Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

‘Tell him to wait in the great hall,’ she said. ‘I will see him there.’

The servant bowed, and made to leave Yethanial’s chamber.

‘Wait,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Caradryel, of the House of Reveniol.’

‘I have never heard of it.’

‘From Yvresse, I believe.’

Yethanial shook her head. ‘There are more noble houses in Ulthuan than there are trees in Avelorn. What does that tell us?’

The servant looked uncertain. ‘I do not know, my lady.’

Yethanial shot him a scornful glance. ‘Deliver the message. I will come down when I am ready.’

He was waiting for her in Tor Vael’s great hall. ‘Great’ was somewhat optimistic; the space was modest, capable of holding no more than several dozen guests, bare-walled and with only a few drab hangings to lighten the stonework. The fireplace was empty and had not been used for years. Yethanial did not often entertain guests; as she had often complained to Imladrik, she found their conversation tiresome and their manners swinish.

The present occupant lounged casually in one of the two great chairs set before the granite mantelpiece. His long blond hair was artfully arranged, swept back from a sleek face in what Yethanial supposed was the latest fashion in the cities. He wore a long robe of damask silk, a burgundy red with gold detail. It looked fabulously expensive.

Yethanial walked up to him. He did not rise to greet her.

‘My servants tell me you will not leave,’ she said.

Caradryel raised a thin eyebrow. ‘That is not much of a greeting.’

‘I have important work. State your business.’

He settled into the chair more comfortably. ‘Ah, yes. The scholar-lady. You are spoken well of in Hoeth.’

Yethanial paused. ‘Hoeth? You bring word from the loremasters?’

Caradryel laughed; an easy, untroubled sound. ‘Loremasters? Not my profession, I’m afraid. I only use parchment to light fires.’

Yethanial folded her arms. She knew that she must look impossibly drab next to him in her grey shift and barely-combed hair, and cared nothing for it. ‘Then you are running out of time here.’

‘Something I am sure you must be short of, so I will come to the meat of it.’ He pushed himself up higher in his seat. ‘I was serving in the fleets, sent there by a father who despairs of my ever performing gainful service to the Crown. He is wrong about that, as it turns out, but that is not something you or he need worry about. My time aboard ship turned out to be instructive, though not in the way he hoped for.’

‘I am just burning to know how.’

Caradryel flashed her another smile — the effortless, artful smile of one who has spent his life flitting through the privileged circles of courtly classes. ‘I saw a strange thing. We were attacked by corsairs. I have never been one to scare easily, being of the view that my destiny is almost certainly a great one and thus the gods have a clear incentive to keep me alive, but I admit that I did not like the way the situation looked. I had made my preparations to meet death in a suitable manner when, quite unexpectedly, salvation came out of an empty sky.’

Yethanial struggled to control her impatience. Caradryel clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice and fancied himself a storyteller. She could see the steady confidence radiating from his languid frame and wondered what, if anything, justified it.

‘A dragon rider , my lady,’ Caradryel went on. ‘Rare enough even on the fields of war. Vanishingly rare in the open seas. When the shock of it had faded, I reflected on that. I could not help but feel that my earlier judgement had been vindicated: I am being preserved for something special. That is a comfort to me, as you might imagine.’

‘Or a delusion.’

‘Quite; time will tell which. But here is the thing: the rider was your husband, the King’s brother. When this became known, the crew of the ship fell into the kind of fawning adulation that is embarrassing unless directed at oneself. And that prompted me to think further on it.’

‘Any brevity you can muster would be welcome,’ sighed Yethanial.

‘Our beloved ruler, Caledor the Second, has returned to Ulthuan. His victory in the east has bolstered his strength at court, but he is not without enemies, who think him vain and unwise. Factions exist that wish for an end to the fighting in Elthin Arvan. They would not move against him openly, but there are other things they can do to undermine a king. I know how the courts work, my lady, and so does he. The crown does not suffer rivals. Caledor will act; he may have already done so. Your husband, you should know, will not be suffered to remain in Ulthuan.’

Yethanial smiled thinly. ‘And you understand all of this from one chance encounter at sea.’

Caradryel shrugged. ‘That was the start of it. I have friends in all sorts of interesting places, and they tell me the same thing. A story is being whispered all across Ulthuan, passed from shadow to shadow.’ He gave her a sad, almost sincere, smile. ‘Lord Imladrik will be sent back to the colonies, my lady. Nothing can prevent it.’

Yethanial felt her face grow pale. ‘Is this why you came?’ she demanded. ‘To pass on tittle-tattle and gossip?’

‘Not at all. I can do that far more productively in Lothern.’ Caradryel rose from his chair and bowed floridly. ‘I came to offer my services.’

For a moment, Yethanial was lost for words. As she struggled, Caradryel kept talking.

‘They say your husband is the greatest dragon rider since the days of the Dragontamer. Having seen his prowess at first hand, I have no doubt they are right. When it comes to the arts of state, though, he is a neophyte. My guess is that he thinks statecraft beneath him, as do you. You despise the likes of me; you think us gaudy parasites on the real business of life. Of course you are right: we are parasites. But necessary ones.’

Caradryel fixed her with a serious look, the first he had given her.

‘I can help him,’ he said. ‘I can guide him. When he is alone in Elthin Arvan, beset by enemies on both sides of the walls, I can give him counsel. Believe me, he will need it.’

Yethanial’s surprise ebbed, giving way to anger. Caradryel must have been half her age, and yet felt free to lecture her as if speaking to a child. She drew closer to him, noticing for the first time that she was taller.

‘Save your counsel,’ she said coldly. ‘It, and your presence here, are not welcome. I do not know to whom you have been speaking, nor do I care to. My husband’s business is here in Tor Vael and it is no one’s concern but his and mine. You clearly have little regard for the sensibilities of this house, so let me enlighten you: three dozen guards stand ready on the far side of this door. Should I order it, they will rip those robes from your back and drive you all the way back to Yvresse for the sport of your long-suffering subjects. I am close to giving that order. If you disbelieve me, feel free to provoke me further.’

Caradryel met her gaze for a little while. His blue eyes flickered back and forth, as if testing her resolve, or perhaps his own. Eventually they dropped, and the smile melted from his face. ‘So be it,’ he said, adopting a breezy, resigned tone without much conviction. ‘I made the offer. That is all I can do.’

Yethanial said nothing. For some reason, her heart was beating hard.

Caradryel bowed. ‘I was told you were a shy soul, my lady, much taken up with books. I see that you have been undersold.’ He started to walk away. ‘Should you change your mind-’

‘I will not change my mind.’

‘Just in case, I can be found at Faer-Lyen. You will not have to look hard; I have many friends who know me well.’