Dragon Stones Page 3

  She tried to remember what she had learned about Dunshandrin—the realm, not the man; in keeping with local tradition, he had taken the name of his country at the same time he took the throne. The lord was identified with the land, as she recalled, their fortunes entwined. Perhaps that explained the general malaise that seemed to cling to Dunshandrin Town. She wondered if things were similar in the countryside, if the crops had failed this summer, if the fields had withered. Landlocked and agricultural, with little in the way of resources to spend on imported grain, a bad year for Dunshandrin's crops spelled a dismal winter for Dunshandrin's people.

  At the top of the hill the road grew rough again; the constant jostling began to give her a headache. She felt quite sure that when Lord Dunshandrin and his sons ventured out of the castle, they did not travel in a charmless buckboard like this one. Still, the carriage drew envious glances from the villagers who scurried out of its path, splashing through the puddles, slipping in the mud. They could scarcely dream of affording even such a simple wagon; the closest they would come to one would be when it nearly ran them down in the street.

  At length the cart bore her through a large square, where merchants hawked wares from shabby tents and children frolicked, or perhaps bathed, in the greenish water of a dribbling fountain. After the square the buildings grew sparse and the road began to climb again, crossing a narrow stone bridge over a fast, grey river. Tolaria looked down at the rushing water, foaming and splashing as it cascaded over rocks and debris, feeling its cold mist settle on her skin.

  Not far beyond the bridge, they came to the outer wall of Lord Dunshandrin's castle. The road narrowed to the width of a single large carriage, hemmed in on either side by buttresses that extended from the primary stockade. They stopped briefly at the main gate, where a guard questioned the driver as to his purpose. He handed the man a rolled-up parchment, which the soldier did not open; but he clearly understood the wax seal well enough, calling other guards over and showing it to them, making quite a fuss. Finally he returned the scroll to the driver and let the wagon pass into the bailey.

  Like the route they had taken through town, the cincture was partially paved with cobbles, forming a broad avenue that led to the main gate of the inner keep. Most of the stones were reddish-brown or orange, but she noticed some variation in hue, perhaps indicating where repairs had been made. To the left of the paved area she saw small, fallow gardens, not much larger than her own plot back at the Crosswaters; these ended at a high wall that looked freshly mortared. Beyond that she could see an odd structure, like a gigantic cage, just peeking around the side of the keep. To the right, a narrow stone path crossed wet, churned earth, leading to the shadowed arcade of a long, low building that flanked the high wall. Storage or stables, she thought, probably both.

  The wagon pulled to the right and stopped. A groom emerged from beneath the arches, hurrying through the mud to take the horse's reins. Taking this as her cue, Tolaria climbed down from the buckboard, making sure to step onto the cobbles instead of the mud. She began struggling with her chest again, but a page appeared at her side and said: "A servant will get that for you. Come."

  "I can manage," Tolaria said, continuing to tug at her trunk.

  "Leave it," the page said. "You must come with me."

  Reluctantly, she let go of the chest and followed the boy toward the towering keep. It rose five or six stories above the bailey, ruddy sandstone held together with blackened mortar. A blank wall faced the courtyard at ground level, interspersed with tiny vertical slits for archers' arrows; windows appeared higher up, beyond the reach of invaders, each as tall as a man. These alternated with additional chamfers, such that the defenders of the keep could direct a hail of shafts toward any invader who breached the outer wall. She wondered how many men stood at the ready behind those dark, narrow openings.

  Like the outer gate, the entrance to the castle was flanked by protective walls that curled out and around, restricting traffic to two or three men abreast. Guards stood on either side of the entrance, looking bored and alert at the same time; she noticed a further series of slits on either side, staggered from each other so that archers could create a punishing crossfire without inadvertently shooting each other. Tolaria glanced at the ceiling and found it riddled with small holes, like a ground squirrel's warren, for more arrows or spear thrusts or boiling oil.

  Did Dunshandrin really have so many enemies? Did anyone?

