Realm of Dragons

Magic. Was that what had happened back there? Had he really made the prince’s hand move? Or had he imagined it? Did the prince just have a cramp, perhaps?

The memory brought back other, less comfortable memories, from when Devin was a boy. Memories hovering in the outskirts of his brain, foggy; he was not even sure if they were real memories or just fantasies, dreams. But they were there, still. Moments, flashes of a power Devin had wielded. Of others looking at him as if he were different.

Was he?

His father would be so angry, not just at the thought that he’d lost his job, but at the way he had done it. Devin knew he would shout and rage, demand to know what he’d been thinking. The idea that he had been protecting Nem wouldn’t be justification enough, because his father would only think about the things that might follow for all of them.

He couldn’t go home until he’d worked out what to do next, that much was clear.

Yet what could he do next?

Devin didn’t know, so he kept walking. He made his way into the marketplace that sat before the House of Merchants, the large, open space essentially just an extension of the commerce that went on within. Inside, merchants would get loans to finance their expeditions or their businesses; outside, they would sell the fruits of those efforts, trying to recoup enough to start the whole thing over again.

There was a festival attitude there today, with jugglers and musicians in the spaces among the stalls, while criers called out in celebration of Princess Lenore’s upcoming wedding.

“The king has declared feasting at the castle, the outer yards open to all!” a man called out as Devin passed.

Right then, feasting sounded like a good idea. As he walked among the stalls, Devin could smell the scents of food cooking in a dozen spots, open-air stalls set with fires to allow them to prepare meat or stew for those who passed, but Devin was fairly sure he couldn’t afford it right now. There were brightly colored cloths dyed by the weavers and farmers who had set up in the hope of selling their stock.

Devin was still too stunned to take it all in, though he looked around in the vain hope that someone there might need help with their work. Occasionally, there were fairs where the merchants sought out the strong and the willing for whatever tasks they had. Now, one of those seemed like the best chance Devin had of ever finding work again.

The full impact of losing his place in the House of Weapons started to hit home then. Devin had been on the way to being a master smith; everyone knew he understood metal and the way it worked as well as anyone there. And in the House of Weapons, he could have kept training with weapons, could have kept working to be the warrior he wanted to be.

Now he had nothing. He had no job, and probably no chance of getting another. When people learned that he had been dismissed from the House of Weapons, they would never give him another position, except in the lowliest of jobs.

His stomach was rumbling as he passed an inn, but he stopped himself from going in. He didn’t have the coin to spare, and he doubted his parents would be generous with more. Already, his father occasionally dropped hints that it was time he was finding a home of his own.

Devin kept walking, past the inn, on into the city. He crossed another of the bridges, the water rushing by beneath, guards looking him over as if trying to decide if he was someone they should stop. This area had larger, wealthier-looking homes that were mostly half-timbered, the shops having actual glass in their windows, the cobbles of the streets in a better state of repair.

Devin’s path took him past the entwined towers of the House of Knowledge, and briefly he stopped, staring at the doors there, which stood at the top of a flight of steps, behind wrought iron gates that had clearly been worked on by a multitude of different smiths. An inscription above stated Let those who seek understanding enter in peace.

Devin felt the part of this that he’d been avoiding starting to rise up in him. The loss of his job, and the brief fight with a prince had been bad enough, but one part of it seemed to defy understanding. There had been a moment where things had seemed to stretch out, where he had made Prince Vars drop his weapon without even touching him.

He’d done magic.

There was no other explanation for it, yet it made no sense. How could someone like him, low born, just a smith, do magic?

Maybe they would have an answer in the House of Knowledge. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t; after all, the kingdom seemed to only have one true sorcerer. Inexorably, Devin found his eyes drawn toward the castle, and to the tower that stood over part of it, sticking out over the water around it in a way that looked tenuous, even dangerous. Devin knew that the occupant of that tower would have answers for him, had even come to him once before, in his dreams.

Suddenly, a sense of purpose, of direction, came rushing to him all at once. Of course. His dream. Master Grey. He had to see Master Grey, had to ask him what was going on. No one else would be able to explain it all.

