Soul of Dragons (45 page)

And yet, bit by bit, it was starting to close. 

Chapter 34 – The Bastard of Castle Cravenlock

The day after the battle, Molly stood on the ramparts of Arylkrad. Her wounds had ruined her leather armor, so she wove an oversized wool shirt and a heavy cloak to keep the chill at bay. Her sword and daggers hung at her belt, within easy reach.

Not that she needed them. 

Her chest and back ached, and drawing breath too deeply sent spasms of pain down her sides. The wound Corvad inflicted had healed, more or less. But she suspected she would always carry a scar between her breasts and upon her back. 

Along with the other scars Corvad had left upon her heart and soul.

Corvad, and her thrice-damned grandfather. 

She watched the activity in the valley. Some of Mazael's men and the Arminiars swarmed over the carcass of the golden-scaled dragon, butchering it. The great beast's fangs would make excellent daggers, its talons superb swords, and its scales armor without equal. Mazael had dealt the killing blow, but he insisted that every man take a share, and that the widows and orphans of the men slain in the fighting receive a double portion. Many of the knights and armsmen would go home wealthy men.

No wonder his men followed him with such devotion. 

She turned her gaze to the courtyard. More men walked from the castle's great black gates, piling sacks against the curtain wall. With the castle's wards destroyed, Arylkrad lay open for the taking. The gold and gems from the treasury, Mazael would take back to Castle Cravenlock to distribute among his vassals and followers. The books and scrolls of dark magic from the library burned in a corner of the courtyard. And the enchanted weapons and objects of power, he would keep locked in Castle Cravenlock.

Not that Molly cared about that. Gold and gems and enchanted baubles meant nothing. She only cared about avenging Nicholas, about...

A tremor went through her hands. For almost a year, she had thought that she would kill Mazael to avenge Nicholas. But Corvad and the Old Demon had lied to her all along, had intended to transform her into a monster. They had killed Nicholas, and filled her head with lies. 

Yet Corvad had paid, and now Molly cared about nothing.

And had no reason left to live.

She peered over the edge of the ramparts. It was a fall of at least a hundred feet from the ramparts to the courtyard. Surely that would kill her. Or if she took a running leap over the wall, she would plummet at least a thousand feet to the valley floor. Could she kill herself that way? Or would she panic at the last minute, and walk the shadows to safety? 

Nicholas was gone. No reason to live. Why even keep going?

Molly took a deep breath, gazing into the valley.

She heard the rasp of leather on stone, and saw Mazael Cravenlock and Romaria Greenshield walking toward her. 

Her father still moved with a limp, though the worst of his wounds had faded. He had removed his battered armor, and now only wore a mail shirt and his enchanted sword – Lion, he called it, hanging at his belt. Romaria seemed none the worse the wear, though her hands never strayed far from her bow or sword. 

“They don't know, do they?” said Molly. 

Mazael frowned. “Know what?” 

“What you really are,” said Molly. “What we really are.”

“No,” said Mazael. “Romaria knows. Lucan figured it out, years ago. A Cirstarican monk knew, but I haven't seen him since Mitor was killed. And you. No one else knows.” 

Molly let out a bitter little laugh. “I doubt they'd care. They love you. Lord Mazael, their mighty champion, who has led them to victory after victory.”

Mazael scowled. “Not enough of them. Too many have fallen, and will never see the Grim Marches again.” 

Molly blinked. Corvad had never shown the slightest hint of remorse for those who had died in his schemes. And she couldn't imagine the Old Demon ever would. 

“You aren't like them,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “Are you?”

“What do you mean?” said Molly.

“You were thinking of your brother and the Old Demon,” said Romaria. “How you do not enjoy slaughter, not the way they do.”

Molly sniffed. “I have seen you shoot a Malrag dead at a hundred yards and change into a wolf. Can you read minds as well, my lady Romaria?”

“Hardly,” said Romaria. “But I can guess what you are thinking, plain enough. I've fought you, and my father always said you never truly knew anyone until you fought them. And you never killed any of Mazael's men, not even when it would be convenient. And you left Corvad and the Old Demon.”

Molly gave a slow nod.

“You didn't want anything more to do with them,” said Romaria. “You wanted a quiet life with Nicholas. You only returned to your brother and the Old Demon because they murdered Nicholas and cast the blame on Mazael.” 

