Chapter 2

Deep in Tressor, on the eastern edge of the Tresson desert, a well-fortified estate was tucked away in a sparsely treed plain. Though utterly surrounded by troops, smiths, and other elements of a strong military, the estate was nonetheless luxurious.

A pair of men on horses, one in the red and tan uniform of the army and the other in the rather shabby clothes of a farmer, approached the ivy-clad trellis covering the cobbled entry path. Four guards questioned the soldier, then showed him and his guest inside.

As they walked through the halls of the estate, the poorly dressed man seemed stricken with both awe and anxiety. As he paced through the well-built and better-adorned halls, he clutched his hands anxiously in front of him. Paintings and tapestries covered the walls, each of them quite likely as valuable as his whole farm to the south.

“Listen carefully. The man you are speaking with is a military patron. You shall refer to him as Esteemed Patron. Any question he asks, you will answer. Answer with all of the detail you can manage and speak only the truth, is that understood?”

“Of course,” the farmer said quickly.

“Good,” said the soldier. “Then this should go smoothly.”

They approached a heavy door carved with an intricate depiction of a great battle early in the Perpetual War, the Battle of Five Point. The soldier knocked on the door.

“Esteemed Patron Sallim,” he announced.

“Speak,” came a voice from within, managing in a single syllable to sound profoundly arrogant and entitled.

“I have here the man you asked to see.”

“Send him in.”

The soldier opened the door and ushered the shabby man inside, shutting the door behind him.

Inside was an office that may as well have been a museum. Finished wood shelves lined each wall. Leather tomes, intricate figurines, and antique weapons were on display. Seated at a massive wood desk at the far side of the room, a glass window behind him open to the grandeur of the desert, was his host. He was a man a few years the farmer’s senior, neatly dressed in the formal equivalent of the lesser soldier’s uniform. He had black, tightly curly hair trimmed short and a relentlessly superior expression on his face.

“Sit, sir,” he said.

The farmer did so, treating the request as an order.

“In the interest of saving time, I hope you don’t mind if I skip the pleasantries. I assume you have better things to do, and I know I do. I understand you’ve recently had a traumatic and unexplained experience on your land?”

“I have.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“I… uh… about four months.”

“About? You aren’t certain?”

“It’s been… I’ve had to handle the funeral. Things have been…” he said, flustered.

“It’s fine, sir. Would you say it is safe to say it is at least four months, or at most four months?”

“At least.”

“Very well. What exactly happened?”

“I…” he began uncertainly. “I was warned not to tell anyone.”

“Yes, sir. That warning came from my immediate superiors, through me. I assure you, I am the one to whom you may recount the events.” He opened a drawer and retrieved a stack of parchment, then dipped a quill in an inkwell. “Now please do so.”

The farmer took a breath. “Like I said, it was about four months ago…”

#

Several Months Prior…

It was nearly dusk and a weary pair of farmers was pacing back from the fields. They were brothers, and each was looking forward to a good meal and a long night’s rest. This far south in Tressor, there wasn’t much that would grow without a tremendous amount of work. Most fields were left to grow coarse grass and then were grazed by goats and sheep, but their family had made a good living growing hazelnuts for some years, and they were determined to keep the land producing. It simply took a bit more effort each year.

A rustle in the fallow field to the side of the road drew their attention. Something small and fast was disturbing the wiry blades of grass that grew there, causing a wave of motion streaking south.

“Hmph. Wildcat. Or maybe a jackal,” muttered the first man, the older of the two brothers.

They watched the disturbance retreat into the distance.

“At least that’s something we can be thankful for,” said the younger brother.

“What, wildcats?”

“That’s right. Maraal and Temmir have been complaining about all sorts of curious losses lately, particularly when they bring their flocks and herds to the open fields to graze. Maraal claims he lost half his flock overnight. Plenty of things to worry about with an orchard, but there is little fear of a pack of wildcats preying on the crop.”

“There’s that, I suppose.”

As they reached the turn that would take them around the southern corner of the property, the older brother glanced to the south and noticed a figure approaching. That in and of itself was rather odd. Their field was just about as far south as anyone in their right mind would have any interest traveling on foot. There was nothing between it and the sea but dry grass, barren fields, and a few mountains. He stood, pulling his coat a bit closer about his shoulders, and watched the figure as it drew nearer. With little else to do, his brother lingered beside him. Sure enough, someone was coming.

“Suppose the goatherds are getting desperate for grazing land,” the older brother reasoned. “No sense heading home with the mystery hanging in the air. A few more minutes and we’ll say a friendly hello and ‘What brings you to the hind end of Tressor?’, eh?”

They leaned against the fence, and the stranger crept closer. After a few minutes the figure was near enough for them to make out a few more details.

“Looks like he’s wearing some pretty rough skins. You figure him for a nomad?” asked the younger brother.

“There wouldn’t be any nomads this far south. They stay to the deserts or the plains. They might linger near the shore, but the shore is clear on the other side of the mountains,” countered the older brother, squinting. “Is that… is that an old woman!?”

Without thinking, the pair rushed into the tall grass. An old woman, alone in the Southern Wastes. They couldn’t imagine how it might have happened, but it was a wonder she was still alive. She was quite a distance away, and as such they were badly winded when they reached her, but one look was all it took to know she was… not right. She was a frail thing with long, scraggly white hair. In one hand was a white ivory walking stick. In the other was a curved knife. Her feet were bare yet somehow undamaged by what must have been a lengthy trek through rough terrain. Despite no doubt being alone in the Wastes for quite some time, the old woman didn’t seem to be in poor spirits. Indeed, a wild grin came to her face as they approached.

“I offer greetings to you, pair of men who are not yet of middle age!” she crowed, gesturing vigorously with her knife and stick.

Her voice and diction were bizarre, but she spoke with great certainty, as though she had no doubt that she was communicating properly.

“Do you need help, old woman? Are you ill? What is your name?”

“In a manner more slowly. You desire that I inform you of the name that belongs to me?”

“Yes, and how did you—”

“In a manner more slowly! I shall tell to you the name that belongs to me. This information I am quite certain of, and it is an action that will give me great pleasure to perform for you on this day. The name that belongs to me is Turiel.”

“She speaks like those old prayers they used to make us say,” the younger brother muttered.

“You seem healthy enough,” said the older brother, speaking loudly and slowly. “Those furs you’ve got are strange. They look fresh. Well-tanned, too. It is the wrong season to be tanning hides.” He turned to his brother and added quietly, “But then I suppose the nomads don’t keep to the same schedules as the rest of us.”

“You sure she’s a nomad?”

“Absolutely. You can always tell a nomad. They look out of place no matter where they are.”

“But look at that skin! She’s pale as a ghost. That’s a Northerner.”

“I’ll buy that she’s a pale nomad before I buy that she’s a Northerner this far south.” He turned back to the woman. “Do you need help? Something to eat?”

“After some amount of thinking, my mind has presented to me the suggestion that I do require help. And a thing for me to eat would be quite useful in addition.”

“If you’ll just follow me to the house…” the older brother began, but his word trailed away when the tip of her walking stick touched his chest.

There was a dull blue glow, and the color quickly began to drain from his face.

“What are you doing? Get away from him, you witch!” he cried.

He attempted to rush toward her, but before he could even move a foot, something clawed its way up his back from behind, while at the same time something wrapped tightly around his legs and constricted them. Both brothers fell to the ground, the first stricken by whatever magic she had conjured and the other tangling with some manner of beast he’d not yet been able to see.

As the younger of the two desperately tried to free himself of the grip of whatever had attacked him, the old woman began to reap the benefits of her spell. The years began to peel away from her face. Her craggy skin became smoother, her white hair earning streaks of black. Withered muscles became firm and healthy again. In the space of a few minutes she went from a hag at death’s door to a woman perhaps old enough to be the mother of either of these young men.

“That’s enough, Mott,” she said, clucking her tongue.

Instantly the beast that had immobilized the younger of the two brothers released him and scrabbled around her to cling eagerly to the head of the staff. It was the same beast she had hastily constructed in the cave some weeks prior upon awaking, though since then it had been… improved. The jackal skull now had flesh again, though the lower jaw hung a bit further open than nature had intended and lacked a tongue. The flesh and fur of the head faded gradually into the serpent body, which was covered with dark green scales, but rust-colored jackal fur jutted out from between the scales like weeds on a cobbled street. Bony flesh, like the legs of a stork, covered the six spidery legs, and a pair of undersized leathery wings fluttered madly on its back. Notably absent was a pair of eyes. Instead it had horrid empty sockets with embers of violet light within.

Now free of his attacker, the younger brother scrambled through the grass to see to his sibling, but it was no use. He was gone, just as shriveled and decayed as the old woman had been moments before, and somehow already cold to the touch.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes! He’s quite dead. It couldn’t be helped, boy. I’m a necromancer. I speak to the dead. Once it became clear my mastery of the Tresson language had become obsolete, I had to learn the newest inflections. Forgive me, but a lifetime of communing with the dead has made it much more efficient for me to absorb knowledge along with life force. And since I was going to drain him anyway, I may as well put the energy to good use.”

“But… but you…” he said, nearly sobbing in anguish and fury.

“I must say, the language has become so much less formal. I quite like it,” she said, disregarding his emotional state. “Odd it would have changed so much since I last spoke to a Tresson. I suppose it has been a while. What’s the year, boy?”

The man spat at her and hurled a barrage of expletives.

“Yes,” she said excitedly. “Much less formal language these days. And so much more colorful as well. But really now, the year.”

“Why should I answer you?”

“That’s true, there is the easier way. If I’d been thinking, I’d have gotten that out of your brother before I let him wander off, but there’s always another person about…”

She lowered her staff, bringing the bizarre creature riding it unnervingly close.

“No! No, I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you anything, just don’t touch me with that! It’s 157.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. No monarch rules for that long.”

“Monarch?”

“Yes. Surely you mean one hundred fifty-seven years since the coronation of the sitting monarch. If not, then one hundred fifty-seven years since what?”

“Since the start of the war!”

“Which war?”

“There’s only been one war!”

“And it lasted one hundred and fifty years? That’s absurd. Perhaps the easy way is best, eh, Mott?”

“No! Please!”

The creature clutching Turiel’s staff released a throaty churring noise.

“Yes… I suppose you’re right, Mott. Someone’s got to bury his brother. I hate to see the dead dishonored unless they are being put to good use. I’ve wasted enough of your time, young man. I’ll get my information elsewhere. Good day to you,” she said. She started to walk away, but another churr from her companion stopped her. “Oh, yes. You are right, of course.” She turned back to the survivor. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that you keep this encounter to yourself. Until I feel otherwise inclined, I would much prefer to move discreetly. If you tell others what happened here, I’ll have to return, and there will be very little reason for me to let you live.”

He nodded, terrified.

“Excellent, once again, good day to you.”

