Cradle of Darkness Read online

“It’s not just the matter of the throne,” he replied. “It’s his condescension, his dismissiveness. Father is putting decrees into place contrary to my wishes. He knows this, yet persists.”

  His mother gave a tight smile. “I know.” She paused, and Eétor knew in that moment she would always favour her husband, even condone him manipulating events in the background once Eétor accessed the throne. “Perhaps this might be a consolation,” she continued, opening a drawer in her dressing table. “I know we gave you your official gift, but I wanted to give this as something special — just from me.”

  She lifted out the oblong engraved case and Eétor caught his breath despite himself.

  “The heartwood box? Are you sure? This is normally handed down to the Queen’s eldest daughter.”

  He accepted the small casket from her and regarded its surface. The finest Dragonian craftsmanship, inlaid with delicate flakes of garbeech and spalted herry. The sides were encrusted with azure and emerald coloured jewels, mined and selected from Kaldora’s most precious hoard. It was beautiful — and so disappointing. He knew it was symbolic. But he had no use for such an heirloom, and it would only drive a wedge between him and Etezora. Something his mother had either not seen, or unwittingly accepted as part of his father’s schemings.

  Gorram them both.

  Zodarin had detected Eétor’s ambitions and the Praetor took the wizard into his confidence. To have such a longstanding advisor and powerful ally was a boon, and Zodarin shared Eétor’s ambitions for aggressive expansion. He was also willing to carry out baser acts when required.

  That night, Zodarin pledged to deal with the ‘parental problem’ in his own inimitable way. Eétor was aware of the Dreamworld via tales passed down from mystics, but he considered it a legend. That was until Zodarin showed him its wonders through administration of various concoctions and muttered incantations. The wizard seemed to pass into this fantastical realm at will, but Eétor required extraordinary means — methods that Zodarin was well versed in.

  “I would see the moment that they die,” he told the sorcerer.

  “There will be little to see,” Zodarin replied. “Some simply have a seizure and die in their sleep. Others scream as if in the grip of a nightmare, and then come to rest.”

  Eétor looked crestfallen.

  Zodarin fixed him with eyes tinted yellow in the sclera and snake-slit pupils. “But in the Dreamworld …”

  Eétor was eager to learn more, to partake, and with a little persuasion Zodarin complied, although he said it would be a difficult thing to enable Eétor’s access to the realm.

  Nevertheless, Zodarin was successful, and they entered a trance state during the early hours. Eétor remembered hearing the night scops hoot, sounding a death knell as their incorporeal forms drifted across ethereal boundaries.

  Are you sure they will be here? Eétor asked the wizard.

  All who walk the lands of Varchal have their spirit form — except those of the Dragonian race. Zodarin replied. The hard part is detecting and recognising them amongst the billions that exist here.

  The dread-scapes they traversed through were enough to bring Eétor to the brink of madness, but he was strong-willed and resisted their infiltrations. He himself ran on multiple legs, his body a chitinous mass of articulations that moved like a clockwork mechanism. He asked Zodarin to contrive a more seemly form, but the wizard related that there were laws governing such things, precepts beyond his ability to manipulate. Eétor had his doubts about this, but accepted the mage’s explanation.

  Zodarin adopted the form of a ginger tomcat, overly large with tufted ears, yet the Praetor identified the same serpentine eyes and gait of the man. Similarly, when Zodarin homed in on his parents, he recognised them for what they were. His father, a squat rat-like mammal, crouched on a tree stump, while his mother curled up in the form of a miniature cur, coated in long wispy fur and snoring in a snivelling fashion. When he observed them in that state, their spirit forms revealing more of their character than he could ever have divined in the world of the Near To, his distaste for them turned to revulsion.

  Do it, he sent to the cat-wizard.

  I need to assume a different guise, the wizard said. Do not relate what you see next to another soul — ever.

  One look at the cat’s piercing eyes convinced Eétor that this was wise counsel. You have my word, he replied.

  If there were any regrets about that night’s fateful decisions, then choosing to watch what transpired next would be the only one to repeatedly surface in Eétor’s mind.

