'Valgar has a son.'

'He's two years old.'

'He has brothers.'

Zafir looked down the sheer drop to the river below. 'That is true. Valgar's realm is small though.' And now, Sirion, the seed is planted. Although you might be too vain and think yourself too wise to answer me now, the seed is in there nonetheless. For if I cannot marry into Shezira's realm, and will not choose Valgar's, then only yours remains. But only if Shezira is found to be guilty ...

'There is—' She held up a hand and he stopped. She glanced inside. There wasn't much to the lodge, only a single airy room with open arches instead of windows. At the back were two wide alcoves, both piled with luxurious furs and soft cushions. It wasn't hard to guess what the visiting speakers had used those lor. She'd lain in them, naked, with both Hyram and Jehal; flying here again with Sirion she'd wondered if she might lie there naked again. He reminded her of Hyram though, which was unfortunate.

No. She'd done as much as she could with him. As much as she'd hoped. Now all she could do was trust time and greed and doubt and pride.

He followed her eyes and must have guessed her thoughts, for his face went hard.

'I—'

She struck first, before he could finish. 'Don't flatter yourself, Sirion. You have an unmarried son, Dyalt.' 'Promised to Princess Jaslyn.'

'Promised but not yet given. And promises, as we have seen, can be broken.'

Sirion flushed with anger, but before he could say anything else, dragon shrieks ripped through the air - first one, then another, then several more, answering the first. Cries of warning.

He jumped away from her and half drew out a knife. 'What trickery is this?'

Zafir barely heard him. Her skin prickled with an acid mix of fear and fury. The cries were coming from her own dragons, circling overhead, but what they'd seen was flying down the valley, skimming the waters of the Diamond Cascade River. Three dragons were heading almost straight at them. They were hard to see at all against the backdrop of trees and water and broken stone, but they weren't hers. She squinted, paralysed with dread. Her lookouts were too high. These new dragons would get to her first, before any of her riders could stop them. If they were here to kill her, she was as good as dead ...

As they rushed towards her, she recognised them. Two of them at least. Dragons that she'd lost to the Red Riders only weeks ago. They could only be here for her. As they flew closer, she closed her eyes. They were huge. She was going to die in agony and fire ... No! No no no!

The fire didn't come. When she opened her eyes again, the dragons were flying past right in front of her, nose to tail, their necks straining forward, their immense wings so wide and so close that they almost touched the stone at her feet. She still couldn't move, but then Sirion grabbed her and hurled her to the ground away from the edge an instant before the wind of the dragons' passing picked them both up and flung them around like a pair of dolls. The dragons dived over the falls towards the City of Dragons and the palace below. Zafir rose shakily to her feet and watched them go. She still could hardly move. She touched a finger to her brow where the skin was beginning to sting. She was bleeding. A scratch, that was all. If they'd seen me. If they'd known I was here ...

'You're shaking, Your Holiness. You're very pale.' King Sirion touched her shoulder lightly, awkwardly. She flinched away, ignored him, frantically waving her arms at her own riders already swooping out of the sky. Within seconds, a hunter thundered awkwardly in to land nearby. Zafir ran, screamed at the rider to move aside and hauled herself up onto the dragon's back. Sirion was forgotten. Never mind that he might have saved her life only a moment ago — for all she knew or cared, the hunter might have crushed him or swept him over the cliff and into the river below. Before she'd even strapped herself into the rider's harness, she commanded the dragon to fly. What mattered was her palace.

The dragon felt her need and threw itself over the edge of the Diamond Cascade, soaring out into the immensity of the void below, into the skies above the City of Dragons.

Streaks of flame flashed across the ground far below. What mattered was her palace, and her palace was burning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

Justice and Vengeance

 

 

Rider Semian shot out of the mouth of the Diamond Cascade and into the void beyond. Vengeance, the dragon he'd stolen from the Usurper, tucked in his wings and fell out of the sky like a stone towards the city below. The wind roared and screamed in Semian's ears and tore at his clothes. The wound in his leg hurt; there was a fever in his blood and when he closed his eyes all he saw was fire and endless burning plains. He whispered a prayer to the Great Flame. Drotan's Top and three other eyries ringed the speaker's domain and a fifth stood close to her palace gates. Today they would all burn. Let the kings and queens of the realms answer the speaker's call and find only ash and embers. The Red Riders, his riders, had dispersed. They'd flown north and south and east to strike at all the speaker's eyries at once. And while they do, I will find the heart and cut it out. Hyrkallan, when you hear of our deed, I wish you could know how I pitied you as I sent you away.

He opened his eyes. The City of Dragons had grown enormous. Vengeance stretched his wings and opened his mouth wide. Scorching winds blasted Semian's face even through his visor; the glorious smell of scorched air filled his nose and the city burned. He could feel the raw strength and power of Vengeance ripple through him and he knew the dragon felt the same. They were as one, burning bright with righteous fury. See how your ruler protects you. See how powerless she is? Three or four dragons were in pursuit of him now, guardians loitering up on the edge of the Purple Spur, but they were behind him. Too far away to reach him before he himself reached the palace. Fate and destiny had flown here with him and slipped him between the Usurper's patrols. They were his shield and his armour and they would protect him from the scorpions of the Adamantine Men too, he was sure. As the walls of the palace came up meet them, Shanzir and Nthandra peeled away to either side, striking at the eyrie and the barracks around it. He alone would have the glory. Vengeance smashed at the walls with his tail as they crossed, lashed a scar of cracked stone into the greens and blues of the Tower of Water and then let loose, spraying fire in all directions, cleansing the walls, the earth, the towers, everything within his reach. Men and women and horses all screamed and burned; servants and beasts, kings and lords, all were the same when they were made into ash.

Something hit Vengeance and the dragon shuddered and gave an angry snort. From the walls, soldiers were firing at him, shooting their handful of scorpions. In front of him, a company of Adamantine Men had formed up with their shields, turning the fire away. Vengeance lashed them with his tail as he flew overhead, but as Semian raced towards the Tower of Air and the Speaker's Tower beyond, more and more Guardsmen emerged. A second scorpion bolt hit Vengeance, and then a third. The dragon shrieked and veered, straining to turn and strike back. Only Semian's iron desire held him in check.

There! There in front of him were the open doors to the great Chamber of Audience. If the speaker was anywhere, she should be there. Guards were closing them though, and now hundreds of soldiers were spilling onto the walls and into the yards, raising their shields, dragging their scorpions.

It wasn't to be. Another scorpion struck Vengeance in the back of the shoulders, barely a yard away from where Semian sat, and this time the dragon would not be denied. Flames washed across the soldiers closing the door and then Vengeance pivoted his head and sprayed the walls, veering towards them. A few scorpion bolts would never take a dragon out of the air but they still hurt, and by the time Semian had Vengeance under control again, the moment was gone. The doors flashed past, still half open, inviting him in, mocking him. With a howl of rage he urged Vengeance onward, upward. He pulled away from the palace, jaw clenched with frustration, and finally glanced over his shoulder to see how many of the speaker's dragons were chasing him.

And saw something wonderful. A miracle of the Great Flame. No dragons were after him; they were all converging on another. For a moment he thought it might be Shanzir, but no. Nthandra.

Nthandra of the Vale had set fire to the speaker's eyrie as he'd told her, but now, instead of flying away, she'd turned back into the palace. Semian felt a strange pang of jealousy and joy. He saw her dragon almost crash into the doors he'd so narrowly missed, landing among the soldiers, crushing and scattering them. He saw its head lunge through the doors, smashing them to splinters, and then he saw fire fill the tower, exploding out of every door and window.

And he saw her die, shattered in her harness by three scorpion bolts at once and burned by her own fire, erupting back out of the tower. He closed his eyes and prayed for her, offering her soul to the oblivion of the Great Flame. The first martyr in two hundred years. Saint Nthandra of the Vale.

He flew south and then west along the Fury Gorge. No one came after him. Kithyr had promised him that he would be invisible, and so it seemed he was.

His head sang for the rest of that day, even as the other Red Riders returned with failure after failure. Samir's Crossing north of the Purple Spur was filled with the speaker's dragons and they'd turned away. Drotan's Top - they'd found to their cost — had been much the same, and four riders and their dragons were lost. But none of that mattered, and when he told them what Nthandra of the Vale had done, the other riders all seemed to understand. So they should. The riders not fit to follow the Flame had returned to the north, or else, like poor Jostan, gone some other way, willing or not. The ones that were left were the ones that would serve the Flame to their deaths.

The speaker is dead! The Usurper is slain, and by my command! Was that too much to think, too much to hope? When he turned to his tent as the sun sank below the hills, he lay in his bed and stared into the emptiness and prayed. Let her be gone. Let the victory be mine. Let the standard of the Great Flame burn across the realms! He closed his eyes and tried to think of the world as he would make it. Where the dragon-priests wielded the power that had once been theirs, with Semian at their head, the Knight of Fire of myth and legend. Justice and Vengeance. The visions filled his head as he drifted away.

You cannot rest, whispered the blame as he slept. You cannot rest.

All of it must burn. He tossed and turned in restless dreams and the sun was already high in the sky when he awoke. He'd missed dawn by hours. In his tent beside him sat the blood-mage, Kithyr.

'You did well, prophet,' said the mage solemnly. He laid cool fingers on Semian's brow.

Semian gripped Kithyr's hand. 'It's just the start. Just the beginning. We have to ...' He tried to rise but Kithyr forced him to be still.

'You have a fever again. I have told the others to rest for today and so will you.'

Semian lay back on his bed. 'You were right. Everything happened as you promised us it would. No one saw us until we reached the palace. The Adamantine Men were slow and half asleep. It was as though they didn't see us until we were already past them.'

Kithyr nodded. 'Blood has power.'

Blood-magic was wrong. Wicked and evil. Or at least so he'd always thought. Before the Great Flame had spoken to him, Semian wouldn't have suffered a blood-mage to live. Queen Shezira had outlawed them, as had many other kings. He'd even seen blood-magic once, wielded by an alchemist. Watching had made him queasy and uncomfortable. Yet that alchemist had been a servant of the Order, and the Order in its own way served the Great Flame. He knew better now. Kithyr had shown him. The men who'd first tamed the dragons, the very first alchemists, they had been blood-mages too. Blood and fire ran together.

'Let me dress your wound again.' Kithyr helped him to sit up and started to unwrap the bandages on Semian's leg. Semian almost pushed him away but relented at the last moment. The magician, it seemed, knew a great deal about dressing wounds.

'It's painful this morning.'

The mage nodded. 'It is festering and needs to bleed. I will suck out the corruption and dress it again.'

Semian rubbed his eyes. He felt weary and lethargic. 'It's getting worse. I don't even remember how I got it.'

'It is not a deep wound but it is long and ragged and the flesh is torn. It was a sell-sword's blade that cut you — a fool, coming to a fight with a dull edge on his blade.'

'I don't remember it.'

'You fought with fury. We won. They died. Yours was the only wound we took. What else is there to remember?'

Semian stretched his shoulders and fought against the growing fuzz in his head. Kithyr had the dressings open now. His leg throbbed and the air smelled rotten. 'A man should remember every wound and the person who gives it to him. You never know which one might kill you.'

Kithyr snorted. 'The sell-swords are all dead and I doubt this wound will be your last.'

'Are you sure? I can smell the air. The wound has gone bad.'

'It's been going bad for some time, Rider, but it will not kill you. While I am with you, no wound will kill you. Now hold your tongue. I have to cut the corruption away. This is going to hurt.'

'I know. I am not afraid of the pain, Blood-Mage.' He closed his eyes. His belly filled with anticipation; the pain, when it came, transcended all his expectations. The world he knew fell away and he found himself engulfed in ice so cold that it burned. He was back in the valley of ash-covered stone, with the crimson dragon that dwarfed even the Worldspine. With the dragon-priest with his pale skin and his white hair and his long bloody robes, holding out the blackened stumps of his hands.

Yes, said the priest. Yes. It is a start, a beginning, nothing more, but it is good. You have done well.

He tried to talk to the priest, to ask him what he meant, but even as he opened his mouth the great crimson dragon lifted a wing and slowly blocked out the sun. The sky went dark, the moon turned black and the world followed and Semian's head filled with the roar of rushing water.

When he opened his eyes again he was lying on his back, looking up at the roof of his tent. His leg was agony. Kithyr was bandaging it up.

'I had a vision,' Semian said.

Tm not surprised.' The mage sounded as though he didn't much care for visions. 'You were right. The wound is getting worse. I had to drain a lot a pus out of it. I've done the best I can. It will heal now, but you'll be weak and tired for a while.'

'The Great Flame will fill me with its strength.'

'Yes.' Kithyr stood up and nodded. 'It will. It will fill us all. You may need to lean on someone to walk for a while. You can still ride though, so all is well.'

Semian tried to get up, but the pain in his leg simply wouldn't allow it. 'Yes.' He winced. 'All is well.'

'The last of your Red Riders came back in the early light of the morning. They brought better news.'

'Yes?' The riders he'd sent to the further eyries. 'Did they burn?'

'Yes. They burned. The speaker's eastern eyries are reduced to ash. Narammed's Bridge as well.'

'Great Flame be praised!' Semian sank back to the ground. Those eyries weren't much more than fields and huts — there probably weren't even any soldiers there — but none of that mattered. His vision had been true. The kings of the east and the south would come to the speaker's call. Where they stopped to rest their limbs and feed their mounts they would find nothing but destruction. They would see her weakness.

He felt dizzy. He closed his eyes again and reached out. The mage took his hand and held it tight.

'I must leave you soon. You know that, don't you? The Great Flame calls me to a different destiny.'

'I understand.'

'We all serve the Flame in our own ways. I have done what I can for you. Semian, you must listen to the words of the Great Flame. It will speak to you in fire, but also in blood. When blood comes to you, you must heed it.'

Semian screwed up his face. 'I don't understand.'

'But you will. I'll have to bleed you again,' the magician said.

'If you must, but I cannot stay here. We have struck a blow, Kithyr, and many more must follow. It is a start, a beginning, nothing more.'

The world was getting hazy and starting to spin. The mage squeezed his hand. 'Yes it is. But it is good. You have done well.'

As Rider Semian slipped away into unconsciousness once more, the blood-mage let his hand fall. He smiled. 'You did not light the fires,' he whispered, 'but you will fan their flames into an inferno that cannot be extinguished.'

 

 

14

 

A Prince Has to Do What a Prince Has to Do

 

 

Jehal took a deep breath, sighed, and sat down in the middle of the floor to see whether anyone would even notice. He'd been in Furymouth for two weeks and he was pacing his palace like an animal in a cage.

Why can't I be content? The coffers in his treasury were full. His city prospered and his dragons were strong. Cousin Iskan was steering himself comfortably towards a marriage alliance with one of King Silvallan's brood. Furymouth was easy. A king could put his feet up here, indulge himself and watch the realm largely rule itself. If that wasn't enough, Lystra was carrying his heir inside her and yet was still as eager and soft to touch as ever. So why can't I be content? Why can't I be happy?

Approaching footsteps stopped behind him. Even from the sound of them, Jehal knew exactly whose they were. His uncle. Meteroa.

'Are you unwell, Your Highness? Or simply meditating? Please don't tell me you've gone mad. This family has had quite enough of that sort of thing.'

'No, Eyrie-Master, I am trying not to be restless.'

'And have traded that for disturbing your subjects with odd behaviour?'

'Zafir is hurling us all towards a war. I've been trying not to think about it but it's not really working. She wasn't listening to me. I thought it might be better if I wasn't there to see it happening any more. No more hammering my head against the stone walls of st upidity that most of the Speaker's Council seemed to have erected around themselves.' Jeiros was far too clever not to see what was coming but he was powerless to do anything about it. Jehal was fairly sure that the Night Watchman, Tassan, could see it too. The man was shrewd lor a commander of the Adamantine Guard. But the rest of them ... The rest of them simply refused to see it. He smirked to himself. Maybe that's because the rest of them haven't met Princess Jaslynfor long enough. He lazily stood up and turned around. 'Not being there, I have discovered, is considerably worse. I lie awake at night and think of a hundred and one things that Zafir might do, and none of them are ever good. I find myself convinced that Zafir will turn everything we achieved to ruin. I ought to go back.' Why, though? Can't I leave them be? Can't I let Zafir drown in her own stupidity? He took a deep breath and growled, 'I am bored here, Uncle. This realm runs itself too well.'

Meteroa gave a little bow. 'I shall take that as a compliment. But were you not bored when you left the speaker's palace? Was that not why you came?' He raised an eyebrow but didn't wait for an answer. 'No matter; if you're bored then this should please you. I have news.'

Jehal shook himself. Meteroa had a gleam in his eye, one that always meant trouble. 'You never bring good news, Eyrie-Master. I'm not sure I should listen to you. Lystra, I'm sure, will have sweeter words than yours.'

Meteroa sounded bored too, but then he always sounded bored. 'Oh, I'd like nothing more than for you to go and spend a few more days closeted away with your queen. Running this realm is so much easier when you're not around to interfere.'

'You're supposed to run my eyries, not my realm, Meteroa. Still, if you wish me to scurry away then by all means tell me I have yet another ambassador from the Taiytakei pleading to speak with me.'

'They have been a little busy of late.'

'Haven't they just.'

'Always scheming.' Meteroa yawned. 'Should I assume now, as a matter of course, that the Taiytakei are to be dealt with by the lord chamberlain or some such minor functionary?'

Jehal almost laughed. The lord chamberlain was supposed to be the eyes and ears and voice of the king. Strictly, even Jehal had to defer to the chamberlain's orders, although the last chamberlain to try that had retired from his office in something of a hurry some years back. 'What a fine suggestion. I sometimes wonder if we should give them a hatchling. Or an egg or two. Let them live with the consequences.'

'My Prince! As you have so pointedly observed, I am your eyrie-master, and that is the worst treason to escape even your lips for a good long time. I should be fleeing as fast as I could to send word to the speaker and the grand master of the alchemists.' He shook his head. 'That you should even speak it. Jeiros would shriek for your head at the mere whiff of such a thing.'

'Oh pish-tosh! I wasn't advocating we should give them any potions. Only a hatchling.' Meteroa was still glowering. Jehal sighed. "Well I thought the idea of one of their ships drifting back into port with nothing left alive except an awake and very hungry dragon was rather amusing.'

Meteroa's look was acidic. 'A veritable earthquake of hilarity, I'm sure. But no, Your Highness. It is not the Taiytakei. This is news that concerns your bride and it will not wait.'

'Oh well, now I am suddenly quite convinced that I shall not like whatever you're so eager to say. I should warn you that I have been considering breathing new life into certain ancient traditions regarding the bearers of bad news.'

'Then I shall dress it up otherwise. Wondrous news, Your Highness. The speaker has called a council of kings and queens. Oh joyous, joyous times.'

