Blood of Dragons (27 page)

‘I never asked for this!' Her low voice was swollen with anger and sorrow. ‘Tintaglia never sought our permission for the changes Reyn and I have experienced, let alone warned us that our baby might suffer for them. Our changes brought beauty and pleasure to us, but we would not have accepted them if we had known the price! Nor did I ever take blood from Tintaglia! So how can this change in me be her doing?'

The dragon tucked his head and looked down on her. His black eyes were spinning with silver glints that seemed to ride that ominous whirlpool. But his response was thoughtful rather than angry. ‘You were near her at some point. Did you run your hands over the cocooned dragon? Share long thoughts with her, perhaps, breathe the warmth of her breath?'

Reyn spoke quietly, to her rather than the dragon. ‘Selden and I were there when she melted her way out of her case. The air was thick with the stench of dragon; we both breathed it in.'

‘I was there, too, in that same chamber. And Sa knows I shared thoughts with her during that time. But—'

Mercor made a sudden sound of impatience, cutting her off. He looked up at the morning sky, as if he longed to take flight and begin his day's hunt. The other dragons had already left. He alone remained and she sensed he would not stay much longer. When he returned his gaze to Malta, the ebon liquid of his great eyes spun more slowly. A long moment passed as he studied her. Great puzzlement and curiosity were conveyed as he asked, ‘Why do you ask so many questions, Malta Vestrit Khuprus?' Malta could feel how he tried gently to compel a truthful answer by the use of her full name. ‘You have been touched with Silver in a purposeful way. The smell of that magic is all over you and wakes my thirst for it. Why do you ask questions when it seems to me you must know the answers very well indeed?'

‘Me? Tintaglia marked me with blue, not silver!' She looked at the scaling on her arms, trying to discover the meaning of his words.

Mercor snorted out his disdain. ‘You bear the mark of Silver, on the back of your neck. I can smell it on you still, even though you have worn it for years. Someone touched you, with skill and purpose, and sent you on your way to fulfil a great task.' The dragon leaned close to her, and she saw her own shocked face reflected in his gleaming black eye. ‘Whence came the Silver that marks the back of your neck? You must know how great our need for it is! You come to us, asking this favour, but hide from us the source of your Silver that began your change.'

Malta's hand flew to the back of her neck. ‘I don't know what you are talking about!' she proclaimed in confusion. But she did know of the faint silvery scaling there, each mark the size of a fingerprint. Never before had she associated it with a dragon. The marks had been there since the day her family had launched the
Paragon
,
long before the fall of Bingtown had sent her fleeing to the Rain Wilds and ultimately to the cocooned dragon's chamber. No dragon had put them upon her. She held Tintaglia responsible for many things in her life, but not those marks.

Reyn spoke out in her defence. ‘She has always had those marks. Birthmarks when first I glimpsed them, just dusky smudges, now made silver by her changes. That is all they are. We keep nothing from you, great dragon. Whatever we have is yours, if you will just save our child. Take my life, eat me now if you wish, but let my son know a moment of peace and calm!' And then the man Malta loved more than life fell to his knees and offered the golden dragon his bent neck.

‘Oh, please,' she moaned, knowing how ravenous the dragon was. But Mercor did not move to strike. If anything, his stillness became that of stone. All around her the gathered keepers kept silent. Sylve kept her hand on her dragon's shoulder, and Alise stood with both her hands clasped over her mouth as if to seal in a scream of terror.

Then the dragon slowly swung his head away. ‘You speak those words as if you believed them true. You know nothing useful, I fear. Tintaglia's Elderlings, I cannot help your babe. But if you have any loyalty to dragonkind …' He lifted his head high and suddenly trumpeted the words loud, issuing his command to every keeper there: ‘Find the Silver well for us! She is proof that one still exists, somewhere! In her lifetime, someone has touched Silver and shared that touch with her. If you care for us at all, make this your quest now. For until it is found, no Elderling magic can be done, no dragon can prosper! Find the Silver well for us.'

‘If we find this Silver well for you, will you then save my baby?' Malta tried recklessly for a bargain. She knew nothing of Silver. Offering it was her last hope.

