Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  “So that I may use it to command the dragon to destroy the ogres, who are coming to invade this land,” said Treia.

  “Perhaps I do not know this ritual.”

  “You know it,” said Treia. “Long ago you helped a Kai Priestess summon the dragon.”

  “You are not a Kai Priestess.”

  “Draya is dead and left no successor,” said Treia. “In this time of turmoil, it may be long before a Kai is chosen, if ever.”

  “You know the history of the Kai Priestess. You know she could not control the dragon. The Vektan went berserk and destroyed entire villages, killing many hundreds of your own people. You must prove to me you can control the Vektan dragon, Treia Adalbrand. I dare not risk teaching you otherwise.”

  “Tell me what I must do,” Treia said.

  “You must prove to me that you are strong-minded. You must show me that you will not let emotions sway you. Only then will I deem you capable of controlling one of the Vektia. You must sacrifice to me a person you hold dear.”

  “You mean I must kill someone,” Treia faltered. “Someone I love. . . .”

  Treia’s first thought was of Raegar and she knew she could never make such a bargain. He was everything to her. More than life itself. She was devastated. All this trouble for nothing. And then a thought occurred to her.

  “This could be anyone?”

  “Anyone at all,” said Hevis. “So long as you hold this person dear.”

  Treia’s palms were clammy. Her stomach twisted. A horrid taste filled her mouth. She recoiled from herself in horror at the very thought, but she recalled what was at stake, what she stood to gain. She swallowed the bitter taste and said firmly, “Teach me the ritual. You will have your sacrifice.”

  Hevis looked into her heart and was satisfied.

  Wulfe dove down among the blankets the moment the god appeared. He could not see the face of the god, nor did he want to. He could feel the heat and he lay shivering and quaking, afraid the dread god of the Uglies would find him.

  Wulfe could hear the discussion between Treia and the god quite clearly, but the boy was frightened half out of his wits and the words made no sense to him.

  Just when Wulfe thought he would die of terror beneath the blanket, the god left, taking his horrid heat with him. Treia sat for a long time in the dark. Wulfe lay beneath his blanket hating her and wishing she would leave.

  Finally he heard her stirring about at the other end of the hold, and he shoved aside a corner of the blanket and was finally able to draw a breath of fresh air.

  Treia was taking off the ceremonial robes. She bundled them back into the chest and put on the gown of a priestess of Aelon. She took one final look about the hold. Wulfe held very still. Then Treia left, climbing up the ladder and walking swiftly across the deck.

  When Wulfe was no longer able to hear her footsteps, he scampered up the ladder and saw her hurrying across the compound. He kept watch until she was gone, then he went back to look up at the dragon’s head, which was still blocking his way to the hiding place of the spiritbone.

  “Please, can’t I give it back?” Wulfe asked plaintively.

  The dragon’s red eye glittered fiercely.

  Wulfe sighed and wandered off to find something to eat.

  CHAPTER

  4

  * * *

  BOOK THREE

  A rumor that the Empress was bringing in a new player to fight in the Para Dix spread about the boxes of the nobility, rippling among them like wind across a field of barley. People leaned into their neighbors to hear the exciting gossip, then they turned to impart the information to those seated beside them.

  Chloe heard the rumor from Rosa, her house-slave, who had heard it from a slave belonging to a nobleman, who had heard it from a friend of a noble lady, who was currently a favorite with the Empress. Rosa was agog with excitement when she told her young mistress and talked so rapidly Chloe had trouble making sense of what she was saying. Well aware of Rosa’s tendency to exaggerate, and also somewhat suspicious of Rosa’s sources, Chloe longed to ask someone more reliable.

  Although she was seated in the Empress’s royal box, Chloe was a small moon compared to the glorious sun that was Her Imperial Majesty—allowed to bask in the light and feel the warmth, but only from a distance. And, as of now, the royal box was still benighted, for the Empress had not arrived. Generally she came to the games only in the evening, to watch her champion team. Today, word flew that the royal party was on their way to the arena. The Empress was, of course, taking her time, for it was fatiguing to travel in the heat of the day. The game would be delayed to await her arrival.