  She had hoped for warmth and dryness, but got little of either inside the keep; the rain had found a path through unpatched leaks and joints, while the clever wind turned the innumerable arrow slits into a chorus of ill-tuned whistles. Within the broad central hall, some servants used strange brooms in an effort to sweep the standing water toward drains near the walls; others followed behind, scattering straw to soak up the moisture that remained.

  The page brought her directly to Dunshandrin's chambers, leaving her standing in front of the massive entrance. A guard opened the door for her, but did not accompany her inside or announce her presence as he shut the door behind her.

  She had wanted warmth; now she had it. The room was blazingly hot, badly overheated by a fire that roared in a massive hearth to her right. Two high-backed chairs were drawn up to it, facing the flames; a table stood between them, its polished surface marred by old water rings. Dust-ridden tapestries flanked the fireplace, showing faded scenes of battle and the hunt.

  She approached the bed, a massive, canopied four-poster, the footboard decorated with ceremonial daggers crossed before a shield. The weaponry was of a piece with an ornate suit of armor displayed in the far left corner; likely Dunshandrin had worn it as a costume while presiding over whatever martial rituals they practiced in this realm.

  The lord himself lay beneath layers of fur and fabric, his face flushed, his eyes bright. The flesh of his face was sinking in on itself, tightening on the bones. It looked like fever, she thought; so what fool had decided the room must be hot as an oven, to bake the poor man further?

  "Lord Dunshandrin?" The shaggy head did not turn to her, the eyes did not search for her. "My name is Tolaria. I am an oracle from the Crosswaters."

  "Our father has deteriorated since we sent for you," a voice said. Tolaria looked up, startled, at the man who had risen from one of the chairs by the fire; a moment later, an identical man stood from the other. The feuding twins, she realized.

  "First he was delirious," the second man said.

  "Then he began to see things."

  "Now he lies there and sees nothing."

  "I am Tomari," the first one said.

  "And I am Torrant."

  Tolaria found herself disconcerted by the way they spoke in short alternating sentences; it felt like being confronted by a man with two heads. She looked at Lord Dunshandrin, then back to his sons. Whatever resemblance there had once been had been erased by the ravages of time and illness. "I assume a physician has seen him?"

  "Of course," Tomari said. "Physicians, clerics, brewers of potions, even a madwoman who claimed she could drive out illness with the touch of her hands."

  "His sickness defeats them all," Torrant said.

  "Now we just wait for him to die."

  "Well, you're certainly hastening that day by keeping the room so hot and stuffy," Tolaria said. "If I may suggest—"

  "No, you may not," Torrant said. "You did not come here to treat our father. You came to settle our dispute."

  Obviously she had overstepped. They had no interest in her opinion of Lord Dunshandrin's condition; perhaps they had brought her to this room merely to demonstrate that his illness was genuine. She felt quite sure that they did not spend all their days at his bedside, whispering words of comfort in his ears. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course. My apologies. I will need the box from my trunk, so that I can prepare the vapors, and then—"

  "Yes, we are familiar with your oracular affectations," Torrant said. "But the nature of your service has changed. We've decided to implement our ow
n method for settling our disagreement."

  "You have?"

  "Yes," Tomari said. "We have decided to eliminate our quarrel by dividing the kingdom between us."

  Tolaria looked from Tomari to Torrant, then at Lord Dunshandrin, lying insensate in his sickbed. Two days in the hold of a boat, sleeping on the floor, fending off unwanted advances, only to be told her services were no longer required. "A sensible decision, and one I recommended to your father's emissary," she said, managing to keep her voice even. "What need have you for an oracle, then?"

  "Well," Torrant said, "the basis of our argument remains. Half our current territory is quite insufficient. One of us would inevitably be cheated of his due."

  "Half our fields would not produce adequate food; half our mines would not produce adequate gold; half our forests would not produce adequate lumber. We would both be reduced to little better than local nobles, scraping for subsistence."

  "I'm sure that my lords underestimate the richness of their holdings," Tolaria said. "Besides, you needn't create entirely separate fiefdoms. You could form a federation, for instance, and share your resources."

  Tomari shook his head. "No. We need more land."

