Dragonlinks

by Paul Collins

  Jelindel flowed back to the solidity of the mailshirt. She was surprised that daylight was still leaking past the window shutters.

  ‘Well, learn anything?’ Zimak asked as she unbarred the door.

  ‘Mage Auditor,’ prompted Daretor behind him.

  ‘Well, aye,’ she said wearily. ‘The dragonlink is indeed here, and someone has tried to kill me.’

  ‘What? In here?’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘We were close by, we heard nothing. Who –’

  ‘It was in a paraplane, but I would have died here too. There were eight Adepts involved, one very powerful, the rest strong enough to be dangerous. They knew my true-name and one of them called it, yet when the boundary of his influence touched the mailshirt … it was as if he was melted and sucked away. Another died in a fight with some local Adepts.’

  ‘Truename?’ said Zimak.

  ‘Who were they?’ asked Daretor.

  Jelindel ignored Zimak’s question. ‘I could not tell, but there are six of them left now. When they were all alive one always kept aside, and the rest travelled in a tight arrangement. One was at the centre, totally open yet completely covered. “Hof aloos, hik aloos”, is the motto of the lindraks in Old Skeltian. “All open, all closed”. Seven is also the lindrak number of power.’

  ‘Why would the lindraks be interested in you?’ asked Zimak, as if she were not worthy of their attention.

  She patted the mailshirt beneath the sheepskin coat.

  ‘This thing is important enough to hold the attention of kings, and I am wearing it. Does that seem like a good enough reason?’ She shrugged dismissively, but the night of the fire that killed her family was suddenly fresh in her memory.

  ‘Well, we should get to bed and prepare to explore the outer city tomorrow,’ she concluded. ‘I’m feeling a bit ragged.’

  ‘This is tomorrow,’ said Daretor. ‘You were in your trance for a full night and day. A scroll has arrived and four flunkeys dressed in brass and velvet are downstairs, awaiting your reply.’

  Jelindel froze with shock in the middle of a yawn. Zimak handed her the scroll, and she noted that the seal had been broken.

  ‘What does it say?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t speak this language,’ he replied sheepishly.

  Jelindel unrolled the scroll and read. What colour remained in her face quickly drained away.

  ‘This is from the King,’ she said when she looked up. ‘A royal summoning. We are commanded to present ourselves as guests of His Majesty’s favour.’

  Zimak suddenly seemed as feral as a cornered fox.

  ‘This is a trap. Last time I was His Majesty’s guest I spent three days in the stocks,’ he said urgently.

  ‘And I was accommodated in a dungeon when last I did time as His Majesty’s guest,’ added Daretor grimly, his hand reflexively resting on the handle of his axe.

  ‘His Majesty’s favour means wine, spiced pastries and dancing girls,’ Jelindel explained. ‘His Majesty’s pleasure means bread, water and rats.’

  ‘He might want the reward that’s on our heads in Skelt.’

  ‘The King of Passendof, scrambling for a mere three thousand silver argents?’ laughed Jelindel. ‘Zimak, he’d spend more than that on gold beard curlers.’

  ‘He would?’

  ‘Yes he would!’ she shouted, growing exasperated rapidly.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Daretor.

  ‘We should dress in parade rig … and we should keep our escort waiting about twenty minutes to show we’re not overawed. That’s what my father used to say.’

  ‘What’s parade rig?’ asked Zimak.

  ‘Explain to him, Daretor. I’ll be in here having a quick wash.’

  Twenty-five minutes later they were riding towards the gates of the palace, accompanied by the ornately dressed footmen on mackrell point geldings. People cleared out of the way as they approached, then pointed and talked as they passed. Parade rig in their case meant clean tunics, clean nails, oiled boots and belts, hair tied back and their horses’ manes and tails brushed.

  ‘What do I do in front of a king?’ asked Zimak softly, his voice pitched high with fright.

  ‘Don’t pick your nose or scratch your bum,’ said Jelindel.

  ‘Or they’ll cut it off,’ added Daretor.

  ‘Cut what off?’