The dragon looked at her a final time. ‘I have told you. Only Tintaglia can save your child. Reach for her, Elderling. Tell your dragon of your plight and perhaps she will come to aid you.' He turned away and Sylve lifted her hand and stepped out of his way. He did not look at Malta as he added, ‘But do not have great hopes. Tintaglia did not come to us when we needed her. If she would not come for dragons, I doubt she will come for an Elderling.'

Malta could not breathe. Did the dragon know he had just condemned her child to death? Did he understand what it meant to them? He looked at her, and his slender keeper shook her head slowly. A sense of Mercor's sympathy reached Malta, but it was the same sort of sympathy she would have extended to a child with a wilted flower. The dragon did not grasp her agony.

‘But cannot one of you—' Reyn began, but Malta was already turning away from them all.

‘Let's just go,' she said quietly. ‘If this must be, let us just go somewhere private and be with him while we can.' She walked away, not so much from Reyn as from the gathered keepers and the dragon. Some things were too hard to bear, and the scrutiny of outsiders only made them worse. She began to tremble as she walked, a shuddering she could not control. Reyn was suddenly at her side, putting his arm around both of them and guiding her staggering steps. Behind her, the muttering of voices rose but she did not look back. She and Reyn could do nothing for Ephron except be with him as his little life ended. So that was what they would do.

‘Get up here. Now.' The Chalcedean barked the order as if it had been Hest's idea to stay below decks after the sun was up.

He had awakened from his chill and cramped sleep as soon as the locker was opened. Even so, it was hard to move quickly. Hest was still blinking at the light as he emerged onto the deck. Early morning, he estimated, and for a blessing, it was not raining at the moment. He looked about hastily, trying to gauge the situation quickly. The boat was moving slowly upriver, the rowers steady at their oars. The other impervious boat was following them. He stared at the other craft for a moment, wondering if they followed under duress or if they were allied now.

The Chalcedean had no patience with his curiosity. ‘Not there!' He cuffed Hest, then pointed ahead of them, and Hest's jaw dropped at what he saw. Ahead of them was a low spit of grassy mud projecting into the river. Amid the rushes, the dragon was curled like a huge blue cat, asleep and glittering in the wan afternoon light. The Chalcedean spoke in a low voice. ‘We are going to kill it. But we need to know everything you know about dragons. Does it have a vulnerable spot? If it awakens before we manage a quick kill, how will it respond to our attack?'

Hest shook his head. ‘I don't know. I've never tried to kill a dragon! Look at the size of that animal. You'd have to be mad to attack it!' The assassin gave him a dangerous look and Hest reconsidered his tack. What did he know? Only what he had heard. He cleared his throat and spoke more calmly. ‘When the Chalcedeans invaded Bingtown, a dragon helped us fight them off. A blue one, like that one but much smaller. She was able to spit acid, sometimes as a mist that rained down on ranks of men and sometimes in a spray aimed at one man. She also used her wings and her tail to lash at the ships and the warriors. She had clawed feet, too. But what I am telling you is what I was told. I never actually saw her fighting. I wasn't in that part of the city.' He hadn't been in Bingtown at all for those weeks, in truth, but had fled with his mother to their country house. The marauders had never penetrated that far inland.

‘Useless!' The Chalcedean dismissed him, turning away to speak to another of his party. They conversed in Chalcedean, and they were either unaware that Hest was a fluent speaker of that tongue or did not care if he overheard them.

‘We will put in here, downriver of it, and approach on foot. The creature is far larger than expected, from what our spies have told us of the Rain Wild dragons. We have two archers, and they must go first. Aim for an eye and perhaps we will kill it as it sleeps. If it awakes, then send in everyone else with pikes.'

The other man shook his head. ‘Lord Dargen, it is too dangerous. When we captured the other vessel, as you commanded, we lost men we could not afford to lose. We are already spread too thin manning both vessels. If you take most of our men off both ships to attack the dragon and the attack fails, there will not be enough of us left to man one ship. We will all die here.'

