Mistress of Dragons Read online

  “But we did!” said Melisande, lifting her head. The blue flame had died in her eyes, leaving them just blue, a shadowed blue. “We did keep away the dragons. We fought them and killed them. All but—” Her lips trembled. She shuddered and clasped her arms around her legs, holding onto herself to keep from shattering.

  “Yes, Melisande, you killed them,” said Draconas, his tone mild, even. “And who taught you the dragon-killing magic? Your Mistress—a dragon.”

  Melisande raised her head slightly, cast him a furtive glance. He was not looking at her. He stared out of the shelter, into the dawning, into the birdsong and the smell of crushed pine needles and the wind sighing gladly now that the storm had passed.

  “You weren’t protecting your kingdom, Melisande,” Draconas continued. “You were protecting your dragon.”

  Melisande didn’t answer. She didn’t stir. She hoped they would think she had fallen asleep. Her thoughts were a quagmire. She tried wading through them, but she couldn’t lift one thought out of the horrifying muck without feeling herself being dragged down deeper by another. She needed time to think, to sort all this out.

  “I think she’s asleep,” said Edward softly.

  “You should be, too,” said Draconas, standing up and stretching. “I’m going to go get the horses. You’ll be safe enough here, while I’m gone. They won’t have the search parties out yet. They’ll have to get organized.”

  Edward flicked Draconas a glance. “Sleep’s the worst thing you can do with a head injury. I’ve heard Gunderson speak of men with cracked skulls who went to sleep and never woke.” He paused, added quietly, as Draconas was starting to leave, “You weren’t surprised to see the dragon, were you? In fact, I think you expected it.”

  “Oh, I was surprised, all right,” Draconas said. “This quest of yours has been nothing but one surprise after another.”

  He walked off. Edward wanted to rise up in anger and shout, “Don’t you walk out on me, sir! I have more to say to you!” but he was too tired, too hurt.

  Let him go, he thought, and he didn’t much care if he came back.

  Edward chivalrously chose to rest as far from Melisande as their small shelter permitted, which wasn’t very far. He laid down, his gaze fixed on her. He fully intended to keep watch, but his eyes closed, in spite of himself. He gave a deep sigh and slipped into a fitful and pain-racked slumber.

  Draconas left the cave, walked some distance, giving them both time to lose themselves in sleep. He did intend to go fetch the horses, but not yet. He flexed his muscles, rubbed away the few sore spots and bruises. He was tired, but not exhausted. He could go for several days without sleep. What he required now was food. Not planning to make a long stay of it, they’d left all their supplies in their saddlebags.

  And there was Braun. Draconas had yet to make his report. The dragon would be waiting impatiently to hear what had happened. He would have to keep waiting. Draconas wanted to sort things out in his own mind first.

  After half an hour, he padded quietly back to the cave to look at his charges.

  Both were asleep. Edward lay on his back, one arm over his chest. He muttered and grimaced. He was still in pain. Melisande lay on her side, her legs drawn into her body, her arm over her face, still trying to hide. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, of course. She’d been planning to slip away, try to go back to her people.

  “Courageous,” he told her silently, leaning over her. “But foolish.”

  Certain that they were deeply slumbering and would not waken at his touch, Draconas set about doing what he could to cure their hurts. Maristara couldn’t let them escape, not with what they knew. She’d send someone after them, if she didn’t come herself. These two had to be fit to travel.

  Draconas had the power to heal himself, as do all dragons, who use a combination of magic and mental discipline to reverse the effects of all but the most critical injuries. Dragon-magic spreads warmth throughout the body, alleviating shock. Dragons can slow their heartbeat to stop bleeding, both internal and external. They can send themselves into a deep, healing stasis, allowing their bodies to regenerate and repair injured organs, broken bones, snapped tendons. Draconas could do this to himself, and he had done so in the past. Humans were so very reckless, so careless of their own well-being. Life lived among them was fraught with peril.

