The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) (16 page)

"Indeed I do," Hardior said. "I find that as bizarre as the manufacture of stone knives, but there can be no question that Enziet did name you as such, and had the right to do so. He knew well that you meant to murder him, so a death that might otherwise invalidate his will does not interfere."

"If you will pardon me for saying so, my lord, you do not know how Lord Enziet died, and should be wary of making assumptions about the matter."

"The nature of his death is indeed unknown to me, my lord, and I did not intend to imply otherwise. Pray continue"

"Lord Enziet was the most senior member of a certain society to which we both belong, as you know, and while he did not always comply fully with that society's regulations, he did pursue its primary goal with great effect—he knew more about dragons than anyone else in Manfort. I would think you might have heard rumors—from Lord Toribor, if nowhere else—

that Lord Enziet had made a pact that kept the dragons in their caverns."

"I have heard this, and dismissed it as nonsense. Do you tell me it is not? And even if this is the case, how does obsidian figure into it?"

"I tell you thai I do not know what consequences Enziet's death may bring, but that a sortie by several dragons is not impossible. And Enziet's researches, which I have inherited, indicate that obsidian may be able to pierce a dragon's hide where steel cannot.

While not wishing to alarm anyone, I had thought to have weapons prepared in case dragons do dare to assault die city."

He spoke as clearly and calmly as be could, and when be had finished he met Hardior's gaze openly and directly.

Hardior, for his part, leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin upon that hand. He contemplated Arlian's face for a long moment before replying

"You are obsessed with the dragons, Lord Obsidian," he said at last

"Indeed. I do not deny it"

"When last we spoke you asked what I would do if you killed one; I take it that these stone weapons are the method you meant to employ."

"Exactly."

"You cannot have
tested
this theory that obsidian will pierce a dragon's hide."

"As you say," Arlian answered. "But Enziet's research was quite thorough. He concluded that dragons are a magical manifestation of fire and darkness, while obsidian is a purely physical manifestation of fire and darkness, and thus the two interact in curious ways."

"And you cannot
know
that the dragons will come.

They have been gone for seven hundred years; surely, one man's death cannot be that important to them?"

"I cannot know," Arlian agreed. "I choose, however, to be prepared."

"And that's what this is about, then?"

"What else could it be?"

"Oh, any number of things. The assumption has been that the obsidian has some sorcerous power, that perhaps you inherited Enziet's sorcery, or brought unknown magic back from Arithei, and that you plan to equip an army with magical weapons."

"For what purpose?"

'To carry out your mad schemes of vengeance, of course."

"I seek vengeance against the dragons. Surely, no one would object to that?"

"You have also sworn to kill Nail and Belly, have you not?"

Reluctantly, Arlian admitted, "I have." He was in no hurry to carry out that vow, but he could not deny having made it—he intended to kill
all
the dragonhearts in time.

"And now Nail lies ill, while you tinker with what might be hostile sorcery—surely, it's not unreasonable to suspect a connection ..."

His voice trailed off as he saw Arlian's reaction to his words. The younger man had gone from puzzlement to surprise to extreme agitation in short order, and now leapt to his feet, interrupting Hardior.

"Nail is ill?" Arlian demanded, hesitating as if uncertain whether to grab Lord Hardior or dash for the door.

"Yes, he is," Hardior said. "These past three days.

You hadn't heard?"

"No!"
Arlian exclaimed. He stared at Hardior. 'Tell me the nature of this illness."

He had a horrible suspicion that he knew its nature far better than did Hardior. Dragonhearts were never ill; no known disease could be carried in their tainted blood, any more than poison could harm them. But the draconic taint itself...

Lord Stiam, known as Nail, was probably the eldest surviving member of the Dragon Society, almost as ancient as Enziet had been—only Lord Wither might perhaps be his equal, now that Enziet was dead. Nail had lived almost a thousand years—the exact number was unknown.

And now his time was up, Arlian was sure of it For perhaps a thousand years, no dragonheart had survived to the natural end of his life—long ago, before the Dragon Society was formed, another secret society, the Order of the Dragon, had slain all dragonhearts upon discovery, and only Enziet and a handful of others had survived. Enziet had betrayed and destroyed the Order of the Dragon to save his own life, so that for centuries die dragons were able to contaminate mortals to gestate their young, and those infected were no longer slain.

Enziet had been the eldest of those Arlian knew, and Stiam had been either second or third.

Enziet had staved off his own end for a few years by sorcery—but Stiam had no idea what fate awaited him, and had done nothing to delay it.

"He complained of chest pains, as if his heart were swelling within him," Hardior said, hesitantly. "And of a fever in his blood, and weakness in his limbs. And he asked me once whether I heard a voice, when all was still."

That fit all too well. Arlian turned and strode to the door, calling back over his shoulder, "You think me mad—well, come with me now, and we will see whether I am mad or not! I only hope we aren't too late."

Then he swung open the door and bellowed,

"Black! Fetch me a spear at once, and one for yourself! We're going to Nail's estate!"

Behind him, almost forgotten and utterly baffled.

Lord Hardior got to his feet and followed.

They all rode in Lord Hardior's coach—it was still waiting at the gate, still ready, and Lord Hardior, caught up in Arlian's obvious urgency, offered it.

Black, clutching three of the obsidian-tipped spears Arlian's staff had prepared, rode atop, beside the driver, while Arlian and Hardior rode inside.

Ariian could scarcely contain himself, so overcome was he by a tangle of emotions. Anticipation and dread mingled inextricably with one another. He wanted to shout nonsense at Hardior, to tell him that he was about to face horrors and see proof that Arlian was not mad, but he forced himself to stay silent.

