A Knight's Calling Page 4

  Gwinifeve wouldn’t have cared about these details, so he kept them to himself as she went on. “There is equal distrust brewing between Ivoryss and Yor, and Ivoryss and Lœdyrrak. The peoples of all the provinces have grown overly fickle and divided of late. As the Knights see it, a schism is coming, a division that will be more extreme than any we’ve seen in the past.”

  This news struck a jangled chord. He couldn’t see the world’s three equal provinces, all joined as a realm under the oversight of Vaka Aster their creator, as anything but united. “Surely Vaka Aster will step in to quell any discord.”

  She gave him a look that made him feel, for all his studies in the Conservatum as a lad, enfeebled. “Vaka Aster? Our Verity is not one to bother with the ebbs and flows of her creations. We are alone in our governance, yet still we Knights are sworn to serve Vaka Aster. And only Vaka Aster.”

  A dim light began to flicker at the edge of his mind, and he asked, “That’s why you’ve stolen the hatchling, then? You want to use it to aid the Knights in their duties to Vaka Aster?”

  “That’s exactly right, Griggory. You’re not as silly as you sometimes seem.”

  “That’s…that’s, well, it doesn’t seem like you’ve thought it through. A dragør can’t be controlled, let alone forced into service.”

  She stared into the fire, and he thought he could detect some uncertainty cross her features in the firelight’s flicker. “History tells us the dragørs were Vaka Aster’s first protectors, her first creations. But we don’t know why they’ve abandoned the world for the forests and deserts, or why the task of serving our Verity has come down to us, mere humans. We are not powerful in the same way.” She stabbed the fire with a stick, sending sparks into the air. “But that isn’t important. Because the duty is ours now, the Knights’, and I will see it done by whatever means are necessary.

  “Vaka Aster wouldn’t have given the Knights the tools she has if she didn’t want us to use them. And that includes dragørs. When war comes—”

  “War?” he cut in.

  “Yes, war. It will come, and when that happens, the Knights won’t take sides. We will do what we’ve sworn to do and keep Vaka Aster’s vessel safe. Can you think of anything more suited to protecting the vessel of our creator than dragonfire?”

  He was quiet for a bit, examining her sincerity and discovering its flaw. “But when I left Umborough two days ago, the Knights were saying the Fenestros had been stolen. They didn’t know you took it. And…they didn’t know what you plan on doing with it, did they?”

  “Some among us are less foresighted than others. But they’ll see my wisdom when the time comes, and they’ll be thankful for it.”

  “And what will you do until that time comes?”

  “You mean, old friend, what will we do? You’re part of this now, and I need you. I can’t raise this beast on my own, obviously. But with your help, there’s a chance.” She chuckled dryly. “Perhaps you were meant to be a Knight after all.”

  “Help? But—no! That would be wrong. It’s just a baby, it needs its parent and others of its own kind. They are not a species to be trifled with, and there’s no way the dragørs won’t find the hatchling eventually—and punish us, you, for kidnapping it.”

  She stood up on the other side of the fire and pushed the edge of her black cloak away from her hip. Laying a hand on the hilt of her sword, she stared into his eyes. “Griggory, this is the hill you’ve found yourself on. Your life has been spent pursuing the secrets of dragørkind. Only you are capable of serving Vaka Aster in this way. And I am the hand of Vaka Aster. If you refuse me, you refuse our creator. And this hill you’re on? It’s the one you’ll die on if you don’t agree to help me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Gwinifeve was kind enough to let him take a few gulps of water before she bound and gagged him like a festival turkey. Did that mean she wasn’t entirely without a moral backbone? He supposed he’d extend her that bit of praise for not letting him die of thirst, but that was the end of any nice things he’d have to say about her.

  Halla shone overhead near High Halls, or midday. He wasn’t as hot as he might have been, because she also left him tied in the shade beneath the dragørfly tree with the hatchling. He wasn’t about to give her any acknowledgment for that, though. The hatchling lay at the end of its ten-foot chain. In addition to binding Griggory, she’d also tied a muzzle around the dragør’s jaws, ensuring it couldn’t harm him while she was absent.