  "Yes." Tomari nodded. "More land."

  The direction of their thought seemed worrisome. "But, my lords, there is no more land to be had."

  "On the contrary," Torrant said. "There is plenty of land, and the obvious place to look for it is within Barbareth."

  "They have much more territory than we do."

  "Certainly they have more than they need."

  Tolaria stared at them, not quite comprehending what they were getting at. "I apologize for my ignorance," she said. "Are you proposing to annex Barbareth?"

  "Only part of it," Torrant said. "The northeastern quadrant, perhaps, from the river to the bay at Astilan, and west to your own Crosswaters."

  She was unfamiliar with the geopolitics of the region, but she did know one thing. "Barbareth is four times the size of Dunshandrin. Why would you want to start a conflict that you can't possibly win?"

  Tomari smiled. "Are you speaking as an oracle, or merely as a stupid peasant woman with no knowledge of our capabilities?"

  Torrant put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "What Tomari means is that we have certain advantages, advantages of which you are unaware, and that you should consider the limits of your experience before you speak."

  "What advantages?"

  "I'm sure you don't expect us to tell you all our secrets right away," Torrant said. "In any event, this audience is at an end. You will now be escorted to your quarters; we will call on you soon." He clapped his hands; the door to the chamber opened, revealing the guard who had admitted her.

  "My quarters?" Tolaria said. "But … I cannot stay here; I must return to my duties at the Crosswaters."

  "No, that is precisely what you must not do," Tomari said. "You will be far better off here, predicting for us."

  "We have seen your letter of recommendation from Flaurent; you were criminally underused, mediating disputes among villeins." Torrant glanced at his brother. "Someone should punish Klem for his small-mindedness."

  Tomari seemed to find this quite funny, and began to giggle.

  "You are taking me prisoner," Tolaria said. She could hardly believe it; convention, enforced by superstition, held oracles immune from such harassment.

  "You mustn't think yourself a prisoner," Torrant said. "You are an honored guest."

  "Yes," Tomari said. "So honored, in fact, you cannot leave."

  Someone shook Adaran awake. He opened his eyes and found a small, slim shadow beside his bed, its hand on his shoulder. "Redshen?" he murmured.

  She shushed him, then whispered: "Get dressed."

  "Why?"

  "We're stealing the payroll, remember?"

  Adaran sat up and looked at his partner. She was ready to go, her black cloak cinched tight, hood up over her head. He shook his head. "No," he said. "I remember that we are not doing that."

  She grinned. "If it were up to you, we would be long since retired, living a dull existence in some drab slum."

  Adaran snorted. "It would be a coastal village, and we would lay by the ocean eating figs all day," he said. Then: "You really think Dosen has something worthwhile in his tent?"

  "Of course. He's the steward. The steward always has the silver and gold."

  "Well, I suppose it can't hurt to look." He got out of bed and dressed, aware that Redshen was watching him appraisingly. They had slept together once, a long time ago, after consuming a great quantity of wine in celebration of a particularly successful job; it had been a fumbling, embarrassing experience, and she had actually fallen asleep during it. Now she was more like a sister than a potential lover; but still, she was only like a sister, not really one.

  As he slipped into his black cloak, he said: "And after we rob Dosen, how do you propose we escape?"

  "Oh," Redshen said, as if discussing a new belt she hoped to purchase, "we'll steal eagles."

  Adaran stopped, his cloak unfastened, and stared at her. "We will not."

  "Of course we will." She made flapping motions with her arms, then laughed. "We certainly won't get away on foot. Now close your mouth and finish getting dressed."

  He tied up his cloak, reached for his black leather gloves. "But we don't know how to fly them."

  "I do," Redshen said. "I didn't have my face buried in feathers the whole ride; I was watching how our fearless guide controlled his bird. They're not so different from horses. You kick them to start, you pull the reins to stop, you squeeze with your knees to go up and down—"

  "I'm starting to think this whole plan is just a pretext for you to steal an eagle," Adaran said.

  She grinned at him, but said nothing.

  "Fine. We'll steal one eagle, then, and you can fly it."

