out of its golden cage in its life. But the Beautiful Coco believed them because she wasn't much smarter than the birds.
Later he took a box from the armory and in a nest of earth and rags stowed a couple of smoldering coals from last night's fire, took a couple of unlit torches and went exploring for other gates in the city. He found none that day. In his seeking he had a long while to think of the things the Demon Queen had showed him on his way to the pyre, of Amayon lying in Gareth's arms, smiling and whispering love and poison into his ear. Of King Uriens greeting the Lords of the Great Houses with hearty cheer: He'd always been a more impressive King than his shy, pedantic son. The Lords of Greenhythe and Yamstrand and the islands would fall over themselves with delight, wanting to believe that he was back and therefore things would be back the way they'd always been.
Of Ian and Adric—and their tiny sister, Maggie, too—trapped in Alyn Hold by the deadly shadows of magic and banditry outside. Did you see it? Ian had whispered. John didn't like to contemplate what “it” might have been.
Of Jenny, dying in darkness.
He had asked Corvin the second night—when the dragon had returned with the sheep and the clothing—of Jenny. Corvin had said, It is a night and a day since Aohila showed you these things, Dragonsbane. Do you think your woman has lived so long?
“Please,” John had said. “Aohila might've been lyin'—she does that. If you can't see Jen, can you see Morkeleb the Black? He'd be with her, he's her friend.…”
And had felt Corvin's incredulity, and, a moment later, like a gust of sea-scent on the wind, the enmity the silver dragon bore for the black. A tangle of opinions—sly, unscrupulous, haughty—sparkled in the music of the silver dragon's thoughts, and with them, envy and anger, and the ringing sweet music of gold and gems that the black dragon had taken, which the silver wanted, some time deep in the abysses of the past.
To live forever is to remember slights eternally.
Corvin had sniffed, and turned away.
In the painted chamber that night, watching the firelight on the walls, John thought of Jenny, as he had thought of her every night in Prokep. She had told him once—the first time she'd returned from taking the form of a dragon—that she had returned because she knew that if she remained a dragon in body, she would become one in her heart, and would forget what it was to be a woman, and to love.
He saw her then—as she had been then, with the midnight oceans of her hair lying over his shoulder where her head rested, and her small square face like a sunburned acorn looking up into his—as she said, I did not want to forget you, my love. I did not want you to grow old, with me not there.
Her voice was deep, grained through with sweetness, like silver in rock. He couldn't imagine never hearing it again.
Ah, love, if we either of us live to grow old, it'll be more than I'd bet on tonight.
When he was young, and she would not come to the Hold to live with him, he used to scream at her, curse her, as he had wanted to curse the Icerider witch who had been his mother and who had left him, too: It's all you care about, isn't it? Your magic and your power.
He couldn't imagine why she hadn't turned him into a toad, let alone why she'd borne him not one child in those days, but two.
Let her be alive, he prayed to the Old God, watching the dim firelight shift over the shapes of the tribute-bearers on the walls. You can have all that tribute those fellers are carryin', I promise I won't keep a penny of it, if only she'll be alive when I get back.… If I get back.
But he'd lived in the Winterlands too long to believe that things ended happily. He had seen too many people he knew die.
The chap in the red boots there on the end, he thought, turning his eyes back to the wall. He has a wife who's a witch, and she loves her power—well, not more than she loves him, but as much. Yet she
Later he took a box from the armory and in a nest of earth and rags stowed a couple of smoldering coals from last night's fire, took a couple of unlit torches and went exploring for other gates in the city. He found none that day. In his seeking he had a long while to think of the things the Demon Queen had showed him on his way to the pyre, of Amayon lying in Gareth's arms, smiling and whispering love and poison into his ear. Of King Uriens greeting the Lords of the Great Houses with hearty cheer: He'd always been a more impressive King than his shy, pedantic son. The Lords of Greenhythe and Yamstrand and the islands would fall over themselves with delight, wanting to believe that he was back and therefore things would be back the way they'd always been.
Of Ian and Adric—and their tiny sister, Maggie, too—trapped in Alyn Hold by the deadly shadows of magic and banditry outside. Did you see it? Ian had whispered. John didn't like to contemplate what “it” might have been.
Of Jenny, dying in darkness.
He had asked Corvin the second night—when the dragon had returned with the sheep and the clothing—of Jenny. Corvin had said, It is a night and a day since Aohila showed you these things, Dragonsbane. Do you think your woman has lived so long?
“Please,” John had said. “Aohila might've been lyin'—she does that. If you can't see Jen, can you see Morkeleb the Black? He'd be with her, he's her friend.…”
And had felt Corvin's incredulity, and, a moment later, like a gust of sea-scent on the wind, the enmity the silver dragon bore for the black. A tangle of opinions—sly, unscrupulous, haughty—sparkled in the music of the silver dragon's thoughts, and with them, envy and anger, and the ringing sweet music of gold and gems that the black dragon had taken, which the silver wanted, some time deep in the abysses of the past.
To live forever is to remember slights eternally.
Corvin had sniffed, and turned away.
In the painted chamber that night, watching the firelight on the walls, John thought of Jenny, as he had thought of her every night in Prokep. She had told him once—the first time she'd returned from taking the form of a dragon—that she had returned because she knew that if she remained a dragon in body, she would become one in her heart, and would forget what it was to be a woman, and to love.
He saw her then—as she had been then, with the midnight oceans of her hair lying over his shoulder where her head rested, and her small square face like a sunburned acorn looking up into his—as she said, I did not want to forget you, my love. I did not want you to grow old, with me not there.
Her voice was deep, grained through with sweetness, like silver in rock. He couldn't imagine never hearing it again.
Ah, love, if we either of us live to grow old, it'll be more than I'd bet on tonight.
When he was young, and she would not come to the Hold to live with him, he used to scream at her, curse her, as he had wanted to curse the Icerider witch who had been his mother and who had left him, too: It's all you care about, isn't it? Your magic and your power.
He couldn't imagine why she hadn't turned him into a toad, let alone why she'd borne him not one child in those days, but two.
Let her be alive, he prayed to the Old God, watching the dim firelight shift over the shapes of the tribute-bearers on the walls. You can have all that tribute those fellers are carryin', I promise I won't keep a penny of it, if only she'll be alive when I get back.… If I get back.
But he'd lived in the Winterlands too long to believe that things ended happily. He had seen too many people he knew die.
The chap in the red boots there on the end, he thought, turning his eyes back to the wall. He has a wife who's a witch, and she loves her power—well, not more than she loves him, but as much. Yet she
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