The Dragons' Gift

By Betsy McCall

The Children of Daela, Elementals of Earth, have survived for more than ten millennia and for some seven of them, have waged a long and costly war against the Ishada, an equally powerful race of beings who covet their power over the elements of earth. Their allies are the Dragons, formed from the union of Fire and Air, each is sworn to defend the other, and for performing such a service, the Dragons offer Dagnan Te Daelan a gift: a child with frightening power, a child with the power to save them and end this long war or to destroy them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 28, 2002
• ISBN: 9780759693807

Betsy McCall

Betsy McCall was born near Cleveland, Ohio, in 1972. She has received a bachelor's in Classical and Medieval Studies from Cleveland State University. She has also received master's degrees in Linguistics from Indiana University, Mathematics from Cleveland State University, and Management Information Systems from Nova Southeastern University. In addition to her writing, she is Adjunct Faculty in Mathematics at Columbus State Community College, and also holds adjunct faculty positions teaching mathematics, English, writing and computers at DeVry University, and Baker College. Besides Janus, Betsy has also published several fantasy novels including The Dragons' Lord. She currently resides in Columbus, Ohio.

Book preview

IN THE SHADOW OF THE DRAGONS

Book I

The Dragons’ Gift

By

Betsy McCall

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2002 by Betsy McCall. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, restored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written consent from the author.

ISBN: 0-7596-9381-1

ISBN: 978-0-7596-9380-7 (eBook)

1st Books-rev. 03/12/02

Contents

Prologue

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part II

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Glossary

PROLOGUE

Year 3400 S.Rh., Kalliad 9, Day 7

Late Afternoon

Areta Dranaerith left the practice yard hurriedly, already late for her meeting with the High Priestess. She had not meant for her session with the Arms Mistress to last so long, but once begun, Areta had been unwilling to give over so easily. Consequently, the sun had crossed more of the sky than she had intended—Kalyani did not appreciate tardiness in her priestesses.

Earth-colored braid flying behind her, Areta struggled to reclasp her cloak at her throat as she ran to make up time, ignoring those she passed. She raced past the Defender’s Temple beneath a hot and searing sun. Dust flew into tiny whirlwinds around her, soiling otherwise immaculate white robes. Few rains had fallen this far inland through the summer’s heat, and like her clothes, dust coated everything.

From the main square in the center of the sprawling city of Zinara, Areta decided against her better judgment to take a short cut past the abandoned Temple Vatic. That part of the city was proscribed, but to take the main streets would take so much longer. Zinara spread over a much larger area than the walled fortresses of the Council Lords. Taking the short cut would allow Areta to still claim some semblance of promptness.

Glancing nervously behind her to make certain no one saw her, she slipped around the outskirts of the Dragons’ Circle and through the alleyways that led past the Temple Vatic and to the High Priestess’ cottage.

Her robes whipped around her legs when she came, suddenly, to a stop. A movement out of the corner of her eye had captured her attention, and she halted instinctively to assure herself that whatever it was did not threaten her.

Her second instinct was one of curiosity.

At first she could not be sure from where she had seen the movement. She searched several moments in vain for some sign of it. Yet, just as she had convinced herself that she had imagined it, it came again.

And this time she knew from where.

She found it strange, and vaguely disturbing, that there should be anything moving in this part of this city—seeing that it had not been used for hundredyears. She tried to tell herself it was just a bird—or some other harmless thing—but she could not shake the feeling that it had to be something more.

Areta cast her grey-green eyes about to once more assure herself that she was not being seen. Only when she was certain, did she head toward the motion that had attracted her gaze.

Hand on the ever-present sword at her hip, Areta approached the side of the Temple nearest her, carefully feeling her way along the outer marble wall. In back, she found the sunken posterior entrance and slipped noiselessly inside, relieved to find no one on guard waiting to spring upon her.

Areta drew up her hood to conceal the dark brown of her braid as she ducked through the large antechamber soundlessly. The shortness of stature that had always plagued her in one-to-one combat, here, with the stark whiteness of her robes, made her seem virtually invisible against the polished marble walls.

Areta peered from her hiding place near the rear of the building unto what should have been an abandoned, shattered Temple in the classic design. Instead, she found a gathering of more than a dozen of her fellow dnal.

They clustered beneath the great darkened crystal that still hung fragilely above a burned and blasted altar. They knelt closely together in a circle on the side of the high dais farthest from where Areta watched. Their simple white robes in stark contrast to the ash that still blackened the remains of the altar behind them.

And inside their living circle, wrapped in a thin, grey wool blanket, lay a delirious, frightened child.

Areta remembered the boy. She had seen him in the infirmary only the day before. A Southern lad, his parents had traveled the long distance hoping to find some measure of relief for their sick child. All the healer-priests Areta had spoken to feared their last desperate attempts to save him would only prove futile.

