Faith Of The Dragon Tamer (Book 2) (3 page)

Ramie stalked off, muttering oaths of every degree imaginable. He would not allow Presario to have domination over the few people who remained in the city. How dare he! The man was a recluse. He had shut everything down. What gave him the right to order these people to obey him?

Ramie would ensure Presario’s game ended, or he wasn’t the king of Yor.

A second sound echoed down the street. It was a soft grinding noise and it emerged from a shop to his left. Having no intention of stopping, Ramie marched on, but turned his head to catch a glimpse of what other imbecile would remain in a forsaken city at the hands of a recluse.

What he saw made him stop. A man peered from the shop’s doorway, sightless eyes staring at Ramie as if they could sense his specter.

The implications made Ramie’s head spin. Had Presario allowed only blind men to stay in the town? Or had Presario been mad enough to blind the remaining people so they would be unable to look upon his features if he came out of his sanctuary? Ramie drew a deep breath to calm his rising fury and strode toward the man. The man backed up, terror scrawled in his round face.

Ramie stopped and held up his hands to insinuate he meant no harm. Scowling, he dropped his arms. The man was blind. He couldn’t see the action.

“I mean you no harm,” Ramie said. The man stopped his retreat but stayed in the shadows. “How were you blinded?”

The man cocked his head to one side and glanced back to the safety of his shop. “Birth.”

A grinding wheel stood behind the man, wood chips scattered around it. A chair, still needing a back and one leg, sat beside it. From what Ramie could see the shop was well kept and the finished furniture in the back was some of the finest he had ever seen.

Ramie remembered the famous blind furniture maker, Matadon. His pieces were known throughout the Lands, and they brought a large sum. Ramie even had a few of Matadon’s pieces in the Crest castle. Sensing this man would be more reasonable than the last, Ramie took a step forward. The man took a step back.

“Matadon?” he asked. The man’s face broke out into a grin and he nodded, suddenly unafraid.

“You live here under Presario’s control?”

Matadon cocked his head to one side, making him appear more disheveled than before. Although Matadon kept a good shop, he cared little about his appearance. His matted hair and tattered clothes could use a good washing. “In a way, yes.”

“What do you mean, ‘in a way?’”

“Presario makes rules and we follow them.”

“Then you are under his control.”

“If you say.”

Ramie’s anger rose to new heights. “Only the king makes the laws. Those who preside over cities only follow them and oversee the community in which they’re in.”

“Not in Mintree. It’s different in Mintree. Presario is all in Mintree.”

Disgusted, Ramie resumed his march down the street.

Matadon’s voice followed him. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

Ramie turned in a streak of fury. “And why not?”

“Presario doesn’t like visitors.”

“And what is he going to do, kill me?”

“He might.”

Matadon turned and walked back into the shadows of his shop. Ramie couldn’t make himself move. Matadon’s words left him more than a little shaken. No guard was with him. If Matadon was right and Presario killed him, who would know?

But the more Ramie thought the more furious he became. No man in his kingdom would be allowed to treat people as slaves. There were no slaves in Oldan. Slavery had been vanquished long ago.

It seemed his business here was twofold. Not only did he need information, he also needed to have a light chat with Presario.

He gazed at the castle. The colossal blackened shell towered over him, the smell of burnt wood still strong. Ramie was surprised it was still standing, and slightly appalled someone would continue to reside within.

Now that he stood directly beneath the castles precipitous height Ramie noticed the hastily constructed stairs. They had been added to the outside and led up to the unmarred section. Despite his anger the foreboding stole over him again. Something was out of place: the two men, the broken buildings. It was almost too perfect.

As he reached the last standing building before the castle a woman dashed out and blocked his path. The sign on the building read:
House of Harlots
.

She was the most beautiful woman Ramie had ever seen. Her thin, white smock, covering a precious small amount of skin, was ripped to the thigh, revealing one long, tan leg, and the scoop at her neck hung so low her ample breasts were overflowing.

She placed a hand on his chest, halting his approach. “Please don’t,” she whispered.

Her voice was so fragile, so afraid, Ramie immediately took her hand, wanting to reassure her. She leaned into him, trembling, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her long, dark hair tickled his chin.

