The Fire Dragon by Katharine Kerr
“You know where she'll hide, don't you?” Rhodry said. “Tell me. Spare us all the trouble of tearing this town apart searching for her, and you'll do yourself a good turn, too. If you want to stay on the council, that is.”
Verrarc raised his head and looked at him with eyes that might have been made of glass, so little feeling did they show.
“We'll find her in the end anyway,” Rhodry went on. “The gates are closed, and she'll not get out.”
Verrarc said nothing. Rhodry was about to argue some more when Dallandra grabbed his arm.
“Come with me.”
“But—”
“Come with me!” Dallandra tossed her head, and her silvery hair seemed to snap with life and power. “Leave him alone.”
Rhodry allowed himself to be led away out of earshot. When he glanced back, he saw Verrarc standing where they'd left him, staring out at nothing.
“Rori, be reasonable!” Dallandra snapped. “He's only flesh and blood, not steel. Besides, I've scryed her out.”
“Oh.” Rhodry paused for a smile. “My apologies. I should have known you'd be able to find her. Where is she?”
“In the ruins of that temple thing. Where you and Arzosah were camping.”
Yelling at Kiel to follow, Rhodry took off running. At the edge of the plaza he glanced back and saw that Kiel was bringing five more militiamen with him. He paused to let them catch up.
“I hope there's no back way out of the ruins,” Rhodry said.
“I ken it not,” Kiel said. “But here, Stone! Go round the back and guard any path you find there.”
Stumbling on the uneven ground Rhodry hurried downhill to the heap of rubble, then stopped, peering around for an entrance. He found at last what seemed to be a tunnel mouth. As he headed for it, with the militiamen right behind, he heard a strange sound from inside. All at once a shrike burst free in a flash of black-and-white wings. Right behind it came a red hawk that gave one harsh cry as it leapt into the air and flew after. Both birds were so huge that every man there knew that they had to be shape-changers. Kiel swore under his breath.
“The bitch!” Rhodry snarled. “She may have flown, lads.”
Still, neither bird had been a raven. He ran over to the entrance gaping between huge stones and peered in. When he saw the firm ground just below, he scrambled inside, half-stepping, half-sliding. Rhodry had always been able to see uncommonly well in the dark, and in a few heartbeats his eyes could pick out the shape of the structure around him. He trotted down the tunnel and heard, off to one side, the sound of a woman weeping. A broken doorway loomed. He stepped in and saw Raena, huddled against the wall in a pool of silver light. She clasped her injured wrist against her chest.
“So,” Rhodry said. “The raven can't fly? What a pity.”
Raena grabbed something from the floor and hurled, but he ducked and let the clumsy stone miss. Swearing under her breath she scrambled to her feet. Rhodry could hear men running down the tunnel and so, apparently, could she, because she made no try at escape.
“Kiel!” Rhodry called out. “Come here! We've got her penned!”
With a last dignity she straightened up, shaking back her long dark hair, and stood as proudly as a queen while the militiamen rushed in. For a moment they simply stared at her while she scowled with a narrow-eyed hatred that seemed as palpable as the silver light glowing on the stone.
“Take her back to Admi,” Rhodry said. “Her Wyrd lies in the hands of your laws.”
Up on the etheric Evandar had been waiting near Raena's hiding place, wedged between two black slabs that in the physical world manifested as stones. As he listened to Raena praying, sobbing, calling out for Lord Havoc to rescue her, he felt a brief pang of sympathy for the woman, but to him she meant bait and no more. Sure enough, in a cloud of silver light Shaetano appeared in his rough man-shape, but his long face plumed with russet hair, and his ears stood up sharp and vulpine.
“I have come,” he intoned. “I—”
His words broke off into a scream as Evandar leapt the gap between the planes and materialized. Before he could speak, Shaetano took off running down the tunnel. Evandar raced after him. As he ran, Shaetano's form began to melt and blur; at the entrance a black-and-white shrike screeched and leapt into the air. Evandar followed in the shape of the red hawk, flapping hard to gain height. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rhodry racing down the path toward them, but his brother was prey, and the only thing that mattered to him now. His huge wings slashed the air and drew him ever nearer to the shrike laboring below.