  Zodarin turned to face Eétor’s reposed parents and then collapsed in upon himself. The feline form was replaced by something much larger and infinitely more horrific. To this day, Eétor could not find words to describe the monstrosity; indeed he tried to blot it from his mind. Yet he had found that only a hefty dose of jarva-leaf could even begin to achieve this.

  To compensate, the Praetor could savour the expression of fear on his mother and father’s faces. The wizard’s transformation was not silent, and they awoke with alarm at the disturbance. His father had defecated at the sight of Zodarin’s nightmare form, while his mother simply shook, unable to muster the will to flee.

  The Zodarin-monster fell upon them with an avalanche of grotesque limbs and tentacles — ripping and shredding with an abandon that to Eétor appeared ecstatic in its energy. In the end, the son turned away from the savagery that the monster exacted on his parents.

  Yet the Zodarin-beast was not finished. You must partake, it sent in a voice that echoed eternal corruption.

  What? Eétor replied.

  Kill.

  I cannot —

  You must take ownership, it sent, and the voice was so compelling that Eétor could not refuse, though the prospect reviled him. His father’s rodent visage was mutilated almost beyond recognition, yet Eétor saw the flickering light of life still kindled there — just. He snuffed it out with a rain of blows to the rat’s head. The bloody pulp that remained was unrecognisable.

  Then he turned to his mother, the almond shaped cur-eyes staring at him with incredulity.

  Why? she uttered through blood-encrusted lips.

  Eétor answered by breaking her neck with a single bite from his mandibles. She deserved a quick death, after all.

  Eétor pushed the memory from his mind and focused on the jewellery box again. He repaid her seeming generosity with an act of unspeakable treachery. It represented a waymark in his life and, though he’d been responsible for countless deaths since, none could equal what he perpetrated that night.

  “You are ruminating again,” an oleaginous voice said. Zodarin was at the door, as if he had just materialised. He slunk into the room, ducking under the lintel, a lop-sided smile on his face. Why does it always seem he is stalking something — or someone? Eétor thought.

  “It is my wont to consider all things,” Eétor said.

  The sorcerer’s smile broadened. “Indeed it is.”

  It irked Eétor that Zodarin offered no apology for his tardiness. More so that he suspected the wizard sensed his thoughts — if not in their entirety then at least in essence. He drew a cloak over his musings and thought he sensed a withdrawal of something impinging.

  “I summoned you here to discuss my sister’s recent empowerment,” Eétor said. “This enhancement of Etezora’s, it has shifted the balance, and she continues to confound the plans we agreed to put into place together ten sols ago.”

  Zodarin folded his slender arms; the elongated fingers splaying around his elbows unnaturally. Not for the first time, Eétor speculated as to the man’s origins. “You had hoped the Hallows would bestow similar gifts upon you,” the wizard said.

  “I returned to Edenbract just before dawn and — ”

  “And you were disappointed.” Zodarin inclined his head. “I warned you that an existing reserve within a body is required to — ”

  “Yes, yes. I know what you said.” Eétor was keen to show Zodarin that interruption
was not only the wizard’s preserve. The wizard had to be handled carefully, true, but the Praetor held greater authority. Eétor pressed home the initiative. “Have you yourself visited the Hallows?” It was more than a question.

  Zodarin hesitated long enough for the man’s evasion to be confirmed. “The temple site is forbidden to all but the royal family. It would be a serious violation for me to even step within its boundaries.”

  “That is not an answer,” Eétor said.

  Zodarin took one step forward, ostensibly a shifting of weight, but Eétor felt threatened nonetheless. “Tell me, what punishment would you exact on such a trespasser?”

  Eétor drew himself up to full height, yet was still two spans shorter than the wizard’s towering form. “It is Etezora’s prerogative to decree such things. I was simply warning you, as she placed a heavy guard on the temple this morning.”

  Zodarin nodded. “Thank you for the warning, Your Excellency. But, as a humble servant of the crown, I would not even think of overstepping my station.”

  There it was again. The man was an expert at deflection. How long can I continue to trust him?

  “Sit down,” Eétor said, “we have much to talk about. Can I offer you a drink?”

  It was a hospitable act, but also a device to reduce the wizard’s commanding presence. Zodarin accepted the invitation, requesting a goblet of red wine and, as they discussed their next moves, Eétor felt a little more comforted at the wizard’s assessments and suggestions.

  Half an hour later, they had agreed on a course of action.

  “So, I should bide my time for the present, and allow you to put these matters into place?” Eétor said.

  “That would be prudent. Etezora is fixated on her new talents and suspects nothing of our intentions. Best to keep it that way until the final pieces of our … I mean your plan are in place.”

  Eétor was satisfied at the outcome and dismissed Zodarin. He was sure the wizard had other machinations in mind, but Eétor had plenty of his own. It was time to talk to Grizdoth. The Praetor might be lacking in magical talents but he had influence over others who could compensate for this deficiency — and Grizdoth owed him a debt or two.

  10

  Silver spoons and golden chains

  The dragon was only ten sols old, little more than a fledgling, but already attempting to exert its dominance. Cistre had carried out Tayem’s duties and had a short time to do something more relaxing, more frivolous.

  Hours ago, Mahren had taken off with five Dragon Riders. The bodyguard had no doubt that Mahren would accomplish her mission, and this was all well and good for Tayem’s plans, but it irritated Cistre that the kirith-a was entrusted with such a responsibility. She, on the other hand, was stuck here carrying out more menial tasks. She knew she ought not to harbour such thoughts. After all, carrying the mantle of personal bodyguard to the Queen was not a humble position, and it did mean she could spend many hours in Tayem’s presence.

  “Don’t be fooled by his tender age,” Sheldar said, “Kutan’s gained a habit for tipping his opponent this last week, and your mind doesn’t seem to be quite on task — if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  The dragon-hand was overly fond of giving out advice, particularly to Cistre, and she wasn’t sure she was in the mood for receiving the benefits of his wisdom this afternoon. “Still your tongue, Sheldar. I know what I’m doing,” she said, circling around to the dragon’s flank.

  Kutan responded by shifting his six-span body from side to side, looking for an opening. Dragons didn’t smile, but it didn’t stop Cistre from wondering at times. This wyrm seemed to enjoy himself as he feinted first one way then another.

  Cistre — Dragon Wrestler was not a title she relished, but the sport was a welcome distraction — and she certainly had a talent for it. The initial strike or ‘embrace’ was a crucial moment in the match. The opponent who gained the upper hand in those first thirty seconds or so put themselves at a considerable advantage, and she was determined this would be her. Sol-Ar’s rays beamed through a gap in the garbeech canopy and reflected off Kutan’s scales, the laminations creating a blue-green iridescence that struck her with their beauty.

  The moment of appreciation was her undoing. Kutan’s posture and expression gave no indication of its intent, and the strike came swift as lightning. He came in low, his snout buffeting her leg and tipping her onto her back. Immediately he was upon her. He knew better than to bare his teeth, and his claws had been clipped to prevent them inflicting excessive damage. Nonetheless it knocked the wind out of her, and within the space of two seconds she was staring into the face of the mischievous dragon, smelling its fresh meat-breath.

  “I told you,” Sheldar said, “he’s a sneaky diggod, and it looks like he’s caught you napping.”

  Cistre wished that Sheldar would krut off, but she blotted him out and considered her counter move.

  Krut, he’s strong. The dragon, unlike most, seemed to put on weight faster than a typical wyrm, and it was all muscle. She attempted to roll him with a swift forearm smash to his neck but his weight was impossible to shift, and he brushed the blow off, swinging his head around to nuzzle into her chest, pinning her to the ground. The beast had caught her between the breasts — an almost intimate affront, and Cistre could tell by the glint in his eyes that he knew what he was doing. It was playful rather than malicious.

  “Now that’s a low move, even for you,” she said. Well, I’m not above trying an underhand manoeuvre myself.

  Stilling her inner spirit so as not to give away her intentions, she clapped her hands over the beast’s ears — a sensitive part of any dragon’s anatomy. Kutan shrieked in pain, caught off guard. Cistre pressed home the advantage, using her strong thighs to twist his body and roll him off her. The ruse worked, and she executed a practised move that brought her up behind him, locking arms under his wings, clinging on like a limpet.

  Try as he might, Kutan could not shake her off and he bellowed in frustration. Sheldar began the count, and by the time he reached three she’d won the bout.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Sheldar exclaimed, “you gave him a dose of his own potion.”

  Cistre released the dragon, stroking his nose and feeding him a chunk of squarra meat, letting him know she meant him no malice. This was sport after all.

  The beast sighed in submission, glad of the morsel. He shook his head, tossing the fillet to the back of his jaws, and with three closings had swallowed it gratefully.

  Sheldar held out his hand to help Cistre up, and without thinking she accepted it out of politeness. It was the only overture Sheldar needed.

  “Say, would you accept a humble dragon-hand’s invitation to share a flagon or two in the Willow Tavern tonight?”

  Cistre pursed her lips and regarded his expectant face for a moment. She supposed he was handsome, for a man. His long sable locks formed an attractive surround to his overly boned features, and he could make her laugh with his quips and anecdotes. But he stirred nothing within her.

  She pinched his nose mischievously. “Save yourself for someone who’s less likely to break your arm,” she said.

  “Oh, go on,” he continued, unpersuaded, “you need more fun in your life, Cistre. Why not — ”

  “I need to relieve Coren on guard duty,” she said, “then I have my evening duties to perform.” Her demeanour turned stony and officious. She didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, but he needed to be left in no doubt. “See that you secure the dragons well. They’re restless due to their brothers and sisters’ absence.”

  “Mahren’s sortie? Why did so many ride out this afternoon?”

  “It’s not your concern. Now, you have your responsibilities and I have mine. See to the dragons, Sheldar.”

  With that, she strode away, not giving him a chance to reply. Her thoughts turned to Tayem. Cistre’s heart was troubled at the Queen’s outburst during the council meeting, disturbed by the shadows behind her fierce gaze. She had hung back at the grand chambe
r’s doorway, overheard Darer’s conversation with Tayem as they had discussed the Black Hallows. Cistre was charged with the duty of guarding the Queen with her life, but might she now have to save her from herself?

  She marched through the Dragonian courtyard, tendrils from the giant tisthorn trees forming a curtain of greenery lining the hardwood walkway. The main acropolis was marvellous in its design. When first she had come to Dragonia, it had stolen the breath from her mouth with its towering ironwood spires. In the failing light, the creepers that draped the edifice came alive with chirping crickets and singing night-warblers. Tayem’s father had welcomed her to the royal household — an orphan with forgotten origins. He had taken her in and bestowed an education and security she knew she was immensely lucky to have received. Yes, her allegiance to the royal house came from a sense of indebtedness, but her devotion to Tayem somehow went beyond this.

  The Queen might be strong-willed, but Cistre was prepared to step in should her resistance to the Hallows break her down. Perhaps tonight would allow her the opportunity.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tayem sat cross-legged on a dais in her small chamber. She would normally have been relaxed, surrounded by her bards and the inner circle of attendants. But her stomach churned, waiting to hear the outcome of her sister’s mission.

  She held a small, carved figurine depicting her dragon, Quassu. Her father had carved it, his last gift to her. As such, it represented a lost security, a symbol of comfort and her father’s protection. When she handled it this way, passing it from hand to hand, it helped soothe her anxieties. She held onto it, much as a child would cling to a soft toy.

  Growing irritated by the tone of the music, she called for Vanya to change her tune and sing the lay of the Dragon Riders.

  “It is a melancholy song, Your Majesty. Perhaps something more light-hearted might —”

  “Do as I ask,” Tayem replied.

  The bard saw her expression and bowed her head in obedience. The charazon she held was a beautiful instrument. Its exquisitely crafted gourd-shaped sound box was joined to a long neck-piece that extended a full ten spans. It was pegged with fourteen cat-gut strings, the bottom five of which were plucked as bass notes to complement the melody played on the remaining nine.