The image of Mirjel’s bruised face bending over him in the dungeon boiled up inside. Shara touched his arm. “Do not be ashamed of this hated. It is a strength that burns across your skin. Take it and mold it.”
The prince rose from the pillows and walked across the room. “Even were I to agree to your plan, why would the Fadella follow me? I am not one of them.”
Shara walked to him, “Did you not hear what the servants called you when they saw the dragon mark? They have a legend, an ancient tale passed through more years than can be remembered, that says a prince from the south will come to unite the clans as one people. They say this prince will have a mark that will be known as the gift of life. The Parili.” She ripped open his tunic. “This sign. The leaping dragon.”
“Do you also believe in this legend?”
She gave a short laugh. “It only matters that the Fadella believe with all their being.”
Outside, the wind howled as a storm blew up from the east. Ryckair rubbed his finger over the birthmark. “You are right about me, Shara. I am honest and cannot be otherwise. It is not only my brother and my people that draw me back to Carandir. There is a woman there,
Princess Mirjel Avar. I cannot abandon her, or betray her. Do you understand?”
“Do you know if she still lives among the strife you describe? Petstra did not mention her.”
“Petstra is a Barasha. His words are meaningless.”
Shara outlined Ryckair’s chin with her finger. “Petstra has a diplomatic pouch. If this can be secured papers within might reveal much.” She slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips hard against his, then drew back. “It is much more interesting if you participate.”
He pulled her arms away. “I will not betray Mirjel.”
“Will you wait to judge betrayal until after you see the papers?”
He needed help to return to Carandir. If Masalta realized the threat of the Barasha to his own kingdom he might muster his army and stand behind Ryckair. However, he had seen how unpredictable Masalta was.
Ryckair said, “I will see the dispatches and decide.”
It cost Shara many bribes and favors to get Petstra out of his rooms long enough for her open the diplomatic pouch and examine the papers within. That did not matter. In a few months, she would sit on the throne and all the gold she spent would come back a thousand fold.
Several papers would suit her plan. She saw three terec birds in a cage. She had never seen one, but recognized them from books she had read as a child. She wished there was a way to read their minds to learn the most recent news from Meth, but once a message was delivered to a recipient it was forgotten by the bird.
Still, the documents gave her a clear picture of the happenings in Meth in the last month. From them, she realized that the Barasha were more than legend. Though she had seen minor magic performed by local witches akin to the Daro, the calling of demons left a cold terror in her. Here was a threat to be feared. The sorcerers would not be satisfied with Carandir alone.
She considered abandoning her plan and taking the papers directly to her father. This would certainly gain her favor. He might even name her his heir. She rejected the idea as too unpredictable, even though hers was far more dangerous.
A report of Mirjel’s fall was the most pleasing to Shara. The last paragraph said that the Daro healer who attended Mirjel was certain the princess would die. Then, thinking about it, Shara realized the news could destroy her plan. Ryckair might seek any means to fly to Mirjel, even if it meant his own death. Shara felt a strange sense of excitement, then a pang of sadness as she wondered if anyone would ever love her as much as Ryckair loved Mirjel.
She cursed silently that Mirjel was not already dead. Still, other documents had to be changed. She needed a report saying that Craya wore the crown and it had to be signed by the chief of the Kyar, something that those with the right skills could manipulate.
She took the papers she needed and replaced the pouch where she found it. After returning to her chambers, she donned a thick cloak and made her way down the back streets of Kackar to an alley. The ice was slippery in the deep shadows. She came to a wooden door, knocked once, waited three heartbeats and knocked four times again.
A woman appeared. Her skin was wrinkled with age and her hair was gray. “Yes?”
“I am told you copy documents.”
“Who has said this?”
“A friend with large ears and a scar on his cheek.”
The woman nodded her head. “Come in.”