Yet how was he supposed to get in to see the king’s sorcerer?

A crier shouted again, declaring the feasting once more, and Devin knew that it was his best chance. Setting his eyes on the castle, he started to walk, making his way inward through the circles of the city. He crossed more bridges, and now guards started to frown more, half stepping in front of him as he passed.

“I’m on my way to the feasting,” Devin said each time, and each time they stepped back, as if it were some password to let even a commoner like him into the most exalted parts of the city. Soon, the outer walls of the castle were rising above him, tall and gray and sheer as a cliff face, even though they were festooned with banners celebrating the noble lines attending the celebrations.

Once more, the guards stepped back for Devin, although this time, one of them called to him as he passed.

“Just remember that there’s none but the nobles allowed in the great hall proper. Keep yourself to the outer courtyards with all the others.”

“I will,” Devin said, and set off in the direction of the sounds of festivities in progress.

Even in the outer courtyards, things were more lavish than he could have imagined. There were people everywhere, although most seemed to be merchants and burghers rather than truly common folk. There were whole roast boars, and trestle tables set with more food than Devin had seen before. He was more than hungry enough to grab a wooden trencher and pile it high with swan and grouse, buttered parsnips and suet dumplings. Picking at it gave him an excuse to wander through the crowd, avoiding the dancing as a trio of minstrels played, trying to work out what he was going to do next.

Right now, Devin was close, but not close enough. If he was going to get to see Master Grey, he would have to access the rest of the castle, and that was impossible while he was stuck outside its inner spaces.

I could just walk up to a guard and tell them who I am, who I want to see, he thought to himself. Devin could guess how that could go, though. They would think he was drunk, or turn him away on principle, or… or worse, it would attract the wrong attention. Devin doubted it would go well if Prince Vars learned that the boy he’d fought with was there, in the castle, right under his nose.

All he could do for the moment was wait. Periodically, the doors leading to the great hall opened, either to let servants through with more food, or let them back carrying empty platters. Each time they opened, Devin looked at the room beyond, searching for any sign of the sorcerer.

Suddenly, he saw him there, standing in the middle of the hall, staring back. Master Grey’s eyes locked with his, and Devin was sure there was a moment of acknowledgment, of understanding, of connection.

Devin found himself drawn forward by that gaze, walking deeper into the festivities beyond.

In that instant, Devin felt rough hands on him.

He turned, stunned to see guards there, hands grabbing him, detaining him.

“What have I done?” Devin asked.

But they didn’t respond.

Instead, they dragged him away, backward, away from Master Grey.

Devin was sure they were escorting him out of the feasting hall for some reason, perhaps back outside the castle walls. Perhaps he wasn’t dressed appropriately.

But a jolt of fear ran through him as he realized they were not dragging him out of the castle, but into it. They were heading down a dark corridor, toward a steel door.

And what could only be a dungeon.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Greave didn’t understand how anyone could have celebrations when there was clearly so much sadness and evil in the world. He sat in the castle’s library, away from the need to be involved in any of it, knowing that his presence would only bring down the others there. His father, in particular, seemed to look on him as an intrusion, and had since the day his mother had fainted and fallen and struck her head on a step, the blow sharp, and sudden, and fatal…

“I will not think of it,” Greave said. “I will not.”

It was hard not to think of his mother, though, when he saw the echo of her features every time he looked in the mirror. His brothers looked more like their father, with Rodry’s blond hair the only hint of her, but Greave… well, his features were as soft and delicate as a man’s might get, his hair falling in waves, his hands not calloused by swordplay and his body slender at twenty. Every glance at himself brought back memories of the blood, and then Greave had to retreat here, to the only place that seemed safe.

The library was one of the largest outside of the House of Knowledge, with shelf after shelf of tomes stacked high, copied by the finest hands of the scholars, or by the monks of the Isle of Leveros. There were works here that dated back before the division of the kingdoms, and Greave found that it was the only place in which he felt truly at home.