Meteroa's voice was so dry it could have swallowed the sea. Whatever good humour Jehal had been nursing left him right then. 'She's putting Queen Shezira on trial, isn't she?'

'Yes. And King Valgar too.'

'Oh screw Valgar. Inconsequential king with an inconsequential voice.'

'But with a not-inconsequential queen, Your Highness.'

'Yes, yes, married to Lystra's big sister. You didn't suppose such a thing would slip my mind, did you? But still inconsequential beside Shezira.' He clasped his hands tightly together. 'Zafir will demand Shezira's head and she'll probably get it. Jaslyn will take Shezira's throne and Almiri already speaks for Valgar's realm. Put the two of them together and they're as strong as the King of the Crags. Put Sirion with them and they'll split the realms clean in two. War, fire, death, destruction. Everything burns.'

'Perhaps.' The eyrie master raised an eyebrow. 'However, I cannot help but observe that it will likely all happen very far away from Furymouth.'

'Furymouth may be far enough removed, Eyrie-Master, but I am not. I am precisely in the middle.'

'And very adroitly done, Your Highness. I bow to your talent for blending strategy and mischief. A lover on one side and a bride on the other. You may jump to one or the other as it pleases you. As the tides of their fortune wax and wane and they quietly rip each other to pieces.'

Jehal could have slapped him. 'You are naive and short-sighted sometimes, uncle. If they rip each other to pieces, it may be of little consequence to us, but it will not be quiet. It may be a surprise to you, but I would prefer not to see the realms torn to shreds, and that is most certainly what such a war would do. You might as well give the Taiytakei that hatchling and the potions to go with it. That might be all that's left.' He paced. 'Since I intend to follow Zafir to the speaker's throne, I would prefer to rule more than a desert of ash. No, I shall stand between them.'

'Not choose between them, My Lord?' Meteroa raised an eyebrow.

'I have made one speaker, Eyrie-Master. When I make another, it will be me. No.' Jehal pursed his lips. 'No choosing. Not yet. I shall answer the speaker's summons and attend her council. I shall argue with passion and conviction that the realms will be safer if Queen Shezira lives. And then we shall see.'

'I'm afraid to say, Your Highness, that you are quite pointedly not invited to the council. Your father may attend and his voice will be heard. Not that anyone, even if he is able to speak on that particular day, will understand a word of what comes out. You, however, are courteously advised to stay home and keep feeding the starlings. Whatever that is supposed to mean.'

Jehal hissed. 'Oh! Believe me, Eyrie-Master, the speaker could not have made her meaning more clear. Nevertheless.' He looked at Meteroa long and hard. 'Zafir can do what she likes with King Valgar, but if she executes Shezira, both of Lystra's sisters will go to war. That must be stopped.'

Meteroa raised an eyebrow. 'I trust that Princess Lystra and I will no longer be hearing complaints of boredom?'

Jehal suddenly grinned. 'That depends on how long it takes me to change Zafir's mind. You may go, Eyrie-Master.'

Alone, Jehal's grin fell away. He stared blankly into space. He'd put Zafir on the throne. He'd always known he might not control her but he'd never given it much thought.

And now it's time that I did. He turned and walked briskly towards his father's apartments. Something else was long overdue, something to which he'd given a great deal more thought over the years. Something best done quickly while he had the will to do it. When he reached his father's rooms, he sent all the servants away with orders to find Lord Meteroa and bring him. He waited until they were all gone and then stepped inside, through the antechambers and into his father's sickroom. A long dark room, lit only by the embers of the hearth and thin curtains of sunlight that squeezed through the cracks in the shuttered window. A room he'd come to less and less over the years. I used to come here every day, in the beginning. I'd hold your hand and look for any signs that you were getting better, filled with a strange melange of fear and hope in case there would be a miracle. But you weren't and there wasn't. You were always getting worse and miracles, it turns out, are for fools.

Prince Jehal sat by his father's bed and took his father's hand. He leaned towards the old man's ear.

'I know you can hear me,' he whispered, soft as silk. 'I know your mind is still alive in there, even while your body wastes away. Even though you can't speak, can't feed yourself, can't do anything much but lie there and stare, I know you can hear me. If there's anything you have to say, this is your last chance to say it. Spare me the complaints that I never come to see you though. I know I've not been a good son, but then a better son might have come from a better father, eh. I have to go away again now. Queen Zafir is waiting for me. I made her want me, Father, and now I might have to destroy her. I did the same to her mother, Aliphera. Does that make you sad, Father? I know you liked Aliphera. I think you'd like Zafir better though. She squeals like a pig. Oh, I'm sorry.' Jehal gently wiped his father's brow. 'I suppose I shouldn't speak of such things. Do the women I send to your bed still give you any pleasure? I hope so. I picked them myself.'

He paused and squeezed his lather's hand, stretching his senses for any response. He thought he felt a twitch, but that could simply have been his father's condition. It could have been anything. Most likely it was nothing.

He whispered again. 'I don't know if you've been keeping track of things in there, but if you have, you must know that Speaker Hyram's time as master of the Adamantine Palace has been and gone. He's dead now. Did anyone tell you that? He went mad with grief and despair, with the help of a little cocktail of poisons that I made for him, and then he threw himself off a balcony. You were my key to him, Father. You and Zafir. I couldn't have done it without you. Pathetic, drooling, shaking, empty shell of man that you are. You let him see what time had in store for him, until the dread of it gnawed at his bones. Until the terror of age and impotence and helplessness ate his heart. Well he's gone now, your old enemy. You survived him and you had a good part in killing him. I thought you'd want to know that. I thought you deserved to know why I let you linger like this for so long.'

Jehal rose. He had tears in his eyes. 'I've killed one queen and one speaker and made another of each. Because of me yet another king and queen are marked to die. I'm sorry, Father, I really am, but I had to. I know you understand. But I am not sorry for this, for what I'm about to do. I should have done it a long time ago. I should never have let you suffer so.'

He looked into his father's blank eyes, searching for something, for any little spark. They were dull and dead. The only sign of life was the slow rise and fall of his chest. With deliberate slowness Jehal picked up a pillow and pressed it hard into his father's face, until the breathing stopped. He held it there for a very long time. There was no struggle. A mercy. For both of us.

Finally, Jehal lifted the pillow away. He looked at his father's dead face for one last time. 'I do wish you could have told me, just once, that you were proud of what I've done. That I'm not a monster like Calzarin.' He stroked his father's cheek, cold as glass even when he'd been alive. 'But you didn't and now you can't any more. Go and be with your ancestors. Maybe now you're dead you can watch over me as you never did while you were alive.'

Jehal took a deep breath, and when that wasn't enough to stop his head spinning he took another. He put the pillow carefully back on the bed and laid his father's hands across his chest. As an afterthought, as something to do while he waited for his heart to stop racing, he threw open the shutters and let daylight flood the room. In the sunlight his father's skin was so pale that it seemed to glow.

'Sent away, summoned back, sent away, summoned back. I do wish you'd make up your mind, Your Highness ... Oh.'

Jehal spun around. Meteroa was in the doorway. He had the audacity to disturb him here instead of waiting outside. Jehal put a trembling finger to his lips. 'Not a word, Eyrie-Master, not another word. In this moment and this place, you're a sneer away from losing your head to the sharpness of your own tongue.'

Meteroa's face was a mask hidden under a mask. For a long time he stood stock still, staring at the dead king. Then he bowed. 'You're going north?'

Jehal nodded. 'Lystra stays here, under your protection. Whatever happens to her happens to you. As before.'

'He was my brother, Your Holiness.' Meteroa's face was still blank. Jehal barely heard him.

'I'm leaving right now. From this room I will get my white horse. I will ride to Clifftop as fast as it will carry me and I will fly tonight, in the dark, whether Wraithwing agrees with me or not.'

'And what shall I tell your queen?'

'Tell her what she needs to know. Tell her that I am sorry, but that sometimes a prince has to do what a prince has to do. Now get out! When I'm gone, see to my father.'

Meteroa backed away, vanishing into the shadows outside the door. Jehal spared his father one last look, and then followed as fast as he could. All the way to the palace, and I will not look back, for now I am a king and my voice will be heard.

 

 

15

 

The Duty of Kings

 

 

Jeiros, acting grand master alchemist, cracked opened his door, peered into the empty passageway beyond and slipped out like a schoolboy. A little voice in his head mocked him for his stupidity. This wasn't going to achieve anything. Someone was going to see him sneaking around in the dark like this and get suspicious. If he'd just gone where he was going in broad daylight, no one would bat an eyelid.

The little voice didn't stop him though. It only made him even more careful. You forget, he told himself, that I've done things life this before.

When you were ten years old, snapped the voice. When you were a little boy and it was what all little boys did.

He reached the end of the passage where it opened out into a stairwell. The Gatehouse was actually two towers, one either side of a pair of wooden doors called the Dragon Gates. The gates themselves were bigger than some castles. They were close to fifty feet high, which made them twice as tall as the walls around most of the palace. They were bound with iron, and when closed and locked it took a hundred men about an hour to open them. When they were fully open, they were large enough for any dragon in the realms to walk through.

He chided himself. That's an exaggeration. He peered into the blackness of the stairs and opened his ears, listening for any footsteps. When he didn't hear any, he tiptoed down. The alchemists lived on the upper levels of the east stair. Where he wanted to be required that he went all the way down to the bottom, across the gates, and then all the way up the west stair. And all of it without being seen.

Back to the gates. The gates gave him something else to think about. They were, in their own quiet way, a miracle. They weren't hinged because no one had ever made a hinge remotely big enough or strong enough. Instead, they pivoted on a bearing, with huge iron and lead counterweights balancing the mass of the doors. Except even that wasn't enough, because no one could make a bearing that would take such a weight without collapsing, so most of the weight of the doors and the counterweights was held up by a series of steel ropes that then rested on a pair of massive stone pilings either side of the pivot. It was said that when the palace was built, some three hundred years ago, the gates took as long to build as the rest of it put together. The Gatehouse towers were as large as they were because they had to be to support the gates. Sometimes the alchemists joked that the maze of rooms and passages and staircases the towers contained were just something to fill all the spare space.

There. He was at the bottom of the stairs and no one had seen him. So far. He unlocked the door into the Gateyard, opened it, locked it again and slipped into the warm night air. No one was watching, but still, this was where one of those mythical potions of invisibility would have come in handy.

He hurried across from the east tower to the west. There was no avoiding the guards who stood by the gates — the gates within the gates that allowed people and horses and even carts and wagons to come and go without ever having to open the Dragon Gates themselves. But in the darkness, with his hood pulled up, they wouldn't know who he was. He steered a wide course around them and no one challenged him. Pitiful, sneered the little voice. As if any of this mattered.

Except it did matter. It mattered a lot. He opened the door to the west stair. That was one door that was never locked, for it led into the quarters of the officers and senior staff of the Adamantine Men, and no one would be daft enough to go into a place like that unless they had a very good reason to be there. Jeiros ran up the stairs as fast as he could, almost to the top, and banged on a door. He was afraid that he might have to bang several times, given the hour, but the door swung open of its own volition. It wasn't even shut.

'Grand Master.' The Night Watchman was sitting in a hard-backed chair, tilting back with two bare feet up on a little table, squinting at a book that he was holding at arm's length from his.

'I thought you'd be asleep.'

'We never sleep, remember?' Vale Tassan slowly leaned forward, took his feet off the table and replaced them with the book. Jeiros wasn't sure whether he meant it as a joke or whether he was serious.

'You need a Taiytakei eyepiece,' he said, to change the subject.

'No, I don't.' A slight smile played across Vale's face. 'I need books to be scribed with bigger letters. The Night Watchman cannot wear an eyepiece.'

'He can in the privacy of his own chambers.' Jeiros stepped in and closed the door behind him. When he turned back, Vale was giving him a very pointed look.

'And what, exactly, is this privacy to which you refer, Grand Master? As you see, my door is always open to my men and my friends.'

'Well it's shut now.' Jeiros looked for a bolt or a lock but there wasn't one. 'I require a moment or two of your attention, Night Watchman.' His scowl softened and he bit absently on a knuckle. 'I need an ear, perhaps.'

'Then go and see Aruch.' Vale shook his head and made to settle back down with his book.

'No. I need your ear, Night Watchman. Who do you serve?'

'What an odd question.' Vale cocked his head and then rose slowly to his feet. 'I serve the speaker, Grand Master. I am her sword and her shield. I execute her will and her enemies. That is my whole and only purpose. Would you like a drink? I don't myself, but I sometimes have visitors who do. I have a collection of fruit wines that I'm told is very good, and it seems a shame for them to go to waste.'

'No!' Jeiros took a few quick steps into the room and looked around for a place to sit down. All he could see was a chair by a table covered in maps. He took another step towards it and felt a hand on his arm, turning him, pulling him away.

'That table is for Adamantine Men,' said Vale quietly. 'Have my chair. I will squat on the floor. I'm quite used to it.'

'Do they teach you history when they make you a soldier? I don't suppose they do.'

'They teach you how to fight and how to die for your  comrades,'

said Vale mildly. Then he looked up at his walls, covered in bookshelves, books and scrolls, and made a gesture with his arm. 'However, I have undertaken extra study over the years.'

'Do you know how the Order of the Scales came to be?'

Now Vale smiled. 'No. I know at least half a dozen different stories which claim to be of how the Order of the Scales came to be. All of which disagree, and all of which are provably false, at least in part. Do you know, Grand Master? Which story have you come to sell me tonight? Is it the one where the alchemists are nothing more or less than blood-mages with a different name? Is it the one where you slew them or the one where you chased them away? What are you today? Are you noble heroes or dark villains?'

Jeiros clenched his fists. 'Let me tell you who we are. We are the ones who keep the dragons at bay. Not you, not the speaker, not the kings and queens of the nine realms. Us. Without us, none of the rest of you matter a whit. You'd all be dead in a flash. Yes, we are descended from blood-mages. Our power has its root in theirs. We are descended from those who sided with the men who became the kings and queens of the realms when the blood-mages were broken.'

Vale smiled amiably. 'All the stories I have read say that the blood-mages demanded sacrifices to appease the dragons. That their binding of the monsters required blood and plenty of it. A hundred slaughtered each and every week. I found that number in some story or other. And now you do it with potions. No blood at all?'

'Become an alchemist and find out,' snapped Jeiros. 'We keep the dragons in check. That is what we do and all you need to know. Above all else. Above everything else. Do your stories tell you how Narammed came to be the first speaker?'

'They agree rather better on that.'

'The nine realms were falling to war. We chose Narammed. Us. The alchemists. We put ourselves behind him and we pushed him to power. He was wise enough to understand what we were doing and why. The speaker keeps the kings and queens of the nine realms in check so that we alchemists can do what we must without impediment. That is the purpose of the speaker. They are arbiters, that's all. Most who have come since have not understood it and none save Narammed himself would acknowledge it, but we do not serve the speaker. The speaker serves us.'

Vale chuckled. 'I don't think SO, Grand Master, but you could try that on at the next council and see how far you get.'

'The speaker serves the realms, Vale. So do I. So do you. We all have the same master. You know. strictly, according to all the laws of the Order, we serve Aruch. Both of US.'

Vale was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, he spoke very softly, almost whispered. 'Some of what you say I grant is true. The first Adamantine Men gave themselves to Narammed because they understood his cause. He had forsaken his dragons and the power that came with them so that he could mediate the disputes of other kings. The story that everyone thinks they know is that Narammed slew a dragon with his bare hands.' He cocked his head and gave Jeiros a glance, begging to be contradicted.

'With the Adamantine Spear, Night Watchman. That's the legend. Except it's not true.'

'No.' Vale smiled and shifted on his haunches. 'Because it wasn't Narammed; it was some other warrior. The nameless hero. All these other warlords we call kings and queens were nothing more than thugs, brutal ones at that. Even those who were clever enough to understand Narammed's wisdom wouldn't have wanted it. So we showed them his strength instead. Us. The Adamantine Men. Even we don't know the name of the man who slew the dragon, but we revere him. He was the greatest hero of all. He gave the power of his name and his deeds to Narammed. We showed them that we could kill their dragons and that is why they bent their knees to Narammed. We went from one eyrie to the next carrying his message. The dragon-slayer.' Vale rocked back on his heels. He wasn't looking at Jeiros any more, but somewhere distant, off into the past.

'Don't get all misty-eyed on me, Night Watchman.' Jeiros took a deep breath and paused. The Adamantine Men almost worshipped their story. The Order had a different story, one with a lot more dragon poison in it, but with much the same outcome in the end. He'd been thinking of sharing it with the Night Watchman, but the look in Vale's eyes changed his mind. He settled for something else instead. 'It's a fine legend you have. But think. Your Stories speak of lone men with swords and axes slaying dragons. How possible is that? One man on his own cannot kill a grown dragon. Even the best of your soldiers could never, ever do that. Not by the strength of his arm. He must have been quite a clever fellow, don't you think?'

'It was a unique feat. One never to be repeated.' Vale snapped back to the present. 'What is your point, Grand Master? I would happily make a habit of talking history with you, but I suspect you have a point you wish to make. The trouble with you lot is that you're so used to coming at things askance that you've forgotten how to ask a direct question.'

'I am leading you to a certain way of thinking.'

'Then let me spare you the embarrassment of being any more ham-fisted about it than you already have. I will agree with you, within these four walls and never beyond them, that Speaker Zafir leaves a great deal to be desired. Nevertheless, were any man to come to my room late at night and intimate that I should enter into some sort of conspiracy with regard to ridding ourselves of her, I should be obliged to inform her, and she would doubtless have them killed or something equally unpleasant. I serve the speaker, Grand Master. Orders. The Guard obeys orders. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less.' He smiled, and there wasn't anything friendly about it this time. 'That's our creed.'

Jeiros sat very still and quiet for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. 'But whose orders, Night Watchman?'

'The speaker's orders, Grand Master.'

That's me told then. He didn't get up though. 'I know how Adamantine Men are made. Do you know how to make an alchemist?'

Vale sighed and his face hardened. Jeiros had outstayed his welcome now, that much was clear. 'Every year I watch as thousands of the desperate and the poor come to the City of Dragons to try and sell their children to the Order. I know that some of the ones who don't get taken are left on our doorstep. I know there are men who will, for a fee, take a child from its parents and bring it here. I know that a few such men are even honest. I also know that a good few are not. I know that the Taiytakei slavers profit handsomely.' He smirked. 'What do you want me to say, alchemist?'

'That there are secrets no one else should know, Night Watchman. Not even a speaker. Not even you.'

'I don't like secrets, Jeiros. The blood-mages built their power on secrets. You alchemists broke them by breaking their secrets first, but you have forgotten that and now you follow the same path. So now I am left to wonder, what can you know that the speaker should not?'