It was a dark, smoky place, thick with rotting, acrid smells. The room was crowded with jars and pots that were stacked on tables or stuffed into corners on the floor. From the rafters hung baskets filled with herbs and plants. The old woman sat down in a chair next to a hearth. Fire licked the bottom of a blackened pot hanging from a hook. Inside, an unknown liquid boiled steadily.
Shara stood next to a chair opposite the old woman. “You are the witch, Zamalatha?”
“I am Zamalatha the healer. Witches are hanged.”
Shara dropped the cloak to reveal her general’s uniform. “You know who I am.”
“I knew when you asked for this meeting. Still, I let you come. I was curious to see what Masalta’s daughter wanted and what she would she offer. You, of course, realize who watches over me. They wait outside this house.”
“I am aware of your enforcers. I brought no one.”
The witch’s voice was flat. “You would not be alive now if you had. What do you want?”
“I need some documents copied and altered.”
Zamalatha extended her hand. “Let me see.” She examined the papers. “How much is to be changed?”
“Only a few words on these two, a paragraph added here and a completely new transcript. I must have them by tonight.”
“Impossible. The spell takes time to cast. I have to locate the proper herbs and parchment. It might take several days, perhaps a week.”
Shara opened a pouch and poured gold coins onto a table. The witch examined them coldly. “Very well. Tonight.”
When Ryckair returned to Shara’s chambers, the expanse of pillows was replaced by a writing desk and high backed chairs. The subtle wisps of perfume were nowhere present. Neesa stood in a corner holding a set of papers. Shara wore her military uniform, cold and official. Yet, it did not hide the curves of her body.
She motioned to the Eunuch who came forward and laid the papers on the table.
Ryckair stared at the documents for a moment before leafing through them.
A new, false letter seemingly signed by Orane told of Craya’s coronation as king after the dragon key accepted his touch and of his marriage to Mirjel. “Then it is true,” thought Ryckair. “Craya is the heir as I always believed.” There was no doubt in his mind, but he felt sick.
A letter told of Mirjel’s pregnancy. Another spoke of Craya’s drinking and gambling. Yetig warned Petstra to clear all of Craya’s orders with Reshna or himself before proceeding.
Then, Ryckair held the last document. He read it slowly, as his hands shook. It told of Craya’s drunken fit on the stairs that caused Mirjel to fall. Shara had not touched that part of the message except to make Prince Craya into King Craya and the lady Mirjel into Queen Mirjel. She had, however, changed the last paragraph.
The Daro healer tended Queen Mirjel for several days. At dawn, she succumbed to her injuries and her spirit flew to the Dragons’ Halls. Funeral plans have not been finalized.”
Ryckair read the note twice, then twice again, searching for errors or mistakes. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. With a howl he swept the papers from the table. “How could he? How?” Every one of Craya’s cruel acts flooded through his memory. None matched this.
Shara laid her hand gently on his shoulder. “What is it?”
Ryckair motioned to the papers strewn on the floor. She feigned reading them. When she thought the right amount of time had passed, she knelt before him. “Your brother is e
vil and has aligned himself with even greater evil.”
Hands still shaking, Ryckair stood up. “He is the king. The firstborn. The key has chosen him.” He walked to the shutters and threw them open. “When does Petstra next meet with your father?”
“He has an audience in two days.”
“And what do your spies say your father will do?”
Shara did not have to lie this time. “His Highness, King Masalta, will sign a pact with the Barasha. You and your men will be turned over to Petstra.”
He stared long to the south. “Prepare your people We march north and raise the Fadella. I will give you your throne, Shara. Then, I will take the Fadella army to Carandir and avenge Mirjel.”
As night fell, Shara came to Ryckair’s chambers with a thick, black woolen cloak. “Fit this over your clothes.”
He followed her into the hallway. There were no guards in sight. They descended the stairs to the dungeon. Again, no guards were present. Ryckair ran to the cage holding his men. Batu put his arms through the bars. “We feared you dead.”
“If we do not leave tonight that fate awaits us all.”