  The delay and the fact that the Empress was going to be in attendance added credence to the rumor. Chloe wished someone would visit with her, but though the noble lords bowed to her and their lady wives blew kisses from the tips of their fingers, no one came to sit beside her and chat.

  Chloe understood. Her father was a wealthy man and, as such, the members of the nobility were polite to her, for no one wanted to offend him. Acronis was still on good terms with the Empress, which was why she had invited Chloe to sit in the royal box. But Acronis was also known to be cynical and outspoken, particularly in regard to his religious views, and that made people uncomfortable. There had been a time, back in the early days of the new religion, when the nobility looked down upon Aelon, deeming him an upstart young god, a god of the lower classes, popular among the unwashed and the uneducated, but hardly suitable for polite society.

  As Aelon’s Church increased in wealth and gained followers, the attitudes of the nobility changed. When the Empress became a fanatic follower, Aelon’s priests, who had formerly been admitted to noble villas only through the servants’ entrance, were now invited to dine with the royal family. Acronis did not change his views on Aelon, however, and the Priest-General and the Empress’s friendship for him was starting to cool. She could not afford to anger him, for he had his own army and paid for two triremes. She could make her displeasure known in other, more subtle ways, such as reducing the number of invitations to dinner.

  Acronis never noticed. He disliked dining out, preferring to share his meals with his daughter and those who were his true friends. Acronis came from an ancient noble family, one of the founding families of Sinaria. He was an intelligent man, but he was short-sighted. He had honestly believed the worship of Aelon was a fad, a passing fancy. He was starting to realize he had been wrong. If he had seen the treasure room and knew the vast amount of wealth being secretly amassed by Aelon’s priests, he would have been appalled.

  Chloe felt and believed exactly the same as her father. She thought the Empress a silly, vain woman. Chloe cared nothing for the haughty nobles and their snooty wives. She didn’t care where she sat, so long as she had a good view of the game. But being a social outcast had its disadvantages, and she’d never felt that more than now, when she longed to find out the truth of what was happening and no one would tell her. Then, at last, she saw Zahakis and she waved to him wildly and sent Rosa to fetch him.

  Zahakis was known to all as the commander of her father’s army, and as such he had no difficulty being admitted to the royal box. He came straight to Chloe and said quietly, “Your father has ordered me to take you home.”

  Chloe laughed at him. “Be serious, Zahakis, and sit down and tell me if this rumor I’ve heard is true.”

  “I am serious, Mistress,” he said gravely. “Those are your father’s orders.”

  Chloe saw the way the Tribune’s eyes roved about the crowd and how he kept his hand conspicuously near his sword and she knew he was serious. She also knew she wasn’t leaving.

  “Sit down and talk to me,” Chloe said, patting the silk cushions. She smiled at him and the dimple flashed. “Those are my orders and you know that I outrank my father.”

  Zahakis was well aware of that. He sat down beside her.

  “I’ve heard a rumor that the Empress is bringing in some sort of monster to fight against F
ather’s team,” said Chloe eagerly. “Is that true?”

  “Keep your voice down, child,” said Zahakis.

  The Empress and her party were entering the royal box. She was accompanied by her little dog, who had its own slave, and slaves with pillows, slaves carrying baskets of food, slaves with large ostrich-feather fans. All was noise and confusion as she greeted friends and the nobles crowded around to fawn over her.

  “Your father wanted to withdraw from the game,” said Zahakis, under the cover of the loud greetings and laughter, “but your barbarian insisted on fighting.”

  “Skylan!” Chloe said, her eyes shining. “He did? He is so brave!”

  “ ‘One man’s hero is another man’s fool,’ ” Zahakis said, repeating the old quote.

  Chloe made a face at him and playfully slapped his hand.

  At that moment, heads turned, conversation ceased, people all over the arena stood up to see.

  A chariot entered the main gate, driving onto the dirt track that circled the arena. Word spread excitedly through the crowd that this was the new player, a creature known as a fury. Nothing like this had ever happened in a Para Dix game. Players left the benches and came out on the field, as did the referees, the Game Masters, and even the warrior-priests, who were supposed to be tending the sacred fire.