  ‘You can find out the hard way if you really want to know,’ snapped Jelindel. ‘Sit up straight in the saddle and stop looking like a rabbit being held over a stew pot! You’re meant to be escorting me because you’re a brave, elite warrior.’

  ‘So what do I say? “Good day, my liege – ”?’

  ‘No! He’s not your king, idiot; liege is only for subjects. Just say, “Yes, Your Majesty”, “No, Your Majesty”, “Thank you, Your Majesty”. Also, try to remember the court mage is to be addressed as “Lord Mage”.’

  ‘Ah, aye, I think I have it. Now, if a princess falls madly in love with me and offers her hand in marriage –’

  ‘Say, “Thank you, Your Royal Highness”, if she’s the crown princess, and leave out the “Royal” if she’s not. However, Zimak, remember that if you so much as wink at anything female inside the palace walls you’ll be frog-marched off to the headman’s block, and I’ll volunteer to wield the axe.’

  ‘Aye, all right, just a joke. I know when to stay quiet, Jaelin. You know me better than that.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bad time – for all of us. The, ah, the moons are not in auspicious positions and I have a lot on my mind.’

  ‘Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,’ Daretor said gravely on Jelindel’s right.

  ‘That’s good. Speak only when spoken to, bow whenever you begin a reply, and never turn your back on anyone wearing a crown or anything purple trimmed with gold. Oh – damn! Why am I telling you all this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t speak their language.’

  Zimak scowled, but gave a sigh that sounded suspiciously like relief.

  ‘I’d be happier if I knew why the King wants to see the likes of us,’ said Daretor.

  ‘If we were out of favour he’d have sent guards, not footmen. Try to look alert, lads, not fearful.’

  The interior of the palace was meant to overawe visitors, and all three were certainly stunned by the soaring stone arches of red marble, the tapestries as big as all the floors of a rich peasant’s house, and guards in gilded plate armour with winged panthers on their helmets.

  Footmen wearing yellow tail-coats took their horses, and they were escorted up a stairway wider than the greatest of the streets of D’loom.

  Jelindel noted that Daretor and Zimak were striding slightly behind her, and in the many mirrors they passed she saw that they were both blank of face and rigidly alert. Obviously they were too awestruck by the sheer scale and opulence to deliberately do anything stupid. That was a relief.

  The Passendof King received them in a walled garden, where he sat playing chess with a girl younger than Daretor but older than Zimak. She wore blue and orange robes over a red tunic strapped hard against her torso with leather lacings, and was bold and direct in her gaze. When the monarch turned to speak with his guests she lounged back, drawing one leg up on the bench with a rather wanton movement. Jelindel at first assumed that she was one of the King’s courtesans until she saw the gold and purple collar of her gown. A princess.

  The King had a flaring black beard and he dressed to impose with padded shoulders and pectoral-quilt breasting, but he was not a big man. His face was sad, and there were crescent smudges under his eyes.

  ‘Your men must stay by the door, Mage Auditor,’ the court warden explained.

  ‘Wait here,’ Jelindel translated. ‘The only armed guards allowed near the King are those on his pay register.’

  She walked across the green flagstones to the stone furniture where the King sat. Now she noticed a figure standing back among the carved stone tubs and carefully manicured shrubberies. There was something familiar about the man, even though
she had never set eyes on him before.

  The King was in the process of moving a pawn when he turned and waved the piece at his visitor.

  ‘Chess is the perfect distraction, do you not agree?’ the monarch asked.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Jelindel replied after the correct bow.

  The monarch turned back to the board, but had forgotten where the piece had come from and to where it was destined. He tossed the pawn to the Princess and again faced Jelindel.

  ‘Mage Auditor Jaelin, I am pleased to meet the youth behind the legend,’ the King began wearily. ‘Word of what you did in the Valley of Clouds has reached Dremari. Is it true that you slew a master Adept and destroyed a path to hell itself?’

  Jelindel bowed and looked up. ‘Your Majesty flatters me unduly. I merely discovered and exposed a dabbler in thaumaturgy who conjured daemons and controlled them. That man was slain by one of his own daemons. I then banished the daemon back to its own paraworld and destroyed the path.’