Another priest, who appeared to be their leader, approached from the main southern entrance. She recognized him. The man was from a peasant family living in the remote southern mountains outside Arlind. He was an instigator of trouble, but he was a peasant who had shown promise—some over-zealous teacher must have thought he could train the wildness out of him. Like the others, he was dressed in robes of white, but something about him struck Areta as being out of place—though she could not put her finger on it.

Once he joined them, he raised his arms with very little ceremony to the great crystal that hung over their heads and beseeched the Dragons, Im kalla, tresh li shishoan cech bitolu li avilar dokenil damnas kelth, …

Areta paled at the words the priest spoke, reflexively drawing further into her concealed alcove. Though the man had shown enough promise to find a teacher to work with him, she knew he was not that strong that he would have been granted full dnahlin privileges. No priest would have taught him those words. To even speak the language of ritual for one of his station could mean execution!

He knew not what he said, he could not!

Those were not the words to begin the usual prayers to beg healing for the sick. They were, instead, the forbidden, long-unspoken words to ask guidance from the Dragons’ Oracle. An Oracle that had lain silent for over two hundredyears!

The prayers continued, the listeners oblivious to their true meaning. At first, there was only the low chanting rhythms of the young priest. Soon, however, Areta became aware of a tension that charged the air, that made the hair on her arms stand on end. Too, a barely audible hum that seemed to reverberate inside her skull.

From between their bodies, Areta could see the boy awaken, opening his eyes to stare fixedly at the great crystal that hung suspended from the ceiling above his head. He shook no longer with the fever that had consumed his small body for nearly a phase, since he’d been brought to Zinara, but some part of him battled against a compulsion that was swiftly building within him. He fought to regain control from a force stronger than all of them.

The boy’s lips began to move. And then with a chilling cadence Areta could sense from where she hid, he spoke in a nearly incomprehensible language even Areta failed at first to understand. She struggled to make sense of the slurred syllables, and by the expressions on the faces of the priests, they too could not understand what was happening. The words were in a tongue more ancient than any these junior priests could hope to comprehend. A tongue this sickly boy should, by rights, never be permitted to learn.

But the words themselves were not yet what would make her doubt her senses and her sanity.

Areta felt it before she saw the effects. The charge in the air seemed to change somehow, to shift and to reverse. It grew fiercely in strength, switching between east and west, north and south wildly and unpredictably as if two combatants swirled around each other in a great war. Above their heads, the great, charred crystal trembled and played an eerie music as though it were some delicate chandelier stirred by a tempest wind.

The tension, unseen but felt, demonstrated the strength of a physical force, soon drowning out the crystal’s music. Areta was forced, futilely, to put her hands over her ears to protect them from a sound that now grew into an ear-shattering shriek. For several moments it was all she could do to shield herself from the chaos.

It was some time before Areta could regather enough resolve to look out on the scene again, to see the struggle reflected in the boy’s face and in the twitching of his muscles. His eyes were like glass, mirroring only the light from the high windows. They were barren of emotion, and cold. The blanket had slid from most of his body, exposing only a thin shift that covered him to his knees. The dnal had drawn away from his shivering figure, too frightened to comfort his trembling form.

The unseen violence on the limits of sensation grew in intensity. From where Areta watched, even she could feel it building around the young boy with an almost physical might. Could feel it building as a struggle between Light and Dark, but which of the combatants were which, she could not have said.

Suddenly, the boy sat up more strongly, more steadily than Areta could have imagined possible. His back was stiff. His movements were jerky and barely controlled. And while the battle continued around him and over him, he climbed slowly to his feet and laid his small hands on the remains of the blasted altar.

The boy bowed his head, shuddering violently. He raised his eyes again to the crystal, crying, "Li Ghantanth! … Jonnu im na—" Suddenly, he jerked his eyes from the crystal, his whole body trembling with the effort.

Ish-sha-Kesh!-sh-shada!

Tears flowed down the boy’s cheeks. White-knuckled hands clenched the blasted marble painfully. Blood ran from his mouth as he bit his lip to keep from uttering the words that fought to control him.

As suddenly as it had begun, it ceased. The boy collapsed to his knees, still clutching the altar’s stone. Before anyone could move or even register that the danger had passed, he threw back his head and in a voice that was not his own, spoke a single declaration. En’thoipan tumal vitan g’shirth-li ghen do’li damnas ens bedh krika!

Then he collapsed unconscious at the foot of the altar.

Areta wasted no more time waiting to see what the priests would do next. She fled the Temple the way she had entered and headed to her original destination. Perhaps High Priestess Kalyani would forgive her tardiness this time.

PART I

Ce’naya li Darswaedil.

Ce’na ya li Ceh-li-Krikar.

Shatrac enmyedaes d’tantrad-na onna.

She is the Defender.

She is the Feared One.

Prepare thyselves for Her coming.