  A shocked buzz spread through the crowd. A child screamed, a woman fainted, the buzz faded out, and silence fell. People stared, struck dumb with shock.

  The fury was as beautiful as she was awful. Her eyes, large and deep blue and luminous, dripped with blood that ran down her cheeks like dreadful tears. The hand that waved to the crowd was delicate, the fingers slender and fine-boned, ending in long, rending, bloodstained talons. Her hair was long and black and adorned with snakes that sprouted from her head, writhing and coiling and biting at each other. Wings of black feathers thrust out from her shoulder blades.

  The fury was naked from the waist up. Her breasts were large and swayed and jiggled as the chariot jounced over the uneven surface of the track. A long skirt made of red silk was belted around her waist and draped provocatively over her legs. No one in the stands felt any sort of sexual attraction, only a cold, creeping horror.

  The chariot was drawn by slaves, not horses, for the horses had gone into a panicked frenzy at the sight of the fury. The slaves had not undertaken the task willingly. The six men eventually chosen for the task had been driven to obey by the pain of Aelon’s displeasure. Sweating with fear and exertion, they dragged the chariot by its traces, and though the load was heavy, they were running to escape the terror of being in such close proximity to the chariot’s passenger.

  Most people in the stands were staring in shock and horror at the fury, who appeared to be enjoying the attention, and few noticed the man who walked at the chariot’s side. He was a tall man, well built, with a smooth face, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. His long brown hair flowed down his shoulders. He wore gray robes, plain and unadorned. He was not afraid of the fury, for he kept close to her and every so often he would turn to say something to her.

  The crowd was amazed. The people of Oran believed in the fae, knew that they were a part of their world—an evil part, as Aelon’s priests often told them. People took the usual precautions: avoiding rings of mushrooms, nailing strings of garlic bulbs to the door, wearing clothes backwards if they had to venture into the woods, and so forth. These were pleasant superstitions, and apparently they worked, for most people in Oran had never encountered any of the fae.

  The idea of one of the faery folk brought in as a player had seemed good fun at first, something out of the ordinary to brighten up the dull routine of everyday life. Now the curtain between their well-ordered world and the chaotic world of the fae had been torn aside. They could picture the fury trailing after her victim, coming to him in the night, gazing at him as he tried to sleep, shedding tears of his victim’s blood, rending his soul with her talons until all he wanted to do was end the torment.

  The warrior-priests shook off their own horror, and, fearing a stampede, moved among the crowd, reminding everyone that they were under Aelon’s protection. People settled down, and a modicum of calm returned, though the crowd remained tense and uneasy.

  The slaves dragged the chariot to a halt in front of the royal box. The Empress rose to her feet and was about to make a speech. She was interrupted by the fury, who threw back her head and shrieked in laughter. The Empress smiled upon her fury and glowered around at the crowd. The Empress had expected applause and cheers for her “pretty pet” and she was angered by the reaction of the crowd. She was about to speak out, make her anger known publicly, when one of her attendants whispered that since the game was already late in starting, perhaps she should not try the patience of the audience any further. The Empress shrugged and, wrapping the folds of her cape around her in magnificent displeasure, sat back down and held out her goblet to be filled with wine.

  Chloe was frightened, but unlike many of the other girls, who were shivering and covering their eyes, she only gave a little gasp and reached out to Zahakis. Her first concern was for Skylan, and she looked over to where he was standing in the player’s area. She spotted him easily by his blond hair. He stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders back, studying the fury with narrow-eyed concentration as he might have studied any foe he was to meet on the field of battle. Chloe leaned close to Zahakis.

  “Do you know any prayers to Torval?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know any prayers to any god, Mistress,” Zahakis said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to ask Skylan’s god to protect him,” she answered. “And I don’t know how to pray to Torval. I don’t want to offend him.”

  “From what I have heard, Torval is not a god to stand upon ceremony,” said Zahakis, hiding his smile. He added hurriedly, “Just don’t let anyone hear you!”

