The Dragon’s Path (38 page)

“I don’t understand,” Odderd said.

“Here is what we say,” Dawson said. “When Palliako discovered that Issandrian was bringing an armed force into Camnipol, he chose to bring his troops to the defense of the throne. Rather than abandon Vanai to our enemies, he took action that would show the steel of his intent. He didn’t scrape the city of every last bit of silver. He didn’t trade it away for concessions on tariffs. He burned it like a warrior of old. Like the dragons. What other man in all of Antea is so fierce and pure of intention? Who else would have done what he did?”

“But the king gave permission to hold these games. And this army coming to save us? Half of the men are Issandrian’s,
and the others disdain Palliako at best,” Daskellin said. “This is a fairy story.”

“They don’t disdain him. They
fear
him. And if we all say it loud enough and often enough Issandrian will fear him too,” Dawson said. “And since our lives may depend on it, I’d suggest we all practice in chorus.”

“So this is what desperation looks like,” Daskellin said. Dawson ignored him.

“If Issandrian moves against us, it will show that Palliako was justified. If he doesn’t, it will be because Palliako cowed him. Either way, Issandrian loses some part of his grip on the king. And we do it without selling ourselves to Northcoast and the Medean bank. This is a windfall, my lords. We’d be idiots to turn it away. But we must go tell our version of it now. Today. When the court goes to bed tonight, it’s our story they have to whisper to their pillows. Wait until opinion is set, and it will be a hundred times harder to change.”

“And if Issandrian turns his plot against this Palliako boy?” Barron Nurring said.

“Then the blade meant for your belly may be stuck in his instead,” Dawson said. “Now. Tell me you wouldn’t prefer that.”

G
eder’s thighs were chapped and weeping. His back ached. The spring breeze that blew down from the heights smelled of snow and ice. Around him, the remnants of the Vanai campaign rode or marched. They sang no songs, and no one spoke to Geder apart from the bare necessary business of moving the few hundred men, carts, and horses the last few days’ journey. Even in his tiny rooms in Vanai with only his lamp-eyed squire for company and Alan Klin’s worst duties to fill his day, Geder hadn’t felt the full power of being isolated within a crowd.

He could feel the attention of the men on him, the condemnation. No one said a word, of course. Not one among them all stood up and told Geder to his face that he was a monster. That what he’d done was worse than crime. There wasn’t any need, because of course Geder knew. In all the long days and cold nights since he’d turned back to the north and home, the roar of the flames hadn’t left his ears. His dreams had all been of men and women silhouetted against the fire. He’d been ordered to protect Vanai, and instead he’d done this. If King Simeon ordered him cut down on the throne room floor, it would only be justice.

He had tried to distract himself with his books, but even the legends of the Righteous Servant couldn’t pull him away from the constant, gnawing question: what would the king’s
judgment be? On his best days, Geder imagined King Simeon stepping down from the Severed Throne itself to put a royal hand on Geder’s weeping eyes and absolving him. On his worst, the king sent him back to Vanai to be staked to the ground among the dead and eaten by the same crows that had gorged themselves on their bodies.

Between those extremes, Geder’s mind found room for a nearly infinite variety of bleak imaginings. And as the mountains and valleys grew familiar, the dragon’s road shifting between hills that he’d known a hundred times before, Geder found that each new scenario of his death and humiliation left him with a grim hope. Would he be set afire himself? That would be just. Would he be put in a public gaol and pelted with shit and dead animals? It would be what he deserved. Anything—
anything
—would be better than this grinding and silent regret.

The great promontory on which Camnipol sat appeared at the horizon, the dark stone blued by air and distance. The Kingspire itself was hardly more than a sliver of light. A lone horseman could make the ride in a couple of days. The full company might need as long as five. The king’s cunning men could probably see them already. Geder’s gaze kept drifting up to the great city, caught by longing and dread. With every mile, the fear grew stronger and the other traffic upon the road thicker.