—Aan j’Kcel-Vit-Ya eni

CHAPTER 1

Year 3400 S.Rh., Kalliad 9, Day

11 Evening

And I say we do nothing! Dagnan Te Daelan exploded. They have never done us ill. And the priests say—

"The priests say," Frayne Kristanic interrupted, calm yet forceful, an icy ring in his voice, "exactly what they have been told to say for hundredyears. We cannot trust Them any longer! This silence! They do us harm by Their inaction! If They are as powerful as we have been taught to believe, then we have much to fear."

We have been taught They were powerful, aye, but only to work for our good, Dagnan shouted desperately, aware of how banal his words sounded. Recovering, We are not without power ourselves. Because They have withdrawn into Their mountain homes, does not mean They’re plotting our destruction. What of our pact? We have more to fear from within our own people!

But you say believe this and do not believe that … Lesse Tarhantin shook his blond head exasperated, closing his sea-grey eyes briefly as he did so and trying to maintain some sense of rationality. What are we to believe, and who will chose for us? You? I think few of us would accept that—or any other we can think of—as the final judge. Unless you have some other proof, in this it must be all or nothing, Lord Frayne. We must stand by our ancient agreement.

Perhaps They have changed, the old man pressed. Frayne’s heavily wrinkled hand trembled with the intensity of his vehemence. His nearly colorless eyes pleaded with them. The Dragons are mortal. They cannot live forever. They die, and those who succeed them may not have the same ideals. Perhaps the ancients were mistaken as to Their benevolence.

May?

Perhaps?

Cries of disbelief and outrage echoed loudly around the hall.

Are you saying then, another Lord questioned, leaning forward in his high-backed chair, enjoying this too much, that we should doubt the words of our Creator? That which made us all?

I say only that Their power must surely—

Surely what? Lord Dagnan questioned derisively. He rose at the foot of the table, leaning forward on both hands as he addressed the company. Summoning all his commanding presence, We have come, my Lords, to the true meat of the issue. What is Their power?

All were silent as the Dragon Lord scanned the room with his emerald gaze before continuing. Southern Lords glanced away, but no one had the courage to speak in the silence. "We have always believed that Their power was strong, aye. That They have Their strength to defend and protect us, even as we defend them. Our ancestors were exiled from their homes and traveled to this place in order to continue to use the gifts the Creator has given us. To serve in our designated role, but also to defend our faith in the Dragons Themselves.

Now our fellow Council Lord questions the nature of that power. The power which many of our ancestors died to defend. Is it waning? Is it evil?

Dagnan paused, taking a deep breath to calm his emotions. He raised his head to glance around the great hall—but he suppressed those memories of a time many of these same men stood in judgment of him. He looked back at them, and in the coldest voice he could muster, My Lords, even were the former true, it is hardly grounds for abandoning our faith in Them. Indeed, it should be cause to defend Them ever more vigilantly! As for the latter … There is no proof, nothing! Nothing more than wild speculation. This is an uncertain time, but surely there is no reason to claim the Dragons to be demons.

Dagnan chuckled ironically, retaking his seat like a teacher before his classroom. Indeed, many of our people would as easily believe that because the Dragons do not come out of the hills to destroy them, then the Dragons must be pleased! Lord Frayne’s words only serve to make an already superstitious population more frightened. Stop trying to convince them that their world is coming to an end, he added, speaking directly to Frayne and his cohorts now. That sort of mindset only creates self-fulfilling prophecy.

It is you! You who do them disservice! Frayne’s words reverberated off the bare stone walls. He was undeterred by Dagnan’s reasoning, even as Dagnan had feared. You hide behind an ancient myth, a belief that may have been valid three or four millennia ago, but one that no longer applies today!

What has changed? one Lord queried.

Frayne ignored him, casting a baleful glance around the hall. Time will show that I speak the truth.

And that time, on which you so depend, may well spell your doom. Fenn Imilarh Te Daelan raised one sable eyebrow at the company and drummed his fingers monotonously, and annoyingly, on the table top. If word were to spread of your— he cleared his throat with a thinly veiled smile, ’dissatisfaction,’ shall we say?—I shudder to think what could happen. He smiled and winked at Lord Xenar seated beside him. These priests are very touchy, you know. Bloodthirsty, too. They could probably even be led to believe you were an Ishadi-traitor, he added chuckling.

It took all of Frayne’s control not to gasp aloud at the suggestion, wondering if Fenn knew what he had really said. He relaxed his tightened muscles with the realization that of all in the hall, only Dagnan would ever really know until it was far too late.

There were murmurs both of protest and agreement around the hall, but Fenn continued before another Lord could speak up. As for the entire matter, Frayne, you seek to make an already volatile situation explode in all our faces.

The host of the Council finally spoke up then. This kind of talk is getting us nowhere. I think it best if we shelved this discussion for now.

Einar Taeradthin held up a restraining hand when several of the Lords began to protest, but Dagnan spoke before the Lord Primary could begin again. There are still no rational means to support these wild claims. There is nothing to put off, my Lords. This discussion can be settled now, clearly on the side of the Dragons. On the side of righteousness.

