The Fire Dragon

  “You'll let the Gel da'Thae be?”

  “I will. You have my word on that.” All at once he smiled, his usual sunny daft self again. “But what about the Horsekin? It would gladden my heart to crisp a few of those.”

  “Nah nah nah! None!”

  “Oh very well! Though I must say, you can certainly be cold-hearted when you want to be.”

  “It's a thing I've learned with age. I recommend it to you.”

  Evandar scowled at him, then disappeared in a puff of pale light like dust. Shaking his head, Rhodry got up and went outside to look for Dallandra.

  The strange battle in the sky had left Dallandra mobbed by people who all talked at once. Prince Daralanteriel and his men, Zatcheka and hers, even some of the townsfolk—they all crowded around her, shoving one another and demanding explanations. She could barely pick a single voice out of the uproar.

  “Hold your tongues!” Dallandra shouted at last. “And get back! I'm not going to explain anything in the middle of a howling mob.”

  “Do what she says!” Daralanteriel snapped. “And hurry! I want to know what this all meant, myself.”

  The crowd grumbled, but they did step back and let her get free of them.

  “That's better,” Dallandra said. “Now, then. The first thing you've all got to understand is that very little of what you saw was real. The spirits who worked those marvels are masters of the etheric plane. They exist only as spirits, but they can assume many a strange form, and to our eyes they seem to be as solid as ever they can be. But they're not. They belong to another part of the universe and can only visit ours for short spaces of time.”

  When she paused for a moment, Dallandra realized that most of those listening had the dazed look of persons struggling to extract sense from a foreign language. Niffa was all rapt attention, and Zatcheka nodded as if in agreement, but the others, Westfolk, townsfolk, and Gel da'Thae alike—she realized that she was wasting her breath.

  “These spirits aren't gods, but they do have powerful magicks,” Dalla went on. “And they can cast glamours. That is, their magic can make them look like another person. But Evandar's magicks are the strongest of all, and so he destroyed their spells. Think of it as a battle, and he won.”

  In the fading afternoon light a number of the men smiled or nodded to one another. This they could understand.

  “But we've not won the war,” Dallandra said. “I want everyone to be on their guard. If you see that fox-spirit or that illusion that looks like a giant woman, you come and tell me immediately. Is that clear? Immediately.”

  Everyone nodded or called out their agreement. The Gel da'Thae men turned to look at Zatcheka. When she waved a hand, they left, bowing to Dallandra as they silently left the gathering. The men of the Westfolk began talking among themselves; someone suggested a song, others went to the tent to bring out food for a meal. Niffa and Carra stood off to one side, talking together while Lightning lay at his mistress's feet. Dallandra hurried over and joined them.

  “Where's Elessi?” she said.

  “Dar has her.” Carra pointed. “I told him I'd carried her all day, and it was his turn, prince or no.”

  They shared a laugh.

  “Lady Zatcheka did invite us to her tent,” Niffa said. “I were wondering, be it a right thing for us to go? She does but wish to properly introduce us to her daughter.”

  “By all means, do go,” Dallandra said. “What a courteous gesture, truly!”

  Dallandra would have walked over to the Gel da'Thae camp with them, but Rhodry came out of the tent. She sent Niffa and Carra on in her place and stopped to speak with him.

  “Where's Evandar?”

  “Gone.” Rhodry shrugged open-handed. “I never know where he goes to.”

  “Back to his own lands, I suppose. He doesn't deign to tell me, either. What are you going to do now?”

  “Go over to the island and see if Arzosah's returned.”

  “Won't you stay here and eat with us?”

  Rhodry considered this for a moment.

  “I will,” he said at last. “I've no idea when she'll get back.”

  “I'd guess that Raena waited for her to go off hunting before she left Verrarc's house.”

  “No doubt. The stupid meddling bitch!”

  “Oh here, she's been thoroughly misled and deceived by her false goddess. You can't lay all the evil at Raena's door.”

  “I can and I will. I'm half-tempted to drag her into a law court myself.”

  “For what?”

  Rhodry started to answer, then hesitated, thinking.

