The Dragon of Despair (73 page)

Cremation was necessary in the case of these more recent dead since we could not move partially decayed bodies without inviting the sicknesses that hover around them as a ward against disrespectful treatment of the deceased. The settlers accepted this necessity with grace, but the rude facilities we could construct for the purpose meant that they were greatly shaken by the event. I regret the necessity, but saw no way to avoid it.

The remaining garrison is constructing a keep from which they can view the surrounding area and prevent unwelcome passage west. Materials scavenged from New Bardenville, thanks to Your Majesty’s foresight and preparation, will hasten the construction and the keep should be solidly in place well before winter. As you instructed, immediate work on stone sheathing for the base will begin when the first phase of construction is complete.

A few of the settlers offered to remain and assist. I refused lest we end up with the rebels all using this excuse to remain. I am returning to Eagle’s Nest as soon as the rebels are dispersed. Some have requested relocation, for they gave up everything they had to make this venture. I have written to my brother, Duke Gyrfalcon, to request that he take in some of these. I do not doubt that he will do so, for even the settlers’ children are seasoned beyond their years by this experience. Perhaps other heads of houses can be convinced to do the same. I do not think that these people were so much rebels against your authority as they were ambitious beyond prudence.

Upon my return, I hope to beg audience with Your Majesty. There are things I have learned that may be of interest to you and guide your future decisions regarding the western reaches of your kingdom.

Polr considered writing more or saying less, but the fast rider was saddled and waiting. If he hurried, this missive could be relayed to the capital in a handful of days. He settled for signing and sealing the letter, but his heart was not easy as he posted it.

Eyes once opened to what might live in the darkness do not close easily again in sleep.

XXVIII

IN THE DAYS
that had passed since Citrine’s arrival in Thendulla Lypella the girl discovered that life with her mother was not going to be anything like what she had dreamed.

At first it was promising indeed. She was moved from her first room into a suite in Cloud Touching Spire. It was a lovely place, like a private palace, decorated all in pale shades of green and gold. The bed was huge and had a canopy with gauzy side curtains that could be drawn shut or left open. The sitting room—or playroom, depending on Citrine’s mood—was quite elegant. One of the tall cabinets held about a hundred dolls. A big chest held puzzles and games that just one child could play alone.

Citrine wasn’t left alone very often, though. A maid of her very own was assigned to her. This was a complete novelty. At home only Mother had had her own maid, and the women Sapphire had sent to care for Citrine had been more nurses.

Rillon was a young woman with long black hair and eyes almost as dark. She was very serious about her new duties, and used the dolls to show Citrine the refinements of New Kelvinese attire. Sometimes she’d play tea parties, but not with much imagination or enthusiasm, and so playmates were found for Citrine among the children of the court. Many of these were the Healed One’s nieces and nephews.

It turned out that he had six sisters. They were all away performing official duties, but each one had left at least one child at court. Having been such herself, Citrine knew hostages when she saw them, but that didn’t make the New Kelvinese children any less fun to play with—even if they did talk too fast, sometimes.

The Healed One had a name, it turned out, not just a title, and that name was Toriovico. Toriovico was quite a long name for a Pellish-trained tongue. Had she not practiced her New Kelvinese with Grateful Peace, Citrine would have found it quite difficult to say. The Healed One told her she could use the short form of his name, which was Torio, but Citrine preferred the longer version. It made her feel quite exotic and entirely New Kelvinese.

Toriovico seemed like a nice man, even if he did have green hair and things tattooed onto his face. He was a dancer when he wasn’t being a king, and invited Citrine to come and watch him practice. She did and then he asked her if she wanted to dance with him. Afterward, he said thoughtfully:

“You are light on your feet, little Citrine. Would you like to learn to dance as I do? With your coloring—especially your lovely hair—you would make a fine autumn leaf.”

Citrine was quite excited by this. New Kelvinese dancing was very different from the measured court dances that she had been learning in Hawk Haven. It told stories. To be a leaf she had to learn to be light on her feet—to skitter in tiny motions like a leaf before the wind. She had to learn to sway and to drift softly to the ground.

It wasn’t easy and the practices were harder work than anything else she had ever done before. However, she threw herself into them. They let her forget the thing she couldn’t bear.

Her mother still had no time for her.

Every day Citrine would see Melina at least once, sometimes at breakfast, sometimes at lunch, sometimes looking in at her when the assistant Choreographer gave his little charges a rest. One of her proudest times came when she heard the Choreographer telling her mother:

“She is light on her feet, this little gem, and very strong for her age.”

Citrine knew that learning she possessed strength would surprise Consolor Melina. Before the journey from Hawk Haven Citrine hadn’t been very strong at all, but posing as Jalarios’s son had meant that she must lead horses and carry bundles and haul water—any number of undignified things that a young lady of an almost noble household wouldn’t ever do.

Melina hadn’t shown any surprise at all, just haughty satisfaction. She’d smiled at Citrine, though, and it was all the girl could do not to run over and hug her tight.

But this was one of the many things she had been told she must never do.

