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EPILOGUE:

The Last Lesson



Druadaen entered the foreigners’ quarter through the dockside gate and discovered all four of his companions lounging on their packs at the foot of the pier. One look at them and he knew: They’ve heard already.

“Well,” S’ythreni sighed, “it took you long enough.” But her smile was almost gentle.

Umkhira spat in the direction of the inner city. “They disgrace themselves. They do not deserve you.”

Elweyr shrugged. “I’m just glad they didn’t lock you up for good.”

Ahearn’s face conveyed a strange mix of emotions; his eyes were sad, but his smile was genuine. “Well, are you ready to go?”

Druadaen had never needed to sit to gather his thoughts, but now he did. “I’m not sure I’m ready to walk.” Smiles sprung up in response.

Ahearn sat beside him. “Now, to my way of thinking, the biggest problem with countries and kingdoms is that, well, they’re just too big. Take this day for example. Man comes home, havin’ done great service to his nation and even its allies, never asking fer a pence in return. And what does he get? Why, kicked in the teeth, then in the bollocks, and then to the curb. All because high and mighty lords and ladies are having a ‘difference of opinions’ about whose ass should get bussed first, eh?”

“Well,” Druadaen mumbled, “it is a little more serious than that.”

“Ah, well, let’s leave off ‘serious’ for now, yeh, mate? You’ve always got plenty o’ that commodity. But right now, I’ll presume upon your patience to take just a few more liberties.

“As I was saying, the bigger the place, the shorter its memory and the smaller its heart. And while this Dunarra of yours is better than most, well, it’s bigger than most, too, i’n’t it? So it only stands to reason that you’ll always give more than you’ll get back, you’ll always show it more loyalty than it shows you, and you’ll always hurt to leave it more than it’s sad to see you go. So—to coin a phrase, Philosopher—take a page from our book. We’re small and we’ll get roughed up and probably die faster and be forgotten sooner than most, but while we live…Well, we know who we are, what we’re about, and that our mates have our back as we have theirs. And now that you’re loose of the shackles of this place, you’re free to be what you should have been from the very start.

“And what’s that?”

“Why, you’re one of us now! And that, my friend, should be country enough for any man.”

“I suppose it is,” Druadaen said through a smile that surprised him. “And I suppose we should—”

“Lad,” said a familiar voice, “someone wants a word with you.”

Druadaen turned and stood quickly. It was Varcaxtan, and he had a strangely disheveled and wiry man in tow. “Uncle Varcaxtan, what are you doing here?” He saw the look in the gentle green eyes. “Oh. I see you’ve heard, too.”

Heard? Alcuin just about tore a hole through the wall when he came back.” Varcaxtan shook his head. “He tried to get you off the hook, lad. But the temples, they just weren’t having it. They weren’t going to be happy until they had you out. But we’d best leave all that for later; we haven’t much time for this friend of mine to say his piece.”

Druadaen and the others stared at the prematurely old, even wizened man standing before them in a daze or a stupor. Or even an episode of open-eyed sleepwalking.

“Er…” Druadaen began, “I am pleased to meet you…?”

The man’s face did not become animated, but his voice and mouth were suddenly quite lively. “Well, I never did share my name and I have no intention of doing so under these circumstances. And speaking of circumstances, I thought I made it very clear that you were not to return to Tlulanxu. But there you are anyway. It is so frustrating, trying to help humans; you give them perfectly reasonable advice and they ignore it. And why shouldn’t they? After all, I’ve only lived a century for every year they’ve—”

“Dragon?” gasped Druadaen.

“Well, of course!”

“But…what…? I mean how—?”

“There you go again, babbling question words without subject, verb or predicate. What did they teach you in school, human? No: don’t answer that. You’ll probably give me the syllabus of every class you attended after you were out of diapers. Possibly those that came before.

“Now pay attention. We do not have very long. This is very wearying for me, particularly when the body I enter is as, eh, compromised as this one.”

Aa-hai!” Umkhira exclaimed. “It is true? Dragons can possess the bodies of fools?”

“Well, not exactly a fool, Lightstrider. If Varcaxtan hasn’t related this poor fellow’s circumstances, he used to be a sail handler on one of your ships. Quite proficient. But bad weather and a worse misstep and he fell to the deck. Barely survived.”

“And not much in the way of thought left,” Varcaxtan muttered. “He was a good fellow, too.”

“At any rate, his mind is accepting of the arrangement. This is the only way he may move around and see the world outside the house of his oldest daughter—who very much welcomes these reprieves from her care of him. Now, I presume I’ve answered all your pestiferous questions, so we shall get on with my reason for being here at all.”

The wizened man spasmed, quaked, and was quiescent again.

“Hello?” Druadaen said, when no further speech emerged from the slack mouth.

Then the lips writhed and the same voice emerged, but with an entirely different cadence and accent. “Hello, Druadaen. I am sorry that I cannot be there to see you off yet again, but I am still being ‘entertained’ in The Waiting House.” The laugh that followed was musical and high.

