Margaret Weis - The Dragon's Son

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MARGARET WEIS

TOR®

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events

portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

or portions thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor* is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates,

LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weis, Margaret.

The dragon's son / Margaret Weis.—1st ed.

p. cm.—(The second book of the Dragonvarld trilogy) ISBN

0-765-30469-4 BAN 978-0765-30469-8

1. Twins—Fiction. 2. Dragons—Fiction. 3. Brothers—Fiction.

4. Women priests—Fiction. I. Title

PS3573.E3978D76 2004

813'.54—dc22 2003071150

First edition: July 2004

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

To Bayne and Bette Perrin, with a daughter's love and respect

PROLOGUE

MELISANDE CLOSED HER EYES. SHE DREW IN A

LABORED breath, breathed it out in a sigh. The twisted grimace

of pain relaxed, smoothed. Her head lolled on the pillow. Her

eyes opened, stared at Bel-lona, but they did not see her. Their

gaze was fixed and empty.

Bellona gave an anguished cry.

Beneath the bed, the two babies lay in a pool of their mother's

blood and wailed as if they knew.

Melisande's sons.

One of them human, born of love and magic.

One of them half-human and half-dragon, born of evil.

Both of them hidden away. One in plain view for all the world

to see. One in the tangled forest of a grieving and embittered

heart.

None of this had turned out as any of the dragons had planned.

"Killing the mother was folly," raved Grald, the dragon father

of the half-human son. "Your women were supposed to capture

her, bring her to me. She was unusually strong in the dragon

magic, as proven by the fact that she bore my son and both she

and the babe survived. I could have continued to make use of

her, to breed more like her."

"You have found others who are serving the same purpose. As

for Melisande, she was unusually strong," Maristara stated coldly.

"The threat she posed far outweighed her usefulness. She was the

sole human on this earth who knew the truth about the Mistress

of Dragons."

"A threat she posed to you," Grald grumbled.

"A threat to me is a threat to us both," Maristara returned.

"Without the children of Seth, you would have no city, no

subjects, no army."

"We do not yet have an army."

"We will. Our plans can go forward now that Melisande has

been removed," said Maristara, with a dig and a twist of a mental

claw.

"What about the Parliament?"

"The Parliament of Dragons will do what it has done for a

thousand years. Talk and debate. Decide not to decide. Then fly

back to their safe and secret lairs and go to sleep."

"And the walker. Draconas." Grald growled the name and

mumbled over it, as if it were a bone the dragon would like very

much to chew. "You must concede that he is—or could be—a

threat."

"That is true and we will deal with him, but all in good time. As

he so cleverly arranged it, he is our only link to the children— the

sons of Melisande. Your son in particular. Kill him and we kill

any chance of finding them. Besides, if he were to suddenly turn

up dead, think of the uproar. The Parliament might actually be

inclined to do something. Best to lull them into complacency. Let

the Parliament slumber and let Draconas walk the world on his

two human legs."

"So long as we keep track of where those human legs of his

take him," said Grald.

"That is a given," agreed Maristara.

Draconas heard two babies crying. Not an unusual sound for

human ears to hear, for every second that passed on earth was

heralded by a baby's cry, as some woman somewhere brought

forth new life. The cries of babies might be said to be the song of

the stars.

What was unusual was that Draconas—the walker, the dragon

who had taken human form—heard the cries of these two babies

in his mind. The babes themselves were far away, but the dragon

blood in both linked them, all three, together.

He stood beside the cairn he had raised over the body of their

mother and listened to the wails and spoke to her, who would

never hear the cries of those she had brought into the world.

"There are some of my kind who believe it would have been

better if your children were now lying dead in your arms,

Melisande. Better for us. Better for them. In that instance, we

dragons could yawn and roll over and go back to sleep and wake

again in a thousand years. But, the children lived and so does the

danger from those who brought all this about. We dragons must

remain awake and vigilant. Your children were born of blood and

death, Melisande, and I believe that is a portent."

He placed his hand upon the cold stone and wrote in flames of

magic the words:

Melisande

Mistress of Dragons

Picking up his walking staff, Draconas left the tomb. The cries

of the babies sounded loud in his mind until each fell asleep, and

the wails died away.

Chapter 1

BELLONA SENT THE BOY OUT TO CHECK HIS RABBIT

SNARES. THIS was one chore he never minded, for he was

always hungry. When he found that he'd caught nothing, he was

only mildly disappointed. He did not have to worry about his next

meal this day. Bellona had brought down a fat doe the week

before and there would be fresh meat in the house for some time

to come. His mind was not on food. Today was the boy's birthday

and he was preoccupied with the memory of what had happened

this morning.

He'd experienced five birthdays up to now. Today made the

sixth. He remembered clearly his last three birthdays and he

might have been able to remember the birthday before that, but

he could not be certain if he was actually remembering the

birthday or if he had formed the memory out of those birthdays

that had come since.

