The failure with the Sun Dragon barely troubled him now. It had troubled him, badly, just after it had happened. For a time he had allowed himself to be tortured by familiar feelings of inadequacy, the same feelings that had dogged him ever since he had been old enough to understand that his boastful tales of dragons and battles would need to be replaced one day with deeds of his own. After a while even his old playmates had stopped thinking of his heritage as a blessing – none of them had had such achievements to live up to as they reached gingerly towards adulthood.
Thoriol had his mother’s temper in so many things. He had loved the books she had shown him as a child, poring over them, tracing the runes on the parchment, committing the sacred words to memory. He had imagined he would end up as a loremaster like her, locked in some isolated tower studying the mysteries of the aethyr or the poetry of the sages.
But his mother had never pushed him to follow that path, and when his father had begun to school him in the lore of the dragon riders, she had supported him.
‘This is important,’ she had told Thoriol, smiling reassuringly. ‘Think of it: you are the heir. One day you will ride the great ones into war. Part of me envies you, for I will never understand them, but do this for him. Do this for both of us.’
He had wanted to tell her then, but somehow the words never came. As the months passed it had become harder to change course. His tomes of lore had been left in Tor Vael, slowly mouldering – after that he had worked to grow used to the cold and the hardness of life at Kor Evril. He had studied diligently, memorising the rites of summoning, learning the mental disciplines, spending hours in caverns in an attempt to decipher the tremors and hisses that gave away the rousing of a dragon below.
On some days he had truly believed he could master it. There had been times – not many, but they had existed – when he had looked up into Caledor’s bleak skies and seen the raw beauty in them that so excited his father.
But he had never truly fooled himself. He had always known the truth, and had festered away in resentment of it. There had been times when he had wanted to shout it out aloud, to rage at his father who had worked so patiently with him.
‘Can you not see it?’ he had wanted to yell. ‘I have no talent for this! You know every nuance of these creatures – are you no judge of my own?’
Throughout it all Imladrik had never been cruel, never domineering; it was just that he had never understood, not even for a moment, why one of his bloodline would not leap at the chance of becoming a dragon rider. Imladrik was doing what a father should – passing on the keys to greatness, schooling him, nurturing the talent that surely lay somewhere buried deep within.
Thoriol took another long draught of heliath.
At least the deceptions were over. That, along with much else, was a comfort.
‘You are new here,’ came a lilting voice close to his ear.
Thoriol turned to see a hostess curled up on the couch next to him. She had dark hair, as straight as falling water, and almond-shaped eyes. The scent of cloves rose from her high-collared dress.
‘True,’ he replied, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at her.
‘Is everything to your satisfaction?’ she asked.
‘Quite, thank you.’
‘I can fetch more heliath. Or a dream-philtre.’
‘Dream-philtre?’
She smiled conspiratorially. ‘The poppy.’
‘Ah. I thought that was… prohibited.’
‘You have a trustworthy face. I believe you can keep a secret.’
Thoriol laughed. ‘I keep many secrets.’
‘Tell some to me?’ the hostess asked. ‘I am as discreet as the night.’
‘I’m sure.’ Thoriol held his goblet up to the diffuse light. The cloudy blooms from the lanterns reflected in the cut crystal. ‘I did not come here to talk. I came here to forget.’
‘We can help you with that. We can help you with anything.’
Thoriol saw his reflection in the glass. He gazed at it wearily. ‘Can you help me to escape?’
‘That is a speciality.’
‘You do not know whom I am escaping from. He is powerful. Very powerful.’
‘Many powerful figures come through these doors,’ said the hostess.
Thoriol found himself looking at her lips as she spoke. They were such soft lips.
‘They are all much the same as one another,’ she added, ‘once you get under the robes.’
Thoriol laughed again. For some reason, he found himself wanting to laugh at almost everything she said. ‘I like you.’
‘I am glad. Tell me more about where you wish to go.’
‘As far as possible,’ said Thoriol wistfully. ‘I would go where nobody knows me. I would spend my days with no expectations. I would take time, I would think. Perhaps I would reconsider some choices I have made. Perhaps I would change a great deal.’
The hostess nodded. Her hair shimmered strangely as her head moved, as if it were a single sheet of silk.
‘Do you see that one, over there?’ she asked, pointing directly ahead of her.
Thoriol followed her manicured fingernail. In a booth opposite lounged a tall elf in a white gown. He was drinking from a goblet, watching the people move around him absently. He had a blunt face for one of his race, by the look of it bitten by a life in the open air. A scar ran down his right cheek, pale and raised.
‘What of him?’ asked Thoriol.
‘I think you might get along,’ replied the hostess.
‘Maybe we would.’
‘Perhaps I might introduce you.’
‘Maybe you should.’
The hostess smiled at him. It was a comforting gesture; almost maternal. ‘Your glass is empty. More heliath?’
Thoriol looked at his goblet. He hadn’t