He started to read through Brother Marcus’s Quotations on a Forthright Life, since the long dead monk was considered an authority, and since Greave had made it his mission to read through the entire contents of the library, but he found that he couldn’t get very far before his thoughts raised natural objections.

“‘A good man is upright and willing to trust others,’” he read, then shook his head. “But what if the people he trusts are not worthy of it, or betray him? And this… ‘a man should strive for hope in all things.’ Was he not looking at the world when he wrote this?”

Greave set the book aside and turned to LeNere’s On the Machinations of Government, long derided by the House of Knowledge as simply a defense of evil actions. Greave could see that, and he could certainly never imagine the destruction of entire families that the man seemed to argue for, but there were passages that simply seemed to speak to him.

“‘The world is a bleak, cruel place,’” he read, “‘and a man involved at court must recognize the truth of this. To imagine it happier, to trust or to be kind to one’s enemies, is not a virtue, but a vice, for one with power must protect the lives of those he serves by any means.’”

Was serves the right word? Did LeNere truly conceive of rulers as serving those they ruled? Perhaps Greave would write something on it and send it to the House of Scholars to prove how much he deserved to be there, or perhaps he would write a play where a ruler who truly believed that was taken advantage of by his entire court…

“Greave? Are you going to miss all of the celebrations?”

He turned at the sound of Nerra’s voice, standing and going to hug his sister. There was always something so delicate and fragile about Nerra that it almost made his heart break.

“I’m hardly the best at them,” he said.

“Because you don’t get enough practice,” she replied. “I’m sure there will be any number of beautiful noblewomen down there. Perhaps you could dance with one.”

Greave shook his head. He couldn’t imagine them being interested in him. Couldn’t imagine anyone seeing him as something other than an impediment to their happiness. “What about you?” he asked. “You look like you’ve been out in the forest again.”

“I have,” Nerra said. “It’s the only place I can be and not worry about people watching me.”

“You had your sleeves up?” Greave asked, suddenly worried. He knew about his sister’s condition, knew enough to know that people would call for Nerra’s death if they found out.

“It’s fine,” Nerra said. “I’m fine…”

“You don’t sound certain,” Greave said.

“I… had a fainting fit,” Nerra said.

“Another?” Greave shook his head. He was sure they were getting closer together. “You see, that’s another reason for me not to go down to the party. I need to stay here and look through more of the books in case there’s a cure for you.”

“Don’t you think someone would have found it if it were here to find?” Nerra countered. “You’re just trying to get out of dancing.”

“So you’ll be running straight down to the hall?” Greave countered. They both knew she wouldn’t. That many people always raised too many risks of someone seeing the scale sickness on her arms.

“I need to find Physicker Jarran,” Nerra said. “I… need to discuss some things with him.”

“About your condition?” Of course it was. The healer was one of the only ones outside the family who knew about Nerra’s sickness. He was also the only one who had been able to so much as slow it. But even he didn’t have a cure.

“Promise me you won’t spend all your time here?” Nerra said. “Lenore would love to see you down there, I’m sure.”

“I’ll try,” Greave promised, although he knew he wouldn’t make it. He had too many books to get through.

***

It seemed to Greave that a man could read for a lifetime and not find what he needed in the castle’s library.

“I will find it, though,” Greave promised himself. He knew he had not always been the best brother, but in this, he would not fail his sister.

He plunged into the stacks, hunting for medical tomes the way Rodry might go into a forest after a boar. Greave set aside works on the higher forms of philosophy, on the correct way to cut a canal system, on the supposed foundations of magic, looking only for something that promised the secret workings of the body. Greave half-remembered a text with a green cover by the ancient physician Velius, and set about searching.

Of course, there were many green covers in the library, but Greave worked his way through them, one by one, setting aside a tome showing a sword master’s techniques, a work on the design of the bridges so vital for Royalsport.

Come on, he willed himself. Remember the title. Remember.

Then suddenly, as he poured through books, it came to him:

On The Body.

