The Veiled Dragon (17 page)

lantana

castor bean

pink pea

Shou berry.” He reached his little finger and stopped. “Need I go on?” Prince Tang shook his head. “We only sell poisons, not use them. Yanseldara’s condition is not our fault.” Hsieh lowered his hand. “You know I do not care if it is, as long as your reason is good. But if you are lying—” “Never!” Both Tang and his wife spoke at once. Hsieh raised a cautionary finger and continued, “If you lie to protect Lady Feng, I have no mercy.” Tang’s head began to spin. “To protect Lady Feng?” he asked, truly confused. “How does lying—” “We do not lie.” Wei Dao stepped around the table to her husband’s side. “We send a company of guards to inform Lady Feng of your arrival. Perhaps you wish to send Yu Po along?” Hsieh considered the offer, then shook his head. “That is not necessary. If there is anything I should know, it is certain to come to light.” The mandarin rose and honored them with a shallow bow, then led Yu Po and his guards from the room. As soon as their steps faded from the corridor outside, Tang sent the servants away. “Why do you lie to mandarin?” he demanded, turning to his wife. “You dishonor ancestors and condemn us to Chamber of Agonizing Death!” “Only if Minister Hsieh discovers abduction of venerable mother.” “How can he fail?” Tang’s legs were trembling. It made him feel ashamed and weak. “Any servant tells esteemed mandarin everything he wants to know.” “True, but Minister Hsieh is sure to ask wrong questions,” Wei Dao replied calmly. “He thinks venerable mother has lover, and any servant he asks certainly tells

him that is nonsense.” The princess’s reassurance did little to bolster Tang’s courage. “But how do guards bring Lady Feng home from Moonstorm House? Cypress has mother, not Vaerana Hawklyn!” “Yes, but now we have fresh ylang blossoms.” Wei Dao grabbed her husband by the wrist and started toward the back of the palace. “Now come. We have no more time for your cowardice—or your foolishness.” **if!S):* Inside the cargo box, the thick stench of ylang blossoms did more to muffle the unexpected shriek than the canvas tarp—or so it seemed to Ruha. The first screech was instantly followed by more cries from all corners of the cavernous spicehouse, and then came a brief stampede of drumming boots. Wisps of another smell, rancid and even more cloying than ylang oil, drifted through the gaps between the wagon’s sideboards. After that, the cavernous spicehouse fell silent, leaving the witch to wonder if, after untold hours of stillness, she dared uncurl herself

and peek outside. Ruha decided to wait; ten heartbeats, twenty, thirty. She had thought it would be a simple thing to stow away until the wagon was inside the palace, then slip out from beneath the tarp when it was parked to await unloading. But the Shou had driven the witch’s wagon and several others into the shady coolness of the spicehouse and left them there, then began to unpack the vehicles parked outside in the hot sun. Until now, the patter of feet passing by her hiding place had been so steady that she had

hardly dared to breathe, much less poke her head out from beneath the tarp. Ruha’s count reached a hundred. She slowly uncurled herself, taking a moment to stretch her stiff muscles in case she suddenly had to run or fight, then half-swam through the dried blossoms to the back corner of the wagon. In the inky darkness beneath the tarp, her sun spell had grown weak and expired some time ago, leaving her as visible as any workman. She used the tip of her jambiya to lift the tarp, then raised her head high enough to peer over the tail boards. A gasp of surprise rose into her throat and escaped, half-strangled, from her mouth. Less than five paces away sat a small black dragon. Save that it was no larger than a cargo wagon, the creature was identical to Cypress, with the same dull scales, splintered horns, and sinister voids where his eyes should have been. The foul odor she had smelled earlier seemed to be coming from the carcass, and now the witch thought she could identify the stench: rotten fish. Ruha dropped back into the wagon and tried not to choke on her own heart, which had somehow climbed high into her throat. When the creature did not immedi ately come tearing through the tarp, the witch dared to hope it had not seen her and frantically tried to think of some reason that did not involve her that it might be waiting outside her wagon. She failed, rather quickly, and started to consider what she might do about the situation. Come out, my dear. Though the voice reverberated through Ruha’s head without passing through her ears, it sounded as raspy and chilling as the first time she had heard it. You have no idea how I have been looking forward to our second meeting. Ruha knew then that someone had betrayed her, but who: Vaerana or Fowler? The thought was ludicrous. They both had more reason than she to hate Cypress, yet who else could have known where she was hiding? Any-The VeUed Dragon

one they would have trusted with the secret. In Vaerana’s case, at least, that circle was no doubt larger than

the witch would have liked. Come out and give me that silver I smell in your pocket. If you show that much courage, perhaps I will have mercy. A prickling chill ran down Ruha’s back, and a terrifying possibility occurred to her. I have seen your mercy, she thought. And you have seen my magic. Go away, or it will

