The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) (8 page)

When he realized what his unconscious logic had been his jaw tightened, his teeth pressed hard shut.

Lord Wither had lived for centuries with the heart of the dragon—how many centuries Arlian was not entirely certain, but at least eight hundred years had passed since Lord Wither reached manhood. The venom had festered and grown within him, and now, while his shape was as human as ever, Arlian knew that the toxic ichor of a dragon flowed in his veins where human blood had once been. By now Wither was surely as much dragon as human in many ways—

and dragons did not abide direct sunlight; they dwelt in caverns and emerged only when the skies were darkened with clouds. He still stood, hands on the drapes, when Venlin announced, "Lord Wither."

Arlian's hands dropped, and he turned to face his guest.

Lord Wither was a stooped old man; never tall to begin with, he was shrunk and bent with age, fitting the name he had borne for centuries. The name had originally been applied to him not only because of the ravages of time, but because his right arm was shriveled and almost lifeless, ruined in the draconic encounter that had given him his extended lifespan.

Still, despite his stature and condition, Lord Wither was not a man to be trifled with. Beneath his thick mass of gray hair blazed a pair of fierce, deep-set green eyes, intimidating in their intensity; the heart of the dragon was strong in him.

He was master of more ordinary power as well—political connections, and immense wealth that was reflected In his attire. He wore his hair pulled back in a simple ponytail nothing like the current fashionable styles, but his clothing was in the latest mode, and ex-travagantly well made. His coat was green velvet trimmed with gold, with long white lace cuffs and a collar faced with white silk; the sleeves and cuffs were skillfully tailored to obscure his deformity. The shirt beneath was white as snow, elaborately ruffled, and his breeches were fine black wool.

Over his coat he wore a black leather sword belt set with emeralds, and the left-handed sword hilt protruding from the beaded scabbard was inlaid with silver, pearl, and diamond. Wearing a sword into another lord's home would ordinarily have been a grave breach of etiquette, but an exception was invariably made for Lord Wither; the customary excuse was that it would be unkind to ask a person with but one useful hand to unbuckle and buckle a belt, but Arlian was fairly sure that it was really because no one dared argue with such a man. Those eyes were enough to deter anyone.

Lord Wither stepped into the room, and Venlin quietly closed the door from without, leaving the two lords alone in the study, standing a few feet apart, gazing intently at one another.

"Lord Wither," Arlian said, taking a step away from the window. "How good to see you!" He did not extend a hand; Wither, with his crippled arm, never shook hands.

"Let us dispense with the usual polite lies," Wither replied, looking up at Arlian's face, and more specifically at the scar on Arlian's cheek. Wither's voice was deeper and richer than one would expect from so small a man. "You are not pleased to see me at all, and we both know it."

"You misjudge, my lord," Arlian said. "I will not pretend to take any great pleasure in your company for its own sake, but I am nonetheless glad to see you. I am grateful for your assistance upon my arrival at the city gate; I acknowledge myself in your debt, and I prefer to pay my debts promptly. Further, I am hopeful that we may be able to exchange information or other intangibles to our mutual benefit."

"I'm not here for intangibles," Wither snapped.

"What I want from you is quite real and substantial."

"Indeed," Arlian replied. "And what would that be?"

"Dragon venom," Wither said. "Lord Enziet promised to fetch me venom, and
you,
I am informed, are Enziet's heir and successor. You pursued him into the Desolation, and saw where he died. You are a dealer in magic, you've made your fortune at it, and you are a dragonheart obsessed with gaining vengeance upon the dragons—you would surely not have passed up a chance to learn more of their secrets. Furthermore, I can see with my own eyes that you have encountered a dragon's venom since last we met, for nothing else could have scarred a dragonheart's face that way. If anyone can provide the venom Enziet promised me, you are that man. If you have it, name your price! You say you are in my debt—well, this is how you can repay me."

"Ah," Arlian said. He leaned back against his desk.

"I feared as much. And this is why you sent your man Horn to protect me?"

