Master of Dragons (21 page)

That this miracle
came at the cost of a human’s life was regrettable, but then, as Sorrow had
said, many human children walking the earth this very day had come into the
world at the mother’s expense.

So perhaps I
don’t need to take revenge against the dragon. Perhaps, instead, I should thank
and honor him.

Ven went to his
supper and ate with a good appetite. Then he lay down on his bed, not to sleep,
but to consider all the questions he would ask his father, the dragon.

Grald sniffed
about the vast hall in the Abbey. Once he was certain by both sight and smell
that he was alone, he walked over to a portion of the wall that was solid stone
to the eyes of humans, empty air to his dragon eyes. The illusion concealed a
tomb made of granite with a heavy granite lid that now rested on the floor.

Inside was the
body of Grald, the body the dragon inhabited. Tonight, the human would finally
receive his release in death. Grald would tear out Ven’s heart and place it in the
golden locket. He would seize the young, strong body, and when that was done,
he would take what was left of Ven and place him inside the tomb. The dragon
would lift the heavy lid of the coffin in his claws and seal Ven inside. There,
the young man would continue to live, buried alive, his still-beating heart
fueling the body the dragon had usurped. Ven might live for thirty or forty
years, Grald calculated. The dragon would get thirty or forty years of good use
from the young man’s body, maybe longer. And when that body eventually aged and
died, the dragon would have many more bodies of his own children from which to
choose.

“My offspring will
be a force in this world,” he said proudly, placing his hands on the lid of the
tomb and gazing at it with satisfaction. “My armies will conquer human nations.
My children will rule them. We dragons will bring order to this world of
humans, teach them to obey and respect their masters. I almost wish Ven could
be at my side to see it.”

Grald imagined
what it would be like to be trapped, suffering, inside this coffin; trapped for
years without end, the minutes dropping so slowly, like the blood of the
ravaged heart.

“A noble
sacrifice, Ven,” said the dragon softly. “One that will be long remembered.”

Grald made certain
that the illusion was still in place, that the tomb remained hidden to all eyes
but his. Then, his thoughts going on to other matters, the dragon left to
apprise Maristara and Anora that their plans had changed, that Draconas had
been discovered alive, and that, of necessity, the war must go forward sooner
than anticipated.

He did not expect
the elder females to be happy about the situation, and he was right.

They weren’t.

The conversation
between the three dragons was an explosion of color, blobs of anger hurled onto
a mental canvas. Grald and Anora in particular went at each other, accusations
sharp as claws tearing and ripping until the canvas was in shreds and came
perilously close to being destroyed.

“Stop it!” ordered
Maristara, her colors black as hoarfrost. “You both stink of fear.”

The battling
dragons went silent, their colors subdued, though still smoldering.

“Not fear,” Grald
returned. “Our own damnable reluctance to act.”

“He’s right,”
Anora conceded grudgingly. Her colors were gray with fatigue. “We dragons will
find any excuse to keep from taking that first step off the ledge.”

“The first step
has been taken,” Maristara reminded them. “We must now either flap our wings or
fall to our doom into the pit below. You, Anora. You have said that you walk
among the humans.”

“I am with them
now. The takeover of the latest body went smoothly. No one suspects. I find I
am starting to hate this, though,” Anora returned bitterly. “This killing of humans
in order to use their bodies. I found this murder particularly reprehensible.”

“Anora is
weakening!” was the alarmed thought that flashed from Maristara to Grald.

“None of us likes
it,” said Grald, lying, for he enjoyed the killing. “I am going to be forced to
slay my own son. You don’t see me whining over it.”

“And when will you
kill him?” Maristara demanded. “We cannot make a move until you have taken over
the half-dragon’s body.”

“Tonight,” said
Grald. “The arrangements are made.”

“And the Walker?”

“Slaying him will
be my first course of action once I am in my new body. I will take care of that
tonight as well.”

Maristara and
Grald waited for Anora to object, but her colors were hidden.

“Good,” said
Grald. “Then if all goes according to plan, the army of Dragonkeep will make
ready to march against the humans tomorrow.”

“So soon . . .”
Anora murmured.

“Is this a
problem?” Maristara asked irritably.

“No, I am prepared
to act.”

