Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

Claric dropped Seerie ignominiously on the floor, bruising her weak knee. She forced herself not to cry out.

"Leave us," the wizard told Claric.

Claric did so, without a word. Seerie made a note of it. Claric only gave this sort of silent obedience to someone he feared. Yet Omril had lived in Cilendrodel scarcely more than a fortnight.

Seerie did not bother to glance up as Omril walked slowly toward her. She could see his deceptively young face reflected in the gleaming marble floor.

"You are well thought of in Old Stump," Omril said, evincing none of the anger he had displayed in the town. "That is, according to the reports I've collected today."

Seerie's eyebrows rose in spite of herself. "You asked about me?"

"How else am I supposed to learn anything?"

Seerie did not know what she had expected when summoned to the magician's presence, but it was not this. "Come, sit down," he said, shocking her even more.

"What do you want with me?" she said, finally facing him. It was hard to do. His pale eyes left her feeling as if she were naked. She sank uncertainly into his cushioned chair.

"Why, knowledge, of course. You are the rebel's spokesman."

"I told you before, I am only an old woman."

Omril shrugged. "I speak metaphorically. Sometimes important facts hide in the most trivial of places." He gestured at the open scroll on the table. "Take this, for example. I found it in the library of this castle. It's considered the definitive work on the rythni, thin as it is. Yesterday I would have considered it a work of fiction. An hour ago I read that their females are winged during their reproductive years. Now I understand how Milec's body was spirited away."

Omril lifted one of the paperweights and allowed the scroll to close. "This prince and his sister are a danger to my master. My mission is to learn as much as I can about them. You'll tell me all you know."

"No. I won't."

"You'll resist, of course," the wizard said judiciously. "But it won't do you any good. Have you heard of dragon-touching?"

Seerie sank deeper into the chair.

"The human version is far weaker than that of a dragon, as one might expect, but Gloroc is an excellent tutor. It takes special training to be able to thwart the technique. Regrettably Milec had such training. You, I perceive, have none. It's best you don't struggle. It will save me from leaving permanent damage."

He uttered a word in a language Seerie did not recognize, and suddenly bands of silk sprung from the rear of the chair and bound her. Within a beat of her heart she was rendered immobile. Omril placed the bar against the door, moved a stool next to her, and took her hand. His grip was frighteningly gentle.

"Look at me," he said.

She did not want to obey. She kept her face turned. But she could not resist one quick, apprehensive glance. For the barest instant, her eyes met his. That was all it took.

Two soldiers of the garrison left the house, laughing at an obscene joke, and headed toward the Silver Eel. Seerie stood in the shade of the tree across the lane, stifling her rage. The soldiers had occupied the house for only two months, yet already the shrubbery she had so carefully cultivated had died. The men had carved their marks in the door frame. A pile of refuse had grown under the front window.

She had moved into that house as a bride. With her husband dead, her home had been the greatest comfort of her elder years. Now she had only a room in her sister's small residence. According to the new regime, old women did not deserve houses of their own when men of the garrison could make use of them.

She glared at the departing figures, most especially at the Dragon's insignia on their shoulders, and hobbled off to a part of the hamlet where she would not have to view what used to be.

The pain in her gut flared again. She groaned and tried to stretch out completely, hugging the bedcovers to her neck to ward off another sudden chill, but her abdominal muscles would not relax. She hardly noticed that her sister had entered the room, nor that she had brought someone with her.

He came forward into the candle glow. He was short, lean, black-haired, and wore a green cape. His right hand was enclosed in a jewel-encrusted mail gauntlet…

Seerie felt a tug at her mind, halting the flow of the memory. Over and over she saw the gauntlet, just as she had that night: The metal seemed to be gold. Tiny gems were placed at regular intervals across its surface, as well as a large, brilliant stone on the base knuckle of each finger. Each of the larger jewels shone with a different color. It was not the candle light they reflected; the illumination came from within them. At the sight of such a talisman, Seerie knew the identity of her visitor.

"Lilara," she murmured to her sister. "How did you…?"

"I didn't bring him," Lilara said. "He just appeared at the door."

"I heard of your condition," Alemar explained. "I've come to see what I can do."

Seerie swallowed. Dared she hope? Before she could speak, he took her hand in his bare palm, and closed his eyes. His expression grew blacker. He sighed and looked at her with compassion.

"It is your time," he said solemnly. "I cannot stop the progress of this disease. Your body wishes to die."

She looked down and nodded. She had feared it. In a way, it relieved her to be told the certainty of it.

"However," he added, "there is something I can offer." He withdrew a flask from his pouch, pulled the stopper, and tipped the spout to her lips. She took a small amount. It tasted like wine, lacking the bite of fermented fruit, but mimicking the rapid, suffusing warmth of alcohol. It had hardly reached her stomach before she felt her belly begin to unclench. Not only was the pain fading, but she could think more clearly than any time for the past week.

"One sip per day will ease your suffering, yet leave your mind unclouded." He gave the flask to Lilara. "That contains as much as you are going to need, I'm afraid."

"How can I thank you?" she asked.

"Drink my medicine," was all he said.

When she saw the twenty riders dragging their grisly burden down the center of Old Stump, Seerie knew she had borne as much as she could. "I'm going to follow them," she told her sister.

Lilara waved her pudgy hands in alarm. "What will you do?" she cried as Seerie reached for her cane.

"I will speak my mind," Seerie answered, and opened the door. The procession was well ahead of her; but she knew their destination. Lilara begged her to come back, but did not herself emerge from the house. Seerie turned a deaf ear. She would confront the nephew who had driven his mother, her youngest sister, to an early passing; she would speak against the governor who had ousted her from her home; she would proclaim the nobility of the prince who had eased her pain. She would do what others, with something to lose, feared to do.

Seerie came gradually to consciousness. The memories lingered like vivid dreams, detailed, but unreal. The incidents no longer felt like personal history; they struck her as moments from someone else's life.

Two men were talking. She opened her eyes and found that she was still in the chair, but the bindings had disappeared. Several candles and a pair of lamps lit the wizard's room, brightening what Motherworld provided through the windows. The air was cooler. She knew then that far more time had passed during the dragon-touching than she had perceived.

She glanced up into the gaunt visage of Lord Puriel, governor of central Cilendrodel.

"That's all?" he asked Omril. He glared at Seerie, tugging absently at his slate grey beard.

"She is strong-willed," the magician stated, brushing a piece of lint from his fine attire, "but she hadn't the skills to keep me from seeing what I wished. She is what she claims, only a dying old woman, angry at the change in her fortunes."