"Of course. If Drisheen's hireling had slain you, who knows what would have become of any venom you carried? If you have none in your possession, what would become of the knowledge of its whereabouts? I saw you safely into the city so that we could have this conversation, and you could repay me with venom. If you do not think your life alone to be worth it, I will pay you anything in my power. I
must
have it!"

Ariian sighed. "I would offer you a seat, my lord, but I suspect this conversation will be brief. It seems to neatly parallel our first, some months ago. Once again, you seek this dragon venom to extend the life of your mistress, yes? And once again, I must confess that I have no venom to sell you."

"You killed Enziet before he could get it? Then what marked your cheek?"

"I have not said that I killed Enziet He thrust the blade into his own chest, my lord—and yes, he did so before entering the cavern where the dragons slept If he had any of die venom in his possession, I am unaware of it"

"But you saw him die. You know where he was going."

"I saw him die," Ariian admitted warily.

"And that scar..."

"... is none of your concern. I must insist on that"

Ariian had already refused to explain the mark several times, to various people; it had, in fact been left by the venom of the dragon Enziet had become, and Ariian was not yet ready to reveal that to anyone—certainly not to Lord Wither.

Wither hesitated, then reluctantly accepted that and continued, "But you saw Enziet die, and you knew where he was going. Then do you know where he intended to find the venom he promised me? Can
you
obtain it now that I have reminded you that I am determined to have it, and you acknowledge yourself in my debt?"

Arlian paused for a moment before replying.

In fact, while he knew none of their other lairs, he did know the location of that one cavern beneath the Desolation where dragons slept; Lord Enziet had led him to the entrance, and it was there that the two men had fought their final duel. With a little sorcerous aid and the cool air of winter to keep the great beasts asleep, it should be possible to slip in, collect a few drams of venom, and escape safely—but Arlian had no intention of doing so.

He would not do so because drinking the mixture of venom and blood, the elixir that Wither sought, would transform Lady Opal into a dragonheart, which would mean that in a thousand years or so, if she were not slain, her blood would give birth to a dragon. Arlian would not willingly help in the creation of another dragon, even at a distance of a thousand years. This was one magic he had no intention of restocking.

His brief hesitation was not due to any uncertainty about whether or not he would sell Lord Wither the venom; it was instead because he was unsure how much of the truth to tell the old man.

Lord Wither was impulsive, despite his age, and selfish and stubborn, like virtually all those who had tasted a dragon's venom and lived. Indebted or not, Arlian did not feel he could trust him.

"I am sorry, my lord," Arlian said. "I have no venom to sell you, nor will I fetch any. Lady Opal must live out her natural span without any draconic assistance."

The thought struck him as he spoke that perhaps that brief mortal lifetime might yet be enough to outlive Lord Wither. For the most part the dragonhearts thought themselves effectively immortal, since they did not visibly age; Wither probably thought he had another eight or nine centuries of life stretching before him, perhaps even more.

Arlian knew that to be false. He knew, from Lord Enziet, that it took a millennium or so for dragon venom to transform a man's blood into a dragon, and that that marked the span of years Lord Wither could expect to live—but
Lord Wither
did not know it; it was all part of the complex of secrets that Enziet had hidden from the Society, and that only Arlian now knew.

Wither had lived at least eight hundred years, perhaps more, already. If Lady Opal were to be contaminated. as Wither proposed, she would outlive him by centuries. If Arlian's estimate of Wither's age was low, or if the dragon within him developed somewhat faster than Enziet's had, then Wither might not see out another fifty years. In that case, Opal might survive him even without any unnatural meddling.

Arlian was not about to say as much, though. These were hardly appropriate circumstances to reveal such things. Instead he finished his refusal and explained no further. He stood against his desk and watched a red flush of anger suffuse Wither's features.

"May the dead gods curse you, Obsidian!" Wither shouted, raising his left hand to shake a finger in Arlian's face. "Why do you refuse me this? You say you are in my debt, yet you refuse me the one thing I ask. I know you, know the way you twist your words—you say you
will
not, not you
can
not. You know more than you say. Am I to watch another woman grow old and die because you have some secret you wish to keep? Is that it? Or would aiding me somehow interfere in that ridiculous vengeance you still pursue?"

