Dragon's Bane

XVII

It was not for several days after John and Gareth blew up the Stone that Jenny began to recover from the battle beneath and above the Citadel.

She had cloudy recollections of them telling Polycarp how they had backtracked to the room by the gates where the blasting powder had been left, while her own consciousness darkened, and a vague memory of Morkeleb catching her in his talons as she fell and carrying her, catlike, to the small shelter in the upper court. More clear was the remembrance of John’s voice, forbidding the others to go after them. “She needs a healing we can’t give her,” she heard him say to Gareth. “Just let her be.”

She wondered how he had known that. But then, John knew her very well.

Morkeleb healed her as dragons heal, leading the body with the mind. Her body healed fairly quickly, the poisons burning themselves out of her veins, the slashed, puckered wounds left by the creature’s mouths closing to leave round, vicious-looking scabs the size of her palm. Like John’s dragon-slaying scars, she thought, they would stay with her for what remained of her life.

Her mind healed more slowly. Open wounds left by her battle with Zyerne remained open. Worst was the knowledge that she had abandoned the birthright of her power, not through the fate that had denied her the ability or the circumstances that had kept her from its proper teaching, but through her own fear.

They are yours for the stretching-out of your hand, Morkeleb had said.

She knew they always had been.

Turning her head from the shadows of the crowded lean-to, she could see the dragon lying in the heatless sun of the court, a black cobra with his tasseled head raised, his antennae flicking to listen to the wind. She felt her soul streaked and mottled with the mind and soul of the dragon and her life entangled with the crystal ropes of his being.

She asked him once why he had remained at the Citadel to heal her. The Stone is broken—the ties that bind you to this place are gone.

She felt the anger coiled within him stir. I do not know, wizard woman. You cannot have healed yourself—I did not wish to see you broken forever. The words in her mind were tinted, not only with anger, but with the memory of fear and with a kind of shame.

Why? she asked. You have often said that the affairs of humankind are nothing to dragons.

His scales rattled faintly as they hackled, then, with a dry whisper, settled again. Dragons did not lie, but she felt the mazes of his mind close against her.

Nor are they. But I have felt stirring in me things that I do not understand, since you healed me and shared with me the song of the gold in the Deep. My power has waked power in you, but what it is in you that has waked its reflection in me I do not know, for it is not a thing of dragons. It let me feel the grip of the Stone, as I flew north—a longing and a hurt, which before was only my own will. Now because of it, I do not want to see you hurt—I do not want to see you die, as humans die. I want you to come with me to the north. Jenny; to be one of the dragons, with the power for which you have always sought. I want this, as much as I have ever wanted the gold of the earth. I do not know why. And is it not what you want?

But to that, Jenny had no reply.

Long before he should have been on his feet, John dragged himself up the steps to the high court to see her, sitting behind her on the narrow makeshift cot in her little shelter, brushing her hair as he used to at the Hold on those nights when she would come there to be with him and their sons. He spoke of commonplaces, of the dismantling of the siege troops around the Citadel and of the return of the gnomes to the Deep, of Gareth’s doings, and of the assembling of the books they would take back to the north, demanding nothing other, neither speech, decision, nor thought. But it seemed to her that the touch of his hands brought more bitter pain to her than all Zyerne’s spells of ruin.

She had made her choice, she thought, ten years ago when first they had met; and had remade it every day since then. But there was, and always had been, another choice. Without turning her head, she was aware of the thoughts that moved behind the diamond depths of Morkeleb’s watching eyes.

When he rose to go, she laid a hand on the sleeve of his frayed black robe. “John,” she said quietly. “Will you do something for me? Send a message to Miss Mab, asking her to choose out the best volumes of magic that she knows of, both of the gnomes and of humankind, to go north also?”

He regarded her for a moment, where she lay on the rough paillasse on her narrow cot which for four nights now had been her solitary bed, her coarse dark hair hanging over the whiteness of her shift. “Wouldn’t you rather look them out for yourself, love? You’re the one who’s to be using them, after all.”

She shook her head. His back was to the light of the open court, his features indistinct against the glare; she wanted to reach out her hand to touch him, but somehow could not bring herself to do so. In a cool voice like silver she explained, “The magic of the dragon is in me, John; it is not a thing of books. The books are for Ian, when he comes into his power.”

John said nothing for a moment. She wondered if he, too, had realized this about their older son. When he did speak, his voice was small. “Won’t you be there to teach him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, John,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

He made a move to lay his hand on her shoulder, and she said, “No. Don’t touch me. Don’t make it harder for me than it already is.”

He remained standing for a moment longer before her, looking down into her face. Then, obedient, he silently turned and left the shed.

She had come to no further conclusion by the day of their departure from the Citadel, to take the road back to the north. She was conscious of John watching her, when he thought she wasn’t looking; conscious of her own gladness that he never used the one weapon that he must have known would make her stay with him—he never spoke to her of their sons. But in the nights, she was conscious also of the dark cobra shape of the dragon, glittering in the moonlight of the high court, or wheeling down from the black sky with the cold stars of winter prickling upon his spines, as if he had flown through the heart of the galaxy and come back powdered with its light.

