Song of the Dragon Page 41

  “NO!” Drakis screamed as he rushed forward, grabbing Mala by the arm. “You can’t! Everything we have together! Everything that we were . . .”

  “Pretend!” Mala shrieked, tearing her arm away from him. “You said it was pretend . . . and the demons said it, too! They said you lied and made me remember, and as long as I remember, they’ll tear at me in the night. But I won’t let them!”

  She turned and ran forward, throwing herself at the elven Inquisitor’s feet. “You won’t let them! You’ll take me back home and free me from the demons just like before! You’ll send them back to the forgotten places! I did everything they said I should do, and now you’ve come for me! You’ve come to take me back!”

  Soen gazed down at her with his black, lifeless eyes.

  “You promised!” Mala screamed. “I gave them to you! I dropped the stones just as the demons said I should! I slowed them down! I was clever!”

  Soen looked up at Drakis. The human had fallen to his knees on the deck, quaking in his agony.

  Mala turned, too. “You promised to keep me away from him most of all! The demons are nothing next to his pain! He loved me! He hurt me! I want him! I hate him!” Her voice dropped to a whimper. “Please take me home! I cannot live with what he feels. I cannot live with what I feel. I want to never know that pain again. I want to forget.”

  She began to sob. “Please take me home . . .”

  “Mala,” Soen said in a soft, warm voice. “You have, indeed, done everything that you were meant to do. I am sorry . . . but the demons must stay with you.”

  Mala looked up into the Inquisitor’s face, her shoulders shaking as she spoke. “But . . . Master . . . you’ve come for me! You . . . you’ve come to take me home!”

  “No, Mala,” Soen replied, “I cannot do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I am not the Inquisitor whom you serve,” the elf replied. “I am not Soen.”

  The robes began to shift as the Matei staff fell heavily to the deck. The black elven eyes contorted, and the flesh around them shifted. The robes collapsus into smoother forms. Two arms became four as the expressionless and all too familiar face looked up.

  “I am sorry, Drakis,” Ethis said from the forecastle, where Mala lay quivering at his feet. “There was no other way.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Chimera

  “ETHIS!” Jugar sputtered. “You! I have seen a number of feats of legerdemain in my time, but how is it that you have thus magically appeared on this ship?”

  “In a moment, friend Jugar,” Ethis said looking toward the afterdeck. “Captain Urulani, may I suggest that a few of your crew take charge of this human woman. I believe she is now beyond doing us any further harm, but her actions, I believe, warrant some prudent caution.”

  Urulani broke from her astonishment and nodded. “I agree. Zinbar and Gantau . . . go forward and take charge of her. Bind the woman hand and foot, but I don’t think a gag is necessary. Make her comfortable, but I want her secure.”

  “Aye, Captain!” they responded and moved forward, Zinbar picking up a coil of rope stowed next to the main mast.

  Urulani raised an eyebrow as she spoke to the chimerian, “Anything else?”

  Ethis bowed slightly, “It’s your ship, Captain.”

  “And I’d like to see that it remains my ship,” the captain replied. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

  “Only that my name is Ethis, that I am—as you plainly see—a chimerian shapeshifter, and that I serve you aboard this ship.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Oh, and that you’ll find that there is no longer a seasick manticore in your hold.”

  “Which is because?” Urulani urged.

  “Because . . . because I was that seasick manticore.”

  “Ah-ha!” the dwarf crowed. “That’s how you got aboard!”

  “And how I’ve been aboard since we made our hasty retreat from Nothree,” Ethis replied taking a step down the deck then turning back to the dwarf. “Oh, here is something I need to return to you.”

  The chimerian reached into folds in his flesh that had been smoothed over moments before and pulled out a shining, black-faceted stone.

  The dwarf’s eyes went wide as his hands instinctively patted down his waistcoat and discovered it empty. “The Heart of Aer! How did you . . . ?”

  “I am a creature of many talents,” the chimerian replied. “Besides, I could hardly have a real wizard conjuring up spells against a fake one, could I?”

