Dragon Flight (18 page)

Rolian’s pacing had brought him to Nason, who was still gibbering and sucking his fingers. A line of drool hung from his chin, and his face looked puffy and swollen. He might have been simple before, but it was clear that Krashath’s death had undone his mind completely. Rolian turned to Arjas.

“And you are the one behind all this?”

“With Krashath, but he’s dead,” I piped up, unable to control myself. It seemed petty, to keep reminding Shardas of his brother, but I wanted to press home the point that dragons were thinking creatures: they could be evil, just as they could be heroic.

Luka’s hand, still on my arm, gave me a little pat, and he gave me a smile. I returned it uneasily. There was something about Rolian’s manner now, something in his expression, that said he was about to pass judgement on all of us.

Meanwhile, Lord Arjas refused to reply. He stared into the distance with a lofty expression. One of his guards poked him in the shoulder, but Arjas’s expression did not change.

“We have the word of a dragon that you are guilty,” Rolian told him. “Do we have the word of a human?” He looked at Luka first, then at me.

Nodding, I said, “Oh yes, he and Krashath both admitted that they were working together to control the king, and to attack the northern countries. Roulain was to be a necessary casualty, on the way to Feravel and Shardas, though.” I felt a little smug at that: Rolian might be in charge of this trial, if that was what it was, but it was
our
country that had been the real target.

“If you will not speak in your defence, I will assume that you have no way to defend yourself,” Rolian said to Arjas. He shook his head, puzzled. “Why would you help a dragon overthrow your own king?”

Arjas still did not look at Rolian, but he finally spoke, sneering. “Because when he had finished his vendetta, control of that drooling idiot Nason would pass to me, and I would rule Citatie.”

“I see.” Rolian walked back to us.

“Prince Luka, Feravel and Roulain will need to send ambassadors to Pelletie, to clean up the mess that is left and see to the succession.” He glanced at Nason. “I do not believe that this man is fit to rule now, if he ever was. As your father’s representative, do you agree?”

“I do.” Luka bowed his head. “Since I was the ambassador to Citatie until very recently, I volunteer myself to stand for Feravel. Of course, we must ask my father’s official sanction.”

“Of course,” Rolian agreed. “I am thinking of sending my sister’s husband. The Grand Duke Charmion is a man of great intelligence and delicacy,” Rolian informed us.

“I am sure my father will have no objections,” Luka said.

“And I shall send Niva Saffron-Wing,” Shardas said. “To ensure that the Citatian dragons are treated as they should be.”

“Ah!” Rolian shook one finger in the air. “Ah! Exactly my next topic. What to do with these dragons?”

“They must be uncollared,” I said. “But gently, so that they do not panic.” I didn’t add that they needed to be uncollared as far from their riders as possible, to avoid a slaughter.

“Is that really wise?” Rolian arched just one eyebrow this time. “They are trained fighters, conditioned to hate northerners, and very clever beasts, it would seem. Is it safe for them to roam around uncollared?”

I half rose out of my seat. Luka’s cheeks coloured and he opened his mouth to protest. And then Shardas leaned over me so that he was looking Rolian directly in the eye.

“You are surrounded by soldiers, trained to kill and to be loyal to you and Roulain. Is it safe for them to be walking around loose? Should they be collared?” Shardas paused.

I was pleased that Shardas was using the same
argument that I had tried with Earl Sarryck at the start of this mess. It seemed that we thought very much alike.

Continuing, Shardas said, “Human soldiers do not need restraint to keep them from killing, and neither do dragons. These dragons have been coerced, tortured even, and deserve to be set free.

“We are not a war-like race,” he continued. “We do not revel in killing, nor are we hungry for land or power the way most humans seem to be. We
shall
uncollar the Citatian dragons, gently, as Creel suggested. And you will leave the punishing of any dragons to me. I am their king, they are my responsibility. Not yours.” He drew back.

“I … see,” Rolian said, his smooth voice coming perilously close to squeaking. “Very well, then.”

“Yes,” Shardas said. “Very well.” He looked at the two captive Citatians. “You may do with them as you like,” he announced. “But now I must aid my people.” And he and Velika turned away.