The morning of their departure was a clear one, though bitterly cold. The King rode up from Bel to see them off, surrounded by a flowerbed of courtiers, who regarded John with awe and fear, as if wondering how they had dared to mock him, and why he had not slain them all. With him, also, were Polycarp and Gareth and Trey, handfast like schoolchildren. Trey had had her hair redyed, burgundy and gold, which would have looked impressive had it been done in the elaborate styles of the Court instead of in two plaits like a child’s down her back.

They had brought with them a long line of horses and mules, laden with supplies for the journey and also with the books for which John had so cheerfully been prepared to risk his life. John knelt before the tall, vague, faded old man, thanking him and swearing fealty; while Jenny, clothed in her colorless northlands plaids, stood to one side, feeling queerly distant from them all and watching how the King kept scanning the faces of the courtiers around him with the air of one who seeks someone, but no longer remembers quite who.

To John the King said, “Not leaving already? Surely it was only yesterday you presented yourself?”

“It will be a long way home, my lord.” John did not mention the week he had spent waiting the King’s leave to ride forth against the dragon—it was clear the old man recalled little, if anything, of the preceding weeks. “It’s best I start before the snows come on heavy.”

“Ah.” The King nodded vaguely and turned away, leaning on the arms of his tall son and his nephew Polycarp. After a pace or two, he halted, frowning as something surfaced from the murk of his memory, and turned to Gareth. “This Dragonsbane—he did kill the dragon, after all?”

There was no way to explain all that had passed, or how rightness had been restored to the kingdom, save by the appropriate channels, so Gareth said simply, “Yes.”

“Good,” said the old man, nodding dim approval. “Good.”

Gareth released his arm; Polycarp, as Master of the Citadel and his host, led the King away to rest, the courtiers trailing after like a school of brightly colored, ornamental fish. From among them stepped three small, stout forms, their silken robes stirring in the ice winds that played from the soft new sky.

Balgub, the new Lord of the Deep of Ylferdun, inclined his head; with the stiff unfamiliarity of one who has seldom spoken the words, he thanked Lord Aversin the Dragonsbane, though he did not specify for what.

“Well, he hardly could, now, could he?” John remarked, as the three gnomes left the court in the wake of the King’s party. Only Miss Mab had caught Jenny’s eye and winked at her. John went on, “If he came out and said, ‘Thank you for blowing up the Stone,’ that would be admitting that he was wrong about Zyerne not poisoning it.”

Gareth, who was still standing hand-in-hand with Trey beside them, laughed. “You know, I think he does admit it in his heart, though I don’t think he’ll ever completely forgive us for doing it. At least, he’s civil to me in Council—which is fortunate, since I’m going to have to be dealing with him for a long time.”

“Are you?” A flicker of intense interest danced in John’s eye.

Gareth was silent for a long moment, fingering the stiff lace of his cuff and not meeting John’s gaze. When he looked up again, his face was weary and sad.

“I thought it would be different,” he said quietly. “I thought once Zyerne was dead, he would be all right. And he’s better, he really is.” He spoke like a man trying to convince himself that a mended statue is as beautiful as it was before it broke. “But he’s—he’s so absentminded. Badegamus says he can’t be trusted to remember edicts he’s made from one day to the next. When I was in Bel, we made up a Council—Badegamus, Balgub, Polycarp, Dromar, and I—to sort out what we ought to do; then I tell Father to do it—or remind him it’s what he was going to do, and he’ll pretend he remembers. He knows he’s gotten forgetful, though he doesn’t quite remember why. Sometimes he’ll wake in the night, crying Zyerne’s name or my mother’s.” The young man’s voice turned momentarily unsteady. “But what if he never recovers?”

“What if he never does?” John returned softly. “The Realm will be yours in any case one day, my hero.” He turned away and began tightening the cinches of the mules, readying them for the trek down through the city to the northward road.

“But not now!” Gareth followed him, his words making soft puffs of steam in the morning cold. “I mean—I never have time for myself anymore! It’s been months since I worked on my poetry, or tried to complete that southern variant of the ballad of Antara Warlady...”

“There’ll be time, by and by.” The Dragonsbane paused, resting his hand on the arched neck of Battlehammer, Gareth’s parting gift to him. “It will get easier, when men know to come to you directly instead of to your father.”

Gareth shook his head. “But it won’t be the same.”

“Is it ever?” John moved down the line, tightening cinches, checking straps on the parcels of books—volumes of healing, Anacetus’ works on greater and lesser demons, Luciard’s Firegiver, books on engineering and law, by gnomes and men. Gareth followed him silently, digesting the fact that he was now, for all intents and purposes, the Lord of Bel, with the responsibilities of the kingdom—for which he had been academically prepared under the mental heading of “some day”—thrust suddenly upon his unwilling shoulders. Like John, Jenny thought pityingly, he would have to put aside the pursuit of his love of knowledge for what he owed his people and return to it only when he could. The only difference was that his realm was at peace and that John had been a year younger than Gareth was when the burden had fallen to him.

