Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (56 page)

During those days, as he underwent the various measurings and fittings and alterations, he spoke with whoever he could find, asking endless questions. He learned that although Black's family had stayed at the Society's hall at first in case Ithar's healing abilities were needed again, now that Arlian was clearly on the road to recovery they were moving back to Obsidian House—though Brook and Ithar would continue to visit the hall and other points about the city so that Ithar's healing abilities might be available to whoever needed them. Stammer and the other servants had already returned home, and were preparing the house to receive its master—although it had not burned, there was incidental damage from stray sparks, from stray catapult bolts, and from panicky neighbors.

Lilsinir was making arrangements to perform the purifying ritual on Brook—having experienced the heart of the dragon, Ithar's mother was now more than willing to return to her former self.

"I do regret losing all those centuries of life," Brook said, when Arlian commended her on her decision. The two were sitting by the shelf of skulls, Arlian in one of the ordinary chairs and Brook upon her wheels. Ithar lay asleep in his mother's arms.

"They are not worth what they cost," Arlian said.

"Perhaps, as the mother of a god, I might somehow manage longevity without the loss of my soul," she suggested, smiling.

"I have no idea whether that's possible, but it would certainly please me," Arlian said, smiling in return.

"And what are your own plans, my lord?"

"I have no more plans," Arlian replied. "My vengeance is complete, and my heart is whole again—still patched together in places, still pained by the loss of so many I loved, but human and healing. The dragons are defeated, if not yet annihilated, and a worthy form has been found to succeed them as the land's magic. I am done. There is nothing left to do but live out my life."

"You could hunt down the remaining dragons, when you have recovered."

"I will leave that to others—perhaps to Ithar and his kin, when he comes of age. I have done my share."

"Indeed you have, and more—but you will not continue for your own satisfaction?"

"No. I have had enough, and more than enough, of slaying dragons." Arlian knew that not long ago he would have considered it unthinkable to give up his campaign while a single dragon still survived, but now, as he said, he had had enough. He was unsure whether it was the loss of the heart of the dragon that had transformed him, or killing the beast that had killed his grandfather, or something else entirely—

perhaps Ithar had healed his soul as well as his body, and cured him of his need for revenge, or perhaps the mere presence of a living god in the world was enough to change his mind. Whatever the reason, he had indeed had his fill of vengeance.

He had sworn to destroy the dragons or die in the attempt, and he felt that he had fulfilled his oath—although dragons yet lived, he had set in motion events that would inevitably render them powerless and impotent. That was destruction enough to satisfy him.

"Then perhaps you might find other ways to spend your time that are worthy of a man of your accomplishments," Brook suggested. "You could offer your name to the council of nobles—I think a good case could be made that you should retain the title of warlord, or perhaps even become the new Duke. After all, what did Roioch accomplish that you have not equaled?"

"Duke?" Arlian grimaced. "I would rather go dwell in the Desolation as a hermit. Better Zaner, if he yet lives, or Spider, or Quickhand."

Lord Zaner was among the missing—no one knew, as yet, whether he had died in the Citadel with so many others, or escaped and gone into hiding.

"Might you study sorcery, perhaps?"

"I have but a single lifetime in which to learn now, and I suspect that the nature of magic may be changing in the years to come, as the gods grow in strength. I doubt I could gain enough skill to be worth the effort."

"There is nothing that interests you, then? Nothing to hold your attention?"

"Perhaps in time there will be."

Brook was hardly satisfied by that, but did not press the issue further.

Finally, when Arlian felt himself up to the walk and had once again been outfitted in a manner appropriate for a lord, he clapped his new hat on his head and marched up the Street of the Black Spire, then made his way to the Old Palace grounds, taking in the devastation around him.

The older portions of the city were largely intact—roofs had been caved in or torn away here and there, catapults ripped from their mountings or smashed to bits where they stood, but most of the gray stone walls still stood, the gray stone streets had been largely cleared of debris, and the tradesmen and laborers were going about their business just as they always had. Shop doors stood open, and the odor of baking bread mingled with the lingering wood smoke.

At least half the Upper City, though, was a wasteland—mansion after mansion had been burned to the ground, leaving occasional upright slabs of stone or brick thrusting up from heaps of still-smoldering wreckage. Ragged figures were moving across the rubble of some estates, picking out scorched books or china cups that had somehow survived.

Arlian knew he was partly to blame for all of this—the destruction, the chaos, the hundreds of deaths. If he had never interfered with the dragons, if he had never tried to create a better world, then none of this would have happened. If he had not experimented with the dragons'

venom then Ithar would have been an ordinary child, and the dragons would not have attacked Manfort—but every year a village somewhere would have been destroyed, so that the souls of its people could feed the dragons.

If he had not slain so many dragons, then wild magic would not have encroached on the Borderlands.

If he had not revealed the secrets of draconic reproduction, the fourteen years of war between man and dragon might have been

avoided—or perhaps not. Lord Enziet would have died soon in any case, and he would have had no heir in place to hold the dragons to their old bargain or teach humanity that obsidian could pierce a dragon's hide.

If Arlian had not intervened, then hundreds or thousands of people would not have died beneath the dragons' attacks—but the dragons would rule the Lands of Man as they had for thousands of years, and at least as many would have died in time, over the next several decades or centuries.

He had caused vast destruction, but in doing so he had created the hope of a future free of the dragons. Dreadful as the situation before him was, and much as it pained him to see so many people hurt and so many homes destroyed, he still believed he had done the right thing.

At least, he
hoped
he had, but there was no way he could ever know with any certainty.

He would just have to live with that.

He neared the crest of the hill, and the site of the Old Palace. Several of the structures erected on those grounds had been burned or crushed—Arlian paused briefly to look at the extent of the damage on his land.

It was not as bad, in truth, as most of the other destroyed areas. It occurred to him that Lord Obsidian's surviving guests would have their pick of dozens of new sites if they chose to rebuild their homes.

It could have been far worse.

He ambled past the remaining gatepost, one having been demol-

ished in the fighting, then around to the left and up the path to Obsidian House.

The new house was virtually untouched. The stone walls stood

clean and strong in the sun—whatever repairs had been needed were not readily visible. The iron catapults on the roof were empty, their bolts spent, but were otherwise undamaged. Arlian smiled at the sight.

He hoped those catapults would never be needed again—and he

knew that he had helped create in Ithar a far more effective defense.

He lowered his gaze to the front door, and quickened his pace.

"He's coming!" someone called.

And then the doors and windows opened, and children poured out.

He saw Kerzia and Amberdine and Dirinan, Kuron and Bekerin and Rose, Halori and Selsur and Fanora, running and dancing around him as he strode in.

Waiting inside the door were Hasty and Cricket and Lily and Musk and Kitten and Brook in their wheeled chairs, three on either side of the entrance, with Dovliril and Stone and Stammer and Venlin and a dozen other servants lined up behind them.

And directly ahead of him, in the center of the great hall, stood Black, holding the infant Ithar in his arms, and Rime, supported by her cane and her granddaughter Vanniari.

"Welcome home, Lord Obsidian," Vanniari said. "Welcome home."

Arlian looked about himself at Rime's gathered household and his own, and felt a welling in his heart he had not felt since childhood.

He could no longer remember its name with any certainty, but he thought it might be love—or perhaps simply happiness. It was not the devotion he had felt for Sweet, but a warmth and yearning akin to childhood memories of his love for his family, directed at all those who stood around him, welcoming him.

He had felt nothing like it since his parents died, and had never expected to feel it again, but now he was no longer a dragonheart. He was, for the first time in his life, just a man.

And he was home at last.