Redheart (Leland Dragon Series) (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

“He is lying!” Blackclaw snarled at the flimsy, impotent Whitetail. “What good are you to me if at every turn I must double-back to do your work as well as my own?”

“I have done everything you have asked of me. And more.”

Blackclaw turned his gaze from the parchments spread out on the floor in front of him. “What is wrong, Whitetail?” He leaned forward, one stray document skittering like a wrinkled leaf toward the advisor’s planted foot. “Feeling unappreciated?”

“I only wish to remind you that I have neither balked nor refused any instruction you have given me.”

He lifted his chin! The wimp of a dragon actually dared to lift his chin and look Blackclaw squarely in the eye with that statement. “Careful, Whitetail, or I might get the impression you are developing a backbone.”

Whitetail stooped, his maw sweeping the stone floor. “I mean no disrespect, of course.”

Blackclaw gathered his strewn parchments into a small stack. “Intricate planning such as I have in store requires much thought, much preparation. I need to trust you to assigned tasks without your constant interruption.” Then he yawned a gaping and pleasant yawn, before he climbed to his feet, stretching slowly. “However, I could use a break. I will visit this stubborn wizard with you.” He brushed past Whitetail, and then paused. “By the way, it was an excellent improvisation to accuse the wizard of spying in front of the village.”

“Yes, it did have the intended effect.”

“It would seem so.” Blackclaw swung his eyes toward Whitetail as they walked. It had been quick thinking on Whitetail’s part. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to come up with that himself. “Tell me more of this Red that interfered. Is he a vassal, as you predicted?”

Whitetail shook his head. “I am not certain, but I think not. There has been no word of a Vassal Red since Bren Redheart. This other claims to be his son, but I have been unable to prove or disprove it.”

“Redheart’s son? Our slayer dispatched him when the father was killed.”

“That was my understanding. But this Red did claim to be the heir.”

Blackclaw paused. “If the Red is the heir, that can only mean that the slayer betrayed us. If the Red is not the heir, he has gone to a great deal of trouble to pretend he is.”

“Either way,” said Whitetail, “his appearance could not have come at a worse time.”

Blackclaw smiled. “Where is the quick thinking you possessed yesterday? I say his appearance could not have been timed better.” He pushed off again, and lumbered for the wooden door at the end of the long hallway.

“Which do you suppose him to be, a true Redheart, or a fraud?” Whitetail asked.

Blackclaw wrapped his claws around the handle of the prison door and yanked it open. “I am sure I do not know. But we have someone we can ask.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Riza trudged to her room. Inside, she lit the lamp on her bed stand. Then she leaned back against her closed door, and, relieved to finally be alone again after a long day of silent worry, she closed her eyes.

It had been so hard to keep working. Twice, she’d burned the morning bacon. She’d forgotten to add milk to the biscuits. Rusic had even pulled her aside and told her that customers were complaining. “These folks aren’t hard t’please, mind ye,” he’d said. “But now they’re asking, and I’m worried for ye, girl. What’s wrong?”

How could she give him an answer, when she hadn’t known, exactly? She’d just been remembering how Jastin had hurt her mouth with his kiss. She’d been so happy to see Kallon when he appeared. She hadn’t known how the dragon had managed to find them, but there he’d been, again saving her from something she was afraid to think about.

Then she’d heard Jastin’s snide thank-you, and had seen Kallon’s eyes.

It was that look in Kallon’s eyes, really, that had kept her insides tumbling all day so that she couldn’t even manage to eat anything. Thinking about it now, she realized she finally had her answer. She covered her face with her hands, trying to force the image out of her mind, but there it clung like a stubborn spider web.

A bleak little coo made her eyes open. She walked to the box at her bedside, and knelt to stroke the gray feathers of the wounded pigeon she’d brought home from the woods. “Hello, little one,” she said quietly. “Are we feeling better?”

Her fingertip rubbed over a spot behind the bird’s eye where a feather was missing. Feeling wetness, she looked at her fingers. Fresh blood? But that scratch wasn’t there yesterday. “You poor thing,” she said. “The more I try to help you, the more you seem to suffer.”