“And Bond?” John asked gently, looking over at Trey. She sighed and managed to smile. “He still asks about Zyerne,” she said softly. “He really did love her, you know. He knows she’s dead and he tries to pretend he remembers it happening the way I told him, about her falling off a horse... But it’s odd. He’s kinder than he was. He’ll never be considerate, of course, but he’s not so quick or so clever, and I think he hurts people less. He dropped a cup at luncheon yesterday—he’s gotten very clumsy—and he even apologized to me.” There was a slight wryness to her smile, perhaps to cover tears. “I remember when he would not only have blamed me for it, but gotten me to blame myself.”

She and Gareth had been following John down the line, still hand in hand, the girl’s rose-colored skirts bright against the pewter grayness of the frosted morning. Jenny, standing apart, listened to their voices, but felt as if she saw them through glass, part of a life from which she was half-separated, to which she did not have to go back unless she chose. And all the while, her mind listened to the sky, hearing with strange clarity the voices of the wind around the Citadel towers, seeking something...

She caught John’s eye on her and saw the worry crease between his brows; something wrung and wrenched in her heart.

“Must you go?” Gareth asked hesitantly, and Jenny, feeling as if her thoughts had been read, looked up; but it was to John that he had spoken. “Could you stay with me, even for a little while? It will take nearly a month for the troops to be ready—you could have a seat on the Council. I—I can’t do this alone.”

John shook his head, leaning on the mule Clivy’s withers. “You are doing it alone, my hero. And as for me, I’ve my own realm to look after. I’ve been gone long as it is.” He glanced questioningly at Jenny as he spoke, but she looked away.

Wind surged down around them, crosswise currents swirling her plaids and her hair like the stroke of a giant wing. She looked up and saw the shape of the dragon melting down from the gray and cobalt of the morning sky.

She turned from the assembled caravan in the court without a word and ran to the narrow stair that led up to the walls. The dark shape hung like a black kite on the wind, the soft voice a song in her mind.

By my name you have bidden me go, Jenny Waynest, he said. Now that you are going, I too shall depart. But by your name, I ask that you follow. Come with me, to the islands of the dragons in the northern seas. Come with me, to be of us, now and forever.

She knew in her heart that it would be the last time of his asking; that if she denied him now, that door would never open again. She stood poised for a moment, between silver ramparts and silver sky. She was aware of John climbing the steps behind her, his face emptied of life and his spectacle lenses reflecting the pearly colors of the morning light; was aware, through him, of the two little boys waiting for them in the crumbling tower of Alyn Hold—boys she had borne without intention of raising, boys she should have loved, she thought, either more or less than she had.

But more than them, she was aware of the dragon, drifting like a ribbon against the remote white eye of the day moon. The music of his name shivered in her bones; the iron and fire of his power streaked her soul. To be a mage you must be a mage, she thought. The key to magic is magic.

She turned and looked back, to see John standing on the root-buckled pavement between the barren apple trees behind her. Past him, she glimpsed the caravan of horses in the court below. Trey and Gareth holding the horses’ heads as they snorted and fidgeted at the scent of the dragon. For a moment, the memory of John’s body and John’s voice overwhelmed her—the crushing strength of his muscles and the curious softness of his lips, the cold slickness of a leather sleeve, and the fragrance of his body mixed with the more prosaic pungence of woodsmoke and horses that permeated his scruffy plaids.

She was aware, too, of the desperation and hope in his eyes.

She saw the hope fade, and he smiled. “Go if you must, love,” he said softly. “I said I wouldn’t hold you, and I won’t. I’ve known it for days.”

She shook her head, wanting to speak, but unable to make a sound, her dark hair swirled by the wind of the dragon’s wings. Then she turned from him, suddenly, and ran to the battlements, beyond which the dragon lay waiting in the air.

Her soul made the leap first, drawing power from the wind and from the rope of crystal thought that Morkeleb flung her, showing her the way. The elements around the nucleus of her essence changed, as she shed the shape that she had known since her conception and called to her another, different shape. She was half-conscious of spreading her arms against the wind as she strode forward over the edge of the battlement, of the wind in her dark hair as she sprang outward over the long drop of stone and cliff and emptiness. But her mind was already speeding toward the distant cloud peaks, the moon, the dragon.

On the walls behind her, she was aware of Trey whispering, “She’s beautiful...”

Against the fading day moon, the morning’s strengthening light caught in the milk-white silk of her spreading wings and flashed like a spiked carpet of diamonds along the ghost-pale armor of the white dragon’s back and sides. But more than of that, she was conscious of John, Dragonsbane of ballad and legend, watching her with silent tears running down his still face as she circled into the waiting sky, like a butterfly released from his hand. Then he turned from the battlements, to the court where the horses waited. Taking the rein from the stunned Gareth, he mounted Battlehammer and rode through the gateway, to take the road back to the north.