Batu looked beyond the prince to Shara. “What is she doing here?”
“Princess Shara has arranged our escape.”
Theb pushed forward. “It is a trap, Highness”
Shara stood before the door with a set of keys in her hand. “If you rather, I will let my father pack you into the hold of a ship and deliver you to the sorcerers. Your prince has not told you yet, but the Barasha have found you.”
Batu griped the bars. “I’ve been around scum my whole life and I know it when I see it.”
Ryckair clasped his hand around Batu’s. “There is much you do not know. It is not her you must trust, it is me.”
Shara unlocked the cell and Ryckair’s men filed out. There were more woolen cloaks in a corner of the dungeon along with trousers, shirts, jerkins and boots.
Light snow obscured visibility in the streets. Shara led them to the stables where saddled horses waited. Each mount carried a pack of provision, blankets and tents were stowed behind the saddle. There were no weapons for the men, though Shara carried a sword. She took out the obsidian knife Ryckair had carried from the Sarte mines and presented it to the prince. “For luck,” she said.
They walked the steeds through the palace gate, also bereft of guards, and reached the north gate where they mounted and rode into the hills.
Two weeks of travel brought Ryckair and his company deep into the high, snow-covered mountains of the Northlands. Even with the thick woolen cloaks, it was impossible to escape the constant, freezing wind.
They camped on a small plateau and waited for a storm to break. When it did, the black sky unfolded overhead and was dominated by the light of a nearly full moon. To the west, a cliff of ice descending several thousand feet to a valley. To the north, the plain marched on. Theb posted sentries and the rest of the company crawled into tents to sleep.
When dawn broke, Ryckair stepped out of the command tent. His breath iced into fog as he surveyed the wilderness. Batu and Theb were inside studying maps and charts supplied by Shara. They detailed passes and peaks, valleys and rivers. North of Kackar no roads were shown.
They had now reached an area on the maps drawn largely from guesswork. Shara said the features had been taken from descriptions by Dharam patrols and Fadella who had been captured or forced, by harsh climates and failing prospects, to come into Kackar and seek work as servants.
Shara emerged from her tent and walked across the snow with a half-smile on her face. Ryckair chided himself for finding it appealing. She bowed her head. “How fairs my Prince?”
“Cold. The cloak feels like lace. How do you stand it?”
“You will learn. Has your Batu lost his suspicion of me?”
“I have heard nothing but your faults.”
“Perhaps they are true.”
He laughed. “Batu means well and thinks only of me.”
“Then I forgive him. He may think kinder of me when you sit on Masalta’s throne.”
“We shall see. How many of your people can I trust in this coup?”
“Before you are crowned? None. After? All.”
“As I thought. Come, let us see if Batu and Theb have found a route for us.”
They entered the command tent. Ryckair studied the drawings. Shara pointed to a spot on the chart. “Here, just beyond these hills, lies an ice bridge. It spans this chasm where a trail leads west.”
“How close are we?”
“A day’s ride, maybe less.”
Ryckair studied the map. “How wide is this bridge? Can we get the horses across?”
“In single file. I made the journey once before. If we are careful, we will cross in safety.”
Ryckair said, “We must travel as quickly as possible. Mirjel must be avenged.”
Shara said, “Will you travel so quickly to the south? There is much the north offers.”
“Craya must be stopped.”
The company traveled swiftly across the snow. It was near sunset when they came to the ice bridge that arched over a deep crevasse. Shara dismounted. “The sun has softened the ice. We must camp here and cross in the morning after the cold night air has hardened it. We will have to go slowly. The hooves of our horse can slip upon the ice. This is the first danger. The second is that each crossing breaks down the bridge so that you must move gently.”
A trumpet sounded. Ryckair turned to see a company of mounted Dharam troops appear over a set of snow drifts. In the lead of the column was commander Petstra. The empty arm of his uniform sleeve flapped in the chill breeze. A spear was attached to a loop in his saddle. The other men brandished bows as they held their mounts in check.