She gently cupped the bird and drew it out of the crate. It was so weak it didn’t even struggle. “Today I brought some sesame seeds,” Riza said. She set the pigeon onto her bed and sprinkled the seeds from her pocket. It stared at her, its beady eyes unblinking. Then, it poked its beak at the food.

“That’s good. You need to keep up your strength.” She smiled and stroked its soft head. It paused now and again to peer up at her, and each time it did, she felt it studying her. Almost as if there was something quietly wise behind its eyes.

“I don’t know how you keep hurting yourself,” she said. “Maybe I’ll leave you out of the crate tonight, and give you more room. When you’ve finished dinner, I’ll pour you a bath, and clean up all those scratches, and then we’ll both rest.”

There was no reply from the pigeon, of course. She pressed her elbows to her bed, propped her chin on her fist, and watched it eat.

* * *

Blackclaw stomped out of the dank prison room. He swung his tail clear of the door and slammed it. The iron hinges wobbled, and granite powder filtered like snowfall. “I am losing my patience with that human.”

“He is stronger than we realized,” said Whitetail, who had left the room ahead of him.

“You are certain no one has been sneaking him food? No water?”

“I have guarded him myself for many hours. The other dragons posted in my stead I would trust with my life.”

Blackclaw pounded his fist against the door. “The wizard is too old to be so resilient on his own. I searched him myself for crystals and powders. He hasn’t an orifice left to contain them.” He lurched along the hall, back to his quarters. He smelled of human sweat and urine and couldn’t wait to rid himself of the stench with a bath. “If he will not give us information about this Red, we will have to discover it ourselves. It is clear the wizard is willing to suffer, rather than cooperate. He is of no use to us.”

“It is possible he speaks the truth,” said Whitetail. “Perhaps what you have in your possession is the one true circlet.”

Blackclaw stopped, his thick claws scraping the stone floor. He swiveled his head and stared down Whitetail. “It is not possible.”

“I have consulted our own conjurers,” Whitetail said, his face lowering. “They concur that a pure and intense crystal such as the bloodstone is extremely sensitive to subtle tones of emotion. That which makes it so powerful also makes it complicated to use. The slightest portrayal of dark desires—”

“Are you saying my motives are impure?” Blackclaw could feel the acid heat in his stomach churn. His nostrils flared.

“Not at all, your Honor. That is not what I meant.” Whitetail’s nose brushed the floor.

Blackclaw shifted toward Whitetail, ringlets of smoke billowing with each word. “You are at death’s door. I suggest you stop knocking.”

He spun away with a growl. “Announce the wizard’s pending execution. If the human will not lead us to the Red, we will bring the Red to us. And Whitetail,” said Blackclaw, pausing without looking back. “There is plenty of room on the execution block for those who defy my leadership.” He turned the corner of the hallway.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jastin cursed. A boulder the size of his fist had broken loose from the mountain face and crashed against his knuckles, bloodying them. He suckled the wound as he paused to assess. He clung near the base of Orin’s Peak, the smallest of Leland’s mountains, situated between the dying woods of Durance and rest of the rocky chain.

He’d run Blade hard through the night and day, chasing the Red through withered trees, over brown hills scattered with granite rubble, and over deep chasms once flowing with crisp waters. It had been easier to follow the scent than he’d expected. Mingled with the stench of musty dragon scales was the odor of festering tissue. The dragon had been wounded, after all.

Come dawn, Jastin had found the spotted trail of blood that the Red had been so thoughtful to leave behind. It was this trail he’d followed to the mountain. There was a large splash of blood above him on the rocks. It was dry, but fresh enough that the dragon might still be up there somewhere, perhaps fainted. Perhaps dead.

He dragged himself another foot up the mountain, scrabbling for hold. He couldn’t leave the Red’s death to chance this time. He had to know, and had to finish the job he was given all those years ago, on his first visit to the Leland Mountains.

