Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

In only a matter of days. . . .

Only a matter of days left and I still haven’t talked to him, Valea thought morosely as she walked the halls of the Manor. The ancient structure seemed so cold, so oppressive to her. She had not seen Kyl since he had retired to his chambers after the attempt on his life. Grath and Benjin Traske had both said that he was well, but clearly the botched assassination had had some effect. The young Lady Bedlam wanted dearly to go to Kyl and see if there was any comfort she could give him, but that would be throwing herself at him. She had her pride, after all.

That was all she would have if he left without speaking to her. While on one hand it was clearly ridiculous to think that he would remain in his rooms until his ascent to the throne, Valea could not help imagining that it might be so.

Ursa had been of little assistance in assuaging her fears, mostly because she had hardly been around. The female drake and Aurim were up to something in his room. Nothing romantic, of course. The two might as well have been brother and sister as far as Valea was concerned. They got along better at times than Valea and Aurim did. No, the young enchantress suspected that they were attempting to find the key to releasing her brother from the spell on his mind. Valea would have been worried if Aurim had tried to do this on his own, but with the more pragmatic and patient Ursa to guide him, it was possible that the two would succeed where even the Gryphon had so far failed.

Which still meant that she had no one to talk to about her situation. Mother was busy with some preparations and, as far as she knew, her father was still ensconced in his study, being moody over who knew what. She could not have talked to either of them, anyway, not about this.

Valea sighed and abstractedly created a flying ring of roses that she then made spin slowly around and around. She bored of the sight very quickly, however, and changed the flowers to paper birds, which fluttered about and danced in some sort of aerial ballet her subconscious had decided upon.

There was only one person that she could turn to, only one person who would understand: Benjin Traske. She had tried to avoid disturbing him, for he, too, had seemed pressed since returning from Penacles. Twice Valea had tried to talk to him, but both times he had seemed preoccupied with something else.

I can only try. I have to talk to someone.

She turned down a hallway that would take her toward the scholar’s chambers, the paper birds vanishing in little puffs of smoke as the young Lady Bedlam’s concerns turned to what she would say to her tutor. He might not even have time to speak with her, but Valea had to try. She was fairly bursting. She needed someone close to talk to, and Scholar Traske had already more than proven himself in that regard. Had he not been the one to tell Valea that Kyl loved her? Had she not discussed her quandary with him several times since then? If he could just give her a minute, it would at least make Valea feel a little better. Perhaps he would even have a solution.

It certainly could not hurt to ask.

There were times when the Manor seemed larger on the inside than it did from the outside, but Valea was fairly certain that the feeling was an illusion more than any magic inherent in the ancient edifice. There was no denying that the unknown builders had been great craftsmen. The enchantress did not even mind the long walk this time, for there were still things that she had to resolve with herself.

Along her path she met few others. Most of the people were outside, either working or enjoying the weather. The Manor itself was a surprisingly easy place to care for; it practically cared for itself. Valea had often thought that the true purpose of the many servants in the house was to give it some life. Granted, this had been her home since birth, but the Manor could seem very lonely when no one else was about.

She hated to think what it would be like if she was left behind after Kyl headed north to his throne.

Valea turned down yet another corridor and, because her mind was engrossed in her terrible problem, she did not at first see the figure at the other end of the hall. Only when she heard the sound of boots did she stir from her contemplations.

To her surprise and pleasure, it was Benjin Traske himself. The scholar had evidently not been in his room after all, but the direction in which he was heading indicated that he was likely on his way there now. The young woman wanted to call to him, but she had been raised not to do such mannerless things as shout across halls, so Valea had to content herself with increasing her pace and hoping that she might attract his attention before he entered his chambers.

Valea reached the intersecting corridor and followed after the scholar, but despite his immense girth, Benjin Traske was a swift man. Already he was nearly to the door of his chambers. She tried to hurry more, feeling somehow that to disturb him after he stepped inside was a greater inconvenience to the tutor. Benjin Traske had been so kind to her, she wanted to be as little trouble as possible to him.

Concentrating on reaching the scholar, Valea paid no attention to the side corridors and alcoves. There was no reason to do so. That was why when the draconian figure stepped out from around a corner she did not at first notice him. Only when he rushed silently toward Traske’s unprotected back did she pay him any heed.

Only then did the enchantress see the curved blade rise.

Her reaction was instinctive, the memory of the regent’s death and Kyl’s near assassination still fresh. She raised a hand in the direction of the would-be killer and cried, “Nooo!”

The assassin hesitated, obviously surprised to have been discovered. Valea was never able to unleash her spell, however, for with reflexes surprising even for Benjin Traske, the heavyset scholar whirled around to protect himself. The two figures became tangled together. Uncertain as to the effectiveness of her spell, she dared not use it for fear that the tutor would also suffer. Hoping for a better opportunity, Valea rushed forward. If the two separated for even a moment, she wanted to be ready.

Traske and his attacker spun about. For the first time, Valea saw the countenance of the assassin-saw it and stumbled to a halt as she tried to make sense of what was happening.

It was Ssarekai. As difficult as it was for most humans to recognize individual drakes from a distance, she knew the stable master too well not to know it was him now. Dear sweet Ssarekai, who had helped train her to ride her first horse and, later, her first riding drake. Ssarekai, who listened to her stories and told fascinating ones of his own about the days of the Dragon Emperor. Servitor drakes saw much that their superiors did not realize.

Dear sweet Ssarekai was trying to murder Scholar Traske?

She remained where she was, caught up in her confusion. Valea could think of no reason for the drake’s behavior at first, but then her chaotic thoughts happened to touch upon the spell that Toma had woven into the minds of both Ssarekai and her brother. Was this attack the result of that?

The two hissing combatants seemed not to recall her at all as they spun back and forth, the blade dangling between them. Ssarekai still held it, but Benjin Traske had his wrist and was trying to push the blade toward the face of his adversary.

“I know you again!” Ssarekai suddenly hissed. “I should have sssmelled your foul . . . foul ssscent and recognized it! You were alwaysss ssso certain of yourself!”

Traske did not reply, but his bearded face had taken on a most-evil, was the only word Valea could find that fit-look, and as he pressed his counterattack, he appeared almost inhuman. His eyes seemed to blaze. His lips curled back in what reminded her of the toothy reptilian “smile” of an angry drake.

She still did not know what to do. Somehow, the young sorceress could not bring herself to try to bring down the drake, no matter that he had tried to murder her teacher. There was something about the desperation in Ssarekai’s voice and the increasingly dark visage of Benjin Traske that prevented her from doing what should have seemed obvious. Summoning aid did not even enter her mind, so ensnared was she in the situation. Two of those who had been a part of her life from the beginning were fighting to the death, and she could not decide which one to save.

The blade inched closer to the drake’s half-concealed face. Ssarekai evidently saw the inevitability of its path, for suddenly he released the knife, sending it clattering to the floor. At the same time, Valea felt a tug on the powers from which all mages drew, a sign that a spell of great magnitude was being formed and executed in rapid order.

Ssarekai opened his mouth as if to scream, but no sound emerged. The drake froze in place and his entire form turned a mottled gray.