Mott chittered again.

“… What? … No, I’ve told you, we are going to find Teht. … Because she is late for her visit and I’m concerned. … I’m sure she’s in the north. She always had snow on her cloak when she visited. … Yes, we could open a portal, but we are saving our power for the keyhole, remember? … Oh, learn some patience. The walk will do us good. It will be nice to see what’s become of the world while we were away. … Oh, you can so see. Don’t be so dramatic. If you want some eyes, I’ll get you some eyes, but I’m waiting for green ones. … Because you’d look so precious with green eyes.”

She sighed and lowered her staff slightly. The body of the stricken brother shuddered and glowed, then ponderously sat up, breath sliding from it in a voiceless moan. His lifeless eyes slid open. She crouched and looked into them, then nodded and raised her staff, dropping him limply to the ground again.

“There. You see? Brown. You don’t want brown eyes, do you? So common. …” She looked to the grief-stricken younger brother. “His are brown too.”

She paced off to the north, chatting idly with her pet.

“… Yes, I’ll get you some proper wings too. Perhaps we can swing west. That’s where those riders come from, yes? Some nice baby dragon wings and some green eyes, my little patchwork pet. You’ll be darling.”

#

“And that’s it. That’s what happened,” he said. “She killed my brother… that witch… And she told me not to tell anyone. And then your men came and asked me, and then they told me not to tell anyone, and I…”

“That’s fine, sir,” Sallim said without looking up from his parchment. “I have what I need from you.”

He sat silently for a few minutes, flipping between the fresh parchment and some older ones, comparing details between them.

“May I leave now?” the farmer asked.

“One moment… Yes… Yes this would appear to match other accounts. I would say we are through here.”

“Other accounts? This… this woman has done more?”

“That really isn’t any of your concern, sir.”

“But… if it was known that she was dangerous… if we’d been warned…”

“You’ll be happy to know that based on the description, yours is the earliest encounter—which means it is more likely five months than four. There could have been no warning in your case. Now, if you would be good enough, just head back through that door and inform the soldier that his orders stand.”

“Um… yes, sir.”

“Esteemed Patron,” Sallim corrected.

“Err, yes, Esteemed Patron. I’ll be on my way,” he said, standing and pacing toward the door.

When the farmer left, Sallim pulled out a fresh parchment, this one a thin ribbon, and inscribed a message in small, precise writing.

Another credible account, he wrote, the first. Most detailed yet. As with the others, he will be held to prevent further spread of information. As I write this, Northern diplomats are crossing the border. Your time with the subject is limited. I will be visiting personally in one week’s time. I expect answers.

He completed the message and rolled it into a tube, labeling it with the intended recipient, Commander Brustuum.

#

“We must be getting close now, Myn. Dip down and let’s get our bearings,” Myranda suggested.

Myranda was in her usual position astride the base of Myn’s neck, holding tightly to the broad scales on either side. Deacon sat behind her, his legs hooked over the base of Myn’s wings and his arms about Myranda’s waist. Behind them, held in place with a sturdy leather harness, was a small bundle of supplies and equipment. Overall the load was somewhat heavier than Myn typically carried, but not nearly enough to cause a problem.

At Myranda’s request Myn tipped her wings and dropped down through the thinning clouds beneath her. The last five days had held a tremendous amount of travel, but the journey was a pleasant one. Repairing Kenvard was a monumental task, and one that required their constant attention. With the mission to the south requiring their presence, Myranda and the others had been forced to journey north to meet with those who provided the stone and lumber for the repairs, providing payment and explaining how the tour would change matters. They’d also dropped off messages to prepare some of the diplomatic stops for their requirements. Then it was back south and to the front. There had been two snowstorms in the days they had been flying, but above the clouds they were of little concern. Flying so high made for a frigid journey, but a blast of dragon fire, a good, heavy cloak, and a few whispered spells kept everyone comfortable. Unfortunately, over most of the Northern Alliance the clouds were thick enough to make it difficult to see the ground even without a storm, so dropping through from time to time was necessary.

“If you like, I can navigate. Last night I looked through my primer to refresh my memory regarding the necessary spells,” Deacon offered, raising his voice against the rushing wind.

“No. I think it is important Myn learns to navigate on her own. We can’t always be guiding her. I’m not sure how dragons do it naturally, but the least I can do is help her along. Show her how I do it until she can find her own way.”

“Yes. It is something of a mystery how they find their way in the absence of more traditionally human means,” Deacon said. “Worthy of study.”

Myranda leaned forward to address Myn more directly. “You see how much more green and lush the land is there near the horizon? We’re getting close to Tressor. Those peaks there are the southern fringe of the Rachis Mountains. That silvery thread is the Loom River. We are to cross the border where the Loom crosses it. The border is where the ground … darkens for a bit. That’s the Crimson Band… where all of the fighting was happening.”

Myranda paused for a moment, looking sadly at the subtle but undeniable stripe of landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. It was darker in some places than others, but even six months after the last major offensive the land had not healed. Perhaps it never would. It was said that so much blood had been spilled on that soil—both the red blood of humans and the black blood of nearmen—that it had permanently darkened to a rusty, sickly color. The war had lasted so long it had left scars not only on the people but also on the land itself.

She tried to push the thoughts away. “Make sure to land well before that. They have requested that we cross the border on foot. They will be waiting at a checkpoint on the road just east of the Loom. Keep a look out for it, and land to the north of it. Understand?”

There was a rumble through Myn, felt more than heard, in response.

“You know something, Myn? Perhaps when you learn to navigate, you will explain it to me. And sooner rather than later,” Deacon called out to her, giving her a pat on the side. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been more vocal lately. Perhaps not verbal, but vocal. And you’ve always been enthralled by Myranda’s voice.”

“She’ll talk when she’s ready,” Myranda said, giving Myn a pat of her own.

Myn tucked her wings and dove more quickly toward the ground, prompting Myranda and Deacon to hold tighter and lean closer. The young dragon had a bit of a tendency to show off, particularly regarding her landings, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d lost one of her riders and had to fetch them before something tragic happened. As a matter of fact, it had happened no less than six times to Deacon. It was enough to make Myranda suspect that this was simply a new way of toying with him. When they held tight and leaned low, though, the wind swept over them with barely a flutter of their clothes. It was like they were one with her, cutting through the sky as though they belonged nowhere else. As the ground approached, Myn stretched her wings once more and they caught the wind, swooping her upward and slowing her descent. Myranda felt herself pressed firmly against the dragon’s back with the force of the maneuver, and just as the pressure began to ease, she felt the smoothness of flight turn to the gentle rhythm of a trot.

“I think you might take that a little more slowly in the future, Myn,” Deacon suggested, sitting up straight and checking to be sure he hadn’t dropped anything.

“This is right where we need to be, though. Excellent work,” Myranda said.

Myn stopped and crouched so that both wizards could dismount, and the trio continued on foot. Without the chill of the skies, the warmer southern climate became quite apparent. This strip of the Northern Alliance just above the border was the only part of the empire to truly experience all four seasons. The sharpness of the change from the cold of the north to the warm of the south was almost supernatural. Even a few days travel by foot north and there would often be snow on the ground in the dead of summer. Here, there was hardly a nip to the air, and green fields filled the landscape behind and ahead of them. Bees buzzed in the air, birds sang. There was life here, thriving. It was beautiful… though one didn’t need to look far to see evidence of what had happened here. Farmers had done their best to reclaim land on either side of the border, but where their hoes and plows had not been put to work, the ground was still churned up by hooves and boots. Here and there the broken shaft of an arrow or a rusted plate of armor jutted from the soil. Mixed with the scent of blooming flowers and tilled fields, a sour, acrid smell tinged the air. Life was trying its best to take this land back from the death that had made its home here, but it would take time.

The crossing was just a few hundred paces ahead of them along a packed-earth road, and already the serenity of the sky was giving way to the tension of the surface. The border was, for the moment, marked with waist-high stakes driven into the ground every twenty paces or so. At some point in history walls might have separated the two kingdoms, at least between some of those cities nearest to one another, but the war had demolished them, and both sides agreed it would not show confidence in the continuing peace efforts if the first order of business was erecting new walls. There was, however, a set of tree-trunk-sized posts on either side of the wide road, and a heavy gate had been mounted on both the northern and southern sides. With soft soil on either side, no vehicle would pass here without the knowledge and permission of the half-dozen soldiers on either side. The same went for the nearby Loom River. The sharpened trunks of trees had been driven into the riverbed, some quite fresh, others rotted by decades in the water. The only difference between those placed by the north or the south was the direction the points were angled. It was worrying that after six months no efforts had been made to remove them and make water passable by river traffic once more.

The other significant addition to the crossing was a set of guard posts, small but sturdy buildings erected on either side of the border to provide lodging and supplies for those stationed here. The northern post was like any other building Myranda had seen erected in the last fifty years: thick planks cut from pine, solidly assembled and topped with thatch. The construction was simple but strong and built to last. The Tresson counterpart was subtly different. It was more ornate, painted a warm red color and bearing carved doors and curved accents on the corner posts. The roof had a shallower peak as well and an unusual combination of thatch at the top and shingles at the edge.

“Oh, my goodness,” Myranda said, stopping suddenly.

“Is something wrong?” Deacon asked, he and Myn stopping as well.

“I’ve just realized—I’m supposed to be a representative of the throne and an ambassador for my people, and I’ve been flying on the back of a dragon.” She shed her cloak and tucked it under one of the straps of Myn’s harness. “I must be a mess.”

She smoothed down her blouse and leggings, both a great deal more formal than she was accustomed to. By rights, on an occasion such as this she should have been wearing a gown, but such clothes were not designed with travel by dragon in mind. Instead she selected the finest alternative she could, each a shade of Alliance or Kenvard blue. After half a lifetime of wandering from town to town struggling to survive, the concept of dressing for grace and elegance rather than practicality was one she was slow to warm to, and the idea that someone might require her hair or face to look a certain way tended to slip her mind.

“You look lovely as ever,” Deacon said. “Though I suppose a bit windswept.”

Myranda pulled a blue ribbon from one of her bags and conjured a simple whisper of magic to smooth the tangles from her hair before she tied it back. When Deacon had stowed his cloak, she helped him put himself in order as well.

“I’m not entirely certain I’m suited for this aspect of diplomacy,” she said. “It’s never been something I’ve had to concern myself with.”

“If appearance has any more than a cursory impact on matters of state, then I would suggest the entire process is badly in need of reassessment,” Deacon said.