Standing, I gave another small curtsy. It was small because curtsying in my Citatian trousers looked and felt ridiculous. “If you will excuse me, Your Majesty, I would like to go with my friends.”

“Ah, hmm, of course, Lady Creel,” Rolian said.

As I passed the orange dragon, I caught hold of the collar and gave a little tug. “You, come with me,” I told him, not unkindly.

The commander started to protest, but the Roulaini
soldier guarding him raised his halberd in a meaningful way. The Citatian commander subsided, nodding for his dragon to follow me. The Roulaini halberdier gave me a cordial smile, which I returned.

With one hand on the orange dragon’s collar, I led him along the shore to where his king and queen were gathering their kind. I saw Niva and Feniul, and all my friends, and waved to them. Niva just nodded, busy organising the Citatian dragons for their uncollaring. Feniul came slithering across the sand to meet me, though, carrying the proud news that Ria had agreed to be his mate.

“We shall have dogs and monkeys and our very own sheep for eating,” he said, his eyes glowing.

“That’s wonderful, Feniul.” I gave him a kiss on the end of his scaly nose. “Now be a dear and help me get this collar off Orange, here.”

The war was over and we were taking our people home at long last.

Niva and Leontes had brought their hatchlings to Citatie, to keep the young ones out of trouble while their parents oversaw the uncollaring of the dragons and made sure that the dragons’ needs were being met. Shardas wanted to go himself, but Velika and I had prevailed in our insistence that he return to Feravel and heal. Even with the silk wing covers, his wounds had been reopened by the battles, and it would be some time before he was whole.

Luka had stayed on as well, to accompany the Roulaini ambassador to Citatie. Since the Roulaini had refused to be flown to Pelletie on dragonback, Luka had agreed to travel first by boat and then by horse to the city, which would take days instead of hours. Tobin was with him as bodyguard, which made Marta sigh a great deal. I tried to be sympathetic, and also to hide my own disappointment that Luka and I would be separated yet again.

So it was a rather subdued party that made its way to
Feravel. Dragons that Velika and Shardas knew and cherished had been lost in the battle. They worried, too, that the new king of Citatie might try to continue the plan of using dragons as pack animals or fighters. Many of the dragons in that land had been born into captivity – collared at their hatching. They knew no other way of life. It would be difficult for them to adjust to freedom.

“Another thing that worries me,” Shardas said over lunch, “is that so many of us have been exposed to the human eye.”

We were sitting in a large meadow to eat our midday meal. The next few hours, even flying slowly as Velika dictated, would take us into Feravel. Off to one side, Feniul was describing Feravel’s rolling hills and mild climate to Ria, who hung on his every word. Ruli, chattering in his usual piercing fashion, was leaping from her horns to his while Marta pretended not to care that her pet preferred the dragons.

Amacarin lounged nearby, a smitten look on his face, while Gala’s hatchlings cuddled against him to nap. Gala was curled up on his other side, occasionally checking on her little bronze-and-brown brood, as though still not believing her luck that Amacarin had apparently fallen madly in love with her and her four children.

“But isn’t it better that humans become accustomed to you again?” I said, resigned. We had had variations of this argument off and on since the war had ended. To my distaste, everyone was calling it the Second Dragon War.
It made me think that people were anticipating a Third or even Fourth Dragon War. My only solace was that Marta was the heroine of this one.

Shardas shook his head. “How can we know this won’t happen again? If Milun the First could find one way to control all the dragons for miles around, and Krashath find a different way to control us individually, then it is only a matter of time until someone else tries a third method.”

“But this time humans helped to fight Krashath’s army,” I reminded him. “They
wanted
the dragons uncollared.” I held up a hand, seeing where his next argument was coming from. “I know, most of the humans were doing it to prevent their own land from being destroyed. But some of them cared about the dragons, too, like Luka.”

“And you,” Velika added.

“And me,” I agreed.

“Going back into hiding is out of the question now, I suppose,” Shardas said, heaving himself to his feet. “But I am intrigued at the idea of raising our own crops and keeping our own animals. Ria has promised to help advise us, and we hope to use some of our hoards to buy the lambs and seeds.” He blinked a little and then grunted. “Well, those of us with the means to buy their own supplies.”

