Master of Dragons (27 page)

Draconas’s usefulness
in Dragonkeep had ended.

“Ven is on his
own,” he said to himself. “I can do nothing more for him. Ven will either swim
or the dark waters will close over his head. Grald is dead. The sons of
Melisande avenged their mother. I’ve made life difficult for Maristara and
Anora, but I haven’t stopped them. I have delayed the hour they will attack
Idylswylde, but I haven’t stopped that either. Perhaps I’ve made matters worse.
Maybe I’ve pushed them to desperation. Whatever the case, I have to leave
Dragonkeep and I have to leave now, before Maristara arrives.”

The monk was a
problem. He could still hurt Rosa and Anton, and Draconas owed them too much to
bring more harm to them than he already had.

Draconas dropped
the maltreated sock. The little girl stood up and went up to stand next to the
monk. Brother Leopold eyed her warily.

“I’ll tell you a
story, Brother,” Draconas said. “Shall I?”

“Very well,” he
said, his expression grim.

“Once upon a time,
a dragon had a son—half-dragon, half-human. The dragon’s son grew up to be a
fine, strong young man, and the dragon was well pleased, for he had decided
that he would steal this son’s strong young body and use it for his own. After
the dragon had taken over his son’s body, the dragon—in the guise of the
son—would catch his foe all unsuspecting and slay him. And the dragon would
live happily ever after.”

Brother Leopold
listened, his face set in stone.

Draconas shook his
head. “That’s how the story is supposed to end. But it doesn’t.”

“Oh?” said the
monk sarcastically. “How do you think it ends?”

“Most unhappily
for the dragon. He’s dead.”

Brother Leopold
gave a tight smile. “I don’t believe you. This is a trick.”

“Grald was
supposed to send for you when he had his new body. And he hasn’t, has he?”

The monk had no answer.
He walked over to the door and stared, frowning, into the night.

“Go to the Abbey
Go see for yourself,” said Draconas, coming over to stand beside him.

The monk glanced
around. “And what do you do then?” he asked mockingly.

“I let you live,”
Draconas answered.

The monk stared
down at the child in front of him and his mouth twisted in disbelief.

He must know
that I am a dragon. Grald would have certainly told him when he sent him to see
to it that I did not interfere with Grald’s plans for Ven.

But it is one
thing to be told and another to see for oneself.

Draconas shifted
the illusion. The shadow of the dragon, kept hidden from human eyes, took the
place of the little girl.

Brother Leopold
found himself staring at a huge clawed foot. His gaze shifted to a
scale-encrusted belly that seemed to have engorged a house, for it held within
it floor, room, fireplace, table, chairs, and the slumbering humans.

The monk fell back
a step. His gaze lifted from the belly and the clawed feet to the arched neck
and the lowering head of the dragon, whose scales gleamed burnished red and
whose eyes sparked blaze orange. The dragon lifted a front foreclaw and held it
suspended over the monk’s head.

Leopold was a
soldier, one of the elite of the dragon army. He’d been trained to fight from
the day he was old enough to understand how to kill a man with his magic. He’d
been trained to fight men, not dragons—or so Draconas reasoned.

Leopold was no
coward. He did not turn tail and run. He turned his back deliberately on the monster
that loomed over him. His hand steady, he opened the door and walked out into
the empty and silent street.

Pausing, Leopold
looked back at the dragon.

“Grald told me
about you—the one they call the Walker. He told me you would side with the
humans. It won’t matter, you know—even if Grald is dead. The humans cannot stop
us. And neither can you.”

Leopold departed,
heading in the direction of the Abbey.

Draconas abandoned
the illusion and collapsed back down into that of the little girl. He stared
gloomily after the monk’s retreating figure. He thought it quite likely that
the monk was right. He couldn’t stop them.

He looked back at
Anton and Rosa, asleep in their chairs. They would sleep until dawn, when they
would wake to find the child they had taken into their homes and their hearts
gone. They would think the monk had taken her. They would seek her, ask
discreet questions, but they would never find out what had become of her and
they would grieve her loss. Once again, Draconas had been forced to use humans.
Once again, he’d been forced to hurt them.