Nail was giving birth to a dragon—would Arlian arrive to find a man, or a monster? He had intended to kill die dragonheads to prevent this, but he had apparently left this one until too late.

If die dragon had already emerged, then here was a chance to slay another dragon, in furtherance of his revenge, and at that a dragon burst from the heart of one of the Six Lords-—but he had almost come to like Nail, who was either the most forthright dragonhead Arlian had ever met, or the subtlest.

He had the obsidian spears, but what if the dragon had been born an hour or two before? Would the volcanic glass still pierce its hide, or did that armor strengthen with time? The Enziet dragon had lived for only a few moments before Arlian stabbed it to death; would the Stiam dragon be stronger?

And that assumed the dragon had been born. If Nail were still alive and human when they arrived, what could Arlian do? He had sworn not to harm Nail within Manfort's walls, and that oath still held—

though he did not think anyone would take it to apply to the dragon that Nail would become.

He could wait at Nail's bedside—but what if the wait took days? He had no idea how long a dragonheart's natural labor might be; Enziet had cut open his own chest to free the creature within, and Arlian did not imagine that Nail would do anything of the sort.

Who would be there? Who would see the emergence?

What would this do to Arlian's trove of secret knowledge? For centuries, only Enziet had known how dragons reproduced; before that the Order of the Dragon had closely guarded the information. It had never been common knowledge. Now, though, whoever was in Lord Stiam's bedchamber would see the transformation and would know the truth—servants, guests, physicians, and perhaps others. The secret, like the newborn dragon, would be out.

A dragon, loose within the walls of Manfort—that was something unknown for seven hundred years.

And really, Arlian thought, wouldn't this simplify his task? Everyone would know how dragons began, and how they could be ended; surely, everyone would be eager to aid him in his campaign to exterminate the monsters.

Everyone, that is, but the members of the Dragon Society, who would realize that they, too, had to die.

The coach pulled to a stop at Lord Nail's gate, and Arlian had die door open before Black could leap down to open it for him.

A guard stood at the gate, his hand on the hilt of his sword—a cheap guardsman's cutlass, not a gentleman's rapier, but still an effective weapon.

"We must see Lord Nail at once," Arlian said. "It is of the utmost urgency!"

"Lord Stiam is unwell, my lord," the guard began.

"We know that," Arlian snapped. "Open the gate and stand aside!"

The guard was about to speak again when he realized that Black held a spear to his throat, a spear with a jagged, glassy head. The steward had moved around behind Arlian and approached the guard from the side, unnoticed.

"Open the gate and you live," Black said.

"Open the gate," Lord Hardior said, belatedly stepping up beside Arlian and pushing Black's spear aside.

"I will take full responsibility."

"My lord," the guard said, recognizing him "I didn't see you."

"Open the gate."

The guard hurried to comply, and the three men, Arlian, Hardior, and Black, hurried across the dooryard and into the house.

A footman met them inside, and reached out to take the spears, but Hardior told him, "No."

The footman hesitated, but then decided not to argue with two powerful lords and their armed companion. He stood back and let them pass.

Hardior led the way down the central passage and op a flight of stairs, and as they strode along Black passed each of the others a spear. A moment later the three of them burst into Lord Stiam's bedchamber, weapons ready

The clatter of boots and spears shattered the hush of the sickroom, and the several occupants turned to stare at the intruders. Even Nail, lying in his bed with his eyes closed and his thin white hair drenched in sweat, lifted his head and squinted at the newcomers.

Arlian stopped dead at the sight of the man in the bed, still outwardly entirely human; he stared intently at Nail, spear raised.

Hardior slowed to a halt and looked around at the others, lowering his weapon.

Black, almost unnoticed behind the other two, backed up against the wall of the room to one side of the door and began edging slowly around to one side, his spear pointing upward.

"Lord Hardior," Lord Wither said from the bedside,

"and Lord Obsidian. Might I ask the reason for this rather loud and abrupt entrance?"

Arlian's attention was still focused on Nail. The old man was stretched out on his bed, head and shoulders propped up on a dozen pillows, his frail body wrapped only in a thin white cotton nightshirt that was so soaked with perspiration it was almost transparent. Arlian could see that Nail's chest was swollen, bloated to almost twice its normal size—and he could see that the flesh of that enlarged bosom was rippling slightly in a horribly unnatural fashion. The skin there was feverish red, while his naked hands and feet were shrunken and bone-white. His hair and beard hung in wet strings, and as he peered at Arlian he was panting heavily.

"We are inside the city walls," Nail gasped, "if that still matters."

Arlian took a step closer, and several hands reached out for him. For the first time the fact that he and Nail were not alone in the room registered, and he looked quickly around.

"He said it was urgent that we come at once," Lord Hardior said over Arlian's shoulder. "I took him at his word, and we did not take time for explanations."

"Perhaps now you will," Wither replied angrily.

Witter, in his best green silk, was standing at Nail's bedside, on the right; on the left, in a physician's red and white, stood Lady Flute, the noted sorceress, her scarred face unmistakable even though it was well over a year since Arlian had last seen her in the hall of the Dragon Society. A woman Arlian did not recognize, richly dressed in saffron and green, fair of face but somehow less noticeable than the others, stood at Wither's shoulder. Leaning against the right-hand wall was Lord Toribor, in a maroon coat more elegant than Arlian had ever before seen him wear, his arms folded across his chest, his one eye fixed on Arlian's face.

Lady Rime was comfortably arranged in a rose silk chair behind Lady Flute, her left leg drawn up beneath a silk skirt of midnight blue so that her wooden pros-thesis did not reach the floor; in her hand was the human legbone she carried as a souvenir, tapping silently against the chair's upholstered arm. She was watching silently, not moving to speak or intervene, just watching.