zafir's servants or Jehal's. They are Adamantine Men. Perhaps they might be bribed to lie about Nastria, but about Hyram? They were his own Guardsmen. He died under their watch. They failed. Why would they lie? I cannot believe they would conspire against their own lord.'
'But surely you cannot believe-'
'What? Can't believe that my mother would have pushed Hyram to his death? After the way he betrayed her? I remind you, Isentine, of whom we are talking.'
Jaslyn tore herself away from Morning Sun, walking briskly towards the looming tower of Outwatch. Isentine struggled to match her pace. Walking meant he couldn't see her face. She wasn't like her mother. She couldn't hide it all away. She couldn't be strong all the time on the outside no matter what she felt on the inside.
She took a deep breath. 'That's not why I came here, Eyrie-Master, nor why you called me.' Although any excuse would do. She liked the bleakness of Outwatch, sitting on the top of its cliff, presiding over miles and miles of tunnels and caves where the dragons were kept. Liked the flight over endless miles of barren featureless burning sand and rust-coloured stone that brought her here. Liked this isolated and inexplicable oasis of green that just happened to be the greatest eyrie in the north. Now that Isentine knew better than to turn out the guard for her whenever she arrived, it was the windy, lonely, lost place it had always been meant to be, and it drew her in whenever it could.
'It feels empty here,' she murmured, as much to herself as to Isentine.