The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) (22 page)

Black shrugged and did not reply as he accompanied his employer across a marble hall and up the grand staircase. He was carrying a bundle of obsidian weapons, intended to provide Lord Wither with a proper selection, and concentrating on not tangling the spearshafts in the balustrades rather than looking at the decor. The only light in the immense space came from the footman's lamp, and statuary seemed to leap suddenly out of the darkness at him, trying to trip him or knock the spears from his grasp, as the shadows swayed and shifted.

At the top of the stairs the footman led them down a corridor and through a door, and suddenly their surroundings changed completely, from dark, neglected formal rooms to a brighdy lit little parlor, spotlessly clean, furnished with gleaming wood and brass rather than marble and alabaster. A tine fireplace took up much of one wall, and a small fire smoldered on the hearth, though the weather outside was pleasantly warm.

Clearly,
these
rooms were where Wither actually lived, and he had abandoned the rooms intended for show, turning them, in a fashion, into a gigantic equiv-alent of the foyer his home lacked.

Arlian noticed that half a dozen basswood chairs upholstered in green and red needlepoint were scattered about the parlor, and the footman gestured at two of them, indicating that Arlian and Black should sit.

Before Arlian could even begin to comply, however, a door at the back of the room burst open and Wither strode in. A maid was close on his heels, tugging at his hair, which had been brushed and dressed into coils in a manner Arlian had seen on many vain old men, but never before on Lord Wither. She was struggling to make sure one of the locks of hair at the back was securely tucked into its place.

Wither completely ignored her ministrations as he said, "You're here! Good. And you brought the weapons?"

"Yes, my lord," Arlian said, gesturing at Black.

"Good." He looked around, then pointed at the door from which he had just emerged. "Bring them in here."

Arlian and Black glanced at one another, then followed Wither's finger.

"You stay here," Wither said to the footman, who had been retreating toward the door. Then he turned to face the maid, who had just stepped back to admire her handiwork. "You, too. I'll need you both soon." Then he turned and followed his guests into the other room.

That room was Wither's study, and Arlian was startled to see that another guest was already present—a well-dressed man he had never seen before was seated at one side of the desk, clutching a sheaf of papers.

Horn was there as well, standing at the back of the room, but that was far less of a surprise—the man seemed to have become indispensable to Wither. He nodded a polite acknowledgment of Arlian's arrival.

The room was very fine, with numerous shelves of books and several superb drawings on the walls; the desk was large and well made, trimmed with mother-of-pearl, and the chair behind it generous and upholstered in well-worn leather. An open cabinet at one side held a decanter of amber liquid and half a dozen exquisite small glasses.

Arlian did no more than glance at most of it, though, as his attention rested on the stranger.

"Shuffler, this is Lord Obsidian," Wither said over Arlian's shoulder, as he headed for the liquor cabinet.

He jerked a thumb at Black. "That's his steward."

Arlian essayed a slight bow. "Sir," he said.

"My lord," the other acknowledged. He looked about at his papers as if puzzled, and did not rise or offer his hand.

Arlian was puzzled, as well; he had expected a private meeting with Lord Wither where they could speak openly about the nature of dragons, and discuss plans to ensure that when Wither's time came, the dragon that was destined to emerge from his heart's blood would be quickly slaughtered. Wasn't that why he wanted the obsidian blades?

What killing Wither's dragon would do to the dragons' attitude toward Arlian was unknown, and Arlian did not particularly like to think about it—he did not want to see the old wars started anew, and that was the threat made the night before, that if he slew another dragon, born or unborn, the dragons would consider all agreements breached and the Man-Dragon Wars begun anew.

Arlian did not want that—but he did not want to see more dragons born, either.
He
could not kill Wither's without angering the dragons, but if he could convince Wither to leave any further dragon-slaying to others than himself, perhaps...

But the presence of this stranger, clearly not a dragonhead confused matters. Perhaps Wither's plans were not quite what Arlian had thought.

"Shuffler's a clerk," Wither said, as he poured brandy. "I've had him tidying up my affairs."

