The Fire Dragon (30 page)

“I do, my lord. Eldidd marks the way a man speaks for life.”

“Just so. I can't help noticing just how much you resemble His Grace Cullyn, Gwerbret Aberwyn. Not to bring up anything painful, of course, but I trust you'll forgive me for wondering about the resemblance.”

Rhodry stifled a laugh. Cullyn was his firstborn son, but obviously Yvaedd was thinking this silver dagger one of the great lord's by-blows.

“My father's name was a secret my mother kept, my lord,” Rhodry said. “I do know that we never lacked for food or shelter when I was a child.”

“Ah.” Lord Yvaedd allowed himself a slight smile. “I see.”

Rhodry smiled, briefly, in return.

“On the morrow, silver dagger,” Yvaedd went on. “We'll need your testimony. Lord Gwinnard's tale of a dragon interests me most greatly.”

“No doubt, my lord, but I'll swear it's true, and on my silver dagger at that.”

For a moment Yvaedd looked him over with a frozen little smile; then the lord muttered a pleasantry and strolled off.

For some while now, Rhodry had been spending his sunsets on top of the main broch in Dun Cengarn. Arzosah hated flying at night, and so, his reasoning ran, she was likely to turn up at the end of a day. Every night when she failed to return, he would stay on the roof until the ward was dark enough for him to climb down unobserved. He knew perfectly well that Dallandra believed Arzosah faithless; he was working hard at not believing it himself.

By the time he escaped from Lord Yvaedd, afternoon shadows filled the ward. He hurried up the staircase to the top floor of the main broch, pushed open the trapdoor, and clambered out onto the flat roof. What if she never returned? He forced himself to consider how long he would stay in Cengarn to wait. After all, poor little Jahdo was longing for his home and kin. Daralanteriel, too, was eager to take his new lady home to his people. Rhodry walked
over to the roof's edge and looked idly down. With his scribe in attendance, Lord Yvaedd stood on the cobbles and questioned the gwerbret's captain. Rhodry was just thinking how lovely it would be to chuck a stone down on top of him when he heard the sound.

He'd heard it before, this faint throbbing in the air, as if some giant hand slapped a distant drum. He spun around and shaded his eyes while he stared off to the north. He could just see a black speck in the sky, could just discern that it was moving and coming toward him. He held his breath, hardly dared to hope as he watched it speeding against the blue. The thwack thwack of wide wings grew louder, the speck grew larger. Rhodry let out his breath with a whoop. It was Arzosah indeed, flying fast and steadily.

Down in the ward someone cried out. Rhodry looked down to see Lord Yvaedd staring at the sky and waving his arms like a madman. From his distance it was hard to be certain, but he thought that perhaps the lord had gone pale. Servants and riders were pouring out of broch and stable to cheer the dragon's approach. Laughing under his breath, Rhodry looked up again as Arzosah circled the dun, then with a magnificent stretch of wing glided down. She looked well fed, and her greenish-black scales gleamed in the afternoon light. Suddenly she curled her wings, hovered in the air, and settled gently onto the roof.

Rhodry ran to her and threw his arms around her neck, which felt as cool as satin to the touch. Although her kind gave out a strong smell much like vinegar, he found it bracing and oddly pleasant. She made the huge rumble that did her for laughter. “I absolutely hate to admit this, Rori, but it gladdens my heart to see you again, too.”

“Good. You can't know how welcome you are, my friend. Would you mind carrying me down to the ward? There's a man here who thinks you don't exist.”

Arzosah craned her neck and looked down, judging the space. Lord Yvaedd stood where Rhodry had last seen him, but he had tipped his head back and was staring up. His scribe looked up, screamed, and ran back into the broch. The king's men ran out after him. They were made of
sterner stuff—they stayed, clustering round Yvaedd like children around a father.

“I can land off to one side, I think,” the dragon said at last. “Climb aboard.”

Since her harness was lying in a storage chest in Dallandra's chamber, Rhodry scrambled up inelegantly and wedged himself between two of the big spiky scales where her back joined her neck. Arzosah spread her wings, flapped hard, leapt, then glided down in a long turn to settle on the cobbles not far from his lordship. The king's men all scattered, leaving their lord alone to face the dragon. Yvaedd's face had indeed gone pale, and sweat gleamed on his forehead. Rhodry slid down and bowed to him.

