Master of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  Or—very calculating.

  Such an obvious door might be a trap.

  Conceding that possibility, Draconas entered the cave using extreme caution. The aperture was narrow. He had to flatten his body and keep his wings pressed against his flanks in order to squeeze into it, and then his shoulders rubbed against the cavern walls. He was forced to maneuver carefully to keep from tearing a wing. He peered intently at the walls as he entered. If Grald had passed this way in dragon form, Draconas would see some sign of it—scraped-off scales clinging to the walls, claw marks in the rock.

  No sign of either. Draconas doubted that any dragon had walked this cavern for years, perhaps not since it was formed. From the heaps of guano on the floor, the cavern appeared to have been taken over by bats.

  Draconas assumed that he had probably tripped some sort of alarm upon entering. No dragon with a brain would leave a back door unguarded. The dragon would weave some sort of magic across it that would alert him to intruders. Draconas knew this was a risk the moment he entered the cavern. He deemed it acceptable. There was always the possibility—the hope—that Grald was not in his lair. He and his human body might be somewhere else.

  The cavern narrowed into a tubelike corridor that ran for some distance straight into the mountain, then opened up into a large chamber where Draconas was able to lift his head and release his wings. He shook himself all over, scales clicking, and drew in a breath of air that reeked of bat. The creatures were out with the night, but this was evidently the chamber where they roosted. Despite the stench, Draconas breathed well and deeply. He always felt better when he was in his true form, his dragon body, and he felt better in his natural habitat—a cave.

  Though his human form was just illusion—unlike Grald and Maristara and Anora, who had all seized the bodies of real humans—the illusion was so real that Draconas sometimes felt as if he were trapped in that human body, a body that was fragile, soft and unprotected—all part of the magic of the supreme illusion. The Walker had to feel human, as well as look human. He had to come to believe the lie, so to speak, for otherwise he would not be able to understand what it was to be human and so be able to pass for human.

  Draconas thought what it would be like to walk inside this cavern as a human—terrified of the bats, for one thing; unable to see in the darkness; blundering into stone walls and falling over unseen obstacles; losing himself in the tangled maze of corridors. And always fearful of puncturing the vulnerable flesh or breaking one of the slender bones, knocking a hole in the skull, or poking out an unprotected eye.

  In his dragon form, Draconas was armored in scales that were harder than any steel man had yet created. His eyes could spot a rodent in the pitch darkness fifty feet away. He had a massive tail that could fell a tree with one swipe, razor-sharp claws and sword-sharp teeth, and the fire of magic blazed in his blood. He was invincible to every creature in this world with the exception of his own kind.

  Or at least, he had been.

  King Edward’s cannons. Not a threat now, but there was one thing to be said for humans—they never stood still. They were always surging forward, bashing their headstrong way through their brief lives, making progress, as they liked to call it. Dragons had watched humans advance from the point where their brutish ancestors were flinging stones to bring down small animals to the firing of cannonballs. He conceded that Anora was right. It was not difficult to predict that the crude iron ball that now flew a few hundred feet to land with a thud in a field of millet would someday be armed with such destructive force that it could blow apart this mountain.

  Safe in their caves, deep beneath the earth, dreaming their wondrous dreams, the dragons and their young would, for the first time in human history, be at the mercy of humans.

  Dragons could never rest safe again. Like humans, they would always live in fear.

  In that moment, Draconas came very near to turning and walking out the back door. He came very near to going back to his own lair, saying, “The hell with it. The hell with them.”

  And then his own words to Lysira came back to him. Fine words, about freedom and doing what was right.

  “Dragons will have to adapt to this new world,” he said to himself. “We will have to change. Something will be lost. Something is always lost when change comes. But something will be gained, for that, too, is a given. At least, I hope so.”