The battle with the Red vassal for the Circlet of Aspira had been brutal, but he’d been young enough back then to outmaneuver the huge beast. Once the poison arrow had brought him down, Jastin had moved into ground fighting. As with any wounded dragon, it had only been a matter of time until Jastin had managed the fatal blow to the base of the beast’s tail.

That’s when the fledgling had appeared from nowhere. Jastin had heard a squeal, and then it was there, draped over the bleeding vassal, howling and pleading for his father’s life. Jastin hadn’t planned on killing the youth. He hadn’t been hired for that.

But Blackclaw strode out of the woods. “Quite convenient,” he’d said. “Finish them both.” He’d tossed Jastin a bag of gold, and then lumbered away.

Jastin had swung his sword for the powerful blow that would separate the young dragon’s head from his neck. Then the father had groaned, and rumbled something in dragonspeak. A burst of warm light had suddenly roared in his ears like the surf, and had blinded him with painful jabs like fingers to his eyes. When the light faded, there had been only the dead father.

He’d sliced off the Red’s hind toe, as he always did, for his trophy. Then he’d spent a few minutes searching for the young one. There’d been no tracks, and no lingering scent on the wind. When he’d heard shouts and running footsteps, he decided it was time to get out of there.

He couldn’t have guessed that he’d return to this land, called again to the service of the black dragon. When the Red had shown himself in the dragon village, it had appeared to surprise the White. That was good. Now was his chance to kill the beast before anyone had time to realize the truth.

But he wasn’t going to find the dragon this way. He was making no progress up the mountain, and he was only exhausting himself. He really was getting too old for this. He slowly picked his way back down, toes and fingers searching in turn for holds, until he was low enough to jump.

Blade whinnied from afar. He tracked the horse to a field of crunchy grassland. “Ho, boy,” Jastin called. “You’re going back to town. Wrong way.” Blade drew up, shook his mane, and splattered foamy spittle to the ground. “I’m thirsty, too,” said Jastin. “But we can’t go home. Not yet.”

He tugged Blade to follow. As he turned, something glinted at the corner of his eye. He peered into the shadowed crevices. It wasn’t glinting after all; it was glowing. Jastin crept forward, sensing a throb of energy pulsing from the object like a ripple of heartbeat. He frowned. Magic.

A purple stone, though. Probably amethyst. Either way, it was a valuable chunk of rock, and he tugged it free. It wasn’t very large, only the length of his fist, but it was fastened to a strip of leather as an amulet. There was something familiar about the piece. He dangled it before his eyes.

The wind shifted and brought an acrid sting to Jastin’s nose. The Red! He was near. He stuffed the amulet into his pocket, swung up onto the leather saddle, and led Blade in a trot.

After several yards, he came to face a looming wall of rock. He was forced to turn sharply north. There was a patch of level ground just beyond a sandy incline, and he guided Blade upward. There, the dragon stench was so powerful it nearly knocked Jastin off the saddle.

In the times he’d trailed Riza to the mountains, she’d never led him directly to the creature’s lair. Now he found it. And the dragon was inside it.

He slid from Blade, both feet landing so softly not even the dust was stirred. He inched forward, drawing his sword. Anticipation of the battle brought familiar emotions, but there was an undercurrent of something less recognized. Uncertainty.

This would be his third confrontation with the dragon. No dragon before him had ever lived for even a second battle. Was he losing his edge? He quickly swallowed this thought, along with the salty taste of perspiration from his upper lip.

He paused at the gloomy cave entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust. He could make out a lumpy, dragon-shaped shadow against the wall. No sound, not even breathing, stirred the darkness. Jastin crouched, ready.

The dragon shifted. His fat tail flopped toward Jastin’s feet. A faint shaft of light beamed directly across his rump. Right on target. He would need to split the dragon’s artery on the first try, because if the dragon awoke with full strength, it would have the advantage in this dark place.

But the dragon was already awake. Jastin’s eyes finally adjusted enough to realize the beast’s eyes were fixed straight on him. No teeth bared. No blast of sulfur. Just brown eyes, wide and staring. Jastin hesitated. Was there to be no fight at all? So be it. He swung his sword up high to strike.