He knew it was a mistake, but Dagnan had chosen this word for effect, even if it was ill-advised.

Of righteousness?! Frayne roared indignantly.

Dagnan pounded the flat of his hand down on the table. "There is no evidence, no proof, no reason! If this Council were not granted freedom from prosecution concerning what we say here, none of us would dare think of such possibilities. Just because we have free rein to speculate, my Lords, does not give us the freedom to carry those speculations to such an extreme. To force them on the people, or even to reject our most sacred beliefs because one of us can conceive that maybe ..."

The Dragon Lord’s words were drowned in a deafening flurry of comment.

Irhael Llinaear, Lord Marshal of the Council and seated beside the Lord Primary, let the Lords murmur for a while before he silenced them, pounding his staff on the table for several moments before order began to be restored. Yet, even before all had quieted, Frayne erupted again.

He is blinded by his own danger! Of all of us, you should be the most fearful. Frayne leveled a trembling finger at a dumfounded Dragon Lord. It is you They will turn on first! he ranted. You! It has already begun! Look at your poor son. With such an heir—

All conversation ceased when Dagnan slammed his fist down on the oak tabletop and locked a harsh, emerald stare on the renegade Southern Lord. All in the hall waited breathlessly, no one certain that Dagnan would not leap across the table to reach for Frayne’s throat, and most were surprised when he did not. His barely controlled whisper was very-nearly inaudible, but no one in the hall could have failed to hear it. You will leave my son out of this. Candor’s bodily frailty has nothing to do with any Draconic betrayal.

They work in insidious ways, Dagnan, Frayne insisted recklessly, refusing to be swayed, offering himself up as a martyr for his senseless speculation. They will turn on you, as They must.

Before Dagnan could form a suitable reply, Einar managed to interject, My Lords, please. Enough of this. His gaze swept the assembled purposefully. "I’ve listened to this bickering long enough. What Fenn has said is true, Frayne. Your words are blasphemy."

Fenn grinned smugly at Frayne, but Einar continued, glancing now to the grinning Northern Lords. "But I will not have my Council Lords hurtling veiled threats at each other within these walls."

When the hall had grown quiet, his gaze settled at last on Frayne.

Frayne, as blasphemous as your words may be, as a Council member, your immunity is complete. None of our number are priests, Einar glanced pointedly at Dagnan. Your words shall not leave this room. And as much as I distaste it, I will duly consider your words of caution.

Frayne sat back in his high-backed chair, a thin, slightly satisfied smile on his aged face. He smoothed back thinning grey hair and nodded victoriously toward Dagnan’s brooding expression. His eyes mocked the Dragon Lord with every breath the old man took.

Again, though, our Dragon Lord has proven correct. No one has ever come forward to claim they have been witness to a harmful act by any Dragon—

Because no one has ever lived long enough to speak it, Frayne muttered darkly.

Enough! Einar’s glare fastened briefly on Frayne. They have ever been our protectors. There is little doubt in my mind that They will continue to be so.

Einar sat back wearied in his high-backed chair at the head of the table. For now, we will maintain the status quo. I might suggest trying to break the silence— There were gasps of horror from the Southern Lords. —but for the reaction that many of you apparently fear. Officially, then, I must leave it at that.

Einar paused, glancing around the table. With that, I believe we have concluded our business for this session.

Dagnan half-rose to his feet. My Lords, I believe there is still another matter we must address. I call your attention, if I may to—

That’s quite enough, Dagnan, Einar cut him off abruptly, gesturing for him to be seated. This Council will not feed rumor.

Einar—

Enough!

Too stunned and hurt to react properly, Dagnan sank back into his chair, listening to the Northern Lords murmur angrily and futilely. Frayne nodded in his direction with satisfaction, forcing Dagnan to suppress an answering surge of rage.

If there are no more objections … No one else dared say anything further. There were a few sheepish nods around the table, and many of the Northern and Southern Lords alike gazed uneasily at each other. Very well, then, my Lords. If you will join me …

Every Lord to a man laid their hands palms-down on the table, Dagnan following suit resentfully. The four Lords at opposing ends of the room who made up the Quatrad each raised one arm over their heads, fist clenched tightly. They paused a moment in silence to still their minds. To call forth the power they would require.

Aloud, they chanted together in unison, "Mighty Dragons, grant us Your blessing in this, the final duty of our Council.

"Garoc li tdalu do’ghan damnas gjemnil ghen.

Garoc li tdalu do’tirda damnas g’kadalla ghen.

Garoc li tdalu do’hanu damnas g’tamarg ghen.

Garoc li tdalu do’yenim damnas g’yelzhaniil

ghen.

Va’vidomya torhsera.

Raemac vha li derif di lar n’thell-en a.

Zal li ya vitan."

