Stone Dragon (The First Realm) (5 page)

Valandil shrugged off his robe and tossed it at me. I caught it and he walked to the middle of the lot. His skin was gray and somewhat loose, but the muscles beneath spoke of wiry power. He reached the center of the site and planted his feet in the earth.

The mounds of gravel, sand, and dirt turned into fountains. They simply fell
up
and the builder-mage vanished in the dust cloud. In less than a second he’d dug the foundations with magic, and now everything was drifting down. I couldn’t see it, but I knew that sand, slag, and gravel were mixing to form concrete. Water leaped out of the nearby ditch, overflowed its banks, and capering across the grass.

Valandil held the entire design in his head: Everything found itself falling into place. There were sparks as iron ore turned to steel in mid-air, then twisted into wire. The walls grew, layer-by-layer—thin, light, and extremely strong. We could see Valandil moving as though underwater, pushing and pulling at the swirling clouds. He was like a potter, only he worked with his entire body as he turned in place and shaped the house around him.

Sand became ropes of glass and became part of the walls. The walls steamed as the heat was pulled from them. The famous white sand returned to the earth as flakes of ultra-hard glass. The flakes blew against the walls and melded into a beautiful gloss.

Still Valandil worked. He danced around the building, adding details there and there. The muscles on his back strained against themselves. Sweat ran freely. It took fifteen minutes more, but he finished the house to thunderous applause.

It was a Working of a master, but it was
nothing
compared to the transmutation of living flesh. Shapeshifters just reconfigure their tissues, and even the best doctors can only accelerate the body’s natural healing process. Turning flesh to stone (and vice versa) was the highest of high magic. It gave you the means to conquer death, to become something like a god.

And Valandil, who always said my spells were sloppy, actually thought I could do
that?

* * *

I stared into the dragon’s amber eyes and willed it to life.

…

I focused my mind upon the dragon’s form, calling up the powers that resided in the space around me. I tensed, adding my own strength. The air thickened with magical potential.

…

I was sweating. My face was red. Sweat ran down my forehead and my irises grew and shank independently of each other. I thought I caught movement in a corner. Still nothing.

…

“Keep going,” Valandil said.

I took another tack. I focused my Sight upon the rocky horror. Incredibly, the long-dead mage had preserved the dragon’s cell structure even as he mineralized the flesh. It looked like I had a chance to revive this gigantic lawn ornament. I concentrated on the structure and my mind opened like a flower.

There were
trillions
of cells in the dragon’s body, and for a long moment of agony I could see them
all at once
, everything working and humming and ALIVE. I saw everything.
Everything
. For a time I forgot myself, so intense was my need to dream a dragon into the waking world. I saw a fossilized heart pump crystallized blood through arteries of glass. I saw brittle bones move and fragile muscles flex—I saw myself clenching my hands and crying. The ground steamed around my knees. The air grew hot and my tears boiled away. I saw the heart, that red beating fist, as it pumped fire through arteries of sand. I saw… I saw…

I think I screamed. For sure I fell back, clawing at my eyes, trying to get at the afterimages of a billion
billion
animal cells. I screamed and toppled, and just before I blacked out the dragon reared its head and shattered its neck. The head fell free, smashing into the ground in a thousand pieces.

* * *

“Angrod? Can you hear me, boy?”

I opened my eyes. Valandil loomed over with the lantern, looking concerned.

“How long was I out?”

“Not long. I just elevated your legs.”

“My throat is sore. What are my legs resting on?”

“A piece of dragon.”

I tried to sit up—and instantly regretted it. I lay back, suddenly dizzy, and automatically drew strength from the ground.

The background magic exists all around us, but it’s helpful to frame it in terms of the four elements. If you’re working earth magic, you draw power from the earth, and so on.

I lay there, eyes closed, as my mind reasserted itself and the nausea fell away. I got to my feet without help. My feet had indeed been resting on a bit of dragon. The head and much of the neck were scattered all over the floor. I opened my Sight and looked at the rest of the body.