“Shaananca?”

“Yes, my boy.”

Elweyr leaned back. Ahearn’s eyes were wide. Umkhira traced a warding sign in the air before her.

“I am so very sorry for what happened today. I feel I may have been responsible.”

“What do you mean?”

“There isn’t the time for that now. Only enough time to tell you this: recall your father’s words, Druadaen. About what you might achieve and who you might become. Always be ready to follow that path. Without doubt, without hesitation.”

As soon as Druadaen pushed past the strange sensation of speaking earnestly to Shaananca through a blank-eyed invalid, he asked, “What are you suggesting or foretelling?” He laughed. “That I might yet be a general or a Propretor somewhere else?”

“Shaananca” smiled back at him. “That, too, may be in your future.”

“But my father said—”

“Your father said many things. And you were a young boy when you heard them. But you did the most important thing you could at that age: you remembered and cherished his words. Now you are old enough to begin exploring what they might mean.”

Druadaen shook his head. “Shaananca, I’m sorry. I don’t really understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“I’m telling you that your father saw something in you before the rest of us did. It is why you have become such an extraordinary Outrider.”

“Yes…so extraordinary that I have been dismissed.” The snickers behind him didn’t feel derisive; they felt…well, they felt like home.

Shaananca wasn’t joining in for the laugh, however; her voice was deadly serious. “Being banished is often what happens to those few who have the skill, integrity, and perhaps fate to find information that is not merely new, but that challenges what we think we know. Your father saw that potential in you. Only later did I discover how correct his perception was.” She paused. “This may be hard to hear right now, and perhaps hard to believe in this moment, but it is fortunate for us that you are on this path that leads you away from Dunarra.”

“Fortunate in what way?”

“Fortunate in that you are still free to find the truth. It is a great gift, even if it causes turmoil and pain.”

“It most certainly causes those,” he agreed.

“You have learned that better than most ever do. But should you ever waver in your resolve, remember this: while there is no mancery that can show us the outcomes of our present deeds, there is never any profit in turning one’s back on the truth. Doing so almost always inflicts terrible costs, sooner or later. So keep asking your questions, Druadaen, son of Tarthenex and Mressenë. We depend on it.”

“‘We’?” he repeated. But the invalid’s face and mouth were slack once again. He glanced at his uncle. “Does the dragon do this frequently?”

“No more than I must, I assure you,” the dragon’s “voice” answered.

Druadaen shook his head, was surprised to find himself laughing. “How on all the moons do you and my uncle know each other? How did you meet?”

“It was he who brought me the sword.”

“Him? He’s the traveler?”

“Did I not just say that?”

Druadaen hardly noticed the dragon’s barbed reply. “Uncle, who gave you the sword?”

Varcaxtan thought for a moment. “No reason not to say, I suppose. Alcuin II.”

“The Propretor Princeps?” Druadaen realized the entire group had now pressed close in behind him, hanging on every word. “Why did he want me to have it?”

“Well, firstly, he wasn’t the Propretor Princeps back in those days. And you weren’t even a glimmer in your parents’ eyes, yet. At least I don’t think so.”

“Was it Alcuin’s? Where did it come from? Who made it?”

“Lad,” Varcaxtan muttered, “I didn’t even know what it was I was carrying.”

The “dragon” chuckled. “He was quite delightfully ignorant when he arrived. The very epitome of human haplessness. Extremely entertaining.”

“Hush, you ill-tempered old wyrm, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll tell them about the time you found yourself in the mind of a Wolfkynde, it changed, and you couldn’t get out.”

“Please don’t,” the dragon sighed.

“It was rutting season,” Varcaxtan whispered behind his palm.

“I heard that!” the dragon barked.

“You were supposed to.”

“A likely story. Now, enough of Varcaxtan’s tall tales, exaggerations, and outright lies. I received another message for you, Outrider, just before arriving here.”

“Aye, that was strange,” Varcaxtan agreed.

“It was indeed. I have lived long enough that I thought I was running out of new experiences, but wherever this Dunarran’s existence touches mine, it seems novelty erupts like mushrooms after spring rain.”

“What was so unusual about it?” Elweyr asked eagerly from over Druadaen’s shoulder.

“Ah, the thaumantic. Acceptable to hear your voice. Albeit barely. But on the matter of this contact: it was as if the person I met was under the influence of another mind.”

“You mean, while you were occupying this invalid, you encountered another occupied person?”

“That is precisely what I mean. I find the mere fact that I could be so easily located unnerving, almost as much as the message itself.”

“What was it? Whom from?” Druadaen asked.

By way of answer, the dragon’s voice became strangely detached, almost as if he were being possessed as he repeated it. “Convey this to Outrider Druadaen of Dunarra. He is guaranteed enough wealth to recompense him for his journey here, and a reasonable amount more. My mistress desires that Druadaen should come and discuss matters of mutual interest.”

There was a pause and the invalid shuddered, blinking and flinching as if in a fast-moving dream.

