Uprooted(54)

Finally the knock came, the hard pounding of a mailed fist. The Dragon crooked a finger and the doors swung inward: Prince Marek stood on the threshold, and beside him another man, who despite being half as wide across managed to be an equal presence. He was draped in a long white cloak, patterned in black like the markings of a bird’s wings, and his hair was the color of washed sheep’s wool but with roots of black, as though he’d bleached it. The cloak spilled back from one shoulder, and his clothes beneath were in silver and black; his face was carefully arranged: sorrowful concern written on it like a book. They made a portrait together, sun and moon framed in the doorway with the light behind them, and then Prince Marek stepped into the tower, drawing off his gauntlets.

“All right,” he said. “You know why we’re here. Let’s see the girl.”

The Dragon didn’t say a word, only gestured towards Kasia, where she and I stood a little concealed. Marek turned and fixed on her at once, his eyes narrowing with a speculative light. I glared at him fiercely, though he didn’t get any benefit of it: he didn’t have so much as a glance for me.

“Sarkan, what have you done?” the Falcon said, advancing on the Dragon’s seat. His voice was a clear tenor, ringing, like a fine actor’s: it filled the whole room with regretful accusation. “Have you grown completely lost to all sense, hiding yourself out here in the hinterlands—”

The Dragon was still in his chair, leaning his head against his fist. “Tell me something, Solya,” he said, “did you consider what you would find here in my hall, if I really had let one of the corrupted out?”

The Falcon paused, and the Dragon rose deliberately from his chair. The hall darkened around him with sudden, frightening speed, shadows creeping over and swallowing the tall candles, the shining magical lights. He came down from the dais, each step striking like the deep terrible ring of some great bell, one after another. Prince Marek and the Falcon backed away involuntarily; the prince gripped the hilt of his sword. “If I had fallen to the Wood,” the Dragon said, “what did you imagine you would do, here in my tower?”

The Falcon had already brought his hands together, thumb and forefingers in a triangle; he was murmuring under his breath. I felt the hum of his magic building, and thin sparkling lines of light began to flicker across the space framed by his hands. They went faster and faster, until all that triangle caught, and as if that had provided an igniting spark, a halo of white fire went up to wreath his body. He spread his hands apart, the fire sizzling and crackling over them, sparks falling like rain to the ground, as if he was making ready to throw. The working had the same hungry feeling as the fire-heart in its bottle, as if it wanted to devour the very air.

“Triozna greszhni,” the Dragon said, the words slicing out, and the flames went out like guttering candles: a cold sharp wind whistled through the hall, chilling my skin, and was gone.

They stared at him, halted—and then the Dragon spread his arms in a wide shrug. “Fortunately,” the Dragon said, in his ordinary cutting tones, “I haven’t been nearly as stupid as you imagined. Much to your good fortune.” He turned and went back to his chair, the shadows retreating from his feet, spilling back. The light returned. I could see the Falcon’s face clearly: he didn’t seem to feel particularly thankful. His face was as still as ice, his mouth pressed into a straight line.

I suppose he was tired of being thought the second wizard of Polnya. I had even heard of him a little—he was often named in songs about the war with Rosya—although of course in our valley the bards didn’t talk overmuch about another wizard. We wanted to hear stories about the Dragon, about our wizard, proprietary, and we took pride and satisfaction in hearing, yet again, that he was the most powerful wizard of the nation. But I hadn’t thought before what that really meant, and I had forgotten to fear him, from too much time spent too close. It was a forcible reminder now, watching how easily he smothered the Falcon’s magic, that he was a great power in the world who could make even kings and other wizards fear.

Prince Marek, I could tell, liked that reminder as little as the Falcon had; his hand lingered on his sword-hilt, and there was a hardness in his face. But he looked at Kasia again. I flinched and made an abortive grab for her arm as she stepped away from me, out of the alcove, and went to him across the floor. I swallowed the warning I wanted to hiss, too late, as she made him a curtsy, her golden head bowed. She straightened up and looked him full in the face: exactly as I had tried to imagine doing myself, all those long months ago. She didn’t stammer. “Sire,” she said, “I know you must doubt me. I know I look strange. But it’s true: I am free.”

There were spells running in the back of my head, a litany of desperation. If he drew his sword against her—if the Falcon tried to strike her down—

Prince Marek looked at her: his face was hard and downturned, intent. “You were in the Wood?” he demanded.

She inclined her head. “The walkers took me.”

“Come look at her,” he said over his shoulder, to the Falcon.

“Your Highness,” the Falcon began, coming to his side. “It is plain to any—”

“Stop,” the prince said, his voice sharp as a knife. “I don’t like him any better than you do, but I didn’t bring you here for politics. Look at her. Is she corrupted or not?”