The Forging of the Dragon (Wizard and Dragon Book 1) (2 page)

Elaryl smiled chastely and murmured, “Thank you.”

“And you, Seagryn?” Talarath mumbled.

“Ah — yes.” Seagryn nodded, and he reached out to take Elaryl’s arm to lead her down the hall.

“Seagryn can stay,” Ranoth said quietly; then he added with a cackle, “Afraid to let her go, lad? No wonder!”

Seagryn glanced at Elaryl, and she nodded briefly and glided quickly away. He turned back to the conversation, feeling heady at having been included. But then, that was always Ranoth’s way —

“He attacked
Marwandians
, you say?” Talarath was asking.

Ranoth nodded, then he added, “And ate them.”

Talarath trembled with disgust, then spat out, “Magic user!”

“Yes,” Ranoth said thoughtfully. “What about you, Seagryn?” he suddenly asked. “Do you know anything about all this?”

Seagryn had been trying to make sense of the limited information while struggling with his own private terrors. The question took him completely by surprise. “What? Me?” He grunted too sharply. “Nothing.”

His response puzzled Ranoth, who peered up at him with concern. “Son, are you all right?”

“Yes ... yes, of course,” Seagryn replied, forcing himself to slow down his rate of speech and to seek to turn the conversation elsewhere. “I ... I guess I’m just ... dismayed by this talk of ... marauding magic users, that’s all! I ... I don’t understand! Why would they invade us? What have we done to them?”

“We’ve done nothing to them,” Talarath said. “It’s Arl, far to the south, that’s the cause of all this. The armies of Arl are putting pressure upon these disorganized savages who call themselves Marwandians, and driving them toward us.”

Ranoth tilted his head back and seemed to study the frescoed ceiling, but Seagryn knew from experience the elder’s eyes were turned inward, not outward. “It’s all a part of the larger troubles, of course. Why we never see representatives of the Remnant about any longer — why the peasants of Pleclypsa keep drowning their masters —”

Seagryn relaxed inside. “The One we do not name is bringing judgment upon them for their unbelief,” he said firmly. It was the proper answer — the one these very elders had themselves taught him — but this time, both men turned to look at him as if he’d uttered an obscenity.

Ranoth sniffed and glanced away, but Seagryn knew the old cleric had not taken his inward eyes off of him. “Ever notice, Seagryn, how judgment upon anyone leaves scorch marks on all those nearby?” Seagryn pondered that, but thought it wise not to try to reply. He was being instructed and he knew enough to recognize it. “I’m not really certain that the One we do not name is all that pleased that the old One Land is so divided up. After all, there were once believers in all the lands ...”

Seagryn didn’t allow his mouth to sag open in shock, but he felt it. What his mentor was saying bordered upon heresy! He glanced over at Talarath and saw his future father-in-law spearing Ranoth with a look of warning.

“The key issue here,” Talarath snarled, “is Marwandians in the forests and magic users at our very door. Something must be done.” Seagryn watched unspoken thoughts pass between them.

Relieved to have their eyes off him, Seagryn muttered “Dark knows, that’s the truth.” It was an offhanded comment, one designed to finish the matter and direct the conversation elsewhere. He regretted it immediately. Both Ranoth and Talarath stared at him.

“What do you know of Dark?” Talarath snapped.

The question shocked him. “Why ... he’s ... he’s a prophet, isn’t he? People use his name all the time ...”

“What people?” Ranoth asked, more kindly than Talarath but with no less intensity.

“Why ... the ... people in the villages.” Seagryn shrugged. “You know how they are. Is he a real person, though? I thought he was a legend.”

Ranoth peered at him for a moment, then abruptly turned to Talarath and smiled. “But why are we wasting such a marvelous occasion on such worthless chatter? Your daughter marries today — and to a wonderful boy!”

“Yes,” Talarath agreed quietly. “Very promising.”

Seagryn had been referred to as “promising” all his life. The term had long since lost any complimentary meaning and become a kind of reproach, as if those who used it were actually saying, “But what has he done with his gifts?”