He stood, stunned, unsure if he should console her or push her away. She moved closer. Her breath was warm, tantalizing. The smell of her was enough to drive any man mad.

He thought of Javi and had to fight to regain control of his desires. He could feel every contour of the girl’s form: the shape of her chest, the flatness of her stomach, the curve of her hips, and the strength in her thighs. He felt all the doubt and uncertainty surrounding his marriage filter through him. He felt himself weaken. With sudden yearning he reached up to feel the girl’s hair.

His hand halted in midair. He looked at the castle before him – a tingle of warning, a shimmer of deceit.

Ramie focused on Javi and his duty to her, to the people of Yor, and to the people of all the Lands. He felt his mind become sharp.

This wasn’t natural. The entire town wasn’t
right
.

He pushed the girl away and looked into her eyes. They were two black pits, devouring all light. “Why shouldn’t I go?”

“He won’t be happy if I let you pass, he’ll … “ Her voice trailed off as she placed a slender hand on her breast. She whispered, “Tell me your troubles. I can provide you with much more than Presario.”

Ramie fought back his feelings and pushed her away.

He looked at the castle again. He thought he saw a curtain drop in the upper window.

He shoved past the woman even as she yelled for him to stop. He closed his eyes, fighting his desire to turn back. He wasn’t that strong. He may be a king, but he was also a man. He wasn’t strong enough to resist a second time.

He tensed, prepared to deal with more diversions, but none appeared. When he reached the castle he scaled the outlying fence and dropped to the ground.

The enclave was well landscaped. Although it was a simple design, with few flowers, it was attractive and comfortable. Even the grassy section below the charred ruins remained carefully tended.

But he didn’t take long to survey the area. He started for the stairs as soon as his feet touched the ground. He pulled off the stableman’s tunic and untied the rope at his waist, bemoaning the fact he had left his cloak on Foster. It had the emblem of Yor embedded in its threads and would have proven his identity at first glance.

Ramie’s mind turned to what he would say, knowing he would have to contend with Presario’s servant before he reached Presario. He would not let Presario deny him entrance. He was the king for the love of the Maker!

A rudely constructed, heavy wooden door stood at the top of the stairs. It tilted slightly, creating an immediate impression of lunacy. Ramie was truly beginning to think Presario mad. Although it went against all he had heard, what he had seen so far did nothing to discount the theory.

Ramie banged on the door and waited. Just as he lifted his hand to knock again, it opened. An old man peered out. Wrinkles covered the man’s gaunt face and no smile touched his lips, but neither caused Ramie to forget his words. It was his eyes. They were solid white, no pupil or color in them.

The man had been blinded by fire. The mere thought of fire touching his eyes turned Ramie’s skin. It must have been horrible.

The man’s brows furrowed as he cleared his throat, indicating for Ramie to speak his mind.

“I’ve come to see Presario.” Ramie’s natural authoritative tone flowed from him like melted butter.

The old man raised his eyebrows in surprise. “No one sees Presario. If you have a question write it down. He’ll decide if it’s worthy of a reply.”

When the old man began to shut the door Ramie’s temper flared. He caught it with his hand, but the old man’s strength surprised him. Although Ramie was able to stop the door he was unable to force it further open. It held steady, only a finger’s width from the frame.

One white eye peered through the crack with unusual perception. “Release your hold, my lord. Presario is now off limits to you.”

“You had better change your tone, old man. I’m Ramie Augustus, King of Yor and Ruler of Oldan. If you don’t grant me entrance I’ll declare you a traitor of Oldan and have you hung.”

One white eye regarded him, almost as if it could see. A chill went down Ramie’s spine. There was nothing right about the town, the man, or Presario. Ramie wanted answers now more than ever.

“If you are who you say, where’s your guard? And why are you here? Kings have advisors and courts. Why would a king need to see Presario?”

Ramie cooled his anger in order to answer without exploding. He didn’t like games, and that was what he was in. He also didn’t like wasting time, and that was precisely what Presario was forcing him to do.

“Kings have advisors and courts, but when war is close you never know whom to trust. I need an objective opinion and guidance on issues that must remain concealed. That’s why I’m here. I don’t think I have to worry about Presario flapping his tongue, seeing that not even a king is welcome in his home. I have no time to write my questions. I need immediate answers.” Ramie paused and cocked one eyebrow. “That is, if Presario has them.”