Thus prepared, they continued on their way, though with each step, Myn seemed more distracted. She sniffed the air, her eyes wide with interest and curiosity. Ahead, the Alliance Army soldiers on the north side of the border were assembling themselves for the approach of three ambassadors, and a small group stepped out of the Tresson guard post. Unlike Myranda, they had arrived by carriage and therefore were outfitted in the full regalia of their position. Each of the three emissaries wore flowing, airy robes made from fine, thin cloth the same yellow-orange of ripe peaches. The trim of each was a shade of red, though Tressor was a single kingdom rather than an alliance of them, so the shade here indicated rank. The deepest red was worn by a tall, portly man with short salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard that was more silver than black. He wore a tall, round hat made from some sort of stiff cloth. His face was stern—not cruel or angry, but serious and steadfast—and his skin the dark color of a native Tresson. A step behind him on each side stood similarly dressed men, also with short dark hair, but lacking the hat and bearing trim closer to yellow than red. There was something about them that Myranda couldn’t quite identify. Their presence was… significant in some way.

As the Tresson diplomats approached, their soldiers lifted aside the Tresson gate. The Alliance soldier did the same. Myranda stepped forward to greet her equal. He lifted his right hand, she did the same, and they clasped one another’s left shoulder. With the gesture complete, Myranda held her right hand out and he did the same, clasping it in a firm shake across the border.

Myranda cleared her throat and, in her best Tresson, stated, “It is my honor and privilege to meet you as a representative of my people, and it is my profound hope that this is merely the first step toward a lasting peace between our lands.”

“May our children know only peace, but may they never forget this war,” he said in response, in excellent Varden. “I am Ambassador Valaamus. And you are the mythic Duchess Myranda Celeste. It is truly humbling to know that the lives of countless thousands of soldiers on my side and yours could have been plucked from the jaws of endless war by someone so young, and so lovely.”

He had an avuncular disposition that seemed at odds with his serious expression, but nonetheless his words seemed as sincere as they were impeccably pronounced. If his pleasant and welcoming demeanor was an affectation, it was a masterful one.

“You flatter me, Ambassador. I was but one of those responsible. As much thanks can be given to my fellow ambassadors. May I introduce Deacon?”

“The scholar! We have heard of you as well,” he said, exchanging the shoulder clasp and handshake with him too. “And this is the mighty dragon, Mine.”

Myn glanced briefly at the ambassador but quickly resumed her curious sampling of the air. She had her forepaw raised, as though ready to bound across the border to investigate whatever it was that had caught her interest, but she held her ground faithfully beside Myranda.

“It’s Myn, actually, but yes,” Myranda said.

“Ah, my apologies. I have only seen it written. A fine specimen, and expertly trained.”

“Not trained. Just observant and eager to please,” Myranda said. “If you don’t mind the observation, I’ve seldom met a group who so gracefully handled their first introduction to Myn.”

“Like many in service to the Tresson throne, I am no stranger to the company of dragons. To that end, I suppose it is best that I introduce our protector for this tour.” He turned and clapped his hands, barking a sharp order in Tresson that was a much better match for his expression. “Grustim, to my side!”

The hiss of heavy breath and the sound of rustling grass came as a reply. The ground shook lightly as a long shadow separated itself from that of the Tresson guard post. A stout full-grown dragon slid from behind the post. It must have been curled up behind the building, because now that it was visible, it was astounding that the little structure could have hidden it so completely. The beast was a bit larger than Myn overall, but also of a much thicker build. Rather than the red of Myn’s scales, this beast’s were a deep forest-green along its back, and its belly scales were a similar but lighter gold color to hers. Its snout was shorter and broader, its lower jaw jutting just a bit further than its upper one and featuring a bristly “beard” of downward-pointing horns. Its eyes were smaller than Myn’s and set slightly deeper in its head. The two forelegs had a wide, almost bulldog-like build, and the horns and spines of its head were longer, more numerous, and more vicious. The same could be said of the spikes running down its spine and along the back of its long neck. Its most peculiar features, though, were the accessories on its head and back. Strapped over its face was a sculpted metal plate, something between a mask and a helmet. The armor was covered with green enamel that was a precise match for its natural color, and here and there silver scrapes and gouges gleamed through the coating. A second bundle of metal nestled between its neatly folded wings, this time made of a strange assortment of overlapping plates of the same green color. When the dragon had taken its position just behind the diplomats, this metal bundle moved.

Gradually the form of an armored human seemed to coalesce on the creature’s back, though it was quickly clear that his armor was simply designed to match the hide of the dragon so closely it had been difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. The human smoothly dismounted with a jingle of plates. For anyone who had never ridden a dragon in flight, the armor would have seemed nonsensical. The helmet was rounded and flared out at the neck, and the back plates shared a similar flared and overlapping shape. The tops of the shoulders came to a pointed ridge, and the belly was lightly armored with smooth plates and thin mail. When standing, the plates jutted awkwardly out behind him and seemed to offer little protection, but when riding low against the dragon’s back, the gaps closed and he may as well have been an extension of the beast.

At the first glimpse of the beast, Myn froze in place. She then took a cautious step forward, subtly placing one huge paw slightly in front of Myranda. She craned her neck, stretching it forward as far as she could without leaving her spot, and drew long, slow whiffs of the beast’s scent. Every muscle in her body seemed tense, and her eyes were wide and locked on the other dragon.

“You may be the first Northerners in two hundred years to see a Tresson Dragon Rider without his lance in hand. This is Grustim Terrim, the fourth Rider of Mikkalla and Shaal’s Terrible Green Gristle,” said the ambassador.

“It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Grustim, and you as well… I’m sorry, how should I address the dragon?”

“You address dragon and Rider as one. I refer to them as Grustim, you may do the same. Though for the purposes of this tour, they serve as our escorts only and need not be addressed at all. Similarly my attendants are merely record keepers and servants for this journey. Consider me your host. But please, we have reached across this line in the earth for long enough. Please allow me to formally invite you to my land so that we can begin this tour properly.”

He stood aside and spread his arm magisterially to the land beyond. Myranda stepped forward and onto the soil of Tressor. Deacon followed. Myn remained where she was for a moment, eyes still locked on the green dragon. When she glanced down and noticed Myranda stepping past the ambassador and toward the beast, she quickly strode forward and placed herself between them. With her forepaw planted firmly in front of Myranda to keep her from getting any closer, she extended her neck again, sniffing at the foreign dragon.

“Myn, relax. No one here means us any harm,” Myranda said.

The ambassador chuckled, somehow managing to sound mirthful while the humor barely registered on his face, and paced onward. Myranda tried to follow but had to step further and further aside as Myn angled herself to separate her and Deacon from the Dragon Rider and his mount. For their part, both the green dragon and the Rider stood impassively, keeping an eye on the newcomers but otherwise offering no indication of interest or concern. When the others were far enough ahead, the Dragon Rider made a barely audible sound in his throat, and his steed slightly raised the forepaw nearest to him. The Rider stepped on and, with a smooth motion of both man and beast, vaulted into place on the dragon’s back. Myn kept careful pace beside them, never taking her eyes from the pair.

“Our carriage will return for us shortly. Horses, if well trained, will ride beside a dragon, but try as we might we could not get them to calm when standing near one. I sent them ahead,” Valaamus said.

“Yes, it usually takes a few days before any new horses will ease themselves around Myn,” Myranda said.

“I hope you don’t mind a bit of walking while we await their return.”

“Of course not. May I ask what has been planned for this tour? We were not given many details. This all was organized quite swiftly.”

“Yes, I’m quite curious as well. I’ve heard of many wonders of this land,” Deacon said, pulling out his book and stylus. “I attempted to find literature concerning your land to prepare for this journey, but there was little to be found.”

“Is it any wonder?” Valaamus said. “If you found any, might I politely suggest you disregard it. Those things written of one’s enemies during war tend not to paint a flattering picture. I hesitate to think what the common folk have read of you and your people. It is that sort of thing that we hope to change. But I ramble. When the carriage arrives, we shall set off immediately to the first point of interest. With luck we will reach it by nightfall. There we shall see the Memorial for Fallen Officers and spend the night. The following morning we shall discuss the remainder of the itinerary, as it is currently somewhat… fluid. In two weeks time you will make an official appearance at the capital for a banquet in your honor. From there any further stops will be discussed and planned for. I apologize for the lack of specificity but… well, the circumstances prohibit it.”

“I very much look forward to the sights and knowledge your people have to offer. I’m already most impressed with your mystics,” Deacon said.

Valaamus glanced to him, his expression unchanged. “Oh? Have you observed them in some way?”

“Only since my arrival, obviously,” Deacon said simply. He turned to the ambassador’s two attendants. “I’m particularly impressed with your suppression techniques.”

Myranda kept her expression steady, but with Deacon’s words came a flash of realization. Now that he’d drawn attention to it, it seemed obvious in retrospect. Everyone, whether mystically inclined or not, had an aura of power about them. Sensing this was among the first lessons a wizard would learn, and shortly thereafter it became second nature. Both attendants at first blush seemed to have the same subtle power to them that any human might. But it was wrong somehow… like the shifting subtle energy was an illusion covering something else.

Deacon turned back to Valaamus. “For a moment I wasn’t certain your men were trained mystics at all. Quite effective. It wasn’t an area of focus for me, but I would be happy to discuss my own—”

Myranda touched his shoulder, quieting him. “I think such matters can wait for our next visit.”

“Yes. Time is short,” Valaamus said quickly. “Let us be sharp in our focus.”

“Yes. Of course,” Deacon said.

Valaamus gave his men a brief but significant glance and they retreated a few steps behind the rest of the group. In the distance, a form appeared on the road, turning the bend around a small stand of trees.

“Ah!” said the ambassador. “The exquisitely timed return of our coach. Let us be properly on our way.”

The ambassador quickened his step to greet the carriage. Deacon stepped a bit closer to Myranda.

“I feel as though my compliment was not taken in the spirit in which it was offered,” Deacon said.

“Under the circumstances, I think the observation served its purpose. There was never any doubt they’d be taking precautions, but it never hurts to let them know we’re aware of them…”

#

Ivy stood anxiously in the foyer of a small church a short distance down the main street from the southern gate of New Kenvard. As the largest and most formal of the buildings that had finished their restoration, it was chosen as the meeting place for the diplomatic envoy. Efforts had been made to decorate it in a manner befitting so historic a moment. The colors of both Kenvard as a kingdom and the Northern Alliance as a whole were hung as banners and pennants, swathing the walls and tall ceiling of the church in two shades of blue and an icy white. At some point long in the past, the northern kingdoms had agreed that blue should be the color of the north. Ostensibly it was to invoke the frigid temperatures that hardened the populace. More likely it had been a means to illustrate the wealth the mountains provided, as blue dye had been and remained highly expensive. Thus the mere ability to swaddle their meeting place in blue was evidence of the Kenvard’s steady recovery. Seven months prior, during the small ceremony in which Myranda and Deacon had been wed, this church was nearly bare and still badly in need of repair. It had come a long way in a short time.

