Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

Liandra headed across the piazza feeling, if not exactly content, then certainly partially satisfied. The days since her recovery had passed quickly, dulling some of her lingering grief over Vranesh. It had taken an almighty effort of will not to kill Drutheira when she had spoken to her last, but the witch’s unmistakable reaction to the news of what Liandra intended had almost been worth it on its own. Vengeance would come in time and would be all the sweeter for the wait.

She reached the western end of the piazza, passed under a shaded portico, and ascended a long train of stone stairs. It had not taken long for her to recover from her ordeal out in the wasteland, especially since Oeragor’s people had plied her with medicinal draughts and restorative tinctures.

Their care had been welcome, but now impatience was beginning to drive her again. She was mindful of the fact that her disappearance from Tor Alessi had been sudden. Imladrik would not know why she had gone; he might attribute it to her awkward outbursts during their last conversation, perhaps even cowardice in the face of the dwarf advance. The matter needed to be settled quickly, not least as she had no means of knowing how the talks were faring, nor indeed if they were even still in progress.

As ever, the lack of certain knowledge was troubling. For far too long she had been guessing at shadows and half-truths, just as they all had. Such was always the way in Elthin Arvan, a land of enormous distances, choked by forests and hampered by lurking dangers under the shade of every branch.

At the end of her climb she reached a sunlit chamber with arched colonnades around the edges. She passed across a marble floor, up another spiral stair and into the interior of a large octagonal tower. By the time Liandra emerged at the topmost balcony she could feel the pricking of sweat in the small of her back.

She had not quite recovered, then; not yet.

A tall figure in long ivory robes waited for her, standing against the balcony railing and staring out northwards. His hands and face were tanned a rich light brown, much like the rest of Oeragor’s population. It was an attractive counter-point to the washed-out colouring of temperate Ulthuan.

‘How is our guest?’ the tall elf asked.

‘Talkative,’ she replied. ‘Not that I am much interested in what she has to say.’

Kelemar, Regent of Oeragor, nodded in satisfaction. ‘I am glad you’re happy, though I warn you my people are not. There has been talk of breaking into the dungeons and dragging her out.’

‘I can understand that. Believe me, I will rid you of her as soon as I may.’

Kelemar looked back out over the balcony’s edge. ‘That would be appreciated, but I don’t know how you’ll do it.’

Below them lay the tight-packed towers of Oeragor’s northern slopes. The city had been built at the heart of the wide, sun-baked plain and the buildings clustered together as if for protection from the elements. Every surface was whitewashed. The walls gleamed under the sun, making Liandra’s eyes water if she looked at them for too long.

It was not a large settlement. She had often wondered why Imladrik had chosen such a site. Oeragor’s foundations had been sited over a deep well of pure spring water, an oasis amid the bleakness; so it did at least have enough to drink, as well as a surplus to irrigate some modest gardens and terraced plantations. The city stood on the site of a truly ancient road, one that predated even the dawi presence in Elthin Arvan, though none could say who had made it or why. Its population numbered some five thousand, almost as small as Kor Vanaeth though far more remote. Even with recent reinforcements it stood at a little over seven thousand, leaving plenty of room within the whitewashed walls for more.

Liandra once asked Imladrik why he had adopted the far-flung location. He hadn’t been very forthcoming.

‘We cannot restrict ourselves to the coast,’ he’d said lightly. ‘We must push into the wild places, taming them one by one.’

It wasn’t much of an answer. Liandra had always suspected he’d had designs on making the place his home one day, a refuge away from the scheming of Ulthuan and the grimy hardship of the coastal colonies. She could certainly imagine Draukhain out here, coasting effortlessly over the empty lands, his sky-blue hide sparkling in unbroken sunlight.

Even if that were true, though, she knew he’d never be given the freedom to pursue the dream. Caledor had summoned him back to Ulthuan to oversee the everlasting war against the druchii, then given him the command that had taken him to Tor Alessi. One way or another, his brother had frustrated any plans Imladrik might have once had for Oeragor.

And of course there was his wife, the scholar-lady of Tor Vael. Liandra could not imagine her willingly uprooting and coming to the desert. The relationship between the two of them had always been a mystery to her, one that perhaps only they themselves truly understood.

But that was uncomfortable to think about.

‘You say the roads north are still too perilous?’ Liandra asked, shading her eyes as she looked out over the honey-yellow landscape.

‘The dawi are marching. They have emptied their holds to the east, destroyed our outposts all across the northern edge of the Blight.’

‘The Blight. I can see why you called it that.’

‘Nothing else seemed appropriate. You were lucky to last out there for as long as you did.’

Liandra pushed a stray length of copper-blonde hair from her face. She could already feel her skin tightening in the heat. ‘Why stay here, Kelemar? What keeps you?’

‘Because we were ordered to. And because we have our task here: to turn the barren land into a garden.’

Liandra had thought much the same of Kor Vanaeth. Elthin Arvan was dirty, dangerous and feral, but the vision of the colonists had been to tame it, to make it a paradise. If they were fighting for anything noble, that was it.

‘And, of course, it is Imladrik’s place,’ Kelemar went on. ‘We are all his people. We would work ourselves into the dust for him.’

Liandra shook her head gently. ‘Why is this? He inspires this… devotion.’

Kelemar pursed his lips in modest disapproval. ‘In the early days he laboured with us here. He carried stones on his back with the rest of us. He could have followed the life of his brother and lived in a palace in Lothern. Whatever it was that took him away from us, we know he did not choose it.’ He smiled regretfully. ‘Does that give you your answer?’

‘There’s some secret to it, to be sure.’ She found herself wishing to change the subject and withdrew from the bal-cony’s edge, pulling out of the direct sunlight. ‘So the passage north is closed, and there is nothing to the south, west and east but empty rock. I need to find some way to reach Tor Alessi.’

‘I think you have missed your chance. The dawi will be here soon.’

Liandra looked out north again, seeing no more than haze and heat-shimmer.

‘How long?’

‘A few days, if we are lucky.’

Liandra drew in a deep breath. Oeragor was a world away from Tor Alessi, where, she had to assume, hostilities were still suspended. To end up stranded in some sweaty skirmish on the margins of civilisation while the real war in the west had been interrupted… The frustration was almost unbearable.

‘There will be a way,’ Liandra said, doggedly. ‘The witch cannot die here. I do not intend to die here. By Isha, there will be a way.’

Caradryel pushed back in his chair, feeling irritable and at a loose end. He hadn’t slept well for days, kept awake both by his memories of the siege — which were terrible — and his frustration at how the events beforehand had turned out.