Jeiros stood up. 'I should go. But I can think of two things. The first is that we alchemists are not so far removed from the blood-magi we overthrew as to leave any of you comfortable, if you knew the truth of it. The second is a secret that you know too, if only you'd cast your mind back to think of it. I know what Narammed said when he gave you your name, Night Watchman. Do you remember?' When night comes it falls to the Adamantine Men to keep watch over the nine realms. No need to spell it out though. Vale would know the words inside and out. 'How dark does it have to be, Vale?'

'Let me ask you this, master alchemist. If there is to be a war, can you not stop it? Can you not simply take away their dragons? How many cities will burn before you do that? If our land is burned by dragons who happen to have riders on their backs, why is that so different from dragons that do not. If it all burns anyway, what exactly was the point of you being here?'

Jeiros' voice dropped to a dry whisper. 'When the dragons have riders, there is at least still some hope,' he breathed. 'That is the point.' The words sounded hollow though.

Vale hadn't moved as Jeiros went to the door; now the Night Watchman had his back to the alchemist. Vale didn't move. 'Well then,' he said very softly. 'Here's your answer. Pitch black, master alchemist. It has to be pitch black.'

Jeiros let himself out. He didn't bother trying to hide himself on the way back. All things considered, it seemed rather futile.

 

 

16

 

The Speaker Zafir

 

 

She was at her best when she was angry, and the more her fury waxed the more magnificent she became. Jehal watched her in silent admiration. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Today's entertainment was watching acting Grand Master of the Order of the Scales Jeiros being metaphorically flayed alive. Yesterday it had been Tassan. The Night Watchman, it seemed, was now a routine victim of the speaker's ire. And so he should be. I would have him hanging from a gibbet. Ten thousand invincible warriors guard the palace, and look at the state of it! You should have taken your own life and spared everyone the embarrassment of looking at you.

'Unacceptable!' Zafir was already on her feet, but now she picked up the empty wine goblet from the arm of her throne and hurled it at the grand master. It was a good throw, and would have hit Jeiros squarely in the face if he hadn't ducked. It clanged across the floor behind him and lay still. None of the servants who usually rushed to clear away errant goblets and the like moved a muscle.

There was a moment of silence. Jeiros was red-faced and trembling, although out of fear or fury was hard to tell. Probably a rather delicious mixture of both, since Zafir's temper was both fierce and unpredictable. Jehal kept his face stern, but inside he was beaming. Goblet throwing, the sport of kings. How I've missed this ... Both Jeiros and the speaker looked like they'd had plenty of practice at this sort of thing while he was away. They might even have rehearsed it.

The silence continued. He could feel the tension between the speaker and her grand master rising and rising, until even the air between them seemed to be trying to get out of the way. With a sigh, he stood up. As soon as he did, he could feel the wave of relief through the hall. Thank the ancestors for Prince Jehal. He'd been doing a lot of this lately, almost from the moment he'd landed in the wreckage of the Adamantine Eyrie. The Red Riders' attack had been no more than a scratch, superficial and quickly healed, but the wound to Zafir's pride had been savage.

See what happens when you don't listen to me? But that doesn't help either. Although Yd rather enjoy saying it. He bowed to Speaker Zafir. 'Your Holiness.' It took her longer than usual to give him a grudging nod and sit back down on her throne. She folded her arms angrily. Jehal set his eyes on the grand master. Jeiros was looking at him with a mixture of pleading and defiance.

'The council of kings recognises Prince Jehal!' boomed the court herald. Jehal winced. Calling this farce a council of kings was absurd, but that was Zafir for you. Calling it that had at least forced King Sirion out of his tower and into the chamber.

'Grand Master Jeiros.' Jehal favoured him with a smile. 'Let us be reasonable. No one holds the Order responsible for the Red Riders, whoever they are ...'

'I should hope not! They've burned—'

'Several of the Order. I know. We all know.' Jehal let his smile slip. 'Please don't interrupt me while I'm speaking. It does nothing for my disposition. If you do it again, I shall simply leave you to resolve your dispute with the speaker on your own. Doubtless you've always wanted to make a close inspection of the dungeons under the Glass Cathedral.'

Jeiros went from being red in the face to purple. 'How dare you threaten me, Prince. Only a council of kings can—'

He didn't get to finish before Zafir was on her feet again. 'This is a council of kings, you old fool,' she shouted. Jehal could see her hand looking for something else to throw. A knife, perhaps?

Jeiros took a step forward. 'Then where are the kings?' he shouted back.

Zafir came down from her throne, step by step towards him. 'Would you have me drag Queen Shezira and King Valgar out of their prisons? Prince Tichane is here for King Valmeyan. King Tyan is dead and Prince Jehal is not yet crowned. King Silvallan hasn't yet deigned to answer my summons, and King Narghon is content to let us resolve this matter without his advice. What would you have me do?'

 

Jeiros snorted. 'Prisoners and princes. I say again, where are the kings? Where are the queens?'

'King Sirion is here,' thundered Zafir, ' and I am a queen!'

There was another moment of silence. Jehal broke it, clapping his hands slowly. Before either of you do anything irrevocably stupid.

'Bravo, Grand Master, bravo. A cheap point bravely won. Yes, Speaker Zafir has still yet to appoint an heir to h'er own throne and pass on her crown.' He shot Zafir a glance that told her to keep quiet. He could hardly count on her doing what he asked these days, but on this occasion she did. 'I applaud your courage.'

Grand Master Jeiros took a step forward. 'Until she does—'

'But not your wisdom!' barked Jehal. 'Where do the Red Riders strike? South of the Purple Spur. In Queen Zafir's lands, in the speaker's lands, in the border between them. It is a well known principle of war, written in the first chapter of Prince Lai's Principles, that an effective campaign requires a single absolute leader. Speaker Zafir is wise to keep her crown until these renegades have been crushed. I'm sure, as soon as that has been done, she will be delighted to name her heir.' He shot Zafir another glance. And you better had.

'Prince Jehal—' Jeiros began.

'The Red Riders fly on the backs of dragons, Grand Master. What would happen if those dragons did not receive your potions, Grand Master?'

Jeiros rolled his eyes. 'As we all very well know, they would become wild. They would turn on their own riders.' Which was barely scratching the surface of the truth, but was as much as the grand master or any other alchemist would admit to, except perhaps to a council of kings that actually had some kings in it.

'Since that has clearly not happened, one must assume that they are receiving your potions, Grand Master. Who makes these potions?'

'The Order of course.'

'Anyone else? Perhaps you would care to speculate, Grand Master? Who is supplying your potions to these outlaws?'

The alchemist snorted and his lip curled. 'I cannot begin to imagine. They have stolen a goodly quantity from the speaker's eyries. As for the rest, ask amongst yourselves. Ask the kings and queens of your illustrious council.' He sounded a little uncertain; he was quite clever enough to see where Jehal was going with this.

'They are your potions, Grand Master, and I am asking you. We will most certainly enquire of the kings and queens of the realms, but is it not possible that these riders have friends within your Order? For all their treason, they are doubtless powerful men, with powerful families.' Not that their families will know what they're doing, since the penalty for this will most certainly run deep into all their bloodlines.

'Preposterous.'

'Really?' Jehal raised an eyebrow. 'You don't sound entirely sure.'

'The Order would never ...' Jehal could see the grand master thinking. Thinking that he was almost certainly right. That there was almost certainly no treachery from within the Order itself. That he had almost nothing to fear. And then too he was thinking about the consequences, if one of those almosts turned out to be wrong. Catastrophic for him at least, with no almost about it. And he was thinking about Jehal, and of what he knew about the prince that Hyram had called the Viper, who twisted and turned and knew secrets about people that they didn't even know themselves. Jehal let him stew for a second or two, before putting on his most reasonable voice.

'All the council of kings is asking, Grand Master, is that you audit your potion supplies.'

'Counting, Grand Master,' muttered Zafir acidly.

Jeiros stamped a foot. 'Do you think we are not already doing that? I have spent months, months, merely trying to count all the dragons in the realms to determine whether Queen Shezira's renegade,' he glared at Jehal, 'is dead or alive. Do you have any conception of how difficult it is to count even dragons? And yet you ask me to count potions? And frankly, as this council should be very aware, nearly all of my alchemists are fully occupied making them.'

Jehal smiled. 'The Red Riders are not some local insurrection, Grand Master. They are attacking the speaker; they are attacking everything she stands for, and by inference everything that you stand for. All I am asking, Grand Master, is that yon tell us who is requesting more of your potions than usual. Because you must know that. If you didn't, you would not be doing your duty, and I know that cannot be the case. When you gives this answer, we shall know where they are getting their supplies.' As if we didn't know already.

'They are stealing them from the speaker's eyries!'

'All of them, Grand Master? Then you can show us by what records you know this.'

Jeiros stood there for a second, quivering. Then he bowed his head. 'It shall be done.'

'And soon, Grand Master,' snapped Zafir. 'Very soon.'

The council moved on to other things: to the repairs to the eyries, to preparations to receive the remaining kings and queens of the realms, to the impending trial. Jehal watched behind half-closed eyes. In particular he watched King Sirion, who looked as comfortable as a man sitting on a hill full of stinging ants. She's got to you, hasn't she? Whatever she offered you, it must have been good. So which way will you jump, when someone comes to kick you off your fence? Most probably King Sirion was thinking the same thing about him. Except that I don't look like a man riven by indecision. Or do I?

The council slowly dispersed. Sirion hurried away back to his tower. Usually Zafir did the same, spurning Jehal's company, but today she lingered. Jehal counted the glances that turned to watch her. Tyrin, her cousin Sakabian, even Prince Tichane. I was hardly even away, and they're all sniffing after her like she's a bitch in heat.

'Walk with me,' she said and offered him her arm. She led him outside into the open air. Scorpions and Adamantine Guardsmen packed the palace walls and towers, and a dozen dragons circled overhead on permanent overwatch. Most of the damage from the Red Riders' attack had been cleared away but the Speaker's Tower still bore the scars; the lower floors, including the Chamber of Audience, were still being gutted. Zafir had drafted in almost every craftsman from the City of Dragons in an attempt to repair it in time for the trial.

'No more hirelings, eh? I warned you that these Red Riders might grow into something you couldn't control,' said Jehal.

'They're no great threat now. They made a terrible noise and a mess, but they have become rash. This must have cost them a third of their number and I have all my dragons back and more. But it's true that they've made me look foolish in front of the council. I've had enough of them. I want them gone.' She turned to look at him. 'And on the subject of my council, I don't recall inviting you, Prince Jehal. I seem to remember inviting kings and queens.' 'You sound like Jeiros.'

'And you should have stayed at home, playing with your starling. How is she? Still showing off her pretty plumage?' 'Not as pretty as yours, Zafir.'

She slipped him an arch look. 'Oh, is that why you came back?' 'Of course. Why else?'

'Then I can't help but wonder why you left in the first place. Although I did hear a rumour that someone died.'

'I might have mentioned it, yes. I seem to have become a king since last we met.'

Zafir laughed, a pretty tinkle of breaking crystal. 'You're not a king until I say you are.'

Jehal pointed over to the Glass Cathedral. 'Then say I am.'

She smiled. 'I thought you'd return. I was expecting to hear that someone had died too. In fact I had a quite particular expectation in that regard. I am sad and disappointed to learn of your father's passing. Very sadly disappointed. Were there any witnesses? Should I put you on trial as well? Or were you extremely careful?'

Sometimes, Jehal thought, life would be much simpler if he gave in to the urge to wrap his hands around her delicate little throat and squeeze until she shut up. 'King Tyan passed away peacefully, I think you will find. Now Furymouth requires a king, and thus I require a crown.'

'After the council, Jehal. Not before.'

Jehal pursed his lips. He nodded slowly. 'You're going to call for Shezira's head then.'

'And you're going to try to stop me from getting it.'

'Why yes, Your Holiness. Having no particular desire to see the realms ripped to pieces by war, I do think I might. Since I will doubtless succeed, you might be inclined to show some of that magnanimity I was mentioning and avoid making a fool of yourself in front of your kings and queens. Of all people, I should be your ally, Zafir. Furymouth and the Pinnacles have always stood side by side.

Even in the War of Thorns, there were as many knights from the Harvest Realm who fought with Vishmir as fought against him. Besides, what are all these northerners except blood-mage spawn.'

Zafir pursed her lips. 'History, Jehal? Here is some history for you. The Pinnacles are the heart of the realms. The Silver King came to us there. He tamed the dragons there. The blood-mages ruled from there. The Order of the Scales ruled from there. Even after Narammed built the Adamantine Palace and the City of Dragons, we were the heart of everything. For most of those centuries, Furymouth was mud and huts.'

Jehal shrugged. 'And yet look at us now. You keep your history and I'll keep my wealth. We both have plenty enough dragons though.'

She sniffed. 'You want me to let Shezira go?' 'Yes.'

'Let suspicion hang over her? Leave the world to wonder? Did Hyram fall or was he pushed?' 'I see you remember.' 'My answer is no.'

Jehal grinned and bared his teeth. 'Then I look forward to humbling you at your council.'

'You will not be there, Prince.' 'Nevertheless.'

Zafir stopped. She turned to face him, looking up with wide earnest eyes. 'Are you going to be my enemy now, Jehal?'

Jehal put the palm of one hand against the side of her neck, the age-old gesture of brotherhood. 'I am your best and truest friend, my lover. You will know your enemies at your council, for they will be the ones who shout and bellow their support when you call on them to hang Queen Shezira.'

She took a step away, withdrawing from his hand, and slowly shook her head. 'No. My enemies will be the ones who oppose my will. And I will not forgive, Prince Jehal. Whoever they turn out to be.'

 

 

17

 

Unwanted Attention

 

 

Vale Tassan watched as the last scorpion was hoisted into place. The Adamantine Palace bristled with them now. He sighed the long satisfied sigh of someone who'd got exactly what he wanted. The Red Riders were enemies of the realms and now at last the speaker had set her mind to crushing them. Dragons were moving up from the eyries in the south and combing the Purple Spur. The Adamantine Men had been unleashed from their barracks. Some had been dispatched to join the dragon-riders in their search, but the large part remained to guard the City of Dragons and the speaker's palace. He'd got all the weapons he'd asked for. No dragon would get close enough to burn the Speaker's Tower for a second time. If they did, that would mean his head.

Seventy-four days since Head Priest Aruch had handed Zafir the Adamantine Spear. Seventy-four days gone in a flash. The last Night Watchman to go to war had served mad old Anzuine in the War of Thorns and died fighting Vishmir's dragons. Dying didn't bother Vale though. What bothered him was that three dragons had flown straight through his defences, meagre as they were, and burned the speaker's palace. He couldn't blame that on Zafir, not all of it. There had been fifty scorpions on the walls when the Red Riders had come. Now fifty Adamantine Men had been executed and fed to the speaker's dragons. One for each crew that had missed. Good men all. How could they all have failed? How could we have been so lax when it is our duty to be vigilant?

Not being ready. That was what kept Vale awake at nights.

'Satisfied with your handiwork?' asked a voice behind him.

'Prince Jehal.' Vale turned around, dropped to his knees and bowed. 'Yes, Your Highness. Most satisfied.' He kept his head down, eyes to the ground. The Adamantine Men, even their commanders, were mere servants after all. Servants to the dragon kings and queens, princes and lords. Sometimes being lowly and small could have its advantages.

'You can get up, you know. I'm not Zafir.'

'As you command, Your Highness.' He rose slowly, his eyes fixed on Jehal's feet. What does he want? Nothing good. Nothing good ever came from the Viper.

'Tell me, Night Watchman, what did you think of the council this morning?'

Vale slowly shook his head. 'I have no opinion to offer, Your Highness. I exist only to serve.'

'You might try that on Zafir and get away with it, but not with me. Speaker Hyram, unless I am misinformed, once valued your advice.'

Vale stayed silent. Silence was always the safest defence. Words only made trouble. Especially with this one. 'Well? Did he or did he not?'

Vale shrugged. 'I cannot say, Your Highness. Only our late lord may say as to the value he found in what few words I had to offer. And he is dead.' Dead because of me. My fault.

'So he is. You served him for a long time. Why do you suppose he turned his back on Shezira?'

'Again I have no opinion to offer, Your Highness.' Because of you. You and your potions and your stepfather. Because of Zafir and because, in the end, he was weak like all men are weak when they grow old. He will not be making such a mistake again. He frowned. He would have to watch those thoughts lest they turned from thoughts into words and then to actions, and before you knew where you were, it would be him throwing people off balconies. He knew exactly where he'd start too. He bit his tongue.

Jehal's smile was bland and false. 'He was a good speaker, I think, until the end. He wanted too much to live, perhaps? Is that how Speaker Zafir turned him? Was she just too pretty to refuse, do you think?'

'You might be a better judge of that than I, Your Highness.' Inside, Vale winced at his own words. Silence! Remember, silence is your defence.

Jehal's eyes glittered. 'Really?'

'Love of women and a long life are two things that we of the Guard have long forsaken.'

Jehal laughed. 'Oh, then I could never be an Adamantine Man. Although you do confuse me. There are whorehouses around your barracks, and I can tell you from exhaustive personal endeavour that some of them are really quite good.'

'Love of women, Prince Jehal. We have forsaken love, not lust. We are swords. We sate ourselves in flesh as the need comes upon us and then we move on.'

'Cold words, Night Watchman!'

'Forgive me, Your Highness.' Vale bowed. 'They are not my words, nor those of any Guardsman before me. That is how Prince Lai described us.'

'In Principles} I don't think so. I would have remembered that.'

'Prince Lai wrote other works, less well read or well received, Your Highness. I have a small library of my own.' There, now why did you say that, Vale? That sounded like a boast, and Adamantine Men have no need to boast.

Jehal cocked his head. 'You are a fascinating fellow. Especially for someone who has no opinions of his own. I've always admired Principles. We used to have all his other works in our own library and then we had a fire. I didn't know any copies had survived.'

'The monastery in Sand has the most complete collection, Your Highness. I have but a few, but I would be honoured to offer them to you.' There. Is that enough? Will you go away and leave me alone now?

'I will take you up on that, Night Watchman, but not as a gift. I couldn't take such treasures from anyone, least of all a man who has forsaken love. War is all you have left.'

Jehal turned away but Vale didn't allow himself to relax. Hyram called him Viper because poison came out of his mouth, but there's some scorpion sting in him as well, I think.

Sure enough, Jehal took one step and then stopped. 'Night Watchman, may I ask you a question on which your opinion is most certainly relevant. How many dragons do you think your scorpions and your legions can stop? More than three, I hope.'

I will not rise to that. 'I cannot stop the dragons. Your Highness. Only their riders.'

'Then how many riders, Night Watchman?'

'The answer to that is in Principles, Your Highness, as I'm sure you know. A legion may face ten mounted dragons at best before it breaks. I have twenty legions. In the field, therefore, two hundred riders at best. Here, behind these walls and towers, maybe twice that number.'