“My lord, allow me to present to you Arzosah of the Lofty Wings, my friend and my companion in the recent war.”

Arzosah stretched out her head and nodded at Yvaedd.

“Charmed, I'm sure,” she said, “Your Lordship.”

Yvaedd struggled for words. When none came, he bowed so low he nearly scraped the cobbles. His men must have remembered their oaths to defend him; they returned, but one slow step at a time.

“An honor,” Yvaedd squeaked. “Quite an honor. Ah, that is—ah—” He turned and dashed for the broch.

The king's men hesitated, glanced at the dragon, then raced after their lord. Rhodry began to laugh; he leaned back against the dragon's foreleg and howled until the tears came. She let out her breath in a long and meat-scented sigh.

“I'd forgotten about humans,” Arzosah said. “You're the only brave one I've ever met, Rori Dragonfriend. And maybe that's why I came back to you.”

“I don't think there's any reason for us to stay much longer,” Dallandra said. “Prince Dar tells me that Lord Yvaedd's gone suddenly tractable.”

“Tractable?” Rhodry said.

“He believes everything he's told and has his scribe write it down most carefully.”

They shared a smile, and the dragon rumbled under her breath. They were all sitting on the new grass atop the market hill, where Arzosah could stretch out comfortably and take the sun. Since the townsfolk knew her well from the summer past, they mostly ignored her, although a pair of big tan hounds had taken up a watch at a distance and barked now and again. Arzosah eyed them and licked her lips.

“I suppose those belong to someone,” she said.

“No doubt,” Rhodry said. “Leave them be.”

“Very well.” Arzosah yawned and curled a paw to consider her claws. “Now about our journey. No doubt the hatchling wants to get home—young Jahdo. By the by, he polished my scales with a cloth this morning. A very sweet child, he is.”

“He is, truly,” Dallandra said. “We've got a lot of things to work out yet. You and Rhodry will be able to travel a great deal faster than the rest of us. It's a long way to Cerr Cawnen, judging from what Jahdo's been telling me. We'll need provisions and suchlike.”

“But can't Evandar open one of his roads?” Rhodry asked. “They seem to save a good bit of effort, though I can't say the same about the time involved. That always seems to get a bit twisted.”

“He told me he'd open a gate for us when I saw him some while ago. I've not seen him since then. I've been trying to call him again, but he's not shown up. I hope he's in no danger.”

At that Arzosah hissed, just quietly to herself.

“I know you don't care for him,” Dallandra said to her.

“Don't care for him?” Arzosah hissed again, more loudly. “I'd eat him if I could. If there was anything really there to eat, anyway. Nasty bastard, tricking me the way he did. Humph!”

“Not so nice of him, but I can't help but be grateful,” Dallandra said. “Without you, we would have lost the war, and the Horsekin would have impaled us all or staked us down to die.”

“He might have just asked me for my help.”

“Would you have given it?” Rhodry said.

“No, but he might have asked anyway. Then when he ensorceled me it would have been only fair.”

“There's a certain logic in that, truly.” Dallandra rose, dusting off the seat of her leather trousers. “I need to get back to the dun. I'll talk with Jahdo.”

As she walked off, Dallandra glanced back to see Rhodry leaning back comfortably against the dragon's scaly side. Arzosah had curled herself into a semicircle with her head on her paws near him. The man and the dragon made an oddly apt pair, she thought—both of them as cold and hard as winter steel despite their good humor toward those they counted friends.

Evandar turned up that night, finally, near sunset. They met outside the dun and town, down in the meadow to the west where a stream splashed and gurgled, running full of snowmelt. In the last golden light of afternoon they strolled beside trees touched with the green of new leaves.

“Jill died in this spot,” Evandar said abruptly.

“I know,” Dallandra said. “I rather wondered why you chose it.”

He shrugged and walked on, his head bent as if he studied the grass.

“I was worried about you, my love,” Dallandra said.

“My apologies. I was off arranging things.”

“Things? What do you mean, things?”

“Rhodry's brother, of course, getting him home again.”

“Oh, that!”

“What did you think I meant?” Evandar scowled at her.

“That it was another one of your schemes, of course. My apologies, my love, but they get so complicated—”

“Oh, I know, I know, and mayhap this one is, too, but I could think of no other way.”

“Way to what?”

“Get Salamander home, of course.”

