The Schemes of Dragons

XXIII

THE OEIKANI'S WITHERS stood nearly as high as Toren's chin. He and Geim watched the buck canter across the corral. Despite his lack of experience with the animals, Toren knew what a fine specimen he viewed. Its legs were sleek and sturdy from its thighs to its cloven feet. It wielded the knot of hair at the tip of its tail as if it were a mace, slapping the flies off its hindquarters. Toren had never seen such massive antlers; he was relieved that their shape was blunt and knobby, rather than pointed as was the case in the south.

In spite of the buck's intimidating size and grace, Toren felt completely unthreatened. When the trainer brought the animal over to them, it nuzzled Toren's cheek, accepted a sweet, and stood contentedly while the Vanihr stroked its mane.

"The perfect temperament for a new rider," the trainer stated. The oeikani seemed to incline its head at the compliment. "He'll never throw you."

"He's big," Toren said.

"You'll want a sturdy beast like this on the trip to Cilendrodel," Geim declared.

"If I go," Toren said absently, putting off thoughts of the actual journey until he had made his decision. "In any event, this is a fine animal." He could not believe he had mistrusted the breed as recently as his arrival at the temple of Struth only two months earlier.

"I thought you'd agree with the choice," Geim said. "Would you like to ride him back to the temple?"

"I can try."

Geim paid the owner and the two Vanihr mounted, Toren on his new prize and Geim on an equally handsome, though strong-willed, individual. As they rode off, Toren marvelled at the ease with which his animal responded to his commands, anticipating turns and changes in speed. Toren knew only the bare rudiments of riding, yet the oeikani tolerated his hesitant guidance with no sign of nervousness. The modhiv commented on this as they rode past the stables and pens that filled this section of Headwater.

"He's a smart buck, that's true, but give yourself credit. You must have picked up something during those riding lessons Deena's been giving you." Geim grinned suddenly. "Or do you mean to say that you and she did something else with all that time?"

Toren restrained his smile. "Nothing you and Yari wouldn't do."

"That covers a wide range."

Toren chuckled. "I'm sure it does."

They let the mounts go at their own pace, and took advantage of the chance to view the city's hubbub of activity from a height. "You didn't seem tempted by Deena's interest during the journey from the Wood," Geim added as they approached a public fountain. Girls walked to and from it with incredibly large urns balanced on their heads.

"Was she interested then?" Toren asked.

"I think so. I'm not the best judge, and she's not the type to say much. Did she ever tell you why she alone, of all her family, survived the Dragon's pillage of eastern Mirien?"

"No."

"Thought not. She killed two of the Dragon's mercenaries. Unassisted. There's a great deal hiding under that quiet demeanor of hers."

"Yes, there is," Toren said firmly. "I suppose during the trip I was too preoccupied with other concerns to notice."

"Obviously you're feeling better about yourself now."

Toren shrugged. "I can do things that my shaman could not have imagined. I can't deny I'm proud of that, and the training has been invigorating, in spite of the demands. Certainly I wasn't as happy in the Wood, not even as a child. I was a fourth son." He scarcely noticed that he had slipped out of the High Speech into the Vanihr tongue.

Geim smiled ironically. "So was I."

They reached the broad avenue that would take them to the temple district. Toren deliberately stepped up his mount's pace, just to see if he could do it correctly. The oeikani snorted happily as it obeyed. Geim's animal trotted along with matching strides.

As the two Vanihr threaded their way through the temple grounds, walking their mounts to the frog god's stable, Toren noticed a pair of men in the shadow of a trellised walkway next to the main building. One was Obo. The wizard conversed with a short, lithe man in riding garments. The latter's dark hair showed strands of grey, though he seemed no more than forty years old. Heavy dust and flecks of dried mud covered the surface of his very plain cloak, but beneath, visible between the unbuttoned lapels, a tunic of freshly laundered fine brocade peeked out. An aura of sorcery hovered about him, nearly as strong as that emitted by Obo. Something about the man's features haunted Toren.

"Who is that with Obo?" he asked Geim.

Geim studied the stranger's features. "I saw him once last year. That is Keron, the king of Elandris."

