Mistress of Dragons Page 20

  She faltered, paused to regain control, then continued in a steady voice, “So you see, you have to let me return. The entrance to the cave must be near. I remember that we didn’t walk very far.”

  Draconas caught hold of her by the wrists, jerked her toward him, forced her to look at him, to take a good, long look.

  She gasped and struggled in his grasp. He saw fear in her eyes, and for a moment he was worried. Did she see him for what he was? She had the dragon magic. Could she see him in his true form?

  “Let go of me!” she said, dragging backward. “You’re hurting me.”

  No, Draconas realized. She is afraid of me because I am a man. He felt her body quiver and tense and he guessed then that she was a virgin when it came to men. If she knew love, it was from women. Female warriors. Warriors who guarded the priestesses and kept them away from men because . . . ?

  Because the dragon must have some means of controlling the breeding of babies who possessed the dragon magic. Maristara could not allow these gifted women to marry and raise families. She had to keep them around in order to reap the bountiful harvest.

  “If you went back, you would not live long enough to tell anyone,” said Draconas. “The dragon would see to that.”

  He released her and she stumbled backward. Rubbing her wrists, Melisande moved out of reach. She didn’t flee. She hadn’t given up her cause. Her voice hardened as she talked, firmed with resolve.

  “You don’t frighten me, sir. Now that I know what the Mistress is, I can deal with her. I have been raised all my life to battle dragons.”

  Her courage impressed him. He rewarded her by falling back a step, removing himself as a threat. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the thin line of warriors, trailing down the mountainside.

  Melisande drew in a deep breath. She clasped her hands together, her fingers twining.

  “Why did you come?” she demanded abruptly. “Are you assassins?”

  Draconas smiled, amused. “I admit that I’m not much to look at, Mistress, but does Edward seem like an assassin to you? Or act like one?”

  Melisande glanced back into the cave. A band of sunlight had fallen across Edward’s face. He was interestingly pale, with enough dried blood remaining from his wound to remind her what he had suffered on her account. He slept with his hand on his weapon, ready at a moment to wake to defend her. She recalled his bravery and his gallantry, and she could not help but be remorseful, touched, intrigued.

  “No, he does not look like an assassin,” she admitted. “But then why did you come?”

  “You heard what he said last night. We came seeking the Mistress of Dragons. We wanted an audience with her. His Majesty is in dire need. A marauding dragon has been laying waste to his kingdom. He was hoping to persuade the Mistress to come work her magic, drive it away.”

  Melisande’s eyes widened. “If that is true, then you went about obtaining your audience in a very strange way.”

  “You must admit that your people are not very hospitable to strangers,” Draconas remarked. “We came in the back door, but we did mean to go around to the front.”

  “And what made you change your mind?”

  “We overheard a plot to kill the Mistress,” said Draconas. “We didn’t know it at the time, but what we heard was the dragon talking.”

  Melisande caught her breath. She glanced back at Edward. “So he came to—”

  “—rescue your Mistress. Instead, he most inconveniently rescued the dragon.”

  “Oh!” Melisande gave a gurgling laugh. She clapped her hand to her mouth, choking back her laughter. “It’s not funny. It’s horrible. I must be hysterical.”

  She was silent a moment, pondering. “You mentioned this kingdom—”

  “He is a king. King Edward of Idlyswylde. His realm is not far from here. Centuries ago, there was trade between your two kingdoms.”

  “Will he be all right?” she asked at length, seeming ashamed of having thought ill of him.

  “He will have a scar on his head, but I doubt if he’ll mind. It will remind him of you.”

  The flush returned to her cheeks and with it a wan smile that didn’t last long. She had been momentarily distracted, but she had not lost sight of her true goal.

  “You must thank His Majesty for me when he wakes. And now I must leave you. I must return to my people, do what I can to remove this threat or at least tell them so that we may all fight against the dragon. If you will show me the way back into the cavern—”

  Draconas shook his head.