The assassin – Lord Dargen – stared at his companion as if he were stupid. ‘This is why we came. To kill a dragon, to butcher it, and to return to Chalced as swiftly as we may.' He shook his head, and then smiled. ‘We may all die here, or we may all die somewhere else, or all our families may die while we are here thinking of ways to save our own lives. It is done. We are marching toward death as soon as we are born. The only hope a man has is that his family line will remain, that his sons will go forward to father more sons, and that his name will be remembered by them. If I do not soon bring to the Duke's feet that which he desires, all futures will be lost to me. So, I risk my life today, in the hopes that my memory will go on forever if I succeed. Put in to shore. I myself will lead the men.' He jerked his head at Hest. ‘Put my servant back in his den. He is useless and I do not want him underfoot.'

The man seized Hest by the arm and jostled him along. As he was shoved unceremoniously and without benefit of ladder below decks, Hest knew that he was receiving the treatment the man longed to inflict on Lord Dargen himself.

‘Lord Dargen,' he muttered as he stood up. ‘Now I have his name! A thread I can follow to deliver vengeance to his door.' He spoke the words aloud, but in the cold wooden space they sounded as hollow as a child's threats against the father who has sent him to his room. He folded himself into the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, and tried not to think what would become of him if the dragon attacked the ship. He'd be helpless, trapped like a rat in the bilge as the ship went down. Cold water. He never imagined he'd die drowning in cold water.

Tintaglia lifted her head and unlidded her eyes. Outrage that anyone dared approach her while she was sleeping flooded her. Humans, clustering close, weapons raised! She surged to her feet, tail lashing, and roared at the sudden pain that swept her as her injury opened and fresh fluid ran down her side.

‘Leave me!' she demanded, and as her command washed against the men facing her, the first barrage of arrows struck. She was in motion, but three still struck her face. They rattled off her, one striking her ridged brow, and the two others hitting just below her eye. Plainly her eye had been the target, and in that instant she realized fully that they intended to kill her. She turned her shoulder and flank to them, showing them only the most heavily scaled parts of her body. At the same time, she slashed her tail and men tumbled, either victims of her blow or of their own frantic efforts to avoid it. She became aware of the other men moving up on her: they were trying to surround her!

One man ran forward, a pike in his hands. His face was set in a rictus of fear and determination. One of her ancestors had known such a charge, and so she did not rear back onto her hind legs and expose her softer belly. Her wings she kept clapped tight to her sides lest they see her swollen wound and know her vulnerability. Instead, she threw her head back on her long neck and then snapped it forward, opening her mouth to hiss out a cloud of venom.

But nothing emerged from her wide-open jaws. Her poison sacs were empty, victim to her long illness. The warriors cowered and one man screamed as the mist of saliva engulfed them. When, a few instants later, they realized they were unhurt, they whooped triumphantly and surged at her in a wild charge.

She willed herself to spin tightly, to meet their attack with a savage lash of her tail. Instead, she moved as ponderously as a wounded buffalo, limping as she slowly wheeled away from them. They were on her, jabbing at her with their spears and shrieking. All she could sense from their thoughts was fear and triumph and bloodlust, just as if she were battling jackals for the rights to a kill. She swept her tail, knocking some of them down, while others leapt back and jeered at her.

‘You will pay!' she roared at them, and from one or two of their minds sensed astonishment that an animal could speak. But the others were deaf to her words, as so many humans were. They came at her again, thudding their useless spears against her heavy scaling. She turned toward them again, thinking of charging at them and crushing as many as she could with her jaws. But a spear flew, striking dangerously close to her eye, and she knew a sudden jolt of fear. These humans
could
kill her. They were not shepherds trying to drive her away from their flock, nor hunters trying to defend their prey from her. They had come here to kill her.

She roared again and there was a small satisfaction in seeing some of them hastily retreat. But others set their spears at the ready and ran toward her.

Tintaglia had no choice. She staggered toward them, stiffly and then in a lumbering charge, whipping her head from side to side, sending one man flying into the rushes and flattening another. She trod on her screaming victim as she passed, vindictively flexing her foot to be sure her nails scored him well.