Petstra said, “I knew you had to cross here.”
Shara drew her sword. “Stand back, dog of the Barasha. I am a princes of the realm and general of the army.” She shouted an order to the soldiers. The bowmen kept their arrows trained on Ryckair and his men. She shouted again, her voice edged with anger. Still, the Dharam troops did not respond.
Petstra said, “They will not obey the orders of a traitor to their king.” He motioned to a Dharam soldier who held a wooden box. Petstra reached inside and raised Neesa’s severed head. “I have very effective methods of persuasion. In the end your eunuch was most cooperative.” He threw the head onto the snow.
“All is known to me and to your father. He was very appreciative. I carry an order signed by him. It declares all of you outlaws. You, Princess Shara, will be returned to Kackar where your father will have you hanged and you, Prince Ryckair, will be delivered to me and taken south to Carandir.”
Shara shouted another order. One by one, the soldiers turned their heads. She sheathed her sword with an pale look on her face that Ryckair had not seen before.
Ryckair’s unarmed men could never challenge the archers. The prince opened his cloak and bared his chest to reveal the dragon shaped mark. It glowed in the twilight. The soldiers lowered their bows.
Ryckair said, “All here know this sign. Will any of you call down the wrath of the dragons? Petstra serves the sorcerers of Baras, I serve Jorondel and Ilidel. Choose now what authority you will follow.”
This brought confusion to the Dharam. Petstra hefted his spear with his single hand. “Here is the only authority to be reckoned with.” Gripping his mount tightly between his legs he rode forward and threw the spear into Theb’s belly.
Theb fell from his mount. Ryckair dropped to the ground and took him into his arms.
Theb weakly opened his eyes. “Do not weep, Highness. You gave me life after years of death. I have seen the sun, felt the wind. Odd. I never truly knew them before the Sarte mines.” He gave a cough and died. Ryckair held Theb’s body tightly.
Petstra rode up to the prince. “You have lost. Jorondel and Ilidel have forsaken you. Plead now for the mercy of Baras.”
Ryckair grabbed the commander by his cloak and pulled him to th
e ground. The prince drew his knife and placed it against Petstra’s throat. “Tell them to move back.”
Petstra stared back defiantly. The prince pressed the razor edge of the knife closer. “Tell them!”
“Do it,” said Petstra harshly.
The Dharam soldiers moved back. Batu disarmed Petstra. The commander carried a sword, a dagger and a small pick axe. Ryckair tossed the weapons aside and dragged Petstra to the edge of the ice bridge. “You’re crossing the crevasse and riding over those hills with us. If your men remain here I will release you. If they try to follow I’ll slit your throat.”
Shara examined the expanse of ice that arched over the chasm. “We cannot take the horses.”
“What do you mean?” said Ryckair. “You rode across once.”
“That was at night. The sun has softened the ice.”
Batu looked back to the archers. “Then, we’re trapped.”
“We can still cross,” said Ryckair. “We will leave the horses here.”
“Yes.” said Petstra. “Cross into the northern winter on foot. If we do not ride you down, the night will kill you. You have lost, Prince Ryckair.”
Shara began unfastening her saddle bags and bedroll. “Nay, dog of dogs. The Dharam horses cannot cross either and you will still be our prisoner. As to the night, there are many Fadella camps.”
Petstra sneered. “They will not accept a Dharam.”
“I am no longer Dharam. My father has made me Fadella.”
The setting sun cast shadows across the ice and snow. Ryckair instructed his men to use straps of leather to convert the saddle bags into packs. They loaded the packs with what provisions they could. Much had to be left behind, including Theb’s body.
Shara shouted to the Dharam troops, “Whatever has befallen me, see that this man is buried as befits a soldier. This boon, alone, I ask from those who have served with me.”
“It shall be done.” came a reply.
When the packs were ready, Ryckair said, “How best to proceed?”
Dragons Unremembered Page 20