“We should be celebrating!” Ranoth smiled, raising both his arms jubilantly. “Talarath, come! Give the signal to begin! Let’s get these young people joined at the feet!”

Talarath turned his head to search for the chief of his household staff. “Find Elaryl. Bring the shoes,” he commanded without enthusiasm.

The ceremony itself was to be held in the inner patio of the mansion. There they could be open to the sky, as custom demanded, yet still could be securely defended. This courtyard already teemed with dignitaries. Elaryl ignored them as she swept around the perimeter of the court toward her beloved. Behind her ran a servant carrying an ornate, oddly shaped trio of shoes. Elaryl reached out to grab Seagryn and bussed him on the cheek, then unceremoniously dropped to the floor and hiked up her skirt. “Come on, get these on. We haven’t much time.”

“Elaryl!” Talarath scolded. “A bit more modesty, please!”

“Let them work it out, Talarath,” said Ranoth, grabbing his peer by the gown and pulling him toward the courtyard. “They’re going to have to, soon enough. We’ll be expected at the front.” The crowd parted to let them pass through toward the altar.

Elaryl continued to lace feverishly. Seagryn knelt beside her, taking the shoe the servant offered. It had been tailored to fit his left foot. Except for its size, it was the twin of the shoe Elaryl laced up her right calf. He sat down, put the slipper on, and laced it up. Then he waited as Elaryl slipped her left foot into the joint shoe fashioned to hold both of their feet snugly together. She scooted over next to him, and he pushed his right foot in beside her left, their ankles rubbing together in the process. They then worked in concert to lace their calves together and to help one another to stand. Elaryl slipped her arm around his waist and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Are you ready to be laced to me for life?” she asked sweetly.

“I’m ready,” he answered. But was
she
? If it should ever be learned that — but this was Elaryl. She’d said she would forgive him anything. Perhaps one day he could even tell her —

The chief of the household staff had been searching for them frantically. Now he raced up to them and bent over to gasp for breath as he pleaded, “It’s time!” Seagryn and Elaryl obediently hobbled out into the patio.

Those guests who stood between the pair and the altar stepped aside. A choir began chanting as they limped forward. The event of the year had begun.

Seagryn was only vaguely aware of the enraptured sighs and stifled sobs of those nearby who watched them struggle forward. He focused all his attention on staying in step with his grunting bride. It was considered bad form for a pair to fall flat on their faces on their wedding day. It revealed that they were not in rhythm with one another, and necessitated postmarital counseling. Halfway to the altar, Seagryn realized that their laces were far too tight. Before they reached Ranoth he’d had time to wonder if
all
brides and grooms laced themselves too tightly, since they’d never experienced this before? That could certainly account for the terrible expressions of pain he’d seen on the faces of certain wedding parties in the past. Then they arrived before Ranoth, each gasping with relief and hugging the other for support as the small elder began the ceremony:

“You have chosen to link your paths together in the bonds of wedlock, to knot your destinies from this day forward. Hobbling one another, walking on three legs instead of four, you are nevertheless also supporting one another, dependent upon one another. You are linked before the land and before the One we do not name. This is a holy moment, for lives so linked cannot be —”

He went on, but Seagryn suddenly couldn’t listen. He’d heard a clashing begin outside, the noise of swords hammering upon shields. “Attack!” he told himself with great disbelief. “Marwandians — attacking here?
Now
?” He looked at Elaryl, but she appeared unaware of the commotion. The radiance in her eyes rivaled the glistening highlights of the afternoon sun on her hair, and suddenly black despair clutched again at his heart. “Hurry, Ranoth,” he urged his mentor silently. “Hurry, before they spoil it!” The noises outside the mansion grew louder. The crowd began to buzz with anxiety.

“A momentary disturbance! We’re safe within this house,” Talarath announced with crisp authority. “Relax and enjoy the proceedings.”

But Seagryn could not relax. He heard the clash of spears on armor, heard men screaming, and his memories of that incident in Bourne, so long ago yet made so fresh by a week of dreaming, could be restrained no longer. He dropped to his left knee and struggled urgently to untie the laces that bound him to his beloved.