  “So I am your prisoner,” Melisande said angrily. “Just because you saved my life does not mean that you own me! I am High Priestess. I have a duty—”

  “Come over here,” said Draconas, gesturing. Melisande remained unmoving, regarded him warily, defiantly. She put her hands behind her back.

  “Come here,” he repeated. “I want to show you something. Don’t worry. I won’t touch you again.”

  Reluctantly, unwilling, she walked over to stand near him, keeping herself at arm’s length. He pointed. “Look there, along that narrow ridge.”

  The warriors were much closer now, moving faster than he’d anticipated. They must have found an easier route down that defile. The mounted troop was almost directly opposite where he and Melisande stood hidden in the aspen grove, separated from them by the ravine.

  Yesterday’s rains had sent a torrent of water through the narrow cut, to judge by the high water mark on the rocks and the smooth, wet grass, flattened by the current. The flash flood had been brief. Most of the water had already receded, but the ravine was muddy and filled with debris—boulders and tree limbs, an uprooted tree, water-soaked logs.

  The warriors edged their way down into the ravine, moving rapidly but carefully, the leader dividing her attention between guiding her horse’s footing and scanning the area ahead, selecting the best route. She knew where she was going, that much was certain. She never hesitated, but forged ahead with her own determined resolve.

  “They’re closer than I thought,” Draconas remarked. “Though they’ll have some trouble wading through that mess in the ravine. We need to think about escaping them.”

  He glanced at Melisande to see her reaction. Her lips parted, as though she had been going to speak, but the words failed her. Her eyes were wide and shocked and staring.

  “Warriors of Seth, if I’m not mistaken,” said Draconas. “They came down from the pass. Probably for the first time in three hundred years they’ve set foot across the border. They’ve been ordered to come after you, Melisande.”

  “Ordered?” Her lips shaped the words, but she could not speak them. She seemed stupefied, struck dumb.

  “Orders given by the Mistress of Dragons. The new Mistress. Seth couldn’t go long without a Mistress, you know. You escaped, Melisande, but another poor woman wasn’t so lucky.”

  Melisande stared at the warriors, her eyes shimmering. She shivered and clasped her arms around herself, but she never took her gaze from the women moving inexorably closer.

  “The Mistress is dead,” Draconas continued, hoping to impress upon her the fact that she was in danger. “Long live the Mistress. She’s ordered them to hunt you down and kill you. She can’t take a chance on you coming back alive. She probably told them—”

  Melisande sprang out of the shadows of the trees, waving her arms and shouting.

  “Bellona!” she cried. “Bellona! I am here!”

  Her shout echoed through the ravine, bounced off the canyon walls. She began running down the hillside.

  Caught off guard, flat-footed, Draconas cursed himself for being an idiot. / have to tell Bellona, Melisande had said earlier, and her voice had lingered over the name as if it were a honey-dipped almond, sweet in her mouth.

  “What’s going on?” Edward cried, emerging from the cave, his naked sword in his hand. “I heard voices. Where’s Melisande?”

  “Stay there!” Draconas bellowed, and dashed off.

  Six hundred years
among humans, and they continued to astonish him with their stupidity. For, of course, instead of obeying his orders and remaining in the safety of the cave, Edward came crashing along after him.

  “Melisande!” he shouted desperately. “Come back!”

  She was some distance below them, scrambling frantically among the rocks and crags and trees, making her way down the hillside more by luck and instinct than skill. She halted abruptly, brought up short on a rock shelf that jutted out over the ravine. The drop below was considerable. Searching for some way off the shelf, she did not see the soldiers draw their bows and nock the arrows. She would hear the order to fire, but that would be the next to the last sound she would hear. The last would be the vicious humming buzz of the arrow and the wet thunk as it thudded into her breast.

  Draconas cursed all humans roundly. She didn’t have to die. A magic spell had already formed itself in his mind. He could use his magic to set fire to every single arrow, burn them to ashes. But if Melisande did not know who he was now, she would know or be able to guess then. She would recognize the use of dragon magic.

