Land of Dragon

2

“He’s a good man.” She shuddered, a tear welling in one eye, she blinked it away. “And dear to us all.” Finally, she looked away, hanging her head.

“It’s not my decision,” Treylen said. “Stay quiet.”

“Yes, assassin,” she said, and sank down to slump on the stone, unmoving.

Treylen sighed and turned away as Rime raced down the walkway checking for any more hidden watch. Treylen wiped his dagger on the cape of the dead man, frowning at the body.

Marziel said the guards would welcome us. He sent the thought to Rime. He’d been party to a number of killings, but few by his own hands. Up until now the majority had at least deserved it. This poor fool was a different story. They were supposed to stand down when he showed his dagger. Every Iveran soldier knew the shape of the Queen’s Fingers. Treylen followed the dragon to the end of the walkway and peered down to the balcony below. Rime waited beside him.

Maybe they love their viscount. Rime scurried down and sniffed around the outside of the balcony doors.

I suspect they’re just poorly trained.

He dropped to the balcony. The latch would be simple, but not one that could be manipulated from the outside. After peering through the glass to make sure the lamps were out, he knelt near the hinges and pulled a blunt knife from his pack, prying the glazing away from one of the small panes that made up the windowed doors.

A fortress with glass doors—he shook his head silently. The pane fell softly into his hand as Rime flowed in like a draft, and quietly lifted the bar with his teeth and drew the latch aside, talons clicking on the windows. Treylen eased it open, listened to make sure the guard on the rooftop wasn’t raising the alarm, then slipped in, less mindful of the moonlight on the shadowed side. He pulled the door closed.

He wasn’t worried about traps here within the kingdom. In the capital maybe there was enough bickering between noble families to justify bit of paranoia. But out here…things were simpler.

Smells right. Rime whispered through their link as he slithered off into the shadows.

It smelled of worn leather and spilled mead, midnight flatulence and old cologne. Treylen borrowed a little dragon sight and the outline of a settee flickered into view—a wardrobe, a writing desk and an oversized canopy

bed. Low, steady breathing came from it.

He slowed for a moment at the table, a broken quill lay beside a dried-out inkwell, and a small mound of crumpled and torn parchment covered one side of the desk, spilling onto the floor. Treylen paused, putting a finger on one sheet that had come uncrumpled, and pulling it closer.

A half-written letter, scratched and scribbled over until it was illegible. None of his business, but curious all the same. Treylen grabbed the crumpled pages and tucked them into his jacket.

Bondmate… I am waiting. Right.

Treylen hurried to the bed and threw the curtain back to see Rime halfway up one of the bedposts. The old man lay on his back. The sheets had been kicked to the foot of the bed and he was sprawled, naked, across the mattress. A line of drool trailed from his mouth into his graying beard. Rime craned his neck out over the bed.

Is it the one? Marziel said he comes to Signet Lake often.

If I saw him I never paid much attention. Treylen leaned over the man, studying the age spots across his chest, red splotches on his cheeks and nose, heavy eyelids and unkempt beard. He looked half like a nobleman. The signet ring on his finger confirmed it—although the untrimmed whiskers spoke of a noble who no longer kept court, who drank too much and didn't honor his social commitments.

Or—a man who spent his days carrying his granddaughter around the fields, evenings with friends out of Silbray. Treylen had never met a Farmer from this county who was not of good cheer.

What do you think he did to deserve it?

Found his name on a blackslip. Rime crept down from the bedpost and padded up the mattress.

You know what I mean.

Rime twitched his head, leaned close to the sleeping man's neck.

Should I do it? Rime raised a claw. It had grown over the winter, as had the rest of him. Not enough to give Treylen hope of being a dragon rider someday, but enough to cut a throat, if he was careful about it.

No, I can do it. I just wish I knew. Because of the soldiers?

Treylen pushed that thought aside and eased toward the bed.

When the man spoke, it startled him such that the blade nearly fell from

his hand.

“I won’t impede you. There’s no need to tiptoe.”

Treylen’s heart leaped for a moment, but he composed himself, and had his blade to the man’s throat in a flash. The man’s eyes darted to the small dragon, snarling beside his pillow.

Easy Rime.

The man squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed. Treylen pulled the dagger back and steadied it.

“Pardon, emissary.” The man had one eye open. “But I would be remiss if I did not confirm your mandate.”

“What?” Treylen’s voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Mandate?”

“That you aren’t with the Jaul…” said the voice from the bed.

That made sense. Treylen raised the blade, and flourished it so it caught what little light came in. The man squinted a moment to make it out, then nodded, satisfied. He lay his head back, closed his eyes and waited. Treylen lowered the blade again.

“Hot night for it.” He cracked one eye again, looked at the dragon, then Treylen. Treylen held the blade steady. “If you don’t mind, emissary…I’d hate for her to find me like this.”

He gestured toward his feet. Treylen withdrew the blade. Took a half step back. The man bent down, snagging the sheet and covering himself, then lay back and rested his head on the pillow, closing his eyes.

“Many thanks.” Rime snarled.

Do it already.