Chandeliers and torchères loaded with tallow candles filled the space with warm yellow light. The pews were pushed to the walls, and a long banquet table was placed in the center of the room, set with all of the delights the Northern Alliance could provide. There were fine wines, roasted meats, fresh breads, and rich desserts. It was as grand a welcome as any dignitary could hope to receive, but that did little to set Ivy’s mind at ease.

She was dressed elegantly. Her gown was Alliance blue with Kenvard blue accents. The skirt fell to just above her ankles to reveal tasteful blue slippers with low heels. The sleeves were short, just long enough to meet the full-length blue gloves she wore. Her long white hair had been tamed, woven into an intricate braid and topped with a silver chain headpiece. To her left, standing carefully away from Ivy, was a young woman in similar but lesser attire. To Ivy’s right was Greydon Celeste, dressed in formal but, again, lesser attire.

“I’m excited,” Ivy said, offering a nervous smile to her lady-in-waiting. “Aren’t you?”

She replied with a demure grin and nod.

“I’m nervous too. Are you nervous?” Ivy asked.

Another smile was her only reply.

“Why aren’t you answering?” Ivy asked.

“Because her role is to see to secretarial matters and those of etiquette. She isn’t to address any members of the delegation directly. That is the role of the diplomats and ambassadors,” Celeste quietly instructed.

“Oh… yes, yes. That’s right. You told me that.” She fidgeted. “I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

“Fold them in front of you. And stand still,” he said gently. “Do you remember the Tresson greeting?”

“I hold out my right hand and clasp their left shoulder, and they do the same to me.”

“Correct. But do not touch their shoulder until they raise their hand to do the same.”

Ivy nodded and took a steadying breath. Almost immediately she started fidgeting again.

“These slippers don’t fit properly. Women’s shoes just don’t fit my feet right. Can I do this barefoot?”

“I would advise against it.”

“I wish they would have let me cut a hole for my tail. The dress is bulgy in the back.” She ran her hands down the dress in a failed attempt to flatten it.

Her breathing became faster, and she began wringing her hands. When the horns sounded, heralding the arrival of the dignitaries at the city gates, she nearly leaped out of her skin.

“This… this was a mistake. I shouldn’t be the one doing this.” Her eyes darted, and though somewhat concealed by the similarly colored dress, a blue aura flared faintly around her.

“It wasn’t your decision. They requested you. It is your duty to serve.”

She looked to him, desperation in her eyes. “You should do this. You’re an ambassador. You can do this!”

“They requested you. It would be an insult to refuse.”

“But what if they don’t like me?”

“They won’t like you. You are a malthrope and a Northerner. You are everything they have been taught since birth to despise. But they are diplomats. If they are well trained, they will behave with respect and decorum.”

“Th-this is going to be a disaster! I’m going to ruin things! I’m going to make all of Kenvard look bad. I-I can’t do this.”

The blue aura was intensifying, flickering and flashing around her as she struggled to control it. Her lady-in-waiting took two startled steps back, gasping.

“I have to go! I have to go away right now!”

She grasped her skirt and hiked it up to keep from tripping over it, then turned toward the back of the church, eying a door she knew led to the alley behind it.

“Ivy.”

Greydon did not bellow the name. He merely spoke it, but somehow it had all of the force and authority of a command called down from the mountaintops. She stopped and snapped her head to him. He placed his hand on her shoulder and looked her evenly in the eyes.

“Listen carefully. This meeting, this visit, exists because of you. You are a warrior and this is your land. You helped end the war. You are responsible for the peace we now enjoy. The people who will walk through that door are diplomats. They and a thousand like them were appointed by their king to negotiate an end to the war and they failed. You succeeded. You and the others have done more for the cause of peace than anyone else in either kingdom for more than a century. They should feel honored to stand in your presence. They came here to see you. They selected you because they knew there was no greater honor than to meet you. All you need to do is greet them and let them see the sort of person it takes to change the world. Just be you.”

The aura faded and she slowly caught her breath, taking his hand from her shoulder and clasping it briefly.

“Now I see where Myranda gets it,” Ivy said gratefully.

She released his hand and took her position, smoothing her skirt again and standing straight. “If I do something wrong, or forget to do something, just whisper it under your breath,” she said, tapping her pointed ear. “If you make any sound at all, I’ll hear it.”

“They are nearly here. Are you ready for them?” he asked.

“Yes… No, wait!”

Ivy turned and stepped quickly to the table, selecting one of the carving knives and twisting to reach the back of her dress. With a deft poke she pierced a small hole, then hooked her tail with a finger and pulled it through, fluffing it and swishing it until it was back to shape. She then replaced the knife and kicked her slippers off, padding back to her position and releasing a sigh of relief. Celeste gave her a measuring look. She glanced at him and smirked.

“If I’m going to be me, I’m going to be me,” she said.

A servant quickly snatched the knife and substituted a fresh one, then gathered her slippers and returned to his position. Moments later the door opened, and the small delegation stepped inside.

The ambassador assigned to Ivy was a woman, perhaps forty years of age. She was stately and proper from the tip of her tightly wrapped bun of black hair to the point of her fine leather shoes. Like Ivy she was clad in the colors of her land, a tawny fur cloak layered atop a red-orange gown with peach-colored embroidery. If there was one flourish to her appearance that seemed to be more of an appeal to fashion than tradition, it was her jewelry. There wasn’t an overabundance of it, but each piece she wore was notable for its size and quality. A ruby and gold ring on two fingers of her right hand, a silver and garnet necklace gleaming proudly against her dress, and a topaz earing in each ear.

The woman paced toward Ivy, flanked by two subordinates, who took her coat and handed it to one of the servants waiting beside the door. Though the ambassador’s face was even and neutral, there was something in her eyes and her posture that made Ivy feel as though she was being judged, and that the initial assessment was not good.

Ivy shifted her weight to step forward and greet the visitor, but Celeste touched her leg, reminding her that she was to wait until greeted. The dignitary approached her. Ivy lifted her arm until the ambassador matched her gesture, then gripped the shoulder of her visitor lightly. The ambassador mirrored her, though Ivy couldn’t help but notice she didn’t so much grasp her shoulder as touch it gingerly with her fingertips.

“On behalf of Queen and Empress Caya, I welcome you to New Kenvard,” Ivy said, taking her hand away and offering it for a shake.

“On behalf of King Aamuul, I am honored to visit your fair city,” she said, accepting the offered hand in a dainty shake. “My name is Ambassador Amorria Krettis.”

“I’m Ivy.” Her ear flitted toward Celeste. “That is to say, I am Guardian of the Realm, Heroine of the Battle of Verril, and Ambassador Ivy. And may I introduce Ambassador Greydon Celeste?”

Ambassador Krettis exchanged the traditional greetings with Celeste, then cast her eyes up and down Ivy slowly, lingering at her feet before sweeping her gaze up again. Ivy felt a flutter of anxiety at first, then a blush of pride.

“Oh! My dress,” Ivy said, turning in a circle. “Do you like it? It was made specially for me, and just for this occasion. Your gown is gorgeous by the way.”

“Thank you,” the ambassador said, her eyes drifting briefly to Ivy’s tail.

Ivy’s ear flicked. “Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable.”

The lady-in-waiting stepped forward to lead the ambassador to her seat, and Ivy sat opposite her. Celeste sat to her right. The rest of the servants and attendants remained standing.

“Please, all of you, sit down, dig in!” Her ear flicked. “Err… after we, the diplomats, are through eating, of course. As is custom. We’ll try to hurry up for you.”

The ambassador turned to Celeste. “Is this all the first course?”

He glanced to Ivy.

“No! No, this is everything,” Ivy said. “I know usually they bring out things one at a time, but I like it better this way. Now you know everything we’re going to eat, so you can save room for—” Her ear flicked. She cleared her throat and took on a more serious tone. “If you like, the chef will describe the dishes and their origins.”

“I’m sure that will be most enlightening,” the ambassador said, again addressing Celeste.

One by one, those responsible for the meal stepped up to the table and described in detail the dish, its significance to the Northern Alliance, and the manner in which it was traditionally served and eaten. When the process was through, serving spoons and forks were set out and the meal began.

“I hope you enjoy it,” Ivy said. “I am starving.”

She reached to load her plate, flicked her ear, and then leaned back and allowed herself to be served.

“So your name is Amorria. That’s a lovely name. Is it common in Tressor…” she flicked her ear again, “Ambassador Krettis?”

“It is quite common, Ambassador…” She looked at Celeste. “I apologize, but is Ivy her family name?”

Ivy looked in confusion to Celeste as well.

“Madam Ambassador, while I would be happy to answer any questions you might have, Ambassador Ivy is the designated representative,” he said. “Both protocol and the will of your king would direct you to address her rather than me. Particularly on matters relating to her specifically.”

“Yes, of course.” She turned back to Ivy. “Is Ivy your family name?”

“No. I’m just Ivy. I don’t have a family name. … Well, there was a time when my family name would have been Melodia, but that was before…” She paused, trying to find the proper words. Finding none that seemed appropriate for the occasion, she simply repeated, “That was before.”

“Yes… they say that you were once human.”

“It’s more complicated than that, but I’d really rather not—”

“They also say that the duke and duchess of this region are great wizards.”

“Oh, that they are! Myranda and Deacon are truly amazing.”

“Is it not within their power to change you back?”

“As I said, it’s more complicated than that. This body is a malthrope. It has only ever been a malthrope. It can’t be changed back.”

“Perhaps if we broker a lasting peace, you might find your way to our land. We have some of the finest wizards in the world. I’m quite sure one of them could treat your condition.”

“I… I don’t have a condition, Ambassador. This is what I am. I like what I am. I don’t want to change.” Ivy swished her tail twice, as if for emphasis, then put her mouth to work on a bite of food before she slipped and said something she might regret.

“May I say, you eat quite daintily.”

Ivy furrowed her brow. “Thank you, I suppose… So do you. It isn’t easy though, with this feast.”

“I must agree. The meal has only just begun and its quality has vastly exceeded my expectations,” she said, sipping at a spoonful of soup.

“And wait until you try the desserts! Eliza cooked them. She’s the personal cook for Myranda and Deacon.” Her ear flicked. “The duke and duchess of Kenvard.”

“The duke and duchess,” Krettis said. “It is a shame I couldn’t meet them during this journey. I would have liked to conduct my first formal diplomatic reception with a more traditional representative of the north.”

Ivy’s eyes narrowed briefly, then her ear flicked. “Guardian of the Realm is one of the oldest and most honored titles in the long history of the Alliance, and is regarded by tradition as one of its most valued diplomatic positions.”

“Of course. My apologies,” Krettis said, without a drop of sincerity.

Ivy gripped her fork more tightly and speared some meat. She’d prepared herself to keep her fear in check. She’d not expected to have to cope with anger.

“You say this is your first formal diplomatic reception,” Ivy said, now not quite able to keep the irritation from her voice. “I wouldn’t have known it to look at you.”