Dallandra waited for him to say more, but he merely turned away with a long, sad sigh and resumed his slow walk along the riverbank. In the west the sunset began to streak the sky with burnished gold.

“We're all going to be leaving soon,” Dallandra said. “I
was hoping you'd take us through your Lands to Cerr Cawnen.”

“Of course I will. It's a long journey otherwise.”

All round them birds sang. Evandar walked as slowly as an old man to the streamside and stared into the water.

“There's somewhat wrong,” Dallandra said. “What is it?”

“Naught.” He looked up abruptly and forced a smile. “When will you want to go?”

“In a few days. Shall I send the Wildfolk for you when we're ready?”

“Yes, do. I've got so many errands to run that I know not where I'll be. But as for Salamander, he'll be returning to the Westfolk's lands by ship, sometime in the summer. They should put in to shore just west of Cannobaen.”

“They? Who?”

“It's a surprise.” Evandar grinned at her, and for a moment he looked his usual merry self. “One you'll like. The elephant won't be with him, though—I'll tell you that much.”

“That gladdens my heart. But—”

“Ah! No prying! I need to find Devaberiel soon, in fact, and tell him his son's on the way home. He can wait for them down on the coast and get word to you, I suppose, somehow or other. No, wait, I've a better idea. I'll get Salamander's old dweomer teacher to go with Devaberiel, and then she can call you through the fire.”

“Valandario? Yes, she'll do that if you ask. But I thought you'd be the one bringing him home.”

“I may not be able to, what with Shaetano working harm. Do you see, my love? I'm learning the lessons you've tried so hard to teach me—thinking ahead, laying plans, considering how it all fits together.”

“Well, truly, I'm proud of you.”

“My thanks.” He glanced her way, then looked up at the golden sky. Was he near tears? she couldn't tell.

“Evandar, beloved, what's so wrong?”

“Naught.” He forced a smile false even for him. “Well,
I'd best be off to Cerr Cawnen. I need to keep an eye on my wretched brother.”

Evandar turned and took off running. For a moment it seemed that he would run right into the stream, but at the water's edge he stepped up onto the sunlight and disappeared.

For a long time Niffa kept her conversation with the Spirit Talker locked up in her heart. On the day when the black dragon had flown over Cerr Cawnen, Werda had made her see a hard truth, that Niffa's life work lay upon the witchroad, no matter where it led her. At the time, the road had seemed so clear, but now, days later, Niffa found herself wavering. Never will I leave my home! she would think. I'll marry Harl, mayhap, and live close to my mam and da for always. Yet, even as she treasured her defiance, she knew that she was only postponing the inevitable moment when she would admit that the black dragon had shown her Wyrd.

When she slept, she often dreamt of the dragon, but always she would see the beast from some distance, flying across the sky perhaps, or perched on a high cliff. She could never get close enough to speak to it. Finally, one night when she walked in the green fields of dream, she met Dallandra at the glowing red stars.

“It gladdens my heart to see you!” Dallandra called out. “You've not come in a long while.”

“I've not,” Niffa said. “But please, think not that it had somewhat to do with you. I've had much to ponder these past days.”

“I see. Well, I've got some grand news. We'll be bringing your Jahdo home soon. We leave Cengarn tomorrow.”

Joy rushed up and nearly washed away the vision, but over this past winter Niffa had learned to steel her will. In a moment the purple moon held steady over the grass and the warding stars. Dallandra's image returned, smiling at her.

“That gladdens my heart beyond all else,” Niffa said. “My thanks! But who will come with you, then?”

“Rather a lot of people, and an escort of armed men, but all of them friends.”

“Then welcome they'll all be. Will the black dragon be with you?”

“Here! How do you know about Arzosah?”

“Be that her name? One of the great wyrms did speak to me, some days just past, and somehow I—” Niffa hesitated, puzzled. “I know not how I know, but somehow I do feel in my heart that the beast be tied to you in some way.”

“Your heart is right. She'll be coming with us. You know, lass, it's time we spoke of your future. Do you know what the dweomer lore is?”

Again Niffa nearly lost the vision, but she steadied it so easily that she knew her Wyrd had come upon her.

“I think me I do,” Niffa said. “Be it what we call the witchroad here?”

“Just so. Do you realize how strong a gift you have?”

“The Spirit Talker did say somewhat about it, truly.”