As a man, the four Lords of the Quatrad snapped open their fists. The faint shimmering perceptible only through peripheral vision that vanished when one attempted to look at it head on, fell with an audible crack. The guardian spell was raised at the start of each Council meeting to ward the chamber from intrusion, magical observation or interference. But now, the hall was again a place of mere stone. The guardian spell was broken.

Einar rose from his place at the head of the table. The others followed his lead in unison.

The Lord Marshall addressed the company formally. We are adjourned, my Lords. We will see all of you on 14.13. Enjoy the Festival.

Einar glanced meaningfully at Dagnan before sweeping out of the Council hall and into the waiting arms of his ever-attentive entourage.

Frayne rose with the others, aware of the look exchanged between his host and his chiefest rival. The meaning was clear enough, but what they would discuss and what plans they might make would have to remain a mystery for a while. He had his own plans to prepare.

Frayne slowly shuffled his way out of the chamber, his movements at odds with the power of his words in the Council. This body! How he hated this body. Old and frail, he longed for the security to shed it and take on a stronger, less painful shape. The power he had paid such a high price for was useless to him and to their cause if he were to make use of it indiscriminately.

One day soon, though, he would be able to move about freely, his power like a mantle about his shoulders .

Frayne eased his body up the wide main staircase, a page dressed in the azure and crimson livery of the Kristanic House at his elbow. The boy was promising perhaps, in a mundane way, but he spent far too much time listening to Northern sympathizers. At the top of the stairs, Frayne waited as the boy opened the huge iron-bound door to his Lord’s chambers and helped the old man inside.

The room was vast, as were most things in Dera, Taera’s sumptuous capital. The suite was three rooms decorated in the finest materials available in the known world. Rugs from the Dragon Mountains to the north of Taera, silks from the island-nation of Am Pena. The hearth itself was intricately carven from lustrous pink marble hauled over treacherous mountain terrain from Marcher lands.

A bath has been drawn for you, my Lord. I made certain the water was chill, as you like it, the boy murmured deferentially.

You have anticipated my every need. My thanks, lad, Frayne answered automatically as the boy placed a pewter goblet filled with deep red wine in his hands even as he began helping Frayne off with his court finery.

Stripped to only a light wool undertunic, Frayne sank into one of the overstuffed chairs beside a cold hearth, sipping at his wine. We will be leaving on the morrow for Tolni. See that things are readied to depart at first light.

Aye, my Lord.

And lad, fetch my chest for me from my sleeping chamber. When I’m finished with it, I’ll leave it here for you to pack in the morning.

Of course, my Lord. Will there be aught else tonight?

No, you may go to bed then. Do see that the guards know I wish to be left to myself tonight.

The boy nodded and went to fetch the chest Frayne had asked for. Once he had set it down in the middle of the bare floor several paces from where Frayne sat, he bowed to his Lord and left him for the evening.

Alone, Frayne drained his goblet and set it down beside the ragged leopardskin rug at his feet. He lay back in his chair, stilling his thoughts for several moments, lips moving wordlessly. When he opened his eyes, he rose easily, no longer possessed of the same aged, palsied body that had left the Council hall. None of his joints pained him as he knelt on the cold floor beside the tiny jewel chest.

Soundlessly, his lips moved in the words of a long familiar spell,

"Ishada, vazhac da’kel p’banu da’jemaren

areladrad,

Shendalla kes tdalu zal dekel zaer thaja.

Ishada tantal, dreka de’kel, dreka da.

Baima enjeldal zhinal."

There was no visual or aural signal that told Frayne his spell had been effective. He only reached toward the chest and reverently lifted its lid.

Inside were precious stones, polished and unpolished, intermixed with ancient gold and silver coins. Plain and fancy trinkets added to the brew. But Frayne took no notice of any of these. From beneath all the other wealth, he pulled forth a rough, red ruby sphere. He held it cautiously, carefully, as if it held his life itself.

And it was more valuable to him than any price he could get for the unpolished, crudely chipped ruby sphere. He held the fist sized ruby in cupped hands, staring deeply into the heart of the gemstone.

Again, he breathed words in an ancient tongue,

"Ishada, drezar enjeldal, drezar da.

De’vresma chesyar krikana ta.

Da ta ens."

Silence hung in the air like a dark pall, even Frayne hardly dared breathe. All at once, it was as if all the light had fled from the chamber, and while outside still remained bright with the flame-colored light of sunset, shadows vanished. Only not-light seemed to pass beyond the window panes. The one source of light in the room came from the eerie, pulsing, blue-white glow that shone brightly from the center of the ruby sphere. The brightness grew until it awashed the entire room and turned the sphere into nothing but a brilliant white radiance.

Frayne paid no heed to the now blinding light, his pale, silvery eyes only stared deeper into the heart of its image. There, a vision rose unsteadily before his Sight. He could only just sense the Touch of some other; someone or something familiar. He addressed it aloud midst the emptiness of the chamber.