  Draconas could not heal humans as he could heal himself. He could not cause their organs to regenerate, for example, but he could reduce shock and slow racing hearts or speed up failing ones. He could cauterize wounds by touch, leaving scars, but removing infection. He could mend minor breaks. He supposed by a strict reading of dragon law, he was meddling in their lives by healing them, but he generally found ways to justify it. And he was careful to never let them know that he had helped them. Fortunately, most humans subscribed to the belief that either sleep or strong spirits or a combination of both could cure almost any ill.

  Draconas placed practiced hands on the bruised and ugly gash in Edward’s head, let his magic flow into the human, deepened his slumbers. The lines of pain smoothed from the king’s face. Edward relaxed, his breathing grew more even. Draconas poked and prodded, found no other injuries. He moved on to his next patient.

  Melisande’s injuries were superficial—scrapes and cuts and bruises, nothing more. She had taken the worst wound in her soul. Draconas could tend to her body, but the other would have to heal on its own or not, as the case may be. He could only keep her warm and trust that the intelligence and courage she had exhibited in battling the dragon would aid her in continuing the fight.

  His task done, he left them, went outside the cave, and summoned Braun.

  “This is terrible,” said the dragon grimly. “Far worse than anything we imagined. I cannot believe it.”

  The two dragons spoke mind to mind. The day being clear and cloudless, Braun did not like to fly where Maristara might see him. He had taken refuge on the top of another mountain, as close as he could come to the Sentinel peak. Looking into Braun’s mind, Draconas saw a miasma of ugly colors—vibrant shock mixing with disgust and revulsion; anger mingling with dismay and, running through all, a thin, red trickle of fear.

  Draconas probed deeply, and was at last satisfied. The young dragon’s emotions were real, not manufactured. Draconas had nursed a few suspicions about Braun. Patricide was not unheard of among dragons. Theirs was a bloody history, especially in that time when the planet was new, long before humans walked upright on it. Maristara’s partner was a male. Perhaps that partner was her grandson.

  Draconas was glad to know that his suspicions were unfounded. Braun was young. He had not yet mastered the art of hiding his emotions.

  “If word of what is happening in Seth leaks out, if other humans discover that dragons are stealing their babies and raising them to a life of torment and torture, they will be enraged. Their governments will send out armies to hunt us down. The slaughter, the killing will be incalculable.”

  He meant the slaughter of humans, but dragons would die, too. That was inevitable, especially since human ingenuity seemed to delight in inventing new and better ways to kill.

  “What can Maristara and her fiend of a partner be thinking?” Braun demanded angrily. “Can’t they see the danger?”

  “They see it,” said Draconas. “They want it.”

  A vibrant burst of outrage, then cool calm spread through the dragon’s mind.

  “Of course,” said Braun. “How stupid of me! Turmoil and chaos work well for them. They mean to destabilize human society, then send out these false monks, gifted with the dragon magic, to take control.”

  “They seize a kingdom here, a nation there,” Draconas remarked. “They have one kingdom that we know of. My guess is that they have one other—the place where they take the children. You didn’t happen to see where that wagon of babies went?”

  “They drove the wagon into the forest that borders the river. From there, they took to boats, and I lost them. I flew up and down the rive
r, but saw no trace of them.”

  “The riverbank is thick with trees. They could have left the boats at any place along the shore, struck out overland. We’ll never find them. It’s like trying to track weasels.”

  “My father found them,” Braun said. “That is why they killed him.”

  “He knew too much,” Draconas agreed. “And now so do we. You had best be careful, my friend. Be careful what you say and who hears it.”

  “I will have to take this to Parliament—”

  “No!” Draconas admonished sharply. “Tell Anora, no one else.”

  Braun was silent, his mind gray, subdued. “Can we trust her, do you think?”

  “We have to,” said Draconas flatly, adding after some thought, “yes, I think we can.”