The farmlands surrounding the capital city were among the best in the world, dark soil irrigated by the river and still rich from battles fought there a thousand years before. Even in the starving season just after the thaw, the land smelled of growth and the promise of food. Goatherds drove their flocks down the dragon’s road from the low winter pastures toward the mountains in the west. Farmers led oxen to the fields ripe for tilling and planting. Tax collectors rode with
their petty entourages of sword-and-bows, scraping what could be had of the small towns before their rent contracts expired. It was a rare thing to see a lone man on a good horse, and so Geder knew that the grey stallion coming south was meant for him. It was only when the horse drew up and he saw the rider was Jorey Kalliam that his anxiety broke and his breath came easily.

He turned his own mount off the dragon’s jade and into the roadside muck, letting the column move forward without him. Jorey pulled his horse so close that the beasts could have slapped each other’s faces with their tails, and Geder’s knee nearly touched Jorey’s saddle. Exhaustion greyed Jorey’s face, but his eyes were bright and sharp as a hunting bird.

“What’s the news?” Geder asked.

“You need to come ahead,” Jorey said. “Quickly.”

“The king?” Geder asked and Jorey shook his head.

“My father,” he said. “He wants you there as soon as you can.”

Geder licked his lips and looked up at the carts passing slowly by them. Some of the carters and swordsmen pretended not to notice the two of them, others stared openly. Ever since they’d left the corpse of Vanai, Camnipol was the goal he’d held before him, an end to his struggles. Now that the time had arrived, he wanted to delay it just a little more.

“I don’t think it would be wise,” Geder said. “There’s no one to leave in command, and if I’m—”

“Give it to Broot,” Jorey said. “He’s not particularly bright, but he’s competent enough to lead a column down a road. Just tell him to make camp outside the eastern gate and wait for word.
Don’t
let him order the disband.”

“It’s… There’s morale to think of,” Geder said. “I don’t want the men to feel I’ve abandoned them.”

Jorey’s expression was eloquent. Geder hung his head, the blush glowing from his cheeks.

“I’ll find Broot,” he said.

“And bring your best clothes,” Jorey said.

While he gave Broot the instructions Jorey had given him, Geder also changed for a bay gelding who had been at rest trot for the morning. When Geder left his first command behind, it was on a young, fast horse with Jorey Kalliam at his side. The city was much too far to make at a gallop, but Geder couldn’t help himself. For a few minutes, he let the animal beneath him press itself against the wind, glorying in the illusion of freedom if not the fact.

They stopped for camp at a black-roofed shack where a muddy path met the dragon’s road, both of them too exhausted to do more than see to their horses. Geder collapsed into a dreamless sleep and woke in the morning to find Jorey cinching the girth on the gelding. They had taken to the road almost before Geder had cleared the grogginess from his head.

Before them, Camnipol rose.

The approach from the south was the steepest, the green band of dragon’s jade tracing its way up the stone of the promontory like a bit of child’s ribbon dropped to the ground. Time and weather had eaten away the stone itself, leaving stretches of a hundred feet or more where the road curved out into the empty air with nothing but caution to hold travelers to the path. The biting spring wind didn’t come from any of the four points of the compass, but only down from the city or up from the plain below. The caves and shacks that clung to the face of the stone often needed rough wooden bridges to reach the road itself. The constant ache in Geder’s legs distracted him, and the bulk of stone and rough brush obscured his view, so that until they were nearly
at the last turn he didn’t notice the Kingspire growing larger, the walls of the city gaining bulk. Instead, the great, shining arches and grand towers seemed to appear from nothing, a city built of dreams.

The southern gate was narrow, hardly more than a slit in the high grey stone with doors of worked bronze and dragon’s jade that slid aside to allow passage. Just outside the doors, a dozen men in enameled plate sat on warhorses with barding that matched their riders.