“Seagryn.” Elaryl smiled down anxiously. “Seagryn!” she said again, her tone scolding but still hushed. “What are you
doing
?”

“You said you’d forgive me anything —”

“But — but this is terrible luck! It’s just not done! You’re embarrassing me in front of —”

Seagryn spotted a dirk in Ranoth’s belt. Without bothering to ask for it, he jerked it out and cut the laces. “No time —” he murmured. Then the doors at the back of the patio shattered inward, and the crowd surged screaming toward the altar.

Seagryn felt the blood rushing to his brain as he scooped Elaryl into his arms then hoisted her above his head. “Give me
room
!” he roared — and he tossed his dumbstruck lady over the altar. “You’ll be crushed —” he warned again, but it was already too late for those nearest him. In that moment Seagryn became a tugolith.

Before turning to race across the flagstones at the marauders pouring in behind him, Seagryn took the time to watch Elaryl bounce up to her feet. As he’d known they would, her shocked eyes immediately sought him out — and that firm jaw gaped open in horror. She was quick. It took only a moment for her to recognize who — and what — he was and to understand what had befallen. Then it came: revulsion, disgust, and repugnance. Seagryn had been right. There was at least one thing a daughter of old Talarath could
not
forgive — magic.

His mind didn’t change. He remained Seagryn, up until this moment a prominent cleric of Lamath, henceforth a hated outcast. In this land where the use of magic had long been regarded as the most heinous of sins, Seagryn had revealed himself to be a wizard. His dreams had shattered with those stained-glass doors behind him. He was lost — set adrift by that very Power in whom he had trusted.

He now wore the body of a two-ton beast with an armor-plated hide and a single enormous horn. And one thing was certain — if these Marwandian raiders had just ruined his life, he certainly had the wherewithal to ruin theirs in vengeance. Bellowing in rage, Seagryn whirled and charged.

One moment, Marwandians were pouring in the doorway. The next, they were pouring back out of it, screaming just as lustily as the guests. Many never made it out of the hall, being squashed flat instead upon the flagstones. Those who did get out of the palace fared no better; with room to swing his horn, Seagryn was now spitting Maris upon it. Most of these he slung aside, throwing the bodies forty feet at a heave. But two corpses did not slip readily off. He dipped his head between his wrinkled forelegs and flung these skyward. Then — to his own horror — he opened his vast maw and swallowed them, much as a boy might eat peanuts by tossing them first into the air. He paused then and looked around. That’s when he noticed that his great bulk had torn off the whole front wall of the mansion and that the roof was sagging dangerously close to collapse. He thundered back to it and wedged his body under the weakened structure. “Out!” he heard his tugolith voice rumble. It sounded nothing like his own. On the other hand, it did sound far more powerful ... “Everyone leave this house!” he roared.

They did, apparently, but no one came past Seagryn. There were other exits, and these were evidently preferable to stepping anywhere near this Mari-eating monster.

Once he felt certain all were safe, Seagryn began to relax. As suddenly as he’d turned tugolith, he again became a human. He heard the rumble above him and sprinted toward the open air. The masonry collapsed behind him, and the impact threw him forward onto his belly. Dust rained down around him, and Seagryn covered the back of his head. He’d not noticed the noise — there’d been so much of that around him for the past few hours that he’d grown accustomed to it. He did notice the awful silence that followed that thunderous collapse. He lay facedown in the grass, unmoving, marveling at how quickly a palace — or a life — could crumble.

Eventually he had to get up. He coughed as he struggled to his knees, for dust still clogged the air. He shook his robes, then glanced around for the people. They had to be nearby, and he couldn’t resist making some attempt to justify himself. After all, hadn’t he routed the Marwandian invaders? He scanned the horizon until he spotted the crowd, clustered under a large tree near the road. He started for it.

A large portion of the throng departed as soon as he made a move toward them. Ranoth didn’t, however, nor did Talarath. Elaryl, too, waited for him, although he’d never seen such an odd expression on her face. He knew what it meant — though he longed to believe otherwise. Ranoth waited until he got within thirty feet, then shouted: