Master of Dragons Read online

  Caradryel was good at the game. He knew which cords to pull, which ears to whisper in, which beds to slip into and out of and which palms to press with gold, jewels or daggers. The fact that his father saw no value in such prowess was neither here nor there; slowly, with glacial patience, Caradryel had built up a formidable cadre of loyal retainers, dotted around the Houses like thieves in the basement of a grand old mansion. One day he would call the favours in. It amused him sometimes to contemplate what would happen after that. Perhaps he would find himself exiled from Ulthuan in disgrace, perhaps end up on the Throne.

  He knew the source of his ennui. The affair with Yethanial, he could see now, had been a miscalculation. It was no good trying courtly suavity on the likes of her – she was a scholar, a dealer in the purity of words and thoughts. He should have been more humble, less cocksure, then perhaps he might have swung it.

  It was a shame. He had managed to persuade himself that a spell in Elthin Arvan would be just the thing; he could have ingratiated himself with his new master and extended his network of patronage to the colonies. He could have observed the war first-hand and gauged how best to take advantage of the many opportunities that such things invariably delivered. Most of all, he knew he would have enjoyed the simple pleasures of seeing something different. Even Ulthuan, the most spectacular and varied realm in all the world, became dull after a while.

  He took a sip of wine, and a low chime sounded from the far end of the dining chamber.

  ‘Come,’ he said lazily, only mildly interested.

  The doors opened and a servant padded in.

  ‘Your pardon, lord,’ he said, bowing. ‘A lady awaits.’

  Caradryel’s lids barely lifted. ‘Mirielle? She’s early.’

  ‘From Tor Vael, lord.’

  Caradryel’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Khaine’s eyes, you fool, show her in.’

  By the time the servant had withdrawn, summoned Yethanial and brought her up to the dining chamber, Caradryel had seen that the table was cleared of food and the platters replaced with a heap of serious-looking scrolls.

  He rose to greet her as she entered, affecting a look of disinterested welcome. Yethanial wore grey robes and a grey hood, making her look almost ghostly. She didn’t so much as glance at the piles of parchment he’d carefully arranged.

  ‘This is a surprise, my lady,’ he said.

  ‘Is it?’ she asked, her voice resigned. ‘I thought you knew everything.’

  ‘By no means. Are you well?’

  Yethanial laughed sourly. ‘He has gone. Just as you said he would.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would come so soon.’

  ‘I hope you can take some satisfaction from being right.’

  ‘Believe me, that’s not how I take satisfaction.’ Caradryel motioned towards a chair. ‘Will you sit?’

  ‘I had much to think about after he left,’ said Yethanial, ignoring the offer. ‘At first I determined to ignore you. I supposed that if, as you told me, knowledge of Caledor’s orders was widely shared, then you were nothing more than the boldest of any number of gossip-merchants.’

  Caradryel bowed humbly.

  ‘But then I gave the matter thought,’ she went on. ‘I have a tendency to disregard your sort. I find the games played in Lothern tiresome, and so assume that all the highborn do. This has evidently been a mistake. Perhaps I should have paid them more attention, and thus avoided a snare.’

  ‘I am flattered that you think so.’

  ‘I asked around about you. Believe it or not, I have contacts of my own, some of whom have the ear of the powerful.’

  ‘I do not doubt it. What did they say?’

  ‘Listen to me now. Do not interrupt. My husband is heading to Elthin Arvan alone. He wishes to end the war, not to prolong it, and for this reason those already there will resist him at every turn. He has respect from those who fight but few allies among those who command. You offered your services to me. Having no better options, I am taking up the offer. I wish you to go to Tor Alessi and work for Tor Caled. I can pay you anything you wish.’

  ‘That will not be nec–’

  ‘I said do not interrupt. If you accept, you will be required to perform three duties. First, advise the Lord Imladrik. Follow his commands, see that he achieves what he has set out to, give him sound counsel. Second, report back to me on all matters of import. Ships ply between Lothern and Tor Alessi, so this should not be difficult, though do it secretly. My husband is no schemer. You may struggle to understand this, but he has a noble soul and will do nothing unless he sees the good for Ulthuan in it.’

