Song of the Dragon (38 page)

The ground of the garden suddenly softened beneath his feet. His feet plunged down into the earth, which had suddenly turned into a worm-riddled mud that refused to support his weight. The worms churned in the mire, pulling him downward. Drakis struggled to pull his feet out of the mess, but he was already up to his knees.

“Ethis!” Drakis cried out. “Help! I can't . . .”

“Your most Glorious Majesty,” Ethis intervened, “he is, as you yourself have noted, only a human and as such carries with him the follies of his race.”

“He should show better manners,” Murialis replied in tones devoid of compassion. “And know his place in the world.”

“I should be delighted to instruct him on your behalf,” Ethis replied. “But in Your Majesty's interest, may I point out that your august self only has a use for this human if he remains breathing.”

Murialis considered for a moment and then nonchalantly raised her left hand. Two of the great ash trees that stood to either side of her throne bent over at once, their branches wrapping around Drakis' torso and pulling him from the mire. Drakis cried out from the crushing pain and then fell awkwardly to the now surprisingly firm ground beneath him as the branches sprang away from him and the trees returned to their stately positions.

“
This
is supposed to be the fulfillment of the Rhonas' Doom?” Murialis sneered as she climbed once more to her throne and sat down.

“So the dwarf says . . .”

Murialis gave a dismissive laugh.

“. . . And so the manticore believes,” Ethis continued. “He bears the name of prophecy, and the circumstances of his past fit the legend—or would with a little judicious revision. Your glorious self has proved that he answers to the Dragon Song.”

“As one in any random dozen humans do,” Murialis mused. “Still, the possibilities are intriguing. You've questioned him . . . what does he think of this prophecy he is supposed to fulfill?”

“Your Majesty, he is aware of . . .”

“Questioned me?” Drakis interrupted but on seeing the look on the Queen's face struggled to think of more appropriate forms of address. “Forgive me, Queen Murialis. I am . . . only a slave warrior . . . but this chimerian never questioned me on any ‘prophecy' or anything like it.”

“Oh, this is too entertaining,” Murialis' voice purred as she leaned back into her throne. “Ethis, indulge me! Show this human your marvelous trick.”

“Your Majesty knows that I serve at the behest of the Lady Chythal, Mistress of the High Council in Exile,” Ethis said, straightening slightly as he spoke, “It would be a betrayal of that trust if I were to reveal . . .”

“I need no reminding of Chythal,” Murialis spoke loud enough to cover the chimerian's words. “You and your vagabond traveling companions are still reveling in your tiresome mortal existence only because of the bonds between your Lady of the High Council and my most generous self. Show him, Ethis. I
will
be amused.”

“Might I suggest . . .”

“You may not,” Murialis frowned, and as she spoke, storm clouds gathered over the transparent dome above their heads. “Oblige me.”

Ethis paused and then bowed, spreading all four of his arms out graciously. “At your service.”

Drakis wondered for a moment just what it was he was supposed to be impressed by; he had fought alongside chimera—and occasionally against them—for as long as he had gone to battle. His training in the arena had taught him all about their telescoping bone structure that allowed them to vary their size and, at the same time, made it nearly impossible to break their bones in combat. He knew, too, of their ability to alter the coloration of their skin so that they could blend into their surroundings and be more difficult to see on a battlefield. As he watched Ethis' form shift, it was all familiar to him, and he wondered if he would have to work up some feigned astonishment in order to please the mercurial Murialis.

But the transformation continued beyond anything Drakis had experienced before. The bone-plates of Ethis' face began to shift, and the muscles over the skeleton shifted their positions. The normally translucent skin began to change texture and color. Flaps appeared in the skin, seeming to shift with the chimerian's slightest move. Ethis grew shorter, his second set of arms disappeared as his shape became more human.

Drakis gasped, uncertain whether it was from horror or wonder.

Ethis stood before him . . . in the perfectly modeled form of Mala.

