The Dragon's Son (32 page)

“She knows,” said Draconas. “She knows who and what I truly am. And so do
you—-just by looking. You see me, but you also see the dragon.”

“Only indistinctly. The way I see a shadow on a hazy day. And then only
because I know to look for it—”

Draconas shook his head. “I can’t risk it, Marcus.
And I’m not going to go after your father or anyone else. If you get into
trouble, you’re going to need me. I’ll keep in contact with you. My thoughts
will be with you, literally. Just remember this and take my warning to heart—if
you use the magic, if you step outside your little room, the dragon will be
waiting.”

They passed the next hours in silence. Bellona was never one for small talk
and Marcus was just as glad to be left to his own thoughts. Draconas pondered
the magic he must use, how to best hide the boat from the sight of the baby
smugglers. He could not use illusion, for he was afraid that at least some of
the human males possessed of dragon magic had the ability to see through
illusion, including the most powerful illusion spell a dragon could cast—the
illusion that made Draconas look, feel, and act human.

But if he could not fool them with an illusion, he could try fooling them
with the reverse—a deletion. An illusion spell adds the unreal to reality. A
deletion spell subtracts the real from reality, makes objects appear to
disappear. The spell he had in mind was complex. The humans in the center of
the spell had to continue to see the object of the spell—the boat—or otherwise
they would quite understandably think they were going mad. Anyone else looking
at the boat and those in it must not see it. The boat would be there, but it
wouldn’t.

After he figured out how to cast the spell came the truly hard
part—explaining it to the humans.

“I’m going to place a magical spell on the boat and on both of you. The
spell will cause to you blend in with your surroundings, like a chameleon. The
way I did with the window when we were fighting in the cabin.” He looked at
Bellona to see if she remembered.

She nodded in stoic silence. But a nerve in her jaw twitched.

“Anyone looking at you will not see you, but they can hear you if you speak
or if you fall into the water or bump into them. So you’ll have to be careful.”

The two nodded, though both looked dubious.

Draconas gestured with his hand that, when he cast a spell, was always the
clawed, scaled hand of the dragon. The magic glittered on his claws, then
flashed toward the boat. The magic coursed through every fiber of the craft,
from bow to stern and back, danced across the oars, and then surged into the
two humans, so that in his eyes they gleamed brightly in the darkness, shining
with a beatific light, as humans envision angels. In an instant— briefer than a
lightning flash—darkness returned.

The spell was cast.

The humans knew nothing, saw nothing.

“There,” said Draconas. “To all intents and purposes, you are invisible.”

Bellona could see the boat quite clearly. She snorted in disbelief. Even
Marcus, who understood the magic, was doubtful.

“Step out of the boat, Bellona,” said Draconas. “Come over here with me.”

She hesitated, regarding him mistrustfully, then did as he asked. She
climbed nimbly from the boat, which Marcus held steady with the oars, climbed
over the rocks, and came to stand beside Draconas.

“Now look at the boat,” he said.

Bellona turned to face the river. She started, drew back, stared, then
frowned deeply.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

“I know,” he answered quietly. “But it is necessary if you want to save Ven.”

Returning to the boat, Bellona gripped the gunwale tightly, as if to
reassure herself the boat was real, before she climbed back inside.

“He is right. From where he stands, the boat is invisible,” she said.

“And so are you, when you’re inside the boat,” said Dra-conas. “When you
leave it, people will be able to see you. That’s why you have the disguises.”

He gestured to the brown monks’ robes that lay neatly folded in the bottom
of the boat.

Marcus regarded the robes with a grimace. “Why don’t you use the same spell
to make us invisible?”

“That sounds good, but it never works,” Draconas answered, adding with a
smile, “someone always sneezes.”

He glanced up at the moon, which had traveled a good distance among the
stars. “They’ll be back soon. I’m going to make myself scarce.

“Take care of yourself,” Draconas added in a low voice, so that only Marcus
could hear him. “Take care of Bellona. She loves Ven, though neither of them
knows it.”

Marcus nodded.