Master?

Silence.

A stirring.

A distant voice could be heard echoing inside his skull. Frayne knew instinctively that no one standing next to him could have heard it.

Frayne called again aloud seeking to draw the voice closer. Master?

The voice came again, nearer this time. Frayne?

The image stilled and focused in his Sight. Aye, Master.

You have news of the Council?

Aye, Master.

Tell Me.

Einar managed to have any decision put off again until the next season. Frayne laughed joyfully, almost shedding the master-pupil relationship but not daring to fully succeed. The fool. He only buys us more time.

Does anyone suspect you yet?

Frayne laughed again derisively Only Dagnan, and no one much credits his suspicions about me anymore. Not even Einar, thinking it little more than an old, old hatred.

Do not underestimate the Dragon Lord. Do not give them reason to believe his fears. The Children of Daela can be an unpredictable lot, more so even than humans. We must not discount him if only because of the power that could be his should the Dragons answer any call for assistance. We must not give him a reason to summon Them.

More Lords seemed to support me today, Master, but the Northern Lords are still as totally opposed to my suggestions as before. If Dagnan still has influence, it is now only in the North. Hardly any of the Southern or central Lords can claim close kinship to the mountain culture. They will be swayed, Dagnan or no.

Do not be so easily misled. Dagnan himself does not need to lead all the Dragons’ followers. He has the ear of the Primary and many will choose the Dragons because they follow Einar, not Dagnan.

His neutral stance will work against him.

Even so, he cannot maintain it for much longer. He will choose the Dragons over Me, do not doubt it. And some may choose to see his delay as careful consideration.

Are we lost then?

Hardly, Frayne. Now is the time that we must act against him. Now the time is ripe for him to die. He will leave the Council divided and an inexperienced new Lord will take his place, without all the loyalties Einar has earned. Love for the father does not guarantee love for the son. However good Gadarin may be, he will not be able to pull together a divided Council quickly and our opening will be made.

When will we make our move?

The Festival, I think. That will give us the greatest opportunity to do away with as many of the others as we can with one stroke. Perhaps even the Dragon Lord himself. Your plans for the Festival are ready?

Nearly, my Lord. After I return to Tolni, I will speak with our contact in Delci. The plans will be put in motion in the next phase.

Good. A last task for you. Begin choosing your candidates for initiation. I will be ready to accept new followers and elevate the jeldin soon after the Dragons’ hated Festival. But choose wisely, all should have proved themselves worthy before approaching My altar.

Of course, my Lord. I would not sponsor an unworthy candidate. All will be able and loyal to You.

The site you have chosen is a bold one, but if our disruption of the Festival succeeds, their confusion should make it safe enough and a clear message to the Dragons."

Of course, my Lord.

Very good, but we must break this link now. I would not have you drain your strength too completely. You will need all you have in the phases ahead. When next we talk, I will have a special project for you to undertake. Be sure your plans for the Festival are well complete by then.

Frayne nodded, silently agreeing that the contact had drained him. Death to the Dragons, Master.

The Ishada Master Rhand did not answer, only vanished, and the light of His presence with Him. Then, as before, Frayne held only a colder ruby sphere.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Frayne buried the gemstone underneath the other treasures and shut the lid, forcing himself to work the spell that would safely seal the chest. Only then did he rise from the cold floor and head for his bath, vaguely wondering why his Master had made no mention of His success or failure with the Oracle.

Dagnan sank back into his chair as the other Lords filed out of the Council hall. He sat numbly, lost in his own thoughts, eyes staring fixedly on the signet ring he wore on his right hand resting on the table before him. The gold band encircling his finger was set with jet and emerald, a gold Dragon set on the double gem’s face. Often the ring went unnoticed, familiar on his hand, but now it reminded him of the duty he had been charged with upon his ascension to the Dragon-Lordship. He knew, intellectually at least, that the ring was supposed to remind others of what he was. But more often it weighed on him heavily. Sometimes he felt it crushed him.

And what he was—the most powerful of his race—often presented him with a conundrum he had not yet begun to understand, much less reconcile. As Dragon Lord, even as the title implied, his first duty should be to the Dragons. To protecting the solemn pact his people and the Dragons had made long ago. But as a Son of Daela—his duty was to his people. To the other Children. To them first, and ultimately them alone. Each time he saw his reflection he was reminded of the visage he called up with each casting of the circle. Each time a priest offered praise or prayer to his long-dead kinswoman. When those duties conflicted, with whom must his final duty lie?

Dagnan forced himself to drag his gaze from the ring, and instead, let it fall on his hands. They were strong hands, the hands of a fighter, yet the fingers were still long and tapered, those of a sorcerer adept, and the lack of any real calluses distinguished his Familied birth. The angry scar on the palm of his right hand, like his ring reminded him of other, more painful, responsibilities. The scar throbbed in his memory. He clenched his fist to still it.

Dagnan raised his raven head to stare into the sole candle flame let burning in the now deserted hall, pausing a moment longer. In the near darkness of the hall, he was little more than a shadow in the black and dark green of his House. He knew, intellectually at least, there was little point in staying angry with Einar. But in trying to avoid battles in the Council, he could be throwing away their race.

With a sigh, he rose from his chair at the foot of the long, oak table and crossed the length of the hall to the still-guarded, double doors. Turning back, a wave of his hand and a barely whispered Paech extinguished the last candle’s flame. He left the darkened hall in solitude.

Outside the Council chamber, only three people waited in the castle’s main hall, his squire Saer Curalan and two of the black-garbed priestesses who guarded the Council during its infrequent sessions. The priestesses bowed to him, saluting with their pikes, then turning to close the doors firmly behind him. His squire took up his usual position at his elbow and walked across the hall with his Lord. None of the servants passing by paid them any mind.

Two days, Dagnan informed the sixteen-year-old. The day after tomorrow we head back to Delci. Shalesta will need your help to finish the preparations for the Festival. He paused at the far end of the hall near a narrow entryway, turning back to face the young man.

Saer nodded. We will be ready then, my Lord. I’ll let the cooks know so they can begin preparing foodstuffs for the journey.

Dagnan nodded. Very good. Einar asked to speak with me, so I won’t be back to my chambers for an hour or so. He glanced up at the stained glass windows over their heads. When I get back, we’ll eat.

Saer nodded smartly, bowing formally, and headed off toward the kitchen.

Dagnan smiled slightly to himself, disappearing inside the partially concealed doorway.

Dagnan felt his way along the darkened passageway aided by little more than memory until he came to a door. He opened it, slipped through, and closed the door tightly behind him.

The atmosphere was cold, damp, oppressive in the pitch-blackness surrounding him. More damp today than on most other days he had been this way. Dagnan paused there, cupping his hands one over top the other. He barely breathed the words of a spell he had first learned a version of as a child, Huim le dagna, gec namzal.

A tiny ray of brightness seemed to form between his hands, but when he opened them, there was no point of light that eerily cast shadows. Still, the walls were lighted, as if from a flickering, unseen flame. The effect brought a thin smile to Dagnan’s otherwise grim features. As a teenager, he had worked on it for kalliads on a dare from his schoolmates. They had been impressed.

The light revealed a narrow, spiraling stone staircase. Grimly, Dagnan set his foot on the first step worn from hundredyears of use and slowly climbed the slippery, still shadowed, little-used stairway.

Few there were who did not know of the relationship between Einar and Dagnan. Even then the Lord Primary, Einar had befriended an angry, young boy wanting only the ear of a father. Dagnan had watched his father grow weak and die after many years of illness. The Te Daelan’s eldest son had had to grow up too swiftly and with too little guidance. Dagnan had needed then most of all what Einar could give him. And though the boy had grown to manhood, the two remained close.

Dagnan reached the top of the stair and softly whispered Paech to extinguish his eerie light, before knocking on the door.

A page in white and green admitted Dagnan to the Lord Primary’s chamber through what had been a secret entry. Secret until Einar’s father had enlarged the Great Hall and revealed where the passageway had been concealed behind the dais, since moved.

Inside a room less sumptuous than the rest of the castle, Einar leaned thoughtfully against a simple, granite mantle, staring deeply into the flames, greying head resting tiredly on his forearm. A rather heavy-set man with strong, wiry muscles, Einar, for the most part, appeared to have aged well. But those who knew him better, knew his stamina was not what it used to be.

The page bowed to both of them and excused himself. But before Dagnan could even open his mouth to speak, he heard Zaraedia’s voice from the next chamber. She joined them briefly, kissing the Dragon Lord lightly on one cheek in greeting. Her aged face still held much of the beauty he had admired even as a child. Soon, though, she followed the page out, leaving the two men alone.

What did you mean by cutting me off like that? He tried not to make the query sound angry, but he knew he had failed.

Einar understood. I didn’t want anymore battles in there. I refuse to have my Council Lords getting into a fist fight—

A fist fight? Dagnan echoed in disbelief. Einar, I hardly think it would have degenerated that far—

No?

Einar, the man is making secret pacts with the Velari! That’s a legitimate topic of discussion—

We don’t know that for sure.

Don’t we? Dagnan threw his hands up into the air and began pacing. Open your eyes, Einar. We’ve been getting these reports for years. My father got them before he died. Don’t you think all the Velari ‘traders’ in Tolni is suspicious?

"Maybe they are just traders …"

You can’t really believe that. Tolni has no use for Velari goods. They’re poor quality for the most part and expensive. They can get goods of far better quality from Listra and Am Pena, and we’ve seen no decrease in ships from those cities.

Dagnan—

He’s plotting, Einar. As many hardships as the Velari have experienced of late, they still are among the fiercest warriors. With help from within … Frayne will have no trouble engineering a takeover. Everyone is aware of Frayne’s Velari heritage.

He never even knew his mother—

Do you think that really matters to Frayne?

You’re fishing, Dagnan!

And when was it that you stopped taking my concerns seriously?

I still take you seriously—

Really? What is this then? You more than anyone should know that man’s not to be trusted.

Dagnan, that was years ago. He got what he wanted.

Einar, that was just a little diversion and you know it! He couldn’t stand to see me win. Look what he’s done to that poor child! She probably doesn’t even know she’s a Te Daelan, that she’s my brother’s child. The man had me tried for my own brother’s murder! Something like that just does not go away.

A man can’t change in ten years?

Einar—

Look, I can’t have my Lords constantly battling each other, and now with the whole South beginning to side wholeheartedly with Frayne—against what they believe to be Northern arrogance—the Council was degenerating into chaos.

You cannot continue to allow Frayne to control the Council—

I control the Council! Now Einar was angry.

Not any longer, my Lord. You’ve given that power to Frayne.

Einar was about to say something, and then stopped himself. He turned away. A heavy silence hung in the air.

Dagnan finally noticed the rolled parchment Einar held in his hand.

What’s that? he asked, coming further into the room. He knelt casually before the fireplace and poured himself a glass of the mulled wine, pretending nothing had happened.

Einar paused to look grimly at the parchment he held, then, sighing, handed it to Dagnan, watching his reaction with pale brown eyes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard yourself yet. I would have thought they would have sent word to you as soon as I. Go ahead. Read it.

Puzzled, Dagnan unrolled the parchment sinking into one of the chairs set out near the hearth. His eyes scanned the page, then read it again more closely. Then he returned his gaze to Einar. Six deaths. I don’t understand. What has this got to do with the Council?

Don’t you think they’re rather odd?

Well, yes, but people die all the time. It could be just a coincidence, he tried lamely, for argument’s sake.

Einar studied Dagnan closely. You don’t really believe that do you?

Dagnan sighed heavily, considering the possibilities. Frayne had to be involved, but Dagnan wondered if these deaths had anything to do with what his people had been uncovering. Still, he didn’t want to say anything to Einar. He would need more evidence to prove a connection than mere speculation. I suppose not, but this only makes things all the more complicated, and I was hoping it couldn’t get much worse.

What do you mean?

Well, I have some more interesting news for you. I received a messenger from High Priestess Kalyani this morning. Proving I do still have some sense, he added half-sarcastically, I kept it quiet so it would not inflame the Council anymore than they have been these last few days, not since I was trying to get in this other information on Frayne—

What are you talking about? Einar interrupted his monologue abruptly.

Dagnan watched for Einar’s reaction closely. The Oracle has spoken—"

Einar half-rose from his chair in shock. What?! That’s impossible! You can’t be serious!

Pulling it from his cloak, Dagnan handed Einar the folded parchment sheet Kalyani had messengered him. I’m afraid it is very possible, and extremely troubling.

When Einar had finished reading, he gazed at Dagnan with barely controlled horror in his brown eyes. The Oracle itself though is not what I find the most troubling, but the words it spoke, and the circumstances. I don’t like it.

’Your survival shall lie in the hands of the one you fear most’, Dagnan quoted, nodding.

"But that in itself is not what distresses me most at present. It’s the fact that none of those present, save the lone witness who reported the incident to the High Priestess, recall much of anything about what transpired. And the fact that the boy died not hours after the event.

But what can it mean? Einar speculated aloud. You did well to keep this from the Council.

"I don’t know what it could mean, but the struggle Mistress Areta describes disturbs me. It could imply that the Dragons were not solely involved. I definitely do not like what it could imply. That the Ishada could be tampering with our most sacred relics."

What does Kalyani plan to do with those involved?

"It will be Sohar’s responsibility. All were in the Kilith, but I don’t think it’s been decided yet."

Dagnan took the letter back from Einar and took another drink from his glass. This will not help the situation in the Council. This could mean anything! And Frayne will certainly twist it to suit his purposes.

Aye, he will that.

Then why don’t you do something! Dagnan questioned, rising to his feet. You must choose, Einar. I cannot believe you have waited as long as you have, to give them the power to—

I give them nothing! Einar insisted. I only try to keep the Council, and, thus our people, from splintering. Were I to deny Frayne’s accusations against the Dragons and dismiss his assertions without consideration, he would brand me arbitrary and a dictator!

But by giving him your consideration, you give him the leverage to claim that even the Primary no longer believes the priests’ ‘tales.’ What of your duty to the Dragons, Einar? What of the oath you swore?

I swore to remain neutral, Dagnan!

The Exiles never would have believed that their words would be used to defend the Ishada.

I’m doing the best I can! What would you have me do? Allow the country to dissolve and start a civil war?

Dagnan sighed, bowing his head and fell