Patricia Briggs - Masques

The sun was drifting toward evening, turning the peaks of the mountains red. Aralorn shifted contentedly on her rock near the cave entrance. Several days ago someone found a huge patch of berries, and the whole camp had spent the better part of two days harvesting the find. Haris had been adding them into everything and today had managed to cook several pies. Given that the only thing that he had to cook on was a grate over a fire, it was probable that he’d used magic to do it, but no one was complaining.

Licking her fingers clean of the last of the sweet stuff, Aralorn ran an idle gaze up the cliff face and caught something out of the corner of her eye. It was a shadow in the evening sky that was gone almost as soon as she saw it. She got to her feet and backed away from the cliff, trying to figure out just what it was that she saw, calling out an alarm as she did so.

The four or five people who were out milling about doing various chores started for the entrance at a run. Stanis and Tobin were coming up the trail to the valley with a donkey cart laden with firewood. Although they heard the alert, too, they weren’t able to increase their pace much because of the donkey, and they weren’t about to abandon the results of their labors.

Aralorn distractedly glanced at them, then looked back at the cliff, just in time to see the dragon launch itself. If she hadn’t caught the moment of launch, she probably wouldn’t have noticed it because it used magic to change the color of its scales until it blended into the evening sky. Aralorn headed for Stanis and Tobin as fast as she could. Seeing her, they abandoned the donkey and began running themselves. As she neared them, the shadow on the ground told her that the dragon was just overhead. She knocked both boys down in a wrestler’s tackle and felt the razor-sharp claws run almost gently across her back.

The dragon gave a hiss that could have been either disappointment or amusement, and settled for the donkey, which it killed with a casual swipe of its tail. As it ate, it watched idly as Aralorn drove the two boys into the cave and stood guard at the entrance.

Aralorn met its gaze and knew that her sword was pitifully inadequate for the task, even had she been a better swordswoman. She had some hope that the runes that had kept the Uriah at bay would do the same to the dragon, but dragons were supposed to be creatures of magic and fire.

She heard the sounds of running footsteps behind her, then Myr’s exclamation when he saw the dragon. He drew his grandfather’s sword and held it in readiness. Aralorn noted with a touch of amusement that his larger sword looked to be a much more potent barrier than her own.

“How big do you think that thing is?” asked Myr in a whisper.

“Not as big as it looked when it was over top of me, but big enough that I don’t want to fight it,” murmured Aralorn in reply.

The dragon paused in its eating to look over at them and smile, quite an impressive sight—easily as intimidating as Wolf’s.

Myr stiffened. “It understands us.”

Aralorn nodded reluctantly. “Well, if you have to die, I guess a dragon is an impressive way to go; maybe even worth a song or two. Just think, we are the first people to see a dragon in generations.”

“It is beautiful,” said Myr. As if in approval of his comment, a ripple of purple traveled through the blue of the dragon’s scales.

“Watch that color shift,” said Aralorn. “Magic, I think. If it wants to, it can be nearly invisible. Would make it harder to fight.”

“It makes you wonder why there aren’t more dragons, doesn’t it,” commented Myr.

Finished with the donkey, the dragon rose and stretched. No longer completely blue, highlights of various colors danced in its scales. Only its teeth and the claws on its feet and the edges of its wings were an unchanging black. When it was done, it started almost casually toward the cave entrance.

Myr stepped out from the meager protection of the entrance into the fading light, and Aralorn followed his lead. Something about Myr appeared to catch the dragon’s interest: It stopped and whipped its long, swanlike neck straight, shooting the elegant head forward. Brilliant, gem-like eyes glittered green, then gold. Without warning, it opened its mouth and spat flame at Myr with an aim so exact that Aralorn wasn’t even singed although she stood near enough to Myr to reach out and touch him.

Myr, being immune to magic, was untouched (although the same could not be said about his clothes). The hand that held his sword was steady, though his grip was tighter than it needed to be. He was no coward, this King of Reth. Aralorn smiled in grim approval.

The dragon drew its head back, and said, in Rethian that Aralorn felt as much as heard, “Dragon-blessed, this is far from your court. Why do you disturb me here?”

Myr, clothed in little more than the tattered remnants of cloth and leather, somehow managed to look as regal and dignified as the dragon did. “My apologies if we are troubling you. Our quarrel is not with you.”

The dragon made an amused sound. “I hardly thought that it was, princeling.”

“King,” said Aralorn, deciding that the contempt that the dragon was exhibiting could get dangerous.

“What?” said the dragon, its tone softening in a manner designed to send chills up weaker spines.

“He is King of Reth and no princeling.” Aralorn kept her voice even and met the dragon’s look.

It turned back to Myr, and said in an amused tone, “Apologies, lord King. It seems I have given offense.”

Myr inclined his head. “Accepted, dragon. I believe we owe you thanks for driving away the Uriah, sent by my enemy.”

The dragon raised its head with a hiss, and its eyes acquired crimson tones. “Your enemy is the ae’Magi?”

“Yes,” answered Myr with a wariness Aralorn shared.

The dragon stood silently, obviously thinking, then it said, “The debt dragonkind owes your blood is old and weak, even by dragon standards. Long and long ago, a human saved an egg that held a queen, a feat for which we were most grateful, as we were few even then. For this he and his blood were blessed that magic hold no terrors for them. For this deed of the past, I would have left you and your party alone.

“Several hundred years ago, after the manner of my kind, I chose a cave to sleep—waiting for the coming of my mate. I chose a cave deep under the ae’Magi’s castle, where I was unlikely to be discovered. Dragons are magical in a way that no other creature is. We live and breathe magic, and without it, we cannot exist.

“I was awakened by savage pain that drove me out of my cave and into the Northlands. The ae’Magi is twisting magic, binding it to him until there will be nothing left but that which is twisted and dark with the souls of the dead. The castle of the ae’Magi has protections that I cannot cross, and the power that he has over magic is such that if I were to attack him, it is possible that he could control me. That is a risk I cannot take. Except for the egg that lies hidden from all, I am the last of my kind. If I die, there will be no more dragons.” It stretched its wings restlessly.

“King,” it said finally, “your sword is new, but the hilt is older than your kingdom, and token of our pledge to your line. If ever I can aid you, without directly confronting the ae’Magi, plunge the sword into the soil, run your hands over the ruby eyes of the dragon on the hilt, and say my name.”

Aralorn heard nothing but the rushing of the wind as the dragon spoke its name for Myr. Then, in the deepening light of the evening, it reared back on its hind legs and fanned its wings, changing its color to an orange-gold that gave off its own light. Soundlessly, it took flight, disappearing long before it should have been out of sight.