'Are you sure?'

'No one can be sure of such a thing, Your Highness. No one has ever tried.'

'It would be a slaughter.'

'The palace and the city would burn and most of us would die. Perhaps all. But that's what we are for.'

Jehal laughed, although he didn't seem to find anything funny. 'Then get yourself ready, Night Watchman, for when Zafir puts Shezira to the sword, the north will come to war with you. The flower of their manhood will be pierced by your bolts, while these walls and towers are smashed and burned and your legions with them. There will be nothing left of any of you. Everything Hyram preserved will go up in flames. If the realms survive at all, he will be remembered as the Great Fool.'

Vale bowed his head. 'If the speaker commands us to fall on our spears, that is what we will do.' One might ask where you will be, Prince, when this war comes. Here with us, defending the heart that holds the nine realms together? Or will you watch from a distance and pick off the survivors? Shall we see if I can guess?

'You do that, Night Watchman. You do that.' Jehal still had a smirk on his face as he turned away again. Vale kept very still, holding back the urge to wipe the smirk away with his fist. At least Jehal didn't turn back a second time.

He put the Viper out of his mind and immersed himself in inspecting the defences. His soldiers had placed over three hundred scorpions on the walls in less than three days and all of them needed to be perfect — he would accept nothing less. He watched as horsemen raced around the palace flying target kites from their saddles. By the end of the day, every scorpion had been fired. Each and every one of them worked. He knew which crews had hit their target with the first shot, which ones had hit it with their second, and which ones had failed and would have to be replaced. They would practise every day now until the council of kings and queens was done and the lords of the realms had dispersed back to their own lands. Long after dark he sat awake in his little room, burning lanterns, poring over rotas and lists, staring at his maps, shuffling crews around, placing his best at the points of the palace most likely to be attacked. Being certain that he was ready.

He was about to admit defeat and accept that some decisions would have to wait until after he'd had some sleep when his door slowly swung open. He glanced up, half expecting to see Jeiros come for another try at changing his mind, but no. The Viper again. Instantly, Vale was on guard.

'I saw the light under your door, so I knew you were still awake.' Jehal pushed past Vale and sat himself down. With casual rudeness he looked at the maps and starting picking through them. 'Trying to decide where and when Jaslyn and Almiri will strike?'

Vale clenched his toes. Why are you here and what will it take to make you go away? 'I am more concerned, Your Highness, that the Red Riders will try to disrupt the council.'

'And condemn their queen to an even more certain death? Why would they do that?'

'They have struck at us once, Your Highness.' The books. That's what he's here for. Prince Lai's books. A shame to let them go, but needs must as the devil drives. He started to look among his shelves.

'Yes, they have, haven't they? Last I heard, Rider Hyrkallan was leading them. I wonder what madness possessed him to burn the palace. He always struck me as a very sensible sort of fellow. Pity about his sense of humour. I wonder sometimes if they do something to their children in the north. Do they cut out some part to make them like that? Queen Shezira was as bad and as for her daughters ...' He smiled and shook his head. 'Don't get me started on her daughters.'

Vale pulled three old books down.'I hear rumour that Hyrkallan abandoned the Red Riders some weeks ago and that he has been seen in the north. I am inclined to believe this is true. Their actions made sense to me when Hyrkallan led them. Now I don't understand them at all. They are destroying themselves. They will not last long.'

'An enemy is at his most dangerous when you don't understand his reasons.' Jehal smiled. 'Principles, Night Watchman. Perhaps it is a trick.'

Vale shrugged. 'Here, Your Highness.' He put the three books on the table. 'I will wager you these that when the Red Riders fall you will not find Rider Hyrkallan among them. These are what you came for, are they not?'

Jehal gave him a lazy look. 'No, Night Watchman, no they are not.'

They stared at each other. Vale said nothing. Silence, remember.

For a long time they both watched each other in silence. Finally Jehal spoke: 'Do I have to spell it out for you in simple words?'

'Forgive me, Your Highness, but I am a soldier. We are men of direct action, not guile. We do not deal well with innuendo and insinuation. If not the books, I have no idea what you want from me, Your Highness. Yes, simple words would be best.'

Jehal frowned as if confused. 'Hyram hated me and I had no love for him. I wonder why it should trouble me to see everything fall to ruin.' He sighed and shook his head. 'Are you really so stupid, Night Watchman? No, I don't think you are.'

Vale stood very still. He didn't speak, only waited. The Viper would either go away now or he'd say what he wanted. Then he would go away.

Jehal clucked his tongue. 'In fact, I'd say you are one of the more astute minds on the Speaker's Council, Night Watchman, although I will accept that is somewhat of a barbed compliment. Very well.' He frowned again. 'I am here to ask you for your help.'

'I exist to serve, Your Highness.'

'And therein lies the problem, Night Watchman, because the help I want from you is a small matter of not serving, and it will cost you your head if you are discovered.'

Silent and still. Let him speak and say nothing.

'So. If the council of kings and queens takes Queen Shezira's head, there will be a war. The Red Riders are only a start. Would you agree?'

Vale said nothing. He kept his face blank and still, with the pleasing result that a twitch of irritation flashed around Jehal's lips.

'Simple words. Yes, yes, very well. Shezira has three daughters.

Queen Almiri now sits on the throne of Evenspire and is certainly helping the Red Riders. Zafir will have proof of that soon enough. Soon-to-be-Queen Jaslyn sits on Shezira's throne and she is betrothed to the fool son of King Sirion. Two queens and one king. Three realms and many dragons, and they are already furious with Zafir. And with me, for that matter, but I doubt that is of any consequence here.'

There was that flicker of annoyance again. Or was it something else? Was it... ? Vale felt an unexpected thrill blossom inside him. Jehal was nervous. He might even be scared.

Jehal tapped his foot irritably. 'You know all of this. If killing Shezira isn't enough to send the north to war against her then Zafir will demand Almiri's head next. Do you think Almiri's own sisters will abandon her?' He shook his head. 'Queen Shezira sitting on her rightful throne would stop that from happening. She would not allow a war to tear the realms apart, no matter how she'd been wronged. The rest of them ...' He shrugged. 'Who knows, eh? So here's a choice for you, Night Watchman. You can sit idly by while the speaker wrecks everything you're sworn to defend. Or you can do something about it.'

The inside of Vale's mouth had gone very dry. He felt lightheaded. Jeiros I could understand, but you? What makes you think I would even countenance such a thing when you are surely thinking of nothing but yourself? And yet I find I am still listening. Why? Why am I not calling my own men to arrest this traitor?

He shook the questions away. 'And exactly what, Prince Jehal, do you suggest I do?' There. Even for asking that question I should have myself hanged.

Jehal wrinkled his nose. 'All I require of you is that you do what the Adamantine Men always do.' He bared his teeth. 'Be vigilant. Don't lose another speaker, Night Watchman. Watch her and watch her well. Perhaps to the exclusion of others.' His grimace finally managed to turn into a grin. 'I think you are quite clever enough to understand me.' He held up his hands as if to cut off Vale's reply. A wasted gesture, since there was none forthcoming. 'Oh, and don't get too excited, Night Watchman. Whatever happens, you can be sure I'll be nowhere near to be touched by it. The worst you can do is kill a few men who want nothing more than for the realms to be at peace.' He nodded curtly and swept back out of the door. Vale stood very still and watched him go.

There goes a prince, he thought with a certain amused wonder, who things he is far cleverer than he actually is.

He let Jehal's words roll around his head for a few seconds until he knew what he was going to do with them. Then he set to correcting the disarray inflicted upon his maps.

 

 

18

 

The King of Crags

 

 

One by one they arrived. Six of the Syuss on the back of a pair of jet-black hunting dragons. King Narghon and twenty of his riders. King Silvallan and six of his Golden Guardsmen. Rumours raced back and forth through the palace that Princess Jaslyn had left her eyries in the far north and was coming with a hundred dragons. On the next day she was coming with two hundred, then three; then she was coming alone and in disguise. The speaker's eyries around the palace were overflowing with Jehal's dragons and Sirion's and those of the other kings, but mostly with Zafir's. Many of her riders were here now and nearly all of her adult dragons, all scouring the Purple Spur. There were always at least a dozen dragons in the skies above the Adamantine Palace, watching in case Hyrkallan's traitors crawled out of their caves once again. From his perch up on the Gatehouse Jehal watched them all come and go. He spent more and more of his time up there, looking down over the eyries. He was waiting for the Night Watchman. Putting himself in Vale's way. Looking for an answer.

An answer I'm not going to get. He was there again on the evening before the council that would decide the future of the realms. He looked down along the palace walls, thick with scorpions. If I was Vale, I would stay silent. I'd leave me to get on with it and then make my decision as it suited me.

He sighed. It didn't really matter which way the Night Watchman jumped. Well, unless you were worried about the small matter of the thousands and thousands of people who would burn in a dragon-war, and the tens of thousands who'd probably starve afterwards. But as long as it stayed in the north, nothing that particularly mattered would get damaged. The easy route, of course, was to make sure the council made the right decision in the first place. Narghon would do as he was told: specifically he would do as Queen Fyon told him, and now that Tyan was dead, Fyon was left as the eldest of Jehal's family. Silvallan wasn't stupid and had nothing to gain from taking Shezira's head. Sirion though ... which way will you jump? I can see Zafir's touched you, but I can't see how. What did she offer? And how easily are you taken in? He'd spent a lot of his time on Siron, making sure that little whispers reached him. The right little whispers. He was the key, but all he had to do was stay silent. Inaction would suffice. Should I just tell you that your cousin wasn't pushed, that he simply fell? I could tell you how it all went. I could tell you that I pushed him right up to the edge, until he was teetering on the brink, but that the last step was his own. I could tell you that I saw him. I could even show you how. Is there a punishment for any of that? I suppose when you consider everything else, there probably would be. What with all the poisoning and so forth.

That, in many ways, would be the best thing for the realms. To stand up in front of the council and tell them exactly how he'd driven Hyram mad. Tell them everything he'd done. Leaving Zafir carefully out of it. Shezira would be spared. The north would be appeased. Zafir would be blameless, her position secure. At the very worst they'd exile him. He'd be forced to spend his time in Furymouth with his queen. Wasn't that what he wanted anyway?

No. That's only half of what I want and so it's not going to happen.

Jehal watched the Night Watchman pacing his walls, and knew that he wouldn't get an answer. Finally he retired to his bed in the Speaker's Tower. Hyram's bed, not many months ago. When he slept there though, Hyram's ghost couldn't be bothered to haunt him. Instead he always dreamed of home. Of years long ago when King Tyan had been strong and well. Of Lystra in his arms. Of the Taiytakei and their strange and magnificent gifts. Of the last thing he'd done before he'd left Furymouth. Night after night he saw himself poised over his father's bed, the pillow in his hands, watching the last light in his father's eyes finally die.

Except tonight his father wasn't his father but Lystra, and the pillow wasn't a pillow but a knife, and the bed was covered in blood, and her mouth and eyes were wide with terror and she spasmed and writhed, and however much his heart filled with horror at what he'd done, he couldn't leave her like that, and he would lift the knife to finish her, blinded by his own weeping, except that no matter how hard he tried, she wouldn't die, and the screaming only got louder ...

The nightmare woke him up. He lay in the darkness of his room, staring at the ceiling above his bed, listening to Kazah, his pot-boy, snoring. His heart slowly stopped its pounding. Outside, the palace was quiet.

He got up and walked to his windows, opened them and stepped through to the balcony outside. Hyram's rooms, Hyram's balcony, where Hyram and Shezira had stood that fateful night. Hyram had had three different poisons in him by then. He shouldn't have been able to move and yet he'd dragged himself outside. Where Shezira had found him, rambling and not making any sense.

Jehal stood where Hyram had stood. He peered down. He'd watched it all unfold through the eyes of the little mechanical dragon, his wedding gift from the Taiytakei. Shezira had never touched the former speaker. He could say that, if he wanted to. But then he'd have to admit that Hyram only fell because he'd flown the Taiytakei dragon straight at Hyram's face. He'd thought he was being so damn clever, but all he'd done was make a mess of a perfect plan.

Zafir had married Hyram. Hyram had made her speaker. All the hard work was done. Hyram would have lost his mind over the months that followed. No one would have been surprised when he fell off his own balcony once he couldn't even wipe his own arse any more. Lystra would die in childbirth. He and Zafir would rule the realms together for two decades. Longer, if they could find a way. Their enemies might have their suspicions, but suspicions were all they could ever be.

Down below the stones were dark. Too dark to see if Hyram's blood still stained them. It could still have been perfect. But Shezira was there when Hyram fell, and now Zafir was intent on casting what might have been a tragic accident as a murder. Because, if Shezira is gone, I really have no reason left not to slit Lystra's throat. We both know that I have to choose and choose soon. Ah, Zafir, impatience will always be your undoing. So now I have to decide what I want. Do I want you? Do I want Lystra? Do I want your throne?

He sighed. Shezira wasn't going to die. Sirion would dither and abstain. Narghon and Silvallan would call lor her to live. Zalu would stand alone and lose. And she would blame him. Now was no time to be uncertain. Before the council and whatever consequences it brought, he would have to decide between his lover and his queen, otherwise it would all go on and on and on, and before you knew where you were, he'd have to avert another dragon-war. No, one of them would have to die, and soon. No room for kindness, no room for mercy.

He wandered back inside. There was another hour before dawn but the air was still and stiflingly hot and the nightmares had destroyed any possibility of sleep. He kicked Kazah awake.

Bring me light! he snapped in brusque gestures. Words were lost on Kazah, who was as deaf as a wall. They spoke in signs, in a bastard language of their own devising. Kazah hurried away and was soon back with a candle.

Clothes! Jehal took the candle to a table by the balcony and rooted around until he found a quill and some ink and some writing paper. Behind him, Kazah was holding a tunic and trousers. Jehal dressed himself. Then he sent Kazah away. He sat down and stared at the empty page in front of him.

 

Lord Meteroa,

My previous instructions regarding Princess Lystra are withdrawn.

Jehal

 

He looked in horror at the words he'd written. So simple, so pure, so innocent in their way, yet they would tell Meteroa everything he needed to know. Anything more would be superfluous. The eyrie-master would understand exactly what was required of him.

He shook his head. I can't send this. The words may hide their meaning from others, but I'll always know what I've done. I'm commanding Lystra's murder.

The words sat on the page as words were wont to do. Still, un-moving, accusing. He bit his lip. And that's exactly what I have to do. She's in the way and she has to go. That was always how it was going to be, and if you weren't prepared for it, you should never have married her in the first place. You could have turned her down when the white dragon you were promised was never given. Face it, you were just being greedy. Just being you, who can never say no when it's served up on a plate for you. Well you've had her every which way you know and so now you can move on. Let her go. Marry Zafir. Follow her as speaker. It's not as if you'll have to wield the knife yourself, not if you don't want to. Say the word and Meteroa will do it for you. You can be a thousand miles away, hands as clean as Zafir's silken sheets.

I think I might love her though. There. That was an admission, wasn't it?

Pah! Kings have no room for feelings, remember? Who said that, Jehal? Was it you? Yes, I rather think it was. Zafir s much better in bed. Take that and be grateful.

Lystra is carrying my heir. My first-born. A son, perhaps. A son who could one day wear my father's crown. There. Wriggle out of that one.

But was that anything so special ? First-born ? He must have sired at least a dozen bastards by now. Zafir freely admitted that she might have conceived at least twice because of him and that both times she'd drunk a dose of Dawn Torpor and bled it out. Was this so different? If Lystra knew what was at stake, she'd probably even accept her fate. My life to save my mother? Yes, my love.

Without even thinking about it, he'd dropped a blot of molten wax onto the page. It sat there, waiting for him, waiting for the press of his ring to turn his words into a royal command and seal Lystra's fate. The trouble was, his hand wouldn't move.

This is stupid. In a minute the wax is going to go hard and I'm going to have to scrape it off and start again.

He closed his eyes. He didn't have much time for any of the many possible gods that the realms had to offer. Most people saved their prayers for their ancestors, but when it came to that, all Jehal could think about was his father, drooling and useless. And even if dying had restored Tyan's senses, Jehal wasn't at all sure he ought to be praying to someone he'd murdered, especially when it came to murdering someone else. Conscience troubling you, son? You never prayed to anyone about finishing me off, did you? Got a little trouble with some guilt there? And you thought for some reason that I might want to help you with it?

Still, he couldn't think of anyone more useful to ask for forgiveness.

Somewhere over the palace, in the first light of the breaking dawn, a dragon shrieked. Two short calls and then a long one; and with the last one it must have swooped straight over the palace, and low too. The whole tower shook with the thunder of its passing.

Jehal froze and then rushed to the window. No one in their right mind would do that, not now, not with the Night Watchman's scorpions lining the walls. There were shouts down below, but they weren't shouts of alarm, and when Jehal swivelled his gaze, he saw that the dragon hadn't flow across the palace, but had actually landed within the Gateyard walls. Men with torches were running towards it. A rider was dismounting and he wasn't waiting for a Scales or anything like that. He was racing straight for the Tower of Air. To Zafir.

Jehal left the letter where it was. He pulled on his boots and ran out of his rooms, out of the Speaker's Tower, and went to find Zafir as well. As he reached the Tower of Air, soldiers raced past him, heading away. He was halfway up the stairs when a bell began to toll. An alarm. More dragons. He ran faster and soon found Zafir, hurriedly dressed, coming the other way.

'Oh, trust you to be the first,' she snapped. She swept past him, not quite running but not quite walking either. Jehal reversed and fell in behind her.

'The first to what?'

'We're going to war — what does it look like?' 'What? Are we under attack?'

'You're still not a king, Jehal. You have no voice in this, but if you must know, there are dragons pouring out of the Worldspine. Hundreds of them. Almiri's and Jaslyn's.'

Jehal snorted. 'That can't be right.' No, no, no, they weren't supposed to do that.

'Why not? Slipped in and out of the Worldspine, where no one would see them. They mean to attack the palace.'

'That can't be right.' Could it? Could they really be so bold? If it was true ...

'Jehal, listen to me carefully while I say it again slowly. Hundreds of dragons are flying out of the Worldspine. They are coming here. They have gone to war.'

Jehal grinned. 'If they have then I take off my hat to them. Can we stop them?' They're insane. They can't possibly have enough dragons. Not with so many of Zafir's already here ... 'Of course I can stop them.'

They were nearly at the bottom of the tower. Jehal's mind raced on. If the Night Watchman was right then Hyrkallan was probably leading the attack. But that couldn't be, could it? Hyrkallan was too canny. He'd never let Jaslyn do something like this. It was suicide. 'I know Hyrkallan. He's one to wait and wait and wait and strike when the time is exactly right. Which isn't now. He's devoted to Shezira and an attack now would make her death certain. He'd wait.'

'While Jaslyn is impatient and has little love for her mother. Your point?'