  “I don't know,” he said at last. “I just know that I've hated her for a cursed long time now, and I'm as sure as I can be without proof that she's the cause of Yraen's death.”

  “Well, in a way I suppose she was. And we know she's a traitor to Cerr Cawnen.”

  “Better yet, everyone in Cerr Cawnen knows it.” Rhodry paused for one of his terrifying smiles. “And no doubt they'd like to get their hands on her, too.”

  “Just so. Most likely that's why she's left the city.”

  “She what?”

  “Didn't you see her? No, of course not—you were in the tent by then. She wouldn't listen to what I was trying to say, and she ran out of the gates. Kral and his hairy pack were waiting for her.”

  “Indeed? And what will Verrarc think of that? Poor bastard! Ensnared by a bitch like that!”

  Together they turned and looked up at the western sky. By then the sunset was gilding Citadel, rising dark from the encircling mists of the lake. And what was the Council of Five thinking of all this commotion, with fake goddesses in the sky and suchlike? Dallandra wondered, but most of all, she wondered about Verrarc.

  When the apparitions first appeared in the sky, Verrarc was talking with Cronin and Emla, the weavers who supplied him with most of his trade goods. Although he'd stopped by only for a brief word, Emla had insisted on his coming into their reception chamber, a pleasant room with chairs and a big hearth. They were still in mourning for their second son, Demet, Niffa's late husband; Cronin said little, in fact, merely sat slumped in his wooden chair and stared at the wall while his wife talked with the councilman.

  “This be one sorrow too many for my man,” Emla said at length. “First the losing of our son, and now the Horsekin. I know not what to think, Verro, except for one thing. I'll not be dropping my shard in that rakzan creature's urn.”

  “I think me that be wise. Kral did talk about taking over our pasturelands for horses, bain't? There would be precious little left for sheep then.”

  “Just so. I—” Emla paused at the banging of an outside door. “What be all this?”

  Shouting for her mother, young Cotzi came running down the corridor and slammed into the room. At the sight of her, Cronin managed a faint smile.

  “Mam, Mam! There were gods in the sky! And the councilman's woman is daft!” At that Cotzi saw Verrarc and blushed deep scarlet.

  “Learning to hold your tongue would be a fine thing.” Emla got up, hand raised for a slap.

  With a yelp Cotzi dodged back. Verrarc rose from his chair.

  “Here, here,” Verrarc broke in. “Punish her not for my sake. I begin to fear me she does speak the truth. Cotzi, slowly now: what be all this alarm?”

  “Well, I were about in the town when I did hear shouting by the south gate. So I did run there, and your woman, she were standing up on that wood thing the council did have builded. She were talking about some goddess, and then this goddess, she did appear in the sky. But a god came too and turned into a hawk and chased the goddess away. But she wasn't truly a goddess, she were a fox. And your woman did rant and rave, like, and weep.”

  For a moment Verrarc truly thought he might faint. He sat down fast and watched the room spin round for a good turn before it righted itself. He looked up to see anxious faces leaning over him.

  “Fetch the man a bit of mead,” Cronin was saying.

  “Nah nah nah, I be myself again.”
But Verrarc postponed standing for a bit longer. “Cotzi, be you certain of all this?”

  “I did see it,” the girl said. “And listen—hear you not the crowds outside, all talking and suchlike?”

  Indeed, Verrarc realized that through the open windows of the room he was indeed hearing panic: voices raised, voices cursing, voices weeping. Moving carefully, he stood up and crossed to the window. Although the weavers' compound extended out over the lake, this reception room stood on solid ground, and he could see a small mob of citizens just at the edge of the green commons.

  “Cotzi,” Verrarc said. “Where be Raena now? Still on the green?”

  “She be gone. I know not where.”

  “Home, most like,” Verrarc said. “I'd best go after her. These troubles be my woman's doing, and there be a need on me to right them.”

  Before Emla could speak, Verrarc turned and ran out of the room.