  Wondering if the alarm had gone off and if someone was there to hear it, Draconas sent a penetrating gaze through the darkness, seeking out the tunnels that branched off from this chamber and led deeper into the dragon’s lair. He found three. Draconas sniffed the air of each of them, smelling and tasting with nose and tongue. He poked his head down each of the tunnels, listening for the smallest noises. He stared deep into each of them, studying them, searching for the tiniest hint.

  He could not smell dragon in any of them, and that further confirmed his belief that Grald had not been near this part of his mountain in a long time.

  No reason he should be, of course. His interests lay in the world of humans. But it was an indication that the dragon had grown lazy. Even though Draconas returned to his lair only a couple of times every hundred years, he always checked it over from top to bottom. Magic spells needed to be reinforced or re-woven; traps needed to be reset; animal squatters driven out. And it was always good to know if any stranger had been prying about.

  He began to wonder if there had been an alarm at the entrance or not. Given the hundreds of bats coming and going on their nightly runs, the alarm—unless specifically designed to detect only dragons—would have been going off constantly.

  Bats. In a dragon’s lair. Draconas’s lip curled in disgust as he waded through their droppings, which were knee deep. He headed down the middle corridor. The other two were quiet and smelled bad. The middle one had an intriguing odor and, more important, intriguing noises. He was able to detect, echoing up through the halls and tunnels of the dragon’s lair, the sounds and smell of humans.

  The babble of human voices increased markedly as Draconas walked the corridors of Grald’s “palace.” To judge by the sound, the humans were engaging in some sort of celebration, for the voices would often rise in unison, making what humans termed music, something that was, for Draconas, a cacophony of ear-jarring screechings and wails. The music was followed by bursts of applause or laughter that thundered through the cavern chambers. If the noise they were making was any indication, Draconas guessed that, like the bats, there must be hundreds of humans inside the cavern.

  Yet no one crossed the bridge.

  He continued to advance, his wonder—and his concern— growing. He saw no sign of the dragon anywhere. He came upon no traps. He did not wander into any illusory passages designed to lead an intruder to grief. The lair might have belonged to an enterprising bear. And Draconas suddenly understood the reason why. As a mother with a toddler will remove all sharp objects from the child’s reach, the dragon had been forced to make his lair safe for human occupants.

  Draconas calculated that he must be drawing near the base of the mountain by now. The tunnel he walked twisted and turned, yet always sloped steadily downward. Rounding a corner, he saw a glow of warm, yellow-orange light. The voices were close. The human smell overpowering. He halted where he was to re-form the illusion, to become human once more.

  He did not choose the monk’s form. He had the impression, from what he’d seen and heard on the bridge, that few of the Blessed were allowed in the cavern. Hearing among the voices raised in song the high-pitched cries and giggles of children, he went back to being Draca.

  As always, he let go of his dragon form with deep reluctance, sighing his way back inside the fragile, frail human skin. The corridor that had seemed small and narrow to the dragon was suddenly enormous to the human girl. His eyes could see better than those of most humans, but not as well as a dragon, and his hearing was so reduced that it seemed his ears were stuffed with wax. He had to allow himself several moments to adjust to th
e change. Then, keeping near the wall, he edged his way forward.

  He very nearly stepped off the edge of a cliff.

  His human stomach gave a lurch and he took a hasty step backward, painfully mindful of the fact that in this body he had no wings to save himself from what would have been a hundred-foot plunge straight down.

  The tunnel opened into an enormous chamber. Draconas had seen something like this only once before—the Hall of Parliament, where the dragons met. The entire center of the mountain had been scooped out like the insides of a pumpkin. The ceiling—far, far above him—was supported by huge columns of rock that jutted up from the smooth floor. The cavern’s walls were a veritable honeycomb of small caves, built in neat, even rows around the inside of the chamber. Stairs carved out of the rock led up to the caves, opening out into walkways that were like streets.

  The chamber was brightly lit. A bonfire burned in the center of what would have been a plaza in a human city. Draconas wondered at the lack of smoke from the blaze—the cavern should have filled with it. Then he saw that the fire did not feed off wood. The flames fed off stone and magic.