A jolt of nostalgia darted out of the recesses of Toren's mind. Obo had served Keron many years; though most of the memories of the wizard's life had long since drained out of Toren's conscious recall, feelings lingered. Toren experienced a sense of deja vu each time he visited a place that Obo frequented, or read a piece of literature the old man favored.

Obo turned and saw the Vanihr. He motioned for them to wait, and with Keron, walked into the sunlight to meet them.

"May I present His Royal Highness, Keron the First of Elandris," Obo said.

"So this is the candidate," Keron said, acknowledging their bows. "I've waited three long years for Struth to find you, while the Dragon swallowed my kingdom and chased me across three nations."

"Sorry to inconvenience you, Your Majesty."

Keron chuckled wryly. "It was mutual, so I understand. Obo was right. You have the impudence of the Dragonslayer. A good sign."

Toren smiled. "I seem to remember bantering with you in decades past," he said, glancing meaningfully at Obo. "Perhaps your wizard afflicted me with impolite habits."

"I did nothing of the sort," Obo quipped. "I simply taught you the language of the Calinin."

Probably true, Toren thought. He certainly could not remember details of any such conversations; only a faint impression had led to his comment. Self-reflection told him he had been testing Keron, to see what kind of person led the resistance against Gloroc. The latter's sense of humor met with the modhiv's approval.

"I was not told you would be coming," Toren said.

"The fewer who know I'm here, the better," the king replied. "I have just come from Xais, where I petitioned the emperor of the Calinin Empire to lend me his army. If your mission is successful, the Dragon will be dead, but his human minions may seize power in the wake of his death. As soon as Gloroc dies, I must march in great force. Or did you think you were going to save Elandris single-handedly?"

"At times I've had that impression."

"I would be happy to leave it all to you if it were possible," Keron said blithely. "But it is not that easy. Rather the opposite, in fact." His faint smile vanished. "If you take up the gauntlets and succeed in killing Gloroc, your part will be done. You can rest, reap whatever rewards we can provide, return to your home. My work will just be starting." He turned back toward the walkway. "I am due for an audience with Struth. I leave in the morning for Tazh Tah, in Simorilia, where my son and my army are camped, but perhaps we can talk this evening."

The larger picture of the war against Gloroc, though it had been explained to Toren several times, had, at least until that moment, remained remote. Lost in contemplation, the Vanihr answered belatedly, "Of course, Your Majesty. I would be honored."

"Good," Keron said. "In the meantime, there is something I would like you to do." He unbuckled his belt, a strap of dragon hide embroidered with gold, set with rubies in the shape of a dragon in flight. He handed it to Toren. The smell of magic exuded from it.

"That is the belt of Alemar Dragonslayer," the king said. "It multiplies the strength of the wearer. My son and I are the only living men who can activate it. If you are all that Struth hopes, it will work for you. You may give it back to me tonight."

King and wizard walked away, resuming their conversation. The belt, lying in Toren's palm, already tickled. He strapped it on. It rode on his waist like air-no weight at all-but otherwise he felt nothing out of the ordinary. He waited for the energies to stir within him.

"Well," Geim said, "Try something."

"Like what?"

Geim scratched his head. "Perhaps you could lift your oeikani."

"Don't be foolish," Toren said. Obviously the belt did not work. And even if it did, the oeikani weighed far too much. But for the sake of the experiment, he braced himself under his mount and lifted.

The animal, much to its surprise, rose completely off the ground. Toren set it down quickly, huffing. Geim stroked the buck's neck to soothe it. True to its nature, it regained its composure immediately.

Vigor, hot and pounding, coursed through Toren's body. His muscles shuddered uncontrollably. After a bit of trial and error, he managed to adjust the talisman's output. The power faded. The belt waited quiescently on his hips for the next demand.

The modhiv grinned from ear to ear. He slapped Geim on the back-not too hard-and they headed for the stable.

Keron tried to calm all the thoughts bubbling in his head as he and Obo strolled together toward the dome of the high priestess, but concerns only sprang forth with renewed vitality. "Toren shows a spirit I found lacking in the other candidates," the king said. "What do you think of him?"