The boy dreaded his birthday and looked forward to it, all at the

same time. He dreaded the day for the awful solemnity that

attended it. He looked forward to the day, too, for on his

birthday, Bellona would sit him down and speak with him

directly, an unusual occurrence. There were just the two of

them—the boy and the woman—but there was little

communication between them. The two would sometimes go for

days without saying more than a few words to each other.

At night, especially in the winter, when darkness came so early

that neither of them was ready for sleep, Bellona would tell

stories of ancient days, ancient warriors, ancient battles, ancient

honor and death. The boy never felt as though she was talking to

him when she told these stories, however. It was more as if she

was talking to them, those who had died. Either that, or talking to

herself, as if she was the same audience.

On his birthday, however, Bellona talked to him, to the boy,

and although the words were terrible to hear, he valued them and

held them close to him all the rest of the year, because on his day

they were his words and belonged to no one else.

The boy had an imperfect sense of time. He had no need to

count the days or months and he remembered the years only

because of this one day. He and Bellona lived deep within the

forest, isolated and alone, just the two of them. The passage of

time for the boy was marked by gentle rain and the return of

birdsong, the hot sun of summer, falling leaves, and, after that,

snow and bitter cold. Bellona counted the days, however, and he

always knew when his birthday was coming, for she would begin

to make ready their dwelling in order to receive the special guest.

Bellona always kept the dwelling neat, for she could not abide

disorder. She kept their dwelling in repair, working to make it dry

during the spring rains and the summer thunder and warm during

the harsh winter. Beyond that, she paid scant attention to it, for

she was rarely inside it. Four walls stifled her, she said. She could

not breathe inside them. She would often sleep outside, wrapped

in her blanket, lying across the door.

The boy slept inside. He had a liking for walls and a roof and

snug darkness. His favorite place in the world, apart from their

dwelling, was a cave he had discovered located about a half mile

from the dwelling. He visited the cave often, whenever he could

escape from his chores. He felt safe in the cave, secure, and he

would come there to hide away. He had come to the cave now, to

think about his birthday.

Yesterday, the day before his birthday, Bellona swept the floor

of their one-room hut, then laid down the fresh green rushes he'd

gathered from the marsh. She cleaned the ashes from the

fireplace and sent him to the stream to wash up the two wooden

bowls and two horn spoons, the two eating knives and the two

pewter mugs. She shook the dried grass out of the pallet on which

he slept and burned it and stuffed it with fresh. She cleared away

her tools and the arrows she had been tying from the table, which

was one of only three pieces of handmade furniture in the hut.

The furniture was not very well made. She was a warrior, she

said, not a carpenter. The table wobbled on uneven legs. There

was a tipsy chair for her and a low stool for him, a stool that he

was fast outgrowing.

Her cleaning done, Bellona stood inside the small hut, her hands

on her hips, and looked around with satisfaction.

"All is ready for you, Melisande," Bellona said. "We are here."

That night, the night before his birthday, Bellona remained

inside the hut, keeping watch. Whenever he woke, which was

often, for he was too nervous to sleep, he saw her lying on her

side, her dark eyes fixed on the dying embers, the embers

glowing in her eyes.

That morning, first thing, she sent him out to gather flowers. He

knew how important the flowers were to her and they had

become important for him, too, as being part of the ritual of this

day, and he had taken to searching out places where grew the

spring wildflowers, in order that he would be prepared.

He brought back two fistfuls of the bright blue flowers known

by the peculiar name of squill, some dogtooth violets and

bleeding heart. He gave them to Bellona, who dunked them in

one of the two bowls that she had filled with water. She then set

the flowers on the table, and sat in the chair. He squatted on his

stool. His claws scraped the floor nervously, bruising the rushes

and filling the air with a sweet smell of green and growing things.

Bellona looked at him, also something special. On other days, she

cast him a glance now and then and only when necessary. The

sight of him pained her. He had once assumed he knew why she

couldn't stand to look at him, but he had found out on his last

birthday that he'd been wrong.

She would look at him today. She would also touch him. Her

look and her touch made this day doubly special, doubly awful.

He waited, tensely, for the moment.

"Enter, Melisande. You are welcome," Bellona called. The first

rays of the morning sun slid in through the chinks in the wooden

logs and stole in through the open door. "You have come to see

your son and here he is, waiting to do you honor.

"Ven." Bellona turned her gaze full upon him. "Come to me.

Let your mother see how you have grown."

Yen's mother, Melisande, was dead. She had died on the day of

his birth. Her death and his birth were tangled together, though

Ven did not understand how. He knew better than to ask. He had

learned, long ago, that Bellona had little patience for questions.

Ven stood up. His claws made scraping noises as he walked

across the dirt floor and he was conscious of the sounds his claws

made in the silence that was fragrant, smelled of the flowers and

the bruised rushes. He was conscious of the sound because he

knew Bellona was conscious of it. On this day she heard it, when

on other days she could ignore it.

