Mistress of Dragons (18 page)

“What
the hell,” Draconas muttered in reckless agreement. “We’ve come farther than I
ever thought possible.”

He
broke into a run, with Edward pounding along behind. Rounding a bend in the
tunnel, they came close to bashing their brains against a stone wall.

“A
dead end!” exclaimed Edward in tones of bitter frustration.

“In
more ways than one,” Draconas said grimly.

This
was the ambush. She’d caught them in a cul-de-sac. He was surprised he couldn’t
hear the dragon creeping up on them, but then she was old and powerful and she
was cunning. Grasping his staff in two hands, he whipped about to face . . .

Nothing.

Nothing
but darkness and silence.

“Damn!”
said Draconas. Nerves taut, he lashed out at nothing.

Edward
ran his hand along the wall. “You know what’s crazy? I still smell perfume.”

Draconas
colored his mind gray, the same color as the rock wall that blocked their way.
His mind as gray as the stone, he thrust his staff into the wall.

The
butt end of the staff vanished, slid through solid rock.

“Holy
Mother and all the saints of heaven preserve us!” Edward whispered, falling
back a pace.

“An
illusion,” said Draconas, triumphant.

“I
don’t understand,” said Edward, clearly shaken. He put out his hand
tentatively. His fingers brushed cold stone. Quickly he snatched back his hand,
stared at Draconas. “How do you do that?”

“You
were right. We have reached the monastery.” Draconas gestured at the wall. “Beyond
us is a chamber filled with light. Incense-laden peat burns in an iron brazier.
A marble altar stands at the far end of the room. Directly across from where we
stand, another door leads out of the chamber. The symbol of an Eye is carved in
the rock upon the floor.”

“You
are mad,” said Edward, eying him askance. “I see cold, hard rock.”

“You
seel
Don’t see,” said Draconas. “Don’t listen to your eyes. They have
been fooled. Listen to your other senses. You
smell
incense.”

Edward
stared at the wall, then shook his head. “I can’t help myself. I know what I
see and what I feel. I see and feel solid rock.”

Draconas
retrieved his staff. He took another glance at the altar room, then shrugged
and turned away. “I guess this ends it. We might as well go back.”

“But
there must be another entrance—” Edward began.

Draconas
whipped around, swinging his staff. He socked the king on the jaw, sent His
Majesty tumbling through the illusory rock wall.

Lying
on his back on the stone floor, Edward lay blinking at the blazing light
burning in a brazier on an iron stand near the altar at the far end of the
room. He stared at the blazing light, then, rubbing his bruised jaw, he sat up.

“Are
you all right, Your Majesty?” came a voice.

“Draconas?”
Edward asked, looking about. “Where are you?”

“On
the other side of the illusion. I’ll keep watch at this end. You go find the
Mistress and bring her back here.”

Edward
stared intently at the wall. He could hear Draconas’s voice quite clearly, as
if he were only arm’s length away. Edward had fallen through a wall wasn’t a
wall and he did his best to convince himself of the illusion. But he could see
the firelight gleaming off stone and if he put out his hand, he’d be able to
feel the rock.

“You
were the one in a hurry,” Draconas reminded him impatiently. “You’d better mark
the place where you entered the illusion. The opening is not very big and it is
surrounded by solid rock. I can’t have you bashing in your head. Here, take
this with you.”

A
blazing torch sailed through the solid rock wall, landed on the floor in front
of Edward.

“This
is not possible,” said Edward. “By all the laws of science, this is not
possible. I’d think I was going mad, but my jaw hurts like hell.”

He
gave his aching jaw another rub, then removed one of his gloves and placed it
at the base of the wall, near the torch.

“Can
you see that?” he asked doubtfully. “Is that in the right place?”

“Your
glove? I can see it. Good idea. If you need help, give a shout. Otherwise, I’ll
be here waiting for you.”

“Why
don’t you come with me?” Edward asked, picking up the flaring torch.

“This
is our only way out,” Draconas returned. “I think it would be wise if one of us
stayed to guard it.”

“Ah,
yes,” said Edward. “Of course.” But he didn’t believe him.