  “How can you be so sure? At this point, I don’t feel I know anything for certain,” Braun returned.

  “These monks practice male dragon magic—battle magic. The spell that first monk cast at me was taught to him by a male dragon. The human females, like those who attacked you, are taught only defensive magic. It’s actually quite clever of Maristara and her partner, to divide it up like that. That way, they don’t make any one human too powerful.”

  “Then you think there are only two of them involved?”

  “That I don’t know. I hope there are only two of them,” Draconas said tersely. “If there are more . . .” He left that hanging. “You must impress upon Anora that she cannot tell anyone. She won’t like that. She will want to take it to Parliament and that is the one thing she must not do. Our one advantage over our foes is that they don’t know precisely what we know. I intend to keep it that way. Anora has to decide what is to be done on her own.”

  “What is to be done?” Braun demanded, frustrated and helpless. “I suppose we could attack this wretched human kingdom, destroy it, burn it to the ground and then bury what is left so that no one can ever find it.”

  “And what would you have accomplished, besides killing a few thousand humans? Maristara would simply hide out in her lair until we had gone, then fly off to find another kingdom. You would fail to catch her partner, for we have no idea where or who he is. The humans in this area would be in an uproar. Word that hundreds of dragons have wiped out a human kingdom would spread throughout the continent. As you said, their governments would send armies after us and we’d end up throwing ourselves into the very pit we are trying to avoid.

  “At the very least,” Draconas added, “we should make Maristara exert a little effort to kill us.”

  “I’m glad you find this amusing,” Braun said coldly.

  “Oh, I do. I’ve been laughing heartily ever since that monk knocked me half-senseless.”

  Draconas sat brooding, absorbed in his thoughts.

  “Look at it another way,” Braun said suddenly. “If you were Maristara, what would you do now?”

  “Do?” Draconas shrugged. “Not much. Why should I? I will try to slay these two humans, of course. They know the truth about me and they might manage to sneak back into Seth and ruin everything I’ve accomplished.”

  He fell silent, his watchful gaze roving over the hillside and into the skies. He could see Braun with the rising of the sun—a graceful, winged figure perched high on the mountain peak, silhouetted against a smear of white, wispy cloud.

  “You have a plan,” said the dragon. “I see it in your mind. It is a good one.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Draconas, irritated at himself. He had not meant his plan for sharing. He’d thought he’d buried it deep, but apparently he’d missed. “There are too many variables. And it would be twenty years in the making.”

  “You talk like a human,” said Braun disparagingly. “What are twenty years to us? An eye-blink, nothing more.”

  “It goes against all our precepts. No, it’s wrong,” said Draconas shortly. “We can’t consider it.”

  “What about those human babies you saw them stealing? What terrible torment do they face at the hands of these monsters? What about the wretched human female kept horribly alive in that tomb? How many humans have died because of Maristara? How many more will die if humans and dragons go to war?” Braun demanded.

  “I know, damn it!” Draconas returned. “You don’t have to lecture me.”

  “I will tell your plan to Anora,” said Braun. “I think she will approve it. Even if we decide to take other action in the meantime, this will be an excellent fallback for us.”

  “Remind her that we are talking about human lives here,” said Draconas.

  “I will,” Braun returned gently. “Many thousands of them.”

  That hadn’t been what Draconas meant and he was about to say so, when Braun interrupted.

  “There’s movement on the ground.”

  “Troops?” Draconas asked.

  “Yes, coming out of the pass.”

  “Heading in which direction?”

  “Your direction,” said Braun.

  A dragon’s lair to the dragon is like a cobweb to the spider. The spider feels every quiver of each silken strand. The dragon knows what happens in every tunnel. She would have felt the heat of her illusory fire, heard the death cry of that wretched monk. Maristara knew where to go looking for them, if not where to find them.

  “How many?”

  “Thirty.”

  “More of those crazed monks?”

  “Soldiers. I see the gleam of their armor.”