'My point?' Jehal laughed, but before he could say any more, a second messenger threw himself to the ground in front of them.

'Your Holiness!' he gasped. 'It's not the north. It's the King of the Crags! The King of the Crags is coming!'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

19

 

Silence

 

 

For all practical purposes, Jaslyn was a prisoner. She'd heard the new speaker's summons and she'd flown south without an inch of doubt inside her. She wasn't sure whether she wanted her mother freed or hanged, but in many ways that was a question that missed the point. Her mother would prevail. She would win because she always won, and Jaslyn would be tossed in her wake like a leaf in a storm.

She'd flown to Southwatch and then to Evenspire and then, quite to her surprise, all her dragons had been taken away. By her own sister. As jailers went, Almiri was as kind as they came, but a prison was a prison, and Jaslyn chafed at the invisible chains that held her to the ground. They might as well have cut off her legs.

'You're mad,' Almiri said when Jaslyn had told her where she was going. 'Speaker Zafir will throw you in a tower and have your head too.'

'And you're afraid,' was Jaslyn's reply. It hadn't been a good conversation after that. Maybe Almiri was right and Zafir was a monster. Did it matter? Not to go was to concede defeat, wasn't it? Jehal, who most certainly was a monster, who surely had his hand up Zafir as far as it would go, would waggle his fingers and make the speaker issue whatever decrees pleased him. Not to go meant no one would be there to challenge him, yet here she was, trapped by her own big sister as if they were both ten years younger and Almiri had been left in charge for the afternoon so their mother could go hunting. After days of frantic preparation, she suddenly found herself with nothing to do except to sit with Isentine and watch Almiri's Scales at their work while her riders kicked their heels in the vastness of the Palace of Paths.

'This is as close as I can get to them,' she sighed. 'My dragons.

Just because she's my big sister, why does she think she can get away with this?'

Isentine had a faraway look in his eyes. 'Your Highness, this is the first time I've been away from Outwatch in five years. Should I be honest with you?'

'Always. Someone has to be.' They walked together among the buildings of the inner eyrie. Jaslyn knew they wouldn't be allowed out onto the landing fields, that Almiri's soldiers had orders to stop her. They were watching her now, a company of them, never too far away.

'I thought, when you asked me to fly with you, that I would never see Outwatch again. I thought that we would fly to the Adamantine Palace and that we would both die on the speaker's command. I thought you were foolish and reckless. I thought you should have come here to see your sister. That you should have come to plan a war together.'

Jaslyn growled: 'If that's what you thought then why didn't you say anything?' Even here within the outer walls of the Palace of Paths and its eyrie, most of the buildings were guarded. A few of them carried the sign of the alchemists on the doors. Somewhere not far away was the hatchery; the guards were unlikely to let her near Almiri's precious eggs though. I might smash a few in my impatience to be away.

Isentine ignored her. 'That's what Queen Almiri really wants and you know it. You do yourself no favours spurning her and sulking out here, Your Highness.'

'I'm not her little sister any more, Eyrie-Master. I have almost three times her dragons at my beck and call.'

'You should listen to Hyrkallan now that he's back ...' Isentine kept on talking, but Jaslyn suddenly wasn't listening any more. Or rather she wasn't listening to him. She was listening to someone else. Or something else. A voice, inside her head, so faint she could barely even hear it, and yet so loud it filled the world.

Who are you?

She froze. Two and a half months had passed since she'd last heard that voice in her head. The same voice. Except then it had come from a dragon half dead from poison, who'd breathed its last that same day.

A chill ran through her, down her spine and right to her toes, freezing them to the spot. Her jaw fell open. Her heart began to race.

'Silence?'

I remember you. A venom came with the thoughts, a snarling anger.

Isentine was looking at her, concern on his face.

We will brea\free of you. One day. One day. I told you that. The thought seemed to fade into the distance. She could almost feel something being wrenched out of her. Whatever it was, her heart went with it.

'Where are you? Silence!'

'Your Highness?' Isentine had an unforgivable hand on her shoulder. 'Your Highness!'

She closed her eyes. All she wanted now was to fall to her knees and weep. With a heave and a shudder, she shook Isentine off and looked around. At least a dozen of Almiri's soldiers and servants were watching them.

'You forget yourself, old man.' She slapped him. Mother would have taken your hand and cut it off, even though you were her dearest friend. That's why I'm not ready to be her. I'm not ready to be anything. All I want is Silence. I want my dragon back. That's all.

Isentine staggered away, bowing as best he could, apologising and yet still asking whether anything was wrong. Jaslyn didn't know how to answer. The voice in her head had seemed more real than anything, a pinpoint brilliance of colour in a world of hazy greys. Now she wasn't sure. Did I imagine it? I can't ask if anyone heard a voice because there was no voice to be heard. She took a deep breath and clutched at her head.

'Your Highness! Please!'

'I heard a voice, Isentine.' Her face went very hard as she looked at him, willing him to simply listen, to be silent and to believe her. 'I heard a dragon. It spoke to me in my thoughts. It was Silence. He remembered me, Eyrie-Master. He remembered everything. He remembered me'

Isentine didn't say anything. Jaslyn could see the disbelief in his eyes, the refusal to even try to understand, but he didn't speak, didn't even shake his head. He things I'm mad. Maybe I am. Mad with grief, mad with loss, but I know what I heard.

'Your Highness,' he said at last, 'if he is here, where is he?'

Jaslyn shrugged. 'Close, I would think. I don't know. But I have to find him. I have to know that it's true, that they come back and they remember!'

'Then let us find him. He was yours after all, and if Her Holiness Queen Almiri has a dragon in her eyrie of the colours of smoke and ash and coal, she will not keep it secret for long.' He didn't believe her. He'd never believed her. He'd spent forty years and more working with dragons. They'd never spoken to him in his head; they'd never died and been reborn and remembered anything. As far as Isentine was concerned, they'd never done anything except hatch, eat, breed and eventually die like any other animal. Yes, when one died, another was born and their numbers were always the same, but to Isentine that didn't mean anything. They were still animals. As long as they had their potions.

None of that mattered. If he helped her, then she would show him and he would have no choice but to believe her. She stamped her foot and glared at the soldiers. 'They won't let us roam around among my sister's dragons.'

'No, Your Highness.' Isentine shook his head sadly. 'Unless ... Your Highness, I've badgered and cajoled Queen Almiri's eyrie-master and been steadfastly refused. The order comes from the queen herself. But if you promised you would join Almiri in her plans for war ...'

'I do not want a war.' Then Jaslyn almost smiled. She wagged a finger at her eyrie-master. 'I see. You would have me join her council but not her war.' She walked quickly now, forcing Isentine to hobble along as best he could in her wake. 'Very well. She can have me at her table, but I will not throw my dragons into some foolishness.' She took a turn, out of impulse, down a narrow alley between two low stone storehouses with long windowless walls.

'Hey! Your Highness! Stop!' The voice came from behind her. It sounded like one of Almiri's soldiers, so Jaslyn ignored it. 'By the command of the queen, you are not permitted to enter ...'

She reached the end of the alley. Several soldiers were in pursuit, but the passage was narrow, the soldiers were armed and a armoured, and Isentine was a frail old man, hobbling slowly and in the way. 'Move aside, sir!'

'I am Queen Shezira's eyrie-master, you insolent fellow! And I'm going as fast as I can.'

Jaslyn watched them for a second, smiled, and walked briskly into the eyrie. Not because she particularly wanted to but simply because she could. She wouldn't get very far. There would be other soldiers to get in her way. She wasn't sure what they would do if she refused to stop, if she physically tried to push them out of the way. They surely wouldn't dare to lay a hand on her, not even on the queen's order.

She did stop though. Her path led her to a huge stone barn. Its immense black doors were ajar and a warm wind blew out at her from inside. The air reeked of hatchling and heat and death. Several soldiers stood between her and the door, but the smell would have stopped her anyway. Her face tightened. The smell was one that every eyrie knew. A hatchling had died.

As she stood there, she heard Isentine, still shouting at Almiri's soldiers, and then the soldiers arriving behind her.

'Your Highness, by order of the queen, you are not permitted—'

She spun around and slapped the speaker across his face, then turned straight back again. She didn't move, only watched as the great black doors swung open.

'One of your queen's dragons has died,' she said, very quietly. Anyone who worked in an eyrie, even the guards, ought to know better than to do anything except be still and to watch until the alchemists and the Scales had done their work.

Four Scales dressed in heavy leather gauntlets and overalls emerged, dragging behind them a heavy stone sled. The dead hatchling lay on the sled, curled up. Not covered by anything in case it caught fire. Two alchemists followed behind. They carried silver bowls hanging from chains in their hands and they swung them back and forth, gently sprinkling water and their potions over the hatchling's sizzling scales. All six men wore masks. The alchemists made potions that mitigated the worst effects of Hatchling Disease, but the strain of the disease from a dead hatchling was the most virulent of them all. I'.ven the Scales were not immune.

Jaslyn stood very still, watching as they dragged the dragon away. She felt the heat of its death fade as the body was pulled out of sight. When they were gone she moved very slowly, surrendering herself to the soldiers behind her, letting them walk her to the edge of the eyrie and into the inner walls of the Palace of Paths, towards Almiri and her council. None of that seemed to matter now. She was lost, swallowed by a delirious kaleidoscope of glorious hope and crushing despair. Never mind that the colours had been all wrong; she knew with a certainty that she couldn't understand that the dead hatchling had been her Silence.

Reborn.

Remembering.

Which made it all true. Every bit of it.

 

 

 

 

 

20

 

The Council of Kings and Queens

 

 

Vale stood on the walls as the skies darkened with dragons. After thirty years in the Adamantine Guard, the sight of so many still made his heart trip. He'd never seen them in such numbers before, even when all the kings and queens had come together at the passing of Iyanza to name Hyram as the next speaker. They flew in from the west and circled over the palace and then began to land around the edges of the Mirror Lakes. The speaker's eyrie was already full, but that didn't seem to trouble them. They'd brought their own, he slowly realised. Everything they needed. The excitement inside him felt strange and he wondered what was stirring him so. Later, as the skies cleared and the first riders walked their dragons to the palace gates, he understood. Thirty years in the Guard. He'd seen kings and queens and speakers come and go, but in all that time the King of the Crags had never come out of his mountains to the palace. It made you wonder why this time was so special.

Apparently we nearly went to war this morning. All very exciting. I do hope there weren't any accidents.'

Vale jumped and gritted his teeth. Prince Jehal had somehow crept up behind him.

'Mind you, I suppose we're still not quite sure, eh? My father used to tell stories about the King of the Crags. Back when he could still string a sentence together of course. Back when I was a little boy.'

Vale bowed and said nothing. Why are you telling me these things? Do you think that we shall somehow pretend that we are friends?

Jehal was still talking and it didn't seem to matter to him whether Vale was listening. 'All sorts of stories. They say the Mountain King has more dragons than any two kings or queens together. Is it true, Night Watchman. Did you count them?'

'I did not. Your  Highness, but it will be done. I would say some three hundred and fifty beasts, but there are men in the Guard with better eyes than mine.'

'Three hundred and fifty! Ancestors! My father wasn't making it up then.'

What do you want from me? Again Vale held his tongue. The answer was obvious — Jehal wanted to know whether he would betray the speaker. Well you'll get nothing from me now. We'll see about that soon enough.

'I wonder if that means that the rest of it's true too.' A procession of dragons was walking up from the Mirror Lakes. Twenty war-dragons each with four riders on their backs. Three scorpions mounted on each saddle. Vale frowned at that. It was unusual to see three. Most eyrie-masters don't mount a scorpion on the nape of the neck like that. Too many accidents when a rider tries to shoot at an enemy straight ahead of him.

Jehal seemed oblivious. 'My father used to tell tales of mischief,' he said. 'He used to say that there was another race of people who lived in the mountains. Little people, short, who stood no higher than the pit of your arm. With mean spirits filled with wickedness. Said they served the King of the Crags and that he would send them out to sow the seeds of discontent and rebellion among the good men and women of the realms.'

And why bother when there are teeth and claws and fire that serve the same purpose with a great deal more effect? Or when we have the likes of you among us? Vale said nothing.

'He said they moved among us, unseen but there nonetheless.'

For a moment Vale couldn't resist. 'The first Valmeyan fought against Vishmir in the War of Thorns. It is said among the Guard that he ran circles around even your Prince Lai. After Anzuine executed Speaker Voian, Valmeyan abandoned him and flew to the mountains, taking half the dragons from the Pinnacles with him. He took his own alchemists. No one knew where he was.'

Jehal chuckled. 'The Great Dragon Hunt. Yes, I know all about that. Though I don't think he had much love for his speakers. No, I'd say what he did had a lot more to do with Anzuine and you Adamantine Men sacking the Silver City. Not a clever thing to do, burning the home of your foremost dragon-marshal. But I take your meaning. It is true that we of the south have little love for the mountain men. My father would say that all bad things have their birth within the caves and tunnels of the Worldspine.'

'The potions that control your dragons have their origins there, Your Highness,' murmured Vale.

'You have me again, Night Watchman. Good things have their birth there as well, I dare say.'

'The Great Flame tells us two things: all that brought order to the world came from the Worldspine long ago; and all that will render the world unto ash will come from there also.'

The prince made a face. 'Don't tell me you listen to that priestly rubbish.'

'I may have forsaken love and a long life, Prince Jehal, but I have not forsaken faith. The Flame burns brightly among the Adamantine Men.' He spoke mildly, hiding the disgust he felt. Were you not a prince I would reach out and with one hand I would crush your throat and snap your spine. He had a flashing vision of ramming his fist right down Jehal's throat and tearing his tongue out by the roots. It was deeply satisfying.

'I didn't know that,' said the Viper softly. 'I will remember in future. I'm sorry if I offended you, Night Watchman.'

Vale kept his face blank. 'There is no offence, Your Highness.' You indolent, faithless piece of shit.

'Good. Then shall we see what the Worldspine has vomited up for us this time?' Jehal laughed. 'The King of the Crags draws near. And amid the pleasure of our conversation I seem to have quite forgotten my errand. The speaker has called for you at once. You are to greet the king on her behalf and escort him to the council of kings and queens. He is late, after all, and they're all waiting for him. You might mention that to him.'

For a moment the iron control that held Vale Tassan together creaked and shifted. His face blanched. 'I am to greet the King of the Crags?'

'The speaker is the speaker, and Valmeyan, for all his airs, is still a mere king and must bend his knee to her. She could not possibly come to him.' Jehal smiled a happy smile. 'Of course, if you are daunted, I will be happy to take your place.'

Oh I don't think so slippery one. 'I am honoured, Your Highness, and flattered. I will do as I am commanded, as all Adamantine Men have always done. You may tell the speaker and the council if you wish.'

Jehal's smile didn't change. 'I think the idea is that you do this with a few thousand of your Adamantine Men lined up at your back. A show of the speaker's strength, if you like, to counter Valmeyan's predictably portentous arrival.' He glanced down. 'I would say you have a few minutes yet before his dragons reach the gates. I do hope that's enough.'

Here came that flashing vision again, except this time Vale simply saw himself smashing every last one of the Viper's teeth as well. Oh, how I look forward to the day when I can cut that condescending grin off your lips. His eyes narrowed in concentration. A few minutes to call four legions or more of men down from the walls and into formation. We can only thank the Flame that the Dragon Gates are already manned and prepared ... Jehal didn't even move. Just stood, hands clasped behind his back, watching and smiling. Grinning like a snake. Fine. Then see why we are feared as we are. He whistled. Loudly. Loudly enough to see Jehal flinch, which was at least some small consolation. Across the walls, his soldiers turned to look, waiting for his orders. He made three clear gestures. All legions. Guard of honour. Immediately. Then he pointed down at the gates. The soldiers with him on the walls didn't need any telling. They were already sprinting to the nearest legion commanders in case they hadn't seen the signal. Stupid, stripping the walls for a mere ceremony with so many dragons camped around the palace. Surely a single legion would have done? He wondered then whether Jehal had exaggerated, or even made up the speaker's order on some whim of his own. He didn't think so. It had all the usual thoughtlessness he'd come to expect from Speaker Zafir.

It's not my place to question such things. All across the palace walls he could see his order take effect. Soldiers were leaving their posts and streaming down ladders and stairs.

'It's very impressive.' Jehal was still grinning. 'They're very attentive to you, Night Watchman.'

'We obey without hesitation or question, Your Highness. That is our way. All of us. Such obedience is necessary to survive when the enemy breathes fire.' Jehal was in the way. Vale almost had to push past him to get off the tower and down the steps into the vast space of the Gateyard. By the time he got there, hundreds of soldiers were already massing into orderly ranks, each man knowing exactly his place within his own legion. With a few curt snaps of his hands he made small adjustments to the legion positions as they continued to form. He almost didn't notice that Jehal had followed him.

'It's like watching a master puppeteer at his work. Or a wizard. Does it not leave a mark on you, Night Watchman, to wield such power with a simple wave of your hands?'

If I was a wizard then I would wave my hands and flick you away as if brushing a fleck of shit from my sleeve. Vale bowed. 'This is the power of the speaker, Your Highness. Not mine.' And I don't have the time to have some mongrel prince dancing at my heels. 'All is well in hand. Please do not allow me to deter you from your business. If it pleases you, you may tell the speaker that the honour guard will be ready. I will have the gates opened for King Valmeyan as he approaches.'

Prince Jehal pursed his lips and took a sharp breath. 'Pithy, Night Watchman. You mean surely there is something more useful I should be doing, and please could I get out of your way.'

'Not at all, Your Highness.' Although if you're in an obliging frame of mind, perhaps you could cut yourself on your own tongue and choke to death on your own blood. It would be an inconvenience to clear up such a mess but I dare say it could be done in time. Vale marched briskly towards the gates. Still Jehal stayed with him, raising an eyebrow in his wake.

'Well, if I'm truly not distracting you from your duties, the truth is that I have none of my own and my curiosity compels me to remain. I would see the face of this King of the Crags for myself.'

'It will be the same face in the council of kings and queens, I don't doubt.' Vale clenched his teeth. There, see. Now you've made me show my impatience with you. Is that what you wanted? Can you take your little victory and go away now?

'Doubtless it will. But as I'm sure you are aware, Night Watchman, I am not yet a king, and thus my presence is not re-quired. I am not sure I shall go.'

'My own opinions are worthless and insignificant but I have noted that Speaker Zafir seems to value yours, Your Highness.' Vale waved his hands again, shilling the front legions apart. They would need more space to allow Valmeyan's dragons to pass between them. Then he snapped a hand towards the immense gates, which immediately began to open. Outside, King Valmeyan's dragons were less than a hundred yards from the palace. He fought back the urge to look over his shoulder, to make sure that his legions were perfect. Of course they were perfect.

