And Dev had been fighting mysterious wild mages down in the uncharted southern reaches of the Aldabreshin Archipelago. Did Planir know about this? Surely such news should have been brought before the Council of Hadrumal? Untamed magic was a threat to every mage, those in Hadrumal and those living less exalted lives among the mundane populace of the mainland. What would Kalion make of such news? What use would he make of such news, and the realisation that Planir had kept such a secret from the Council?
The memory of the dragon’s burning eyes drove such thoughts of petty alliance and connivance out of her head. Had the dragon been summoned by some wild wizard, using whatever lore Otrick had kept such a close secret? How else could it have come there?
Dev wanted to know how such a thing could be done.
Why? To confront this mysterious mage with a dragon under his own command? Could he do it, if he had the lore? Was he strong enough in his wizardry to make such a challenge? Dev had certainly been talented, and supremely arrogant besides, when they’d both been apprentices in Hadrumal. What had he learned during his years of snooping around the Archipelago? What could he have discovered in realms where death was the penalty for using magic?
Otrick had been able to summon dragons but he was dead and ashes in a funerary urn. Dev wanted to know how to summon dragons but he might very well be dead and food for the fishes of the southern seas. Who else was thinking about dragons, across the whole of wizardry? No one, not as far as Velindre knew.
What if she rediscovered this lore? What if she learned how to summon a dragon and bend it to her will? More than that, what if she was the one who put paid to this wild magic coming up from the south, saving Hadrumal from a threat more destructive than any whirlwind? Wouldn’t that earn her a place on the Council as of right? Wouldn’t that make Planir choke on his choice of Rafrid for Cloud Master? Wouldn’t that silence the whispers behind hands raised in the libraries and the sniggers behind her back as she passed through the halls?
So where was the lore? Velindre’s gaze slid to the door leading to Otrick’s spartan sleeping chamber. It wasn’t a memory of that winter night that spurred her to her feet but recollection of a distant summer. She had been revelling in the first maturity of her magic and in the flattering attention of Otrick, then in his prime and so different from the callow youths who were her fellow pupils. Walking slowly across the study, she pushed at the bedroom door.
She had been asleep under a thin linen sheet, no coverlet necessary in the still heat that was slow to fade even in the late watches of the night. Something had woken her and she had found herself alone in the bed. Otrick had been sitting in the window seat, relaxed in his nakedness and absorbed in his writing. She had watched him for a few moments before falling asleep again. His hair had still been dark then, not yet faded to the icy grey of his latter years. Not that white hair had made him look any less piratical or diminished any of his appetites.
Cross with herself, Velindre brushed aside such reminiscences and walked quickly to the window seat. She threw aside the long, flat cushion and tried to lift the planking beneath. After a sharp tug, the wood came free and she summoned a tongue of magelight to illuminate the hollow beneath. Small books bound in brown leather were stacked in piles ten deep. She reached for the topmost, then, changing her mind, delved deeper, down to the bottom of the hidey-hole.
She stood up with her prize and crossed over to sit on the bare mattress of the bed, flicking through the pages to see Otrick’s familiar irrepressible scrawl, now sorely faded. The magelight blinked out at the snap of her fingers and reappeared to hang by her head, shining a fierce light on the open book. Returning to the beginning of the journal, Velindre began reading with steady concentration. Some considerable number of pages later, a note caught her eye.
Dragons would appear from time to time among the crags of the Cape of Winds that is the last reach of southernmost Tormalin. No one knew where they came from. Few knew the secret of killing them. Those that did could live like kings for a year on the proceeds, if they ever brought the spoils back to a safe harbour. That’s what Azazir has been saying, anyway.
Velindre turned the page and read on, oblivious to the storm tearing the clouds to rags and drenching the city beyond the windows with rain.
Chapter Seven
Is this my death? Burned to oblivion with magical fire? No one foresaw that for me.
What does it mean for Chazen, for Daish, for all those of my blood? Will this portent be robbed of its force if no one knows the manner of my death?
White light blinded him, searing through eyes screwed tight shut. Heat enveloped him, hotter than the murderous noon of the dry season’s height, menacing and oppressive. It was pressing in from all sides, through his armour, through the padded tunic beneath, to scald his skin with his own sweat. This can only be the start of the pain. How bad will it get before I am truly dead?
He felt as light as ash blown on the wind. There was no hard deck beneath his feet, nor cold sea drowning him even as it quenched the all-consuming fire. Then Kheda found one sensation to puzzle him as he waited for the final agony. Whoever is holding my hand is going to break my fingers if they’re not careful.
The light went out like a snuffed candle. Kheda’s legs buckled and he fell to his hands and knees, feeling soft leaf mould instead of deck planking. The smell of hot metal prompted confused recollection of a visit to Ulla Safar’s famous foundries. Raising a shaking hand to scrub the dizziness from his eyes, he burned his forearm on the breast of his hauberk, the sweat coating him hissing against the hot steel. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit.’ Dev’s profanity slowly penetrated Kheda’s bemusement.
The warlord opened his eyes to see the wizard frantically unbuckling his sword belt. The steel of Dev’s hauberk was blued all across the front, like one Kheda recalled a novice warrior leaving incautiously close to a hot fire.
He couldn’t help himself. Kheda laughed, but as he sat back on his heels, his own chain mail seared the back of his knees even through his trousers. He scrambled to his feet with a curse of his own as Dev began struggling out of his hauberk, doubled over and shaking himself like a wet hound. ‘Let me help.’ Risala stretched out trembling hands towards Kheda, the blue of her eyes rimmed with white and her jaw clenched tight.
No, it’s too hot.’ Kheda used the tail of his belt to push the leather back through the buckle, dark curves scored on the leather by the hot brass. Bending over, he shed the hauberk in one swift movement. It hit the ground with a rushing rattle and a faint charred smell. Kheda straightened up, panting, and ripped off his steaming under-tunic, the cotton blackened. The touch of the gentle breeze on his bare skin was both welcome and painful.
How did we get here? Magic—it must have been. One more debt you owe Dev. One more taint to foul you.
They were in a small clearing in the middle of a dense tangle of forest.
No, don’t.’ He caught Risala’s hands as she moved to embrace him. ‘I’m burned. Are you?’ he asked urgently.
No,’ she said with belated realisation.
‘You can thank your lucky stars you weren’t wearing any armour.’ Dev stood bare-chested like Kheda, holding well-muscled arms away from his sturdy body. ‘Curse it, this smarts.’