“In Tressor our diplomats are selected and educated based upon the region to which we are to serve as representative. Owing to your empire’s disinterest in diplomacy until recently, I was not given any opportunities to ply my trade.”

“Now that the D’Karon are gone, I think you’ll find our people more than eager to mend the relationship between our nations.”

“Ah, yes. The D’Karon. I wonder if during our tour of your land I might meet any of these D’Karon. Perhaps in a prison?” she asked.

“I’m happy to say that there aren’t any D’Karon left.”

“I see. Rather convenient that you would blame all of the atrocities committed by your nation on a group whom you claim to have entirely eradicated in a matter of months. And this coming from a nation that couldn’t even rid itself of…” She paused, for the first time offering a flicker of regret for her wording.

Ivy’s lip twitched and her fist clenched tightly around her fork. Celeste put a hand on her arm. The temperature in the room suddenly felt considerably warmer, but through some miracle the red aura of anger did not flare. “Say it. Say ‘malthropes.’ Brag to me about killing my kind.”

The ambassador sat quietly, her face still steady, but her eyes betraying more than a bit of concern. Ivy placed her fork on the table. It had been bent effortlessly by her grip.

“I know that you hate me. You hate me because I am a malthrope and you hate me because I am from the north. I’m used to hate. I deal with it all the time. Hating someone comes from not knowing them well enough, and you are here so that we can fix that. But I think we both underestimated just how much needs to be fixed. Mr. Celeste told me you’d treat me with respect and decorum because that’s what diplomats do. You said this is your first time, and I’m sure it shows that it is my first time, too. Mistakes were bound to happen. I’m willing to set this one aside. Peace is much too important to be shattered by a few angry words, right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I agree,” Krettis said, taking a rather large sip of wine.

“But! Since we already broke the respect-and-decorum rule, I don’t see any reason to adhere to some of the other silly little bits of protocol. Everyone. Servants, cooks, everyone. Pull up a chair. Eat. This is a feast after all. Let’s enjoy it properly.”

Ivy tugged off her gloves and reached across the table to heap her plate as the servants and underlings reluctantly joined their superiors. Ivy took the leg from a turkey and tore into it, chewing happily as she turned to Celeste. He had an uncertain look on his face.

Ivy shrugged. “No sense being dainty anymore.”

#

Across the continent, at a border crossing south of Territal similar to the Loom River crossing, a pair of diplomats and a sizable entourage of servants and soldiers were waiting with increasing anxiety for Ether to arrive. They had been informed of her agreement to attend, but owing to her unusual lack of travel requirements, they didn’t know precisely when she would arrive. All involved had assumed she would arrive a day or more ahead of time in order to be briefed and properly prepared for the introduction. Now the carriages of the visiting dignitaries were visible on the road to the south, and the Guardian who was to greet them had still not arrived.

Of those present, the most concerned were the two diplomats, an old man named Gregol and a somewhat younger woman named Zuzanna. Gregol was a rail-thin, hunched-over man who would have looked fit to collapse under the weight of his ceremonial robes even under the best of circumstances. In the face of the looming political disaster, he was shuffling back and forth, wringing his hands and stroking his beard.

“Perhaps… perhaps she has been killed!” Gregol fretted.

“She is an elemental, and a shapeshifter. I am not certain she can be killed,” reasoned Zuzanna.

She was young enough to still have a few strands of blond amid her head of gray hair. She supported her weight on an oak and copper cane and, though equally concerned, was a bit better at maintaining her composure.

“Yes. Yes! She can take on any form! Perhaps she is already here! If any of you is Guardian of the Realm Ether, please speak up!”

“Gregol, I believe she is approaching,” Zuzanna said, pointing.

He turned his eyes to the western sky, where the wail of wind was growing steadily sharper. There was a barely discernible form approaching, but it grew more distinct with each moment, coming as a tight rush of air wrapped about a small brown book. When it reached them, all eyes watched in fascination as Ether’s human form coalesced out of the swirling gale

“Guardian Ether, it is an honor,” Zuzanna said, bowing her head reverently.

“An honor and a privilege,” added Gregol, offering the same sign of respect. “We wish only that we might have had the privilege sooner.”

“Oh? This is the time indicated for the beginning of this tiresome errand, is it not?”

“Yes, but you have never performed a task of this sort,” Gregol said. “There is style, protocol. There are things you must do, and things you must not!”

“Then speak. Tell me the rules for this insipid game,” Ether said.

“Might I suggest you begin by avoiding ‘insipid,’ ‘game,’ and other words of that sort when speaking of diplomacy to other diplomats, great Guardian.”

“There simply isn’t time for either of us to tell you all you should know. The carriages will be here in minutes.”

“Then both of you speak at once,” Ether said simply.

“How can you listen to both of us?”

“I am quite capable of splitting my attentions sufficiently.”

“There are interactions we must rehearse, things which will require your undivided attention,” Zuzanna said.

Ether looked wearily from one of the advisers to the other.

“Hold this,” she said irritably, handing the book to Zuzanna.

When the woman accepted it, Ether stepped away and, in blast of brilliant light and searing heat, shifted to flame. The advisers stumbled backward, mouths agape, as the figure of flames separated into two, then shifted back to flesh. Standing before them was a pair of Ethers, each looking expectantly to one of the advisers.

“Speak,” they said simultaneously.

Gregol looked to Zuzanna, then to the approaching carriages. Given the choice between taking the time to cope with what had just occurred and seizing the opportunity to potentially give this mission a chance at success, he eagerly chose the latter.

“You tell her what not to do; I shall tell her what to do,” he said.

“Very well,” Zuzanna agreed.

For the others observing, what followed was a bizarre and rather entertaining performance. Gregol, with a frantic energy that increased as the Tresson delegation drew nearer, spouted volumes of information about Tresson customs and beliefs. He illustrated the traditional greetings, briefly gave points of historic importance, and suggested fruitful topics of discussion. Zuzanna laid out cultural taboos to be avoided, points of etiquette to be emphasized, and sensitive information about the Northern Alliance that should be politely declined for discussion lest the defense of the Alliance be endangered. At nearly the same time, the pair began to run dry of topics that could be covered quickly. It was just as well, as the carriages were now near enough for the rattling of their wheels to be heard.

“Simple enough,” each Ether said.

Again there was a burst of flame. A few moments later a single figure stood before them. Ether took back her book.

“I shall take your words into advisement,” she said, walking forward to take her place at the border.

“Into advisement?” Gregol said.

“With all due respect, oh honored Guardian, we must insist that you behave precisely as we have instructed,” Zuzanna said.

“If you were treating me with all due respect, you would not presume to insist upon anything. Much of what you have described requires me to supplicate and demean myself to an intolerable degree for no reason but to forestall an inevitable squabble between arbitrarily divided members of your own kind. It is a pointless exercise in futility, and I engage in it only because it has been suggested that it is somehow beyond my capabilities to do so. Nothing is beyond my capabilities. So I have listened to your words, but I shall take from them only what I choose.”

“Of course, oh Guardian,” Zuzanna said.

“Thank you, Guardian Ether,” Gregol said with a bow of his head.

With that, Ether turned and awaited the arrival of the delegation.

“This is an inauspicious start to very delicate proceedings,” Zuzanna said quietly to her partner.

“To put it very lightly,” Gregol agreed.

Ether stood, stone still and utterly quiet, until the carriages reached the crossing and the delegation stepped out for the formal greeting. As before, Tressor had sent an ambassador and a pair of aides to represent their kingdom. Joining them was a reasonable accompaniment of guards and individuals fulfilling a half-dozen other minor roles necessary for a successful diplomatic tour.

The shapeshifter stepped forward, toeing the line of the border, and looked her counterpart in this exchange in the eye evenly. The Tresson ambassador was elderly, older even than Gregol. He had steel-gray hair contrasting with dark, almost black, craggy skin. There were thin, intricate tattoos visible at his wrists, and while his garb was similar to that worn by those hosting Myranda and Deacon on their own mission, his was adorned with a complex pattern of beads and embroidery.

Gregol sighed in relief as Ether initiated the interaction as instructed, flawlessly executing both the Tresson and Northern greetings and utilizing the proper style of address.

“Ambassador Maka, may I formally invite you and your delegation to enter the Ulvard region of the Northern Alliance,” Ether said, stepping aside and sweeping her arm in a mechanical imitation of Gregol’s suggested gesture.

The ambassador nodded and he and his people filed through. Gregol stepped up and offered his own welcome.

“We are very pleased to have you here. It is our hope that you will enjoy what little of Ulvard you will have time to see during your journey, and may we all learn much of one another. As per our prior communications, for the duration of this journey we shall be using Alliance carriages, as the climate and conditions of the road have rather special requirements for both horse and carriage. You shall be joining Guardian Ether in the first carriage, along with Ambassador Zuzanna and myself and two of your aides. The rest—”

“No,” Ether said.

All eyes turned to her.

“No?” asked Gregol.

“The ambassador and I shall ride alone in the carriage. The rest of you may divide yourselves as you please among the remaining carriages.”

“Guardian Ether, this was discussed at length prior to arrival of the delegation,” Gregol began.

“It was not discussed with me. Ambassador Maka is my equal for the purposes of this tour. I fail to see the value in crowding the carriage with subordinates and cluttering the conversation with additional voices.”

Gregol stammered somewhat in searching for the proper words to convince the headstrong elemental of the crucial nature of protocol. He’d not yet found the appropriate phrasing when the Tresson ambassador spoke.

“That is most agreeable,” said Maka. His voice was more heavily accented than the other representatives, but he spoke slowly and with great clarity.

“Ah! Ah, well then, splendid,” Gregol quickly proclaimed.

A flurry of discussions and activity arose as the individuals responsible for the smooth execution of this journey clambered to adjust to this unanticipated change of plans. Ether simply stepped up to the carriage, opened the door, and climbed inside. When it became clear that he would require it, she offered a hand to Maka and pulled him inside with ease.

“Driver, you may depart,” Ether instructed in a raised voice.

“I am supposed to—” the unfortunate driver began to reply, his voice muffled by the thick walls of the carriage.

“Those individuals for which this tour was designed and arranged are presently in your carriage. The other drivers are aware of your itinerary. They shall meet us. Depart,” she ordered.

The carriage jerked into motion.

“I admire your directness and pragmatism,” Maka said, easing back into the overstuffed seats of the carriage. “I have never understood why it is believed that great understanding can only come from great numbers of people. Many voices lead only to more confusion. This, two representatives speaking as equals, this is the essence of diplomacy.”

“I am pleased that we agree on this matter,” Ether said. “I was instructed to inform you that this carriage is a fine example of the many trades and materials that have brought the Northern Alliance great pride in the years since the war began. The copper of the hardware is from the historic Grossmer Mines, the leather is worked and dyed Alliance blue by skilled artisans, and the wood is rock-pine felled from the base of the Dagger Gale Mountains. At your feet is a basket of food, each a Northern delicacy. You may partake as your appetite requires. It may also be of value to you to know that this is my first and quite likely my last instance as an ambassador.”