be you who begs quarter. The witch waited a moment for Cypress’s response. When none came, she breathed a little easier. If the dragon had been able to read her thoughts, her chances of surviving the coming battle would have fallen to nothing. Ruha sheathed her dagger, then burrowed into the ylang blossoms. She crawled toward the front of the cargo box, taking care not to jiggle the wagon. As she moved, she summoned the incantation of a fire spell to mind. She doubted that she could trick Cypress into swallowing a chestful of oil vapor again, but neither would it take such a huge explosion to destroy his new body. A smaller blast, properly placed, would prove sufficient to annihilate him. The witch was only halfway to her goal when something jolted the wagon. She heard the zip-zip of oilcloth being ripped; then a flickering yellow light of the spicehouse’s oil lamps filtered down through the ylang blossoms. Already uttering her incantation, Ruha lifted herself out of the blossoms and, expecting to feel the dragon’s claws driving deep into her flesh at any moment, thrust her hand over the sideboard. The flames shot off the wicks of half a dozen different lamps and streaked into the palm other hand, gathering themselves into a hissing, sputtering ball of fire. She whirled around, ready to slap the scorching sphere into Cypress’s empty eye socket or beneath his arm, or anywhere that would channel the explosion into her

attacker’s vital areas. The dragon was not there. He stood three paces away

from the wagon, the dark voids beneath his brow fixed on the fire in Ruha’s palm. From his talons hung the remains of the shredded tarp, and she could see the tip of his tail flicking back and forth behind his head. He made no move to attack. There’s no need to burn down poor Tang’s spicehouse, the dragon said. Step out of the wagon. Give me that sil. uer I smell and answer a single question. I promise, your death shall be mercifully quick. Ruha felt as though the fire in her hand was cooking her bone marrow as far down as her elbow, but she made no move to throw the fireball. Without being properly placed, the blast would do no more than melt a few of the dragon’s scales. Besides, as much as the searing heat grieved her, the sphere could cause her no real damage until after it left her hand. “I have known enough pain in my life not to be frightened of it,” Ruha said. “If I am to die, I do not particularly care whether it is quickly or slowly.” As the witch spoke, she stepped over to Cypress’s side of the wagon. To her surprise, the dragon moved neither away from the fireball nor forward to attack. Ruha might have been able to reach the dragon with a good leap, but he would have time to turn away and, in all likelihood, impale her on his long talons. If her plan was to succeed, she had to draw him closer. “You may ask your question. Perhaps I will answer, or perhaps I will not.” You will answer. Cypress promised. And you will step out of the wagon. “Why is it so important that I leave the wagon? I can answer your question from here.” In the black depths of the dragon’s empty eye sockets appeared two dirty yellow sparks. When we met the first time, was it happenstance? As Cypress asked his question, the sparks lengthened into gleaming lines, then began to flicker at the ends and thicken into stripes. Or did someone tell you I would be there? “Who would have told me that?” Ruha wanted nothing more than to hurl her fireball at the dragon and run for her life, but she forced herself to stand fast. If Cypress bad not attacked by now, then it had to be because he was afraid of destroying what was in the wagon. The witch tipped her hand so that the fireball was precariously close to slipping from her palm, then added, “And stop what you are—” You will not drop the fireball! The yellow stripes shot from Cypress’s vacant eyes and joined together, becoming a long-fanged bat of amber light. Ruha brought her hand around, placing the fireball between herself and her attacker. Stupid Harper! Flames will not save you! The bat emerged from the fireball, its wings blazing and its eyes glowing with rabid fury. Ruha reached for herjambiya, and the beast was upon her. Instead of raking her eyes with its tiny claws or sinking its fangs into her throat, it appeared inside her mind, a flaming creature of the night, flitting across the starry sky high over her memories ofAnauroch’s purple-shadowed sand dunes. Ruha cried out, but she could not bring herself to flee the dragon, or even to turn away. Cypress was already inside her mind, and trying break contact with him was as futile as trying to escape an unpleasant memory by closing one’s eyes. The dragon sat motionless on the floor, his gaze pinning the witch in place as surely as if he had been standing on her chest. Her only chance of escaping, Ruha realized, lay in distracting Cypress. No sooner did she have this thought than a small brake of saltbush sprouted from the sands other mind. The words of a wind spell rose from the brush like a swarm of sand finches. Cypress’s fiery bat streaked down to dive through the heart of the flock, scattering the syllables of the incantation before they could shape themselves. Ruha’s arm remained motionless, the fireball still burning in her hand. Cypress’s bat settled on the surface of Ruha’s mind and began to beat its burning wings. Clouds of hissing yellow fume curled from the tips of the fiery appendages and rolled across the dune-sculpted terrain. Wherever the haze touched, the sands themselves melted into rivers and pools of bubbling brown acid. The witch started to feel hot and limp, as though a fever had taken hold of her body, and her limbs trembled with weakness. For a moment, she feared she had guessed wrong about the dragon’s fear of destroying the ylang blossoms, that he merely wanted her to drop the fireball at her own feet. The bubbling brown pools inside Ruha’s head joined and became a lake. The bat dove into the acid, sinking its fangs deep into the throat of some naked thought that was writhing just below the surface other mind. The witch saw Cypress’s lips curl into something that resembled a smile; then she felt her foot sliding across the floor of the wagon. She tried to stop, but no sooner had the thought taken shape than it dissolved into nothingness in the bubbling acid. The dragon had won control of her mind, and now she had to fight him not only for her life, but for the possession other own thoughts. It occurred to Ruha that this was a battle not of strength or speed, but of imagination, and a rocky island of hope instantly sprang up inside her mind. Waves of acid began to lap at its shores, filling the air with hissing white smoke and reducing the isle to little more than a sandbar. The witch pictured the sand changing to granite. She felt a strange tingling deep within her stomach, then experienced a momentary burning all over her body, as though she had exerted every muscle at once. The little island hardened into dense stone and stopped dissolving, but Ruha felt her foot slide a little closer to the rear of the wagon. A deep-throated growl rumbled from Cypress’s throat;