  The child, Draca, sat down on the stone floor of the tunnel and, letting her feet dangle over the edge, gazed down in wonder at the sight beneath her.

  Humans, men and women and children, clustered about the magical blaze. He listened to their songs, to the words of the songs; he watched them dance their dances, and his wonder devolved into grim dismay. Their stories were those of fighting and battle. Their songs were songs of war. He had found the dragon’s army.

  His roving eye took note of a group of people who held themselves apart from the others, kept their distance, stood aloof and proud. He stared at them and his dismay turned to shock.

  “What have we done?” Draconas asked the question of himself and all of his kind.

  “What have we done?” he asked again. “And can we ever be forgiven?”

  Draconas now knew the truth about Anton and Rosa’s daughter. Why she had been chosen and what for. And he was pretty certain now that he knew her terrible fate.

  15

  VEN SLEPT FITFULLY THAT NIGHT AND WOKE THE NEXT DAY RE-solved to leave the room that had become a prison. He spurned the monks, who urged him to continue to remain in bed. He ate breakfast with a hearty appetite and then sent the monks into a panic when he stated that he was going out for a walk. They attempted to dissuade him by murmuring that he was not well. All he had to do was point to the wound that had already closed and scabbed over. He was still a little weak from loss of blood, but he would never admit to that. If he stayed cooped up in that room with only the mad monks for company, he’d go as mad as the maddest among them.

  Ven had another reason, though it was one he did not readily admit to himself. He needed to talk to Draconas. The need was grudging, for it implied weakness on Ven’s part. He’d determined that he would never again ask for help from anyone. With the long night to think things over and the vision of Draconas slipping into Grald’s mountain lair before his eyes, Ven had come to the conclusion that exchanging a modicum of pride for Draconas’s assistance in carrying out his plot against Grald was not such a bad trade-off.

  I won’t ask him to help me fight Grald, Ven resolved. I just need information about fighting dragons.

  Ven didn’t dare leave the white-shielded cave of his mind to go in mental search of Draconas—such a move would place them both in danger. But he could leave his room.

  Flinging open the door, Ven found two monks standing guard outside. One of the monks jumped nearly out of his skin as the door banged against the wall. The other regarded him with a wary look.

  “I’m going for a walk,” Ven announced, and shoved past the two of them. “You can come, if you want.”

  The monk who was not quivering frowned.

  “Your father—”

  Ven rounded on him. “I have heard rumors that the people of Dragonkeep think I am dead, killed in the explosion. If I am to be the leader of these people, then they should see me, see that I am alive and strong and well.”

  Either this inspired argument carried the day, or the monk saw that he had no hope of stopping Ven from leaving, and so he gave in, though not without a whispered conversation with his fellow, who immediately darted off, presumably running to Grald with the report.

  Accompanied by three monks, Ven left the Abbey for the first time since he’d gone out that fateful morning to meet his brother.

  He emerged into morning air washed fresh by last night’s rain and paused to gulp in great draughts. He set out to walk the streets of Dragonkeep, with no particular destination in mind, just the need to get the blood flowing and perhaps find Draconas.

  Ven could not forbid the monks from escorting him—they were far more terrified of Grald than they were of Grald’s son. But he could make it difficult for them, and he did. The dragon-blood gave him extrahuman strength and, even weakened, he was stronger than any of the monks. His dragon legs carried him at an easy lope through the city streets. The monks kept up as best they could— the image of Grald’s fury acting as a spur—but none was accustomed to exertion of any kind, and soon they were gasping and winded.

  Ven saw them falling behind and magnanimously halted to wait for them to catch up. A group of people gathered around the Dragon’s Son, not approaching him or speaking to him, just watching him. Several grinned when they saw the monks come limping around the corner; one monk almost doubled over from the pain of a stitch in his side and the other two were sweating and out of breath.

  “Who’s guarding who?” shouted a little girl with a laugh.