  ‘So I under–’

  ‘Third, I wish to hear details of anything concerning the dragon riders. There is a mage among them, her name is Liandra. At one time she and my husband… worked together. No doubt she is still active in the defence of the colonies. Other riders will follow my husband to Elthin Arvan, and they should be watched too. Make this a priority. Dragon riders are a strange breed, hot-blooded and affected by the wills of the beasts they ride. They must not have influence over him.’

  ‘Liandra? Of the House of Athinol?’

  Yethanial gave him a wintry smile. ‘You seem well-informed. I hope, for your sake, that you are. I find this work, this deception, distasteful. It would not take much for me to change my mind and call a halt. Should you prove unequal to the challenge, or should you not fulfil these orders in every particular, I shall have no hesitation in cutting you off and leaving you stranded there.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it.’

  ‘Make no mistake, Caradryel of Faer-Lyen: when in the right mood, the Lord Imladrik is the most dangerous warrior of this age of the world. Though I may not look it, I have strengths of my own and am quite capable of visiting retribution on those who would harm us. We make a formidable pairing, and we will continue to do so, whatever fleeting difficulties may come between us. You should be aware of this before agreeing to take the assignment. You should be aware of your peril.’

  Caradryel had to fight to stop himself smiling. The notion, so recently entertained, that he might struggle with boredom over the coming months now seemed impossibly quaint.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, his face as serious as his mood was buoyant. ‘And I have already given the matter all the thought I plan to. So here is my answer: you may consider me, my lady of Tor Vael, your most humble servant.’

  Liandra strode along the curving corridors of the Tower of Winds. The quality of the stonework around her was finer than at Kor Vanaeth, but still far cruder than that found in Ulthuan. Tor Alessi was the largest and the mightiest of the asur settlements in the east, but it still couldn’t mimic the elegance found in her race’s homeland. The whole place had been built for defence, with three concentric circles of high walls and heavy bulwarks over the gates, and the aesthetics had suffered as a result. The city had been besieged three times since the war had broken out and each battle had left its scars. In the lulls between fighting the walls had been made thicker and higher, every time further ruining what symmetry remained.

  The Tower of Winds stood at the westernmost point of the city, where the walls ran up to the sea and enclosed the deep harbour below. It had survived mostly unscathed, being too far from the perimeter for the dawi’s catapults and stone-throwers to make much impact. Even so, the lack of finish in its interior spoke of the hard times that had fallen on the city. Metal finishings had been stripped out and melted down for weapons, glass had been pushed out of window frames and replaced with iron grilles, sacred images of the gods had been removed from their proud stations on the walls and taken into the catacombs for safekeeping. What remained in place was stark, functional, pared-down.

  For all that, the white stone still shone in the light of the setting sun, and the banners of the gathered armies still fluttered proudly in the sea-wind. The city had never been more heavil
y populated – as the principal landing for the Phoenix King’s armies, it hummed with the constant tramp of soldiers’ boots and the clatter of unloading cargo.

  Tor Alessi was battered, roughened at the edges, but still proud.

  Like us all, thought Liandra.

  She reached the twin doors to the Council Chamber, where two Sea Guard sentries waited on either side. They pushed the doors open immediately, and she went inside.

  The Council Chamber took up the full width of the Tower’s topmost storey. The floor was polished marble, deep black and veined with silver, and the rune Ceyl had been engraved in the centre of the floor, picked out in iron and inlaid with pearl. Five thrones surrounded the rune, each one facing inwards, each hewn from obsidian and surmounted with the crest of a royal house. Sunlight poured in through narrow barred windows.

  Four of the thrones were occupied: Lady Aelis of House Lamael, Lord Salendor of House Tor Achare, Lord Caerwal of House Ophel and Lord Gelthar of House Derreth. One remained to be filled.

  ‘Welcome, Liandra,’ said Aelis, rising from her throne. The Mistress of Tor Alessi was wand-thin, with dark hair pulled back from an austere face and bound with silver wire. ‘We are glad you decided to make us complete.’