Arlian Wished now he had lied outright, instead of trying to remain in the vicinity of the truth. He raised both his own hands, palms out. "Calm yourself, my lord," be said. "I am not withholding anything for the sake of vengeance, nor is it merely to conceal a secret that I refuse you. I have my reasons for declining to bring you venom, and I think them good—as did Enziet before me, I am sure, for remember, he knew for centuries where venom could be obtained, and knew for years that you sought it, yet he did not offer to fetch it until circumstances drove him to it. I believe I know his reasons, and that they were the same as my own.

The risks involved in such a venture, for myself and Lady Opal both, are so great that I do not care to attempt the feat. I
am
in your debt, and will gladly perform some other service, or grant you what I may grant—but I cannot give you the venom you seek."

"And is there
no
way I can convince you otherwise?" Wither demanded. "No price that would be sufficient? Ungrateful wretch! If you fear the dragons, you need not go yourself; merely guide a servant to the proper location, and I will pay you handsomely. Horn would be glad to accompany you and go where you direct him."

Arlian shook his head. "I will not do it, my lord.

Perhaps someday, when your temper has cooled, I will explain my reasons, but for now you must simply accept my decision."

Wither lowered his hand and his gaze met Arlian's.

"Indeed I must," he said, his tone bitter, "for I have sworn not to harm you within Manfort's walls, and I have no way to compel you. But I am patient, my lord Obsidian, and Opal is still young, scarcely thirty. We will wait. We will wait for you to come to your senses, and we will pursue every other avenue open to us, and we
will
have our way!"

With that, he turned on his heel, snatched open the door, and marched out of the room, brushing past the waiting Venlin in the passage beyond. Venlin, startled, hurried down the corridor after the departing guest Arlian watched them go, and frowned.

Wither was a resourceful man. He might well find a way to obtain venom for Lady Opal—which would add her name to the long list of those Arlian might someday need to kill. Whether Opal herself would, given die option, choose a natural life or an extended one marked with the dragon taint and ending in violent death, Arlian could not guess—he had never met the woman.

He doubted, though, that she would defy Lord Wither's obvious wishes. Wither had the unnatural charm and intensity of the heart of the dragon; ordinary mortals would be hard put to refuse him anything he wanted.

Arlian did not want to kill anyone, really—at least, no one human. Even the deaths of the handful of people he had sworn vengeance upon and had not yet slain, should they come about, would not be something he enjoyed. Lord Enziet's death had been necessary, and satisfying in its way, but it had sated his bioodlust. Any further killing would be an unpleasant duty, required by the need to force justice upon an unjust world, and to keep humanity free from any threat from the dragons.

Unless he could find some miraculous cure for the venom's effects, he would have to kill Wither in time.

He would have to kill Rime and Nail and Toribor and all the rest of the Dragon Society before they could undergo die bloody transformation from human host to newborn dragon. He would have to kill
himself
before he became sufficiendy draconic to lose sight of the necessity.

He shuddered, then swallowed—not at the prospect of his own death, a prospect he had lived intimately with since he was a boy of eleven, but at the thought that he might misjudge, and allow himself to complete has own eventual transformation.

He would need to kill all the dragonhearts before that change could occur—and he would have to find and kill the dragons themselves, as well.

It was a daunting task, to say the least.

He had perhaps as much as a thousand years or so before he became a dragon, but when would his nature have altered enough to vitiate the drive for vengeance and put an end to the project? That might happen far sooner.

He had been thinking that he was in no hurry, but perhaps there were reasons not to dawdle. The palace was largely restored to its proper order, and the servants could handle any remaining details; it was time to attend to all the other matters that delayed his assault on the dragons. It was time to investigate Enziet's legacy further, and to see what could be done about obtaining amethysts from the mines of Deep Delving and perhaps meting out some overdue justice there. It was time to send a caravan guarded by silver and amethyst to Arithei, so that his fortune could be enlarged and his magical arsenal restocked—he might need both money and magic to carry out an attack on the dragons.