Dragon Flight (9 page)

“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re the tailors. Tailors!” I held out the trousers to the king, averting my face from his state of undress. Ignoring the other man, ignoring the entire court, really, the king took them from me and slipped them on.

Citatian trousers fit loosely, which meant that we wouldn’t have to make any adjustments. Not only did we not have any experience in fitting trousers, I didn’t relish the thought of having to mark and pin the king’s trousers with him in them.

The purple-hatted man said something to the king, who replied airily in kind. Whatever he said mollified the man somewhat, and he turned to us with a less shocked expression.

“Tailors?”

“Yes, sir,” we piped in unison.

“
Feravelan
tailors?” He studied us coldly.

“Yes, sir,” I said, an expression of deep innocence on my face. “We are people of no importance in any land, and would not dream of causing trouble.”

“Very well.” His voice was dismissive. “See that you don’t. We have no quarrel with Feravel’s
tailors
, in any case.”

I opened my mouth to ask who they did have a quarrel with, but Marta elbowed me in the ribs.

“I am the grand vizier,” the man told us. “Lord Arjas.”

We curtsied and introduced ourselves, and turned back to the king to find him struggling to pull his tunic over his helmet. He was quite stuck, and revealing a great deal of pasty, narrow chest to his court. Marta and I rushed to help, along with Lord Arjas.

“He should have taken off the helmet,” I said as we extracted the king. Glancing around, I saw that the court appeared not the least bit startled or discomfited by the development, and wondered what a typical day was like in the throne room.

“I never take it off,” the king said with dignity as his head popped free. “Never, ever.” He straightened the
helmet with great seriousness. “A king does not bare his head before his underlings.”

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” Marta said.

Picking up our shirt, I looked helplessly from the neck hole to the king’s headgear. Even with the laces at the neck completely undone, I worried that the sharp steel spike would catch the fabric and rip it.

Seeing my dilemma, the grand vizier took the shirt from me and studied it. “This will not fit, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Then fix it. You
are
tailors, after all,” Nason said to us.

“But your helmet might tear it, sire,” I said.

“His Majesty will have to try it on later, in private,” Lord Arjas said.

“But I want it now,” the king protested, and then quite suddenly he yanked off the helmet and tossed it to me. I barely managed to catch it.

“Quickly,” the king ordered Marta, who hurried to drop the shirt over his head.

Lord Arjas looked alarmed, and I stepped forward so that I could replace the helmet as soon as the king’s head poked through the neck of the shirt. As I did, I glanced down at the interior of the helmet and froze.

Arjas snatched it from my hands and clapped it back on to the king’s head. He helped Marta lace up the shirt, and Marta measured and pinned it alone as I stood and watched.

It was Marta, too, who made the arrangements for us to bring the clothing back the day after tomorrow, and Marta who repacked the basket and led me from the throne room.

Back in the cave, with Luka and Tobin demanding to know what had happened, I found my voice again.

“Marta, did you see that?”

“See what?” Luka was practically dancing from foot to foot with impatience. “What did you see?”

“The king’s helmet is lined with dragon scales,” Marta answered for me. “White ones, like that horrible dragon he has in his throne room.” She shuddered.

“You didn’t tell us there was a dragon in the throne room,” I choked out.

Luka looked abashed and put an arm around me. I pressed against him, not caring if the soldiers were watching. “I, er, didn’t want to worry you. It’s so weird and horrible, that white dragon. And I know how you feel about collaring dragons, so I didn’t want to upset you by telling you that the king keeps one as a pet in his throne room.”

I pulled away from him. “
You didn’t want to upset me
?!” I lowered my voice, forcing myself to concentrate on the matter at hand, rather than argue with Luka about things I did and didn’t need to be protected from. “Don’t you understand?” I felt nauseated, and found myself leaning against Feniul for support. “I think their
method is reversed: to control a dragon, you put a collar on it with some of your hair or blood worked into it rather than having one alchemical object that controls them all.”

“Yes, Niva told us that.” Luka still looked puzzled.

“But the king’s helmet is made from dragon scales,” I said again. “And he never takes it off for longer than a few seconds.”