  Liandra bowed. ‘I was honoured to be asked,’ she said, taking her seat as Aelis resumed hers. ‘Have I missed much?’

  ‘We were waiting for you,’ said Salendor. His stocky frame made him look too big for his seat, and his dun-red cloak was still caked with mud, as were his tall leather boots. His magestaff rested loosely in his hand.

  ‘I came as swiftly as I could,’ she said. ‘Much needed to be done at Kor Vanaeth.’

  ‘You wasted your time, then,’ replied Salendor. ‘It will never stand a second attack.’

  Liandra retained her composure. She knew what he was doing; in a way, it was a compliment. He tests me. He wishes only warriors on this Council.

  ‘We will be ready, when they come again,’ she insisted, her voice quiet but firm. ‘We have been blooded once, and may bleed again, but we will never retreat.’

  They held one another’s gaze for a moment, her blue eyes locked with his. Then he grunted and looked away.

  ‘That is why we are all here,’ interjected Aelis calmly. ‘We know they are coming again. A month, a few weeks, maybe. The question is: how shall we respond?’

  Liandra stole a glance at the other two members of the Council. Caerwal and Gelthar were both the very image of asur nobility: slim, impeccably dressed, their robes lined with gold and their lean faces placid. They did not look like they would rush into battle with the relish of Salendor. For that matter, they did not look like they would do anything with relish.

  So that is how this works: Salendor and myself are the hotheads, they are the cautious, and Aelis will adjudicate.

  ‘We have more power in Elthin Arvan now than when the King was here,’ said Gelthar, speaking ponderously. ‘We must install the legions here, in Athel Maraya, Athel Toralien. Then we wait.’

  Salendor snorted. ‘We wait. Your counsel never changes, Gelthar. What would it take to prompt action from you?’

  Gelthar remained implacable. ‘Why give up our advantage? Let them wear themselves out in endless sieges.’

  ‘Each siege has cost us,’ said Liandra.

  ‘It has,’ said Caerwal bitterly. ‘Gods, it has.’

  ‘And when did this become the asur way of war?’ demanded Salendor, exasperated. ‘This is craven counsel.’

  Gelthar pursed his lips. ‘Enlighten us, then. What is yours?’

  Salendor sat forward in his throne. ‘Muster the legions at Athel Maraya. Strike now. Meet them under Loren Lacoi before they get to us here.’ He shot a furtive glance at Liandra, as if already looking for her agreement. ‘They move slower than a crippled carthorse. We can choose where to engage them, how we engage them.’ He smiled rakishly. ‘If we choose, we can crush them.’

  Gelthar sniffed. ‘Your counsel, too, never changes.’

  Aelis looked at Liandra. ‘Your people have suffered as ours have. What is your view?’

  Here it is. My chance to play the part assigned to me.

  ‘My view?’ she asked. She could feel Salendor’s impatience, and ignored him. ‘It is this: whenever our race has been threatened, we have ridden out. We have never waited for our lands to be burned first. We are the masters of the world; if we do not defend what is ours, then we do not deserve the title.’ She allowed herself to look at Salendor and caught the look of approval in his face. ‘We must strike first. Caledor has bought us this brief lull. Let us use it.’

  Salendor could barely contain himself. ‘Hear her, my lady,’ he urged Aelis. ‘It is only caution that keeps us back. They sowed the seeds of this war; now let them reap the harvest.’

  ‘And throw away our greatest asset,’ said Gelthar wearily. ‘The walls they have never yet breached.’

  ‘We wither inside them!’ cried Salendor.

  ‘They preserve us,’ said Gelthar.

  ‘They did not preserve Athel Numiel,’ said Caerwal coldly. ‘It had high walls, but they did not stop the slaughter there. They murdered my–’

  ‘Enough.’ Aelis held up her hand again, stilling the argument. She inclined her head to one side, as if listening for something.

  ‘Do not stifle–’ started Salendor, but Aelis silenced him with a glare.

  ‘Be still,’ she said. ‘Do you not hear it?’

