Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two (50 page)

Morning brought another meal, and another one in the mid-afternoon. The guards shrugged off her questions, and then another night fell. Two more days crawled past. Exhaustion finally allowed her to sleep on the hard cot. When her stomach told her it was time for the afternoon meal on the fourth day, she watched as footsteps approached the corner of the hall. Padar emerged around the corner, turned and told someone else to wait, out of sight, and then approached her cell.

“Good afternoon, Lady Alastra,” he said. “I am sorry that your stay here has stretched on so long.”

“You brought a scribe?” Rienne’s eyes darted back down the hall, eager to see the means of her deliverance.

“The situation has proven much more complicated than I had any reason to expect. Not exactly a routine case of missing traveling papers. Your family’s ties to House Lyrandar initially made our government reluctant to touch your case.” He referred to a sheaf of papers in his hand—an increasingly irritating habit. “But then we learned you’ve been connected to an excoriate who also happens to be a fugitive from Dreadhold. So House Lyrandar wants nothing to do with you.”

Rienne’s hands went cold on the iron bars.

Padar swallowed and continued. “House Kundarak, as you know, involved itself. But they decided to lay no claim on you, and the other Houses have followed their lead. That accounts for the delay. In fact, I’m somewhat amazed that we received responses from all the Houses so quickly.”

“So what now?” Rienne asked. Her voice sounded more desperate than she intended.

“Now, in the end, your case turns out to be a routine matter of missing traveling papers after all.” Padar smiled weakly. “I did indeed bring a scribe from House Sivis to complete your traveling papers. He is waiting downstairs.”

Relief washed over her and she sank down on her cot. “Thank you,” she breathed.

“In addition, it appears that you still have at least one friend in House Lyrandar.” Padar turned and called down the hall, “You may approach now.”

Rienne stood again, went to the bars, and looked down the hall. A young guard appeared around the corner first, a halberd in one hand and a heavy ring of keys in the other. Another man followed, a broad smile lighting his weathered face.

“Jordhan!” Rienne laughed with raw delight. Only Gaven’s face could have been a more welcome sight. “You’re back!”

As he approached, Rienne thrust her hands between the bars, and he took them in his own warm grasp.

“Only just,” he said. “The return journey was somewhat harder without the Storm Dragon’s help.”

The guard’s keys rattled as she unlocked the cell door. Rienne relinquished Jordhan’s grasp long enough to let the door swing open, then threw her arms around his waist and held him tight. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d been in the cell until she felt Jordhan’s warm embrace.

“If you’ll follow me downstairs,” Padar said, “I’ll get your belongings and we’ll settle the matter of your papers—and the fine, of course.”

“Of course.” The fine would probably be outrageous, but she didn’t care.

C
art and Ashara insisted that Gaven get more rest while they waited out the siege, waited for the distraction Ashara predicted or some other change to the game. Gaven didn’t think he could sleep, knowing that a dragon lurked in the tunnel, and soldiers beyond, but he was wearier than he had realized.

Nightmares troubled his sleep, dark whispers of despair and malice. He saw Ashara change form, taking on Darraun’s laughing face and mocking him for being so duped. Malathar’s flaming breath enveloped him and bony claws tore at his flesh. Kelas held the bloodstone containing Gaven’s dragonmark, and the mark slithered out of the shard to wrap itself over his skin as he cackled in triumph. Rienne wept in a dungeon somewhere in Rav Magar, calling out for him. Cart stood against him, shielding Ashara/Darraun from his attack. A hideous, undead Haldren bombarded him with fire. He woke, over and over, in his cell in Dreadhold.

When at last he truly awoke, he thought at first he was still in Dreadhold. Ashara’s slow breathing behind him was out of place, though. He sat up and saw the blue crystal, framed by a snarling demonic figure, then turned to see Cart, standing right where he’d been when Gaven fell asleep, just to the side of the tunnel mouth.

“Any change?” Gaven said.

“I hear thunder,” Cart replied.

It stung Kelas to kneel before the queen, but he had to keep up the act a little longer. Baron Jorlanna and Arcanist Wheldren had persuaded her to come and view the Dragon Forge. He had to act as though he appreciated her condescension.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” he said to the ground. “May I present to you the Dragon Forge—the instrument of your victory in your western campaign.”

The queen deigned to address him directly. “Show me.”

Hiding his grin, Kelas rose. Queen Aurala stood at the center of the arcane circle, right where Malathar and Gaven had appeared weeks ago. She had a reputation for great beauty and in her younger days had a reputation for toying with her suitors and playing them against each other. Kelas had never understood that. She was too thin, too fair-skinned. Her blonde hair was fine. She looked fragile, easily broken. Her silk gown, fur-trimmed cloak, and delicate jewelry contributed to the impression that she was weak.

Soon she will be broken, Kelas thought with satisfaction.

With that thought in mind, Kelas led the little procession down into the canyon. Three of Aurala’s bodyguards followed him, then the queen, Jorlanna and Wheldren, then four more guards. The air tasted thin, and Kelas’s mind felt stretched. So much rode on this day, but he was prepared. He had accounted for every possibility. Malathar was out of sight in a nearby canyon—his presence would have been too alarming to the queen. Phaine had vanished when Gaven escaped, either in shame or hunting the excoriate, it didn’t matter. One of Malathar’s dragons, the black one, had gone in search of Gaven, and the others four ancient ones had long since left the area. Only three small dragons remained, safely hidden beneath the forge, fueling it with their breath. Nothing could go wrong.