  Some of the adults looked stern and frowned at her. A few chuckled, though they hastily rearranged their faces as the monks drew near.

  By the time the monks reached Ven’s side, the crowd had melted away, all except the little girl, who stood staring at Ven with frank and unabashed curiosity.

  “Begone, child,” one of the monks scolded her. “Leave the Dragon’s Son alone.”

  The little girl stuck out her tongue. The monk made an angry swipe at her, but she skipped away and ran off down the street. The monks paid her no more attention. They had their charge to consider.

  “You walk very fast, Dragon’s Son,” said the monk, scowling.

  “I plan to go on at this pace. I just wanted to let you know that,” Ven returned.

  “You would do well to slow down, Dragon’s Son. You are not well.”

  Ven looked pointedly at the monks—one unable to straighten up and the other two scarcely able to walk.

  “I thank you for your concern. And for your care of me.” Ven’s lip curled. “I feel so much safer, knowing I am under your protection.”

  “Ditch them,” came a voice, its colors flitting about like butterflies in Ven’s head.

  Ven knew that voice and he could barely contain his elation. He had been right, Draconas was here. As fast as the dragon’s colors darted into Ven’s mind, they vanished. Ven could see them still, see the afterimages, as when one stares at the sun, but he dared not answer. Grald lurked outside his cave, waiting for him to emerge.

  The monks were staring at him expectantly and Ven realized that he’d lost track of the conversation.

  “You can either keep up with me or go back to the Abbey,” he stated. “I need no guards. What does my father think I will do? Try to escape from Dragonkeep? The world outside is a dangerous place for me. He knows that better than anyone. Why would I want to return to it?”

  The spokesman for the three monks cast Ven a churlish look. He and his two cohorts conferred in low voices, then, bowing, they turned and walked off.

  Surprised and a little suspicious at the ease with which he’d accomplished his task, Ven watched the monks until they were out of sight. He kept watch for Draconas, too, but saw no sign of him. No one was about except the little girl, who was loitering in the shadows of a building.

  Ven lingered in the street, searching for the man he remembered from childh
ood—a human male with long black hair, piercing dark eyes, carrying a staff. Several men passed by him, but they did not answer that description. He began to grow impatient and, when the little girl came dancing up to him, he tried to ignore her, hoping she’d go away.

  He detested children. The sight of them brought back his own painful childhood. Adults were unkind—with their averted eyes or looks of pity or crude remarks. Children were cruel, taunting and teasing and tormenting the little boy who walked with a beast’s gait.

  “I wish my legs had scales like yours, Dragon’s Son,” the child said. “Except that my scales would be red-gold.”

  “Run along home,” Ven told her, scowling, and he tried to shoo her away with a wave of his hand.

  To his astonishment, the girl grabbed hold of his hand. She held fast when he tried to shake her loose. She was a sharp-eyed little minx, with long black hair and a spare, bony frame on which her ragged clothes hung like new-washed laundry. She looked up at Ven and grinned.

  Her comment about the red-gold scales suddenly struck him, as did the long, black hair. Long ago, Ven had seen a dragon take to the air. He had seen moonlight glitter on scales that were red-gold. He’d seen the same last night . . .

  “Draconas?” Ven asked softly, staring at the child in astonishment.

  “Start walking,” the little girl ordered, tugging him along. “No, don’t look back. Keep moving.”

  “Is that you, Draconas?” Ven persisted.

  “My name’s Draca,” said the girl in a loud, shrill voice. “I know you. You’re Ven, the Dragon’s Son. Act naturally They’re watching you.”

  “The monks?” Ven glanced over his shoulder. “No, they’re not. I sent them back to the Abbey—”

  “Not those monks. Others. Why do you think your guards gave way so easily? Look there, in the alley. And there, in the doorway of the baker’s shop.”

  Ven cast a glance in the directions indicated. The monk in the alley blended into the shadows, but not before Ven had spotted him. The monk in the doorway of the baker’s shop did not even bother to try to hide himself.