Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

The moon and planet glow created deep shadows under the rythni's eyebrows, which made her expression seem doubly serious. "As for myself, there is no question. Gloroc is a great evil, and his governor a reflection of him. However, I cannot order my subjects to follow me, though many of them will. This defies tradition enough that my elders may well rouse out of their bowers in order to discipline me. We might soon both be rebels."

"Then you must not do it," Alemar said quickly.

"I made my decision to be part of your destiny years ago," Hiephora answered softly, "the day I tipped over your mother's cup of amethery. Do what you must do, prince, and I will be there."

He paused, as if to protest, but she held up her hand. Finally he sighed and touched his fingertip to her palm. "So be it," he said.

Music drifted through the forest of Cilendrodel, past the many watchful, tiny eyes. Wynneth waited by the fire, while Alemar sat with Solint the Minstrel, playing in unison "The Hero with a Hundred Wings" on lute and cittern. By now the musician had caught the tune and Alemar had to concentrate to match him. It did Wynneth good to see her husband apparently absorbed with the song.

Presently she glanced up, and saw a small, manlike form flit across a patch of half-night sky. At the same time, she became aware that someone had joined her.

"Wondering when they'll talk to you?" Elenya asked.

Wynneth made room for her sister-in-law. "I would be surprised if they ever did."

The firelight splashed over Elenya's face. There were no tears on her cheeks. "They might. You're like him," she said, gesturing toward her brother. "The same gentle soul. They can see that."

"Alemar tells me they used to talk to you."

"When we were children," Elenya said pensively. "I even learned a little of their language. But it ended when I reached puberty, and it never did compare to the rapport Alemar had with them. To be truthful, I didn't mind; I was too busy becoming a woman, or a fencer, or a princess."

Wynneth stared fixedly at Elenya. Her husband's sister had been completely silent on the journey from the grave site to this camp. Even now, her preoccupation was obvious from the pattern of her speech and the ominous warbling of the great wizard's amulet at her throat. Wynneth rubbed her belly nervously.

Elenya noticed the motion, and said, "Alemar told me last night you're pregnant."

"True," Wynneth said, and self-consciously took her hand away. "As a matter of fact, it was he who told me. He knew what had happened within hours of conception."

"Where will you go for the birth?"

"I don't know yet. Somewhere north, away from the coast."

Elenya stretched her gauntlet closer to the fire, letting the flames reflect on the polished metal. "Do you know, I have never even considered the thought of having a child?"

Wynneth waited several moments before speaking. "I know," she said finally.

"What will it be, a boy or a girl?" Elenya added after an equally long pause.

"A boy."

"Good. That's good."

A son of the Blood, Wynneth thought. And, now that Keron had been declared monarch of Elandris, in the absence of a capable leader among the survivors of the late King Pranter's more immediate family, the child might one day be a contender for the throne. That was assuming that the Dragon's possession of the kingdom could be ended, and the dynasty of Alemar Dragonslayer restored.

The women's conversation died out, and did not resume that night. The music became a lullaby. Wynneth stirred from a doze to find that Alemar had left the minstrel's side. He leaned over, kissed her on the lips, then helped his sister to her feet.

As the twins' gauntlets touched, they crackled with static. For a moment, Wynneth saw not her husband and sister-in-law, two people whom she knew and understood well, but two frightening, powerful beings. They stood face to face, short, lean, dark-haired magicians, descendants of perhaps the most powerful sorcerer ever to have lived. They turned together, walking away from the camp to confer, using the wordless method permitted by their amulets, leaving Wynneth to her all too normal humanity. Her thoughts turned to the child inside her. Would he one day frighten her as much?

V

THE DUNGEON REEKED. Seerie smelled stale urine, mildewed wood, dank stone, and rats. Occasionally there would be a scuffing of feet or a muffled groan from one of the cells across the corridor, but Seerie made no attempt to communicate. Damp straw and dirt sent rivers of cold into her bony rump. She guessed she had been there for at least twelve hours, uncertain because she had dozed some time after the jailor had shoved a plate of unappetizing gruel under her door. The vermin had eaten it.

The pain was back, dull and throbbing, low in her abdomen. She accepted it along with the other discomforts. Soon enough there would be release from all of them.

A new sound dragged her out of her feverish reverie. Heavy boots reverberated on the wooden slats of the walkway. The glimmer of lanterns filtered through the bars of the peephole.

Keys rattled in the lock. The door swung outward. Seerie blinked her eyes, trying to adjust to the illumination. A lumbering silhouette took two steps into the chamber, while the jailor waited in the corridor.

"Aunt Seerie, the Dragon's magician has summoned you!" Claric held the lantern high, casting garish streaks of light and shadow across his face. His gold tooth gleamed.

"The captain of the guard is now an errand boy," Seerie observed.

"Mind your tongue, old woman. I'm here for the pleasure of it."

"Obviously. You haven't changed, only grown worse with a lord who indulges your vices." She met his glare squarely, in spite of the distance he loomed above her.

"I might show you your place, Auntie, but Omril wants you intact, and I've no need to lift a finger to you. You're half a corpse already. What's the good of your fancy healer prince if he can't cure one old woman?"

"I will be glad to die, rather than live knowing I have kin like you," she said calmly.

He poked her sharply toward the door. She winced, but masked the reaction immediately, and started to walk. The jailor led the way through the maze of cells. Claric pressed uncomfortably close behind her. She had trouble keeping her balance on the slats. She reminded herself that they were easier to negotiate than the naked floor of mud, and carried on stoically, knowing that the less she seemed to suffer, the less Claric would like it.

The stairs were much worse. Before she had climbed to the servants' level, her right knee began to wobble ominously. She began to gasp. The jailor returned to his station, leaving Claric to nudge her backside the whole trip up to the lord's level. A guard smirked at her as she was hustled along a hallway. She marched on, determined not to stumble, though they had taken her cane when they had arrested her. At least the way was level now.

To her dismay, Claric directed her toward another flight of stairs. She began to climb them, depending almost entirely on her left leg. She crumpled on the fifth step.

Claric cursed, but rather than exhort her to get up, he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour and continued on. The Dragon's mage must be in a hurry, Seerie decided. She wanted to jab her elbow into her nephew's kidneys, but she was too exhausted to bother. She hung limp, nose full of the odor of sweaty leather.

They passed a narrow window, and she could see that they were ascending the northwest tower of the stronghold. Outside the sunset was mirrored in the water of Rock Lake. It was a view much too beautiful for the likes of Lord Puriel.

At the end of the stairs Claric rapped on a heavy door. They heard the wizard's command to enter, and, obeying it, found him contemplating the same scenery. His quarters filled the top of the tower. Along every wall were cabinets and shelves filled with books, scrolls, and vials of various powders and liquids. Pigeons cooed in a small coop. At the center of the room was a broad, finely polished table, on which stood a single scroll, weighted down by a pair of exquisite sculptures of dragons.