"He is a good person. He loves to succeed, becomes morose when he fails. All the pride of the Dragonslayer, tempered by an occasional lapse of confidence that serves to keep him humble. I like him, my liege."

"But will he be able to use the gauntlets?"

The wizard glanced at his toes. The furrows of his forehead deepened. "In my judgment, he is well beyond the level of the earlier candidates. Struth and Janna concur. But no matter how closely his powers seem to echo those of Alemar the Great, he is a different person. I doubt that anyone alive now or yet to be born will ever be able to activate the talismans as completely as the sorcerer himself. And if Toren is that gifted, that poses a whole new set of questions."

"What do you mean?"

"Think of what might happen to the world if an adept as powerful as Alemar Dragonslayer were set loose in it. Your ancestor changed the face of the civilized world."

Keron nodded. "That's true. But Alemar had the help of his sister, who by all accounts was nearly as powerful as he. And the two of them lived an incredible number of years. They had already lived more than a normal lifetime before they killed Faroc and Triss. To build Elandris required centuries more. No sorcerer since that time has learned how to stretch his years over such a long span."

"Don't remind me," Obo said.

Keron frowned. The skin on the back of Obo's hands and on his temple had thinned almost to translucence. Dark purple veins showed through. His gait wobbled. The last three years had not been kind to the wizard. It pained the king, after losing so many comrades to the war, to have nature snatching another away.

"There is a master in Acalon known to be almost two hundred years old," Obo mused. "But he has dedicated his career to longevity spells and elixirs. You have a point. Toren has limits, if for no other reason than that his talent was stunted in childhood. And this speculation may be moot. He may die fighting Gloroc."

"And will he be willing to fight for us?"

They came to the portal of the dome. Obo paused. "Yes. I think he will. Not that he will be eager, but at this point he has little to gain by refusing. I pray we are not leading him to suicide."

They crossed the threshold. Janna waited in one of her divans. She stood.

"Welcome, son of Alemar," the high priestess called. "The goddess awaits you." She gestured at the opening in the floor. The stairs beckoned him.

Keron sighed. Even after three years of alliance and a half dozen visits, an audience with Struth intimidated him. Obo hung back. "Aren't you coming?" the king asked.

"No. I need to rest." The wizard turned and waddled away, spine bent. A dagger of melancholy nicked Keron in the chest. He stroked his waist, but the belt was not there to comfort him.

Janna waited calmly, as alluring as he had always found her to be. The sea vista outside the dome's walls reminded him of his home. He wished he could linger, but he sighed again and descended into the blue werelight of the passageway.

"What word from the emperor?" Struth boomed.

Keron waited near the base of the stairs, where the speaker's great bulk did not seem to loom quite so high. "He has agreed to send his army. He has recognized that Gloroc poses a threat to the commonwealth. The muster has already begun. The battalions will be led by the emperor's second son, Fanhar."

"An excellent choice."

"Yes. A level-headed young man. He seems willing to put himself completely at my disposal, and stay out of the way when necessary. I couldn't have asked for a better field commander. He is very unlike his father."

"The prince is a bastard," Struth said. "The emperor is sterile. All his children are the result of his wife's infidelity."

Keron did not ask how Struth knew, but he had no doubt it was the truth. "Then I admire the lady's taste. She chose the right stud," he commented dryly.

"The queen is a remarkable woman. I went to some lengths to maneuver her into the emperor's bed, some thirty years ago. It is no accident that the weight of the Calinin Empire has tipped in our favor."

"I did not assume that it was. The emperor acted like a man under certain… pressures. Though it did not strike me as coming from the queen."

"It came from all quarters. My temples have been busy. How soon will you be ready to march?"

"I'll begin the offensive as soon as Fanhar and his army arrive in Tazh Tah. We have the strength to push Gloroc's forces back to the coast. If Toren succeeds, I'll seize ships and take the fight back to Elandris."

"Good. Once the usurper is dead, the dynasty of Alemar must show its fitness to rule. Gloroc's generals and sorcerers are an ambitious lot."

"I'll gladly fight his men. Without a dragon to bolster their confidence, they can be daunted." Keron wiped sweat from his eyebrows, though the cold and clammy chamber provided little reason to perspire.