Treylen stepped to the bed again.

I’m doing it. Be patient. He drew the second dagger. Just in case. Raised the first to the viscount’s neck.

“A nice bed though…” the man said, his voice quickening when the cold metal touched his throat.

Treylen groaned, held his hand steady. The man went on.

“It’s only that—it’s a feather bed, and new. A shame to ruin it…” The pounding of feet echoed in the hall. Shouts rang out.

Do it. Rime hissed.

“The queen has spoken.”

Treylen plunged the knife, turning his eyes away, then made it to the

balcony as the bedroom door came open. Lamplight fell on the pool of crimson that spread over the floor. Treylen eyed the ground below them. It was a bit too far.

“Rime!” He barked, then the dragon sprang and landed on him. “That thing we were talking about. Let's try it.”

Those claws that had been growing over the summer sank into the shoulders of his jacket. He leaped from the balcony and the dragon spread his wings.

They plummeted. Rime struggled to keep his wings spread as the air whipped by. At the last moment he let go, gliding up and away. Treylen desperately clutched at the space where Rime had been. The earth raced upwards. A wisp of dragon strength curled around him as his feet hit the ground. His knees buckled and he rolled as a pain shot up from his ankle. Treylen squeezed his eyes shut and lay on the grass for a moment. A screech overhead made him open his eyes. Two guards leaned over the rail.

Best to move, bondmate.

He kept ahold of the dragonmind, simply to dull the pain as he limped over and pressed himself against the side of the keep.

I don't know if I can run on this ankle, Rime. Find a place to hide.

There is something over here, Rime said. He let out a quick chirp to call Treylen around the corner of the building. There the dragon was scratching at something along the foundation.

Low to the ground behind a queensberry bush, Treylen could see the faint swirl of magic—it was only visible with dragon sight. The lines of magic were everywhere and covered everything. But here they were behaving strangely. The old, sustaining magic that lived inside of ancient rock was not the kind that moved quickly. Yet, on the side of this keep, a slow whirlpool of sestus energy turned around one particular stone.

There was nothing else unusual about it, but when he knelt and pried it loose with his belt knife, the stone came away. On the back side he found a small handle, and an old carving of a sestus glyph. That was what was causing all the turbulence.

The construction of hiding holes was a favorite pastime of assassins, and since he had continued studying under Marziel, he’d built a number of his own. The glyph had called his attention, but the queensberry bush told him for certain. It was the marker of a hiding hole.

“Go on.” He waved the dragon inside and then peered in after. It was a

little more than a coffin-sized void in the foundation of the keep. It didn't go anywhere. That was okay. He didn’t intend to go anywhere either. Treylen slid his feet in first, then brushed the ground to cover his last few tracks and pulled the stone in behind him.

Inside, Rime had torn into a package left by whoever last used this hole and was choking down the dried rations that he found there. For all he knew it was as old as the foundation itself. Treylen lay thinking about the kill. In the time since he’d been sent off on his first mission, he’d only killed three by his own hand. Now, in one night he had nearly doubled that count. The feeling was not what he had expected. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Sunrise soon. We’ll wait out the day here, run home at night. They aren't expecting us back until tomorrow anyway. He sighed, then spoke aloud. “That could've gone better.”

I thought it was fine until you tried to fly, Rime snapped, but Treylen could feel through his connection that he was enjoying himself.

Later he might stop to wonder whether anyone who’d died tonight really deserved it. The dragon wasn't entirely ignorant. But only when it suited him.

Rime never missed the opportunity to question Treylen’s mistakes. And there were certainly many mistakes made that night.

Not all of them were his to question. More devotionals would be necessary to quiet his mind and keep his doubts away. There would be time enough for him to recall all of his vows, and to review their own missteps many times over as they sat in their hole and waited for tomorrow to end.

But first, curiosity. Treylen reached into his jacket for the parchment, borrowing dragon sight to read it in the dark. A short letter, the same length as the first, also scratched out, it was no wonder the inkwell had gone dry, as someone had gone to great pains to blot out what they’d been writing. He could make out one phrase toward the end of the scribble: must be mistaken. Then toward the end, two words: favor, and loyalty.

He uncrumpled two more letters, also liberally blotted out, but the shape of the missive was the same as the first, with slight differences, as if the author were unsure how to finish, giving up and starting again. Two words stood out toward the middle: charity, and dishonor. And toward the end the phrase: to say that I brought into Lome.

The last draft was entirely blotted out, except the surname of the recipient. Though it had been struck through, there was no mistaking it.

Suleyon.

It was the same Surname as that of the man whom Treylen had been tasked to kill on his last mission. So that was the connection. His first mission had been to remove the traitor who was selling arcane secrets to the enemy. Now the queen had him mopping up accomplices?

Treylen felt his tension ease a little, now that he understood. Perhaps when some time had passed Marziel would tell him what exactly Gilwin Suleyon had been up to here. But it was not an assassin’s place to think too deeply on the reasons behind their orders. His place was to trust in the wisdom of his queen. He crumpled the pages and tossed them away, content in the knowledge that a traitor had been rooted out.