“It’s dead,” I said. “No more aura. So much for prophecies.”

The old man looked like he might cry. I’d have patted him on the shoulder, but we weren’t that close. He shook his head. “Centuries in stasis, only to end up like this.”

“I tried, Master. Can’t say I didn’t make an effort. Hey, maybe this was what they meant by a dragon
bowing
to me? You must admit, its head can’t get any lower to the ground.”

“Did you see how it moved at the end? Almost like it was coming to its feet… how do you feel?”

“Like my brain grew two sizes. It’s worse than a Monday hangover.”

“We should be going. I’m going to need my supporters more than ever. To build your case. We’ll need to establish a clear line of succession, one way or another.”

“Oh, joy.”

We left that dark and lonely cavern, now a tomb.

* * *

Master and apprentice were long gone when the spy made his move.

He walked in absolute dark, trusting in his Sight to keep him clear of the debris. This far underground the temperature gradients weren’t enough for him to see by infrared, so he relied on echolocation. Clicking his tongue, he found the tunnel entrance and started for the surface.

Now
the cavern was a tomb.

* * *

Findecano Elanesse opened the door to his study. It was night, and dinner was long since over.

It had gone smoothly, as his wife’s dinner parties tended to do. Connections had been made, alliances maintained, and truces reaffirmed. The food had been good, too. Afterward he had spent a couple of hours discussing things with his wife. They chatted until it was time for his private meditation.

The study was in the tallest tower of the house. He stared out of the western window, which overlooked the sea and gave him a view of the moonlight on the waves. It was a colorless sort of light and he much preferred the glow of a bustling Drystone. The lighthouse, further up the coast, was a beacon in many ways.

He took in the view for a moment, then turned to his personal library. He took a book from the shelf and ran a hand over the buttery leather. He opened, the book, stroked his beard—and hurled a bolt of power. It smashed into empty air and suddenly the spy was on the floor, half-frozen and chattering.

“H-hold it, milord, hold it! Ch-chill out!”

Findecano glowered at him. “Dragon-slayer. Mage-killer. King’s assassin. What do you think you’re doing, standing veiled in my private chambers?”

The spy got to his feet, brushing ice from his cloak. “I was only keeping operational secrecy. Wasn’t sure you’d be alone.”

“You may be my agent, but I haven’t forgotten who trained you. The Elendil Order does not play well with others.”

“I said I was sorry, milord.”

“No, you didn’t. Never mind. Report.”

The spy recounted what he had seen in the cave by the sea. Findecano poured them cups of wine and heated them in his hands. The two elves sat across from each other, in front of the fireplace and sipped from the steaming cups.

“So you’re saying the old crackpot finally found his prince?”

“And it’s his own apprentice too,” the spy said. “It seems Valandil suspected a royal connection even before he accepted Angrod.”

“And now the lad knows? This is unfortunate.”

The spy shrugged. “So we kill him and the old man too. No worries—I can make it look like all sorts of accidents. The good news is that dragons are officially extinct. That was almost certainly the last one alive, and now it’s gravel. With your permission I will tell this to the head of my order.”

Findecano nodded. “It’s good to be rid of those terrible reptiles.”

“What about the old fool and the young fool? When shall we be rid of them?”

“I will think on this,” Findecano said, and sipped his wine. “The timing must be right. You may go now.”

“Yes, milord.” The spy finished his drink and got up to leave, but stopped. “I was wondering how you saw through my veil. I could’ve sworn it was perfect.”

The wizard laughed. “It nearly was. You bent the light around you, synchronized your breathing to mine, and even smoothed the air currents—but you couldn’t stop your feet from pressing on the floor. I could
feel
your weight as if we were walking on a drum. You would have done better to stand next to something heavy, like the bookshelf.”

“And then you wouldn’t have sensed me?”

“No, but it still would’ve been the smart thing to do. I advise you to practice the rest of the week, because I’ll need you to shadow Valandil at the Governor’s Ball.

