Master of Dragons Page 8

  Lord Imladrik will be sent back to the colonies, my lady. Nothing can prevent it.

  That was not true. It could not be true – those days were done with, over.

  Yethanial moved away from the fireplace, forcing a measure of calm onto her speculating mind. She pushed Caradryel’s infuriating smugness from her thoughts, returning to the labour of scholarship that had occupied her before his interruption.

  I will not permit it. I have my dignity.

  She reached the stairs and started to climb, her grey robes whispering across the stone.

  Nothing can prevent it.

  Imladrik had never loved Kor Evril. Its walls were dark, hewn from the volcanic rock that riddled Caledor and gave the kingdom its untamed aspect. They were as old as the bones of Ulthuan, having been raised in the days when Aenarion still walked the earth and daemons sang unchecked in the aethyr.

  He preferred the open sky. Walls made him restless; towers made him feel confined. Perhaps it was the dragons that had done it to him; once one had ridden on the high paths, circling under the sun with the whole world laid out like a crumpled sheaf of parchment, the confinement of mortal chambers became hard to bear.

  Imrik, his father, the one known to Ulthuan as Caledor I, had warned him of it. ‘They say steed and rider become alike,’ he had said. ‘They get into your mind, the dragons. Beware of that: they are creatures of another world. Never believe you control them. They only come to you if they see themselves already inside you – the dragon becomes you, you become the dragon.’

  Imladrik knew the truth of that. He had started to speak like Draukhain, even to think like him. When they were apart, which was most of the time, he would sometimes catch himself pondering strange images of far-off mountains or shorelines. He knew then that Draukhain was on the wing, perhaps thousands of leagues distant, and that the great creature’s mind was reaching out to him.

  Did he share such an understanding with any of his own kind. With Thoriol? With Yethanial? He wanted to say that he did.

  But he had never shared their minds as he had shared Draukhain’s. He had never become one with them, lost in the joy of flight, of killing, in the perfect freedom that had existed since before the coming of the ancients and the ordering of the earth into its mortal realms and jealousies.

  At times he felt like one of the poor fools who sipped the nectar of the poppy, forgetting themselves, gradually slipping from the real world. They, too, lost themselves in dreams. How different was he to them? If he wanted to, could he break free of it?

  Possibly. But the question was moot; he would never want to.

  He approached Kor Evril’s gates on foot. A clarion sounded and the heavy wooden doors swung inwards. Guards raced out to greet him, bowing the knee and lowering iron spear tips in homage. They bore the colours of his House – crimson, bone-white, black.

  Imladrik strode past them, barely checking his stride. ‘Where is my son?’

  ‘He has not been seen, my lord,’ replied one of the guards, hurrying to follow him. ‘I thought he was with–’

  ‘He was,’ said Imladrik grimly. ‘He chose to descend alone.’ He walked briskly through the narrow streets, ignoring the startled looks of his people. They stared at him from narrow windows. They were not used to seeing their lord travel without an escort, with the black dust of the mountain caking his robes and with two swords in his hands. ‘He was not seen on the road?’

  ‘He was not,’ said the guard. ‘I will send out patrols.’

  ‘No need. I know where he has gone. I will go after him myself.’

  The guard bowed, struggling to keep pace as Imladrik pushed up towards the citadel’s main tower. ‘My lord, there is something else.’

  ‘Make it brief,’ snapped Imladrik, maintaining his pace. His failure with Thoriol still rankled. The ceaseless war with the druchii would call him away again soon, so he needed to make his peace before then. The two of them needed to speak, like a father and son should. His duties had always taken him away. That was the cause of the rift – it could be healed, given time, given patience.

  ‘The King is here, lord,’ said the guard, looking up at Imladrik’s stern face with some trepidation. ‘He arrived last night.’

  By then Imladrik was approaching the central tower, his own keep, and he could see it for himself. Two banners hung over the gateway: one the gold and white of the Phoenix Kings, the other the pale blue of Caledor II.

