Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

Milec the rebel had found his resting place.

On Elenya's left hand her gauntlet twitched, humming like a wasp caught in a bottle, its jewels casting off sudden, multicolored sparks. She stared at the grave, saying nothing.

Alemar turned to face the solemn assembly. His gauntlet, while silent, throbbed with a glow no less vivid than the display from his sister's. "Let's leave her alone," he said, waving everyone toward the shelter of a massive broadleaf tree. His twin made no acknowledgment of their leaving.

Alemar found a grassy spot and sat against the tree's trunk. He rubbed the puffy edges of his eyelids. He had never before tried to heal a dead man's flesh, and he doubted he ever would again.

Wynneth came to him holding a ewer and a gold cup. He caught the smell and wrinkled his nose.

"No, no, no," she said firmly. "You know you need it."

She filled the cup and handed it to him. He drank it quickly, wincing at the vile taste. It was his own concoction, and would mitigate the enervation brought on by such strong sorcery.

"Thank you," he said, a trifle insincerely.

"You would have forgotten it altogether," she scolded. "I'll not have my husband looking like an old man."

"Look who's calling whom old," he said. "You've got over a year on me."

She smiled and filled the cup again.

Even his wife's camaraderie could not banish the funereal gloom. They had lost both a good friend and a capable ally. Milec's father had been the lord of the province of Yent, one of the original victims of the Dragon's sudden takeover of Cilendrodel. The son had been among the first to join Alemar's small band, and he had proved to be not only a staunch fighter but an invaluable liaison between the rebels and the displaced royalty of the nation.

Alemar glanced at one of the lookouts half-hidden in the brush. The governor's patrols were combing the area around Old Stump in hopes of catching the rebel prince and princess. Though the rythni watched as well, the two dozen men and six women of the party kept their bows strung and their sword hilts unbound. Inevitably Alemar's gaze fell on his sister's back. He could see dirt from the gravedigging caught in her long black hair.

"It did me good these past months, to see her with Milec," he told Wynneth. "I would catch her smiling for no reason at all. Meeting him was one of the few joys she's had since we returned from the desert."

"I know," Wynneth said gently. "Don't dwell on it. You can't bring him back."

He sighed, and put an arm around her. "I just wanted Elenya to experience what I've found."

Wynneth nestled her head in the crook of his neck. "I wanted that for her, too, my love. Do you think she would have found it with Milec?"

"What do you mean?"

Wynneth kept her eyes down, as if she regretted bringing up the subject at that time. "I mean that they were good for each other, and they were infatuated, but I don't think Elenya would have married him. She's waiting for someone. I don't know who. An ideal maybe, not a living man at all. Someone she can respect as well as love."

Alemar plucked a wildflower from the ground. "Yes. You're right."

Wynneth closed the lid on the ewer and set it in the grass. A streamer of sunlight momentarily peeked through a gap in the canopy of leaves and lit her short, brown hair. Even in her mid-twenties, she still had a baby face. Some people were shocked to discover the strength behind it.

"Where will we go next?"

Alemar shrugged. "Toward Garthmorron, I think. There's more uninhabited land out that way. We might find the space to breathe."

"And then?"

"What are you getting at?"

"We've played cat and mouse with the Dragon for three years, waiting on Struth before we take the offensive."

"Yes. But now the end is in sight."

"In six months or a year. We may not have that much time. It was well known how important a member of our band Milec was. If Puriel could lay hands on him, the common people will conclude that all of us will be taken. The price on your head and Elenya's is fifty amath pearls each. Even the most loyal to the cause are tempted by that. If they believe the Dragon will win in the end anyway, they may feel there is nothing to lose. Unless we make a bold move, the revolt will be snuffed out."

"I'm afraid that is true," Alemar conceded.

"I know you and Elenya have been discussing the matter. What have you decided?"

"Nothing. I wish I could be more like her sometimes," he said, gesturing toward his twin. "She knows her way and follows it without hesitation. I forever debate which road I will take. Are you so eager for the fight?"

"No," she stated firmly. "But Puriel must die."

He blinked, startled. Gradually he nodded. "Yes, unfortunately that much is clear. What I am not certain of is how horribly he must die."

It was Wynneth's turn to be startled.

"Vendetta is a serious thing," Alemar said. "I learned that much in my years in the desert. I worry that when I am done, the people will look at me with just as much fear as they reserve now for the Dragon."

He reached out with his left hand-the one without the gauntlet-and gently stroked his wife's abdomen, feeling for the life growing inside it. "What sort of legacy will I leave this child?"

She rested her hands on top of his.

Finally he said, "Tonight, when we're well away from Old Stump, I'll confer with the rythni. I'll need their help."

The murmurs of the camp were indistinct behind him, as Alemar sat at the pool's edge, waiting. Serpent Moon was full, its white and blue reflection dancing on the water, the image's purity soiled by the glow of Motherworld, hidden somewhere behind the canopy of leaves. An iridescent gleam of tiny wings appeared over the stream. A moment later the rythni had settled on the moss-covered boulder beside him.

"Heeoo, Hiephora-bani," he said, quietly so as not to overwhelm her sensitive ears. She was not quite ten inches tall, slender and smooth almost to the point of androgyny, face wreathed in abundant dark blue tresses. Like all rythni, she went unclothed, but unlike most, she wore a fine gold chain around her neck.

"Greetings, Prince Alemar," answered Hiephora, her rendering of the High Speech as smooth as if it were her mother tongue. Her voice was tiny, barely able to be heard above the hum of nearby insects or of frogs calling from the stream. "You have committed Milec to his gods?"

"Yes, we have," Alemar stated solemnly.

"Our bard has already made a song about last night. It is called 'The Hero with a Hundred Wings.' May I teach it to you to pass on to your minstrel?"

"Yes, I would like that. But first, tell me how it went with your elders."

Hiephora perched cross-legged on the moss. "They're much like your own elders, I would imagine, only more so because of the centuries they have lived. To hear them talk, you would think I made my women kill a man, instead of rescuing the body of one from unkind hands. No matter. Am I not a queen? I left them to argue among themselves."

"How is the casualty?"

"The arrow only grazed her. She'll be fine. The elders had a fit about that, of course."

Alemar hesitated.

"I see a troubled conscience," Hiephora said. "Tell me what burdens you so."

"What if I were to ask you to kill?"

She looked as if she had been stabbed. "That would be another matter."

"Your people would not wield the blows. But their actions would result in the death of others."

"I see. I feared this, when they took Milec. I understand the human need for revenge."

"If it were vengeance alone, I would bide my time, run away as I have for the past three years. Certainly I would deal with it without troubling you. This, I'm afraid, is a case of self-preservation."