“Not too
precipitously, I hope,” Maristara said. “The timing must be right. The humans
must be made to think that this cannon of theirs brought about the catastrophe.”

“You have no cause
to worry,” Anora returned, her colors taking on a fiery glow. “I know what I am
about.”

“Very good,” said
Maristara. “Then we will each keep the other apprised. Good fortune to us all.
Tomorrow will be a momentous day for all of dragonkind.”

“A day too long
coming, if you ask me,” Grald muttered.

“No one did,” said
Anora, and her colors disappeared with snap.

DRACONAS HURRIED
THROUGH THE STREETS OF DRAGONKEEP, hoping to reach home by suppertime so as not
to worry Rosa. The hour was sunset, and the streets were crowded with other
homeward-bound people. Draconas had to dodge and weave his way along the narrow
streets. His disguise as a hoyden aided him in this, for he bumped, shoved,
jostled, or pushed people as needed and received in turn nothing more than a
muttered scolding or a threat to box his ears, whereas an adult behaving in a
similar rude manner would have ended up in a fistfight.

Worrying about
someone worrying about you is not a dragon trait. Independent, solitary beings,
dragons enjoy the freedom of doing what they please when they please without
thought or care for any other. Humans, on the other hand, need to care and be
cared for in return. That Rosa and Anton were coming to care deeply for the
young girl who had intruded into their lives was becoming increasingly apparent
to Draconas. Their caring was an added and unexpected burden, a burden he did
not need right now.

No good telling
himself he should have foreseen it. In the split second he’d had to make his
decision, he’d been thinking only of his own survival, not looking ahead to see
how that survival might impact the lives of humans.

As a walker, he
was supposed to have as little effect on human lives as possible—a rule he’d
effectively scuttled years ago when he had started on this disastrous
enterprise. Since then, he’d ended up entangled in more human lives than he
wanted to think about.

“It’s like one of
their blasted round dances,” Draconas grumbled to himself as he ran down the
street, his long braids flying out behind him. “You start out with one human
and things are going fine, then suddenly the music changes and you’re handed
off to another human, then another after that, and before you know it, you find
yourself a long way from where you want to be.”

As if fate were
determined to prove him right, Draconas’s need to race home caused him to burst
into the house without first doing what he would have normally done—taken a careful
inspection of his surroundings. If Draconas had been paying attention, he would
have seen the monk loitering in the street, and he would have known immediately
that this night he should not go home. He should have let the humans worry.

As it was, Draconas
was in too much haste to notice. He arrived to find that Rosa was out, and he
had time to chop the carrots and the onions, ready to add to the meat that was
already in the stew pot, when Rosa opened the door.

“It’s good to come
home to a warm house and supper already started,” said Rosa, taking off her
scarf and giving the girl a hug. She gazed at Draca and added, with a frown, “But
what have you been up to? You look as though you’ve spent the day crawling
about in a cave! I trust you washed your hands before you started the cooking.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said
Draconas, exhibiting hands and arms that were clean to the elbow, if not much
beyond that.

“Your face is
filthy and you’ve even got dirt in your hair,” said Rosa, scandalized. “You had
best go wash up before Anton comes home. Though, poor man”—she sighed—”I think
it likely he’ll be late again this night.”

Draconas thought
so, too, since Anton was helping to make the weapons of war that the dragon
army would carry into human lands. As he poured water into the crockery bowl
the family used for washing, he thought of the daughter that Rosa and Anton
would never see again, and he thought of the hideous grandchild that she had
borne them—a grandchild that resembled the daughter they loved except with
clawed feet, or perhaps wings and a tail.

He would never
tell them, of course. In this dance, the music would not change. The partners
would not shift. The dancers would keep dancing until the final beat of the
drum.

There came a knock
at the door.

“Strange time for
visitors,” said Rosa, turning from the bubbling stew pot, over which she had
been hovering, to peer out the window. She gave a little gasp. “It’s one of the
Blessed!”

Draconas knew in
that instant that he’d made a mistake. He should not have come back to this
house. He’d been discovered. Perhaps Ven had given him away, although Draconas
didn’t think that likely. Ven was one to keep himself to himself. Draconas
considered it far more likely that someone in the “palace” had seen through his
illusion and tracked him down.