Greave shouted aloud in delight, thrilled it came back to him. A slim, green volume.

Yet recalling the title was not, he knew, the same as having the book itself. Surely, it must be in here somewhere?

With even greater urgency, Greave poured through stacks of books.

“It has to be here,” he said. “It has to be here.”

“What has to be?” a woman’s voice asked.

Greave looked up and instantly froze. The young woman who stood before him was as close to perfect as he had ever seen. She had to be around his age, slender and red-haired, with green eyes that seemed to be questioning the world around her with every glance. She wore a dress of grays and silvers that she somehow managed to make look anything but ordinary, and her smile… her smile was the most beautiful thing Greave had seen. The jewelry she wore suggested that she was noble born, for who else could afford so many gold and silver rings and chains? She had a ribbon of the same silver twined into her hair, the end of it spilling down over her shoulder.

“I… I’m looking for a book,” Greave managed, remembering to breathe. “I’m sorry, who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for you,” she said. Her voice was as beautiful as the rest of her, seeming to sing with the notes of the country far beyond the city. “My name is Aurelle Hardacre.”

Greave recognized the name of a minor noble family at once, but he still couldn’t fathom the rest of her presence.

“You’re looking for me?” he said. It made no sense.

“Where my family has its estate, they sing songs about the beautiful prince who sits in his library, wrapped in sorrow,” Aurelle said. She glanced away for a moment. “You sounded too good to be true, yet here you are.”

Too good to be true? Greave didn’t know about that. He knew that some people found his features attractive, but he’d never been ruggedly handsome in the same way his brothers were, and anyone who did like him quickly drifted away once they learned about the true him.

“Shall I help you to pick some of those up?” Aurelle asked, moving to assist Greave in lifting the books that he’d scattered so far in his search.

“No, you don’t have to, it’s all right,” he managed. How could the presence of a woman he’d only just met make him feel as if the world were tilting this way and that? It made no sense.

“I want to help,” Aurelle said. “Oh look! A copy of Francesca di Vere’s love poems! They’re so beautiful, aren’t they?”

Greave wanted to say that none of them was as beautiful as her, but he didn’t have the words for it. “I haven’t read them,” he managed instead. It occurred to him that this was a chance to learn something about her. “Are you here for the wedding?”

“I am,” Aurelle said. “My family is just important enough to be invited. Although I’m quite lost here. The castle is far larger than I expected, and as for the city…”

“Perhaps I could show you around,” Greave blurted, even though he hadn’t meant to do it. Even though he had so many more important things that he should be doing.

“I’d like that,” Aurelle said. She held out her arm. “Now? Since you’ve finished looking for your book, I mean?”

Greave knew he couldn’t tell her that the love poems weren’t what he was searching for, that he still had a book to find, without explaining what, and why. Well, he could, but then it would look as though he had no interest in her, and that simply wasn’t the truth. Instead, he stood straight, took the book of Francesca di Vere’s poems, and took hold of Aurelle’s arm.

“I would like that too,” he said. After all, how long could this take? Whatever secret was hidden away in the library, it would still be there when they were done.

And he would find it, whatever it was.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nerra went to Physicker Jarran’s quarters and knocked, the strange scent of the place striking her as she did it. There was always a mix of rot and brightness about the place, the sharpness of the herbs he worked with mixed in with the decay of those bodies of criminals he kept for dissection.

“Enter, enter!” he called out in a jolly voice. For someone who worked with the dead and the dying so much, he always managed to sound more cheerful than he had a right to.

Nerra pushed open the door and stepped inside, trying to leave it as long as possible before taking another breath there. The quarters were large, on the bottom level of the castle, with window slits above whose light was patterned by fragments of stained glass. Most of the light came from candles kept in jars, carefully just far enough away from whatever the physicker was working on in that moment that they wouldn’t set light to it.

The room had probably once been a crypt or a chapel, with slabs that now held bodies in various states of dissection, and one whole end of the room given over to living quarters, a layer of rugs and carpets marking it out as different from the rest. There was a desk there, a large board filled with chalked observations, a bed, and a table with chairs around it.

