The Dragon's Son (28 page)

This nest, made of stones and darkness, is built by both dragons during the
elaborate mating ritual. The nest is strong and well built and magically
guarded, for it has to protect and shelter the fragile eggs and the equally
fragile young. The nest’s elaborate defenses are a holdover from the ancient
Dragon War when the young were primary targets.

Dragons come together rarely to mate—some might do so only once in a
lifetime. Wiping out a dragon’s offspring was considered an immense triumph by
the enemy, for such an act might well wipe out a dragon family that had been in
existence for thousands of years. The nest for the young is built as a last
line of defense, in case both parents are slain. The nest is made of rock fused
together with dragon fire and concealed by the most powerful illusions.

Thus, the Dragonkeep could well be considered city of the dragon’s nest, for
its buildings and the enormous stone wall that surrounded it were similar in
function and construction to the nest created for young dragons, as was the
powerful illusion magic that hid it, an illusion so wonderful that Ven had
difficulty telling which was real—the silent forest or the clamoring city.

“The city is real and so are its inhabitants,” the holy sister assured him. “The
illusion of the forest surrounds the city, guarding it and our people from
those who might do us harm.”

“You mean enemy armies?” Ven asked. “But why should anyone attack you? No
one knows you’re here.”

The nun smiled indulgently. “Not armies, necessarily. Originally the wall
was built to keep out dumb animals, who are not fooled by illusion, as are
humans. In the early days all manner of wild beasts, such as bears and wolves,
would come blundering into our city, bringing harm to themselves, as well as
our people.

To prevent this, the dragon built the wall, tearing the stones from the
mountainside and fusing them together with the fire from his belly.”

The city streets were narrow and crowded. Like a giant child outgrowing its
swaddling clothes, the city’s swelling population was threatening to break out
of the wall that surrounded it. Buildings that had been one story were now two
or three. Even the dragon-created mines from which the stone was quarried were
being converted into dwellings and shops into which more people were crammed.
Slapped together in haste, held together by fire, the building leaned at
precarious angles, with not a level plane in sight.

“You say the wall is real,” observed Ven. “Yet I walked right through solid
stone.”

“The wall
is
real,” replied the nun. “No part of the wall is
illusion.”

“Yet we entered, Sister,” he said.

The nun seemed reluctant to reply. Finally, she said, “There are gates
within the wall that only the dragon has the power of opening.”

Ven cast a look over his shoulder, back at the wall. He was aware of the
sister’s keen eyes upon him, aware of the dragon probing and prodding.

“And so those who live inside this city cannot leave unless the dragon wills
it?”

“The wall is in place to protect our people, not imprison them. Our people
possess the dragon magic and that makes them different from other humans. As
you know full well, Dragon’s Son,” the holy sister added, “the world is not
very accepting of those who are different. Thus, for their own protection, we
keep our people inside.”

Ven said nothing. The holy sister led him on through the crowded streets,
pointing out the sights. Ven paid scant attention.

He wondered what had become of Evelina. On entering the city, the monks had
hustled her away, and Ven had no idea what they had done with her, and he was
worried. He recalled the look Grald had given her. He wasn’t certain how to
find out about her without revealing himself and he was mulling over this
question when he became gradually aware that the people in the street were
stepping aside to allow him passage. He noticed then that many lowered their
heads or dropped a curtsy or made some other gesture of respect.

“You should acknowledge their homage, Dragon’s Son,” said the nun in low
tones. “A certain detachment on your part is advisable, of course, but you must
not allow your subjects to think that you are arrogant and unfeeling.”

“Subjects?” Ven repeated, startled. “What subjects?”

“Your subjects. Your people. Their homage is for you,” replied the holy
sister. She indicated a group of brown-robed monks standing on a street corner,
who bowed low as Ven passed.

He shook his head. “They must have mistaken me for someone important.”

“You are the Dragon’s Son,” said the holy sister, and her tone was rebuking.
“You will be their ruler one day.”