  "Of course I will," she said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. "You would run us into the mountain, flying around with your eyes closed."

  Adaran made a face at her, then pulled on his gloves and slipped into his boots. He pulled up his black hood—his cloak matched Redshen's almost exactly, having been made by the same tailor—and cinched it tight. The two of them looked like versions of the same shadow, one short, one tall. Redshen looked him over. "Ready?" she said. Adaran nodded. She gave him an everything will be fine wink, then turned and ducked out of the tent; he followed close behind. But as he emerged into the crisp night air, hands grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms behind his back. He couldn't see who had him. He felt himself lifted off the ground, spun around in a half-circle. There was Redshen, struggling with one of Dosen's men. He had her in a headlock, his other arm around her slim waist.

  What was going on? Had someone overheard them plotting to raid Dosen's tent? Perhaps; but too many men were about, their shapes grey in the wan moonlight, for this to be a response to Redshen's little scheme. They had fanned out among the tents, weapons drawn; and now he could hear a commotion from Jenune's tent, the clash of steel and wood.

  Suddenly the wizard's tent exploded in a burst of smoke and noise and white light. Two of Dosen's thugs tumbled away from the blast, rolling along the stone face of the mountain before coming to a stop, twitching and smoldering. Taking advantage of the distraction, Adaran wrenched his shoulders up, dislocating both of them and slipping away from the henchman who held him. The thug cursed and lunged, trying to regain his grip, but Adaran spun away, cartwheeling to the side and delivering a solid kick to the side of his head. The man grunted and went down. Adaran landed in front of Redshen, dagger drawn and ready, but before he could do more than aim the weapon, a shower of hot, sticky liquid sprayed him, spattering his face and neck.

  "Redshen!" Adaran cried. Dosen's minion had cut her throat, and now he tossed her aside like a piece of garbage, lunging at Adaran, stabbing with his short, fat sword. He was too slow by far; Adaran easily sidestepped the thrust, grabbing the man's arm and using his own momentum to pull him
off balance. He thrust his dagger into the thug's abdomen, slicing through the thin fabric of his shirt, opening up the flesh beneath.

  As the wounded guard moaned and clutched at his belly, Adaran raced to Redshen's side. He knew at once that he could do nothing to help her; the gash in her neck was long and ragged, blood spurting out with the weakening pulses of her heart. She looked up at him, eyes unfocused and blinking rapidly; she tried to speak, but the words whistled through her severed windpipe. Her lips told him to run.

  He looked to the right. Three more retainers were coming at him from the direction of Jenune's tent. Their weapons were drawn and bloodied, their faces bruised and pummeled. Even caught asleep and unarmed, Jenune must have put up a ferocious struggle. But there was no more use in fighting; he was outnumbered at least five to one, with more killers on the way. He took a last look at Redshen, but she lay still now, her slashed throat steaming in the cool air.

  Cursing, Adaran turned and ran for the edge of the ridge, racing along the rugged stone. He could hear Dosen's men break into pursuit behind him but didn't spare a look back, concentrating on his keeping his feet amid the rocks and rubble. If he slipped or fell, they would be on him in a moment.

  Something clattered against the stone nearby, bounced away in front of him. A crossbow bolt. He cast a dire glance at the moon, which had chosen this moment to emerge from the dark clouds that had obscured it earlier, and began to zigzag as more arrows came skittering across the rocky spine of the mountain.

  He had almost reached the edge now, where the ridge dropped away to the trees below. He needed to find a way down. Off to his right he spotted a cleft in the stone, like a chute leading into the forest. He darted that way and vaulted into it, but it was steeper than he'd expected, its damp floor strewn with loose rocks and years of accumulated dirt, foliage, pine cones. He lost his footing, fell, and started to slide, shooting over the edge of the ridge into open space, falling, the ground rushing up to meet him. He let his legs take the brunt of the landing, bending at the knees to absorb the shock, going into a roll that took him under the trees and out of sight of his pursuers. He dug his feet into the loam, checking his tumble, and came to rest just shy of the trunk of a massive pine.