Edward
wanted to trust Draconas, for he liked and admired the man. He couldn’t,
however. A king who wants to be a good king should be a keen observer of his
fellow men, learning to read them as a sailor reads the subtle signs of sea and
sky, to know when storms are brewing or when the wind will rise or switch
direction or if there are shoals on which he might run aground. Draconas’s
waters were calm and placid, but Edward saw secrets hidden in their depths.

All
men have secrets including Edward, but he had the feeling that the the secrets
of Draconas were not the ordinary secrets of ordinary men. Draconas knew that
Edward didn’t trust him and, oddly, Edward understood that in some strange way,
he had risen in his companion’s estimation because of it.

Clapping
his hand over his sword to make certain he’d not lost it in the fall, Edward
walked across the room, heading for the open door that stood directly across
from him. He couldn’t make out what lay beyond that door, but he assumed it
must be another room or a corridor. He moved rapidly, for he had wasted time
back there at the wall, casting a curious glance around the room as he passed
through it.

The
marble altar at the far end was certainly impressive. The dragon carvings had
been done by a master, seemingly, for every scale of a thousand, thousand
scales had been carefully delineated. By contrast, the carving of the Eye on
the floor looked rustic and crude. He noted the worn prayer rugs, arranged in a
circle around the Eye, and a thrill shivered up the base of his spine.

“This
is where they work the magic,” Edward said to himself. “Magic that is a tool of
the devil, reviled by God. Magic that fools the senses, makes us distrust
ourselves. I can see why we are warned against it.”

The
idea was unsettling and, despite his pressing need for haste, Edward’s steps
slowed. He had grown up in the church and, though he considered himself a man
of science, he was also a man of faith. He had no difficulty reconciling the
two, as did some of his generation, for no matter how much science managed to
explain, it could never provide him with the why, the how. God was always
somewhere in every equation.

Edward
had felt certain that God was with him on this holy quest, but now he had the
unnerving feeling that he had left God waiting in the antechamber. The illusion
of the wall, the stone altar, with its dragon’s Eye, whose stony pupil seemed
aware of him, were the stuff of dreams, and dreams were the unsavory,
outlandish cavortings of the mind escaping nightly from civilization’s safe
prison house. Edward thought of this Mistress that he was going to save. He saw
in his mind’s eye the beautiful face and he remembered the stories of the
priest who told tales of the pleasing shapes the Evil One could assume in order
to lure man to his soul’s destruction. One could roll one’s eyes at that when
seated safely in one’s pew, but here, in the perfumed firelight, being watched
by that stone Eye, his stomach shriveled and his mouth went dry.

Edward
hesitated, but only for a moment. The rational, scientific part of him struck
him on his mental jaw, much as Draconas had struck him on his real jaw, and
knocked the terrors of the nursery out of his head. There were terrors here,
but one was a murderer and, if that involved the Evil One at all, it was the
evil that dwelt within men’s hearts.

Swiftly,
but not heedlessly, Edward passed through the open doorway and entered a
corridor of rough-hewn stone. Ahead of him was a stone staircase. He took the
stairs several at a time, and came to a door at the top.

This
door was closed. Edward placed the torch in an iron sconce on the wall, to have
both hands free, then studied the door, noting that it opened inward. He was
pleased and rather surprised to find it was not locked nor barred in any way.
If Draconas had been there, he could have told the king that in places where
there is magic, padlocks and keys are not necessary, but Edward had no
knowledge of this. He put his hand upon the handle, which was of wrought iron
twisted into the shape of a dragon, and gave the door a gentle tug.

Opening
it a crack, he peered out into a hallway and some part of him sighed in relief.
Here was not more dream-stuff. Here was civilization: polished marble floors,
wood-paneled walls, oiled rosewood and ebony furniture. Torchlight gleamed off
the shimmering thread of a fine tapestry hanging on the wall directly opposite.
Looking up, he met a dragon’s eyes looking down at him—the painted eyes of a
painted face of a painted dragon, an image in an elaborate mural.

The
hallway was dark and it was empty.

Edward
stepped cautiously into the shadows, keeping the door open, and wondered which
way he should go.

