Dragon Weather (61 page)

Arlian stared silently at her for a moment as his throat tightened and his eyes moistened.

“You won't die,” he said. “Not if I can prevent it!”

After all, if she needed the blood of a dragonheart, that was easily come by. He was tempted to draw his sword-breaker then and there, prick his finger, and let her taste a drop of his blood—but that would mean revealing that he was as tainted as Enziet, and he did not want Sweet to see that, not yet.

“I'll be right back,” he said. He rose and stepped out into the hallway. There he drew his blade, jabbed the ball of his thumb, and squeezed out a thick drop of dark blood.

He could not let her see that it came from him, though; he smeared it onto the back of his other hand, then sheathed the blade and returned to her bed.

“Here,” he said, holding out his bloodied hand. “Lick this.”

She stared at the red smudge, then up at his face. “He's
here?
” she squeaked.

“No, of course not,” Arlian said. “This came from another sorcerer.”

Hesitantly, she lifted her head, closed her eyes, and thrust out her tongue, and Arlian pressed his hand to her lips.

She licked, and then gagged. He snatched his hand away.

“It's
different!
” she said. “It's … it's not the same, not as vile. It's foul, but different.”

“It may work, all the same,” Arlian said, worried.

“It may,” she said, obviously not convinced. She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Arlian stared down at her. “I'll let you rest,” he said.

He checked on her several times that night, and each time was the same—her brow damp with sweat, her hands trembling, her face pale and skin cool.

His blood had not been enough.

He consulted with Wither the next day, at the old man's home—Wither had seen and studied the effects of a dragonheart's blood before, in his attempts to preserve his women.

When Arlian explained the situation Wither's expression turned grave.

“I've never heard of anything like this,” he said. “It seems Lord Enziet had
several
secrets he neglected to tell us.” After some further discussion he came to the Old Palace, with a bagful of sorcerous equipment, to study Sweet's condition.

She allowed him to examine her, sampling her blood and saliva, only so long as Arlian was present. Arlian stayed with Sweet while Wither took his samples and sorceries away.

When he was done he sent a servant to inform Arlian, and the two men spoke privately in the small salon.

“It's not just the blood that has affected her,” Wither explained. “It would appear that Lord Enziet is himself taking drugs, drugs I am not familiar with, and that he has passed on to this poor child in combination with his toxic blood.”

“Can you do anything?” Arlian asked. “Can these drugs be duplicated?”

Wither shook his head. “I haven't the slightest idea. There's no way to tell from what little we know.”

“Who
would
know?”

“Besides Enziet? I have no idea.”

Arlian stared at him for a moment, then turned and called for his cloak and his sword.

Moments later he stood with his blade at the throat of the guardsman unfortunate enough to be at the gate of Enziet's home. Moments after that he was face to face with Enziet's steward.

“He took his medicines
with
him, of course,” the steward explained. He was a thin, gray-haired fellow who did not seem particularly distressed by Arlian's forced entry or by the questions put to him; Arlian supposed that he had seen any number of irregular and extraordinary things in Enziet's employ, and had learned to take them in stride.

“What are his medicines?” Arlian demanded. “What does he take?”

“I don't know,” the steward calmly replied. “It's secret. Most of the household doesn't even know he
takes
drugs, and none of us know what's in them. He obtains the ingredients himself, makes up the dosage himself—none of us ever interfere. Prying into my lord's affairs is
extremely
unwise.”

Arlian stared at the steward angrily—but then released him. It was plain he was telling the truth. He returned home empty-handed.

That night he lay beside Sweet in her bed and told her, “I don't know what to do—should I go after Enziet and try to bring him back alive?”

“No!” she said. “He'll kill you.”

“But you may die if he doesn't return.”

“I don't mind,” she said. “As I told you, it's better to die here than live…” She broke off and gasped suddenly and convulsively, then panted for a moment as Arlian leaped up and looked down at her helplessly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, when her breathing had returned to normal. “I couldn't help myself.” She laughed weakly. “I never did
that
before!”