then the yellow acid inside Ruha’s mind began to churn and froth like a storm-tossed sea. Mountainous waves rose and crashed over the witch’s small isle, threatening

to submerge it entirely. She envisioned the island erupting like a volcano, pushing its way higher above the surface and spreading immense blankets of molten stone across the lake. Again, she experienced a strange tingling deep within her abdomen, followed by a momentary burning over her entire body. She felt physically drained, as though she had been running for a long time in the scorching sun. You only anger me. Cypress’s voice broke like thunder inside Ruha’s mind, and she felt her foot touch the wagon’s tailgate. Are untrained mind cannot prevail. The stars vanished from the purple sky over the witch’s growing island of hope. Spears of lightning stabbed at the summit of the erupting volcano, and a few hissing drops of acid began to fall on its slopes. Then, before Cypress could unleash the full fury of his storm, a pair of familiar forms came rushing across the spicehouse floor. “Cypress!” gasped Wei Dao. “What do you want here?” Prince Tang drew his sword and pointed it at the dragon. “You go!” Then he looked toward the door. “Guards!” Cypress glanced away from Ruha long enough to flick his tail at the approaching prince and send him crashing through the flimsy door of a spice bin. That instant was long enough for the witch. She envisioned her volcano bursting apart, flinging lava and ash in all directions. A tremendous wave of fatigue rolled over her body; then her island erupted as she had envisioned, pouring forth molten stone in such prodigious quantities that the acid lake completely vanished beneath its fiery blanket. Ruha felt control of her limbs return. Gasping for breath and trembling with fatigue, she slipped back to the center of the wagon. Her mind was not entirely free of its attacker, however. The dragon locked gazes with her again, and once more his bat figure appeared inside her mind, rising from beneath the sea of flaming rock like a phoenix reborn. An angry rumble rolled from Cypress’s throat; then the flaming bat transformed itself into an immense, black-haired Cyclops. The brute floated down to the ground, then waded through the lava toward the witch’s volcano. He stood as tall as the summit, and his knobby hands looked powerful enough to crush stone. Ruha pictured the ground beneath his feet turning to quicksand, but this time she experienced no strange tinglings in the pit other stomach. She felt only a dull, nauseating ache, then a searing wave of pain as the last of her energy drained from her muscles. The witch collapsed to her knees, so exhausted and enervated that she could not find the strength to rise. The cyclops stopped beside her volcano, then reached out and tore away a huge chunk of glowing stone. As I annihilate this mountain, so I annihilate your mind! the cyclops cackled. When I finish, your head will be naught but a smoking hole, as empty and useless as a spent sulfur pit! Ruha tried again to change the scene inside her head, but succeeded only in exhausting herself to the point that she almost dropped the fireball. The wagon rocked as someone climbed in behind her, but the witch could not rip her gaze away from Cypress’s empty eye sockets to see who it was. She thought about trying to drop the fireball before the dragon seized control of her body again. The resulting conflagration would kill her as well as the newcomer, but she felt fairly certain that destroying the ylang blossoms would also delay the theft ofYanseldara’s spirit. Prince Tang kneeled beside Ruha, holding several slender yellow leaves in his hand. His eyes appeared glassy and vacant, and he seemed to be chewing some thing. Cypress glanced away from Ruha and glared at Tang. Inside the witch’s mind, the cyclops stopped tearing apart her volcano. She was too exhausted to take advantage of her foe’s distraction, but she found herself free to look away from his gaze. A small company of Shou guards had appeared at the door and were cautiously