  He felt his heart sink. He gazed up at the high window, knowing that Menlaeth would have installed himself in there with his entourage, waiting for his subject to come to him.

  It was a petty indignity. Imladrik paused, toying with the idea of turning on his heels. He was the inheritor of the title once carried by his illustrious ancestor, and need bow to no living monarch.

  ‘My lord?’ asked the guard, hovering uncertainly. ‘Shall I send word that you are coming?’

  Imladrik briefly glanced up at the sky – a wistful look. He half expected to see Draukhain up there somewhere, spiralling in the emptiness, his long sapphire body twisting in perfect freedom.

  The dragon becomes you, you become the dragon.

  ‘Do no such thing,’ he said dryly, pushing the doors open and walking inside. ‘I shall announce myself. It is always nice to give my brother a surprise.’

  Imladrik’s audience chamber was a long, many-pillared space, lit by tall arched windows that sent clear bars of sunlight across the stone floor. At the far end stood a low dais, upon which sat a throne of obsidian. Imrik’s old battle-standard hung behind the throne, scorched at the edges. The dragon’s-head device had faded over the years.

  Caledor filled the throne out pretty well. His fur-lined robes spilled over the arms. His longsword, Lathrain, rested against the obsidian, still sheathed in its ancient wound-metal scabbard. Hulviar, the king’s seneschal, crouched on the steps to one side, wearing a high-collared jerkin of worsted wool and a thick cloak.

  Imladrik smiled to himself. Hulviar had always felt the cold.

  ‘Brother,’ said Caledor warmly, rising from the throne and coming to greet him.

  Imladrik met the embrace, kissing his brother on both cheeks.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Caledor said. ‘You smell terrible. Have you been rolling in charcoal?’

  ‘I have been in the mountains,’ replied Imladrik, thinking much the same about his brother’s primped and perfumed attire. ‘It takes its toll.’

  ‘Your people told me you were up there,’ said Caledor, returning to the throne and brushing his robes down. ‘I asked when you would return and I was told that no one knew. It could be tomorrow, it could be in a month, they said.’

  Imladrik stood upright before the dais. He could feel his muscles ache from the long hike down but did not send for a chair. ‘What do you want, Menlaeth? I am tired, I have much to do. If you’d wanted me I could have come to Lothern.’

  ‘I know, brother, but are you not grateful? I have come to see you. Not every King would have made such an effort. Can you imagine our father doing it?’ Caledor’s face clouded. ‘Can you imagine him ever pulling himself away from his wars long enough to speak to either of us?’

  ‘No, I cannot.’

  ‘Now I am back from wars of my own, and it has been too long since we spoke. So I am here, and I am glad to see you, though I am not sure I would have waited a month for the privilege.’

  Imladrik glanced at Hulviar, who studiously ignored his gaze. ‘I heard your reception in Lothern was worth seeing.’

  Caledor inclined his head modestly. ‘It was. And our passage across the seas was equally splendid, thanks to the escorts you arranged. I am grateful.’

  Imladrik paused. Was he being sarcastic? He couldn’t read his brother’s expressions any more. For that matter, he couldn’t read anyone’s expressions any more. ‘Please, Menlaeth,’ he said. ‘Tell me
why you are here.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Caledor. ‘I am sending you back to Elthin Arvan.’

  Imladrik stood stock still. The words hit him hard. For a moment, he thought he might have misheard. Then he thought that Caledor might have misspoken. Then he realised that no error had been committed – that was what he was being told.

  ‘This is an honour for you,’ Caledor went on. ‘The dawi are easy prey: we will have victory after victory. I have seen for myself the glory it brings. You too will earn a reception in Lothern, and they will greet you as they did me – like a god.’

  ‘Madness.’ The words seemed to spill out of their own accord. ‘You were barely there a year. You have seen only a tithe of their strength.’

  Caledor shot him an indulgent look. ‘No doubt! No doubt there are thousands more, and you can root them out, one after the next. You can take the dragons, too, as many of them as will cross the ocean. Imagine when the dwarfs see them. I don’t think they truly realise what a weapon they are.’