Arlian frowned.

She might yet survive; she might fight off the poisons; but he could think of nothing more he could do. He could not imagine any way he could locate and capture Enziet and bring him back in time to help.

All he could do was make her comfortable and hope for the best.

All thought of tracking and killing Enziet had been thrust aside; Sweet's life was more important than his revenge. There would be time enough to deal with Enziet when she was recovered—or dead.

“You shouldn't have let me take you away from him,” he murmured as he lay down beside her.

She smiled at him. “Don't be silly,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

“That's silly, too,” she said. “I'm a footless, drug-addicted whore, and you're Lord Obsidian. You'll be better off when I
do
die.”

“No,” he said, resting his hand on her heart. “You'll live through this somehow.”

They fell asleep there.

Deep in the night, hours past midnight but long before dawn, Arlian awoke suddenly. Something had disturbed him, but at first he did not know what it was. Everything seemed utterly still.

Then he realized that that was it—it was
too
still. The beating of Sweet's heart beneath his hand, the gentle whisper of her labored breath, had stopped.

For a day she lay there as Arlian roamed aimlessly about the palace, weeping at times and silent at others. On the second day she was buried in the garden beneath her window as thin, dry flakes of snow, the first of the season, blew through the city streets.

And on the third day Arlian began preparations for the hunt, the pursuit, the fight that he was determined to win. He swore it over and over again.

Lord Enziet would die.

BOOK
IV

Lord Lanair

51

In Pursuit

“Still to the south,” Thirif said, studying the glowing crystal in his hand.

“Toward the Desolation,” Arlian said.

“Yes,” Thirif agreed.

Once Arlian had learned that Lord Enziet had headed south he had guessed that his destination lay somewhere in the Desolation, and every subsequent check had confirmed this suspicion.

Arlian reasoned that if Enziet had gone to fetch the venom that Wither demanded, leaving in early autumn, and if the dragons never emerged in cold weather, then he would have to go down into the dragons' caverns. Those caverns were said to be scattered throughout the Lands of Man, but Arlian had given the matter some thought, and concluded that the entrances could only be in deserted places, in wastelands where humans would not see the dragons going to and fro.

That could mean the steeper peaks in the western mountains, or the frozen plains of the far north—if dragons could tolerate such cold even in the summer—or any number of places Arlian had never seen, but Enziet had headed south, and in the rich lands to the south, between Manfort and the magic-haunted Borderlands, it seemed most likely to mean the Desolation.

Besides, Arlian remembered his earlier journey across that wasteland. He had seen signs that might have been left by dragons.

And in the Desolation Arlian expected Enziet to follow the Eastern Road, as it was along the rocky eastern route that caves and sinkholes abounded. The sandy interior seemed an unlikely place to find caverns. On the way to the Borderlands, more than two years earlier, a guard called Stabber had told him that there were caverns to the east of the three caravan routes.

Arlian had not been certain enough of his guesswork to simply head there directly, without further guidance, but the Aritheian magicians, working in concert and basing their spells on what they had learned from Sweet's poisoned blood, had devised a way to track Lord Enziet.

Due to his draconic taint, his great age and power, and the unique mix of drugs he took, Lord Enziet's blood was like nothing else in all the world, and the Aritheians had modified a crystal meant to find lost things so that it would respond only to Enziet. Thirif now held that magical stone in his hand, checking its glow periodically for any sign of change.

Four of the Aritheians had remained behind in Manfort. Hlur had been accepted by the Duke as the new Aritheian ambassador some time ago, and her husband had stayed with her, while Isein and Qulu, despite their poor command of the language, had agreed to stay and run Lord Obsidian's trade in magic.

Thirif and Shibiel had come with him—and would, if circumstances permitted, continue on home to Arithei when either Arlian or Enziet was dead.