“This, may I say, does not come as a surprise.”

“No?”

“There is a… a certain language a diplomat uses. It is softened, smoothed. It has no edge, padded with bluster and pomp. Many words are used, but little is said. You speak like a blade hacking to the core. Also, what you have done, breaking with arrangements agreed upon? This is something an ambassador would never do.”

“I see. Then this is a profession defined by rigid adherence to arbitrary customs.”

“Most definitely. Another man might have refused the new arrangements, or perhaps terminated the whole of the tour in outrage.”

“You feel no such outrage.”

“I am old, I am cold, and I am hungry,” he said, opening the basket and looking over the contents. He selected a small cloth pouch of dried fruit. “They will say their empty words and come to their agreements in the other carriages. A pleasant ride with a lovely woman sounds like a far preferable way to spend this journey. Now, please, tell me about your land…”

#

Most of Myranda and Deacon’s first day in Tressor was spent traveling. The first half of the day’s travels had been through towns and fields that at one time or another had been at the center of the fighting. While a century of warfare had kept the front line remarkably consistent, this stretch of it still wandered north and south a dozen miles or so depending on the intensity and outcome of the battles. As a result, some towns they’d passed through were being rebuilt for the dozenth time. The same thing had happened all across the northern side of the border as well, but Myranda had had a lifetime to adjust to it, and the Northern Alliance was far less populous than Tressor. After it became clear to the people that a city could not be reliably defended, it was simply abandoned, even if it was a capital like Kenvard. It said something about these people that they continued, decade after decade, to take back the land and return to the life they wanted to live.

The sun was setting by the time they were beyond the reach of the war, and the tone of the landscape changed. Buildings were older and more ornate. Indeed, if there was one thing to be said about the people and the architecture of Tressor at a glance, it was that much more time and effort were put into expression. Clothing was more colorful and vibrant. Buildings were more than just shelter; they were nuanced and accented, often to an almost sculptural degree.

And then there were the fields. All of the Northern Alliance’s greenest land was also closest to the border. The same shifts in the front that had chased away the cities could easily wipe out the farms. Therefore they were kept small so that if one was destroyed, it was not so great a loss. Even those fields safe from battle tended to be small because any land far enough from the front to avoid combat was also cold and rocky enough to need tremendous care to bear any crop at all. For that reason farmers could only manage small plots. Here the farms and plantations seemed endless, literally covering the whole of the landscape in both directions at times. Just one such farm could probably feed half of Kenvard.

Myranda looked out the window of their coach at the green expanse, workers still toiling in the fields as the light faded. They were tending to thorny bushes Myranda had never seen before.

“Excuse me, Valaamus, but what is this farm growing?” Myranda asked.

“Ah! This is a rakka plantation. They are rare so far north. Surely you have heard of rakka?”

“Yes… yes, I think so. Your provisions. The berry you bake into your bread.”

“Yes indeed. Very hard to grow. Closely kept secret. Most of our plantations are much farther south, but where the soil is right, our enterprising farmers are always willing to give a rakka crop a try.”

“I understand the plants are quite finicky,” Deacon said. “Surely the climate here would be too volatile for them.”

“Again, it is the soil that is most important. If the soil is good enough, it is well worth the effort to have the slaves dig up saplings down south and bring them here to bear fruit.”

Myranda looked to the window again, eyes scanning the workers.

“Slaves…” she said.

“Of course. Rakka requires much work. It would not be possible to grow it in quantity without slave labor.”

“We abolished slavery in our kingdom,” she said.

Valaamus nodded. “A recent decision, I understand. Bold, in the aftermath of war, to make so sweeping a change. Surely more strong hands would be preferable, particularly when rebuilding is necessary.”

“We now believe that freedom takes precedence,” Myranda said.

“A fine philosophy. I wish you luck in putting it into practice.”

“We’ve done well enough so far,” Myranda said.

As evening slid into night, they approached the place where they would take their meal and sleep. It was a small, comfortable cabin overlooking a lake and nestled in a dense forest. The carriage pulled to a stop not far from the cabin, where a small shrine stood by the lakeside. Myranda and Deacon gazed at the shrine. It was tall and carved of stone. Like most Tresson creations it was elaborate without being gaudy, and even without understanding the symbolism, there was a solemness about it. The top of the shrine was a carving of a lantern. A flame burned inside. The rest of the shrine was an obelisk carved with the likeness of ivy and accented with copper inlays tinged green with the passage of time. On either side of the shrine, each rising only as high as the hub of the carriage wheel, was a line of stone slabs. The sweeping, curling script of the Tresson language formed the names and ranks of hundreds of Tresson officers in total.

An attendant opened the door to the carriage. Before Myranda could step out, the thumping of heavy footsteps caused the attendant at the door to quickly retreat. A moment later Myn’s head filled the doorway, looking somewhat reproachfully at the diplomats who had tucked Myranda away with them for so long.

“Myn,” Myranda scolded, “don’t forget your manners.”

The dragon backed away and sat on her haunches, eying the attendants, who were reluctant to return to their tasks. Eventually they got their nerve and saw to the delegation, helping each down and seeing to the bags of the Tresson nobles.

“You speak to her as if to a child,” Valaamus observed, “and yet she obeys.”

“I’ve been with her since she was born,” Myranda said, walking over to the impatiently waiting dragon and giving her some long-awaited attention as Deacon unloaded their things from her back and handed them to the attendants.

Grustim, for the first time since Myranda had been introduced to him, made a sound that might have been intended for human ears. It was muttered beneath his breath, a Tresson word Myranda didn’t recognize.

“Hold your tongue,” hissed Valaamus.

“What did he say?” Myranda asked.

“It is a very old word,” Deacon said. “It means fertile soil. Or the material used to fertilize it. I believe, in context, he was suggesting that something you’d said was untrue.”

“My apologies, Duchess. Grustim is a soldier. He is not as refined in his interactions as the rest of the delegation,” Valaamus said.

“I’m not offended, Ambassador. But I am curious. What prompted such a remark?” Myranda asked.

“Answer the duchess,” Valaamus ordered.

The Dragon Rider stepped down from his mount. “You say your dragon has been with you since her birth,” he said. He spoke Varden, but with a less practiced diction than the ambassador. “A female mountain dragon of that size would be at least ninety years old. She’s nearly as large as Garr, and Garr was hatched before the war.”

“Garr is your dragon?” Deacon said. “It thought it was named—”

“The breeders have their name and I have mine. He is Garr, and he is one hundred and sixty years old.”

“Myn is only about two years old,” Myranda said.

Grustim barely managed to prevent himself from repeating his earlier outburst. “She is not two years old, Madam Duchess. You are mistaken.”

Myn cast a hard glare in his direction. She clearly did not appreciate what he had to say or the tone with which he was saying it.

Grustim continued, “I will prove it to you.” He turned to his mount, uttering a guttural command. The dragon lowered its head, tipping its horns toward him. “Here, on the horns. Dragons shed their skin once per growth season. The scales leave a mark and stain the horn a bit. Come, look. Learn something about the beast you ride.”

Myranda and Deacon stepped closer, Garr not even acknowledging them. Grustim pointed to a very faint dip in the surface of the deep-green horn, and a slight discoloration. It ran around the circumference, and Myranda never would have spotted it if not directed, but once she knew what to look for, she found dozens more along the length of the horn.

“Now go find them on your mount and learn how old she really is,” Grustim said.

“Come here Myn, let’s see your horns,” Myranda said.

“Fascinating…” Deacon said, looking over Garr’s horns. “In all of my dealings with dragons I’ve never noticed this…”

Grustim issued another order, and the dragon raised his head again. Myn marched over and tried to lower her head for inspection without taking her eyes off Grustim or Garr. Myranda ran her fingers along the length, but she found no hint of the rings until she reached the very tip, where there was a pair of them about a finger’s width apart.

“Here, you see?” Myranda said. “There are two.”

The Dragon Rider stepped doubtfully forward, but Myn pulled her head back by the same amount. He made a sound of irritation and stepped forward again, and again she pulled away. When he stepped forward again, there was a sudden flurry of motion and an angry rumble from both dragons. The humans turned to find Myn’s tail trapped under Garr’s forepaw. Based on the awkward position of the tail, it seemed clear now that she’d been luring Grustim into position for a good, hard lash with her tail and Garr had put a stop to it.

“Myn, what’s gotten into you?” Myranda said.

She tried to tug her tail free, but Garr refused to release it, and the pair once again rumbled a threat to one another. The Dragon Rider grunted an order, and after a moment more, Garr shifted his weight to release Myn’s tail.

“Now behave yourself and let him see,” Myn said sternly.

The dragon huffed in annoyance but held still. Grustim stepped forward and gazed at the horn. Not satisfied with what he saw, he ran his fingers over it with increasing confusion and disbelief.

“I don’t understand it. Even if you had sanded the horn there would be some sign… And it certainly hasn’t been sanded… These two at the end are proper. Perhaps a bit close to one another, but proper. Where are the rest?”

Myn pulled her head back and thumped it to the ground beside Myranda.

“No, Myn. No scratches. You didn’t behave yourself,” Myranda said, crossing her arms. She turned to Grustim. “We thought we lost her once. She was still smaller than me at the time. In a battle with some of the D’Karon creatures, she fell through the ice. I tried to save her but I was too late. We had to flee, and much as it pained me we couldn’t take her remains with us. Some time later I was to fight a terrible beast as punishment for my refusal to submit to the D’Karon after being captured by them. Myn turned out to be the beast. She was alive, and she had grown. I don’t know if it was the work of the D’Karon or some other force, but that’s how she came to be this size.”

“Grustim, I want you to apologize to the duchess immediately,” Valaamus ordered. “And after the completion of your duties, you shall receive a formal reprimand.”

“That really isn’t necessary. It is hardly the sort of circumstance he could have predicted,” Myranda said.

“It doesn’t matter. The goal of this tour is to foster trust between our people, and Grustim is a soldier. He should have discipline and the capacity to follow orders.” Valaamus allowed himself a single irritated sigh. “Duke, Duchess, may I present to you the officers’ memorial. The flame within this shrine represents the resolve we have to carry with us the memory of these fine men. The ivy represents the tenacity of the Tresson spirit, clinging even to sheer stone and in time breaking it to dust. The copper symbols are invocations for luck, strength, wisdom, and courage. Each stone is carved with the names of thirty-six officers who served at least five years before falling.”

Myranda bowed her head in quiet observance of the lives lost. “We have a similar monument in my city. It lists the names of those who fell in the Kenvard Massacre. The fallen deserve to be remembered.”