Niva, however, was not puzzled. She lumbered to her feet and rattled her wings, drawing all eyes to her. “You can’t mean?”

“I do mean,” I replied. My knees were shaking, and I sank down on the nearest bed. “The other Citatian dragons may be under human control, but that white dragon is controlling the king.”

The clamour in the cave was deafening. There was no doubting what we had seen. Marta and I agreed that the white dragon had given us chills long before I saw what could only have been a helmet of scales on King Nason’s head. And I would never forget how the king’s expression had changed from slack-jawed stupor to alert wariness in the blink of an eye when the helmet came off. But now there was the question of what to do.

Luka wanted to contact his father as speedily as possible and Niva wanted to notify Shardas. I gave her a look when she said his name in front of the soldiers, but she just snorted.

“It is too late for such secrecy,” she said tartly. “If the human king is to be told, the dragon king surely must be.”

“You have a king?” One of the soldiers looked amazed, and I realised that knowing Shardas was alive when only a moment before they hadn’t known he existed, didn’t make them much of a threat to his safety.

Snapping my fingers, I nodded at Niva. “Yes, tell
Shardas everything, and ask if he will send your mate to King Caxel. He could be in the King’s Seat in a matter of hours, rather than days.” Luka had been on the verge of sending one of the soldiers with us to deliver the message, a journey of at least three weeks if he rode nonstop and took the fastest ship he could find. Niva went out to the pool to deliver the message.

“And in the meantime what do we do?” Luka began to pace. “The dragons are controlled by soldiers who get their orders from the king –”

“Who is, in turn, controlled by a dragon,” I said, finishing his sentence. “But why? Why would a dragon want to start a war against humans?”

“And Feravel in particular?” Marta added. “Remember, the war is aimed at Feravel; Roulain just happens to be in the way.”

“What does it
want
?” Luka looked frustrated, as we all did.

Tobin gestured, and Marta translated for the soldiers’ benefit. “Feravel’s relations with Citatie have always been good. Perhaps it is the white dragon we need to deal with.”

I nodded. “We have to find out if the dragon is behind it all, and if it isn’t, then who is? It’s not King Nason, that’s for sure.”

“Do we tell people?” Luka asked. “But who? And who would believe us? After all, we’re Feravelan.”

“We could tell the grand vizier,” I suggested. “He seemed like a sensible man.”

“But how do we get him alone?” Marta pointed out. “When we bring the king his suit we’ll be in a room full of people, and that horrible dragon will suspect something if we ask to speak to Lord Arjas alone.” She shivered and Tobin put his arm around her.

“Perhaps if I requested an audience with Arjas,” Luka mused.

Tobin interrupted, signing to the prince one-handed, the other hand still rubbing Marta’s shoulder. “How do you get an audience when you’ve been sentenced to death?” Marta interpreted.

I spoke up. “I want to find that dragon, the one I … well, Tobin … uncollared. Perhaps she knows how long this has been going on, and what the white dragon is upto.”

One of the soldiers, a man named Junn, spoke up. “I think that lady dragon has been getting up to some more mischief,” he said.

“How so?” Luka ran his hands through his short hair as he listened, making it stand on end. He looked even younger when he did it, and I realised with a start that he was barely eighteen and trying to stop a war. Again.

I took up Nason’s new coat and began to alter it while we talked. As my silly aunt used to say, idleness knits the garters of devilry.

“Well, I flew out on that fellow Feniul this morning, as ordered,” Junn told us. “And we saw some excitement over by them dragon hatching grounds. Feniul flew in close as he dared, and we saw half a dozen dragons
patrolling the area. He said they were talking about ‘five more being gone, with their hatchlings’. I guessed that meant that five more of them females had gone haring off. And who would take those collars off, but that lady dragon you all set free?”

“Good for her!” I held my needle in my mouth while I applauded and then spat it back into my palm to keep sewing. “So there’re at least six free now?”

“The message is on its way to the human king of Feravel,” Niva said, coming into the cave. “And Creel, Shardas would like to speak to you.”