They flew free of Cerr Cawnen's walls and out over the fields. Evandar was gaining steadily when Shaetano dove for the earth to land in the shelter of the pale spring grass. Evandar overshot him, cursed, swung back in a wide circle and plummeted earthward. He could see a fox, dashing for the stone wall at the edge of a cow pasture. As he landed he transformed again, this time into the black hound. Barking, he raced forward, gaining on the fox, but just as it seemed he would catch him, Shaetano leapt into the air and disappeared.
Evandar hurled himself through the gate twixt worlds and found himself in elven form, running across the battle plain. In the hideous copper-colored light dust roiled. Lightning flashed at the horizon, turning the perpetual smoke a pale bluish-silver as ugly as the skin of a corpse. Just ahead of him Shaetano stood waiting in human form and wearing his black armor. He held his sword across his body as he crouched, ready for a fight. Evandar could see the glitter of dark eyes under the low brow of his black helm.
“Get your weapons, brother!” Shaetano called out. “You need them.”
“So I do.”
Evandar flung both arms into the air and called down Light. Like a bluish spear of lightning it came to him, but he grabbed it and twisted, weaving it back and forth into a huge net of rope. With a yelp Shaetano stepped back, but too late—Evandar swirled the net round his head and threw. The net flew through the air and fell over a screaming Shaetano, who tumbled to the ground and lay still. Evandar ran over, knelt, and reached through the web of ropes to grab him: empty armor rattled and rolled in the dust.
“Clever, brother, cursed clever!”
Evandar pulled the net free and began tossing pieces of armor this way and that. When he picked up the breastplate he saw a grey mouse, scurrying away through the dust. In an instant he became a cat and pounced with all claws, but Shaetano sprang free, spreading the shrike's wings. With a harsh cry the red hawk leapt after him.
The hunt led them on and on, sometimes in the Lands, sometimes in the physical world. Shaetano changed from fox to bird, from bird to mouse or mole, but every time Evandar became his enemy, from hound to hawk, from hawk to cat or ferret. On and on—the constant transformations drained them. The birds flew slowly, drifting close to the Earth, the fox and hound panted as they staggered after each other. At times Evandar had no idea of where they were. Forest and field, glowing etheric light or the blank darkness between the stars—they raced through them all.
Yet each change brought him a little closer to Shaetano, until it seemed that if he could reach a bare few inches farther with teeth or hand or paw, he would have him.
At last, as much by chance as anything, they found themselves on the shores of Cerr Cawnen's lake. Overhead the night had fallen and the rain slacked. The shrike and the hawk settled to the cool sand and stood, wings half-spread and ruffled as they glared at one another.
“Surrender, brother!” Evandar called out. “You're tiring worse than me. The next time you try to change you might well end up trapped halfway twixt fur and feather, and an ugly thing that would be.”
“So, you doubt my strength, do you?”
The shrike-form rippled and dissolved, leaving a panting, bedraggled fox in its stead. With a bark the black hound sprang forward, and the fox bolted and ran, yipping under its breath. Through the narrow streets of Citadel they raced and spiralled up the hill. When the fox turned to dart down an alley toward the lake, the hound leapt forwa
“Leave me be, leave me be!” Shaetano cried out, and his voice yipped and squeaked. “I'll not work more harm!”
Evandar leapt up and as he leapt he changed, felt his legs and paws turn to wings and talons, his fur transform into feathers. The fox crouched, too exhausted to risk another change, until with a squealing little bark he jumped down from the wall and dashed downhill. The hawk was too fast for him. Evandar stooped and dove, striking his brother's vulpine form so hard that an illusion of blood flowed. The fox whimpered and fell, writhing on the rain-slick cobbles.