  “How long before they get near here?”

  “They are on horseback and moving fast now, for they’re on a road. They’ll soon have to leave it, enter a rocky defile. That will slow them considerably. I say you have a couple of hours yet before they come anywhere near you. Can you deal with them?”

  “Yes, they’re actually going to help me. One of my humans is not being very cooperative.”

  The dragon lifted his wings, sprang into the air, and soared upward on the thermals. “Then, if you do not require my help, I will go make my report to Anora. I hope to be back soon.”

  “Take your time,” Draconas returned. “We have time, it seems. All the time in the world.”

  “An eye-blink,” Braun said.

  The dragon flew away, heading south. Draconas watched him depart. He cast an illusion on the shelter, making the depression blend into the mountainside.

  “That should keep them safe for a little while,” he remarked to himself. “An eye-blink.”

  He went off to find the horses.

  18

  DRACONAS STOOD OUTSIDE THE SHELTER, HIDDEN IN a stand of aspen trees. On the hillside opposite him, across a deep ravine, helms and armor and spears gleamed with the bright polish of the noon sun. Draconas watched the warriors wending their way steadily in his direction. His dragon eyes picked out details. All the warriors were female. No mad monks among them. Each was armed with bow and arrows, as well as spears. They carried water, but no other supplies. They expected the chase to be a short one, their quarry easily captured.

  No, not captured, Draconas amended. Killed.

  He hunkered down amidst the aspens. He was considering the oddity of an army of all-female warriors. Very rarely had that happened in human history, but he could see how it made sense for Maristara. He had just about decided that the warriors were close enough that he should wake his humans, when he saw that one of them was already awake.

  Melisande stood in the entrance to the cavern, poised to make her escape. She would not rush out heedlessly. She would take a good look around her first, he decided, and that’s what she did. Blinking in the bright sunshine, she shaded her eyes, waited until she could see before proceeding. She ventured out another step or two, then sent a piercing gaze around the area. She crept out several more steps, looked to the mountain peaks, searched the sky, then her gaze again swept her immediate surroundings. She nodded slightly, satisfied, and slipped stealthily away from the cavern, heading back in the direction they’d taken to get here.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” said
Draconas calmly.

  Melisande gasped and started. She stood frozen for a moment, trying to calm her racing heart, then turned slowly toward the sound of his voice. He rose up out of the shadows, walked toward her.

  Recovering quickly from her shock, she had her story ready.

  “I seek some privacy, sir,” she said, raising her chin. “To make my morning ablutions.”

  Draconas gave a nod back to the bushes where he’d been stationed. “Right in there. Safe and secure.”

  Melisande’s clothes had dried a little during the night, but the heavy fabric was still damp and she shivered in the shade. Her hair hung around her shoulders, the curling strands matted and tangled. A few curls straggled over her face. She brushed them back. She glanced at the bushes and a soft flush mantled her cheeks.

  “That is much too close—”

  “Sorry, but I can’t let you go wandering off.”

  Melisande’s flush deepened. She straightened, regarded him with an imperious air. “Am I your prisoner then?”

  “That’s not the way to talk to someone who has just saved your life, Melisande. I’ve been keeping watch, all this time, while you slept. What did you think? That the dragon would simply let you walk away? After what you saw?”

  The blood drained from her face. Pressing her lips together tightly, she clasped her arms across her breast. She turned away from him.

  “Where were you planning to go?” he asked.

  Melisande turned her head. Her blue eyes were the only color in her pale face.

  “Back to my people,” she said. “To tell them the truth.” She turned again, came walking toward him. “You have to let me go.” She reached out her hand to him, as if her argument were something physical she could hold in her palm. “I have to tell Bellona and the others. My god!” Her fingers curled in upon themselves. “A dragon! Our Mistress—a dragon! And the poor woman. Buried alive in the darkness, left to suffer horribly for years. The golden locket. . .”