  He thought of the plan, his plan, and of what would happen to Melisande if Anora decided to proceed with it. Perhaps it would be best if she died, here and now, at the hands of humans. Anora could not blame him . . .

  Draconas opened his hand, let the magic trickle out of it, as so much sand.

  Edward careened off boulders, shoved himself off trees, ran headlong down the cliff face.

  “Look out!” he shouted. “Melisande, take cover!”

  Melisande lifted her head. She saw the warriors lifting their bows. She saw the arrows aimed at her and she held out her hands.

  “Bellona!” she cried, pleading.

  “Fire!” called the commander’s voice, cold and proud and clear.

  Edward leapt onto the boulder beside Melisande. Catching her around the waist, he flung her into a pile of soggy brush and dead leaves washed up along the bank. He jumped after her, as arrows pierced the air where she had been standing.

  They both landed in a heap. Edward scrambled to his feet, pulling Melisande up with him. Draconas hastened to meet them. He seized hold of her arm—limp and unresisting—and hauled her up the bank, as Edward pushed her from below.

  “Fire!” came the order again.

  Was it his imagination or did that voice sound relieved? And was it also his imagination or were those women terrible archers? Draconas flattened himself on his belly, dragging Melisande down beside him. Edward shielded her with his body. Arrows clattered all around them, striking the rocks or sticking in the mud or falling among the trees.

  Immediately, they were up. Grabbing hold of Melisande, who lay crushed and half-stunned, Draconas dragged her up the hillside. By Edward’s heavy breathing and swearing, the king had also escaped injury.

  They scrambled up the hill, slipping and falling, rising and running. Melisande moved in a benumbed state, not seeming to care what happened to her.

  Halfway up the hill, she startled him, therefore, by coming to a sudden halt. Shaking off Draconas’s hand, ignoring Edward’s frantic protests, she stood on the hillside, turned to look back at the warriors, who were once again on the move, galloping down into the ravine, coming after her.

  “I told you,” Draconas grunted. “She means to kill you.” Two tears welled up in Melisande’s eyes and slid down her cheeks, plowing small furrows through the muck and mud on her face.

  Turning away, she shoved aside his hand, refused his help. She climbed on her own.

  19

  TIME IS ON OUR SIDE, OR SO EDWARD CALCULATED.

  The warriors would have to cross the ravine and that would cost them time, for not only would they have to find a way through the uprooted trees and branches left after the flood, they would have to wade through oozing mud that sucked at the horses’ hooves. Then the warriors would have to ride up the other side, which was steep and treacherous, as Edward could attest.

  “You look after Melisande,” Draconas ordered, when they reached the horses. “I’ll take the lead.”

  This was one order Edward was happy to obey and, after an anxious query to ascertain if she had suffered any hurt—a query she did not answer, or even seem to hear—he lifted Melisande onto the horse he had brought as a gift for the Mistress. A bit belatedly, he asked her if she could ride.

  “Yes,” she said, but she did not look at him when she answered. She stared straight ahead. Her hands grasped the reins only after he thrust them into her chill fingers.

  He mounted his own horse swiftly, looked back worriedly at her.

  “It will be all right,” he told her.

  She sat on her horse, said nothing.

  He rode over to her, clasped his hand over hers. She flinched at his touch, but she looked at him, was aware of him, and she did not withdraw her hand.

  “You have to live,” he said to her. “You are the only one who can save them.”

  She gazed at him long and he saw a flicker of life stir in the empty blue eyes.

  Draconas came galloping up. “You two can play patty-cake later!” he said with an irate glance at their clasped hands.

  Edward snatched his away hurriedly. Melisande took hold of the reins, sat up straight in the saddle, and urged the horse forward, falling in behind Draconas. Edward brought up the rear.

  He had no idea where they were. He followed Draconas, who seemed to know exactly where he was going and Edward did not question. Draconas appeared intent upon saving Melisande’s life, protecting her from harm, and Edward would have given his trust to the Devil himself, if that foul demon king had promised to save Melisande.