In front of the full moon clouds scudded on the night wind. Evandar sank his talons into the fox's brush and rose, flapping hard, while Shaetano squealed and twisted in his grip. Below them the town and its steaming lake seemed to swing back and forth.
“Hold still!” Evandar called out. “If I drop you in this form—”
The fox went limp in his talons. Circling to gain height Evandar flew until he saw a shimmering road where moonlight caught the feathered edge of a cloud. He followed it up and out, racing over muddy fields and dark forests. At a twist in the mother road he burst free of the physical world into the silent meadows of life and death. As he and his burden sank in to the lavender light, he felt himself change back to his elven form. Shaetano too stood before him in a vague elf-shape. When he spun around to bolt, Evandar grabbed his arms with both hands and twisted, hauling him back, pinning him against his chest. He could feel Shaetano tremble, then go limp.
All around them, the fields of white lilies nodded in a spectral breeze. Under the violet sky the river ran, more mist than water, it seemed. On its farther bank they could see trees, the dark green twists of young cypress.
“Where are we?” Shaetano whined. “Let me go! What are we doing here?”
“Waiting,” Evandar said. “Once before I brought souls here, and they were claimed by those they belonged to.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You'll see.”
Through the mists they heard voices that were more howl than words. Silver horns rang out, and a babble of yells and the baying of hounds.
“Horses!” Shaetano wrenched one arm free and pointed. “I beg you, let me go!”
Evandar laughed and gripped him tighter. Out of the mist galloped the Wild Hunt, mounted on silver horses and riding to silver hounds. The death-pale flowers bobbed and swayed as hooves and paws passed noisily above them. Cloaks glimmering with peacock colors wrapped the riders, and glittering hoods hid their faces. At their head, one rider wore her hood pushed back to free her pale gold hair, adorned with feathers and shells tied into a thicket of narrow braids. Her face shone like the moon, all silver, and her huge blue eyes glared under moon-arch brows. She called out a welcome, then turned her horse and rode straight for them with the Hunt flowing after. Shaetano screamed.
“My Lady of the Beasts!” Evandar cried out. “Take him!” He gathered his strength, swept Shaetano off his feet, and hurled him at her horse. With a peal of laughter she bent down and with one arm scooped him up.
“My thanks!” she called out. “Life he shall have, as the wild things know life, till he earns a true soul a-new!”
In the curl of her arm a fox quivered and yelped. With another long laugh she turned her horse and charged off across the river. In a peal of horns and the baying of hounds, the Hunt followed, plunging into the mists, echoing faintly, and then gone.
“That was well-done.” The voice sounded directly behind him. “Clever, in fact.”
Evandar spun around to find the dark-skinned old man, still carrying his knife and his apple.
“My thanks.” Evandar bowed to him. “Though I begin to wonder, good sir, if you've been following me around.”
“I've not, at that. It's just that every now and then a thought comes to me, like, saying I might want to go look you up and see what you're about.”
“Indeed? And do you come down to the world of men and Time to see what goes on there, too?”
“I don't. I can't.” He laughed, but softly. “I'm dead, you see.”
“Oh.” Evandar stared for a long moment. “I wonder why that never occurred to me. So you must be, good sir.”
“Someday I'll be born again, but until then, the physical world's as closed to me as this world is to most living men.”
“Well, that makes a twisted kind of sense. Farewell to you, good ghost.” Evandar bowed again. “I'm off to settle some other business of mine.”
Since it was too hot for a fire, servants filled the hearth with candle lanterns and hung others from the walls. In this flickering light the Council of Five gathered inside the
Council House to count the colored markers. The witnesses, Kral, Zatcheka, and Prince Dar, sat in chairs near the door. The town criers sat on the floor nearby. His morning's service earned Rhodry a place among them. He leaned back against the cool stone wall and watched as one at a time, Verrarc emptied the urns upon a table. Old Hennis sat nearby with a sheet of parchment and ink to record the tally marks. A scatter of red stones, a slightly larger scatter of white—but black stones poured from the urns and mounded on the table. Zatcheka watched with a studied indifference, but Dar was frankly grinning. He turned Rhodry's way, winked, and said in Elvish, “Looks like we've won.”