“Presario has them,” the old man stated as if Presario was the Oracle itself. “You speak with the hauteur of a king, or close to one. I’ll tell Presario you’re here.”

Ramie nodded and released his hold on the door. It slammed in his face. Sighing, Ramie did the only thing he knew to do, and that was to sit and wait.

- - -

Ramie paced on the small landing, glancing at the door in silent fury. Arri, the old man, had come back and told him Presario would see him, but only at dusk. Ramie had started to object when the door had slammed in his face for the second time.

If Presario was a respectable host he would have invited him in to wait, perhaps offer some tea or wine. But no, not Presario, not the man who had retreated from the world of the living to abide in a sepulchered keep of mourning.

Presario ruled like some kind of omnipotent being, commanding people to do what he wanted, when he wanted. After careful deliberation Ramie decided to ask his questions first, calmly if he could, and then deal with what Presario had done to the town. The more Ramie thought about Presario’s actions the more enraged he became. Presario had closed his lands for the sole purpose of driving people from Mintree, forced blind men to stay behind and monitor all who passed, and turned away those who entreated him for knowledge. What right did one man have to decide the fate of a city, the fate of other souls, and the fate of the future? Mintree was once the highest producing province in Yor. It could be so again.

Presario was beyond Ramie’s comprehension. Although the fire was a tragedy, Ramie would have never done what Presario had done: shut out the world, denying himself life, love and friendship, and most important, denying others a wealth of knowledge. Although some entreaties were rewarded with Presario’s reply, it took an act of the Maker to make it through the town to see the man.

Ramie thought back to the accounts of Presario’s replies and stopped pacing. Ramie turned to the town, eyes falling on the building closest to the keep:
House of Harlots
. His mind spun.

Presario only answered women!

Ramie glanced at the crooked wooden door as if it alone could reveal Presario’s secrets. Why did Presario only answer women? Why did he turn men away? Ramie glanced back toward the town, thinking about the two men and the girl. Did they only show themselves when men walked through the town? He wondered. The girl would be a useless deterrent for women, unless she focused those midnight eyes on them and screamed.

The door opened, shattering his thoughts. Arri stood back, allowing him entrance. It was the first full view Ramie had seen of the castle’s interior, and all he could do was stare.

Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. He had come to the right place. He would be surprised if there was a book in the Lands Presario hadn’t read at least ten times.

Arri shifted. “Are you coming, or are you going to stand there gaping all day?”

Ramie stepped inside, a shiver running down his spine at the old man’s words. It was said the blind had better senses than most, but Arri’s white eyes were uncanny.

Arri closed the door behind him, bolting it quickly as if an army had lined up outside. A portrait of a boy with brilliant blue eyes, cherry-brown hair, and a kind smile hung behind the door. The boy was just reaching manhood. He sat up straight and proud, daring the artist to capture all his nuances. It was Presario, as he was before. The painting had been slashed in anger, slicing the boy’s face and causing the painting to appear ominous and not enchanting.

Maybe Ramie was being too harsh on Presario. No, he thought, Presario should have picked up the pieces and gone on.

But Nigel hadn’t.

The thought knocked Ramie off balance. Although Nigel’s situation was different, it had the same result. Both Nigel and Presario had denied everyone a chance to know and love them.

Ramie followed Arri without question, suddenly feeling like a knave in a shrine. Torches were placed every few cubits in standing wrought-iron holsters. Light danced with chameleon subtlety over the profusion of books, which seemed to have no end.

Arri turned down a dark, narrow corridor halfway down the hall. Ramie was about to follow but he stopped short. The skeletal shell of the blackened castle loomed only cubits away. Ramie took a step forward, morbidly enchanted by the sight. The boards below him became a jagged, precarious precipice. The bony bowels of what had once been one of the most glorious mansions in Yor reached upward with twisted features. Only a small section of hall remained visible in the distance. Paintings hung unrecognizable, tattered curtains fluttered in enigmatic drafts, and ashes and dust were pilled high in every corner. Though furniture was sparse, there was enough evidence of former inhabitance to cause the torchlight to bring shadowy specters to life.