Ven saw himself reflected in her dark eyes, the only time in the

year he would ever see himself there. He saw a face that was

much like the face of other children, except that his face had

forgotten how to smile. He saw blue eyes that were fearless, for

Bellona had taught him that fear was something he must master.

He saw fair hair that his mother cut short, hacking savagely at it

with her knife, as if it hurt her. He saw the arms of a child,

stronger than most, for he was expected to earn his way in the

world. He saw the body of a child, slender now that he had lost

his baby fat, his ribs visible beneath sun-browned skin.

And he saw, in her eyes, his legs. His legs were not the legs of

any human child ever born upon this earth. His legs, from the

groin down, were the legs of a beast—hunched at the knee,

covered all over in glittering blue scales; his long toes ending in

sharp claws.

Ven walked up to Bellona. She rested her hands on his

shoulders, and pinched them hard, to make him stand as straight

as he could, given his hunched legs. She reached out a hand that

was callused and rough to brush the fair hair out of his eyes. She

looked at him, looked at him long, and he saw pain twist her stern

mouth and deepen the darkness of her eyes.

"Here is your boy, Melisande. Here is Ven. Bid your mother

greeting, Ven."

"Greeting, Mother," said Ven, low and solemn.

"This day six years ago you were born, Ven," said Bellona. "For

you, this day began in blood and ended in fire. For your mother,

this day began in pain and ended in death. I promised her, as she

lay dying on this day, six years ago, that I would take her son and

raise him and keep him safe. You see, Melisande, that I have kept

my vow."

Outside the door, a bird sang to its mate. A squirrel chattered

and a fox barked. The wind rustled the leaves. Creeping through

the open door, a breath brushed Ven softly on the cheek.

"What is your name?" Bellona asked him, beginning her

catechism.

"Ven," answered the boy. He didn't like this part.

"Your true name," Bellona said, frowning.

"Vengeance," he replied reluctantly.

"Vengeance," she repeated.

Leaning near, she placed her lips upon his forehead in the ritual

kiss that she gave him once a year, her gift to him on his birthday.

Her lips were rough, like her hands, and the kiss was cool and dry

and dispassionate, yet he would feel it all the year long, feel the

memory of it. This, too, he would hold close to him.

"Let your soul rest easy, Melisande," said Bellona. "Go back to

sleep."

She let her hands fall from him, took her eyes away from him.

Her gaze rested on the flowers and she was sad and far distant.

"You have the rabbit snares to check, Ven. And," she added

unexpectedly, "tomorrow we're traveling to the Fairfield faire.

We have furs to barter."

He froze the way the rabbits froze whenever he came near. He

hated the faire. Once a year, they went to either Fairfield or

another town for Bellona to barter fur pelts, exchanging them for

salt and flour and tools and whatever else they needed, which

wasn't much. At the faire were the children who looked like Ven

from the waist up, but were not like him from the waist down.

And though Bellona hid his beast's legs beneath long woolen

breeches and a long woolen tunic and hid his clawed feet inside

leather boots, she could not hide the fact that he did not walk as

did other children.

"I don't want to go," he said to her that morning, the morning of

his birthday. "I want to stay here. I'll be all right on my own."

He hoped for a moment she might let him, for there was a

thoughtful look on her face instead of the scowl of displeasure

that he expected. At length, however, she shook her head.

"No. You have to come. I need your help."

That might be true, but that wasn't the reason. She was making

him go to torture him, to test him. She was always testing him.

Tests to make him strong. He was angry at her and his anger

blazed red in his mind and he said words he was surprised to

hear.

"Today is my birthday. You made me greet my mother. Why is

it I never greet my father?"

Bellona looked at him again—twice in one day—but this time

he could not see himself in her eyes. He saw fury.

She struck him with her open hand, struck him a blow that

knocked him in a heap to the dirt floor. He tasted blood in his

mouth and the green smell of the rushes.

Ven picked himself up. His ears rang and his head hurt. Blood

dribbled from his lip and he spit out a baby tooth that had been

loose anyway. He did not cry, for tears were a weakness. He

looked at her and she looked at him. He understood about his

father then. Ven didn't know how he understood, but he did. He

turned and ran out, his claws tearing the rushes.

He checked the rabbit snares, which were empty, and then

came to this place, his place, the cave, where he felt safe, secure.

He thought about his mother, who had given him his face—the

face that pained Bellona to look upon because she had loved

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color-1--2--3--4--5--6--7--8--9-MARGARETWEISTOR®ATOMDOHERTYASSOCIATESBOOKNEWYORKThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisnovelareeitherfictitiousorareusedfictitiously.THEDRAGON'SSONCopyright©2004byMargaretWeisAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbook,orportionsthereo...

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Margaret Weis - The Dragon's Son

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