The Crown and the Dragon (5 page)

Chapter Six

Magister Corvus slid open a small observation panel in the door to the culverhouse, where the dim light of a single beeswax candle revealed two figures. Guerren, the castle steward, stood against the far wall, facing the door. He was tall and gaunt, and nearly bald. Guerren’s family had been faithfully serving the masters of Tantillion for generations. His eyes never flickered to the door, but Corvus knew that Guerren had marked his arrival.

The prisoner, on the other hand, was seated on a wooden stool in the middle of the room, facing away from the door so Corvus could observe him unnoticed. He was roughly bound with hempen cords, and his hair was matted. He had been stripped of his coat, and his back was dirty, scratched, and marked in several places with ugly purple and yellow bruises. His captors had probably broken a few of his ribs, either in taking him or afterward.

Corvus shook his head. A man who had been the victim of such obvious mistreatment for the last three days would not have the strength to endure strenuous interrogation. He reviewed his other options while he buttoned the dark woolen jacket which he had pulled on over his most elegant scarlet doublet. Corvus tugged at the sleeves and collar until he was satisfied that he looked every inch the Laird.

Of course, every family in Deira that had ever managed to go two generations without resorting to sheep-stealing called themselves Lairds. And only one other man in Deira had won the right to be addressed as Magister—and his appointment was from the Senate while Corvus’s title was bestowed by the Vitalion Emperor himself.

Deirans would never accept the rule of anyone dressed in Vitalion scale armor, so Corvus embraced the traditional trappings of Deiran nobility. This included the ornate Laird’s cape, which Corvus had thought garish even before living in the Empire. But it was an important symbol of authority to his people, so he wore it on special occasions, like interrogating rebels.

Shutting the observation panel on the door, Corvus pushed open the door and entered the culverhouse. He was pleased to see that although one of the prisoner’s eyes was swollen shut, the other tracked him carefully as he strode majestically in. Hundreds of other eyes also watched from their holes, as the ravens regarded him with a mix of curiosity and impassivity, clucking and cawing and scratching.

The castle’s culverhouse used to house doves, but Corvus had replaced them with ravens when he made Tantillion his administrative seat. Some Vitalion, to whom the raven represented acumen, asked if he wanted the Lairds to think him wise. Most Deirans said it was a message that Corvus intended to finally crush the rebellion and complete the Vitalion conquest, since ravens were birds of war. In reality, the change had nothing to do with symbolism, but Corvus doubted anyone had guessed his true purposes.

Ignoring the prisoner for the moment, Corvus looked over his ravens. One particularly large bird, with white feathers around the base of its neck like a collar, flew to him, and Corvus stretched out his arm so it could land. As it tilted its head to gaze at him with bright black eyes, Guerren approached and offered the bird slivers of raw meat from a gloved hand, which it eagerly devoured. Corvus stroked the raven’s head as it fed, and then passed it to Guerren, who brought food around to the other birds.

Corvus turned to the prisoner, wearing concern and pity on his face. He put on his most patrician smile. The prisoner did not react.

“My apologies,” said Corvus. “Sometimes the legionaries can be a little overzealous.”

The prisoner spat forcefully and noisily at him, his bruised and bloodied face contorted in a grimace of pure hatred.

Corvus pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed away the spittle from his clothing, taking special care to clean his Laird’s cape. “Particularly with traitors,” he added pointedly.

“There is only one traitor here,” the prisoner said.

Corvus laughed politely. “I would ask whether you mean me or Guerren, but I suspect that if you had thought your insult through a little better, you would have said two traitors.” Corvus smiled at the castle steward, whose face remained an immutable mask.

The prisoner said nothing, but under the dirt and dried blood on his face, Corvus thought he detected an embarrassed flush of red.

“Emperor Diovian is master in Deira now,” Corvus continued good-naturedly. “Those who serve him faithfully are rewarded. Some even become Citizens of the Empire. This is a great honor, but it need not be rare. The Emperor is magnanimous.”

Corvus tilted his head. “Why then do you betray your rightful lord by aiding his enemies?”