  Chloe nodded and, folding her hands, she whispered, “Torval, you don’t know me, but I know you. Skylan told me about you. He’s my champion. I hope you don’t think I’m being too presumptuous. I want to ask you to protect him from this monster. Thank you.”

  Hoping Torval could hear her over the carousing in his Hall, she put her chin on her hand and stared intently at the fury, who was stepping down out of the chariot.

  “If she is fae, she must be very strong,” said Chloe. “I wonder how the Empress’s people managed to capture her? And who is that man who is with her? The one in the gray robes.”

  Zahakis had been regarding this man with interest. “He is a druid.”

  “A druid!” Chloe drew in an excited breath. “I’ve never met a druid. Do you suppose he would come to dinner? You must tell my father to invite him, Zahakis.”

  “You are your father’s daughter,” said Zahakis, continuing to keep an eye on those around him. He was startled to see his interest returned. Xydis, the Priest-General, was looking at him. The Priest-General rose to his feet and began to descend the stairs.

  “The Priest-General is coming,” Zahakis said in a warning undertone.

  “Don’t worry,” said Chloe. “I’ll be good. I won’t say anything to embarrass you.”

  Zahakis rose to his feet and stiffly saluted. Xydis acknowledged the Tribune with a cool glance. The Priest-General bowed to Chloe and said he was glad to see her looking so well. Chloe shifted among her pillows and smiled politely. She was mistress of the household, in the absence of her mother, and she asked the Priest-General if he would take some wine and a honey cake. He politely declined, then indicated, with a look at Zahakis, that he wanted to speak to him.

  “Walk with me, Tribune,” said the Priest-General.

  Zahakis accompanied the man to one of the recessed entrances leading into the royal box. People here were milling about, talking excitedly about what they had just witnessed. The hubbub was such that the two men did not have to bother to lower their voices.

  Xydis did not look directly at Zahakis as he spoke. The Priest-General stood with one arm crooked
, holding the folds of his robe, gazing out onto the playing field as though he were discussing the game.

  “You will be interested to know, Tribune, that the Empress received this monster as a gift. She has no idea who sent it or where it came from. The messenger who delivered it stated that the creature was trained to fight in the Para Dix. The Empress cannot confirm this because her trainers were too terrified to have anything to do with the monstrous thing. You might want to inform Legate Acronis.”

  Zahakis frowned, not sure he understood what Xydis was saying and less sure as to why he was saying it.

  “In addition, the drawing was rigged, Tribune,” said Xydis, smiling and bowing to an acquaintance. “The gift-giver specified that the fury was to fight your team.”

  The Priest-General walked away, going off to join friends. Zahakis stood in the entryway, mulling over what he’d heard. He took only a moment to make a decision, then returned to Chloe.

  “I have to go speak to your father.” Zahakis added earnestly, “I would take it as a personal favor, Mistress, if you would return home.”

  “Don’t be silly, Zahakis,” said Chloe. “I’m going to see a fury fight in the games.”

  “I could command my men to take you—”

  “And I would sulk for a week and make everyone’s life miserable. Come now, Zahakis, stop fussing over me. You are worse than my old nanny.” She pulled him close to whisper, “You know very well that if anything bad is going to happen to me, it will happen whether I am here or at home. And I would much rather be here with you and my father. At home, I would be alone.”

  She looked at him, making certain he understood her.

  “I am not afraid, Zahakis. I’m not.”

  “You are, in truth, your father’s daughter,” said Zahakis. “I will send one of my soldiers to stay with you.”

  “Not Manos,” said Chloe, wrinkling her nose. “He farts.”

  Acronis was walking on the field, side-by-side with the opposing player, taking part in the opening ceremony, which involved determining which “Mirchan,” as the players were known, was to have the first move. (In ancient times Mirchan was the name of a goddess of the Oran the Vindrasi knew as Mirchana, one of the Norn who controlled the fates of men. The name had since come to mean something akin to “puppet master.”) The fury had gone to join the Empress’s team meekly enough and the crowd was starting to relax. After the initial shock had worn off, the people were enjoying the excitement. A rustle of anticipation swept through the stands.