“By the . . . the gods!” Drakis sputtered.

The chimerian Mala walked up to him, speaking in a slightly husky rendition of the human woman's voice—an honest sadness in her expression. “I'm sorry, Drakis. It was the only way I could get us through alive.”

Drakis kept his eyes fixed on the counterfeit woman as though seeing some terrible vision from which one cannot look away. “Ethis? How . . .”

“It's rare among our kind,” the pseudo-Mala said with a rueful smile. “A very few of us can alter our shape radically and hold the new form for extended periods of time. It takes effort, a great deal of training and discipline. Hair is the hardest to form; clothing from skin folds is perhaps more challenging still. It's also a rather lonely existence—we are considered freakish by most of our own kind—but the High Council in Exile makes good use of turning our curse into their blessing. They call us the ‘Shades of the Exile,' and we can go places in the world, perform the bidding of our Lady Chythal and . . .”

“And none would ever suspect the chimera?” Drakis finished.

“Something like that,” the false-Mala said through a pout as she took another step toward Drakis, near enough now to touch him. “It does allow us to get far closer to our targets than they might otherwise allow. And anyone will tell any secret to the right companion. Still, I am glad that you and Mala were having problems when we arrived.”

“Why?” Drakis said, finding himself leaning in toward the woman.

The false-Mala reached up with her hand and held Drakis back.

“Because you're a good friend, Drakis, and I'm not that kind of girl.”

In a moment, Mala melted in front of him, expanded, faded, and became the four-armed Ethis.

Drakis leaped backward with a sharp cry.

“Oh, that was wonderful,” Murialis clapped atop her throne. “We stage dramas for ourselves from time to time—just for our amusement—but that was far better than I could have produced. Bravo, Ethis! And your performance was refreshingly honest, Drakis of the Prophecy.”

“Queen Murialis,” Drakis said with growing exasperation, “I'm not this . . . this man of any prophecy!”

“Oh, I don't care whether you are or not, boy,” Murialis said with delight. “It doesn't matter either way, really. All that matters is that
other
people think you
could
be this great legend destined to bring about the fall of the Rhonas Empire. Fear and doubt are like weeds growing between mortared stones; given enough time, they will destroy the strongest wall. If what Ethis tells me is true, then you've already planted those seeds whether you think it's your destiny or not. It is up to us, now, to help those seeds along a little.”

“Your Majesty?” Ethis prompted.

Queen Murialis leaned forward on her throne as she spoke. “The Empire will know that you are here—that much is certain. Not all of the Iblisi who were hunting you were taken; one left to the east carrying a second who was badly damaged, and, it has been reported to me by my own operatives, has returned in great haste to Imperial lands. No doubt his report will be interpreted against me—they will claim that I am harboring you and threaten to use it as a pretext for invading my kingdom. Of course, they have never really
needed
an excuse to invade my lands, but that is one of the peculiarities of the elves—they feel compelled to justify themselves to some trumped-up morality before they commit an immoral war. I never could understand why they didn't just call it conquest without a lot of foolish justification and get it over with.”

“Your Majesty, please,” Ethis urged.

“It's a long, sorry process,” Murialis lamented. “They will assume that I've granted you asylum. I'll tell them I didn't. They'll accuse me of lying, which is right enough, and I'll tell them I'm not—which is just another lie. Then they'll threaten to invade my land ‘for my own good,' and I will in the end either capitulate and hand you over to them—in which case they will have beaten me—
or
I will rush you across my border and claim with feigned innocence that you aren't here at all—which, if they want you badly enough, may be what they're after all along.”

“Then might I suggest,” Ethis said, “that we could try to win the game before the elves know they are even playing. Don't wait for the elves . . . send us out of Hyperia now. You remove their pretext for war and upset their plans all in a single move.”

“I always like the way you think, Ethis,” Murialis mused. “Where would I send you? I'm on good terms with Chronasis to the southwest. You might make your way down to Mestophia.”