  ‘They are not weapons,’ said Imladrik, his voice low.

  ‘Of course, no, they are not: they are ancient and wonderful beings. I forget that sometimes, so it is good to have you here to remind me.’

  Imladrik struggled to keep his anger down, mindful of where he was and whom he spoke with. ‘I cannot go back,’ he said. ‘Not now. We are taking the war to the druchii. A thousand plans are in motion. My troops–’

  ‘–will serve just as ably under another commander,’ said Caledor coolly. ‘And what is this “I cannot”? Is that how you were schooled to talk to Kings?’

  ‘I am used to Kings making wiser choices,’ said Imladrik.

  Hulviar pursed his lips. Caledor’s face went a shade paler.

  ‘This is not a request, brother,’ he said, his tone frostier. ‘I am still the regent of Asuryan in this realm. Unless, that is, you can think of a better candidate.’

  Imladrik laughed, suddenly understanding. ‘Is that what this is about? You should find yourself abler counsellors.’ He took a stride towards Caledor, and his metal-shod boots clinked on the stone. ‘I have no desire to sit on your throne, nor to wear your crown. By the gods, I have no desire to lead armies at all – if duty did not demand it I would happily spend my days in the Dragonspine. Forget those who whisper in your ear; we are winning the war against the druchii, and I will not leave it.’

  Caledor’s face flashed briefly with anger. ‘Will not? Let me remind you, brother, of how things stand. I have the mandate of the Flame. I built the fleets that spread our power over the world. I broke the grip of the corsairs. I slew the prince of the stunted folk and sent his armies reeling.’

  Imladrik listened to the litany wearily. Perhaps it sounded impressive to his brother; to his own ears, it sounded painfully insecure. Both of them knew that their father had been gifted the title ‘Conqueror’ by the people. Caledor II was desperate to make a similar mark in the annals and so threw himself into one battle after the other, neglecting all else but war. That might fool the rabbles of Lothern and Tor Alessi, though it fooled no one who had actually known Imrik.

  ‘And you,’ said Caledor, almost scornfully. ‘The Master of Dragons. What is that, even? An old title from a dusty lineage. They are dying, Imladrik. They have been dying for centuries and nothing will halt it. You have wasted your life with them, trying to coax out a little more ore from a mined-out shaft.’

  Imladrik met his gaze evenly. ‘You know nothing of them.’

  ‘So you have always told me, but by Khaine, brother, your piety riles me! You speak of mystical nonsense and then expect me to take you seriously, and in the meantime there are real wars to be fought. My gold buys the making of a thousand warships. Every day we ferry more soldiers to Elthin Arvan – you think it happens by itself? And all the while you commune with your… creatures in the hills.’

  ‘I will not go.’

  Caledor rose from the throne. Imladrik saw the brittleness there: the raised veins in his neck, the tight line of his jaw. So it had ever been with him, always just one step away from battle-rage.

  ‘Then I order it,’ said Caledor through gritted teeth. ‘I order you to Elthin Arvan. You will wage the war against the dawi. You will not return until their forces are broken and the colonies are secure.’

  ‘We do not need to fight them!’ Imladrik shouted, struggling to curb his exasperation. ‘You provoked them, time and again. They are proud, they do not suffer slights, and you shamed them. You shamed them in the worst possible way, and you do not even know it.’

  By then they stood only inches apart. Imladrik was the taller, the leaner, but Caledor was the stronger. Thus it had always been with them – the older brother staring up at the younger.

  ‘And what of you, brother?’ Caledor spat, his eyes flat. ‘You will speak up for anyone but your own kind. They killed thousands at Kor Vanaeth, thousands more at Tor Alessi. At Athel Numiel they butchered infants for sport. What would you have me do – roll over for them? Beg for mercy?’

  Imladrik shook his head in disgust. ‘The war is a sham. It always has been. Our father would never–’

  ‘Do not mention him!’ Caledor’s voice rose in fury, skirting hysteria. ‘This is not his time! It is my time! It is my time!’