  ‘Modestly put, young man. So, now you are in Dremari and you want to see my Supreme Marshall.’

  Jelindel’s presumption had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she was not so sure. The King was not obviously angry, but seemed very stressed and distracted. Perhaps it’s some other matter more important than myself, she thought hopefully.

  ‘Yes, I made that request, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A dangerous enchantment is said to have made its way here, to the capital of your own fair kingdom. It is related to that one which afflicted the Valley of Clouds.’

  ‘Now what of the real reason?’ His tone was soft and bland, but the question nevertheless dripped with distrust.

  He is a very sharp monarch and I am a girl pretending to be who knows what, Jelindel reminded herself. Always have a spare story, her father had often told his family over dinner, and now that advice was proving its worth. She took a deep breath, hesitated too long, and had to exhale. She took another breath.

  ‘The Valley of Clouds supplies the border forts of Passendof as well as Baltoria,’ she began. ‘When the daemons disrupted its services some years ago, your forts and outlying towns fell victim to rebel attacks. Should daemons now appear to prowl your own fair capital, it could be seen as an omen against your rule. Passendof is strong, central and prosperous. It is the key to peace throughout the entire north of this continent. A secure Passendof is considered to be desirable by my masters.’

  ‘And who are your masters?’

  Jelindel bowed yet again. ‘Ultimately, the Temple of Verity and the Verital priests and priestesses. I am charged not to reveal more.’

  At that moment there was a deep, rumbling growl to Jelindel’s right, and a huge, spotted cat rose from behind the stone bench and walked into view. It was at once familiar but unfamiliar: massively built like a lion, yet with a finely boned head and a beautiful coat of black spots on gleaming golden fur. It regarded Jelindel with suspicion and growled again.

  ‘Kasmor, stop that,’ the Princess called. The cat sauntered over and lay at her feet.

  ‘It’s a lepon,’ the King explained. ‘Half leopard, half lion.’ He made a flourish with his hand. ‘Longrical, come forward.’

  The figure who emerged from behind the stone garden tiers near Daretor and Zimak was tall and commanding in stature, yet had the slightly eccentric grooming often seen in those at the top of their profession. His robes were emblazoned with the symbols of a royal court’s master Adept, and all were embroidered in gold. The black cloak that he wore was trimmed with raven down.

  The King’s court mage walked forward and stood before Jelindel. The prickly feel of being scanned for her Adept aura swept over her skin. Her recent experiments in the magical arts had built up a weak but adequate aura about her by now, so she did have the touch of a competent Adept.

  ‘Longrical, this is the Mage Auditor who arrived in the city yesterday,’ the monarch explained. ‘Longrical has been keen to meet you,’ he said as he turned back to Jelindel. ‘He is an Adept 14.’

  Longrical looked Jelindel up and down, and something about his manner told her that the man was definitely not friendly. She decided that it would be a good idea to let someone else break the lengthening silence. Longrical obliged.

  ‘Someone has murdered my prime Adept since you arrived in the city,’ the mage declared ominously. ‘Enchantment was used, even though the attack had all the markings of a lindrak’s work.’

  ‘I hope you do not think that I was involved, Lord Longrical.’

  ‘Your reputation preceded you from the Valley of Clouds: a high Adept of few years, escorted by two very capable warriors. Might it not be that those two are lindraks and you are their tame Adept? Where have you been for the day and night past?’

  Jelindel’s heart sank. Her aura had brushed him in her searchings, so that he probably recognised her. Worse, she had been locked away alone while Daretor and Zimak were doing … what? She had not asked them – small talk was not one of her strong points.

  ‘We are here on a dangerous mission. Such is its importance that we are sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Answer my question! Where were you?’

  ‘I was in my room at the Road’s Haven hostelry for the whole time; it’s half a mile from here. Yet … I was elsewhere too. I brushed against your aura once.’

  ‘That much is true,’ the mage said calculatingly. ‘I recognised yours as soon as I walked in. Note that I am an Adept 14, I can project my senses just over a thousand feet, yet you claim to have projected to half a mile. Are you better than an Adept 14, boy, or did you brush my aura because you were stalking close by the very palace itself?’