As Geder and Jorey drew near, the men drew their swords. The blades flashed in the afternoon sun, and Geder’s heart thudded in his chest like a fox in a trap. Here was the moment he’d been anticipating and dreading. Jorey nodded him forward with a smile that Geder couldn’t quite interpret. It didn’t matter. Geder swallowed his fear and rode trembling to his surrender wishing he’d remembered to put on his good leather cloak.

A single figure strode out of the shadows where the road passed through the wall. Though he wasn’t mounted, the man commanded the attention of all those assembled. He was Firstblood, and older. His temples were grey, his face sharp and intelligent. The way he held himself gave the impression of being taller than the horsemen. Geder encouraged his gelding forward. Up close, there was no mistaking Jorey’s father. Their eyes were the same shape, and the set of their jaws. He looked down at Dawson Kalliam.

“Sir Palliako,” the elder Kalliam said.

Geder nodded.

“It is my honor to welcome you to the Undying City,” Dawson Kalliam said. And then, sharply, “Honors!”

The horsemen lifted their swords in salute. Geder squinted at them. He’d never seen someone of noble blood called to
the king’s justice, but this wasn’t how he’d expected it to be. From nowhere, voices rose together in a long, celebratory cry. And strangest of all, snowflakes began skirling down from the broad blue sky.

No. Not snowflakes. Flower petals. Geder looked up, and from at the top of the walls, hundreds of people looked back. Geder lifted an uncertain hand, and the crowd above him roared.

“Coe will see to your mount,” Dawson said. “We have a litter waiting.”

It took a moment to understand, but then Geder slid to the ground, letting Jorey’s father lead him into the twilight break between the city walls. He didn’t think to ask who Coe might be.

The litter was ornate, bearing the crest and colors of House Kalliam, but with a blaze of cloth on either side in the grey and blue of Palliako. It had two velvet-upholstered chairs facing each other, and eight Tralgu squatted by the poles. Dawson took the seat that faced backward. Geder pushed a lock of greasy hair back from his eyes. His legs were trembling from the ride. The arrow slits and murder holes all through the city wall were crowded with smiling eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Geder said.

“A few of my friends and I have sponsored your revel. They’re traditional for a leader returning from military victory.”

Geder turned around slowly. Something heavy seemed to have taken root in his belly, and the high stone rising above him tilted a little, like a young tree in a high wind. His mouth was dry.

“Victory?” he said.

“The sacrifice of Vanai,” Dawson said. “Bold and commanding. It was a braver decision than this kingdom has seen in a generation, and there are those of us who would see that fierceness return to Antea.”

In Geder’s mind, a woman crawled up over the walls of the dead city, flames leaping behind the darkness of her body. In his memory, she fell. The roar of the flames filled his ears again as if it had followed him, and his vision narrowed. That was a
victory
? Wide Tralgu hands took his shoulder and guided him into his seat. He stared dumbly at Dawson as the litter shifted under them, and they rose.

The southern gate opened into a rough square. Geder had been there before, and knew what the chaos of beggars, merchants, and guards, oxen and carts and feral dogs looked like. This was like walking into the Camnipol dreamed by a boy who had only heard its glories described. Three hundred people at the least stood behind another honor guard, waving banners of House Palliako. A platform stood to the right with men in embroidered cloaks and cloth-of-gold tunics. There was the Baron of Watermarch. Beside him, a young man in the colors of House Skestinin. Not the lord himself, but perhaps his eldest son. Perhaps half a dozen more whom Geder’s reeling mind half recognized before the litter moved on. And then, at the end, his head held high and tears streaming down his cheeks, Geder saw his father’s face, and he saw the pride in it.

The crowd followed, cheering and tossing handfuls of flowers and paper-wrapped candies. The sound of them overwhelmed any hope of conversation, so he could only stare at Lord Kalliam in amazement.

At a meeting of half a dozen streets, the litter hesitated. Near the Kingspire, the buildings grew three and four stories
high and people hung out of every window, watching him pass. A girl high and to his left pitched out a fistful of bright-colored ribbon, the threads dancing in the air as they fell. Geder waved to her, and something veritiginous and sweet washed through him.