I put down my sewing and followed her back out. Once I reached the pool, Niva stepped away to give us some privacy. I sat on a low rock at the edge and leaned over to see my friend.

Shardas looked better, even in the week or so since I had last seen him. The scales around his face were almost completely new, and his sapphire horns were sharp and bright. His blue eyes were dark with rage, however, and I drew back, wondering if it was me he was angry with.

“Creel? Are you all right?” His deep voice was tight with concern.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said hesitantly. “How are you?”

“I? I am appalled that I sent you there to face this with only
Feniul
to protect you,” he snarled.

“Feniul is all right,” I protested. Usually Shardas was fondly exasperated by his cousin; I had never heard him
insult the green dragon before. “And I have Niva and Amacarin; there’s no direct danger.”

“
No direct danger!”
A plume of steam actually shot out of the pool, narrowly missing me. “Krashath!
Krashath
is controlling the king of Citatie!”

I leaned as far forward as I dared. “You know the white dragon?”

“There is no such thing as a white dragon,” Shardas said, and his voice was like the scraping of swords. “He was once the colour of polished silver, until he delved so deeply into alchemy that he bleached his scales white!
Krashath!”
His loathing was so strong that I thought the water between us would curdle like old milk. “I thought he was dead.”

“How? Why?” I wasn’t sure which question to ask, or what sort of answer I was looking for. I had never seen Shardas like this, not even when he had told me about Milun the First, who had betrayed Velika. He was practically vibrating with rage.

“I did my best to kill him, but it seems my best was not good enough,” Shardas continued, oblivious to my questions. “And now he is planning this … this! He will destroy us all to get what he wants.”

“What does he want?” I felt a spark of hope. “Is there something we can give him? A rare book? Jewels?”

“
No!
” More steam came out of the pool. “What he wants … he cannot have. Never. He must be destroyed.”

“All right.” I had to scoot back even further to avoid being burned by the steam. “But how?”

He shook his head. “Do nothing,
nothing
until I get there.”

“What?” Now I shook mine. “But Shardas, you can’t!”

“I can and I will.”

The image rippled, and the pool was just a pool again. I stirred the heated water frantically with my fingers, but could not summon Shardas again. I hurried into the cave, nearly tripping over Amacarin’s tail in my haste.

“We have to stop him,” I pleaded, going to Niva. “Shardas says he is coming here. He says that this white dragon is named Krashath, and that he must destroyed. And Shardas will come here, but he can’t! His wings! His scales! He’s too weak!” There were tears on my cheeks and I tugged at Niva’s foreleg as though she could get up and do something to stop Shardas right that moment.

“Krashath?! Is he certain?” Niva’s nostrils flared, and Luka ducked in case she lost control of her fire. “By the First Fires,” Niva breathed. “This is unwelcome news.”

“To say the least,” Amacarin snapped. “Krashath still alive? It’s a nightmare!”

“Who is Krashath?” Feniul looked confused. And also annoyed, as Marta’s monkey was sitting on his muzzle and reaching into one of his nostrils with both tiny fists.

“You are what? Three hundred years old?”

Feniul nodded. “Three hundred and twelve.”

“It was before your hatching, then,” Niva explained. “But only by three decades or so. Krashath wanted to be king, but he was very unpopular. His fondness for alchemy was worrying, and he had a rather cavalier attitude towards his fellow dragons. He felt no qualms about ordering his fellows about, having younger or less intelligent dragons clean his lair or bring him food, and he also put forth the idea of hiring out dragons as mercenaries for human armies.”

“And he’s still pursuing that,” I said slowly. “Using alchemy to force other dragons to fight.”

“Shardas defeated him,” Niva continued. “We all thought that Krashath died of his wounds, but it seems not.”

“So that’s how you become king of the dragons?” Luka’s eyes were wide. “You fight your rival to the death?”

“Not usually, no,” Niva said, shaking her head. “Once the queen has chosen her mate, there is usually little argument. But Velika was young, and Krashath seemed convinced that she would change her mind if she saw that he was more powerful than his … rival.”

She started to say something else, but I held up my hands. “Wait, wait! So, Shardas is the king because Velika chose him?”

“That’s right.”