The Silver Mage (60 page)

“He did manage to tear his clothes to strips and braid himself a noose.” Jahdo shuddered profoundly. “The cell he were in, the ceiling, it be not high enough for him to drop, like, so he did fasten the noose to the iron bars in the little window and lean forward, trying to kneel, like, till he did choke.”

“I can’t see how anyone could—by the Black Sun!”

“He would have gone into a faint, methinks, early on, and then kept strangling till he died.”

“Mayhap, but still! He must have been incredibly determined to die.”

“He were sore afraid to face his Horsekin masters, I do wager.”

“Now that’s true spoken. Most likely he took the easier way to his death, ghastly though it sounds.”

“A quicker one, at the least. The militia men, they be hanging his corpse again, from the north gate this time.” Jahdo allowed himself a thin smile. “Just to let the invading Horsekin know, like, when they get here, that their traitor, he did fail them.”

S
alamander and Rori had left the young hatchlings in Medea’s care and followed the Horsekin army. On that first day after the defection of the priestesses, it managed only a few miles. Fights among the men kept breaking out. The carts kept losing wheels—with the help of the remaining servants, Rori suspected, since the wheels had lasted much better before. The rakzanir would call a halt, then ride up and down the ranks with the Keepers of Discipline, whose whips cracked among the troublemakers. Once they’d restored some sort of order, the army would lurch forward again.

The army made camp early that afternoon. As soon as it had stopped, and before the servants could tether and hobble the horses, Rori left Salamander out of sight on the crest of a forested hill and plunged down. He killed one horse and panicked the rest as he carried the bleeding carcass away. Although most of the soldiers took out after their fleeing mounts, the Keepers of Discipline had to beat some of the men into joining the chase. Rori stayed on guard in case a squad came after him, but apparently no one had the courage, this time around.

The two brothers made their own camp in a clearing among the trees, a good distance from the army. Salamander was eating cold venison, and Rori was busying himself with the dead horse, when they heard the drumming of dragon wings coming up from the south.

“That will be Arzosah,” Rori said. “The prince must be safely in Cerr Cawnen.”

“I’d assume so, yes,” Salamander said. “You know, you really need to tell—”

“I do know!” Rori snarled and clambered to his feet. “I—my apologies. I’m not looking forward to this, not in the least.”

Rori waddled to the edge of the clearing. He made a quick run across, then took to the air, circling up clear of the forest around him, while Arzosah’s wingbeats drummed closer and closer. He gained height, saw her off to the south, and roared. She roared in answer and changed course to fly straight for him. When they met in midair, they swerved and circled around each other twice in greeting. With a dip of one wing he led her back to the south a little distance to a grassy hillside he’d spotted. They landed some yards apart, then walked toward each other until they could sit, crouching nose to nose.

“Where’s that chattering elf?” Arzosah said in Dragonish. “I hope you’ve lost him.”

“No, he’s in a camp in the forest,” Rori answered in the same. “I wanted to have a private talk with you.”

She laid her ears back and narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Something is.”

“It’s about that book of dragon dweomer. Laz Moj has found it.”

She hissed and stretched out one front paw, claws splayed. Rori took a deep breath and decided that he’d best blurt the truth and be done with it.

“Dallandra thinks she can return me to my human form,” Rori said. “It would be best if she did. I can’t live like this.”

Arzosah raised her head and roared so loudly that the earth trembled under them. “I should have known,” she said in a normal voice. “That meddling bitch! I suppose she wants you for herself again.”

“Don’t talk like a fool! Of course she doesn’t. It’s just not my wyrd to live life as a dragon.”

Arzosah hissed, raised herself up then flopped back into the grass with another long roar.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It aches my heart to hurt you like this, but I never should have let Evandar—”

“Oh, hold your tongue, you wretched stinking male!”

It was, he supposed, the worst insult she could think of at the moment. He took refuge in silence.

“I’m going to have a talk with her,” Arzosah said. “I doubt very much if she and her minions have the power to turn you back. It’s no certain thing, Rori.”

“She did warn me that the spell or whatever it is might be beyond her unwinding.”

“Then she’s wiser than I thought.” Arzosah growled deep in her throat. “But there’s no use in my vexing myself until we see if she can succeed without me.”

“Without you?”

“Do you think you would have survived Evandar’s meddling without me there to lend you strength?”

Rori opened his mouth then shut it again. He could feel his tail lashing through the grass of its own accord.

“Hah!” Arzosah said. “You did think so, didn’t you? You were dying, Rori. I refused to lose you, and that nasty clot of ectoplasm finally did something useful when he built the matrix for your new life. But something had to fill it, something beyond the astral light, that is.”

He wondered if she spoke the truth. He had never known her to lie outright, but her definition of falsehood tended to be far narrower than his. He managed to calm himself at last. His tail quieted and lay still. One thing he’d not miss about dragonhood, he decided, was that wretched appendage and its independent mind.

“Now then,” Arzosah said. “Dallandra told me that you were going to take Ebañy back to Cerr Cawnen.”

“I am, yes.”

