Gaulte hesitated, then lowered his head and touched his snout to his son’s.
“Very well, you may stay,” he said softly aloud. “But you must be quiet until I ask you what you know. Do you agree?”
The young dragon wriggled and nodded. “I shall not say a word,” he promised. Gaulte doubted that.
The elder black dragon hesitated. The human-speak of Gabrel was slow, almost awkward, and Gaulte was tempted to direct the younger dragon to use mind-speak. But the Phailites needed to hear what was being said. Maintaining trust was important.
The four humans seemed surprised to see the young dragons, especially Gabrel, who went at once to a far corner and seated himself close to Mayra, composing himself into the picture of unobtrusiveness.
Gaulte gave a soft growl of amusement. Young Gabrel looked as though he were now directing this meeting, a dragon filled with self-importance. Gaulte radiated pride, for Gabrel was learning to lead from his sire and the other adults, far more quickly than the elder younglings. And Gaulte planned that someday, Gabrel would have an Aerie of his own.
Gaulte decided those present were all he needed to speak with for now and seated himself. He looked around. Mayra and Wolfe were on cushions near Gabrel, the two Phailites were closer to Larek and the fireplace, also seated on huge cushions. The humans seemed to prefer them over the cold, hard floor. Gaulte didn’t blame them, even dragons had to admit the support of gnome-made pillows was much more comfortable than the floor.
But not now. This wasn’t the time for comfort or pleasure, not when Hesta might be in chains, in pain and suffering. Everything around the dominant dragon had faded back, away from the single most important task before the dragons.
“Mieran,” Gaulte began, “when Mayra and Wolfe entered my chamber, Hesta’s collection of stones overwhelmed them. They reminded me how humans value, even covet those jewels and thought perhaps that was why Plyn af’Nanyn raided the Aerie. Do you have any thoughts about that?”
Mieran glanced at Larek, his sire. Gaulte wondered if they had already discussed things the gold dragon had not thought important enough to bring to Gaulte.
But Mieran was already shaking his head, and his roughly hewn, horned face wore a puzzled look. “Hesta guarded the way to the chambers,” he said. “They never got past her. I asked Father nearly the same thing, Gaulte. Because they mentioned a jewel—” The bronze dragon stopped short, apparently unsure what else he should say.
As Mieran spoke of Hesta’s bravery, Gaulte couldn’t help but feel pride for her, and worry at the same time that the invaders might have further harmed her for her stance. He was going to ask Mieran if Hesta had caused any further rage in the Phailite, when Gabrel stirred and made an odd little chirrup, unable to contain himself any longer.
“Oh, Father, that is what I dreamed!” Gabrel jumped to his feet; it looked as though he started to rush to his sire, but he caught himself and sat back down. He awaited permission to speak further.
Gaulte rumbled again and shook his head. Should he let his son interrupt Mieran? The young bronze dragon huffed but relented, saying dryly, “It seems important for us to hear Gabrel’s dream.”
“Thank you, Mieran!” Gabrel was obviously trying to restrain himself. “I shall give you the best part of my elk tonight!” He flopped back down, closer to Mayra, who placed her hand on his shoulder. “When they came, I pulled Aesta and Losa into the large cupboard. We were all that would fit.” The small dragon glanced at his uncle, Losa’s sire, and Fauler dipped his narrow green head, acknowledging Gabrel’s quick thinking. “But the door wouldn’t close all the way, so we heard!”
“What did you hear, Gabrel?” asked Gaulte gently.
“There was a blue man who was the leader, and seven other blue men. Aesta counted them. On her talons, of course, but”—his sire looked over at him—”I am sorry, Father, but the blue man shouted at Mother.” To the astonishment of both dragons and humans, Gabrel sat back up, puffed out his chest, and put his hands at his hips, astonishingly human-like. “He looked like this! And he said”—Gabrel’s young voice was suddenly bold and gravelly—”‘Where is the jewel?’ And then he said, ‘There is a jewel here, red demon, with value of no equal and I will have it! You cannot hide it!’ I wanted to bite him! But Grandmatron said humans taste very nasty.”