  Other than the grassy commons itself, Cerr Cawnen sported no open spaces, no straight streets, and precious few that ran for more than fifty yards. To get to the lakeshore Verrarc had to dodge between houses, take narrow bridges from shop to shop, leap across narrow inlets of open water, and pick his way across pilings. When at last he reached the sandy shoreline, he found not one coracle drawn up. He turned and began running along the lakeside until he found a boat he could commandeer.

  By then the last of the day was fading on the water. The shadows gathered and spread over the town until only the peak of Citadel gleamed gold in the sunset light. As he paddled the coracle through the rising mists, Verrarc became obsessed with a fancy, that he absolutely had to reach the peak before the sunset vanished. When he reached the shallows, he leapt out and soaked himself to the knees. He hauled the coracle onto the sand, then deserted it and ran to the path. There his exhaustion got the better of him. He struggled uphill, panting openmouthed, his legs nightmare-heavy and slow. Ahead the golden light gleamed, just beyond his reach. He forced himself to walk faster, though his legs seemed to have caught fire.

  Just as he staggered onto the stone-paved plaza, the light faded. He started to sob, but he had no breath for it. Staggering like a drunken man he concentrated on walking, on picking up one foot and putting it down again, until at last he had struggled his way home. Outside the gates of the compound he stood leaning against the wall. The long muscles in his legs burned and throbbed.

  “Master!” It was Harl, hurrying to reach him. “Be you ill?”

  Verrarc straightened up and tried to make a jest. He could not speak. Harl flung the gate open, then put one arm around his waist.

  “Lean on me. We'll get you inside,” Harl said, then shouted. “Korla! Come help! The master be powerful ill.”

  Between them they got Verrarc into the main chamber of the house. He sank into his chair and leaned back. Swinging his legs onto the footstool took a painful while, but once he let his weight relax against the furniture the pain began to ease. When Korla handed him a pottery stoup half-full of mead, he drank as much of it off as he could in one gulp. In the hearth a small fire burned to take off the chill, and the pale greenish light of twilight came in through the windows. He tipped his head back and watched the shadows dance upon the ceiling until at last the burning in his muscles cooled.

  “My thanks,” Verrarc said. “I be on the mend.”

  Korla snorted in disbelief. Verrarc sat up straight and glanced around. Where was Raena? He got up fast, though his cramped legs protested.

  “Here, here,” Korla snapped. “Sit you down and rest!”

  “Where be my lady?”

  Harl and Korla exchanged a glance that told him everything. He rushed across the room and threw back the door into their bedchamber. In the dim twilight he could see only the vague shapes of furniture. The silence hung in a peculiar emptiness.

  “Bring a lantern!” Verrarc called.

  Muttering under her breath Korla lit a candle at the hearth, placed it in a pierced tin lantern, and shuffled over to hand it to him. The light fell on what seemed to be answering sparks, gleaming on the floor, but when Verrarc knelt to look more closely, he realized that he was seeing gold. A poker lay nearby. Raena had thrown his mother's necklace onto the floor and smashed each teardrop of soft gold into a shapeless mass.

  “Ai!” Korla sobbed. “She did have no call to be doing that!”

  Verrarc set the lantern down on the floor and picked up the fragments of gold. The necklace had been his only memento of his mother. For a moment he stroked them between his fingers, as if he could somehow massage them back into the teardrops he remembered gleaming around her neck.

  “No call at all,” Verrarc whispered. “Here, Korla. Keep these safe for me?”

  When she held out her apron Verrarc dropped the golden handful into the cloth. He took his lantern and rose to throw open the lid of the wood chest—nothing remained, not one dress nor trinket of Raena's things.

  “She did go back to the Horsekin, bain't?” Verrarc said.

  “So I do suppose,” Harl said. “I did see her in her strange black clothes just after that there dragon did fly away. She were hurrying down the path to the lake, and she did carry a bundle of cloth and suchlike in her arms.”

  “I see.” Verrarc paused, thinking. “I'd best go see if I can find her. The Chief Speaker did charge me with keeping a watch on her, and here I've gone and failed him.”

  “Shall I be searching too?” Harl said. “I'll gladly row us across to the town. We have a bit of light left before the night does fall.”