“No, you’re not. I will, and, yes, I promise you that I’ll do naught to harm him. He’s your bloodkin, and that means much to me even if it means naught to you.” Her tail raised and slapped down hard, scattering torn grass. “I should have known the wretched elves would find some way to break my heart.”

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing he could think of to say at first. He forced himself to find something better. “I’ll always hold you dear, you know. It’s nothing you’ve done.”

She was staring at him so reproachfully that he could barely look her way. He found himself remembering the night that Jill had left him, so many years ago now, and how bitterly he’d wept as soon as she could no longer hear him. He doubted if Arzosah could weep, but in her own way she was suffering. Finally, he could stand her sad gaze no longer.

“I’ve got a dead horse back at camp,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

“I was until you told me about this.” She hissed, and her tail thrashed of its own accord. “But I suppose I could get a haunch or two down.”

“Then follow me back.” He turned and began his run downhill before she could say more.

He launched himself into the air, glancing back to see her following. He hardly knew what he was feeling at that moment: regret that he’d caused Arzosah pain, certainly, and a sneaking hope that Dallandra would be unable to reverse the spell, but at the same time, a more urgent hope that she’d succeed.
I can’t go on like this,
he told himself.
Better to die from the dweomer than risk staying a dragon much longer.
For the first time, he realized how close he’d come to losing, just as Dallandra had warned him, his human soul.

D
uring their last day in Cerr Cawnen, the citizens finished gathering what goods and supplies they could carry. Some few had wagons, more had handcarts, and even more could scrounge up a wheelbarrow. The town blacksmith fired up his forge and began binding wooden wheels with iron strakes. The council barge took Prince Dar and his escorts on a tour of the crannogs and wharfs that ringed the lake. The archers helped the townsfolk wherever they could, and Dar stopped often to offer encouragement and repeat his promises.

As she wandered through the town, Dallandra was impressed by how willing the citizens were to help each other. No one would be left behind, not an elderly woman, not a man with a twisted leg or a sickly orphan child. When she returned to Citadel, she saw the council members dividing the stored food in the town granary and distributing it evenly among the citizens. Up at Jahdo’s house, the servants were bustling around, putting food and movable goods into mule packs.

“There be room for other goods as well,” Niffa told her. “The eldest townsfolk may put in them what they cannot carry themselves.”

By sunset, the citizens had finished their preparations. The town militia stood guard over the loaded wagons and handcarts lined up at the southern gates. The Council of Five met for one last evening meal in Jahdo’s house, where the heavy wood furniture, stripped of its cushions, stood randomly around echoing rooms without drapes and tapestries. The house felt cold, as if it knew that it was about to be abandoned. To feed everyone, the servants had set out a long trestle table in the great room. Although Prince Dar ate with the council at the head table, he insisted on taking a seat at the side, leaving the position at the head for Jahdo himself.

Dallandra ate little and left the table early. She walked outside into the golden sunset light, climbed up to the plaza, and stood looking down at the town across the lake. Silence lay everywhere, as heavy as the mist rising from the steaming water. The last meals in all the houses would be sad, she supposed, with mothers choking back tears and fathers muttering to themselves in anger while nervous children fussed and whimpered.

The sound of dragon wings broke through the silence. Dallandra looked up, expecting to see Rori, but Arzosah was gliding down from the sky. She dipped her wings in greeting and headed for the ruined temple to land. Dallandra hurried down the slope and reached it just as Salamander climbed down from the dragon’s back. Bruises mottled his face and hands, but he waved to her cheerfully enough.

“Let me just get my gear down,” he called out. “Ye gods, is it me, or does this place stink to high heaven?”

“It’s the lake and the garbage,” Dallandra said. “If you can stand to eat in this perfumed setting, you’re just in time for dinner.”

“I cannot tell you how welcome that is, after days of scrounging in the wilderness. I shall grow used to the smell, as I suppose most people do.”

Dallandra turned to the black dragon. “Arzosah, you have my thanks for—”

The dragon looked her way, curled her lip, and hissed.
What?
Dallandra thought, then realized that Rori must have told her the truth.

Arzosah confirmed that insight later. Dallandra took Salamander to Jahdo’s house, saw him seated and fed, then returned to the temple, where Arzosah had stretched out in the early evening sun. At her approach, the great wyrm roused and sat up with a great show of extending her wings and snarling.

“We’ll be leaving on the morrow,” Dallandra said. “Do you want to go back north to your hatchlings?”

“Perhaps.” Arzosah opened her mouth to expose her fangs, as long as sword blades. “I have a bone to pick with you, elf!”

“Oh, ye gods! You spoiled and petulant wyrm!” Dallandra set her hands on her hips. “This is a fine time for you to turn nasty!”

Arzosah paused, startled by this answering display of ill temper. “Um, well,” the wyrm said eventually. “Rori told me about the dragon book and his decision.”

“And?”

“I suppose you were going to sneak around and turn him back before I had a chance to say one word against it.”

“Naught of the sort.” Dallandra decided that the time had come for plain truth. “Now, listen to me before you storm and rage.”

Arzosah hesitated, wings half-extended, mouth open, then suddenly shut her massive jaws and folded her wings. She lay down with her forepaws tucked under her chest like an enormous cat at a hearth.