He heard wings
beating. The shadow of Maristara grew large in his mind. The little girl went
over to Rosa and kissed her careworn cheek and placed the darned socks in her
hands. Draca kissed Anton and, bringing a blanket, draped it around his
shoulders.

Then Draconas left
the house. He walked out into the street, reached up to the stars, and launched
himself into the night.

SORROW CREPT
THROUGH THE CORRIDOR ON THE BALLS OF HER feet, moving as silently as possible.
She had not yet made up her mind whether to confront the dragon, Maristara, or
not. She wanted to see and hear before she was heard and seen. She planned to
verify Ven’s story, find out if he was telling the truth. If that involved
speaking with the dragon, Sorrow would do so. She wanted this to be her
decision, however. Not the dragon’s.

As is customary
with dragon lairs, Grald had constructed several different corridors that led
into and out of the main hall. Some, such as the one Sorrow walked, led to the
hall from the mountain “palace.” Others led to the hall from outside the
mountain, with no need to pass through the part of the lair where the soldiers
of the dragon army lived and worked. Some of the corridors were small, made for
the dragon in his human form; others enormous, meant for the dragon in his true
form. Maristara entered through one of the large corridors. Sorrow came in by
one of the small ones.

She stood in the
doorway, in the shadows. No illusion spell could hide her from the dragon’s
eyes, so she didn’t bother. She kept still, kept the colors of her mind
subdued. Not that it was likely the dragon would seek her out. She was just one
of Grald’s children. The dragon had other, far more important matters to
consider.

Maristara was old,
far older than Grald. The dragon’s scales were so dark that they were almost
black. Her head was slightly stooped, her shoulders hunched, with her wings
folded at her side.

Tendons creaked
and bones cracked as she moved. For all her great age, Maristara was not
feeble. The huge body advanced ponderously into the hall and stalked over to
Grald. Maristara sniffed at the charred, maimed carcass, and her head jerked
involuntarily at the stench of death.

A low growl of ire
rumbled in the dragon’s chest. Maristara searched around, seeking the
perpetrator. Her piercing gaze roved the hall methodically and sifted through
the shadows. Sorrow glided behind a pillar. The dragon’s glint-eyes raked the
alcove and passed over her, then their gaze shifted, along with the massive
head, to the door—the human entrance to the hall. Sorrow could hear the
approaching footfalls as well as the dragon—a single person, running swiftly.

The dragon lifted
a claw, and there was a glint of gold. Maristara held a locket such as Grald
had worn; a locket containing a human heart. The dragon’s magic took shape and
form in her mind, and such was the power of the magic that Sorrow, standing
close to it, could see the blending, merging, dazzling colors flicker on the
horizon of her own mind.

The dragon began
to shift form in a process that reminded Sorrow of watching humans stuff
sausage. The dragon seemed to shrink and compress and stuff her own massive
body into the body of a human female. The procedure took time, and Maristara
had barely completed her transformation before the door burst open, banging
against the wall, and a monk ran inside.

The monk came up
short, his horrified gaze going first to the grisly carcass, then to the
strange woman standing over it. The woman was middle-aged, with gray hair; a
taut, bony face and a lank, bony body.

“Who are you and
what are you doing here?” the monk demanded.

Sorrow recognized
him as Leopold, one of the commanders of the dragon’s army, and she wondered
what he was doing walking about the city (where the soldiers were not supposed
to venture) in monk’s garb. He was not rattled, but composed, advancing into
the room with his hands raised.

“I am Lucretta,
the Mistress of Dragons,” the woman answered, haughty and intimidating. She
drew forth the locket that hung around her human neck and held it to the light.

Leopold relaxed.
Bowing low, he murmured, “Mistress,” in respectful tones.

“What do you know
of this murder?” Maristara gestured to the carcass. “Was it the Walker?”

“No, Mistress. I
was with the Walker the entire time. The Dragon’s Son killed Grald.”

“Impossible!”
exclaimed Maristara.

“There can be no
other explanation, Mistress. Grald chose this night to take over Ven’s body for
his own . . .”

Sorrow’s blood
tingled. A chill rippled through her and her clawed hands clenched.