  “Do that, and my thanks, but do you go alone. I'll follow in a bit. I've an errand to run here.”

  Just after sunset, Jahdo made his way across the lake to Citadel. Panting for breath, he hurried uphill through the winding streets. His year spent in the flatter lands of Deverry had spoiled his wind, but once he reached his home, he had enough air left to tell his parents the tale of gods in the sky and powerful dweomers. Through the recital Lael listened stone-faced, whilst Dera kept twisting her hands together and pulling them apart, only to twine her fingers once again. Finally, when Jahdo ran out of breath and tale both, Lael got up from his seat at the table.

  “I'll be off to find Kiel,” he announced. “Mayhap he can make some sense of all this.”

  Lael strode out, leaving the door half-open to the twilight. The fire in the hearth brightened and set light to dancing in the room. For a long while Dera stared at the worn planks of the table; then she rose, sighing.

  “Well, I'll just be making some dinner,” she announced. “Life won't stop just because the whole town's gone daft.”

  From a wooden bin she took a sack of turnips. Jahdo sat down on the straw-heaped floor with Ambo on his lap. The ferret curled and fell asleep, so oblivious of their plight that Jahdo envied him.

  “Well,” he said, “if the Horsekin do siege us, at least the weasels can eat rats. They be luckier than we.”

  Dera tried to smile, then turned away sharply, fumbling with the hem of her apron. Jahdo knew that she was crying, but since she'd gone to the trouble of trying to hide it from him, he said nothing. In a moment she went back to trimming the mould off the turnips.

  “Dera?”

  Jahdo nearly screamed. Verrarc had opened the door and stepped in, so quietly, so suddenly that he'd never noticed the councilman there.

  “Well, come you in, Verro,” Dera said. “But how you did startle us!”

  “My apologies.”

  Carrying a candle lantern, Verrarc came in very slowly, very carefully, looking round him at each step. In the grey light he seemed grey, himself, his blond hair as dead and matted as the fur of a sick animal, his eyes deep pools of shadow in his pallid face. He sat down on the wooden bench by the table to watch Dera work.

  “Be you ill?” she said, and sharply.

  “Not truly. I've not slept much, these past nights.”

  “Have any of us? But you do look like weasel bait.”

  Something of a smile formed on his mouth, then vanis
hed.

  “Mayhap I do,” he said. “It weighs on me worse than most, this threat from the Horsekin.”

  “There be a charge on you to turn it aside, of course.”

  He winced and began to tremble. Dera put down the knife and shoved a wisp of hair back from her face with her little finger.

  “What be so wrong?” she said, softening her voice. “I meant not but that the council's got the responsibility of looking after the town. The charge lies on the whole council, not only you.”

  “I know.” His voice cracked and broke. “Forgive me? Please, Dera. Forgive me?”

  He got up, took his lantern, and rushed out. As he turned in the doorway to squeeze his way out of the alley, Jahdo got a glimpse of his face, dead-white and streaming tears. Dera stared after him a long, long time.

  “Now what does lie behind that?” she said. “The poor lad! He did start life wounded, and he be as weak as a split stick. May his father's spirit walk in pain forever!”

  “Mam!” Jahdo slung the furious Ambo over one shoulder and scrambled to his feet. “You don't think a madness lies on Verrarc, do you?”

  “What? Of course not! Mind your silly tongue!”

  But the crack and quaver in her voice told him that she lied.

  “Be it a fit thing for me to ask questions?” Niffa blurted.

  “It is,” Dallandra said, smiling, “and I'll wager you've got a lot of them.”

  They were standing together at the edge of the elven camp. A pale greenish twilight was gathering in the sky, and mists drifted out on the water as the night cooled. Behind them in the camp firelight suddenly bloomed. They walked only a few yards away in order to stay within reach of the firelight. Dallandra realized that no one was going to follow them to eavesdrop, anyway. No doubt the men had seen too much strange dweomer already to wish to hear of more.

  “Now then,” Dalla said. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Well,” Niffa said, “you did say somewhat about other parts of the universe. I do know this part, where we stand and see and suchlike. What be the others?”