Gaulte saw Mayra slap her hand over her mouth. No matter how grave young Gabrel’s report was, the witchling had to smother a laugh and Gaulte didn’t blame her. The black dragon had never realized how entertaining his young son was.
Gabrel took a deep breath and sat back down. “Father”—his voice wavered—”while they were talking, more humans came from this room, dragging the youngest nestlings out. Some were fighting and scratching. And some were crying. I was so angry.”
It wasn’t anger alone that caused the quiver in the voice of his youngling. Deep pain, interspersed with rage, sliced through Gaulte. While only eight nestlings were missing, they were the youngest. Bieda, Corren’s youngest, was only a few months hatched and still nurturing with her mother. He allowed himself a moment’s mental glimpse of Tamsin, her beautifully formed pale-red face, with the rarest of magical eyes, large, deep blue and glimmering as though filled with endless stars of myriad colors, laughing happily as, draped in jewels, she pranced before her parents.
“They had Tamsin, too.” The quaver in Gabrel’s voice grew stronger. “And when the blue—Plyn! That’s what they called him. When he saw Tamsin, he said she was a treasure!” Gabrel, unable to help himself, snorted. Gaulte suspected Gabrel’s scorn for his younger nestmate was merely superficial, for a great sigh escaped the young dragon. “He treated Tamsin kindly, Father, but as soon as he touched her, Mother was so angry.” He gazed down at his feet. “She said terrible things and said she would kill them.” He thought a moment. “There was a funny, sweet smell then, and Mother was quiet. Then I could tell they were leaving. I felt funny, too, and maybe we all went to sleep.”
“By that time,” added Mieran, “we were already hiding and couldn’t see what was happening. Grandmatron had already taken the young ones that were with her out the back way, so we went to find her. Grandmatron wouldn’t let us come back. She feared that the humans would return.” He sighed long.
“And so they did,” Larek added forlornly. “To capture the rest of us.” He paused, then shook his head. “Gaulte, I remember that smell, too, yet I didn’t, until Gabrel mentioned it.”
“It sounds like a plant called ticaweed,” said Fauler abruptly. “I am passing that along from our matron, Gaulte, who told me of one or two drugs that the invaders might have used to make the females submissive. A skilled alchemist can mix the plant with magic and manipulate the results so that it covers certain memories. But they aren’t erased, and can be recovered.”
There was silence. Gaulte was sorry he had waited so long to question those who might have been observers. He finally looked toward the Phailite chieftain, knowing it was likely the human could add more.
“You have remained silent,” the black dragon pointed out, his tone unexpectedly kind. “I will return you to your village as you wish, although you are also welcome to stay here. You came here to speak with us willingly; will you tell us what you know?”
Berent inclined his head, surprised at an invitation to remain at the Aerie. “Yes, Sir Dragon. Gaulte. I believe I can be of help to you.”
It took several minutes, but the chieftain told them all that had happened to him, once captured by Plyn af’Nanyn. He then took up the tale where Mieran had left off.
“I was outside the Aerie with the men who were guarding me when the red dragon”—his eyes flicked to Gaulte—”my pardons, Gaulte, your mate, Hesta, was led out. They crammed some younger ones into a basket”—he floundered as Mayra winced—”What? Oh. I am sorry, Gaulte, it truly wasn’t that bad. And your lady, Hesta took the basket right away from that bastard.” This time Mayra only smiled. “She said something to the little ones, and put it around her n
eck.”
“Aye, she is a good mother and caregiver to the younglings. We dragons never knew of such things as the baskets,” Gaulte said despondently, “until the Phailites made us to wear them to take things from the humans of Nesht.” He shook his head. “We kept the baskets, no matter their source; they have turned out to be a useful tool.”
Berent made no further comment on either the baskets or their contents; it was a wise and considerate move, Gaulte thought.
“I believe I can confirm that all the dragons were drugged,” Berent continued. “And it was ticaweed, which grows nowhere but here.” He hesitated, as though he knew someone would ask, and added, “I know that name, because it was yet another thing Plyn boasted about. It calmed the imprisoned long enough for the invaders to saddle them. They are the same saddles I saw at your Aerie, so I assume—”
He trailed off, and Gaulte nodded. “We brought them back with us—and those men are dead, at least those who rode us, enchanted, to Nesht. I knew some humans remained behind, but I don’t know what became of them.”