  The dwarf frowned, holding out his open palm.

  Ethis shrugged and set the stone carefully in Jugar’s hand.

  “I am just a poor fool of a dwarf, but it occurs to me that the shapeshifting talents of the common chimerian do not include the ability to mimic clothing and even hair down to a degree of complexity that would pass even a cursory examination.” Jugar’s eyes narrowed, but there remained a brightness to them as he spoke. “Such capabilities are rare, indeed, and often put to rather specialized use in behalf of the chimerian state interests. Such dangerous creatures have been rumored to be abroad in the land. You wouldn’t happen to be one of them, would you now, Ethis?”

  “And are you, friend Jugar, no more than a common dwarven fool?” The chimerian’s face remained as blank and inscrutable as ever, but he leaned forward as he continued. “Just as a pure matter of speculation, it would be an interesting contest, though from what I have heard of such beings, it would be better not to know them. You, of all creatures, should recognize the advantage of anonymity. However, should any such creatures be made known to me . . . I should be glad to direct you to them.”

  The dwarf, for once, held his silence.

  Drakis was vaguely aware of Ethis as the chimerian turned and stepped carefully over to where he remained kneeling. His head hung down, his chin nearly resting on his chest. His mouth hung slackly open and his eyes were closed. Drakis was still aware that he held his sword loosely in his hand, his shoulders rising and falling with his quick breaths. But the rest of the world seemed so far away . . . and the sounds so muffled.

  Ethis knelt down in front of the human. “Drakis.”

  He continued to breathe raggedly, the sound of his breath roaring in his ears. Ethis was saying something to him.

  “Drakis, I’m sorry,” Ethis continued. “It was the only way I could have convinced you.”

  The human opened his eyes slowly, his head still hung down to his chest.

  “You would not have believed me,” Ethis continued. “You haven’t really trusted me since that day we awoke in House Timuran. Your suspicions were only strengthened in the Faery Kingdom. You thought I had betrayed you there, but in truth it was the only way to save you . . . to save us all. The Iblisi were closing in on us. Murialis was our only chance, but I had to prove to her that all of us were who we claimed to be. She trusted me to find that out.”

  “You did,” Drakis said, his voice rough from deep in his throat. His words sounded disconnected, as though he were talking through a dream.

  “Yes,” Ethis continued. Drakis could feel himself being drawn out through the chimerian’s words, being coaxed to come back to the realm of consciousness and pain. “We had met many years before when . . . well, it doesn’t matter when . . . and I knew that she could help you.”

  Drakis’ eyes shifted upward and peered at Ethis from under his brows. “So . . . you were only helping me.”

  “Yes, Drakis,” Ethis urged. “I had suspected Mala ever since my interrogations in the Faery Kingdom, but it was not until the dwarf discovered the beacon stones on the savanna that I knew with certainty. The Iblisi were closing in on us. I had to act . . .”

  “For my own good,” Drakis found the words distasteful as he spoke them.

  “For your own good,” Ethis nodded. “I waited for an opportunity. Then, when we reached Nothree, that day she was bathing at the pool . . .”

  Drakis shuddered violently, closing his eyes again, bu
t Ethis’ words kept coming at him.

  “. . . I took some of her beacon stones from the hem of her gown. I went back through the pass to a crossroads on the fringes of the savanna and used the stones to call him. I suspected the Inquisitor did not actually know which of us was helping him. I changed form and appeared to him as RuuKag. He never suspected me. I told him the stones had been compromised by the dwarf, and he gave me an entirely new set of stones. Now that same Inquisitor Soen is chasing the wrong stones instead of us.”

  “Who’s dropping these wrong stones then . . . and drawing what will soon be a very angry Iblisi after them?”

  ‘Belag,” Ethis said. “I told him to lead him east, back toward the Dje’kaarin.”

  “And he did this for my own good,” Drakis said through clenched teeth.

  “Yes,” Ethis nodded. “Everything we’ve done has been for your own good . . .”