Molly said nothing.

“And for what it's worth,” said Romaria, “I'm glad I never managed to kill you.”

Molly snorted laughter. “I imagine you are.”

“And I, as well,” said Mazael. “Corvad would have slain me, and all my men, if not for your aid.” 

“I didn't do it for you or your men,” said Molly.

“I know,” said Mazael. “But I am grateful for it, all the same.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the hot wind rising from the valley fighting with the chill descending from the mountains. 

“What will you do now?” said Romaria.

“I think I will kill myself,” said Molly. “All I wanted, all that was left for me, was to avenge Nicholas. And now that's done.” 

“You needn't do that,” said Mazael.

“And what shall I do instead?” said Molly. “Go back to the Skulls? Become an assassin once more? I am weary of that life. Or shall I find some rich merchant and seduce him? Riches are meaningless. And I am Demonsouled. We are monsters, father, you and I. Perhaps it is better if we both are slain.”

“We have the Old Demon's blood,” said Mazael. “But that doesn't mean we have to follow in his footsteps. I did not, though it cost me and those I love dearly. And you didn't.” 

Molly said nothing.

“Don't kill yourself,” said Mazael. “Come back to Castle Cravenlock with me.”

Molly laughed, long and loud. She had dreamed of killing this man for so long, and the thought of living in his castle was simply absurd. “To do what, pray?” 

“To live there,” said Mazael. “I will acknowledge you as my daughter.” 

“And what shall I do there, father?” said Molly. “Dote on you? Bring you your wine at table? Wed some powerful lord you need to befriend?”

“Whatever you wish, I imagine,” said Mazael. He snorted. “And I doubt you would listen to me, in any case. But my lands and people have many enemies – the San-keth, the Malrags, the Demonsouled. Your skills and talents would be useful against them.”

“Too many of your men have seen me walk the shadows,” said Molly. “They'll know I'm Demonsouled.”

“They won't,” said Mazael. “We'll tell them that you have some magical ability. Not enough to join the brotherhood of wizards, but enough to cast some spells. One that allows you to stride through the darkness, for instance.”

“That would hardly pass muster,” said Molly.

“In Barellion or one of the free cities, it might not,” said Romaria. “But the Grim Marches are a rougher place. Especially since the Malrags came.”

“That is...more than I expected,” said Molly. “This offer, I mean. Especially since I tried to kill you.”

Mazael nodded. 

“But...I have no reason to go on. No reason to live. Nicholas is dead,” said Molly, “and avenged. What other purpose is there?”

“You've haven't avenged Nicholas,” said Romaria. “Not completely.”

“What do you mean?” said Molly, scowling. “You saw Mazael kill Corvad.”

“I killed Corvad,” said Mazael, “but I did not kill the Old Demon.”

Molly said nothing. She knew that he spoke the truth. The Old Demon bore as much responsibility for Nicholas's death as had Corvad. 

But her grandfather was power made flesh. She could not possibly kill him.

“He is the author of all your pain, in the end,” said Mazael. “Corvad was only his tool. And I know he hasn't forgotten me. I dared to defy him. He will come for me again, one day. And I intend to be ready for him.”

“Corvad paid for what he did,” said Romaria, “but the Old Demon has not. And he'll do it again and again to others, make them suffer the way you suffered. You can kill yourself now, if you want...but if you do, you'll never have the chance to bring him to account.” 

Molly stared at her father and his lover for a long time. She wanted to make the Old Demon pay, wanted that very badly. Perhaps with the aid of others, she might have a chance. 

But something else tugged at her. She had grown up with her mother, with the Skulls, with Corvad. None of them had felt like a home. The time with Nicholas, that had felt like a home. 

Could she have that again?

Mazael was her father. She felt nothing for him. But...she did not hate him. He had never known of her existence, and she could not hate him for that. And she respected Romaria, respected her a great deal. Could Castle Cravenlock become a home for her?

Molly had no idea.

But she wanted to find out.

She needed to find out.

Molly stared at Romaria for a moment longer, and then nodded.

###

Mazael walked into the throne chamber.

Time to get this over with.

It was deserted, save for the corpses of the slain Malrags and the crumbling bones of the ebony dead. The bodies of Mazael's men had been removed to a pyre in Red Valley. Corvad's corpse still lay where it had fallen, clad in the armor of Old Dracaryl. It could lie there until Arylkrad crumbled into dust, for all Mazael cared.

Lucan stood over the corpse, staring at it.

Mazael joined him. 

Lucan had cast aside his rags for the wool and leather of an armsman. All traces of his deformities had vanished, and now he looked little different than Mazael remembered. Save for his black eyes. They looked wearier, older, than Mazael recalled.

And, perhaps, much colder.

“What,” said Lucan after a moment, “are you going to do with the Glamdaigyr?”

“I can't destroy it,” said Mazael. He had hoped that Lion could shatter the black sword the way it had Ultorin's bloodsword, but the Glamdaigyr was too powerful. “I even tried dipping it in the lava, but it remained untouched. I cannot leave it here. Arylkrad's wards are gone, and the sword is too powerful to lie about unprotected. I'll have to take it with me to Castle Cravenlock, and guard the thing as best I can.” 

“It is a weapon of immense power,” said Lucan. “Corvad barely used a tenth of its potential. Keeping the sword under guard will draw...unwelcome attention from those who wish to claim it.”

“From you, perhaps?” said Mazael.

Lucan ignored that. “You should take Corvad's diadem as well.” He nudged Corvad's corpse with the toe of his boot. 

“You recognize it?”

“Aye. It's another relic of Old Dracaryl, one called the Banurdem. It bestows upon its bearer the power to command both the undead and the dragons. Not the sort of thing you want to fall into the wrong hands.” 

“Much like the Glamdaigyr,” said Mazael, “or the blood of a child of the Old Demon?”

Lucan did not answer.

“When did it begin?” said Mazael. 

“Before we left for Knightcastle to wed your sister to Sir Gerald,” said Lucan. “I suspected you were Demonsouled, even then. I took some of your blood and tested it, and had my proof. The blood held great power...power which I needed. You remember when Morebeth Galbraith wounded me?”

Mazael nodded.

“The wound was mortal, but I kept a vial of your blood. It gave me the power to heal the wound, and to strike back against her. We face terrible enemies. The San-keth, the Demonsouled, others. I needed power to defeat them. But I could hardly store a vial of your blood for every emergency. So I created the bloodstaff. That preserved and enhanced the power of your blood, and gave me the strength I needed.”

“And it almost destroyed you,” said Mazael.

Lucan sighed. “It did.”

“You mad fool,” said Mazael. “Romaria and Rachel both told me not to trust you.”

“Perhaps it was not the best decision,” said Lucan. “But I did what I had to do.”

“What you had to do!” Mazael said. “It almost killed you. It was turning you into a monster like Ultorin! I didn't see it at the time, but it became clear in hindsight. You had trouble controlling the rage, didn’t you?”

Lucan did not meet his eye, but he nodded.

“Did you kill anyone?” said Mazael.

“One,” said Lucan, voice quiet. “An Elderborn druid, during that skirmish north of Deepforest Keep. I...got carried away.” 

“Fool,” said Mazael. “You know how hard I've fought to keep my blood under control. How I've struggled to keep it from turning me into a monster. And you...you took that power into yourself of your own will?”

“I thought I could control it,” said Lucan. “It seemed safe enough.”

“Plainly it was not!” said Mazael.

Lucan scowled. “I did what was necessary! If I had not taken your blood, Morebeth Galbraith would have killed us both. If I had not forged the bloodstaff, Ultorin and his Malrag shamans would have defeated us, the Grim Marches would have been laid waste, and Malavost would have become a living god. Yes, I used the evil power of the Demonsouled, just as you do. But I used it to a good end. Just as you do.”

“It is not the same!” said Mazael. “I was born this way. Do you think I want the kind of power I have? The responsibility? The fight to keep it from devouring me? I've had to live with it as best I can. But you...you stole the power. And it turned you into a monster.” 

“Power belongs to those strong enough to claim it,” said Lucan. He closed his eyes. “But...perhaps you are right. Good ends may have come of it. But using your blood was a terrible risk. And I...I have paid for it. Dearly.” This time he met Mazael's eyes. “I will not do it again.” 

Mazael hesitated. Some part of his mind, the darker part, the Demonsouled part, wanted to kill Lucan then and there. Maybe Rachel and Romaria were right. But Lucan’s aid had saved Mazael's life a dozen times during the war against Ultorin.