Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

‘I do not know. For the first time, I begin to doubt.’ He looked up at her. Again, uncertainty was etched deep on his face. ‘He might never do it.’

‘He is young. He can turn his mind to anything.’ She tried to smile, to make light of it. ‘Perhaps he might become a scholar. Would that be so bad?’

‘It might have been something I did. Perhaps I pushed him too fast. The summonings come easily to me; I forget that others need more time.’

‘You are hard on yourself. Did your father ever give as much time to you? You have devoted yourself to that child, and when he comes to his senses the two of you will speak and this will be forgotten.’

‘We will not speak.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I will not be here.’ Imladrik’s face took on a grimmer aspect; it was the way he looked before taking his leave for the next battle.

Yethanial withdrew her hand. Caradryel’s final words to her entered her mind. ‘What do you mean?’

Imladrik looked at her steadily. ‘I have been ordered back to Elthin Arvan.’

Yethanial felt as if her stomach had been turned inside out. ‘Refuse,’ she said, her voice hard. ‘Refuse him.’

‘I cannot.’

‘You can.’ Her shock made her sharp. ‘You can refuse anything you like. You command legions . You command mages, you command ships, you command dragons. Tell Caledor to finish his sordid war for himself.’

Imladrik looked back at her, his face an agony of understanding. He did not need to be told such things. ‘That is why I cannot refuse. He will not change his mind. If I oppose him, my troops will remain loyal. War will come to Ulthuan. I will not see that.’

Yethanial wanted to rage at him. His resignation was infuriating. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she accused, pushing herself angrily away from him. ‘You could do it if you wished.’

‘He is the King. He has the mandate of the Flame.’

Yethanial got out of the bed and strode over to where she had discarded her robe the night before. She wrapped it around herself. ‘He is your jealous brother. He is a fool.’

‘Listen to me.’ Imladrik rose too. ‘This is a chance to mend the damage he has done. He thinks that by sending me away I will be mired in fighting for years. He thinks I will do as he would, and take the fight to the dawi, but I will not. He does not know them as I do. I can end it. Think on it, Yethanial: I can end it.’

She shot him a scornful look, reaching up to tie her hair back. ‘Did you think that up on your way here?’

Imladrik stiffened. ‘Do not use those words.’

‘And what words do you expect me to use?’ she shouted, surprising herself with her vehemence. ‘Do you expect me to say: my blessings go with you? Is that what you want? You will not get it! You belong here, with me, with those who love you.’

‘You think I wanted this?’ Some colour returned to his cheeks, some wounded pride.

‘Yes! Yes, I think you did want this! Half your soul has been there, ever since you came back. You could not scrub its mud from your hands, you could never forget what you did there.’

‘Yethanial, you are-’

‘You could never forget her. ’

As soon as she said it, she wished she could gulp the words back down and bury them deep. She stared at Imladrik, her mouth open, her eyes still flashing with anger. Imladrik stared back at her. Silence fell between them, tense and febrile.

‘That was unworthy,’ said Imladrik at last. His voice was soft, though it too resonated with anger.

‘Was it?’ asked Yethanial.

‘If you understood me at all, you would know it.’

Imladrik pushed his cloak back from where it had fallen over his shoulder. His expression was dangerous — like a thunderhead curdling on the horizon. He said nothing more, just turned and walked from the chamber. As he left, he kicked the door closed behind him, making it slam and shiver in the frame.

Yethanial stayed where she was, frozen by the emotions running through her.

Why did I say it? she thought, as angry and confused with herself as she was at him.

Then she remembered Caradryel again.

He will be sent back to the colonies, my lady. Nothing can prevent it.

She rushed at the door, yanking it open and going after him. There were things she needed to tell him. Parting on such terms would leave a wake of bitterness. It would weaken him, and it would weaken her.

But by the time she had run down the stairways and across the empty hall and pushed her way through the great gates, she was too late. She stood on the wet grass, her robe rippling around her in the morning breeze, watching the long tail of Draukhain disappear into the far distance, already high out over the sea.

She watched the dragon for a little while longer, then the haze of the horizon defeated her.

‘Sundered again,’ she breathed, ignoring the shouted queries after her welfare from the guards on the walls. She heard them hurrying after her, no doubt with cloaks and hoods to ward against the dawn chill.

She felt cold to her soul, though the elements did nothing to worsen that. Some words, some thoughts, could not easily be taken back.

Caradryel sat alone. The ornate surroundings of Faer-Lyen’s private dining hall surrounded him. A long polished table stretched away into the distance, set with polished silverware and decked with terraces of candles. He’d taken pleasure in such things in the past. Now they did nothing but expose his inadequacies.

He would have to find something to occupy him soon, some scheme or diversion. He might arrange an assignation at court — it had been a while — or manage the destruction of a rival’s career. The arts of state were like a ritual game, with pieces scattered across the board in complicated webs of power. Move one, and the whole pattern shifted.

Caradryel was good at the game. He knew which cords to pull, which ears to whisper in, which beds to slip into and out of and which palms to press with gold, jewels or daggers. The fact that his father saw no value in such prowess was neither here nor there; slowly, with glacial patience, Caradryel had built up a formidable cadre of loyal retainers, dotted around the Houses like thieves in the basement of a grand old mansion. One day he would call the favours in. It amused him sometimes to contemplate what would happen after that. Perhaps he would find himself exiled from Ulthuan in disgrace, perhaps end up on the Throne.

He knew the source of his ennui. The affair with Yethanial, he could see now, had been a miscalculation. It was no good trying courtly suavity on the likes of her — she was a scholar, a dealer in the purity of words and thoughts. He should have been more humble, less cocksure, then perhaps he might have swung it.

It was a shame. He had managed to persuade himself that a spell in Elthin Arvan would be just the thing; he could have ingratiated himself with his new master and extended his network of patronage to the colonies. He could have observed the war first-hand and gauged how best to take advantage of the many opportunities that such things invariably delivered. Most of all, he knew he would have enjoyed the simple pleasures of seeing something different. Even Ulthuan, the most spectacular and varied realm in all the world, became dull after a while.

He took a sip of wine, and a low chime sounded from the far end of the dining chamber.

‘Come,’ he said lazily, only mildly interested.

The doors opened and a servant padded in.

‘Your pardon, lord,’ he said, bowing. ‘A lady awaits.’

Caradryel’s lids barely lifted. ‘Mirielle? She’s early.’

‘From Tor Vael, lord.’

Caradryel’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Khaine’s eyes, you fool, show her in.’