  ‘I was nowhere near the palace, Lord Longrical. I was in my room. As for my abilities, I would not be a Mage Auditor if I did not have exceptional abilities.’

  ‘Demonstrate them,’ he said shrewdly.

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Demonstrate them here and now!’ he thundered.

  Jelindel took several breaths to calm herself. She hoped that her wide-eyed terror came across as outrage.

  ‘It is undignified to trade tricks like a couple of fair-ground jugglers,’ she managed through a constricting throat. The man’s anger was probably justified, but that did her little good.

  ‘Oh, but you’re too modest. Come, let us see you escape a simple binding word!’

  Jelindel knew that she could do nothing of the sort. She teetered on the verge of panic.

  ‘No, no, this is dangerous beyond imagining,’ she warned, but the mage shook his head.

  ‘A little word of binding is quite harmless, except to false pride.’

  The royal Adept spoke a strong word of binding, but instead of cutting off as they bound Jelindel, the blue coils kept pouring from his mouth and vanishing into the sheepskin jacket.

  It was the mailshirt, she realised. It was somehow absorbing everything, then drawing even more out of the stricken mage. Longrical tottered and struggled, but the vast energies within him kept draining away in writhing, jagged blue traceries that played all about Jelindel without touching her.

  He fell to his knees, his face drained white and his mouth still jammed open as weakening coils of blue drained his life away into the fabric of the mailshirt.

  By now guards had stormed across the garden to protect the King and Princess, and the lepon was confronting Jelindel with bared fangs and a yowling roar.

  Daretor and Zimak were seized and held, yet Jelindel paid them no attention at all. She was being enveloped by a fierce tingling that touched every nerve ending.

  ‘Stop it!’ commanded the King.

  ‘I can’t!’ cried Jelindel above the crackling energies and the roar of the alarmed lepon. ‘I warned him but he wouldn’t listen.’

  The court mage was finally reduced to a kneeling husk, and he toppled forward to fall on his face. He was dead before he had even begun to fall.

  Six silvery globes emerged from his mouth, one by on
e. They hung in the air before Jelindel’s face, just as had happened when Thull died. They spoke together, and their voices were soft and whispery, like the scuttling of rats’ feet that she had heard from the globes in the D’loom smithy.

  ‘We are thine to command, as you have vanquished our master,’ whispered the voices. ‘Give thy word and we shall enter thee.’

  Jelindel felt distinctly squeamish about the idea. She did not even know what they were.

  ‘And if I give no command, if I set you free?’

  ‘In two thousand years nobody has ever set us free. We have great worth, we are passed from Adept to Adept.’

  ‘Answer my question.’

  ‘Profound apologies, Lord Adept. If set free we would return to our paraworld, and there would be rejoicing within our flocks.’

  ‘They would know you still? Even after two thousand years?’

  ‘Time is different in our paraworld, Lord Adept.’

  ‘Then I command you to be free and return home.’

  The globes began to move, darting about the centre of the group, throwing out coloured tendrils and sparks, and playing textured rainbow lights all over Jelindel. Gradually they faded, and then were gone with a whispered ‘Fare thee well, and retain our thanks.’

  Total silence followed. Even the lepon was crouched quietly in front of the Princess, unmoving.

  The King, who was by now surrounded by nervous guards, stood up and took several paces towards Jelindel.

  ‘Did you have to slay him?’ the King asked evenly, gesturing to the dead royal Adept.

  ‘I did not kill him,’ she replied. ‘He became entangled in one of my defences. He demanded that contest. As you are my witness, Your Majesty. I really did try to caution him.’

  ‘That you did,’ the King conceded, his eyes still wide with shock. ‘That alone cannot be denied.’

  The King looked to where Daretor and Zimak were being held, then glanced down at his dead mage. He locked eyes with the Mage Auditor. The youth was unsure of himself, but far more dangerous than appearances betrayed. He was certainly more dangerous than the King had been led to believe.

  ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill an Adept 14, Mage Auditor?’