  Drakis’ grip on his sword tightened as he sprang toward Ethis with a terrible yell that started from the darkness of his soul and rushed from his mouth with animal ferocity. He pressed his left forearm against the chimerian’s throat, his weight and momentum pushing Ethis back against the main mast. His body pinned the lighter chimerian, the edge of the blade suddenly biting at Ethis’ throat.

  Drakis’ crazed face was within inches of the chimerian’s own face. “For my own good? Everyone seems to be working for my own good! House Timuran fell for my own good, and it brought me memories that are still too painful for me to even think about—it stole my life from me! You took us into the Faery Kingdom for my own good and because Murialis would either be entertained by us or kill us, you cheated me out of my deepest thoughts, hopes, and fears. RuuKag . . . RuuKag died for my own good and the gods only know how many others! And now you . . . you show me this! You take away from me the one thing I ever wanted . . . the one really honest, good thing I ever asked for myself . . . you tear out my soul, and you have the gall to tell me it’s for my own good?”

  “Drakis, my boy,” Jugar said in a careful voice. “It’s truly a calamitous situation—deplorable and tragic—but a little calm reflection and distance might . . .”

  “And you!” Drakis wheeled on the dwarf. “You started this all! You and your talk of legends and humanity’s lost greatness. You packaged it and sold it to everyone we’ve met along the way, but it was all a lie!”

  “You don’t know that, lad,” Jugar said, holding his hands up. “Those stories that I told are true . . .”

  “It’s NOT ME!” Drakis wailed at the dwarf. He turned back to Ethis, his sword cutting across the chimerian’s skin just below his jaw. “What did you do to her? How did you make her lie like that?”

  “It’s not him, lad,” the dwarf said.

  “You then?” Drakis said, his wild eyes fixed on the dwarf as he turned.

  “No, my boy,” Jugar said with as much calm as he could muster in the face of the crazed Drakis. “The elves . . . they did this to her.”

  Drakis stood on the deck glaring at the dwarf. He was vaguely aware of the rest of the crew watching him, of the damning concern in their eyes, and of their pity. He hated them for that, too.

  “She’s . . . she’s what they call a Seinar—a beacon,” Jugar continued, his eyes fixed on Drakis as he spoke. “It’s an old-fashioned custom that was the tradition in elven households for nearly a century—may Nexog damn them forever for it. The Rhonas elves would take one of their household slaves and ‘train’ them to be a Seinar. But this wasn’t ‘training’ as you know it, my boy. They would take them when they were youths ‘just in their beards’ as we say among the dwarves—both male and female—and afflict them with such terrible horrors—tortures, lad, of mind and body—until they had burned these trained scars into their minds, seared them so deeply that they would never be free of the orders they were given. Then they deviously buried the memory of this training under the Devotion spell so that the slaves themselves would not be aware of it. They were trained to betray their own kind—to run away with any slaves who might somehow break the bonds of their Devotions—just as we did, lad—and lead the Iblisi to them.”

  “They did that,” Drakis said, his eyes shifting to where Mala lay bound on the forecastle. “What did they do to her?”

  “It wasn’t magic,” Jugar said quietly. “It was not some spell that could be released and make her right. It was her mind they broke—as they did with every other Seinar. Then, in a cruel blessing, they gave them their Devotions in the households and allowed them to forget all the carefully, torturously impressed commands that they had burned into their minds . . . leaving them buried there against the unlikely day when the Devotions would fail . . . and their precious slaves would escape.”

  Drakis dropped his sword, barely aware of it clattering on the deck at his feet. “Then she didn’t choose this . . . they made her do it . . . they . . . they broke her?”

  “Aye,” Jugar nodded. “Intentionally, but, aye, they broke her. It is a difficult and costly proposition. Most of the lesser Houses of the Empire no longer go to the expense of what has become such a luxury. But Timuran was just proud enough and just vain enough to want to own a traitor to her own kind.”

  Drakis walked slowly up to the forecastle. The two Sondau warriors stood on either side of Mala, who looked pathetically small where she lay on the deck between them. Drakis reached down slowly, pushing back the hair that had fallen over her face.