“Can you give us more detail about the ride to the mountain where they took the female dragons?” Wolfe asked.
“We need to know what direction you took when you left,” Fauler added.
“Younglings, you may go now,” Gaulte said. “Your observations were far better than anything I hoped for. You may all talk to your friends and tell them what happened here. Gabrel, you may tell Aesta. If they have anything to add that we did not learn, please tell me.”
The young dragons left almost as soon as Gaulte finished speaking, probably eager to boast to friends, or sister, about what had happened and how Gaulte had deemed them important. As Mieran pushed the door open, those in the room could see several dragons, including the Elder, waiting where they had been listening.
Gaulte waited until Theura and Talft had entered. He left the door open. The nursery was too small to comfortably house all the adult dragons, but he didn’t want to move the nestlings and witchlings out of the main common room.
Hope surged through the black dragon. The information provided by Berent had been the most encouraging he had yet to hear. There was a reason the females could not call out to their mates, something that blocked their Centers—likely oakenwood—for that had surely been what kept Gaulte from sensing a dragon that had been in his chamber. Several of the vile Phailites were unaccounted for. They must be keeping Hesta and the others, likely in the original prison Plyn had taken them to. To wonder about their treatment was useless and would diminish the spark of promise the new information had given him.
Gaulte relaxed, though his talons were strumming the stone floor. He nodded slowly, and said, “I believe that you should also tell the witchlings it is time for us to join together to devise a plan to attack the mountain where the captive dragons were taken. Once we find it, we will return Berent to his village, and then return here and prepare to storm that mountain.”
Berent cleared his throat. “I can try to describe the mountain to you, the way we went when flying, and walking. If there is anything my people can do, we will make ready as well, Gaulte.”
Fyrid stepped forward. “I will speak for my father, and offer our help, Gaulte, for all you have done for us. But mostly, because there is something amiss that might have had its origins in the Sorst Clan. We cannot let that lie unavenged for your Clan. If there are Phailites to battle, perhaps that is better left to humans.”
“Wait,” Mayra said. Her voice carried across the dragons to the witches outside the room. “Indeed, Fyrid, there is something amiss. Someone created the terrible weapons given to Plyn af’Nanyn and enspelled the reins with a magic that was strong enough to nearly kill me when I removed it. We cannot run blindly into a battle not knowing whence such weapons, such magic, came.” She stopped near Gaulte and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Gaulte, if Plyn af’Nanyn captured your kin, and he is dead, why haven’t the dragons been freed? Wju hasn’t anyone contacted you with what they want? And where did he get those weapons?”
“Berent was going to tell us of the origins of our weapons,” said Fyrid. “Might it be the same place?”
Theura moved up slowly from the back of the room. Gaulte gazed at her, alarm stirring in him. What was wrong with her?
“Gaulte,” she began slowly, “you know that I would not keep from you anything that would help you find the rest of our Aerie. And so, what I am about to tell you—what I know—I did not realize before would be of no use to you. But now that I have heard Mayra’s concerns, I fear there is one common thread that brings all this together.”
“All what together?” Gaulte was mystified. His mother sounded as though she were reciting tales to him.
“The mine whence gnomes gather the metals that made those blades must be the same one that produced the firesticks you speak of. Patar, the librarian, did not go adventuring, he went to find the hill-trolls that retain that mine.”
Theura looked so distressed that Shaura brought her a large flask of water and stayed beside her.
“Thank you, little witchling,” the matron dragon murmured. “There was only one reason why so much of that metal would have been stolen from the hill-trolls, though we did not know it then, for it is a metal that absorbs magic as easily as light filters through the trees.”
Theura’s starburst eyes glimmered, as though with unshed tears. “As soon as you mentioned the firesticks, I knew where that metal had gone. Who but one steeped in magic would be able to use it? And who could be behind all this—stealing the dragons away. Stealing Tamsin. Only a dragon, Gaulte.”