Physicker Jarran was a large man whose frame was barely contained by the robes of the House of Knowledge. Currently, he wore an apron over them, and was working on cutting up the arm of a body on one of the nearer slabs. Nerra tried not to stare in horror at that sight, even though she’d been down here plenty of times before for lessons.

“Why are you cutting up someone’s arm?” Nerra asked, and she was sure some of her disgust at it leaked through.

“The House of Knowledge says that no knowledge is ever wasted,” Physicker Jarran said. “In this case, by better understanding the workings of the arm, I might be able to do more to help those who have injured theirs. It is a study that would help you greatly, if you truly wish to heal others.”

Most of the herb lore Nerra knew, she’d learned from the physicker. To her parents, it had just been her taking an interest in her treatment, yet the physicker had quickly seen her interest and taught her far more, to the point where Nerra could recognize almost any plant in the forest and its properties. Even so…

“No, thank you,” she said. Some things just weren’t for her.

“I wasn’t expecting you here for a lesson today,” Physicker Jarran said.

All of Nerra’s brothers and sisters had taken lessons from the physicker, since as a graduate of the House of Knowledge, he could teach reading, writing, history, and philosophy as easily as any scholar of the House of Knowledge. Nerra’s lessons had featured increasing amounts of herb lore once he had seen she was interested in it, along with knowledge of other places she knew she would never live long enough to see. The physicker was also one of the few people who knew the truth of her condition, since he’d been the one trying to at least slow it for years now.

“I don’t have a lesson today,” Nerra said. Suddenly she was nervous, finding herself wondering if she should be there at all. “I… guess I’m supposed to be at all the feasting.”

“With so much feasting, who could attend it all? Even me?” Physicker Jarran countered, with a pat of his stomach. “Why are you here, though, Nerra? It’s not to join in my research.”

“I…” Nerra wasn’t sure whether to just come out and tell him what she’d found or not. She thought back to her worries in the forest: that someone would take the dragon’s egg and destroy it, or dissect the dragon within. She knew she couldn’t take that much of a chance, but she still needed to know more than she did.

“What do you know about dragons?” Nerra asked.

“Dragons?” Physicker Jarran asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’d have thought that was more Master Grey’s field than mine.”

“You know he won’t answer,” Nerra said. Master Grey rarely said anything about dragons, even though the rumors said that he’d seen them, fought them…

Physicker Jarran took off his apron and came over to the living area, sitting down in one of the chairs at the table. It creaked under his bulk.

“I may know some things about them, certainly. I have read of them, in the House of Knowledge.”

“What can you tell me about them?” Nerra asked. “And about their eggs?”

“Their eggs?” Physicker Jarran said.

“How would I know for sure if one were real, for example?” Nerra asked.

“That is easy,” the physicker said. “It wouldn’t be. Preserved dragon eggs are so rare these days…” He spread his hands apart. “A real one would be about this big, if I recall the books correctly. It would have veins of red or gold or green running through it. The shell color would reflect the color of the creature within, and… well, the sources say that the egg would be warm of all things.”

Nerra’s breath caught. Every detail fit with that of the egg she’d found.

“This is a curiously specific thing to ask about, Nerra,” Physicker Jarran said. “Has someone offered you a cast of a shell? I know that there is a market for such things, and people think they know what to look for. They see a large egg and assume it must be a dragon’s.”

“Well, I wanted to know more about dragons generally,” Nerra said. The more she could find out, the better. “Where do they come from? How do they grow? What do they eat?”

“Generally, anything they want,” Physicker Jarran said, and it took Nerra a moment to realize that it was his idea of a joke. “According to the books, dragons are creatures of power. In both the magical and every other sense. Their very beings are conduits for power, letting them soar, and shape that energy into fire or lightning or mist or shadow. They are long lived, each living a thousand years if they do not die in combat, starting to wane only in the years after the dragon moon. They are said to roost among volcanoes and places of fire, the heat of them warming their eggs when they lay them, just before they die.”