  She looked up at him with the eyes that he had long remembered with such depth of feeling though now they were unfocused and seemed to dart about, unable to fix on any one thing.

  “Take me home,” she said to no one in particular. “Please take me home . . .”

  Drakis stood up and drew in a long, shuddering breath.

  “If you like,” Ethis said quietly behind him, “I can take care of this for you.”

  Drakis turned. “What did you say?”

  “This needs to be taken care of,” Ethis said with a little more emphasis. “She’s a Seinar, Drakis. She’ll do whatever she can to lead the Iblisi to us.”

  “She’s Mala,” Drakis said, shaking his head.

  “No, she’s not,” Jugar said. “She has betrayed us and, beyond doubt, she will betray us again.”

  “No,” Drakis insisted, “She doesn’t want to be this.”

  “It isn’t a question of what she wants,” Ethis said with conviction. “She has no control over this any more than you can control whether you breathe or not! She is broken—deep within—and she cannot be fixed.”

  “NO!” Drakis shouted. “She was fine before we began this insane quest and she’ll be fine again! If I find a way to put her back under House Devotions, she’ll be . . .”

  “What? Your slave?” Ethis countered. “Is that what you’re hoping for?”

  Drakis wheeled on Ethis, slamming his right fist into his face. He felt the bones of the chimerian’s face flex as was the inherent trait of his kind and his fist give into the soft flesh of the face, but the blow did force Ethis back a few paces and gave Drakis back his focus from the satisfying blow.

  “We sail north!” Drakis made the statement as though he dared anyone to contradict him. “We find the Siren Coast and this . . . River of Tears or whatever it is . . . and see what there is to this damn legend. Until then Mala is mine and under my protection.”

  “It’s my ship,” Urulani said. “If she stays, then she stays under guard.”

  “You, too, I see,” Drakis replied. “Then take me north, O Great Captain! We have a legend to bury.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Voice of Dragons

  DRAKIS STOOD at the tiller that night. He shifted the course of the Cydron five points to starboard and held it there for nearly three days. All Urulani’s arguments were brushed aside by him as he held that course . . . because, he said, the song was calling to him, and this was the course where he heard it the loudest.

  By the dawn of the second day the distant shoreline could just be made out on the
northern horizon. It took until just before noon for the coast features, such as they were, to become defined: short, gnarled trees and scrub brush painting a dark line above a bright sand shore. Here and there a tumble of rocks could be seen, but for the most part it was the most unremarkable coast Urulani or any of her crew had ever seen.

  Drakis leaned hard on the tiller, his red, sleepless eyes struggling to peer over the bow. Despite the lack of landmarks, however, he steered the ship with remarkable precision up one of a dozen channels that flowed over a wide sandy delta. The Cydron was made for shallow-draft river raiding and passed smoothly over the delta waters and into the main channel of what Jugar at once proclaimed to be the River of Tears. Only then did Drakis relinquish the tiller to Urulani . . . and he collapsus on the deck just as Urulani called for the sweeps to be set and the oarsmen to start pulling.

  Drakis did not awaken again for another day and a half.

  “How is your head?” Urulani asked.

  “Much worse,” Drakis replied as he stretched. “Where are we?”

  “I can report that we are definitely somewhere,” she replied, “And we are making good time.”

  “Wonderful news,” Drakis responded, looking around them. The river had cut a meandering course, which Urulani was trying to make her ship follow. “I see that the riverbanks are sand. What’s beyond?”

  “More sand,” Urulani replied with a twinkle in her dark eyes.

  “Then I think you are wrong,” Drakis said, drawing in a deep breath. “We’ve gone right past somewhere and have definitely reached nowhere.”

  The shores of the Sand Sea drifted past them for a time, the silence broken only by the rhythmic stroke of the oars to the drum below.

  “How is your Mala?” Urulani asked.

  “She is . . . she is doing better,” Drakis replied. “She has calmed down and is speaking again . . . but she is still undoubtedly broken.”