Inch by inch the gates ground open, a hundred men pulling on each of them. Vale walked forward and stopped inside their shadow. The first of the dragons stepped into the space in front of him, seeming to squeeze itself down to fit beneath the colossal Gatehouse arch. It stopped, its head a few feet away from his own. He smelled its breath, hot and rank. The creature had golden eyes as large as his head, teeth as long as his leg, a head the size of a horse and a body as big as a barn. A true monster, as large a war-dragon as he'd ever seen. The sort of creature that could smash down even the mighty Gatehouse towers simply by crashing into them. It made him tiny, and as it lowered its head to look at him, it sniffed and its lips twitched, as if to remind him that a dragon this size was always, always hungry.

And here, Vale knew, was his strength, the strength of every man behind him. For where any normal man would be shaking and quaking and pissing his pants, he stood still, solid and unmoved. He looked for the fear that any normal man should feel in the presence of such a monster and found nothing. Nothing at all.

The rider mounted on the war-dragon's neck took off his helm. Prince Tichane. Valmeyan's second son and ambassador to the palace.

'King Valmeyan,' roared Tichane. 'The King of the Crags answers the speaker's call.'

You should be begging to enter, as every other king begged to enter. And it was not a call but a summons. Vale bowed. Jehal was still beside him. And he wasn't shaking and quaking and pissing his pants either. 'The speaker welcomes you and bids you and yours to enter, under the ancient laws of hospitality,' Vale cried. He was about to move aside to let Tichane and his monster pass into the Gateyard, but suddenly Jehal had a hand on his shoulder.

'You may pass, Prince Tichane,' shouted Jehal. 'You and all those behind you. But no dragons save those of the speaker may enter the grounds of the Adamantine Palace. You should know that.' There was a very long silence.

'You did bring enough riders with you to walk all those poor beasts back to wherever they came from, I hope?'

Vale kept his face still. It was as well, he decided, that he'd had such extensive practice.

'You're also late,' said Jehal, loudly enough to carry well past Tichane to the riders behind him. 'The council convened at dawn. If you're lucky, they'll have waited. It would be a shame for such a grand entrance to be so utterly wasted.'

For long seconds, Prince Tichane didn't move. Then the dragon lowered its head even more, so that it touched the ground. Tichane opened the buckles on his harness and slid down to the ground. He ignored Vale and walked up to Jehal. Back outside the palace, other riders were dismounting.

'You're a rude nasty fellow this morning,' he said. Jehal gave him a florid bow.

'Be careful what you say, Tichane. You'll be calling me Your Holiness before you leave.'

'So I hear. So you are the speaker's mouthpiece today, Jehal. I suppose I should not be surprised. My father will be disappointed that she isn't here to greet him.'

Jehal replied with a sad shake of his head. 'If King Valmeyan wishes to set himself up as Zafir's equal, I'm afraid this disappointment will be the first of many. You may find yourself wishing you hadn't come.'

Tichane snorted. 'Then I will not be alone. Are we to run, then, since we are late?'

'Oh, I dare say a brisk walk will suffice.'

They walked away together, in between the perfect legions of the Adamantine Men and towards the Chamber of Audience. On the outside, the damage from the Red Riders' attack had been made good. On the inside though, the chamber still bore the scars. Vale watched them go and waited. He wasn't here for princes, he was here for a king. He had to wait for the rest of the riders outside the palace to arrange themselves. One by one the dragons were turned and walked away. Tit banc's was the last. When it left, two columns of riders marched through the gates. Vale studied them closely as they advanced. The rider at their head wore the same armour as the rest of them but he had an aura that Vale knew well. He was old for a rider too.

As they drew up in front of him, Vale bowed low, exactly as he would bow for any other king or queen. 'Your Holiness. The speaker welcomes you and bids you and yours to enter, under the ancient laws of hospitality They swept past him without a glance. Vale stayed exactly where he was until all the riders had gone. Then, with a gesture, he ordered the gates closed. As Valmeyan and his riders marched into the Chamber of Audience, he signalled his legions to return to the walls and their duties. Back where they should have been in the first place.

Most of them. A few he beckoned towards him. A dozen, that would be enough. They followed Valmeyan and quietly entered the chamber. The air inside smelled new, rich with fresh wood and paint. At the far end, Speaker Zafir sat with her kings. Valmeyan was standing before them. Further away stood riders from all the kings and queens assembled here, bearing witness to the words of the council, a company of them from every realm, even a few from the north. Jeiros and Aruch too, alchemists and priests clustered around them. Vale strode briskly among them, all the way to the speaker's table. All the way to the seat where Prince Jehal lounged insolently, sneering as the speaker and the King of the Crags exchanged their first ritual greeting in thirty years. Vale stood behind him. He gave himself a moment to savour what he was about to do.

'Prince Jehal.'

Jehal looked up. He didn't look troubled so he obviously had no idea what was coming. 'Night Watchman.'

There weren't many moments of pure joy in the brief life of a Night Watchman. That was something Vale had come to understand a long time ago, and so he took his time with this one. 'Prince Jehal,' he said again, lingering on every word, 'you are charged with conspiring to aid and abet the enemies of the realms. By order of the speaker, you are stripped of all titles and authorities.'

'What?' Jehal half rose out of his chair. Vale put a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down again. You can't begin to imagine how satisfying this is.

'You will be taken to the Tower of Dusk. There you will stay for the remainder of your days, awaiting the speaker's sentence.' At a gesture, four of Vale's soldiers seized Jehal and dragged him out of his chair.

'Zafir!' he shouted, but the speaker's face was cold. She didn't even glance at him. 'Night Watchman, unhand me! I am quite capable of walking. I am hardly likely to escape.'

Vale didn't look at him. He lowered his voice so that only Jehal would hear. 'True enough. And I will admit to being impressed that you didn't even flinch in front of Prince Tichane's monster. But still, all things considered, I think I prefer to have you dragged, Your Highness.'

The Gateyard outside was clear. His legions were already back on the walls and the towers. Vale took a moment to look around him.

A good day's work and we're hardly even started. He already had a heavy sword sharpened up for Queen Shezira's head. It could easily take another. One could always hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

21

 

The Queen in the Tower

 

 

They opened the door, threw him inside and shut it behind him. Jehal sat up and rubbed his bruises. A pair of servants stared at him, wide-eyed like startled rabbits, then scurried away. As the door slammed closed, twilight enveloped him. The air was hazy with smoke despite the height of the room. Shafts of sunlight pierced the walls and lit patches of fire on the floor; everywhere else danced in flickering shadow.

'Hello Prince Jehal. Please don't get up. I'll shoot you if you do.'

Jehal froze. The voice came from off to one side. Shezira. He turned his head, and there she was, sitting half hidden by one of the massive columns that vanished into the vaulted gloom above. She was holding a crossbow, a large one, calmly, steadily pointing it at him.

His heart began to pound. How much does she know?

'The trouble with the condemned,' he said, slowly and softly, 'is that they have very little to lose. You appear to have been expecting me, Your Holiness.'

'Did you think I was entirely powerless in here? The Night Watchman let slip that you would be joining me this morning. He also let slip a crossbow and a single bolt. Very careless of him, don't you think?'

'Very.' An acidic smile settled on Jehal's face. 'I appear to have been well and truly ... expected.'

'He must hate you very much, Jehal. I know he hates me. He thinks I killed Hyram. I don't imagine he much cares which one of us dies. He probably hopes for both of us.'

'Did he tell you that I was conspiring with him to help you escape?' Jehal frowned. 'Trying to conspire with him, at any rate. I wonder how long he pondered my proposal before he ran to Zafir.'

'I've heard that you conspired a good deal. I'm left to wonder how much of it is true.'

'Quite a lot of it, I don't doubt.' Jehal shrugged. 'I do so enjoy a good conspiring.'

'As I would enjoy hearing about them.'

Jehal snorted. 'What, so we can pass the time with some civilised conversation and then you kill me? Why not do us both a favour and get it over with quickly.'

'Killing you is clearly what I'm supposed to do, but I am not inclined to be cooperative. If at all possible, I mean to shoot you somewhere painful and leave you to live as a cripple. That would be much more satisfying.'

'Pity you wouldn't be here to watch though, eh. But kill me now and three of the nine realms will be controlled by your daughters, all baying for war and revenge. I doubt Zafir would survive for long. I'm surprised you didn't get straight on and do it.'

'I'm not much interested in a war, Jehal.'

Jehal couldn't help but laugh. 'That's what I keep telling them. Although ...' He shrugged and sighed. 'Not being interested in a war doesn't seem to have done me much good.' Keep talking. Talking was good. Talking wasn't shooting.

Shezira almost smiled at him, although the crossbow didn't flinch. 'I was under the impression that you being here to have this conversation had rather more to do with Princess Lystra. It is a little difficult to decide whether she'll live longer with you dead or with you alive. You understand, I hope, that she is my only consideration in how I deal with you.'

'Ah.' Jehal let that sink in along with all the implications that came with it. 'Yes. Unfortunate thing that. I suppose you realise that Zafir had a certain amount of help getting to where she is. I didn't need to help her seduce Hyram, but I certainly let her steal the potions she gave him. I allied myself with you and made sure Hyram knew about it. Hyram would have had an accident around now. Lystra would have followed a year later. I would have married Zafir and in time I would have succeeded her. That was what we planned, as I'm sure you've already grasped. But Zafir got impatient and I found something in Lystra that I didn't expect, and so here I find myself. That is the extent of my conspiracy, Your Holiness. You can get on with shooting me now if you wish. I should warn you though that you may miss. If you do, why then I think we shall have some fun.' He shifted onto his knees, trying to get more comfortable, at the same time readying himself to spring to his feet. Shezira gave a slight shake of her head.

'You stay sitting exactly where you are. Keep your legs flat on the floor.'

Jehal rolled his eyes. 'If you prefer, Your Holiness, I will lie on my belly. Or on my back, with my feet in the air.'

'As you are will be perfectly adequate.' Shezira rose out of her chair and came slowly towards him, but kept a wary distance, circling around him. 'I didn't push Hyram off his balcony, you know.'

'Yes, I know. I saw.'

'Really?'

'He fell. I've been trying quite hard to convince others of your innocence.'

'Have you now?' Her voice was cold. She didn't believe him, probably didn't believe him about Lystra either. She was prowling around him now. Her hands on the crossbow were as steady as stone, and her eyes ... Her eyes showed no forgiveness, no mercy. In the north they called her the Queen of Stone, the Queen of Flint. Jehal had called her that too, behind her back, but now he understood what they really meant. His heart skipped. He bit his lip.

'Were you poisoning him, Jehal?' she asked. Jehal hesitated. If he lied, and she already knew ... but he'd undone himself anyway by not answering straight away.

'Yes,' he said.

'And your father?'

This time he was ready. His face twisted into a sneer. 'Everyone seems to think so. Why should I disappoint you all?'

The look she gave him was a queer one, as if he'd somehow answered another question, one that she hadn't asked but one that mattered a great deal more. 'And me, Jehal? Why were you trying to poison me?'

He snorted, surprised. 'You? Why would I poison you? You were no threat to me.' 'I am now.'

'Sadly, my powers of foresight did not predict this little awkwardness. Zafir having me thrown in a dungeon while she had you put to death, yes, I suppose I half expected that. It being this dungeon and my good friend the Night Watchman having left you so wickedly dangerous, that possibility I'm afraid had entirely escaped me.'

'Again, Jehal, why were you trying to poison me? I cannot fathom what you would gain from it, yet I cannot see who else it could be.'

Jehal furrowed his brow and shook his head. What are you talking about, woman? 'Your Holiness, I never have tried to poison you. In actual fact, despite all Hyram's little fantasies, I've murdered remarkably few people. Your daughter, for example. Notably not murdered, however politically useful it might have been. You. Also not murdered. And I can promise you, Queen Shezira, that when I aim to make someone dead, they die. I helped Zafir steal the Speaker's Ring from you, but poison you? No. I would have been quite happy for you to go back to Outwatch and fester. I've never tried to have you harmed in any way; in fact, since Hyram stupidly fell off his own balcony, I've done everything I can to keep you alive. Not out of any love for you, you understand, but, believe it or not, for love of the realms. Of everything. Of life. Zafir doesn't just want your head. She's going to execute King Valgar as well, and then she's going to move on to all three of your daughters. I'm trying to stop her.' He looked ruefully around the Tower of Dusk. 'Not with as much success as I'd hoped, it would seem.'

Shezira snorted and shook her head. 'Why should I believe a word you say? Hyram called you a viper, and he wasn't wrong. We all should have listened to him.'

'Your daughter Jaslyn sits on your throne. Almiri rules in Evenspire. With Zafir they will take all the realms into flames. You don't need me to tell you that.'

'Jaslyn has Hyrkallan to guide her.' For a moment, Jehal wondered how the queen could possibly know that Hyrkallan had abandoned the Red Riders and returned north. Then he realised that she probably didn't know that the Red Riders even existed. 'Resides, she cares more (or her dragons that she does for me.' A touch of bitterness tinged Shezira's voice now. 'She won't go to war, not for me. The only person she truly cares about is her little sister, your Lystra. Keep her alive and safe and Jaslyn will stay in her eyries.'

'Lystra is carrying my heir.'

'So I've heard. Another reason to keep her alive.' 'I'm trying very hard to do so.'

Shezira nodded her head. 'Good. Unfortunately, I rather fear for my daughter after she's given you what you want. So let me give you something that is both help and encouragement.' And with that, Shezira pointed the crossbow between Jehal's legs and fired.

The force knocked him back across the polished marble floor; and then came the pain, unbearable, burning, blinding, shrieking pain that seemed to run like liquid fire along every nerve and bone.

'Zafir will have to find another lover now,' said Shezira, although Jehal could hardly hear her over the roaring in his head. He couldn't see anything either. 'We are truly tied together now, blood to blood, Prince Jehal. If my bloodline dies, so does yours.'

The roaring sounds, Jehal realised, were his own screams.

 

 

22

 

The Execution of his Duties

 

 

Vale stood, still as a statue, as the Herald of Titles announced each and every sitting member of the council of kings and queens. Only the monarchs had any real say in what would be decided, but they'd brought a good few lords and ladies and a smattering of princes and princesses with them. Vale wondered if it made them feel more important. The other possibility was that it made them feel safe, a thought which he took as a personal affront.

He, of course, was not sitting and was not announced. His soldiers stood quietly, scattered around the Chamber of Audience, some more obvious than others, deceptive in their numbers. A casual glance might say he'd brought only a dozen men to guard the speaker and her guests. The truth was closer to ten times that number. Some of them were also witnesses. Witnesses who would say that they'd seen Queen Shezira enter the speaker's rooms, invited in by the speaker's wordmaster. That they'd heard the speaker call out, shouting for something that they hadn't been able to understand. That they'd gone into his rooms and found Queen Shezira standing on his balcony with the speaker already lying dead below.

But none of them actually saw the push. None of them saw him fall. He hadn't given it too much thought until the kings from the south and the east had started to arrive. Then they'd all started asking. Did you see it? Did anyone actually see Shezira murder Speaker Hyram. Narghon's queen, Fyon, she was the worst. By the time she was finished, even the wordmaster, who'd been adamant that Shezira was guilty, was having his doubts.

I am the Night Watchman of the dragon-soldiers. We do not have doubt. The Guard are always certain of their cause. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less. Hyram fell. Shezira pushed. End. I'here is no other explanation that makes sense.

Eventually they finished and Speaker Zafir summoned him to the Table of Judges to speak what he knew. He did exactly as he was asked. He had gone to the Tower of Dusk to confine Queen Shezira and her men. The queen was not present in the tower. He had sent other men to stand watch over Speaker Hyram. When he heard of Speaker Hyram's death, he had ordered the Tower of Dusk to be stormed. Yes, he'd lost a good few men. Yes, the defenders had thrown back his first assault, and were only turned to flight by the arrival of the remainder of the legion. Yes, he had been impatient and possibly foolish, and yes, several of Shezira's riders had escaped. Including, as it had happened, Queen Almiri.

As soon as they had no more use for him, he bowed and walked away. Others would follow. His men. Good men. If there were any omissions or any falsehoods in what Vale had said, none of them knew it. They would tell the truth because they had no reason to do otherwise, but they would just as easily lie if he told them to. Orders. The Guard obeys orders. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less. Why do they always forget that?

For most of the morning the questions went on. The speaker grew visibly impatient. King Sirion sat and twisted his fingers in his beard. The King of the Crags looked as if he'd fallen asleep. Only the two eastern kings, Narghon and Silvallan seemed to care about what anyone had to say. They all made up their minds before they came here. All of them except Hyram's cousin.

He'd made up his own mind too. Made it up long ago. As he listened, he wondered whether he should consider again, question his belief and be sure. But that sort of thinking wasn't going to get him anywhere. No one had ever asked him for an opinion and he'd never offered one. The kings and queens of the realms would make their judgement and he would execute it. That was all.

So why are my knuckles clenched white? Why is the inside of my head burning?

'Enough!' Zafir stood up and slammed the point of the Adamantine Spear into the marble floor. The blade drove at least three inches into the stone. Vale wasn't sure that Zafir even noticed. She glared out from the Table of Judges at all the standing members of the council. 'The kings and queens of the dragon-realms will pass their judgement. I say Queen Shezira murdered Speaker Hyram. We have a hundred witnesses to say they were alone and that no one else could have been with them. My husband was old. He was sick and drunk and hardly able to defend himself, but not so sick and drunk that he'd simply fall off a balcony. Shezira was desperate and had every reason to want revenge. Further, I say that King Valgar and Knight-Marshal Lady Nastria were her pawns. I say that their efforts to murder me were at her command.' She turned her glare onto the sitting council. 'What say you? King Sirion, your judgement, please.'

Sirion didn't move. He was shaking his head and couldn't have looked less comfortable. 'I'll not condemn another king on such flimsy evidence,' he said. 'If Shezira's knight-marshal was truly set on murder that night, she would not have taken her orders from anyone but Shezira herself. I say Valgar has committed no crime. Shezira ...' He took a deep breath and shook his head even more. 'I don't know. Hyram was my cousin. My heart calls for justice and vengeance. But I cannot, despite the evidence, believe that Queen Shezira would murder him with her own hand. I simply cannot. I have nothing to say. I do not pass judgement.'

Zafir's face darkened with fury. 'He was your cousin! Who else was there to push him?'

'I have given my verdict,' snapped Sirion. He didn't look at Zafir when he said it though. He looked like a man who'd be wondering whether he'd done the right thing for a very long time.

The speaker sneered. 'And we all know that Shezira offered her daughter to Prince Dyalt. Has little Jaslyn not thought better of marrying a fool?'

'You have my answer.' Sirion stood up. 'I will not be the one to start a war, Speaker, and if you mean to do so, I suggest you consider who are your allies and who are your enemies very carefully. You'd not be the first speaker who failed to see out their first year.' With that, Sirion walked away from the Table of Judges. The lords and princes of his entourage got up to follow him.