"Indeed. I will be happy to let you. Gloroc is all I care about. Once he is dead my duty will be fulfilled. I promised the Dragonslayer only that I would help destroy the children of Faroc and Triss."

"But you will continue to aid us?" Keron asked quickly.

"Of course. I may decide to erect a temple in Elandris. But my support will not be on the level of finding candidates for the gauntlets, and hiding them from skilled searchers. I am weary. It is time for the game to end. I have searched the surface of Tanagaran and there are no more people alive with the qualities we need. Toren must succeed."

"And do you think he will?"

For the first time in his life, Keron thought he detected a shrug out of Struth. "He must."

Keron's joints ached. His muscles protested each time he did as little as trade his weight from one foot to the other. An end to the game? That seemed an incredible luxury. Keron could not see an end, only the part he must play, and that burdened him like a cloak laced with gold and lead.

"How soon will Toren be ready, assuming he agrees to the mission?" the king asked.

"Janna will give him his final test in three days. By the time you have rejoined Prince Val and your subjects, my messenger will have caught up with you with the news."

Keron sighed. Not the end of the game, but perhaps the conclusion of endless preparations. In a few weeks, successful candidate or not, the campaign would begin. Keron's shoulders drooped.

"Do you have more questions of me?" Struth asked after a silence.

"Not now," Keron said. "Perhaps I will think of more later today. A request, however. I would like to see my ancestors."

"Certainly." Struth's giant eyes blinked, and suddenly a narrow doorway appeared in the wall behind Keron. The king turned and without a word strode across the threshold.

The doorway opened out into a sepulcher. The cerulean tones of the werelight shifted to emerald. The greenish glow reflected off two sarcophagi in the center of the chamber. Pale fungus streaked the stone surface of the coffins. A body lay in each, visible through transparent vartham covers.

Embalming and the sorceries within the sarcophagi preserved the corpses in an almost lifelike state. Only a waxy stiffness in the skin betrayed that they were dead, not merely asleep. On the left rested a woman. She was slender, short, girlishly figured, attired in an exquisite satin gown. A thick sprawl of jet black hair pillowed her head. The first crinkle of age showed in the corners of her closed eyes and the creases of her lips. The wilting of a flower, Keron thought. By rights the body should have resembled that of a crone, since she had died of old age.

In the other coffin lay a short, spare man. His hair matched his companion's, except for a dusting of white at both temples. Again, only slight signs of age marred otherwise youthful features. Plush silk upholstery lined both sarcophagi, cradling the occupants in finery as rich as their garments, beds fit for the highest royalty.

Both resembled Keron as if they were his parents.

The king tried to swallow, but his parched throat refused. He had had the same reaction the first time that he had viewed these remains of Alemar Dragonslayer and his sister Miranda. The latter particularly affected him, since he could not help but recall the phantom of her he had seen at her oracle in Firsthold, when she had told him of the existence of the talismans of Setan, and he had sent his twin children to the Eastern Deserts in search of them. She had seemed so alive then.

How much easier his burden would be now, had the sorcerers been able to cheat time another millennium. How long had they lived? Seven centuries at least, before the years bore them down at last and they hid here, with Struth, where Gloroc could not find their bodies and violate their repose as he had that of the line of Elandri kings housed in the royal crypts in Firsthold. Alemar the Great could have taken up the gauntlets and defeated Gloroc upon his first appearance, before the Dragon could conquer as much as one city.

Keron sighed bitterly. "You left it all to me, you bilge drinkers." Me and my children and cousins, all exiles now, clinging to a desperate hope. We didn't even know where this sepulcher lay until three years ago.

The king reached out and set his hand on the lid of the Dragonslayer's coffin. "Better for us all if you had never taken a wife," he murmured.

But the wizard had. And from the son of that union had ultimately come dozens of branches of descendants, though the attrition of the war had devastated the current generation. At least, Keron thought, your greatest ally survives in this temple.

The king of Elandris turned and stalked back out. He felt the need to spend a few quiet hours with Obo, before his old friend likewise passed out of human ken.