  Edward divided his time watching for the warriors behind and keeping watch on Melisande ahead. She did not once look back, and he thought that a bad sign. She rode with a drooping head, abstracted, absorbed in her sorrow, letting the horse go where it would. Fortunately, the horse was accustomed to following its fellows and made no difficulty. Edward rode up closer, just to make sure.

  He was worried about her, and he would have liked to have stopped somewhere, build a fire, warm her, dry her, find her meat and drink, for she had been as cold to his touch as a corpse. They dared not stop. They had to keep riding. Every so often, an arrow would rattle through the branches or thud into a tree trunk, reminding them that death traveled behind.

  They spent the next few hours endeavoring to throw off pursuit. They rode up hill and down. They doubled back on their trail, ducked into gullies, galloped unexpectedly out of cul-de-sacs. Sometimes Edward would think that they had lost the soldiers, but just when he started to breathe a little easier, he heard hoofbeats drumming behind.

  The sun was midway between noon and evening, the hottest part of the day. The horses’ flanks heaved, their bodies gleamed with sweat. Their eyes were wide and wild and saliva dripped from their mouths. Edward was not in much better shape than the beasts. Waking that morning, he’d been amazed to find out how much better he felt. But then, as everyone knew, a good sleep cured most ills. Heat, tension, and fatigue brought back the dull, pounding ache in his head. He was stiff and sore from the hard riding, and he could not imagine how difficult this must be for Melisande, who rode with her skirts hitched up over her knees.

  She said no word of complaint, however. She said no word of any kind. She did what they told her, went where they told her in silence. Edward was just thinking that this nightmare journey must go on and on forever, and then cooling shadows washed over him, refreshed and revived him.

  They left the barren mountain trail behind, entered a forest thick with oak and linden, poplar and pine and sighing willow trees.

  A breeze stirred the leaves. The air temperature dropped. The smell of water came to both men and horses. Galloping up a slight rise, they topped it, and there before them was the river, swift-flowing, wide, dark, and deep.

  “The Aston,” said Edward, reining in his horse. He cast a grim glance at Draconas. “We’re trapped. There’s no ford here. We can
’t cross. The warriors will catch us now, for certain. You’ve brought us the wrong way!”

  “On the contrary,” Draconas returned, swinging himself out of the saddle. “This is what I’ve been searching for. Look there.”

  He pointed to a trail, a narrow strip of dirt worn into the grass and weeds and marked with countless hoofprints of deer and elk, crisscrossed by the paw prints of wolf and fox and mountain lion and, here and there, the deep gouges made by a bear’s claws. Draconas pointed again, not to the trail this time, but on either side of it. Edward looked down. At first he saw nothing, then the tracks leapt out at him, so that he wondered if he’d gone stupid or blind or both to have missed them.

  Two faint ruts ran on either side of the muddy track.

  “Wagon wheels,” said Edward.

  “Wait here,” Draconas said. He tromped along the wheel ruts, following their trail, and vanished into a thicket. He was gone some time.

  Edward had no idea what Draconas was looking for or what this had to do with them. He glanced anxiously behind them. He hadn’t heard the hoofbeats for some time, but he’d been fooled by that too often now to take much hope in it. He looked over at Melisande.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said, not looking at him.

  “We’ve come to the right place for that, seemingly,” he replied, trying to win a smile.

  There came a noise of rustling branches directly behind them. Edward turned swiftly, his hand on his sword, but it was only Draconas, emerging out of the thicket.

  “I’ve found the wagon,” he reported, looking pleased with himself.

  “That’s interesting,” Edward remarked caustically. “I don’t see—”

  “And three boats,” Draconas reported. He turned and pointed. “They’re over there. Drawn up on the bank, covered by a tarp.”

  Edward gazed out at the swift-flowing river and he suddenly understood. He eased himself down out of the saddle, then went to help Melisande. She tried to dismount herself, but she was stiff from the long ride and she half-slid, half-tumbled into his arms.