“I hope one day that you might grant me the honor of a visit, and may no new names be added to either in our lifetimes. Now please, let us retire to the cabin for a meal and some business before we rest for tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Myranda said. “Myn will need to be fed. Normally she would hunt, but I imagine it might not be appropriate to release her into your woods unattended.”

“Garr needs to feed as well. I will escort her for the hunt,” Grustim said. “It is only proper that I make amends for my prior indiscretion.”

“Does that suit you, Myn?” Myranda asked.

Myn and Garr looked distrustfully at one another for a moment before she stood and stalked off toward the nearby woods.

“Excellent. To business then?” Valaamus asked.

Myranda and Deacon watched Myn trot into the woods, followed closely by Grustim and Garr. Satisfied that she could care for herself, and hopefully show enough restraint to avoid causing an incident, they followed Valaamus into the cabin.

#

Myn stepped lightly through the underbrush, moving with slow care. The air was heavy with the scent of prey, far more so than all but the best forests back home. This was fortunate because, if not for the bountiful hunting, she might have gone hungry. It wasn’t that the creatures were particularly elusive. Far from it. They were as plump and clumsy as she’d ever encountered. But today she was not alone. Today she had another dragon to contend with. And that man on his back… She found herself spending as much time watching them as she did searching for a meal.

Not since Entwell had she had the chance to observe another dragon. She caught their scent sometimes, in the sky or in the mountains, but she’d never sought them out. It was enthralling to watch Garr move. His movements were smooth and confident, each step placed where the last had fallen. When prey was distant, he raised his nose high, sniffing and tasting the breeze, then dropped it low to sample the ground. When prey was near he moved low to the ground, tail straight, wings flat and tucked. It was all as Solomon had taught her. But there was more. At times the human on his back would make a very un-human noise, and he would hold. The human would then gaze about in the dim light, glancing at a broken branch or a nibbled-upon bush, then another grunt from the human would send Garr in a new direction. Often it wouldn’t be long after that a new scent would grow stronger. The human was helping him hunt. Myn didn’t know humans could do that.

Other times Myn would step on a felled branch or dry patch of grass and Garr’s head would whip in her direction. And there were times when she’d made no such sound, yet she would still notice him watching her, just as she had been watching him.

The pair wove their own way through the forest, snapping up a bird here or a rabbit there. Enough to make for enough of a meal, but nothing truly satisfying. Not when there was so much more appetizing prey to be found. It soon became clear that each of them had the same quarry in mind. There were deer about. Five of them. It would be a fine meal for whichever of them could catch a few. Alas, as always seemed to be the case, the most succulent prey was the most elusive. Myn tried and failed to catch one or two, and Garr did the same. After a third attempt she decided to make do with a few more of the easier targets when she noticed Garr catch her gaze. He was far across the forest, barely visible even to Myn’s keen eyes. He stalked slowly forward, his eyes on Myn rather than the prey. Deeper in the woods between them Myn heard the rustle of the deer moving away from Garr and toward her. Myn moved forward, taking a bit less care with each step. The prey now turned back toward Garr. Step by step, gradually, Myn and Garr drove the group of deer tighter together. It wasn’t until both dragons were nearly within striking distance that the deer finally panicked and bolted.

Moving as one, Myn hooked left and Garr hooked right. Thundering through the forest, they quickly gained on the herd. Garr struck first, capturing two and startling the others directly into Myn’s waiting claws. When each had dealt with their prize properly, they snatched them up and padded toward each other. Garr dropped his catch on the forest floor and crouched, allowing Grustim to dismount. With a few quick slices of an ornate dagger from his belt, he carved away a slice or two for himself, then uttered a short command. Garr eagerly crunched up the rest of his kill. As Myn ate the first two of her catches happily, Grustim sat atop Garr, watching her.

“I’ll say this for that Northerner… if she did raise you, at least she didn’t ruin you.”

#

Myranda and Deacon sat at a small table in an extremely private room within the cabin. They awaited the return of their host as he had a rather animated discussion with the two mystics who had accompanied them. A light meal had been set out on the table, and Myranda and Deacon had been instructed to start without the others. The food was tasty, but quite different from what they’d been accustomed to in the north. Rather than the rich, hearty meals that could sustain one throughout the day and warmed one from the inside out, the food before them was comparatively focused on taste. Much of it was extremely spicy, and all of it was intensely flavorful.

“This truly is a beautiful nation. It is remarkable how sharply the land shifts in just a day’s travel,” Deacon said, dousing the lingering burn of one of the more potent entrees with a bit of wine. “And I’m truly intrigued by Grustim’s knowledge of dragons. Such a subtle thing, faint rings on a horn, can tell you so much. I imagine it could tell you not only how many years the dragon has lived, but how quickly it grew! At least in relative terms…”

“They haven’t had us stop anywhere with citizens yet,” Myranda said. “I wonder if they are afraid of how the people will react to us…”

Valaamus paced inside, a bit red-faced and, despite the table settings for his associates, alone. Under his arm was something rather substantial bundled in thick cloth. He lowered it to the floor with care and took his place at the table.

“I apologize for the delay. Are you enjoying the meal? Have you sampled the wellindo? Delicious, made from stewed minced venison and seasonings. It goes brilliantly with the fig bread.”

“Was there something wrong?” Myranda asked.

Valaamus sat and grabbed a piece of the bread, spreading a dollop of spicy-smelling meaty paste onto it. “Another reprimand, I’m afraid. Please, if you would, shut the door behind you.”

Myranda did so. The instant they had complete privacy, Valaamus’s demeanor changed. Suddenly his body language and tone of voice were a match for his stern expression.

“Let me begin by assuring you most vigorously that you have the deepest apologies of myself and my kingdom for any perceived deception regarding my aides. As I’m sure you can understand, there was some… concern about inviting three of the most powerful warriors of our generations-old enemy into our kingdom. We did not want to appear distrustful, but at the same time we needed to be certain that no spells were worked without our knowledge. It was an act of poor judgment on our parts to attempt to conceal our mystics, and I hope you will take me at my word that no harm was meant.”

“I’m sure before this tour is through we’ll each have made our share of mistakes,” Myranda said. “In the future, let us err on the side of openness.”

“Agreed… And it is for that reason, and again forgive me, I must ask about some enchantments my associates have detected.”

“I am perfectly willing to discuss them,” Deacon said. “I tend to rely somewhat heavily on enchantments. I often forget the concerns some may have for such things.”

“The first is…” he reached into a pocket within his robes to fetch a scrawled note, “some manner of connection, reaching outward in many directions.”

“My stylus and the books I’ve fashioned. They are really quite useful. They operate by—” Deacon began eagerly.

“My apologies but any words you might spend describing their workings would be wasted on me. You can discuss them with my associates after our business here is through. Now, something pertaining to protection of some sort?”

“That would be my ring,” Myranda said. “Enchanted by Deacon upon our engagement.”

One by one they worked their way through the list of enchantments and active spells that the pair had been using. Most Valaamus disregarded as harmless, but one was strange enough that he simply could not bring himself to understand.

“I’m sorry, but how can a hand be ‘unpredictable’ as you say, and how can such a problem be solved by a ring?” Valaamus mused.

Deacon looked uncertainly to Myranda. “I believe the simplest path to understanding would be to show him.”

“Very well, but be careful,” Myranda said.

Deacon grasped the ring and began to slide it off. “Please prepare yourself. This may be… unsettling, but it is entirely under control.”

Valaamus watched with interest as Deacon removed the ring from his finger. For a moment there was no result. Then, slowly, the skin began to shift. It marbled with red, veins of discoloration widening until the whole of his hand was a mottled crimson. Wide, stiff scales burst forth, and his fingers lengthened. Just as it seemed stabilize into the claw of some horrid creature, it shifted again, returning to a roughly human shape but changing in substance to something between metal and stone. He allowed it to shift twice more before shutting his eyes and willing it back to normality. The demonstration completed, he slipped the ring back on.

The diplomat’s face retained the rocky, stoic expression that never seemed to leave it, but his eyes were wide with shock and barely concealed disgust.

“What in this world or any other was that?” he said.

“It’s an affliction, the result of an imprudently cast spell. The details are complex, even by my standards, but suffice it to say my hand is not as stable as it might be. The ring is an adequate treatment.”

“I believe… I believe you will have much to discuss with my aides. But that sets my mind at ease. As you’ve seen, we are quite adept at detecting magic. And as we have seen, you are quite adept at casting it. I hope you will understand but… we are recently enemies. The military has requested that you limit any usage of mystic power, and completely forgo anything that might give you insight further into our nation than we choose to show. I, of course, would never accuse you of espionage, but if the military were to feel the influence of your mind probing the land…”

“I understand. Of course we agree,” Myranda said.

“And what of passive magics?”

“We thank you for your cooperation. Now, poorly timed as this may be in the face of our recent agreement to forgo any further deception, I must now request a degree of discretion on your part for the matter we are about to discuss. You are, I hope, aware of the incidents that prompted our hasty assembly of this diplomatic exchange.”

“The supposed D’Karon attacks,” Myranda said.

“Precisely. Now, I know that neither your kingdom nor mine is eager to begin again what has so recently been ended. But if we determine that someone within your empire, or allied with it, has been attacking our people, then we will have no choice but to defend ourselves, and to do what is necessary to prevent further attack.”

“Of course,” Myranda said. “And speaking as a citizen of a land that has been held prisoner by their dark whims since the start of the war, there is no one more interested than I in making certain that any seed of the D’Karon is snuffed out before it can blossom.”

“It is heartening to hear that. Every attempt has been made to prevent the word of the attacks from spreading. Even my aides do not know the full details of what we now discuss.” He held up the item he’d brought with him. “Contained within this bundle is a small sample of two of the D’Karon creatures that attacked one of our most southerly cities. You may wish to complete your meal before we continue—I understand they are somewhat gruesome.”

“I don’t believe we can justify further delay,” Myranda said.

“Very well,” he said.

They moved the food to the side of the table and placed the bundle of cloth down. Myranda carefully pulled the layer of cloth away. The bundle contained a few scraps of leathery flesh and some bone fragments, a skull and a vial of black liquid. A small stack of pages described the contents and included sketches based on the accounts of those who had personally encountered the creatures from which the samples had been taken. Deacon picked up the stack of pages and began to read.

“‘The fact there are remains at all suggest these are at the very least not the beasts we have faced in our own kingdom. Many vanished into dust when defeated. Those that did leave remains didn’t leave behind anything that looks like this.’” Myranda leaned close to inspect the leather. It had a strong aroma, like something one would find in an alchemist’s shop. “Have these been treated in some way?”

“‘Those who discovered them were forced to preserve them, as they were swiftly rotting,’” Deacon read. “That swatch is from this creature.”