“We might also go east,” Ethis considered, “into the Mountains of Aeria and then into the chimerian lands of Ephindria. The dwarf might then be of considerable . . .”

“North,” Drakis said.

“North?” Murialis asked with surprise. “Into Vestasia ? Why would anyone want to go into that backward swamp?”

“Well.” Drakis thought for a moment before continuing. “Isn't that what the legends say . . . that I'm supposed to go north?”

Ethis frowned. “That might be a good reason
not
to go north. The Rhonas know the legend well and would anticipate such a move.”

Murialis slapped both her open palms down on her knees at the same time and stood up. “So they might—but how can we resist twisting destiny's tail? North it shall be, but we shall best them with speed. They may expect a move to the north but never this quickly. I shall make the arrangements at once. Thank you, Ethis, for bringing me such amusement! I knew there was a reason that I let you live!”

“I am grateful, Your Majesty,” Ethis replied. “But do you not think that the Rhonas may invade you whether we are here or not?”

“If they wish to invade my sovereign lands,” Murialis replied with a quiet smile, “then they will have to invent a lie in order to do so. I will not provide them the satisfaction of an excuse. And if they
do
come—let them come! The land itself shall rise up against them. Let us see how their Legions fare when the rocks themselves rebel beneath their feet!”

Murialis stepped down to where Drakis stood and, leaning over slightly, extended her hand.

Drakis glanced at Ethis.

The chimerian nodded.

Drakis took the woman's large hand and kissed it.

Murialis straightened and smiled. “Drakis, I bid you farewell. Your journey is young. I go now to make arrangements for you and your companions to be tossed out of my kingdom at once. I trust you do not mind being such unwelcome guests?”

“Your . . . Majesty,” Drakis said, “I believe I prefer it. Thank you.”

Murialis smiled and with a nod vanished into fading embers and smoke.

Drakis paused for a moment and then turned slowly to face Ethis. “This—‘trick' of yours—who else have you done this to?”

Ethis cocked his head to one side, his face once more the blank that was common to his kind. “Each in turn after we entered the woods. Murialis was long acquainted with me but did not trust the rest. It was the only way I could convince her—the only way she would spare your lives.”

“Who are you?” Drakis asked. “Part of me remembers you as a faithful and long-standing comrade, but that I know is a lie placed in my mind by the Devotions. What
is
true is that I have no memory of you prior to three weeks ago. So, tell me: Who
are
you?”

“No one that need concern you . . .”

“But I
am
concerned,” Drakis stood his ground. “How does a creature who has such incredible abilities—who could be
anyone
—allow himself to be enslaved? You could have taken the form of an elf and . . .”

“I did!” Ethis chuckled.

“Then how . . .”

“My own mistake,” Ethis said then shrugged his four shoulders. “It matters little now. My mission was to find Thuri.”

“Thuri?”

“Yes, the same Thuri you know from your
Octian
,” Ethis continued. “He had been a rather prominent leader of a rebellion that threatened the security of the chimerian High Council in Exile. I had been hunting him for over a year when I found him as an Impress Warrior in House Timuran. He had forgotten his past, of course, but I knew if I could get him away from Devotions long enough, he would remember what I needed to know. I came in the guise of a Fourth Estate Elven Guardian and applied to the Tribune for an appointment as a House Guardian.”

“Tribune Se'Djinka,” Drakis urged.

“Yes,” Ethis admitted. “I knew he had been a general some years back and hoped to use the story that I had served under him as means to gain his trust. He seemed to me, on our first meeting, to be ancient and feebleminded—and that was my mistake. It was all a game on his part. He laid a trap for me—literally a metal cage. The last thing he said to me before forcing Devotions on me was that he could remember the name of
every
warrior who had ever served with him. It seems he had never believed my story from the very beginning.”

“And now you have told me a story, too,” Drakis said. “And I still don't know you.”