Rosa opened the
door and there was the exact monk of the bridge, sane eyes and all.

“Good evening,
Brother,” said Rosa nervously, with a strained smile.

“Good evening,
Mistress,” said the monk. He was relaxed, his tone natural. His gaze, as he
glanced about the house, was casual. If he saw Draca, standing at the back of
the room, he took no special notice of her. “This is the home of Master Anton,
the blacksmith, is it not?”

“Yes, Brother—”
Rosa hesitated.

“Brother Leopold.
Is your good man about?” the monk asked politely.

“No, Brother
Leopold, he is working late this night,” Rosa replied. “You will find him in
the smithy. I can show you, if you will come . . .” As she started out the
door, she was closing it behind her.

“Bless you,”
Draconas said to her softly.

Unfortunately, the
monk stopped her. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said, smiling affably. “I would not
think of interrupting his work. I will wait for him here, if my presence is not
an inconvenience.”

Rosa murmured
something and, with a frightened glance at Draca, she opened the door to allow
the monk to enter.

The monk walked
into the house and stood politely until Rosa offered him a chair. He sat down
and his gaze went over the house again. Rosa remained standing, twisting her
skirt in her hands.

“Whatever you are
cooking smells delicious,” Brother Leopold said, glancing at the stew pot, from
which a fragrant aroma of onions and meat and spices was rising. “You wait
until your good man comes home to dine, I take it.”

Rosa murmured
something unintelligible and then did not know what to do with herself. She
continued to stand near the door, twisting the cloth. A tense silence
fell—tense on the part of Draconas and Rosa. The monk appeared to be quite at
home. Smiling, he settled comfortably in his chair and continued to look about,
apparently quite taken with what he saw.

“You are a good
housekeeper, Mistress Rosa,” he said, and his gaze went at last to Draca and
remained on her. “Your daughter must be a great help to you.”

Rosa gulped, unable
to answer.

“What is your
name, child?” Brother Leopold asked.

“Draca,” answered
Draconas. He forced himself to meet the monk’s gaze with the frank and
unabashed stare of a curious child.

“Come closer,
Draca,” said the monk, reaching out his hand. “You are not afraid of me? Good.
So many children are,” he added sadly to Rosa. “It’s too bad, really.”

Draconas walked
over to the monk. He could not figure out what was going on. One minute he
thought the monk knew exactly who and what he was, the next he thought he didn’t.
Perhaps this
was
just business with Anton.

“You are very
pretty, Draca.” The monk took hold of her hand. “Smart, too, I’ll wager. Are
you smart, Draca?”

“I hope so,
Brother,” Draconas answered.

“And you like to
walk, don’t you, Draca?” said Brother Leopold. He patted her hand. “I’ve seen
you walking about town, haven’t I? Quite the ‘walker’ . . .”

Draconas stared
hard at the monk. Still smiling, still affable, still patting Draca’s hand, the
monk gazed intently at him.

“Quite the walker,”
the monk repeated.

There was no doubt
now in Draconas’s mind that the monk knew who and what he was and that he was
telling Draconas he knew. Draconas tensed, waiting for the attack, waiting to
be arrested, waiting for who knew what . . . The monk released the girl’s hand
with a final pat and turned back to Rosa.

“Do you mind if I
invite myself to dinner, my good woman? Truly, the food smells wonderful. We
get no such meals in the monastery, I assure you. It would be a treat for me.”

“Of course,
Brother Leopold,” Rosa stammered. “We . . . we would be honored. Draca, run and
fetch Anton. Tell him we have a guest—”

“Oh, do not make
Draca
walk
over there,” protested the monk. His gaze fixed on Draconas.
The monk’s eyes were focused and intense and alert and in no way mad. “Draca
has walked such a lot this day. She should rest. I am in no hurry. I have been
working at the site of the blast,” he added, continuing to look at Draca. “A
terrible thing. So many buildings and lives destroyed. Fortunately, that part
of the city was only sparsely inhabited. We are indeed lucky that the blast did
not occur in
this
neighborhood. Many more would have died. Hundreds upon
hundreds. Including Anton and Rosa and our little Draca here and other children
just like her.”