The prisoner remained silent, but looked furious. Corvus decided to keep pushing. In his experience, the first key to a successful interrogation was to get the man talking, even if it started with insults or statements of defiance.

Corvus walked slowly around the inside of the culverhouse. “You plot to make Garrick king.” He paused. “But Garrick is no king. He’s not even a Laird. He’s a low-born pretender to a broken throne. Just another bandit with grandiose ambitions, and colorful lies about his parentage.”

This got no reaction, which was disappointing. Corvus completed his circuit and saw that the prisoner was staring at the ravens, watching as Guerren walked around the outside of the culverhouse, feeding each bird a gobbet of flesh. Corvus decided to try a different tack.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” said Corvus. He stood slightly behind the prisoner and lowered his head until he was speaking almost in the man’s ear. “Some of these birds were given to my family nearly thirty years ago by a shaman in Yall. They worship ravens there, did you know? Incredible. We Deirans despise them, and yet they possess the greatest virtue any living being can possess. Do you know what that is?”

Corvus waited expectantly but the prisoner said nothing.

“Of course not.” said Corvus, standing. He walked around to face the prisoner. “They are… survivors,” he said deliberately.

The prisoner boldly met his eye, but his mouth remained clamped shut.

“Of course, we all must make our own choices about what we will do to survive,” said Corvus. “It’s funny. The Vitalion, one of the oldest and most civilized peoples in the world, see nothing wrong with sentencing a traitor to be torn apart by wild dogs. But they will not participate in torture.”

Corvus smiled. “They will, however, allow others to do the torturing for them. In fact,” he said conversationally, “they pride themselves on employing some of the finest interrogators in the known world, including priests from Ravalan.”

Corvus pivoted to look at the prisoner. “Ever been there? Miserable, filthy, rat-infested islands.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “They worship some particularly terrifying gods out there. And the priests who serve their unspeakable pantheon have, over untold centuries, raised torture to a veritable art form. It’s remarkable, really, what the human body can endure.”

Corvus stopped here, and gazed up into the rafters, as if lost in thought. Then he paced around the room, idly, for a minute or two, making sure that the prisoner had plenty of time to let his imagination run wild.

A bead of sweat ran down the prisoner’s temple.

“Under their ministrations,” Corvus continued, “even a strong man like you will find his courage… ebb away.” He stopped. “But you have no need to worry. I prefer more civilized methods.”

Corvus held out a small glass vial. “A curious tincture,” he said, “from the Eastern provinces. It has the singular effect of loosening the unwilling tongue. Alas, it comes at a price.”

Corvus nodded to Guerren, who stepped forward out of the shadows, and wrenched open the prisoner’s mouth with an iron grip. The man struggled mightily, but he was badly weakened, and Guerren had much more strength in his wiry limbs than most people would think. Corvus stretched out his hand and let two drops of the tincture fall from the vial into the prisoner’s open mouth.

“There is,” said Corvus, replacing the vial inside his doublet, “some initial discomfort.”

The prisoner shook uncontrollably, his teeth clenched, sweat pouring from his skin. The ravens screeched and flapped in their cages.

“But it will pass,” said Corvus, placing a hand on the prisoner’s shoulder. “And then you will feel no pain at all. Of course, you’ll be dead within the hour, but it’s still better than the torturers’ tools, don’t you think?”

The man’s thrashing subsided, and his one good eye blinked open. The pupil was dilated. A tear ran down his cheek.

“That’s better,” said Corvus. Turning to Guerren, he said, “You may leave us now.”

Guerren bowed, and slipped quietly out of the culverhouse.

Corvus drew up a stool close beside the prisoner. The man’s slack-featured face looked blankly towards him.

“Tell me your name,” said Corvus.

“Ranulf,” croaked the man.

“Thank you, Ranulf,” said Corvus. “Please believe me when I tell you that you are doing a great service to Deira.”

“I believe you,” Ranulf said in a hoarse whisper.

“Good,” said Corvus. “Now, they tell me that you wore the emblem of the fortress of the Leode. Is this true?”

Ranulf nodded.

“I have been expecting as much,” said Corvus. “I’ve pushed the Orders pretty hard, and the Leodrine Sisters are the obvious choice to push back.”