He slid a page over to Myranda with a simple sketch of a billowing form. It could easily be one of the cloak creatures that had so often plagued the Chosen, though there were subtle differences even in the sketch.

“This flesh… the page says it came from the ‘cloak’ of the creature, but it looks to be leather. The cloaks we knew were certainly cloth,” Myranda said. “And this sketch shows claws along the edge of the cloak. It could be simply a misremembered detail, but the cloaks typically had no such things. When claws did flash into being, they were ghostly and faded to nothingness before reaching the empty void within the cloak.”

“And the cloaks we battled did not rot. If they vanished, they vanished into dust, and if they remained, they remained as shreds of simple cloth. The page indicates that these fragments of bone come from the cloak-creature’s claws, and the beings we fought had no bones,” Deacon added. “We shall set it aside for study through mystic means when the cursory assessment is through.” He selected another page. “Now this, to all appearances, is indeed what we would call a dragoyle.”

He shared the sketch with Myranda. At a glimpse it might first have seemed to be a dragon, but even drawn as it was based on descriptions, there were telltale signs of its unnatural characteristics. There were no eyes in the sketch, only dark sockets with gleaming points of light within them. The head lacked flesh and scales, appearing as little more than a skull. The sketch showed seams running along the monster’s hide, making it resemble a doll sewn together from scraps of cloth too small to form it individually.

Myranda grasped the skull and raised it, turning it about in the light. It was white, or at least it might have been if it was clean. In its present state it was stained with brown and smeared with black. Ribbed horns curled down from the skull’s temples with a smooth, natural curve. They were joined by other irregular spikes that seemed to have erupted at random from the top, back, and sides of the skull. The jaws were lined with jagged bone. It looked broken, but the more intact portions formed cavities where teeth might once have been.

“It is small for a dragoyle’s head, though we found beasts of many sizes… The color is wrong, too. The dragoyles we knew were black, or at their lightest a deep purple. The colors could have varied as well, though. This here… this looks to be dried red blood. That is wrong too. Dragoyles had black blood. And this seems to have once been teeth. The dragoyles had only serrated beaks. I cannot be certain, but this looks more like a ram’s skull that has been twisted into a new form,” Myranda observed.

Deacon picked up the vial. “This, the page says, is the beast’s breath.” He tipped it side to side, watching the viscous substance ooze down the vial. “Look how it has pitted the glass. The page says this is not the first vessel the stuff has been poured into. It eats at everything it touches.”

He eased the cork from the end, only for it to crumble away in his fingers. The scent that filled the room was sharp and acrid, and it conjured dark memories.

“That is the miasma…” Myranda said, no hint of doubt in her voice. “I know it all too well.”

“Have you known anything but these… dragoyles to produce such a substance?” Valaamus asked.

“Nothing,” Myranda said.

“And have you known anything but the D’Karon to utilize such creatures?”

“They are a product of the D’Karon,” Deacon said.

“In all of the years that history records, we have encountered these D’Karon and their creatures only at or near the battlefront and only operating on behalf of your people. If you are certain that this substance is genuine and a result of their influence, then to our military it will be seen as damning evidence that you have resumed hostilities despite the ceasefire,” Valaamus said steadily.

“Let us not jump to conclusions. I suggest we begin the mystic analysis,” Deacon said.

Myranda nodded, but she scarcely needed to open her mind’s eye to know that the spells that tainted these bits of flesh and bone had the shape and color of D’Karon workings. It wasn’t the same ghastly perfection that seemed to define most D’Karon magic, but it was certainly drawn from the same roots, grown from the same seeds. Deacon’s face made it all too clear he had come to the same conclusion. Valaamus saw it as well.

“What does your magic tell you?” Valaamus asked.

“There is unmistakable D’Karon influence in the residual enchantment of these samples… But I can say with certainty that this is not the work of a true D’Karon.”

“A true D’Karon?” Valaamus asked.

“These spells are imperfect, incomplete,” Deacon said. “This skull was certainly that of a sheep, and these bones and that hide are from a goat. The D’Karon conjure the substance of their creations. They are entirely constructed with no element of what we would call nature.”

“This means little, does it not? Even the most experienced mystic can miscast a spell or take liberties in the interest of speed or ease,” Valaamus said.

“You don’t understand. Spell craft is sacred to the D’Karon. To miscast them would be tantamount to blasphemy.”

“They have been committing war atrocities for generations. Blasphemy would not be beyond them, I’m sure,” Valaamus said.

“While I agree with Deacon’s assessment, it does not change the fact that D’Karon knowledge is at work here. I would not liken this to an attack by an enemy. With the evidence we have, we can at best make the claim that we know for certain that an enemy’s weapons have been used,” Myranda said.

“Which in any case would be an act of war,” Valaamus said.

His carefully measured diplomatic tone had not faltered, but his words were increasingly carrying the threat that the damage had been done.

“I realize that my assurance on this matter carries little weight, but no force within the Northern Alliance would ever rely upon D’Karon spells,” Myranda said. “Not after what very nearly happened to us while we were under their thumbs. Before you make your final determination, I implore you to allow us to continue the investigation. Again, these are merely the weapons. Until we find who has been wielding them, we must not assume that the Northern Alliance is behind the attacks.”

“Of course I agree. Anything is preferable to an unnecessary war. But as diplomats you must realize that the investigation can only continue with the blessing of the military, and I am obligated to present these findings to them,” Valaamus said. “They may not agree that war is unnecessary.”

“When do you present your findings?”

“We are all expected in the capital for a banquet in your honor in two weeks. My first formal briefing of the military is expected on the evening of my arrival, some days earlier. As I will be traveling by carriage, I do not expect to reach the capital in less than five days. I may be able to suggest some alternate routes that would extend that journey to a full week. Anything beyond that and a military representative will be dispatched to meet us en route. With the evidence currently available, it is very likely that they will call for an immediate termination of the diplomatic exchange, and they could very well close the border in preparation for troop deployment. You must find something compelling to suggest that it is not the work of a Northern Alliance ally that has blighted our lands with such treachery, if such evidence exists, and return it to me before I deliver my briefing.”

“Then there is no time to waste. Where were these creatures encountered?” Myranda asked.

“At the most northerly fringe of the Southern Wastes. I don’t pretend to know how quickly your dragon can carry you, but given a guess I would say it would take every bit of six days for you to reach it. That would leave you no time at all to seek out any evidence, let alone deliver it to me. It was my great concern that such would be the case, and you must believe me that I fought for every moment of time I could for this mission, but… a nation so long at war, allowing figures such as you to pace its lands…”

“I understand. But for the return of the information, at least, I have a solution. I will leave a messenger pad with you,” Deacon said.

“A… messenger pad?” Valaamus asked, his tone indicating he believed he had misheard.

“It is really quite simple, you see—”

“While you explain it to him, I’ll have a word with Myn, Grustim, and Garr about our plans,” Myranda said.

“That is wise,” Valaamus said.

Deacon, Myranda, and Valaamus gathered and stowed the samples, hiding them once more in their bundle before Myranda opened the door to seek out the dragons and Rider.

#

Outside the cabin, Myn sat patiently, eyes on the door. She had the remaining deer from her hunt clutched beneath her claws. Garr lay across from her, eyes shut but still alert. Grustim had shed his armor and reclined in the curl of his mount’s tail. He whittled idly at a piece of wood, ostensibly sculpting it but mostly just making it smaller and passing the time.

The group had only just returned from the hunt, the kill still warm beneath her claws, but Myn couldn’t help but let her gaze wander from time to time to the other dragon. She sniffed the air as the breeze carried his scent to her. It was strange. The scent of the man was present on the dragon, not just from the ride, but from days and weeks earlier. Likewise the man seemed steeped in the scent of the dragon. It was clear at a single whiff that the two were together, always. She felt the flutter of envy in her chest at the thought.

In part the envy was for the togetherness. She and Myranda had been inseparable at one time, but Myranda had others in her life. Many depended on her. Myn understood. The others would be helpless without Myranda, while she could handle herself if required. But at times she longed for the old times. Yes, the nights had been long and cold. Yes, the danger had been ever-present. There had been little food and much traveling to be done. But Myranda had been with her, warm and safe beneath Myn in her early days and folded beneath her claws in the days that followed. Seeing a dragon and his human sharing such togetherness made those days seem so far away.

A whisper of the envy, though, was for the dragon himself. Myn may not have been able to spend as much time with Myranda as she would have liked—if she did, they would never be apart—but she did get to spend plenty of time with her. In all of her life she’d had only a few months during which she’d had the opportunity to spend time with another dragon. It didn’t seem fair that a human should be allowed to spend so much time with one when she did not.

Her thoughts vanished in a puff of excitement when she heard the door open and saw Myranda walking toward her. The dragon hopped to her feet and snatched up the deer, taking two steps forward to meet Myranda and dropping the deer at her feet.

“For me?” Myranda said with a smile. “Still my little hunter. Come here.”

Myn lowered her head and received a good, hard scratch.

“I think you should keep this one for yourself, though. We’ve got a great deal of travel ahead of us, and I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard without a full belly.”

Always happy for another morsel, Myn snapped up and gulped down the remaining deer.

“Grustim, Garr, may I ask something of you?”

The Rider looked at her. “I have been instructed to treat you with deference and respect. What do you require?”

“You are more familiar with your land than I. There is a place in the Southern Wastes that we must reach as soon as possible. How quickly do you think you can guide us there by dragon-back?” she asked.

“The Southern Wastes are a big place, Duchess. Garr could reach the nearest of it in four days. The farthest in seven. But you will not be able to reach it so quickly.”

“Why not?”

He paused for a moment. “I don’t know that I can answer that question with deference and respect.”

“Then answer it with honesty. We don’t always have the luxury of gentility.”

“You’re a duchess, Duchess. And he is a duke. When I travel, I travel with my lance, my armor, my dragon, and the dagger of command that affords me the right to issue orders to troops when the need arises. Though I’ve never known nobility to travel by dragon, look at the bags you’ve brought. You bring civilization with you where you go, and that slows travel.”

“Nobility is a recent development, Grustim. I’m quite accustomed to traveling light. To be honest, I’m not accustomed to having any other choice.”

Grustim did Myranda the courtesy of not voicing the doubt that was clear in his expression. “Even so. The dragon will need to carry you and the duke both. Garr is bigger, faster, and will have to carry only me. Even without a passenger, your dragon would lag behind. She is an able hunter, that much I have seen, but she lacks the training and conditioning of a dragon worthy of a Rider.”

Garr’s eyes slid open, peering through the iron mask he wore.

“You will slow us,” Grustim continued. “I think eight days will be enough.”

The low roll of what might have been thunder rattled in the air, though there were no clouds. Myranda smiled and looked to Myn. Her tail was scything back and forth, her eyes locked on Grustim with a burning intensity.

“I think Myn respectfully disagrees with your assessment.”

“Then tomorrow we shall see.”