Faint, across the water, came a baby’s wail. The boats could be seen, their
black shapes crawling along the surface of the liquid moonlight like black
bugs.

“Here they come,” warned Draconas. “Make ready.”

“can’t you keep the brat quiet, old woman?” de-manded one of the soldiers in
the lead boat. “That screeching is getting on my nerves!”

“He’ll cry himself to sleep soon enough,” returned the woman, holding on to
the bundle of squirming cloth.

“You said that an hour ago,” the man countered irritably.

The woman chose to ignore him. The baby continued to cry. The boats glided
along the surface of the still water. Leaving the moonlight, they entered the
darkness of the drowned cavern.

“Black as a black dog in a coal bin,” complained the coxswain. “I can’t see
a damn thing. Stop rowing before we bash into a wall. What’s keeping that
light?”

The rowers leaned on their oars while the soldier posted at the front of the
boat fumbled with a match in an attempt to light a lantern.

“The match won’t catch fire. It’s got wet somehow,” he complained.

“Fancy that. Being on a river,” the coxswain muttered.

He looked at a brown-robed monk, who sat silent and unmoving in the stern,
his hands folded in his lap. “Pardon, brother,” the coxswain said deferentially
and awkwardly, “I do not like to disturb you, but the match won’t light. Could
you—”

The monk lifted his hand. A flicker of flame danced in his palm. He blew
delicately on the flame and, like thistledown, the wisp of fire flew toward the
lantern, barely missing the soldier, who hastily drew back out of the way. The
wick in the oil lantern caught fire, burned steadily. The monk relapsed into
the same position, hands in his lap.

A harsh glow flared from the lantern, gleaming off the damp walls and
spreading like a yellow film over the water.

One of the women gave a muffled shriek. “There’s someone there!”

“Guts and gore, woman!” The coxswain swore. “What do you want to go
screaming like that? I nigh jumped out of the boat! It’s only Grald.”

“Only
Grald,” repeated the woman in a low tone, making renewed
efforts to hush the crying baby.

The tall, hulking man stood at the water’s edge, watching the progress of
the boats edging their way into the cavern. Each boat lit its own lantern and
soon four lights bobbed in the water.

All talking ceased. There was no sound except the gentle lappings of the
water against the rock and the baby’s wail. The woman holding the crying baby
resorted to pinching his nose with her fingers and covering his mouth with her
hand to hush him. The occupants of the four boats nervously eyed their master.

“You’re late, Ranulf,” stated Grald. “Was there a problem?”

“The Mistress kept me talking, sir.” The soldier defended himself, his voice
a little too loud, so that it echoed off the walls.

“She wanted to know all there was to know about the Dragon’s Son. She seemed
to take it ill that you didn’t come yourself, sir. I told her you were meeting
with your son—”

Grald folded his arms across his massive chest and glared at the soldier. “I
don’t need you defending me, Ranulf.”

“No, sir,” Ranulf muttered. “Sorry, sir.”

“I should have been along, it seems,” Grald continued, growling. “Look at
the lot of you, lit up like All Hallow’s Night for anyone to see. Douse those
blasted lights!”

No one dared object. One by one, the lights winked out.

“Now be off with you,” Grald ordered. “I’ll meet you at the landing site.”

Oars splashed in the water. The boats moved cautiously, feeling their way
through the darkness. Fortunately, they had only a short stretch to navigate
before they reached the opening at the far end of the cavern. The boats edged
their way out, the occupants forced to duck their heads as they sailed beneath
the low ceiling.

“The shipment has arrived,” Grald reported, mentally speaking to his
partner. “I have sent them on their way. I must join up with them soon to open
the gate.”

“That is well,” returned Maristara. “How is your son? Your man tells me you
find him rebellious, uncooperative.”

“That is the dragon in him.” The father spoke with paternal pride. “I have
the means to control him, however. Through his human frailties. A female to
whom he is attached.”

“Will you breed him?”

“She has no dragon blood in her, so I doubt if we’ll get much that would be
of any use. For the time being, he may keep her for his pleasure.”