To
his right, darkness. To his left, not very far from where he was standing,
faint light shone from an open door, casting a warm reflection on the cold
marble.

He
heard breathing—the rasping, shallow breathing of one who is either very old or
very ill, and he smelled the fetid air of the sickroom. Edward listened
intently, but could catch no other scent, hear no other sound. That room and
the person in that room would at least be his starting point.

Reaching
down to his belt, Edward removed his knife and wedged it firmly between the
door and the door jamb, propping the door open. This would not only keep the
door from shutting and perhaps locking, but it would also provide him with a
strip of light to mark his way back.

Keeping
close to the wall, he padded soft-footed down the hallway. The light’s soft
glow spilled into the hall, unbroken by any shadow. The labored breathing
continued without pause. The night was quiet, except for a drumming sound that
Edward eventually recognized as rain beating on the roof.

Nearing
the room, he flattened himself against the wall and peered over his shoulder
into a large room of sumptuous elegance and beauty; the walls hung with heavy
cut-velvet draperies, the marble floors softened and warmed by hand-woven rugs.
A writing desk—its surface bare—stood at the far end of the room. Four large,
high-backed chairs were placed two and two, facing each other, in front of what
was probably a window, covered over by the thick curtains. Glints of light came
from all around the room, reflecting off jeweled boxes, a silver flagon, a set
of gold-inlaid chalices. A dainty oil lamp, standing on a small, gilt-edged table,
gave the light that had drawn him to this room and its sole occupant—an eldery
woman, asleep in her bed.

She
slept on her back, her mouth open, her thin body covered by a coverlet of silk
stitched in gold. Fine lace was at her throat and her wrists. A locket of gold
hung around her neck. Her hands lay on the silken coverlet and they were thin
and bony and veined with blue. Her yellow-white hair had been neatly braided
and hung down beneath the white lace cap that covered her head. A dressing gown
of embroidered silk had been neatly folded and laid across the foot of the bed.

“Frail
and feeble,” Edward said to himself, repeating words the assassin had used.

The
old woman is frail and feeble and of no more use to me. The Mistress dies this
night.

Edward
had thought and dreamed so long of the beautiful face in the topaz that he had
not until this moment equated “frail and feeble” with the words “Mistress dies.”
Now, looking down at the elderly woman sleeping peacefully in her bed, he
realized that they were one.

“She
is the Mistress of Dragons and she is the one who is meant to die this night.”

He
glanced again around the room adorned with every symbol of wealth. Yet here she
lay alone, abandoned. No loving daughters, no grieving sons, not even a servant
to fetch her water or trim the wick of the smoking oil lamp. And here she would
die alone, by violence.

Poor
woman, he thought, pitying her deeply. Poor woman.

He
gazed down at her, conflicted, uncertain what to do. She seemed so frail, he
feared he might kill her if he lifted her. Yet he could not leave her to be
brutally murdered. He listened intently to her breathing and decided that,
though weak, it was not the rattling, gasping breath of the dying.

She
is old and feeble, but, as the giant Grald himself had said, she might well
live many more days. Edward glanced again around the empty room, filled with
wealth, but devoid of comfort. Perhaps all she needed was care and attention.
He would summon his own physician, a clever fellow who specialized in
restorative medicines. And he would not mention his dragon to her, not until
she regained her strength.

“And
if she does not recover, at least she will leave this life in peace, with a
priest by her side. And she will be given a holy burial,” he added grimly,
thinking of Grald and his instructions to burn the body.

Edward
knelt down beside the bed, so that when he woke her, she would not find a man
looming threateningly over her. He reached out his hand and gently touched her
shoulder.

“Madame
...” he said softly.

Her
eyelids flickered, but she did not awaken. She seemed deeply sunk in sleep. He
thought this odd, for the elderly tend to drift light as thistledown on sleep’s
surface.

Perhaps
she has been drugged. Dosed with poppy-water.

He
slid her flaccid arms beneath the coverlet, tucked the blanket around her as
one would swaddle a babe, then lifted her out of the bed. She weighed nothing
in his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder. She gave no sign that she
was aware of anything that was happening to her and he was convinced now that
they had drugged her.