“Will do, milord. I’ll be going now.”

As Valandil watched, the spy exuded droplets from his pores. The pure water gathered on his skin and clothes, which remained dry. The water became a film, a bubble covering his entire body. It became a mirror. It turned transparent. The camouflage was complete.

Valandil nodded in approval. As long as they both stood still, the spy was invisible. The distortion in the air bowed and the spy teleported away.

The Lord Governor of Drystone shook his head and turned back to his book,
How to Make Friends and Outlive Your Enemies
.

Chapter 6

I woke up and groaned. It was as if an entire dwarven mining crew was digging for treasure in my skull. I could’ve saved them the trouble—there wasn’t anything valuable in there.

I’d just managed to swing out of bed and start washing off the eye gunk when the water basin turned into a goddamn face.

“Waaaugh!” I said, and fell on my arse.

The sending was the head and shoulders of a beautiful blonde elf girl. It looked around, unseeing, and began to speak. “Angrod Veneanar? The Lord Governor would like to see you later. It’s regarding your audience.”

“My what? The Lord Governor? What have I done?”

It was Findecano Elanesse, no question. Only his office could get past the wards in every house. His people couldn’t spy on us, but they
could
scare the morning piss out of me. The secretary continued:

“Remember, all graduating apprentices are required to undergo an exit interview at the Mage’s Citadel. Lord Governor Elanesse has graciously accepted the responsibility. He will await you at your earliest convenience. Say eight of the clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

She looked down. I’m sure she was just guessing, but for a second I thought she could see me. She smiled. “Thank you for your time.”

The shaping of water splashed back into the basin.

“Bloody hell,” I said. “I’m not going to wash my face in that.”

* * *

The Mage’s Citadel is in the Merchant’s Quarter, not because mages cater to merchants, but because that’s where the best restaurants are. It used to have its own district far from the rest of the city, but then the elder wizards got tired of the commute and relocated their headquarters. And when I say
relocated
, I mean the massive fortress had been teleported in one piece.

It loomed over the shops and temples, a gleaming tower of arcane lore. Most buildings only had a thin superceramic coating, but the Citadel was plated in the stuff. Its walls laughed at catapults.

Then again, considering how it was packed full of combat magicians, each worth a battery of siege engines, the armored architecture seemed rather overkill. What force would be foolish enough to attack it?

I made my way down the cobblestoned streets—the citadel was warded against teleportation. Also, you don’t want to appear suddenly in a roomful of combat mages. I could already see them as I drew closer to the building. They swaggered in their gray and black robes, the air crackling with the spell-glyphs they held at the forefront of their minds. They looked at my white apprentice’s robes and sneered. Gods, but I hated them.

All magic users know a few defensive tricks, but combat mages specialize in offense. They cultivate hair-trigger tempers, the better to channel destructive energies. They favor either fire magic, for obvious reasons, or air magic, so they can hover around shooting lightning.

Every Great House has a few on the payroll because they offer the best firepower for weight. At the same time, the job doesn’t attract the sanest types, and it certainly does nothing for their emotional stability. They often fight among themselves while everyone else runs for cover. Two combat mages will face each other across the street and stare each other down. The first one to blink gets a fireball in the eyes.

They like to do this at noon, but this doesn’t discourage the lunch crowd at all. Say what you will about Drystone, but their gourmets are hardcore.

Now and again I saw a red robe. The black and gray robes avoided them, and with good reason—you don’t get reach the third and highest rank of combat mage without spilling lots of blood. Each red mage was a master of at least two schools of magic, either of which could turn a stronghold into a crater.

The most unnerving thing about them is their utter calm. They’ve bluffed down entire armies with nothing but a steely gaze.

The Citadel stood apart from the other buildings, in the center of its own park. There were decorative trees here and there, but I knew they would be razed to the ground as soon as there was trouble. The Citadel may be a school, but first it was a fortress.

The guards let me in and I found my way up to one of the lecture halls. I was fifteen minutes early but the Lord Governor was already waiting.