“A dragon stole Tamsin?” Gaulte asked slowly. He felt stupid as he realized why Plyn af’Nanyn had called Tamsin a jewel. Those were not his words. He had heard them from a dragon.
* * *
Theura saw realization in her son’s face. She regretted keeping secrets even as she knew there had been no reason to tell Gaulte the truth. Not then.
“Yes. There is only one dragon with such magic.” Theura’s gravelly voice was tired and heavy. “His name is Hagan. He is the dragon who maimed both of us, Payk, and your father, young Fyrid. He is a rare beast, steeped in magic, keeping gnomes enslaved to perform his evil bidding.”
“How do you know him?” Gaulte asked, his voice cold and distant. Pain swept through Theura, for her son stared at her as though he were seeing a monster. “He caused me to be ridden like a beast, enchanted and filled with murderous rage. He bade I slaughter innocents, he stole our families—your own kin—and yet you say you knew of him all along?”
Theura hesitated, as though considering what to tell them. Finally, she sighed deeply.
“Once upon a time,” she began, “there were two noble dragons, Aurtur and Loxem. Loxem was the dragon who went amid our kind and gathered all that was good and strong and Aurtur was the dragon who went to the gnomes to have those parts put together to make your Rings, young witchlings. Gnomes made them, with the help of Thom au’Pernyn, who was at that time the Sorcery Guild Master.”
The Elder’s strange eyes fell upon Mayra. The dragon felt the pain that swept through the witchling, but wasn’t certain what had caused it. Perhaps the young woman would talk to her later, perhaps not. Now was not the time to worry about the witchling’s secrets.
* * *
Mayra was awash in unhappy memories. Thom au’Pernyn had been the father of the current Sorcery Guild Master, Marris. Thom had been the man who had hidden the Enhancement Rings of Mayra’s warlord, Leisher, and helped him change places with his cousin, Forcial, who became king in his stead.
Her eyes went out the door where she could see Richart and Harald, the true and unknown Princes of Nesht, talking with Gabrel, teasing him with gentle affection.
What a strange time for her past to come rushing back at her. The Elder was gazing at her as though the old dragon felt Mayra’s discordant thoughts. Mayra gave her a shaky smile.
“Did Thom au’Pernyn know the dragon called Hagan?” the Ring-W
itch asked Theura.
“Indeed, my young witchling. There was a gnome called Grigim, who helped Thom and Aurtur, and oversaw his people creating the Rings. But Grigim sought the power of the Rings for himself. He stole a set and tried to have them placed on him. Thom foiled that attempt, but Thom also unwittingly allowed that old gnome means to steal Loxem’s young nestling. Grigim took the nestling away and would not return him unless Loxem gave him Rings. But the Rings weren’t meant for gnomes. Grigim couldn’t have worn them; they probably would have killed him. Thom wouldn’t take that chance and so he banished Grigim, who kept the nestling. He raised that dragon-child, evil and greedy, always seeking more power, more wealth.”
“And that was Hagan?” asked Mayra softly.
“And that was Hagan,” agreed the Elder, even more quietly. “Because of Grigim, Hagan hates the Ring-Witches, their Rings, all humans, and most dragons. In a rage, Hagan killed Grigim, the gnome who raised him, and the dragon was only a seven-yearling then.”
“Why did he hate humans, Grandmatron?” asked Gabrel. Mayra turned—when had he crept up behind his grandmatron? He looked concerned. “How do you know so much about him and what happened?”
Young Gabrel’s questions caused his grandmatron to stop short and turn to stare at her curious young grandling. She chuckled.
“I imagine most of you wonder, but only young Gabrel asks,” she observed. “Loxem was from our family, many branches back. It is from Patar, our own Librarian, that I learned so much of Loxem and Hagan. I have many more questions now; I only wish that damned addle-pated Patar would hurry and find his way home.”
“What is addle-pated, Grandmatta?” Aesta’s sweet little voice carried in. She peered up at her grandmatron from between the front legs of Fauler. “I am hungry now. Can we eat?”
Chapter Seventeen
Ceshon Aerie
Day seven of the First Moon of Wynter
Dragon's Revenge Page 17