“And when will you take his body?”

“Oh, not for some time yet. This body continues to serve me well enough. And
I want the people of Dragonkeep to become accustomed to seeing Ven, to paying
him homage.”

“And what of our army?”

“Soon ready to march. When it does, the humans of this continent will think
that the end of days has come. Our army will fall upon them like the wrath of
their God. And they have no defense.”

“If
your plan to kill Draconas succeeds.” Maristara was openly
dubious.

“It will. I have my son. I have his brother. I will have Draconas.”

“Even though you have not seen him and you do not know where he is.”
Maristara sneered. “He worries me. What if he doesn’t come?”

“He will come.” Grald was confident. “After all, he has his own trap to
bait.”

“ ‘A trap is a trap—’“ Maristara quoted.

“Is a trap,” Grald finished.

Bellona sat in the boat in the darkness and watched the man who had raped
Melisande and forced her to bear the dragon’s son climb into his own boat, take
the oars, and steer himself out onto the murky water.

She meant to kill him. Not yet. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. He had to
first lead her to Ven. When that was done, before she left this place, she
would kill him.

She made Grald that silent promise, as he rowed out of the drowned cavern,
and, putting her hands to the oars, she followed silently after.

The baby smugglers had not traveled far when Grald overtook them and passed
them, his strong arms propelling his craft rapidly through the water. The boats
carrying the babies rocked violently in his wake.

Knowing Grald would be waiting for them impatiently
at the landing site, the rowers bent to their task with redoubled effort. Oars
lifted and fell, lifted and fell, now the only sounds in the night. The crying
baby had either fallen asleep or been smothered; the woman holding on to him
was not sure which.

“YOU HAVE TO ROW FASTER, BELLONA,” MARCUS COMplained in an urgent whisper. “I’m
losing sight of them! Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

“Fine help you’d be,” Bellona retorted. “You have no skin left on your palms
as it is. I can’t row faster or I’ll make too much noise.”

She did increase her pace somewhat, however, and the boat slowly crept
nearer to those ahead of it.

This branch of the Aston River was narrow, winding, and thickly lined with
trees that hung low over the water, their branches cutting off the moonlight.
The rowboat slid through thick swaths of night broken occasionally by patches
of splattered light. Marcus lay prone in the bow, peering down into the black
water, watching for the tell tale ripples that denoted snags or rocks below the
water. The last thing they needed to do was to run afoul of something. He also
kept an eye on the boat directly in front of him.

The stormy weather had left the autumn night hot and muggy. No breeze
stirred the water. The thick trees hugged the humid air close, as if selfishly
determined to keep it all for themselves. Marcus sweltered in the wool monk’s
robes. He threw back the smothering cowl, laved his neck and chest with the
cool water and looked with some anxiety at Bellona, who had insisted on putting
the robes on over her own clothes—wool robes over a wool tunic and a leather
vest and wool trousers. Sweat dripped off her chin, trickled into her eyes. She
refused his offer of a wet rag with a shake of her head, kept doggedly rowing.

Rounding a bend, Marcus lost sight of the boats, but he could hear the
splash of the oars and he knew the boats were still ahead of him. Then he could
no longer hear the oars. Someone spoke, someone answered—deep male voices.

“They’ve stopped,” he warned Bellona.

She ceased rowing. Their boat continued on, drifting down the stream on the
slow-moving current. Marcus feared that the boat would plow straight into the
midst of the smugglers. He could not see any sign of them, however, or any sign
of their destination. Their boat slid over the smooth water and suddenly the
boats they’d been following came into view, clustered along the shoreline.

“Stop!” Marcus hissed frantically.

Bellona steered into the shoreline, beaching the boat in a tangle of roots.
Marcus tied it securely, then looked back at the smugglers.

The monks were assisting the women out of the boats, while the rowers hauled
the empty boats up onto the shore. Lantern light flared. Marcus could see by
the bobbing lights that several people were leaving the shore, moving deeper
into the woods.

“We’re going after them,” Bellona whispered, rising to a crouch. “I’ll go
first.”