Arlian glanced at Wither, hiding a twinge of uneasiness. "Is there a reason for this, my lord? Are you unwell?"

"I'm fine," Wither snapped, "but after what happened to Nail I can scarce believe I'll stay that way, so I called Shuffler in."

"Ah," Arlian said. He caught Black's eye for a moment, and thought he read a warning there, but he could not think what danger Black might have in mind.

"I promised you brandy," Wither said, handing Arlian a glass.

"Thank you, my lewd," Arlian said, accepting the offered drink. He was not particularly fond of brandy, but he was not so tactless as to refuse Wither's hospitality.

He was still in the man's debt—perhaps more deeply than ever, as Wither had never doubted him when Opal had tried to dismiss the dragon as an illusion.

Of course, the dragons
wanted
everyone to think it had been mere illusion. Arlian knew that his refusal to lie to Wither and Black might mean the dragons would carry out their threat of open warfare, but he still could not bring himself to deny the truth to the two men to whom he owed so much.

Wither provided Shuffler, Horn, and Black with brandy, as well, and took a final glass for himself.

'To the memory of Lord Stiam, known as Nail,"

Wither said, lifting his glass. "May we all learn from his fate." Shuffler looked more confused than ever, but no one spoke as the five men drank.

Arlian had to admit it was good brandy; he still didn't actually
like
it, but it was warming and not actively unpleasant. He finished his, neither hurrying nor dawdling.

When the last glass, Shuffler's, was empty, Wither collected them, saying, "That should help us face the remainder of the evening." He closed the bottle and glasses in the cabinet, then turned and said, pointing at the desk, "Now clear those papers and let's see what Obsidian's man has brought us."

Shuffler quickly snatched the remaining papers off the desk, and Black dumped his bundle onto the blotter. Wither stepped forward and opened the linen wrappings, allowing four spears and half a dozen blades of varying length and shape to spread across the white fabric. He looked them over, then picked up one of the knives in his good left hand. He studied it for a moment, then glanced at Arlian.

"They're sharp?"

"Very
sharp, my lord, but brittle. Obsidian takes a finer edge than steel, but chips or shatters easily."

"So they're not meant for repeated use, then."

"No."

"One strike, though—that should be easy?"

"Indeed, my lord. And as you saw last night, obsidian will readily pierce hide that would turn any other blade." He did not know who Shuffler really was, or what he already knew, nor just how much Wither had told Horn, and he therefore preferred not to mention dragons unnecessarily. Perhaps it would still be possible to keep Enziet's secrets from spreading any farther.

"And if it's so very sharp, there should be little pain?"

Arlian's mouth opened, then closed again. For an instant he still thought that Wither was concerned about killing the dragon that would someday emerge from his chest, and wanted a quick demise for the creature that would still bear some connection with him.

Then he realized the truth.

For another instant he hesitated, but after all, was this not what he had planned for himself, in the end?

Finally he said, "I can only guess, my lord, but yes, I would think the pain would be slight, if the blow is fast and straight"

"Good." He looked at Black. "Fetch the cloth, if you would, sir. Leave the other weapons. Then come with me, all of you." He took the knife and headed for the door.

"Arir Black asked quietly.

"Do as he says," Arlian said, as he followed Wither.

In the parlor he found Wither directing the maid and footman in positioning the basswood chairs in a curve along one side. When that was done Black had emerged with the linen in hand, and Wither pointed out where he wanted it laid upon the floor, at the edge of the hearth and well off the carpet. When he was satisfied with the arrangements, Wither straightened up, knife in hand, and said, "Take your seats, please." He stepped back onto the square of linen.

"My lord," Black said, still standing, "I ask you to reconsider"

"Oh, no, steward, whatever your name is. I have considered this quite enough. I have thought of nothing else since I saw my friend die last night."

"That is but a single day, my lord. Perhaps the light of another dawn will show you alternatives ..."