For the honor of the thing, however, the councilmen set about counting the markers. They did indeed tally by twelves, Rhodry noticed, just as Carra had predicted. With practiced hands each councilman would whisk a dozen stones onto the floor, then hold up one finger. Hennis would make a mark, and the process would begin again. The stones drummed on the floor, and the rain on the roof; the candles in the lantern danced in the draughts and sent shadows flying over the walls. Zatcheka and Dar sat comfortably, and every now and then one of them would smile.
Rakzan Kral, however, sat scowling at the scene by the table. He crossed his arms over his chest, then never moved again, never looked at anyone or at anything except the growing heaps of black stones. Finally, when a scant handful of red stones had fallen onto the table from the last red urn, Kral rose to his feet. Chief Speaker Admi left off counting and walked over to face him. At the table the other councilmen let the tally stop and turned to listen.
“Good councilmen,” Kral growled. “There be a need on me to spare us all this tedium. I do concede this decision. Your townspeople did foolishly choose to turn their backs on the strong, who would help them, and ally with those as weak as themselves. So be it. When your Wyrd falls upon you, let none say that I refused to warn you.”
“Your concession, it be welcome,” Admi said. “But this talk about Wyrd—truly, Rakzan, were I you I would watch my words more carefully.”
Kral snarled and tossed his head. The charms in his long mane of hair caught the lantern light and glinted. Unsmiling but calm, Admi caught his gaze and held it. Slowly, quietly, Rhodry rose to his feet and waited, but in only a few moments Kral looked away with another snarl.
“So be it,” Kral repeated. “I trust that your guards will let me and my man leave?”
“Of course,” Admi said. “And if you do wish to attend the trial on the morrow, you may do that as well.”
“Trial? And what justice can our priestess expect? It be clear enough, Chief Speaker, that your town did try and condemn her long ago. I do wonder why you waste effort on a trial. Why not kill her now and be done with it?”
“Kill her?” Admi said. “You know naught of our laws, Rakzan. We all did see her draw that dagger and threaten the prince's child. Her other crimes—they be whispers and rumors, not charges. Unless some person step forward with proof, then I'll not allow them into court.”
“Oh.” Kral paused, t
Admi hesitated, glanced Verrarc's way, then spoke. “Exile. Never more may she set one foot on Cerr Cawnen and our lands round about.”
“Then attend we shall.” Kral bowed, smiling. “Since as you say there be many a witness, she shall ride with us at the end of your proceeding.”
Rhodry felt his rage as fire, rippling up his spine. He stood, shaking and burning, then reached for his sword— which was, fortunately, still in Dallandra's keeping. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Prince Dar getting up. Rhodry took one stride toward Admi, but Dar smoothly stepped in front of him.
“No strife at a Deciding, Rhodry,” Dar said. “Stand back.”
Zatcheka rose and laid a heavy hand on Rhodry's arm.
“The prince, he did speak,” she said. “Why are you not obeying him?”
Rhodry shook her hand off, but he did step back, turned and walked away in fact. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, then stood at an uncovered window and looked out at the night and the rain. Behind him he could hear voices, but the rage had got into his blood and roared in his ears. He clutched the sill with both hands and tried to will himself calm. Outside the rain fell steadily, straight down in a windless summer storm.
“Rhodry?” The voice was Dallandra's. “They sent for me. Are you all right?”
Rhodry turned around. Except for Dallandra, carrying a lantern, the Council House stood empty.
“I'm not,” he said. “Where's my sword?”
“Dar's taking it back to camp.”
Rhodry swore with every foul oath he knew, but Dallandra merely waited for him to finish.
“I was right,” she said. “You were planning on killing Raena straightaway.”
“Well, ye gods! These stupid peasants and their stupid laws! They're going to let her go. Just let her ride away with Kral and her filthy sorcerer. May the Lord of Hell curse them all!”