“... I sent the
Dragon’s Son to him and then I left, as he ordered me, to find the Walker and
make certain that he did not interfere. Draconas never left my sight the entire
night. Unless some other dragon intervened . . .”

“No,” said
Maristara. Her gaze looked far away, probing and seeking other dragon minds. “No
other dragon was here.” She was silent, her eyes narrowed, prying and jabbing. “Where
is he, the Dragon’s Son?”

“I do not know,
mistress. He must have fled-—”

“He tries to hide
from me, but I see the blood spattered on the cavern walls. I see his guilt. I
had no idea he was so powerful.”

“They are all
powerful, Mistress,” Leopold said grimly. “Powerful and dangerous.”

“The dragon’s
children, you mean.”

“Yes, Mistress.”
He hesitated. “May I speak plainly?”

“Of course. You
know our secrets, I see. Grald evidently trusted you.”

“I had that honor,”
said Leopold quietly. “I am one of the commanders of the dragon warriors. I
have been in training all my life for the war against humankind. I was raised
with the dragon children. I have trained to fight alongside them. I am not the
only one who is made uneasy by what I have seen of them. I could say nothing
against the children to Grald. He was, understandably, quite proud of his
offspring.”

“Yes,” Maristara
murmured, her narrow-eyed gaze shifting to the carcass, then back again. Her
lips tightened.

“Grald raised his
children to believe that they are better than humans. He taught them to disdain
humans and human life. Because of this, they will kill a human without a second
thought.”

We would,
Sorrow told him silently.
You do well to fear us!

“We are forced to
revere them, to almost worship them. This was part of Grald’s plan. He intended
to take over Ven’s body. He would then be able to control the children, who
would think him one of themselves.”

Bleak dismay
sickened Sorrow, made her legs tremble. She leaned against the pillar for
support.

“Now Grald is
dead, slain by one of his own children—the
least
powerful among them,”
said Leopold pointedly. “Grald told me himself that Ven had never been trained
in the magic, that he refused to use it or even acknowledge it. One can only
imagine what the other children, who
have
been trained in the magic and
in warfare, as well, can do. And not only against humans.”

“What are you
saying?” the Mistress demanded irritably. “You humans—always so long-winded.
Come out with it.”

“I am saying that
bringing these children into the world was a mistake,” said Leopold grimly. “They
are unpredictable, uncontrollable, and far more dangerous than anyone could
have imagined.” He gestured to the carcass. “As you can plainly see, Mistress.”

“Dangerous to
humans.” The Mistress shrugged. “Grald taught his children to revere dragons.
Ven was different. He was taught to hate dragons. Like the humans of Seth.”

“That is true,
Mistress. But news of Grald’s death will spread. We cannot hide it, for someone
else will have to take command of the armies. We might be able to conceal the
circumstances of his death from the humans, but not from his children, who
communicate mind-to-mind. Once they find out that Ven had the power to kill his
dragon father, they will start to regard dragons with the same disdain that
they now regard humans.”

“No . . . never .
. .” murmured Sorrow, her heart aching.

“I did not approve
of Grald’s experimental breeding of humans and dragons,” said the Mistress. “I
thought he was making a mistake and I told him so. He has paid for his mistake.
No other dragons will do so. Still,” she added thoughtfully, “the older
children might prove useful to us in the upcoming war—”

Leopold shook his
head emphatically. “Forgive me for contradicting you, Mistress, but, as I said,
the dragon’s children cannot be trusted. What if they were to turn upon us in the
midst of a battle?”

Sorrow could see
the dragon’s thoughts, the colors swirling in Maristara’s mind, and they were
much in accord with her own.
You fear them, miserable human. You are jealous
of them. Yet . . .
Her gaze went to Grald’s carcass.
Yet you are right.
Too much is at stake to take a chance.

“Where is the
Walker?” the Mistress asked abruptly.

Leopold answered
reluctantly. “I ... I do not know, Mistress.

Grald kept him in
line by threatening to slay the humans who had protected him. The Walker was
the one who told me Grald had died. What could I do against him? I am no threat
to the Walker. I saw him change into his dragon form, Mistress, and take to the
skies.”