  Before returning to the city, she’d explained that she was in the process of gathering supplies and hiring the kind of opportunistic help she needed to get them and the hatchling to a lair she’d arranged far from the Weald. There, she planned to raise and tame the beast and bring it to heel completely, so that when the time came, she could use it in the war she said was brewing. When he’d reminded her that the Knights’ duty was not to fight in wars but to protect Vaka Aster’s corporeal vessel, she’d grimaced at him and said, “You’re no Knight, Griggory, but if you were, you’d know that sometimes protection is as much offense as defense, and stopping a single enemy before they can harm you often means first suppressing many.”

  He understood her reasoning, as heartless as it was, and couldn’t argue that using the dragør to protect the vessel was anything but her duty. What he could argue was that duty without a care for how it might harm others was a hollow endeavor, a purpose without meaning. Understanding it did not mean he condoned it.

  Feeling hollow himself, he realized that night she’d spent with him before he left for Lœdyrrak had not been out of any kind of deep affection for him. She’d merely been soliciting more information about dragørs, and in the meantime treating him like cheap, and infinitely gullible, entertainment. He knew now that she’d likely learned how to identify the celebratory howl of a new dragør parent from him then too, from his blathering on and on. She’d encouraged him to share specifics, such as the different dragør intonations he’d memorized, and for once happy to have an interested audience, he’d complied readily. Now he wondered how he could possibly have carried a torch for someone capable of a deed such as this.

  Obviously, he had to escape and then free the hatchling. Shortly after Gwinifeve had bound him and disappeared down the path toward Umborough’s wall, he’d twisted his head and shoved his cheek into the tree’s trunk, running his face up and down along it, trying to push the scrap of cloth covering his mouth away. Several minutes and rather uncomfortable scrapes later, his mouth was free, though his cheek was raw.

  The hatchling watched him closely the entire time, but its eyes were still half-lidded and had begun to grow rheumy. Its fore and rear legs were bound, and the chain holding it to the tree was welded to the thick iron collar around its neck. If it were just a few weeks older, it likely could have ripped the tree from its roots. Underfed and only days old, however, the poor creature was far too weak. Griggory couldn’t imagine how Gwinifeve thought she’d be able to win over the loyalty, or even subservience, of a creature that she’d treated so poorly from the moment she’d first found it.

  That was the problem. The Knight saw the creature as an animal like a beast of burden, or worse, a tool. She seemed incapable of feeling anything for it, not affection and definitely not concern. Her only goal was to turn it into some kind of weapon.

  But Griggory saw it for what it was. A scared bairn that couldn’t understand what it had done to deserve such harshness. Though dragørs might have seemed like mere predators to the weak and puny humans who observed them, they were anything but. Their eons of life had made them wise and benevolent toward each other and the world that they could have ruled on a whim if they’d wanted to. At least, this was what he assumed, for as far he knew, no one had actually spoken with one in centuries. They shunned humankind, and he suspected the choice was due to equal parts wisdom and wariness. Case in point, this hatchling’s first encounter with a human had so far caused it nothing but misery

  What he’d give to speak with one,
though…

  His wishes didn’t matter. He needed to help this creature, and he needed to do it fast. Getting free of his bonds was the first step. His dirk was still in his pack, but it was several feet away, and his back was tied to the tree.

  As he considered what to do, something moved in the corner of his eye, first on the right, then the left. It was the dragørfly swarm. They’d decided to alight from the shadowy confines of their tree. A couple dozen buzzed down and moved in close to peer at him, then lost interest and amassed around the dragør.

  The sight of them seemed to invigorate the creature, and it struggled up to its haunches, sat upright awkwardly, and emitted a set of growls that rolled from its clamped jaws and resonated through the large nose slits of its snout. Instead of frightening the dragørflies, it seemed to excite them, and as he watched, several landed on the collar and along the chain.

