Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

“In return for your seat on the senate,” Meykhati said, after shooting an irritated glance at Asheru, “we will expect your first five years’ votes.”

Willem looked at him and their eyes locked. Meykhati looked strange, like a different man entirely, he was so serious, but Willem didn’t need to consider the bargain. He likely would have voted with Meykhati and the master builder anyway. If they were going to elevate him to the aristocracy, make his entire life different, realize all his greatest dreams for him, and do it in a few months’ time with but a wave of their hands and a scattering of coins, well, the least he could do was vote the way they wished for five years.

Willem stood, raised his glass, and said, “It will be an honor to serve with you, gentlemen. You have my eternal gratitude.”

“Your gratitude for five years will suffice, Senator Willem Korvan,” Meykhati said.

While the five senators returned his toast, Willem let those three words repeat over and over in his mind:

Senator Willem Korvan.

16 Kythorn, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

THE LAND OF ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

Nine black firedrakes flew in a Vformation, the biggest male in the lead. Marek used an instrument of his own design to check their spacing. They were within two inches of flying perfectly one foot apart.

Marek giggled and checked again-exactly a foot.

“Impressive,” Insithryllax said. “They’re progressing well.”

The dragon stood on the hill next to him in his natural form. The great bulk of the wyrm towered over the Red Wizard. Marek could feel Insithryllax’s breathing like an intermittent breeze.

“They are, aren’t they?” Marek replied.

The firedrake on the far left of the formation swerved off and dived, then the next one in line followed, and so on until the whole formation had turned and headed straight for the rocky landscape of Marek’s pocket dimension. The target was one of the big, ugly grubs.

“They’re going too fast,” Insithryllax observed, but Marek wasn’t sure he was right. “They won’t be able to pull up.”

Marek craned his neck to see around a huge promontory of gray-black stone.

“There!” he said.

Nine more black firedrakes, also in a Vformation, skimmed six feet off the ground, following the contours of the terrain. They flew even faster than the group that was diving, their wings beating so furiously they were nothing but blurs in the air around their lithe bodies. Marek could see by the roll of their eyes that their attention was on the ground most of the time, their gaze flicking at the grubs for just a fraction of a second to keep them on target.

But they never looked up.

“Ah …” the black dragon breathed.

The diving firedrakes fell on the second formation with fang-lined jaws agape.

One of them missed and hit the hard ground headfirst so fast its neck snapped like a twig and it died quivering a heartbeat later. The other eight found their targets, latching onto whatever piece of the other firedrakes they could get their teeth on-wings, necks, heads, legs-and instead of crashing, they rode along with their fellows. They all veered off course and the one firedrake that was alone dipped and swerved, confused by the sudden disarray of their once-precise formation. One pair hit the ground and skidded to a stop, snapping at each other all the while. The rest eventually broke apart and went their separate ways, roaring and hissing at each other in the air while trying their damnedest to get back into their groups and go back after the grub.

“Wonderful!” Marek shouted above the din of wing beats, roars, and the whistle of serpentine bodies knifing through the air.

“They weren’t going for the grub,” Insithryllax said. “They were going for the other firedrakes. They’re starting to think like warriors.”

“Warriors … yes,” Marek whispered,

The two groups of black firedrakes split off from each other and whirled higher and higher into the air, forming back into groups, responding to the shrieking calls of their leaders, the two biggest firedrakes.

“Quite something,” Insithryllax said. “You can be very proud.”

Marek shrugged off the sarcasm in the black dragon’s voice.

“Do you mean for them to do this sort of thing in a human city?” the wyrm asked.

“No …” Marek said, thinking as he spoke. “I suppose that would be a bit less than subtle. Perhaps …”

The dragon laughed. Marek could feel the sound as a vibration in the ground under his feet.

“You’re thinking again,” the dragon joked. “I can smell the smoke.”

“Amusing,” Marek allowed, “but you’re right. They’re fierce, and they’re getting smarter and more organized, but they’re … unsubtle.”

Marek watched the black firedrakes circle each other in the sky. One group started sending a single individual at the grub while the rest fended off attacks from the other group. Then his attention was drawn to some kind of disturbance next to him, a flutter in the air, and he looked over to see Insithryllax standing next to him in his dusky, handsome human form.

Human form, Marek thought.

“What is it?” Insithryllax asked. “We are still going to Innarlith tonight, aren’t we? I tire of this place.”

“Yes,” Marek said, feeling a wide grin split his face. “Yes, my friend. We’re going to Innarlith.”

The Red Wizard laughed as one of the black firedrakes finally managed to sink its teeth into the wriggling giant grub and bear it aloft to the triumphant roars of its teammates and the angry shrieks of the rest of them.

“Perhaps not so many parties for a few tendays or so, though,” Marek said. “I have some work to do.”

22 Kythorn, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

It’s beautiful,” Willem whispered.

He couldn’t make his voice go any louder. His throat and jaw tightened.

He’d picked up the sheet of parchment at first, but as the lines coalesced on the page and revealed themselves in detail he finally had to set the drawing down on the table and take half a step back away from it. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it for the longest time.

Ivar Devorast sat behind him, not speaking, breathing quietly.

“You’ve thought of everything,” Willem said, his eyes still playing over the page.

Devorast didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to.

He had thought of everything. The spire was drawn in excruciating detail, from the very tip of the snowflake-lace finial down the crocket-edged fleche to the hexagonal foundation base. It was magnificent-so extraordinary Willem doubted if any human hands could actually build it.

“I wonder, Ivar,” he said, “if there’s anything you can’t do.”

“Of course there is,” Devorast replied, “but what I care to do, I insist on doing well.”

Willem’s chest tightened and he held his breath while his heart beat hard in his chest.

“You have everything?” he asked. “Everything I asked you for?”

Devorast might have nodded, but Willem didn’t turn around and look. He took a deep breath, trying hard to ignore the dank odor of Devorast’s quayside hovel. He reached out and brushed the top sheet aside just enough to reveal the edges of the pages beneath it. Devorast had finished everything: materials lists, detail drawings, ornaments, instructions for stonecutters, masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths. He’d even drawn plans for a new sort of scaffold rig that Willem didn’t quite understand, and a whole range of other purpose-built tools. It was a life’s work in that stack of parchment, but drawn over a few months in Devorast’s quick, sketchy hand and precise handwriting.