Arlian had asked Black to remain behind as well, to look after his affairs and the Aritheians, but Black had refused.

“You'll need a guard,” he said, “
Enziet
isn't traveling alone.”

Arlian had argued, but in the end Black had prevailed; he now drove the wagon in which Arlian and Thirif and Shibiel—and Lady Rime—rode.

Arlian had more or less expected Black's behavior, but Rime's insistence on accompanying him had been a complete surprise.

“I know Enziet better than you do,” she said. “And I have my own reasons for wishing him ill.”

“It will be dangerous,” Arlian had warned her. “We may very well all be killed by some ambush.”

She had laughed bitterly. “I should have died four hundred years ago. I think you need a fellow dragonheart on your side, boy—Arlian's got Belly and Drisheen, and you'll have me. And I won't do anything foolhardy—with this leg of mine I'll hardly be able to. I'll ride in the wagon and keep your magician company, maybe teach him a little sorcery.”

“As you wish, then.”

And now the five of them were seated around a table in a Sadar inn, while Thirif and Shibiel tested the air for traces of Enziet's passage.

They had left Manfort eight days behind Enziet's party, half expecting to find them waiting in ambush just outside the gates, but while witnesses reported that Enziet had lingered in the area, he had not waited long enough for Arlian to find him. Eventually, days before Arlian set out, Enziet had moved on to the south.

Arlian's party had followed, moving as quickly as an ox-drawn wagon could go. The road was too rough for a coach—those fine springs and elegant spokes would have given out in short order—and while horses could draw a wagon well enough, Arlian considered oxen more reliable.

At Benth-in-Tara they were five days behind Enziet's party, according to the innkeeper, and Arlian had worried that Enziet might have turned aside into the hills.

At Jumpwater they had lost ground—Enziet's lead had widened to six days—but were still on the right trail. Arlian attributed the growing gap to the snowstorm that had struck midway between the two towns.

At Blasted Oak that gap was back to eight days, though no storm had intervened—in fact, the weather had seemed unnaturally warm, though the fields were brown and the trees leafless. Arlian had finally thought to ask the townspeople why Enziet might be moving more quickly, and had learned that Enziet's party was entirely on horseback, rather than riding an ox-drawn wagon—the number of men was estimated at twenty or so, the number of horses at thirty.

That was a great many horses, but Lord Enziet could afford them—as could Lord Obsidian, had he considered it.

“I should have thought of that,” Arlian said, when he had told the others. “No wagon at all.”

“Can you ride a horse?” Black asked.

“
I
cannot,” Shibiel remarked.

“It's too late now, in any case,” Rime said. “I wouldn't trust any mount I could find here. And after all, he'll be coming back north eventually.”

Arlian had not found that a very satisfactory thought.

Now, in Sadar, they were nine days behind, but Arlian was growing ever less concerned about the possibility of losing the trail. Enziet was clearly following the caravan route to the Desolation. If the weather held, a fortnight would bring Arlian and the others to Cork Tree, and another fortnight would see them past Stonebreak and into the Desolation. Horses would not do any better in that dry waste than oxen.

“I'd say the ambush will be at Cork Tree,” Black said. “Probably just north of town, so we'll be tired.”

Startled, Arlian turned. “What?”

“The ambush,” Black said. “You know, the trap? The attack?”

“What are you talking about?” Arlian demanded. “If they were going to ambush us, wouldn't they have done it long ago?”

Black sighed. “Ari, Enziet is a sorcerer, isn't he? A wily old man, known throughout Manfort for covering every detail?”

“He's right,” Rime said. “He'll have been tracking
you,
just as you've tracked him. He'll know we're coming.”

“How can he be tracking
me?
” Arlian asked. “He has nothing of mine to work from—no blood or magic.” He looked at Thirif.

The Aritheian looked thoughtful. “I understand,” he said. “I thought I was mistaken, or seeing old dreams left behind.”