Ven was intrigued. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father will explain. I have said too much, as it is.”

“And when will I have a chance to talk to—” He tried, but could not bring
himself to say
my father.
“When will I talk with the dragon?”

The holy sister’s mouth puckered in amusement. “You have talked to him, as
you well know, Dragon’s Son.”

“I have talked with a human called Grald,” Ven returned. “I have not talked
with the dragon.”

“Yet they are one and the same—”

“No, they are not,” Ven countered. “I know better. I want to meet the one
who”—he paused, then continued, forcing the words through gritted teeth—”made
me what I am.”

The holy sister was no longer amused. She eyed him thoughtfully. Her face
was expressionless. He could not tell if she was angry or displeased.

“All in good time,” she said finally in noncommittal tones, and walked on in
silence.

“Where are we going,” he asked, still trying to think of a way to find out
about Evelina.

“We are going to a place the people here call the Abbey. You will find it
interesting, for it is one of the oldest buildings in Drag-onkeep. You have
quarters in the guesthouse there. The young woman in whom you have taken an
interest has also been given a room in the guesthouse of the Abbey.” The holy
sister smiled a sly and knowing smile. “Her quarters are located next to yours.”

Ven hated that smile and he hated himself for
caring enough to hate it. He couldn’t help himself, however. Like a smear of
blood in the snow, Evelina was the only color in his mind.

EVELINA SAT IN A CHAIR IN A WINDOWLESS ROOM. OUTside, she heard the rumble
of thunder. A storm was brewing. She had seen the lightning nicker from cloud
to cloud just before the monks had hauled her into the ugly gray stone
building. They took her to a room and shoved her inside. She sat where they had
left her—unmoving, stiff and afraid—watching the door, waiting for the monks to
return to fetch her, carry her off to some dire fate.

A half hour passed.

A full hour, and no one came.

Evelina rose to her feet and with much hesitation, starting and stopping,
she crept to the door. She placed her ear against the wood, listened. She heard
nothing in the hallway outside. Touching the wrought-iron door handle, she gave
an experimental tug and was surprised beyond measure when the door actually
opened. She had assumed that they would lock her inside.

Evelina slammed the door and waited, afraid someone had seen her. No one
came, and at last she began to think the unthinkable— she was alone and she was
free. After a moment to calm her nerves, she opened the door a crack and peeped
out into the hallway.

The corridor was short and narrow. Five doors opened off it, two on one side
and three on the other. At the end of the corridor were the stairs that led to
the first floor of this place that the monks had called the Abbey guesthouse.
Evelina had assumed that “guesthouse” was their jocular term for a prison, but
now she began to wonder. This really did look like a guesthouse. She examined
the door and saw that there was no lock, only a latch that held the door shut.

No lock, no bolt, no way to keep her inside.

With one eye on the stairs, Evelina left her room and ran across the hall to
the door that stood opposite. She listened at the door. Hearing no sounds
inside, she opened it. The room was exactly the same as hers, furnished with a
bed with a straw mattress, two chairs, a small table, a fireplace, and a slop
bucket. She saw no sign that the room was inhabited.

Investigation revealed that two of the other rooms on the floor were like
hers. The door to the fifth room—the room adjacent to hers—was different in
that it had a lock. She could not see inside. Evelina returned to her own room
and shut the door. She took off the horrid wimple and threw it on the floor,
then sat down to think about what she should do next.

She had recovered quickly from the shock of seeing her lover and her father
murdered by the wrath of heaven. Evelina was not one to waste energy in weeping
and wailing over them. As a lover, Glimmershanks had been brutal and abusive.
She did feel a certain sorrow for her father, mainly because he was the only
person she had ever truly been able to trust and that because she could easily
manipulate him. Her major grief was for the death of her dreams and plans. For
that death she truly wept and for that she blamed Ven.