  Imladrik pulled back as if burned. The frenzy in Caledor’s voice was disconcerting. ‘Gods, listen to yourself. What has happened to you?’ He forced himself to relax, his fists to unclench. ‘Just think. We can take the war to the druchii, just as we were always meant to: my dragons, your ships. There need be no jealousy between us. I have always been content to follow you. Come, you know this.’

  Caledor hesitated then. His face remained taut, locked in outrage, but something else flickered across it: embarrassment, perhaps. Imladrik hardly dared to breathe.

  Then Hulviar’s silky voice broke the silence.

  ‘This is false policy,’ interjected the seneschal. ‘We will lose the colonies. My liege, recall the determinations made–’

  Imladrik whirled on him. ‘Silence!’

  Hulviar recoiled, raising his hands in self-defence. By then, though, the damage had been done; Caledor’s resolve returned.

  ‘You will go to the east,’ Caledor ordered, his voice firm again. ‘Either you will go by your own will or you will be sent there under the custody of more dependable subjects. You are mighty, brother, but even you cannot defy the will of the Crown. If you try, it will break you.’ His voice lowered, just a little. ‘I do not wish to break you.’

  Imladrik’s heart beat hard, the blood thudding in his ears. The twin swords in his hands felt heavy. He felt the potential in them, and for an instant imagined the storm he could unleash if he chose to.

  Caledor did not waver. Imladrik stared down at him, his mind a torment of emotions, his face a mask. Then he looked away.

  ‘You are the Phoenix King,’ he said, softly.

  ‘And your brother,’ added Caledor, relenting a little with a half-smile.

  Imladrik turned away, ready to stride back down the length of the hall. He shot a withering glance at Hulviar, then started to walk.

  ‘For what’s it’s worth,’ he said.

  Chapter Seven

  Thoriol lay back against the cushions, feeling his muscles relax. Soft lute music filled the background, calming him, easing the tensions that had filled his mind during the long descent from the mountains.

  He didn’t like to think back over the journey. He had taken a steed from one of the hardscrabble settlements just outside Kor Evril and ridden along stony tracks down to Lothern, weathering incessant salt-thick wind until Eataine’s gentler land had taken hold.

  The country of Caledor had always left him cold, and he had never understood what his father saw in it. To his eyes, it was all black rock and smouldering craters, scoured by the elements and beset by legends of past glory. In compari
son to Cothique, his mother’s land, where grass-crowned cliffs stood proudly against the ocean and the air was sweet from the woodlands of Avelorn, it seemed a meagre, desolate place.

  As a child Thoriol had been proud of his father’s lineage. He had boasted to his playmates about it, enjoying it when they had stared back at him, mouths open, as he had told them stories about the great dragons. Some of them had even been true.

  Thoriol smiled as he remembered. It was hard not to smile. After nearly half a decanter of heliath the whole world seemed essentially benign.

  He looked around him. The house of pleasure was much like most of the others he had spent time in, though, this being Lothern, more richly appointed. Long drapes of diaphanous silk hung from high ceilings, wafting from the gentle movement of bodies. The tinkle of a fountain sounded from somewhere close by, part-masked by the hum of conversation. He saw lissom figures drifting in and out of the various private chambers, both male and female, all with the flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes that spoke of exotic consumptions. The light was subdued; a dim cloud of reds and purples, thick with curls of smoke.

  Thoriol shifted on his couch, enjoying the give of it against his skin. After so long in the saddle it felt good to be somewhere more civilised. You had to be discreet – such places were secretive by nature – but if you knew the right palms to press it was always possible to find what you were after.

  The failure with the Sun Dragon barely troubled him now. It had troubled him, badly, just after it had happened. For a time he had allowed himself to be tortured by familiar feelings of inadequacy, the same feelings that had dogged him ever since he had been old enough to understand that his boastful tales of dragons and battles would need to be replaced one day with deeds of his own. After a while even his old playmates had stopped thinking of his heritage as a blessing – none of them had had such achievements to live up to as they reached gingerly towards adulthood.