Vale flinched. His hand moved to rest on his sword and he almost took a step forward, he was so sure that Zafir would command Sirion's arrest. What he'd said was nothing short of a threat. Yet Zafir watched him go in silence. She only spoke when he and his were gone from the Chamber of Audience.

'It seems King Sirion does not share my opinion.' She was all smiles now. 'King Silvallan, what say you?'

'You can have Valgar if you must. I venture no opinion on his guilt or otherwise. But you may not have Shezira. She did not murder Speaker Hyram.'

Zafir nodded slowly. 'Are those your words or Jehal's?'

'They are mine, Speaker.'

'And you, Narghon? I imagine your words will be exactly the same, almost as though someone had written them down for you both. Although they are your words, I am sure.'

'I share King Silvallan's views. Shezira cannot be condemned without a witness who saw Hyram fall. Accept your defeat with some grace, Your Holiness, and accept that it is for the good of the realms that Shezira goes free.'

'Then it seems I am alone. They sent an assassin after me and then, when she failed, they killed my husband. Yet none of you will condemn them.' Vale bit his lip. This is how Jehal said it would be. Shezira will go free. There will be no war between the north and the south, and the legions I command will not be hurled into battle against a sky filled with dragons. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. The Adamantine Men were made for battle. Forged for it from the day they could walk and talk. They had no other purpose to their existence. The thought of war made Vale's heart race and his blood run hot. His head filled with visions of glory, of slaughtering riders and scattering their dragons. Any of the Adamantine Men would think themselves lucky and honoured to be called to war. After all, that's what they were told from the day they took up their first training spears.

On the other hand, he was the Night Watchman. They were his men, and his second duty, after his devotion to the speaker, was to them. To their strength and to their lives and to their health, not to honour and glory. The Viper was right about one thing. Wars were bloody. Very many would die and few would be dragon-lords.

'King Valmeyan. Since you have graced my palace with your presence, what say you? Do you have an opinion to offer, or do you intend to doze until all the matters of this council have been closed.'

The King of the Crags barely opened his eyes. 'I've heard one voice either way for King Valgar, am I right? I've never met him and probably never will. If I remember the law, the speaker casts the final judgement if the council is tied, so I will offer no opinion. King Valgar's fate rests entirely in your hands, Speaker. As for Queen Shezira, she I have met. She came to my eyries a decade and more ago, seeking my support to ensure Hyram sat where you sit now. I say she is quite capable of murdering a man. Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn't. I leave her fate in your hands too, Speaker Zafir. Shezira is guilty.' He uncoiled himself from his slouch, slowly stretched and turned to look Zafir in the eye. 'You hold a very sharp spear in your hand, Speaker. Who will you cut with it?'

The smile that curled across Speaker Zafir's mouth made even Vale's stomach turn. The feeling was strange and new, until he realised what it was. Not fear, that was too strong a word. Anxiety. Yes, he was anxious.

She was looking at him now. 'Then they are both guilty. Yes. Since it is the duty of the speaker to cast sentence, they are both guilty and they are to be beheaded. Their remains will hang in cages by the gates of the Adamantine Palace, one on either side, until they have been picked clean by the crows. They will serve to warn all others who would overthrow the laws of the realms.'

King Silvallan hammered the table with his fists. 'You cannot do this!'

'I can and I will. Today, Night Watchman. As soon as possible. Valgar first. Let Shezira see! Go! Do it now!

The Table of Judges was in uproar. Silvallan and Narghon were on their feet. Jeiros and Aruch were shouting at each other. Only the King of the Crags seemed unmoved. He'd slumped back into his seat and if anything looked as though he'd fallen asleep again. Vale hesitated. All his instincts said he ought to stay, that there was every sign of the council coming to blows. But he'd been given an order, clear and unambiguous. Reluctantly he bowed towards the chaos, turned and walked away. The Adamantine Men who served as his officers were all quite capable of taking his place. When it came to war, they had to be.

Outside, he set about the execution of his duties. Orders were given. The Guard had quietly prepared for this for days, just as they'd prepared for Shezira to be released. They all knew what to do. One company of men would bring out the headsman's block and sword and throw plenty of sand down into the Gateyard to soak up the blood. Another company would drag Valgar out of the tower where Zafir had imprisoned him. He'd get Shezira himself. The cages were a little unexpected. They'll need some quick work to get ready but at least we have a little more time with those. She never said what she wanted us to do with the heads. Mounted on spikes would be usual.

At the doors to the Tower of Dusk, Vale stopped. His head was filled with all the little details; underneath, something much bigger was stirring. He was old enough and wise enough to know what that meant. Doubts. He had doubts about what he was doing. And since Adamantine Men never had doubts, he was trying to hide them.

Come on then, doubts. Speak your piece and be done. There will be war, is that it? Shezira's daughters will fly out of the north on wings of fire. And out of the south too, perhaps. What of it? Many will die, but what of it? Is it my doing? Have I gone to their eyries and commanded their riders to fly against the speaker, who is their law? No, I have not. Or do I doubt that we will win? Well, doubts, if that's the case, I've seen enough of these kings and queens over the years to know that Zafir is safe. If any of them truly have the spine to take up arms against us, as likely as not they will be stabbed in the back by their own sons and daughters, hungry for a throne of their own. So be gone, doubts. My conscience is clear.

His doubts didn't seem convinced but they knew their place. They slid beneath the surface of his thoughts to lurk in the depths of his dreams. He ordered the door to the Tower of Dusk to be opened and entered with a dozen men behind him. He went in with care because Queen Shezira did have a crossbow, after all, and there was just a chance she hadn't done what he'd hoped and used it on Jehal. But he soon saw that he needn't have worried. The floor was stained by a big pool of blood, still sticky to the touch. Jehal, assuming that's from whom the blood had come, had obviously survived for long enough to drag himself away.

Not very far though. Thick brown streaks led away from the blood to a second pool. Jehal looked dead at first, curled up, both hands pressed between his legs. The Viper was still breathing, though. The breaths might have been ragged and shallow, but if he'd lived this long then he probably wasn't going to bleed to death.

Pity. This was meant to wound. If Shezira had meant to finish him, she had ample means. He stooped to look closer. The crossbow bolt he'd given Shezira was gone. Shezira was still dangerous then. Then a huge grin spread across Vale's face as he understood what the Queen of Stone had done to the Viper. He glanced around him, the sudden thought of finishing Jehal off running wild in his head, but there was no way to do it without being seen. Too many of his own men.

His grin faded. He kicked Jehal in the face and moved on. Shezira was waiting for him, calm and peaceful, holding the crossbow he'd given her, casually pointing it in his direction.

'What's it to be?' she asked. Vale didn't answer, didn't break stride. He saw the tension in her face, saw her finger on the trigger straining. He saw the moment she understood that he'd come to taker her to her death. He saw her pull the trigger and stepped sideways exactly at the same moment. The bolt struck one of the men behind him, who grunted. He saw the fright in her face, a momentary fleeting thing, and then he reached her. He tore the crossbow out of her hands with a casual force and threw it away. Doubtless she held some idea of walking with calm dignity to her death, but Vale was having none of that. You murdered Hyram. Murdered a speaker. For that he had her dragged out of the tower by her hair. By the time he got back to the executioner's block, Valgar was already there, pushed down, held over the basket that would hold his head after his body no longer had any need of it. A few dozen of the Adamantine Guard stood around. Several dozen more were running into the Chamber of Audience. The council of kings and queens, it seemed, had spiralled out of hand. As expected.

Do it now! That's what the speaker had said, and so Vale didn't wait. He lifted the headsman's sword, a strange weapon with its weight and balance all wrong for fighting, but perfect for this one specific duty.

Hold her head and make her watch,' he said of Shezira. 'Those were the speaker's order s. She has to watch.' At least Shezira wasn't begging or pleading or shouting. She was as calm as anyone could reasonably be. She was afraid though, badly afraid, and that made her less than the men holding her. She kept trying to tell Vale something about Hyram and the night he'd died, but he wasn't listening. Whatever she had to say, he had no wish to hear it.

He turned back to Valgar and lifted the sword. 'Whatever you have to say, there's little point. No one is here to hear it and no one will remember it. No one has come to witness your end, either of you.'

The sword sang as it swung through the air. It cut through King Valgar's flesh as though his neck was made of cheese — a slight resistance but nothing more. Soldiers dragged the body away. Vale left the head and the basket where they were. Let the last thing Shezira saw be the severed head of her greatest ally.

In a blink she was on the block, held still, ready for him. He lifted the sword.

'I didn't push Hyram, Night Watchman.' That's what she'd been telling him for weeks. Months. He wasn't interested. Her voice was ragged. I ought to be silent. Whatever she says, it changes nothing.

'That is not my concern. The council has spoken.'

'He would have died without me, Night Watchman.'

'But he didn't, Your Holiness. He died with you.'

Her voice broke. Was she sobbing? Whatever her last words were, Vale didn't hear them. Something about alchemists and Jeiros and Hyram and poison, all spilling out of her mouth in a garbled mess.

He brought down the sword, and after that Shezira had nothing more to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

23

 

Watching Things Burn

 

 

They slipped between the mountains of the Purple Spur in twilight. They were safe then, Semian thought, in the few short hours either side of darkness. In the daylight hours they hid from Zafir's dragons flying overhead, losing themselves among the cavernous valley forests, between trees that made even their dragons seem small. Mostly they slept. At night they loitered near streams, drinking and feeding, never staying in one place for long. They could move about at night. The speaker's riders would be in their cups, their dragons safely tucked up in their eyries when the sun went down. Only the day belonged to the enemy.

When they were close to the eastern end of the Spur, the palace end, they slipped out only in the dark, flying down through the valleys, skimming the earth, a few miles every day, no more. The dragons hated it, flying low in the dark. Their restless anxiety suffused their riders but Semian drove them on. They forayed out to the plains and left the Picker and the blood-mage a day's walk from the City of Dragons. They could do that now, for the blood-mage had served his purpose. Then they slipped away again, back into the safety of the peaks. The speaker never knew how close they were.

And there they waited. Semian sat quietly while his new acolytes fretted around him. The Great Flame had brought him here, he knew that. He could feel it. Taking the Picker and Kithyr to the city to be their spies was an excuse, a cloak of shadows obscuring something greater. In truth, he was sorry to be rid of the blood-mage. A strange understanding had grown between them as the magician had worked to save his leg. The man served the Flame with a deep and strange passion, and Semian felt stronger when he was around.

The Flame had called him though. Called him here. His leg was far from healed, would probably never heal, but there was no poison in the wound any more. The magician had done what was needed, and so, with regrets, Semian had let him go. We both have a greater purpose. That's what the mage had said, and Semian understood him perfectly. In his dreams, the priest with the burned hands came to him night after night, always the same. Wait. Be strong. There is a thing you have to do.

On the day their food ran out, a mosquito landed on Semian's arm. Semian raised his hand to squash it and then paused. The mosquito was already bloated.

When blood comes to you, you must heed it...

He let it settle and bite him. Knowledge flowed into his veins. Shezira and Valgar are dead ...

There was more, much more. King Tyan, Jehal, Valmeyan. All good. All speaking of chaos, of the realms bleeding and begging to be saved. When he knew it all, Semian slapped his arm, crushing the mosquito in a smear of blood. Not his blood. Kithyr's blood. Mage's blood. He thought it might burn his skin but it didn't.

He savoured what he knew, picking and choosing what he would share with the other Red Riders. They'd sworn themselves to Hyrkallan to avenge Hyram's death and free Shezira. They'd failed, but that wasn't really the point any more. They served the Great Flame now. They were his. Sixteen dragons, twenty riders.

They would have to do something, he decided. He wanted to hurt Zafir again but that was getting difficult. She was becoming cautious. Her dragons were everywhere and so were the Adamantine Men. Drotan's Top, maybe. That was always a weak point. If he threw everything he had against it, perhaps ...

No. He smiled to himself as he realised what he must do, what he now knew he had come here to do. He ordered his riders into the air at dawn, but he didn't take them west and back towards the sanctuary of the Worldspine. He took them north, out over the Great Cliff at the Emerald Cascade and high over the arid plains beyond, into the Stone Desert and Queen Almiri's lands and to the Evenspire Road. They flew all day, closer to the sky than the earth, or so it seemed. The Great Flame watched over them and none of Zafir's riders happened their way. As the sun sank, he dipped low, so the tiny dots and lines on the land below grew into monstrous outcrops of dark red stone in the dusty earth and the shadows that stretched for miles behind them. And there, on the Evenspire Road, he saw what he was looking for. A great column of soldiers and wagons. Lots and lots of wagons.

He led his riders in with the sun at their backs against a full legion of the Adamantine Men. Enough, if Prince Lai was right, to defeat more dragons than he had; but then Prince Lai had been talking about a pitched battle, a fight to take and hold ground where one side either fled or was destroyed. Semian had no interest in land. He didn't want the wagons or their precious cargo. All he wanted was to watch them burn.

No, that wasn't right either. As he skimmed the flat and lifeless earth, as the beating of Vengeance's wings threw up great clouds of dust behind him, as the soldiers bellowed their alarms and ran to form their shield walls, he no longer cared. The wagons could burn unwatched as long as they burned. What he wanted was to fly, to fight, to rain fire from the sky. Nothing, nothing felt like this, to sit on the back of a monster whose wings reached out a hundred feet on either side yet who could turn like a swallow. Whose claws and teeth could crush men like eggs, whose tail could smash castles and swat horses as though they were flies. And yet who could pick up their shattered riders when they fell and then guard them with gentle patience.

A scorpion bolt hissed over Vengeance's shoulder. A second hit the dragon in the chest, and Semian felt a surge of anger, anger that bloomed into exultation as he closed on his enemy. More bolts arrowed past him. Another pieced Vengeance's wing, more struck the riders behind him, but none came for him. He was charmed. Blessed. Shielded by the Great Flame.

Teeth and claws and tail, but above and beyond all that...

He flicked down the visor on his helm at the last second. He felt Vengeance tremble and heard the roar of fire. He tasted the air turn hot and scorched and he breathed deeply, sucking in the smell of war, of charred wood and seared flesh. He pressed himself flat on Vengeance's neck, closed his eyes and savoured it while Vengeance passed close over the heads of the soldiers, lashing them with his tail. As the dragon rose, Semian lifted his visor again. Vengeance wanted more, wanted to turn and strike and burn and strike and burn until everything was crushed, but Semian checked him. No.

He looked over his shoulder as they flew away. At least four of his riders were dead, their dragons pulled to the ground by the weight of the training they were given as hatchlings, conditioned to defend their fallen riders no matter how broken they became. He had no idea how many Adamantine Men he'd slain. Not many, probably. But most of the wagons were smashed and ablaze, that was what mattered. The wagons carried potions. He knew that from the way they were guarded, knew that from his days at the alchemists' redoubt, the place where he'd been reborn.

No more potions for the speaker. That would do very nicely. He led his dragons away.

But it wasn't perfect. He hadn't counted the wagons. There had been perhaps as many as a dozen. A few had likely survived. Even one, it suddenly struck him, was too many.

So after half an hour had passed, as the sun drooped across the horizon, he led his dragons back across the desert and they did it all again. As things turned out, he did want to watch things burn after all.

 

 

 

Three

 

The White Dragon

 

 

24

 

The Worldspine and the Hills Beyond

 

 

The deeper they flew into the Worldspine, the taller the mountains became. Jagged spikes and streaks of rock stuck out, black and brutal, from the monotony of snow below. The trees fell away, then the lakes, and then everything except the glacial ice and stone. They had nothing to eat and only melted snow and ice to drink. Each day they flew higher, until the air grew so thin that Kemir could barely lift an arm before he was out of breath. If he hadn't had Snow to keep him warm, the cold would have frozen him hard in an hour. After the first day, the wind of Snow's flight was so biting that he could hardly raise his face to see where they were going; when he did, even through the dragon-rider's visor he wore, he felt as though the skin was being flayed from his flesh by a thousand razors dipped in acid. After the first day he had cramps from clenching his muscles, from hugging Snow so tightly. By the end of the second he could barely move. And then there were the nights. If the days were cold, what were the nights?

'Dragon, do you even know where are you going?' he slurred, when he decided for the hundredth time that he'd had enough. The roar of the wind whipped his words away but the dragon heard him. He wasn't sure quite how it worked, but as far as Kemir could tell, Snow could hear him think.

To the other side, Kemir. Snow's thoughts were far away, lost in distant memories that she kept carefully to herself. She wasn't really paying attention and Kemir was slowly starting to recognise the difference.

'I know the realms backwards and forwards, top to bottom. I've never heard of an other side to the Worldspine.'

Whatever you have heard, Kemir, that is where we are going. Everywhere has an other side.

'And what if it doesn't, eh?' he grumbled. 'What if it goes on like this for ever, getting taller and taller?'

Then you will die of hunger and I will eventually follow. But nothing goes on for ever, Kemir.

That made him laugh. 'Except you. You go on for ever. And it's all very well you talking about dying. Even when you die, don't you just come back again?'

That is true.

'Well I don't. You might live for ever, but I've just got what I've got, and I'd quite like to make the most of it.'

How are you so sure, Kemir? He could feel Snow's thoughts moving back to him, growing warmer and closer. When she tried, she could almost pretend that she wasn't a monster.

We are different, that is all. And we are not eternal. We were made, long ago, by sorcerers as old as the world. When that world ends, we will end with it, just as everything else.

'It doesn't look like it's ending any time soon to me.'

Between our lives in flesh and bone we walk the realms of the dead. I have seen things there. Things that should not be. They have broken loose of the sorcery that held them still. There is a hole where one of the four pillars of creation once stood. Tell me, Kemir, would you know the end of the world if you saw it?

'I don't know, but all I see right now is white down and blue up, with some more white and blue coming up in the middle distance, and far, far away, probably a hundred miles from here, guess what I can see? Can you guess? Yes! More of exactly the same. How far have we flown since that lake, eh?' He had to hiss the words out between clenched teeth, not daring to breathe too deep lest the cold strip the flesh from his lungs.

Not far enough to have reached the other side.

Kemir gave a frustrated groan and shifted to press himself face down onto the dragon's scales, trying to keep warm. 'That's a dragon answer, not a real answer. Whether there's another side or not, I definitely won't go on for ever if we keep going like this much further.' There was no getting off though. He was stuck here, for better or for worse. Which means there's really not much left to do but grumble and gripe about it, is there?

You are right, I am getting hungry again.

There was a pause, and then Kemir snarled 'Was that a joke, dragon? Was that humour? Because if it was, it was a long way from being funny.' It had only been two days, but the ever-present driving freezing wind had almost pushed Nadira from his mind.

It is the answer as you would have given it.