As to the strange monks and their awful ability to summon fire and destruction
with their bare hands, Evelina cared not a wit. Her own survival was what was
important to her and—-just as she had done all her life—she concentrated on
that to the exclusion of everything else. Evelina swam on the surface of life,
clinging to logs and flotsam when she could, striking out on her own if she had
to. She saw no need to look down beneath the dark water. She knew she would
see—just more dark water, and what was the use of that?

Evelina had been obedient, compliant, quiet around the monks. She had hoped
by this to fool them into complacency, so that she could escape. Her first
attempt to flee had not worked. They had caught her sneaking out of camp at
night and brought her back. She had expected to be punished and she was, but
the punishment was mild by her standards—nothing more than a couple of slaps
across the face. After that Evelina kept her mouth shut and her eyes and ears
open, eavesdropping on every conversation, thinking over every word in the
context of how the words related to the only person she cared about—Evelina.

The monks were not a chatty bunch. Evelina had learned nothing from them.
The holy sister and one of the monks would occasionally put their heads
together, hold low-voiced conversations. Whenever this occurred, Evelina tried
her best to be near enough to eavesdrop, and on one or two occasions she had
succeeded. Most of their conversations she either didn’t understand or didn’t
bother to understand (those that had nothing to do with her). One, however, was
of particular interest to her.

“Why are we hauling about this piece of baggage?” the monk grumbled to the
holy sister. By his glance at her, he meant Evelina.

“Have you seen the way the Dragon’s Son looks at the girl? He is in love
with her.”

The monk shrugged. “So?”

“The dragon has detected an independent spirit in his offspring—a spirit he
deems might be difficult to control.”

“Ah, I understand,” the monk replied.

Alone in her room, Evelina went over that conversation in her mind. Some of
it was confusing to her—the part about the dragon and offspring and independent
spirits and suchlike. She dismissed all that as irrelevant. The relevant part
was the fact that Ven loved her. Other men had loved her in the past. She’d
always found their love to be highly useful for her, highly costly for them.
Ven would be no different.

“I’ve made mistakes with him,” she admitted. “But I can mend them.”

She wished there were a mirror in the room. She feared that the trip had
been hard on her beauty.

I must look pale and haggard,
she thought.

She heard sounds—footsteps on the stairs. Footsteps coming down the hall.
The footsteps halted outside her door. She held her breath, fear making her
heart beat fast. She waited for the door to burst open, but whoever it was
knocked once, hesitantly. By its nature and the fact that the knock was not
repeated when she did not immediately answer, Evelina guessed it was Ven.

She had decisions to make and she made them swiftly. Pinching her cheeks and
biting her lips to bring more color to them, she leapt out of her chair and
threw herself on the bed. She arranged herself to best advantage, all the while
making it look unarranged. She wished she was not wearing this detestable black
bag of a nun’s habit, but there was no help for that now. In position, she
called out, quavering, trepidatious, “Who is there?”

There was a moment’s silence, then the reply, “It is me—Ven. You do not need
to be afraid,” he added swiftly. “I will not intrude on you. I only want to
make certain you are all right and that you have everything you need.” He
paused, then said, “Have I your permission to enter?”

“You need not ask for my permission,” said Evelina in choked tones. “The
door has no lock.”

Slowly the latch depressed. Slowly the door opened. Ven stood in the
corridor. His legs and feet were concealed by the monk’s robes, but she
remembered them clearly, remembered the feel of them against her skin. Disgust
caused her stomach to roil and she didn’t think she could go through with it.

Then Evelina saw immediately that what the nun had said of him was true. His
face was impassive, but there was no doubting the expression in his eyes as he
gazed at her. He adored her. Evelina relaxed. All was well.

She rolled over on her side and hid her face in the hard pillow and wept. Having
no handkerchief, she was forced to use the hem of her nun’s garb to muffle her
sobs, thus causing her skirts to hike up around her knees, revealing a generous
portion of shapely leg. Thinking this might not be enough, poor Evalina was so
overcome by misery that she reached down her hand and, in her distrait state,
hiked the skirt up even further.