He led the queen into the narrow entrance to the Dragon Forge. He felt the guards behind him tense as steam and flame roared along the walls, but he strode on to where the glorious dragonshard lay couched in its elaborate mechanism.

“The Dragon Forge has harnessed the power of a dragonmark,” Jorlanna said to the queen. “Now it can use that power and amplify it—”

“Please, Baron,” Kelas interrupted. “Let Her Majesty see for herself.”

With a pull of a lever, the dragonshard came alive with the light of a sun, drawing the lines of Gaven’s dragonmark on the
walls and ceiling of the forge. Jorlanna’s people sprang into action at the device’s controls, but Kelas could see only the dragonshard. He placed both hands on its smooth, warm surface and felt a thrill shiver through his body. He caressed it with his fingertips—he imagined it gave way to his touch, ever so slightly, like the skin of a lover.

Thunder rumbled overhead, then a sharp crack. He tore his eyes from the dragonshard and nodded to Arcanist Wheldren as rain began to pelt the metal roof.

“Your Highness,” Jorlanna said, “the Dragon Forge has created a terrible storm above us. Now we’ll send the storm to the northwest.”

Wheldren had drawn a circle in the air, and it shimmered to life like a mirror. “Your Highness,” he said, “I invite you to gaze through this window to where your troops are gathering near Varna.”

With a quizzical look, Queen Aurala stepped to the circle in the air and peered into it. Kelas smiled broadly. He could taste his success. He heard thunder rumble in the northwest, and the pounding of rain on the roof stopped.

“Greetings, Your Highness.” The voice came through the window, and Aurala drew herself up in surprise. “I am Arcanist Fillian of the Arcane Congress. I will now direct your gaze south, across Lake Galifar.”

The queen looked closer. Kelas knew what she was seeing—a hint of a dark cloud, growing quickly as it charged away from the Dragon Forge and across the lake. Soon it would be pouring devastation on the Eldeen troops defending Varna. Kelas counted slowly, barely daring to breathe.

Fifteen seconds, thirty. Aurala shifted impatiently, and Kelas bit his lip. Forty-five. A rumble of thunder came through the window, and the queen brought her face as close as she could to the magical window. A mighty crash startled her, but she shot a faint smile at a guard on her right. He had her.

“Your Highness,” Fillian shouted over the roar of the storm, “I wish I could give you a closer look, but I am at the edge of the storm and perhaps too close as it is.”

The storm had picked up strength as it crossed the lake, and its devastation was incredible. Kelas saw Wheldren tense—he was worried for Fillian. The storm did seem to be battering the Aundairian forces more than they had planned, but if the effects on the Reachers were terrible enough it wouldn’t matter. Aurala watched in fascination, and Kelas could feel Jorlanna and Wheldren holding their breath, waiting. The noise of the Dragon Forge seemed to fade until the thunder and wind of the storm were the only sound.

Kelas broke the hush at last. “The siege of Varna is over, Your Highness. Before it began.”

Aurala turned slowly away from the window, and Wheldren collapsed it with a wave. Jorlanna bit her lip, waiting for the queen’s response before delivering her lines.

“Impressive,” Aurala said. Her gaze swept between Jorlanna and Wheldren. “Am I to understand that House Cannith and the Arcane Congress have provided the use of this weapon at no charge to my treasury?”

That was what Jorlanna had been waiting for. Kelas smiled as Baron d’Cannith stepped up to the queen and fell to one knee.

“Your Highness, I pledge the work and support of House Cannith to the service of the crown of Aundair. We are yours to command.”

Aurala was taken aback. “Baron d’Cannith, are you disregarding the Korth Edicts?”

Kelas’s pulse pounded in his ears. Everything hung in the balance in that moment. For over a thousand years, the Korth Edicts had staked out the neutrality of the dragonmarked Houses—prohibiting marriage between heirs of the Houses and members of Khorvaire’s nobility, preventing the Houses from owning land or building armies, and in exchange giving them a measure of independence from royal dictates. Disregarding them was exactly what Jorlanna was doing—sacrificing that freedom and swearing fealty to the queen. No, Kelas reminded himself—to the crown, which Aurala would not wear much longer.

“We are,” Jorlanna said.

Aurala turned to the officer at her side. Without a word, the soldier drew his sword and handed it, hilt first, to the queen.

Gently she rested the flat of the blade on Jorlanna’s shoulder.

“Rise then, Jorlanna ir’Cannith. I accept your fealty and offer you the protection of the crown.”

Wheldren’s pledge of fealty was less momentous, but Aurala treated it with no less dignity. The dragons had spoken of a turning point in history, and Kelas knew he stood at that moment. Centuries of tradition had just been abandoned. The political and economic landscape of Khorvaire would never be the same.

A sharp crack of thunder echoed in the tunnel, jolting Gaven fully awake. It was close, perhaps directly overhead. Or right over the Dragon Forge. Rivulets of water snaked down the tunnel, and the next thunderclap sent pebbles trickling from the temple’s ceiling.

“It’s the damned forge,” Gaven said. “Using my dragonmark. Making another storm.”

“The Secret Keeper …” Ashara murmured.

Shouts from the soldiers outside almost drowned out her voice. Gaven peered into the tunnel. He couldn’t see the dragon, and the daylight at the far end was dim and gray, barely distinct from the darkness of the passage.

A more powerful storm than you ever created
.

The voice whispered in Gaven’s mind, as close as his pulse. It was the same malignance that had haunted his dreams while he was a captive at the forge, the same evil that coursed through the forge itself.