“The wyrm was asking questions on your behalf, at this point,” his uncle whispered.

Then the dragon’s dronelike recounting of the messenger’s words resumed. “I assure you, the promise of coin is quite genuine. The discussion is not upon just any topic, just as the invitation does not come from just any person. The Lady of the Mirror would have words with you in her tower in Shadowmere, across the great ocean sea in Far Amitryea. And no, she does not propose to be Outrider Druadaen’s patron. She has two needs only. Firstly, that he commences travel immediately to speak with her. Secondly, that his present group remains with him at least until he has met with the Lady.”

The invalid went silent, then the dragon’s own “voice” came out. “Intriguing, I’d say.”

“I agree. But why did she want my companions to come along? Does she have need of them, too?”

“No, but she needs them to ensure your safety until you reach her tower.” The dragon sighed. “Now will you go to Shadowmere as I advised?”

“Well, yes, but that’s a group decision.” Druadaen glanced over his shoulder and found the group nodding eagerly; promise of coin had that effect on them. “But how did the Lady know to find you? And how in the hells do you know Shaananca? And why—?”

The “dragon’s” eyes closed in weary exasperation. “Stop. Please. I am growing tired. One more question. Then I must withdraw.”

Druadaen thought, realized that what he needed was not a fact, but a conjecture, one that only the dragon’s singularly informed perspective might provide. “Why do you think the Lady of the Mirror is contacting me?”

“My, you are starting to ask better questions. Perhaps there is hope for you after all. However, rather than reply with an unavoidably narrow speculation that might prove moot within five seconds of meeting her, you may be better served by several concrete observations about her, since those will prove useful no matter why she has summoned you. And they will also alert you to the immense scope of what that meeting may portend.

“Both legend and report indicate that a meeting with the Lady is a fateful event with many possible outcomes, all of which have one thing in common: the lives of those who meet her are forever changed. Some go mad; some become hermits; some ride forth incognito on quests they will not disclose; some devote their lives to study and reflection; some return to their simple roots; and some never return at all. But if there is any way that one might reasonably hope to behold the truth of the world—past, present, and possible futures—it would be to pay a visit to the Lady of the Mirror.”

The invalid began to sag. “I must rest. Varcaxtan, please escort this poor fellow home, if you please.” And with that, the invalid leaned heavily against Varcaxtan’s shoulder, barely standing upright on his own.

“Here you go,” his uncle murmured to him. “I’ve got you. We’ll just make our way back, now.” He glanced at Druadaen. “By the way, after Alcuin told me about this morning’s outcome, I made some inquiries around port. Turns out that the Uershaeli ship that Tharêdæath hired for passage to Saqqaru and then here is making for her home port on the morrow. I took the liberty of strolling by to see where she was going after that. Turns out she is set to refit and make her other long run of the year: to Far Amitryea. And so, of course, Shadowmere will be one of her ports of call.”

“Where is she berthed?”

His uncle smiled and pointed just over their shoulders. “Just one along the pier. Any closer and it would bite you.”

Druadaen frowned, thinking this was too good to be true. “But how many open bunks do they have?”

“Well, I didn’t get an exact count,” Varcaxtan answered, “but I know they’ve got enough for six.”

Druadaen frowned more deeply. “But there are only five of us.”

“No, we’re six. I’m joining you. Since you’ve an invite to the Lady, that’s where I must go, too.”

Druadaen’s confusion about his determination to meet the Lady cleared in the same instant that his heart jumped, ever so slightly. “So you think Indryllis is alive?”

His uncle frowned. “Honestly, it’s not likely, but if the Lady can find the dragon to send you a message when he’s moving around in another body, and not an hour after you were sent packing, well then, I figure she’s the best chance I have of finding out if my darling is alive, where she might be, and how I might get her back. Now, I’ll get my friend back to his family and return with my kit as soon as I’m able. Probably just a few hours, but no later than dawn.”

Druadaen thought for a moment. “It sounds like you’ve had good luck dealing with the Uershaeli captain, Uncle Varcaxtan.”

“I’d say we get on, yes.”

“Well, do you think you could convince him to make a slight detour before heading back?”

“Depends. Where to?”

“Menara.” Druadaen glanced at Ahearn. “I think some of my friends have business ashore.”

Ahearn started, then smiled as broadly as Druadaen had ever seen. His uncle noticed the exchange, allowed a little grin of his own. “I’ll talk to the captain. I’m sure something can be worked out.” He started helping the withered sailor back toward the dockside gate, leaned his head back with a broad smile. “Now, don’t leave without me, lad!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Druadaen shouted, smiling back. He nodded to himself, then turned to the others. “Back to sea for us, then. Which means we have much to do and little time in which to do it. We’ve got to book passage, stow our gear, buy spares and rations and alchemical reagents and more.”

Rather than move, the other four just looked at him. Smiling.

“Stop staring and start moving,” Druadaen muttered. “We have to step lively if we mean to sail for Shadowmere with the morning tide.”


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