  Those on the collar began to prance around, first one way, then the other. They almost appeared to be looking for something. Their methodical movements reminded him of his own step-by-step process when he was seeking something he’d lost, like a book or his eyeglasses for continuing to read on late into the night despite his overstrained eyes.

  Those on the chain lined up, and to his surprise, as one they began to oscillate their wings and lift the chain upward. It moved, but no more than a fraction. He could see how they heaved and strained but to no avail. The heavy chain outmatched them.

  It was a queer spectacle, but he made one interesting observation—he could now confirm something he’d long suspected. The dragørs could communicate with their smaller eons-removed cousins. The hatchling might not have called them from the tree, but it had definitely sought their help with its bindings.

  As his scholarly side celebrated the discovery, he watched one dragørfly leave the hatchling’s collar and shoot into the forest. Its single-minded intent and unswerving direction left him with no doubt where it was going or whom it was seeking. Who else would a dragør bairn send a messenger for but its parent?

  Sometime before this day was through, the city of Umborough would be visited by a very angry, very unstoppable dragør. And that was if the city was lucky. If not so lucky, it would be visited by many.

  Chapter Ten

  Panicked, Griggory began to shift his body from side to side and bounce up and down on his bum, trying to loosen his restraints. He achieved little except more scrapes and scratches on his back from the tree’s hard bark. The hatchling stayed as far from him as its chain would allow, its face scrunched in a snarl and venom dripping in preparation for self-defense from its closed mouth.

  Straining, squirming, groaning—none had any effect. Gwinifeve had trussed him with all the professionalism and perfection of a kidnapper with a disturbingly large amount of practice. After a time, he stopped struggling, leaned his head back against the tree, and tried to catch a breath.

  “This is it,” he mumbled to himself aloud. “Not a hill to die on so much as a pyre I’m soon to be crisped on.” Closing his eyes, he went on. “And not even the chance for a last meal. No more apples, no more honey. No more honey on apples.”

  He’d always had a sweet tooth and wondered if all the confections he’d consumed would make him taste better to the dragør that would soon be dining on him. As he pondered this, he felt the gentlest waft of a breeze on his face and opened his eyes.

  Three dragørflies had buzzed up and were now hovering not far from his nose. Their giant multifaceted eyes seemed fixed on him, almost inquiringly.

  “Yes, I know how much you love honey too, my little friends. I’d give you some if I could, but it’s over there—”

  Hold on, had they understood him?

  Nothing ventured, nothing saved from superheated doom. “I have some more, see, but it’s there, across the glade in my pack.” He jutted his chin toward his knapsack, and all three dragørflies turned a half-circle to look behind them, then turned back at him. Oh, they understood him just fine, they did. “Can you retrieve it? Both the honey and my little knife? Bring them to me, and you are welcome to every last drop.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the three and several others still resting on the hatchling’s chain and collar flew to his knapsack. A handful grabbed the top flap and held it up, while a handful more disappeared inside. The pack’s cloth bulged where the creatures were moving around within it, searching for the items.

  Fascinated and cautiously hopeful, he looked briefly to the hatchling. It remained on its haunches, watching the dragørflies curiously.

  “We’re going to get you out of here, little one, and reunited with your own soon,” he promised.

  The creature snarled at him again, but, he hoped, with a touch less malice. Maybe it was understanding him too. He had no way to know. The Fenestros stone around its neck glowed, holding the enchantment the Knight had spoken to hide the creature’s scent. Griggory wished for the first time in his life he had become a Knight after all, and studied the many secrets of the Fenestrii. If he’d known how easy it would be to use them to get closer to the great creatures, he’d have seen many, many more dragørs in his life. And, of course, he’d know how to use the wystic crystal to help him release this one.

  Soon, the dragørflies in his pack came out, dragging the jar with them. He couldn’t imagine how they were able to grip the glass, but he supposed their ungula, minute as they were, could have attributes too small for his eye to discern. Stickiness, perhaps, or maybe tiny enough claws to hook into imperfections in the glass. Those holding open the flapped let it drop, and they brought him the jar.