'Yes.' Now Kemir chuckled. 'I suppose it is. Well that's me told then.' His anger faded. 'I hope you're right, dragon. I hope there is an end to this. It would really piss me off to have saved you only to have you starve to death.' And Nadira deserves better than that too. That would make her death about as pointless as it's possible to be.

You did not save me, Kemir.

'No? So everything would have been just dandy if you'd done what you wanted to do and stayed to watch Ash and the others burn from the inside? You, for some reason, would have been spared?' For a brief moment he risked a glance down. The wind tore at his face and froze his tears to his cheeks and all he could see was an endless featureless white.

No. But you did not save me, Kemir. The ice-water of the lake did that.

'And who dragged you to the lake, dragon?'

I have said I am grateful for your advice, Kemir.

'You don't sound it.' Every conversation eventually came to this, mainly because Kemir couldn't stay away from it. He'd saved the dragon's life. He knew it; the dragon knew it; Nadira knew it-had known it; probably even the alchemists knew it, but the dragon was damned if she was going to admit it. Even gratitude came with grudging reluctance. The whole idea that she might have been even a bit helped by a mere 'little one' seemed to be a severe embarrassment. Did dragons feel embarrassed? Did dragons feel anything? He didn't know, but this one certainly acted like she did. Stupid, really. What am I going to do? Run to all the other dragons, point my finger at her and laugh?

Very hungry indeed, Kemir.

Oh. Yes. Reading thoughts. Well then you know I'm still terrified of you, dragon. In my own strange little way. And I still despise you for what you did.

Snow, Kemir. The name your kind gave me is Snow. It is not my true name, but it will suffice.

'Just don't waste me, Snow. You need me. Don't waste me like you wasted Nadira. You need what I know.' Yes, and I'll keep telling myself that. Eventually at least one of us might believe it. Ancestors! What am I doing here?

Staying alive. That's what he was doing, even if he had to remind himself from time to time. Not taking his choice of either freezing or starving beside a glacier lake somewhere in the depths of the Worldspine, that's what he was doing. Living and breathing. Desperately existing. Just like he'd always done. Waiting for his first chance to get off and run away.

You know I cannot let you go.

He had no idea how far they flew. They might have been in the air for three days and nights, or else he might have missed one in the general numbness of cold and hunger and it might have been four. He was dizzy with fatigue by the time he noticed that the air was warmer again. When he next bothered to look, he saw that the mountains were shrinking. There were lakes and rivers below them again, dark little lines in the shadows of their valleys, bright flashes of light where they caught the sun. As the dragon let herself glide ever lower, gleaming white snowfields rose up to either side of them. They flew between tufts of cloud snagged on jagged black peaks that fell away into grey stone slopes and black valleys filled with trees. Snow flew on and the mountains shrank still more, fading into crumpled hills and then into an endless sea of rolling forest. Kemir, too exhausted and ravenous to think, felt the dragon's hunger mingling with his own. As the trees spread out further below them, he felt an irritation growing inside him, too. Snow again.

Do you see anything for me to eat, Kemir?

Kemir peered down over Snow's shoulder. 'All I see is trees.' His eyes were too tired to focus, so all he saw most of the time was a great big dark blob that was the ground.

I do not like trees. It is hard to find prey.

Kemir digested that. 'That's why we outsiders build our villages deep in the valley forests,' he told her. 'So you and your dragon-riders won't find us. And up on stilts so that the snappers won't eat us while we're sleeping.'

They found a river. Snow dropped to follow it, still far above the treetops but close enough that Kemir could make out the individual trees. He looked wistfully to either side, out across the misty green expanse. Not just trees but a great forest like the Raksheh Forest of the realms. He saw deer too, coming out to drink at the edge of the water. Too small for Snow, but perfect for a man with a bow. He closed his eyes. I could live here. I could hunt and build a shelter and stay out in the wilderness. Just let me off here and leave me be. I don't mind being alone. Just let me rest and sleep and have something to eat. Leave me be with my ghosts.

No. Snow flew on until the green hills petered away and the river drained into a lake.

Look.

Kemir leaned forward and peered down at the water. He could see the ripples of a tiny boat and, as Snow dropped closer, he made out a single person sitting in it. Excitement gripped him. 'Land!'

Why? There is only one of them and they are small and skinny. Barely a mouthful.

'It's a boat, dragon. And a person. Where there is one of us there will be more, and where you find people you'll find cattle.'

Is that so? Your kjnd have changed then, for that is not how I remember the world.

Without warning, Snow tucked in her wings. They plunged out of the sky and Kemir was suddenly too busy holding on to see what she was doing. He might have been strapped into a dragon-knight's saddle, but he still couldn't quite bring himself to trust the thing. He gripped Snow's scales, fingers rigid as they levelled out and skimmed across the lake. He caught a glimpse of the boat again, straight in front of them, then Snow suddenly started to climb. Kemir pitched forward, smacking his face into the dragon's back. He thought he heard a scream, but he couldn't be sure.

Ah! Useless! Your kjnd are too fragile. Snow tossed something up into the air in front of them. Kemir was sure he saw flailing arms and legs before she snatched it into her jaws.

'That was the person from the boat, wasn't it?' No, no. I don't want to know. I don't want to think about it.

I did not mean to break him.

'You didn't have to eat him!'

I am hungry, Kemir. I have barely eaten in close to ten passings of the sun. Ahh ...

The taste of Snow's thoughts changed. Kemir felt a satisfaction, an anticipation. She changed her course, arrowing across the lake. Kemir tried to see what she'd spotted.

A house. He saw a house at the edge of the lake. More of a hut than a house. With people, standing and staring at them ...

He saw them for an instant, saw their faces, their mouths open, their eyes wide, their feet frozen to the spot in terror, too stupefied to run away; and then Snow opened her mouth and spat fire. A wall of burning air erupted in front of them. Snow slammed through it. Kemir screamed. Snow screamed. There might have been other screams too, but if there were then Kemir didn't hear them. He covered his face with his hands and wrapped his arms around his head, all far too late. He could smell scorched hair. His hair.

The next moment Snow crashed into the ground. Wood split and splintered. Kemir pitched forward, thrown helplessly back and forth and only kept on Snow's back by the saddle. Her head and neck lunged forward and she spat fire again. Kemir cowered, pressing himself into her, covering his face as best he could, but there was no burning wall of air this time. She lunged a second time and then a third, and then she stopped.

'What have you done?' he whispered. His hands and arms and face were agony. His clothes were still hot to the touch and smelled burned. Snow, he realised, was eating. Behind the hut had been a tiny fenced field with perhaps half a dozen pigs in it. They were all burned now. The smell of them made his mouth water, made him remember how long he too had been without food. The dragon was picking them off the ground with her claws, tossing them into the air and catching them in her mouth. The way his cousin Sollos used to eat grapes.

I am still hungry. This is not enough.

He didn't want to think about the people he'd seen. Maybe Snow had eaten them already. Maybe she was saving them for later. They were certainly dead. Burned to a crisp.

'I'd like to get down.'

Are you sure? You are far safer where you are.

He ignored her. Slowly and painfully, he undid the straps and harnesses that held him in the saddle. He half slid, half fell to the ground. When he looked at his hands they were bright red. They were sore and getting worse. Burnt. Add that to the fact that every joint and muscle already hurt from their flight across the mountains and there was nothing left. 'Was that necessary, dragon?'

When he didn't get an answer, he moved gingerly through the smouldering wreckage to the shore of the lake. He lay down on the edge of the land with his face half in the water, his arms stretched out in front of him. The water was deliciously cool. The pain eased. He drank a little. It tasted good.

Behind him he heard the dragon shift, scattering more wreckage, and then a thin wailing shriek. When he looked around, Snow was holding a boy in her claws. She was going to eat him.

'No!' Kemir jumped to his feet waving his arms. 'No, Snow! Don't! Don't you dare!'

Her mouth was already open. She looked at him and cocked her head. But I am hungry, Kemir. Why should I not eat?

'Why? Why? Because that's a person, that's why! A boy! Like me!'

It is food, Kemir.

'It's a boy, you stupid dragon. Half grown. Hardly even worth eating. You can't ...' How did you reason with a dragon. 'Am I food? Is that all I am?'

Snow's expression didn't change. He was food. Now he had time to think about it, yes, that was what she thought of him. Nadira had been food.

You have also been useful, Kemir. Perhaps you will be useful again.

'Useful food.' He sat down and started to laugh, or to cry, or perhaps a bit of both. He wasn't sure and he certainly didn't care. 'Useful food. Is that what I am?'

Yes.

'Useful didn't save Nadira, did it, dragon?'

Snow almost shrugged. But, Kemir, she was not useful at all. She knew nothing. She had no other value.

'Because you had me to tell you about the world?' He could have cried.

Yes. I see this troubles you, but it is the natural order of things.

'Troubles me? You could say that, yes.' I'm shouting. Shouting at a dragon. Not good. He tried to gather his thoughts. 'When I stop being useful, Snow. What happens then?'

Then we part, Kemir. Or before, if that is what you wish.

'And if you happen to be hungry when we part, I get eaten?' He looked away. 'No. Don't answer that. I don't think I want to know.'

I will not eat you just because I am hungry. I will eat you so that you cannot speak of me to others of your kind. Or mine.

The boy was still dangling from Snow's claw. He seemed to have fainted. Kemir picked up a stone and hefted it in his hand. 'Then you let him go. Either that or you eat us both right now. Snow didn't move. She looked at him for a long time. Silent, eyes blank, alien and impenetrable. As he met her gaze, Kemir discovered something that he didn't expect. He meant it. Really, really meant it. They were both outsiders, him and this boy. They'd both seen their homes destroyed by dragons, their families, their entire worlds. 'He's like us, Snow,' he said, more softly this time. 'He's a nest-mate too. You're alone, I'm alone and now so is he.' He shook his head. 'You have to be different, Snow. If you can't be different then leave us be. Leave us here. I want no part of you.'

Gently, Snow lowered the boy to the ground at Kemir's feet. He must have been about ten, Kemir decided. Still a boy but not far away from being a man. Old enough to be useful.

Old enough to be useful, repeated Snow. I think I understand.

'He's older than you, dragon. And we're all useful. All of us. In our different ways.'

Yes. Snow picked up the charred remains of what was probably one of the boy's parents and gobbled it down. That is true.

 

 

25

 

Strange Lands

 

 

The boy ran away the first chance he got. Kemir didn't bother to look for him. Either he knew how to survive in the forests around the lake or he didn't. If he did, good luck to him; if he didn't then he'd be back and Kemir had quite enough other things to worry about.

Burns, for a start. When Snow had breathed fire his hands had taken the worst of it. The skin blistered and peeled over the days that followed; the damage wasn't deep and eventually they'd heal, but until they did he couldn't hunt, couldn't even string his bow, and that put paid to any idea of running away. All he could do was ease the pain in the cold water of the lake and hope that the healing would be clean and the wounds wouldn't go bad. That and shout at the dragon, telling her what to do.

Snow spent the next morning smashing down trees, pulling them out of the ground and hurling them into the lake. She was at it for hours, and Kemir couldn't understand what she was doing until she finally stopped, stood at one end and started to run. Each pounding step made the ground shudder. When she reached the end of the space she'd made, she stretched out her wings and launched herself out over the lake. Her back claws and her tail slashed the water, sending a tower of spray into the air, and then she was up and gone. She went hunting on her own every day after that, for longer and longer each day, until some nights she didn't come back at all. Kemir didn't ask where she went or what she found, but sometimes she told him anyway. There are others of your kind. They are far away, along the river. There are homes like this one and then villages and then towns. I do not know if they are useful or if they are yet more of your nest-mates, so I did not eat them. There are cows and horses too. They are more filling but not as much fun.

She brought the boat back to the shore, which meant he could go fishing once his hands started to heal. Then he found some mushrooms but they only gave him cramps. Finally, after Kemir lost his temper and shouted at Snow about how he was slowly starving to death, the dragon came back in the twilight with a cow. She gathered a mound of smashed-up wood and set it on fire. As the stars rose, she ripped the cow into pieces and tossed them onto the flames. Kemir had to laugh.

'I used to have nights like this with Sollos. We spent enough of our lives sleeping under the stars. We had fires like this all the time. Strips of meat were a bit smaller though ...' His voice trailed away into wistful memories. Sollos. Killed by that bastard rider.

If you starve, you will not be useful nor even much good as food.

'Ha ha. That dragon humour kills me.'

She didn't understand. He knew the sound in his head now, when he said something that Snow couldn't make into any sense, or else couldn't be bothered to try. Something like a shrug and a sigh. He felt that now as Snow ate the remnants of the carcass. Then she sat on her haunches and watched him. The fire lit up the scales of her belly and her neck. Sparkling embers spiralled up around her head. When she stretched out her neck she was as tall as the trees. Her tail was even longer. Yet, for all her size, she was skinny. Lean and sleek, not like the squat irresistible power of a war-dragon.

Tell me what you know about the alchemists.

Kemir laughed and shook his head. 'No chance, dragon. Then I won't be useful any more and you'll eat me.' The smell of roasting cow was making him weak at the knees.

She looked at him, then slowly reached into the fire and took the first lump of dead cow between her teeth. Then she looked at Kemir and gulped it down.

Tell me what you know about the alchemists.

'You're a bastard.' He was feeling faint. Snow reached into the fire again.

I already know where to find them.

'You give me some food and I'll tell you what I know.' When you hands are healed, do you still mean to run away from me?

He had no answer to that. A few minutes later she flicked her tail through the flames. Half a smouldering ribcage landed at his feet. He looked at it for a second and then tore into it, ignoring the pain from his hands. It was charcoal on the outside and raw in the middle, but there were plenty of bits in between. Blood dribbled down his chin. It was delicious.

After the first few mouthfuls, he stopped. He'd been hungry enough times before to take his time. 'Do you remember when you killed your first alchemist? I was there.'

I know.

'That was the second alchemist I ever met.' He laughed, sucking juices from his fingers. 'Sollos was going to be an alchemist. That's how he got his name. They were going to take him to the City of Dragons and sell him to the Order and live like kings for the rest of their lives. Or that's what they thought.'

Why is that so foolish?

Kemir shook his head and chuckled at the madness of the idea. 'Dragon, we were outsiders. We had no idea where the City of Dragons even was. Someone had come back from somewhere with a story they'd heard from someone else who'd once been to somewhere that might have once been visited by a trader who might have been to the City of Dragons at one time in his life. They thought that all they had to do was go there and hand Sollos over and the Order would turn him into a great magician and shower them with gold. Daft.' He took a deep breath and licked his lips. 'When I told that story to the first alchemist I ever met, he nearly gave himself a rupture he laughed so much. But then again he was already a long way into his cups.' He shook himself, serious for a moment. 'Dragon, where I came from, we barely knew where to find the next village. It's true that the Order pay for children. They give them some sort of test to find out how good an alchemist they might become. If the child is good enough, the Order buys them. Ten gold dragons. For most people, that's a small fortune. That's enough to buy an inn or a smithy if you're not too choosy.'

I don't understand. Why do they buy children? Can they not make their own?

'Why don't you ask the next one instead of eating him?' Perhaps I shall. Phis is not interesting. Tell me something different about alchemists.

'Hmm.' The piece of meat was cooling now. He picked it up and tossed it back towards Snow. 'Needs some more cooking that bit. Pass me another.'

This time, when Snow threw him one back leg, he started carving it apart with his knife, scraping off the charcoal, slicing out the near-raw fillets underneath. Doing a proper job.

'The first alchemist I met was in a brothel. I was in a bit of a bad way, but Sollos had heard of him. He took me in and put me back together. He wasn't a proper alchemist though. He was one of the ones who wasn't quite good enough. Or that's how he put it. You see, they do buy children and maybe they make some of their own too, and they school them for ten years, which is longer than any king or queen by the way. The ones who aren't clever enough by then they make into Scales. You remember those? You had one once. Kailin. You ate him.'

Snow didn't answer and her thoughts were her own. After a good long pause Kemir went on. 'Scales are freaks even before the Hatchling Disease starts turning them into living statues. I don't know whether the alchemists do something to them or whether after ten years they're just like that on their own. The ones they don't make into Scales they make into apprentices. Those are the ones who start to learn all the juicy secrets. Except even then they don't. Ten more years as an apprentice and even then half of them still get sent away, like the one I met. He was a sort of half-alchemist, I suppose. He didn't know much, or if he did, he was sharp enough to keep it to himself even when he was so drunk he couldn't pull up his trousers. They wander about the realms, travelling tinkers and traders. Every now and then the Order pays them for a favour. You know what he said pissed him off the most? He didn't know who his father was, nor his mother. Order wouldn't tell him, or else they didn't know. Likely as not they'd long spent what they got for selling him and were poor as shit again, and he didn't know who they were. Poor bastard.' He paused, lost in memory. 'No family. Never even knew them. That's bad.'

Is that it? That's what you know? That seems unlikely to be useful.

Kemir shrugged. 'What were you hoping for? I know the routes the alchemists take to deliver their potions, but that's no great secret. Just watch for wagons escorted by a legion of Adamantine Men coming down the Evenspire Road.' He snorted. 'Except with you around they'll probably take to flying everything on dragon-back.'

That is much more the sort of information I desire. Your other memories are not interesting.

'That's very kind, dragon. Why don't you piss off?'

Eat, Kemir. She tossed him another hunk of roasted cow carcass. She didn't say anything, but when he was done, when he'd filled his belly so he could hardly move and had stripped away as much of the meat as would keep, she studied him.

The one that was here before is here again, she told him. The boy you called nest-mate. The one you said that I should not eat. Do you still wish me to leave?

Kemir glowered. 'Read my mind, dragon.'

He waited until she got the message and thundered into the moonlit sky. When she was gone he put some of the meat he'd saved onto the ground near the trees and backed away.

'You can come out!' he shouted. 'Dragon's gone now. I don't want to hurt you. You must be hungry. You can share our food.'

He waited, watching, but the boy didn't come out. And I can hardly blame him for that, can I? We came out of nowhere, ate his family and destroyed his home. I know exactly how he feels. He left the meat where it was and sat watching in secret for a while longer. When the boy still didn't come he settled down beside the fire and closed his eyes. He waited, eyes drooping but not quite shut. An empty belly and the smell of roasted fat brought you here, but I know what's on your mind.

The boy didn't disappoint him. He waited a good long time before he came, until Kemir had been pretending to snore for so long that his throat was sore. He came out of the trees with a heavy stick ready in his hand and didn't even glance at the meat left out for him. Kemir watched him come through lidded eyes, slow and purposeful. Good lad. Got your priorities right. Got a good idea what you're doing too. A knife would be better, but where would you get one of those out here, eh? The boy was slow and careful with each step. If he was scared, he didn't show it. He reached Kemir and raised the stick and only then hesitated. Well, what's it to be? Are you still a boy? Or are you a man?