  For a moment, Liandra sensed nothing. The first thing she noticed was a tremor in her mind-harmony with Vranesh. She felt the dragon’s sudden emotion flowing into her body, as if the resonance of a musical instrument had made the hairs on her neck rise. The sentiment was a powerful one; at first, she assumed it spoke of alarm, and she half-rose in her seat.

  Then she discerned its true character – joy, of a pure kind, like a child recognising its mother and rushing to greet her.

  By then the noises that Aelis had heard had become more obvious. From far below the Council Chamber, dim but growing in volume, crowds were crying out in fear and wonder.

  Liandra pushed herself from the throne and rushed to the western wall of the chamber, followed by the others. She pulled open a pair of doors leading to the tower’s balcony and stepped out into fresh air.

  The five of them lined up on the balcony’s narrow platform, suspended high above Tor Alessi’s narrow, teeming streets. Below them, a tangle of whitewashed buildings crowded and clustered its way towards the harbour, a half-ring of stone enclosing a basin of deep blue water. Dozens of warships swayed on the waves, their masts seesawing as they were buffeted. Across the entire city, from the high ringed walls to the summits of its many spires, tight-packed throngs peered up into the skies.

  High over the harbour, buoyed by the downbeats of splayed wings, six dragons hovered in mid-air. Vranesh shot up to greet them, snaking around the newcomers and sending columns of flame shooting out in elation.

  Liandra knew the dragons’ names: Rafuel, Khalamor, Gaudringnar, Telagis, Mornavere. Their mind-voices sang to her like a choir, overlapping and pushing against one another. They were magnificent, as huge as watchtowers and blazing with colours: gold, emerald, ivory, amethyst, wine-red. The air around them shimmered with heat and magic, as if they had carved their way into the realm of the senses from beyond the veils of madness. For all that, they were no daemon-kind – they were flesh, bone and blood, as superb and pristine as fallen stars.

  All the drakes carried riders, each one wearing heavy plate armour and carrying a rune-tipped blade. They were nearly as splendid as their steeds, and she knew their names too: Heruen of Yvresse; Cademel of Eataine; Selegar, Teranion and Lania of Caledor. She could sense their gathered power, filling the air around her and making it tremble.

  One drake hovered apart from the others, and they all paid deference to him. The mighty Draukhain
arched his long neck high, holding perfect position with ease. Sunlight flashed from his sapphire hide, making it dazzle and shine like a coat of ithilmar. Even from such a distance Liandra could smell the burnt backwash of his movements. The furnace of his lungs sent out curls of fire and smoke like garlands; the aroma was almost as familiar to her as Vranesh’s.

  Atop Draukhain’s churning shoulder-blades sat the Master of them all, the scion of the Dragontamer, the one whose name she still hesitated to recall lest it brought pain back with it. She tried to look away, but it was futile; her eyes were drawn ever upwards, scanning up to the silver armour with its black runic warding, the crimson cloak that draped across dragonhide, the naked longsword. She thought for an instant that she caught an intense flash of green eyes under a heavy silver helm, and had to grip the railing of the balcony to keep her poise.

  She had forgotten the aura of power that he carried with him. None but a fellow dragon rider could truly know the command Imladrik possessed; only one of their esoteric fraternity could understand what it took to earn the allegiance of a creature like Draukhain.

  Once, long ago, Vranesh had told her how her own kind saw Imladrik.

  He is the dawn and the dusk, she had sung, respectfully, with none of her usual flippancy. He is the sun and the moon. Where he goes, we will go; when he passes, so shall we. He is the kalamn-talaen. He is the Master.

  Liandra tried to look away, and failed. She felt old emotions rising to the surface, breaking the mask of certainty she had learned to wear over the last thirty years.

  Salendor, standing at her side, seemed to feel nothing but elation. He turned to her, his face alive with fresh hope. ‘Imladrik!’ he cried. ‘Drakes! The King has sent us rare weapons! Now the dawi shall know fear!’

  Liandra tried to smile. All she could think about was the figure atop the sapphire dragon: what he had been to her before, what his return to Elthin Arvan foreboded.

  ‘They are not weapons,’ she said faintly, her heart already twisting in anguish.