  But no knife.

  He wasn’t surprised. Only disappointed. It should have been obvious to him that the creatures wouldn’t bring him what they might understand was a weapon of sorts, even though his dirk was hardly longer than his middle finger, and at this point it had been so long since he’d sharpened it that it was close to as dull.

  The dragørflies pushed the jar into his hand and eagerly hovered a safe distance away. His arms were bound to his sides beneath three loops of rope that circled the tree, but enough of his forearm and wrist were free at the bottom of the loops that he could wedge the jar between his bum and the tree and pull out the cork stopper.

  “There you go, friends. Enjoy.” He sighed as the dragørflies began buzzing inside and back out, taking their fill in turns, the confection enough to make them forget every last bit of caution they might have regarding him.

  Then he saw the knapsack cloth bulge again, and a moment later, a lone dragørfly emerged, clutching the hilt of his small utility dirk.

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time Griggory was able to saw through his bindings and stand, he estimated it had been just over a half hour since the messenger dragørfly had gone in search of its larger cousin and an hour since Gwinifeve had left. He had no idea how long it would take a dragørfly to search the Howling Weald, but he was sure the Knight, who didn’t strike him as the trusting sort, wouldn’t chance leaving him alone for long.

  He’d slept fitfully, tied to the tree all night for refusing to make the Knight the promise she’d required. Before leaving, she’d told him he had today to think it over. He thought again that if he were a Knight and buoyed by the celestial spark of Vaka Aster, weariness and hunger would hardly affect him. But then, despite his light sleep, he found that terror about the dragør that would be coming soon was unusually energizing.

  Now, then—how was he going to remove the hatchling’s chain and collar, along with its muzzle, without being shredded by its claws or severly maimed by its corrosive venom?

  Planning to pick the collar’s locking mechanism with his thin-bladed dirk, he slowly approached the young creature, but it began to hiss and thrash, its eyes narrow, angry, frightened slits. That wouldn’t do. He didn’t want it to hurt itself, or him.

  Would it understand him the way the dragørflies had? He decided to try. “Little one,” he said, still using Elder Veros. If dragørs knew any human ton
gue, it would be this. “I promise, I am a friend. I don’t condone what the Knight has done, and I want nothing more than to reunite you with your own. Will you let me help you?”

  The creature’s scowl appeared to smooth a bit, though it wasn’t easy to tell on a face that was mostly hard scales. Unlike the reddish Lœdyrrak dragør he’d seen, the Weald’s wing of dragørs were a variety of blue-green colors, like the sea, with different accents along their brows, snouts, and in the scales along their bodies. A beauty of true, almost otherworldly magnificence. The nine-pointed star that was given to all Knights Corporealis when they took their oath, Griggory noticed for the first time, grew naturally in the patterns of scales on the hatchling’s head between where his two horns sprouted. A central crest, the hatchling’s just a nub, grew from the center of its head, creating a natural rise for the star’s topmost point. The star’s color was a deeper night-sky blue.

  Hoping the slight change in expression meant the creature would trust him more, Griggory drew close again. But the result was the same. This time, the dragør reared on its backside, raising its talons and showing Griggory that being a bairn did not mean it wasn’t still lethal.

  This wasn’t going to work, so he tried the only other thing he could think of. He looked upward, where the dragørfly swarm now lounged in its tree. “You’ve helped me more than you know, winged friends, but now I need your help to help the dragør. Can you tell it that I’m only trying to get the chain off so it can go back home?”

  A few of the dragørflies turned in stilted steps on their thin lizard-like legs and looked toward him, cocking their heads inquisitively, but none moved from their branch. After thinking for a moment, Griggory continued, “I know the city’s beekeeper and can get you so much honey that you’ll be too fat to fly if you’ll help. The hatchling doesn’t trust me—not that I blame it—but you, it will. What do you say?”