Corvus folded his arms and leaned back, thoughtfully. “But what I did not expect was to find them meddling in Anondea. It’s an interesting choice. It’s far from Ghel, where the Sisters are strongest. It’s far from the North, where Garrick and his rebels have the greatest support. And it’s far from Tantillion, so I know you were not sent to confront me directly.”

Corvus stroked his chin. “What was the errand that brought a Leodrine agent all the way out to Anondea?” he asked. “Was it the Procurator, perhaps? Or were you spying on our new Imperator?”

Ranulf did not answer.

“Tell me, Ranulf,” said Corvus, leaning in, “What brought you to Anondea?”

Ranulf’s face went white, but he said nothing.

“You will answer me,” said Corvus calmly. “You have no choice.”

Ranulf remained silent, his jaw clenched tightly shut. Corvus could hear the man’s teeth grinding. But struggle as he might, the tincture was stronger. He groaned, and in this cry of pain, Corvus could almost discern a word.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Falarica,” Ranulf moaned.

Corvus stood, and immediately went to the door of the culverhouse. Opening it, he looked around for any sign of life. A few sentries walked on the walls, but the courtyard was empty. It was more than halfway to dawn. Tantillion castle was asleep.

Satisfied, Corvus closed the door. He returned to his stool, and pulled it up close to Ranulf’s own.

“Now,” said Corvus quietly, “you will tell me everything you know about the Falarica and the one who guards it.”

***

Chapter Seven

Elenn sat in the back of the tub-cart, her bare feet dangling over the edge. Last night they had slept in a stuffy little room in a tiny roadside inn, sweating and itching on the straw mattress they had been forced to share. They had left at dawn, and luxuriated in the morning’s cool, but with the coming of the sun every hour had been hotter and wetter.

At noon, when they had stopped to let Seissylt drink, she had waded into the Shirbrook, seeking relief from the heat that reached down through the leafy canopy that stretched over the road. The humid summer air had tangled Elenn’s strawberry blond hair, so she had pinned down her unruly locks with combs.

Elenn whistled to her little bird, Gawaine, who hopped about merrily, his leg tethered to his open cage by a delicate scarlet cord. She was teaching him a song that Cauleyne the chamber maid used to sing—a sweetly sad Riverlander ballad about lovers from different clans.

As the parrot finch sang the melody back to her, Elenn found it difficult to believe that just the previous morning, she had seen a monster out of a nightmare. But it had happened, and even a beautiful summer day could not banish the memory. Elenn needed to know more.

“Aunt Ethelind,” Elenn called. “Come sit with me.”

“Then who will lead the horse?” Ethelind called back. She was walking ahead of the cart, leading Seissylt down the muddy road.

“I think a war horse is smart enough to lead himself,” said Elenn. “Don’t you want to come rest your feet for a moment?”

“I’m sorry, child,” said Ethelind. “I must watch the road. And the sky.”

“The sky?” Elenn asked, thinking of how the monster had exploded into black shadows that flew away like a flock of ravens. “Is it because of the—” She stopped, and looked around. No other travelers were on the road. Nothing but birds and squirrels and black poplar. Still, Elenn hesitated, apprehensive about naming the Falarica aloud.

“About the… what now?” said Ethelind, teasingly.

“About the…” Elenn stopped short again. “You know. And you said you would teach me about it.”

“So I did,” Ethelind admitted.

“Can I see it again?” asked Elenn. “Shall I get it out?” She reached for the leather sack which held the Falarica’s wooden case.

“All in good time,” said Ethelind, holding up a forbearing hand. “When you’re ready. Have you been practicing the charms I taught you yesterday?”

“Yes,” said Elenn, muttering a curse under her breath.

“What was that?” Ethelind asked.

“You’re treating me like a child again,” called Elenn loudly, “and don’t say you’re not.”

Ethelind dropped the reins. Seissylt hesitated for a moment, but resumed his pace when she swatted his rump. Elenn made room at the edge of the little tub-cart, and Aunt Ethelind sat down next to her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Elenn felt her aunt’s eyes on her, but she kept her own on the road behind them.

“You were right about the horse,” Ethelind said at last. “And it is good to be off my feet. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Elenn.

Ethelind fell silent again. Elenn listened to the song of the creaking cart, the rhythm of Seissylt’s hooves, and Gawaine’s cheerful chirpings.

“I don’t mean to treat you like a child,” said Ethelind suddenly. “I’ve watched you grow up, but sometimes I still think of you as the babe I held in my arms all those years ago.”

“I thought we met when you came to tutor me,” said Elenn, “after Maiwenn died. I was five—not exactly a babe in arms. So when did we really first meet?”

“I delivered you,” said Ethelind.

“I never knew that,” said Elenn.

“I was at Tantillion,” said Ethelind, “with Maiwenn, while Ethelward and the others fought at Drumney beach. I read the signs in the flames and in the skies, and took your mother away from that place. I was still with her when you arrived.”

Elenn shook her head. “My whole life, I’ve been in the dark,” she said. “And every time I learn something new, it just infuriates me because every other person has known these things all their lives. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Maiwenn did what she thought best,” said Ethelind, “and so did Mathis and Kaiteryn. They only wanted to protect you.”

“You’re no different!” said Elenn. “You told me I was a Barethon, and that I had a great destiny. But nothing changed. For three years you’ve dragged me all over Deira, and all I did was make you tea and mend your socks. All that time you were keeping the
Falarica
” Elenn hissed, “and you never told me.”

Ethelind raised one eyebrow.

“Until yesterday,” Elenn amended. “But only because I saw it when you chased away that… thing. And I still don’t know what that was or where it came from.”

“In truth,” Ethelind said, “I have the same questions.”

“Then why haven’t we talked about them?” Elenn demanded. “We’ve been on the road together for a day and a half since that thing attacked and you haven’t said one word about it.”

“You think I should have counseled with you,” said Ethelind.

“How can I help if I don’t know anything?” said Elenn.

Ethelind drew her eyebrows together slightly in what Elenn thought could be either irritation or concern.

“I’m sorry,” said Elenn. “I let my tongue get away with me.”

“No,” said Ethelind. “You’re right. I have committed the same sin as your grandparents, and for the same reason. I wanted you to have a quiet life, a happy life—maybe with the Sisters, or maybe with a good husband and sweet little babes.” She shook her head. “It’s time for me to trust you to find your own destiny.”

“Thank you, Aunt Ethelind,” said Elenn. “And I truly am sorry.” Elenn lay her head down on her aunt’s shoulder and hugged her arm. “I love you,” she said fiercely.

Ethelind squeezed her back, and then cleared her throat. “Time enough for all that later,” she said, wiping her eyes. “There’s work to be done, and lore to learn.”

As Ethelind reached for her travel sack, Elenn scooped up Gawaine and put him back in his cage so she could give her aunt her full attention. Ethelind pulled a narrow box of Renonian oak from the sack and handed it to Elenn.

Elenn carefully undid the brass latch, fashioned to look like a woman with outstretched arms and hair that reached down to her toes. Inside lie the Falarica, resting in its velvet bed. Examining it carefully, Elenn reckoned it almost eight inches long, measuring from the base to its abrupt end, where it appeared to be broken. Unlike the curved horn of a ram, or even an ox, it was straight. But like hempen rope, it was tightly twisted. An inlaid thread of silver ran around the Falarica in a tight spiral, accentuating its helical form. Elenn reached out to trace the silver with her finger, but her aunt quickly spoke up.

“Don’t touch, child,” said Ethelind. “Any time human hands hold it, you risk drawing the dragon’s attention. I only open this case in the direst of emergencies.”

“Like yesterday?”

“Yes,” said Ethelind. “For the Naihman, I wanted every resource at my disposal. It was a gamble. The dragon has not come for us—yet—but it would be foolish to trust to luck.”

“You’ve faced it before?” asked Elenn.

“The day the Falarica came into my possession, the dragon nearly killed me,” said Ethelind. “I was near Lough Aislinn and found… refuge there. The monks who had kept the relic until then were not so fortunate. Their monastery was destroyed, and all but one of their order perished.”

“It’s so beautiful,” breathed Elenn.

Between the silver threads ran a continuous band of ivory horn, decorated by miniature figures. Some of them looked like the woman on the brass latch, with flowing hair and graceful limbs. Their tiny faces wore unreadable expressions.

“Who are they, I wonder,” Elenn mused.

“The Elders say that sea nymphs, spirits of the water, crafted the Falarica from a unicorn's horn and gave it to the people of Deira,” said Ethelind. “A gift to the children of the earth, an instrument of marvelous power.”

“Power to do what?” asked Elenn.

“That’s actually a very good question,” said Ethelind, smiling. She brought her hands up in front of her face and made a tent of her fingers. Nothing seemed to please her quite so much as discussing lore. Or, rather, discoursing on lore.

“Now,” said Ethelind, looking up into the distance, as she often did when beginning a lecture. “There are many opinions on the powers of the Falarica, in part because we understand the sea nymphs and other elemental avatars so poorly, despite the diligent efforts of scholars and the searching of the Elders.”

Knowing that she was in for a lengthy lesson, Elenn leaned back in the cart. Still, she couldn’t help but grin. The two of them, on the road, and Aunt Ethelind expounding—it felt like old times.

“Some say it was a great weapon,” Ethelind continued, “broken in an ancient battle. I believe it is now the path to Deiran independence.” She held up a single finger. “One thing we do know is that the Gods…” She trailed off, and cocked her head to the left as if listening for a far-off sound.

Elenn noticed that Gawaine had stopped singing, and that the cart had stopped moving.

“I guess Seissylt does need someone to—”

“Quiet, child,” Ethelind interrupted. “And listen.”

Elenn turned her head slowly. Aside from the songs of a few birds, the woods were quiet. Closing her eyes to concentrate on the sounds around her, Elenn thought she heard the whisper of a distant breeze. Suddenly, the darkness grew a fraction deeper, and Elenn’s eyes flew open to scan the heavens.

“What was that?” Elenn asked. “The dragon? The shadow monster?”

“A cloud,” said Ethelind. “Now hush.”

“But what am I listening for, Aunt—” She stopped. Behind her, Elenn thought she heard the whinny of a horse. “A rider!” she said, hopping off the cart and looking down the road ahead of them. “Thank the Gods!”

Looking back at her aunt, Elenn saw worry, not relief. Wordlessly, she closed the wooden case and handed the Falarica back to Ethelind, who dropped it in her leather bag and put the bag at the bottom of her travel chest, underneath her clothes.

Elenn set Gawaine’s cage atop the chest, where the little white bird chirped cheerfully. Ethelind handed Elenn a cap retrieved from her travel chest. Adjusting her own cap and tucking away loose strands of hair, Ethelind gave Seissylt a light swat on the rump and got the tub-cart moving again.

Through the willows and poplars that grew up alongside the gently winding road, Elenn made out two distant figures on horseback, followed by two others on foot. As they drew near, she saw the men on horseback were cavalry soldiers of some kind. From their strangely pointed steel helmets and the quilted canvas jacks they wore instead of Vitalion scale mail, she supposed that they were auxiliaries from Sarin or Sithia, or some other far-flung province of the Vitalion empire.

One of the soldiers held a rope, which led to the two men on foot. The men were prisoners—stripped to the waist and filthy, their wrists bound in front of them. Their feet were bare, and the men were muddy up to their knees. One was lean and had close-cropped brown hair and a few days’ beard. The other was large, bald, and ugly. They were perhaps twenty-five or thirty years old, and both of them bore the branding marks of outlaws.

As Elenn looked over this party, the soldier who was not leading the prisoners trotted ahead towards the cart.

“Let me do the talking, child,” whispered Ethelind. “Don’t be afraid, but keep your peace and show respect.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve encountered a Vitalion patrol, Aunt Ethelind,” said Elenn.

Ethelind frowned, and seemed about to speak, but Gawaine chose that moment to burst into song.

“You’re not afraid, either, are you, Gawaine?” said Elenn with a smile. “You’re my brave little warrior.”

“Gods, please preserve us from warriors and all their brave foolishness,” said Ethelind, and she stepped forward to greet the approaching cavalryman.

***