Blood of Dragons

‘Claims to have simply been on his way to look for Alise and Sedric before he was abducted with the other passengers. Some of the others dispute that; Candral says that a note from Finbok lured him down to the vessel. Hest denies it. Right now, there’s no hard evidence and no reason to charge him with anything.’

‘It doesn’t quite add up somehow. But I’m too tired to put my mind to work on it.’ Malta frowned. ‘Candral must go back. Someone must pay for what those horrid men did to me the night Phron was born.’ She looked down at her baby. ‘If I must go back to stand before the Council and speak about what I did that night, I will.’

‘I’ve no desire to put you through that. Sooner or later, the truth will out,’ Reyn told her.

She nodded slowly. All spirit had gone out of her since she had heard of Tintaglia’s death. The dragons had not wished to discuss it, other than to say that Kalo had stayed behind to eat her memories. He had not returned with the others; Reyn privately suspected that devouring a dragon the size of Tintaglia would take even Kalo several days. He was surprised at the depth of loss he felt at her death. Tintaglia had abandoned the other dragons to their fates years ago. She had left without a word of farewell to either Malta or him. Not even Selden, her beloved poet, had she warned before she vanished. For a short time, they had heard reports of her, including one that she had found a mate in the far north. What she had been doing for all those absent years they would never know, nor why she had decided to come back to the Rain Wilds. It sounded as if she had died but a day’s flight from Kelsingra.

He thought of her as he had last seen the dragon. Tintaglia had been arrogant and full of vitality, a queen in every sense of the word. She had left her mark plainly on himself and Malta and Selden. And, he now realized, on their children. Malta had miscarried several times. He tried to imagine himself as he could have been, a father surrounded by children, if only the dragon had been there to Change the babes in Malta’s womb so they could survive. It was a useless fantasy.

‘Tintaglia,’ Malta said suddenly.

He nodded. ‘I was just thinking of her, too. She was not so bad, for a dragon.’

Malta sat up straighter. ‘No. I feel her. Reyn, she’s not dead. She’s coming here.’

Reyn stared at her, his heart breaking. When they had first received the news that Tintaglia was dead, Malta had screamed like a madwoman. He had gathered her up and taken her away from all the others, even Tillamon. They had sat together with their doomed child, sat and rocked and wept and ranted behind closed doors. And when it was done, a strange calm had fallen over her. He thought perhaps it was a woman’s way, to come out of such a storm of emotion and pain as if she were a ship emerging onto calm seas. She had seemed, not at peace, but emptied of sorrow. As if she had run out of that particular emotion and no other one arose to take its place. She had tended Ephron with gentleness, even during the long hours when his shrill keening nearly drove Reyn mad. She had seemed to be absorbing every sound, every scent, every sight of her child back into herself, as if she were a stone taking his memories into her.

It had frightened him, but this was worse.

‘She’s dead, Malta,’ he said gently. ‘Tintaglia’s dead. The dragons told us so.’

‘The dragons were wrong!’ she insisted fiercely. ‘Listen, Reyn! Reach out to her. She’s coming, she’s coming here! She’s in a lot of pain, she’s hurt, but she’s alive and coming here.’ She reached for the baby, whisked him out of Reyn’s arms and stood suddenly. ‘There’s a chance, just a chance she can save him. I’m going to meet her.’

He watched her stride away from him. Then he glanced back at the others gathered at the other end of the hall. They were still deep in their discussion. None of them seemed aware of anything unusual. But Malta had seemed so certain. He stood still and let his eyes close. He reached out, opening himself, trying to still all his own thoughts.

Tintaglia?

Nothing. He sensed nothing. Nothing except the pain of looming death. His pain or a dragon’s pain?

He threw the thought aside and, catching up the cloak Malta had left behind, hurried after his wife and son. In the distance, he heard a dragon trumpet. Another replied, and another, and suddenly a chorus of dragon cries was resounding. As he stepped out into the early evening, the city seemed to light itself more brightly. Dragon cries came from every direction. Malta was a thin figure hurrying toward the centre of the Square of the Dragons, her baby a tiny bundle in her arms. The wind whipped her hair. He looked up to see dragons against the reddening sky of evening, flying in like a murder of crows summoned by the caws of one.

Not much farther.

Hurts too much.