Daniel Abraham - The Dragon's Path

Grit in the chilly air made her eyes water, and she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. On the way home, she stopped at a public house and drank a mug of the same kind of fortified wine Sandr had brought her that day by the mill pond.

It didn’t taste as good.

All well?” Captain Wester snapped as she came in. “You were gone a long time.”

“Fine,” she said shortly. “Everything’s fine.”

Dawson Kalliam found Kavinpol ugly. The city squatted with one leg on either side of the river Uder, its buildings stuccoed a scabrous red-grey. The local food founded itself on onions and fish pulled from the same water into which the sewers emptied. Too many cycles of freeze and thaw cracked the streets, leaving pools of half-frozen mud to break the leg of an unwary horse. And in the center of it all, Lord Ternigan’s estate with hunting grounds walled away from the city like a glorified lawn garden. In any other year, Dawson would have stayed on his estate with Clara and whichever of his sons chose to winter there rather than follow the hunt here.

This winter, though, the hunt had taken on a different meaning. Ternigan’s tame deer and hand-raised quail weren’t the prize Dawson tracked. And private audiences with the king were much easier to arrange when it was the king who wanted them.

“God damn it, Kalliam. I’m trying to keep peace, and you’re killing people in the streets?”

The ceiling of the king’s chamber vaulted up into the soot-muddied dimness above them. Great windows looked out over the city, boasts made of glass and iron. Overstated and gaudy, the architecture spoke of glory and power, and what it said was: You may have these or comfort, but not both.

Dawson looked at his childhood friend. The months of winter had etched a frown into the corners of his mouth and left grey at his temples like the first frost. Or perhaps the signs of age and weakness had always been there, and Dawson hadn’t been willing to see them until now. The jewel-studded robes that Simeon wore—even the crown itself—looked less like the raiments of power and greatness than they had in the autumn. Instead, they were the empty form of it, like a dry pitcher waiting to be filled. Dawson knew the response that Simeon and etiquette expected. Forgive me, sire.

“Nobler blood’s spilled in Camnipol every time someone slaughters a pig,” Dawson said. “They were Issandrian’s thugs.”

“You have proof of that?”

“Of course I can’t prove it, but we both know they were. His or Maas’s, it hardly matters. And you wouldn’t be pulling my leash if you believed they were street toughs with poor aim.”

The pause weighted the air. Simeon rose. His boots scraped against the stone floor. Around them, the chamber’s tapestries shifted, and the king’s guard kept their silent watch. Dawson wished they could be truly alone. The guards were servants, but they were also men.

“Your Majesty,” Dawson said, “I think you fail to understand the loyalty all around you. My own included. I have spent the season having private conversations with the highest-born men in Antea, and there is a wide support for you against Issandrian and his pack.”

“Issandrian and his pack are also my subjects,” Simeon said. “I can make the argument that feeding unrest is in itself acting against me.”

“We are acting for you, Simeon. The men I have spoken with are united in your name. I only wish you were with us.”

“If I start declaring war on parts of the nobility only because they happen to be in ascendance at the moment—”

“Is that what you’ve heard me say? Simeon, I have spent months cajoling and promising everyone I could find with any influence on Ternigan. He is ready to pull Klin from Vanai. All he needs is a signal from you.”

“If I take sides in this, it will end in blood.”

“And if you don’t the kingdom will have unending peace and light? You know better than that.”

“The dragons—”

“The dragons didn’t fall because there was a war. There was a war because there wasn’t a leader. A family needs a father, and a kingdom needs a king. It is your duty to lead, and if you fail in that, the day will come when they follow someone else. Then we will be on the dragon’s path.”

Simeon shook his head. The firelight reflected in his eyes. Outside, a cold wind whirled, smelling of winter. Snow like a fall of ashes whirled past the windows.

“A family needs a father,” the king said, as if the words were funny and bitter both. “When Eleora died, I promised her I’d take care of our son. Not the prince, our son.”

“Aster is the prince,” Dawson said.

“If he weren’t, he would still be my son. You have children. You understand.”

“I have three sons and a daughter. Barriath captains a ship under Lord Skestinin, Vicarian is studying for the priesthood, and Jorey’s in Vanai. Elisia married Lord Annerin’s eldest son three years ago, and I’ve barely heard of her since. And none of them, Simeon, have made me timid, ” Dawson said. And then, more softly, “What happened to you?”

Simeon laughed.

“I became king. It’s all well and good when we were playing at it in the yards and on the battlefields, but then Father died. It wasn’t play anymore. Issandrian’s cabal isn’t my only problem. Hallskar’s begun harboring raiders again. Northcoast’s aiming for another war of succession and Asterilhold’s backing both sides. The tax revenues from Estinford aren’t what they should be, so someone’s either stealing them or the farms are starting to fail. And in a few years, Aster’s to step up and run it all.”

“Not so few,” Dawson said. “We’re not young, but we’ve got life in us yet. And you know the answer to this as well as I do. Find men you trust, and then trust them.”

“Meaning you and your cabal instead of Issandrian and his?” the king asked dryly.

“Yes. Meaning that.”

“I’d rather you backed away. Let Issandiran’s movement collapse from within.”

“It won’t.”

King Simeon looked up, and his eyes might have held anger or amusement or despair. Dawson sank deliberately to his knee, a man giving obeisance to his king. The angle of his chin and his shoulders made it a challenge. Here is my loyalty. Deserve it.

“You should go, old friend,” the king said. “I need to rest before the feast. I need to think.”

Dawson rose, bowed silently, and left for his own rooms. Lord Ternigan’s estate sprawled. It had been built over the course of centuries by uncountable designers, each it seemed with his own conflicting vision. The result was a labyrinth. Every courtyard and square opened in some unexpected way, hallways angled and turned to avoid obstacles long since unmade. There was no better invitation for a quiet knife from the shadows.

He let the king’s servant put him into his coat, drape the thick black wool cloak across his shoulders, and bow before stepping out into the white wind. Vincen Coe stepped behind him. Dawson didn’t speak to the man, and the hunter offered no report. With only the creak of leather and their snow-muffled footsteps, they crossed the courtyard, passed through a series of overhung walkways, and across a wide, flat bridge where the wind threatened to whip them away like sparrows in a storm. There were warmer paths, but they were better peopled, and so more dangerous. If Issandrian and Maas wanted to strike at Dawson, they’d have to work for it.

The hospitality that Ternigan had offered House Kalliam included a private house that had once belonged to a king’s favored concubine. The stonework had a vulgar sensuality, the gardens before it—no doubt lush in spring—were now hardly more than a collection of twigs and dead scrub. But it was defensible, and Dawson appreciated it for that. He shrugged off his cloak and his bodyguard at the door and entered the warm, dark inner rooms to the smell of mint tea and the sound of a woman weeping.