“Public displays of affection between us must be eliminated,” Melina had explained that first night, “unless my husband is with us. I will not have anyone thinking that I am less than loyal to my new alliances. It would not do.”

So Citrine didn’t, and felt all the lonelier for having her mother so near but still unapproachable. The hostage children were fun and Toriovico was very nice to her, but she had run away from Elise and Derian and Firekeeper because she wanted to be with her mother. Now it seemed that even here she could not be.

Citrine took to stealing out of her room at night and going to where her mother’s suite was. Many nights, Mother wasn’t there. At first Citrine thought that she was sleeping with Toriovico, but then, overcome with loneliness and something like jealousy she crept from shadow to shadow until she came to the conjugal suite.

No one was awake because the Cloud Touching Spire was guarded from downstairs and outside. Anyhow, everyone inside was trusted. Citrine slipped from room to room, until she came to the royal bedchamber.

Knowing what she was doing was forbidden, Citrine pushed open the door. A small lantern, its wick turned down very low, burned on one of the bedside tables. It didn’t give much light, but it was enough for her to see that Toriovico slept alone.

Where then did Mother go at night when her own bed was empty?

Wanting to know, but desperately afraid of what she would learn if she did know, Citrine forgot caution and fled to her own bed, terrified that she would find Melina standing by it, terrible anger burning in her eyes.

Her bedroom was empty, but Citrine, plagued by fears she couldn’t even focus, much less put a name to, slept no more that night.

DERIAN WAS AWARE
of Doc’s relief when the knock on the door sounded. For several days now, business had been tapering off. First there had been fewer new patients. Now even those who should have returned for follow-up visits were not doing so.

It didn’t help that Ambassador Redbriar had sent word that Xarxius was away from Dragon’s Breath, although the Dragon’s Claw was expected to return shortly. She had offered to send a copy of their letter requesting Citrine’s return to someone else in Apheros’s organization, but they had decided against this. One letter might already be one too many.

Ambassador Redbriar had also sent word that she had learned nothing at all about the whereabouts of either Edlin or their “New Kelvinese servant, Jalarios.” This last, combined with the fact that although Bee Biter and his wingéd-folk allies had spotted Citrine a few times, nothing had been seen of either of the men, added to everyone’s anxiety for them.

And for Doc worse than for the rest of us,
Derian thought,
since Edlin’s close kin. Now more than ever Doc could use the distraction of patients.

Rather than waiting for Wendee to answer the door as would have been the case a few days earlier, Doc dropped his cards on the table and shoved his chair back.

“I’ll get it,” he said, rather unnecessarily, for he was already out of the kitchen and heading toward the front door.

Derian followed, more out of idleness than for any other reason. Their small company didn’t require what Doc earned through his practice, but the activity had been a constant backdrop to their New Kelvinese residence—its absence had accented the tension they all felt.

“May I speak with Sir Jared?” asked an unfamiliar male voice.

“I am he,” Doc replied.

Derian could hear the smile in his voice. The New Kelvinese were rarely prepared for Doc’s informality. No wonder this caller didn’t believe that the great healer himself had answered the door.

Derian expected to hear a further exchange along this line. Instead, the caller said:

“My mother is very ill. Could you come out to see her? Our home is not far.”

Derian frowned, biting his lower lip. Something wasn’t quite right here. He struggled to place the incongruity even as Doc replied:

“Certainly. Let me get my bag.”

As Doc, the abstracted air he always acquired when contemplating a new challenge not quite banishing his expression of pleasure, crossed from the front door to get his bag from the consulting room, Derian placed what was out of order.

The caller had spoken Pellish. Moreover, he had said he didn’t live far away. Hasamemorri’s house was in a very working-class neighborhood, not at all the type where diplomats who might have learned Pellish would reside.

“Doc,” Derian said, keeping his voice low and rushing after the physician. “Something’s not right here.”

Rapidly, he explained his conjectures. Doc nodded as he listened, but more of his attention seemed fixed on which herbal preparations he should place in his bag.

“He didn’t say what was wrong with his mother,” Doc said, his tone half agreement. “Go ask him for me. Heart? Stomach? A recent injury? I wish Elise was here. She could ask him in his own language. The fellow may not have the Pellish.”

Elise, however, had gone out with Firekeeper, partly in an effort to pick up rumors, partly to distract the still guilt-ridden and consequently less than even-tempered wolf-woman.

Derian hid his frustration and headed for the door. At least this way he’d get a look at their caller.

He reopened the door to find a hulking fellow on the doorstep. His first thought was that the man looked as if his mother had been a bear rather than someone delicate enough to need a healer. His second thought was that the man looked vaguely familiar.

In the time they had been in New Kelvin, Derian had begun to learn to look beyond the omnipresent facial decorations to the features behind them. Indeed, he was coming to suspect that he saw more of the original face than might a New Kelvinese. Their caller’s features were weathered; moreover, even the thick orange and yellows lines he’d drawn around eyes and mouth couldn’t hide that recently he’d been exposed to great heat.

One of Derian’s more regular girlfriends had been a baker’s daughter. He’d seen similar coloring on the baker’s face near festival times when the demand for some special delicacy meant he spent more time than usual peering into the ovens.