His hoard had been destroyed by Amalia the year before, and Velika’s was long gone, since she had been
believed dead for more than a century. I had a little money saved, and I thought that it would be enough to help them start a flock, and plant a few peach trees, but I held my tongue for now. I knew that neither of them would want to take my charity, so I would have to wait and present it later as a gift.

Actually, my brother, Hagen, was not doing too badly raising plums, and I knew that I could have him send me some seedlings as well as cultivation instructions. His real job was maintaining a museum that displayed the hoard that once belonged to Theoradus, a local dragon who had died in the first war. But on the land behind the museum he had planted a small orchard, more out of curiosity than anything else. Everyone in our family, he claimed in his letter to me, had “farming blood”. That none of us had ever been successful only meant that we hadn’t found the crop the Triune Gods intended us to farm. I had rolled my eyes at this letter, and sent back a tart reply, listing the things our father had tried and failed to farm. What else was left? He, in turn, had sent me a crate of dried plums, plum preserves and plum wine. No letter, just the fruits of his labours, literally, to jab at my cynicism.

I didn’t tell Shardas any of this, of course. At least, not about helping him begin an orchard. I had read him Hagen’s letters before, and given him the plum wine to share with Velika. Now I climbed up on Velika’s back, and Marta mounted Feniul, and we continued on our way.

Just as I could see the far mountains that rose above Carlieff Town, where I had been born, an arrow whizzed past my ear. Velika swerved and shot higher into the air. There were shouts from the others, and we all circled to talk when the dragons had gone high enough that the arrows could not reach us.

“Who is shooting at us?” Feniul was dithering back and forth in the sky, torn between protecting his queen and protecting his new mate. “Why?”

“Is it the Citatians?” Amacarin’s chest swelled with rage and bottled-up fire. “Did they send an advance party that hasn’t yet heard the war is over?” He gathered two of Gala’s hatchlings under his wings, and she shielded the other two.

“Those uniforms are Feravelan,” I said. A sudden realisation struck me. “This is the border: they must think
we’re
Citatians.”

There was a chorus of understanding “ahs”, and we decided that Shardas, Velika and I would go down under a white flag and explain. Marta blushingly gave up the hem of her white shift, which Shardas took from her with grave thanks.

We landed twenty yards from the archers and waited while their commander came over to us. I smiled at him in a friendly way, and introduced myself. I expected surprise and perhaps even recognition: “
That
Mistress Carlbrun?”

But I got neither. The commander bowed curtly and
nodded his head without surprise. He knew who we were, he said, and he was there to enforce the Feravelan border.

“A very noble deed,” Shardas replied. “But are you supposed to be keeping out the Citatians or the Feravelans?”

“We are just trying to return to our homes,” Velika said. She sounded strained.

“Mistress Carlbrun and any other humans with you are free to return to their homes,” the commander said. “But no dragon will be allowed to cross the Feravelan border. Ever again.”

He handed me a proclamation, signed and sealed by King Caxel, that said just that. All dragons had been banned from Feravel as of a week previously. The day that the war with Citatie had ended.

“That sneaky little –”

Velika put a claw around my waist and squeezed gently to stop me from saying anything shocking about Caxel. The dragons bowed their heads in acquiescence, Velika heaved me on to her shoulder, and we flew up to meet the others.

“It’s happened, as I feared it might,” was all Shardas said. Marta looked confused, but the dragons groaned.

“What will we do now?” Feniul protectively grasped Ria’s foreclaws in his own. “Shardas, where can we go?”

The smallest of Gala’s hatchlings squeaked in fright, and Amacarin plucked it from the air and put it on his back, his eyes soft with concern.

“We’ll go to the King’s Seat and try to reason with Caxel,” Shardas said, but his voice didn’t hold out much hope.

We backtracked until we were out of the archers’ sight, then flew into Feravel as high up as the hatchlings could manage. This was tiring for the dragons and the humans, for the air was very thin and cold. It was dark by the time we reached the King’s Seat.

What shocked me almost as much as the order from Caxel was the dragons’ lack of surprise. It was all Marta and I could talk of.