"There are no alternativesf"
Wither bellowed, pointing the stone dagger at Black's throat. "Do you think I am a fool? I say I've thought for a day, but in truth I've thought about some aspects of this for centuries, since before your grandfather's grandfather was bora. Now, sit you down, steward, and hold your tongue!"

Black closed his mouth tight, glanced at Arlian, and took a seat on one of the basswood chairs.

Shuffler and Horn and Arlian and the maid sat, as well; the footman stepped back against the wall.

"You, too," Wither said, pointing the knife at the footman. "Sit."

Startled, the footman obeyed, despite the violation of normal etiquette this constituted, and the six of them sat in a semicircle on one side of the room, facing Wither, who stood on the far side on a square of linen spread across the front of the stone hearth.

"Now," Wither said, "I think some of you know what I intend, and all of you will see it—that's why you're here. I want witnesses. I want everyone to know that I do this by my own hand and my own choice; I want no questions, no ugly rumors, no lingering doubts."

"My lord..." Black and Horn began simultane-ously.

"And no questions," Wither said quickly, cutting them off. "No questions, no protests. This is what I choose."

The two men subsided unhappily, glancing at one another.

Wither continued, "I think you all know I'm older than any man has a right to be—Shuffler, you probably know the least, but even you must know I've lived for centuries. The weight of all those years is a burden on my heart and my soul, one I bore not for any love of life, but because I would not give my enemies the satisfaction of my death. I have seen my friends die, over and over and over, and I have felt my own heart grow colder with the passing years. I thought that that cold-ness, the detachment, the alien thoughts so unlike the beliefs of my youth were the result of my losses over the years—that all those deaths, all that suffering, all those tears I never shed openly had eaten into my heart like rust.

"My compatriots said that my blood was tainted.

and that the taint was growing with time, that the human part of me was gradually dying and being replaced by the other. I refused to believe this. I thought it was merely the ravages of time and loss that were the rust eating away at me.

"I thought that if I could find one true companion, a soulmate who would live out the long years with me, I could clean away that rust. I thought that if I could forget the monsters that made me what I am I could remember how to be fully human once more, and that a wife as ageless as myself could make me forget them

"And I thought I had no choice—to do otherwise than to live on, clinging to what remained of my soul, would be to surrender to the monsters I believed had meant to kill me, all those years ago, and I would not surrender, would not give them the satisfaction.

"But now, Obsidian has shown me the error of my beliefs. He and Nail demonstrated last night that my compatriots had been right all along, and the damage to my heart came not from the pain outside, but from the corruption within. I know now that it was never intended that I should die in the attack that ruined my arm, that I was flung into the pit deliberately, and that all these long years I have lived have been not for my benefit, but for the benefit of the thing growing within me. I know that I have little time remaining in any case—if Nail was my elder at all, he was no more than a year or two older than I. For me a year is nothing—

when I was a child a day seemed to last forever, but now whole decades are scarcely enough time to catch my attention. I cannot delay without risking losing track of time and allowing the unspeakable culmina-tion of my corruption. And so we are here tonight, Lord Obsidian in particular, and I hold the weapon I need." He lifted the knife. "This blade should be enough, but if perchance anything survives, the spears and knives in the study should let the five of you finish the job."

"My lord," Horn said, "doesn't Lady Opal deserve to be here?"

Wither let out a bark of bitter laughter.

"Whether she
deserves
it or not I cannot judge, but she would unquestionably interfere, in one way or another. Whether she would try to stop me or hasten me I do not know—I've named her heir to my estates, so the latter is not unlikely. What worries me, sir, is the possibility that she would attempt to drink my blood."

The maid gasped, and Shuffler said, "My lord!" in shocked tones.

"I hadn't thought of that," Arlian murmured.

"Would it work?" Black asked quietly.

Arlian threw him a quick glance, and shrugged. "I have no idea. A few months ago it would simply have killed her, but now, spilled by an obsidian blade—I don't know."

"I pray you all make certain she has no opportunity to do so," Wither said—and then, with no further warning, he plunged the black blade into his chest.