Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) by Lawrence Watt-Evans
Authors: Lawrence Watt-Evans
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of that now. Ferrezin's momentary confusion of masters had been just one more sign of encroaching age.
It was just as well Arlian had returned now, and not left the matter any longer. Four or five years was clearly too long an absence.
When Ferrezin was out of sight, Black and Arlian proceeded on into the parlor. There Arlian stopped, to look about and re-acquaint himself with his surroundings; after his long absence the room was not as familiar as he might have liked. Someone had made changes while he was away; the cabinet by the door was gone, the draperies had been replaced, and he did not recognize a gilt-trimmed chair that now stood in one corner.
Well, it had been years, and the house had not been empty.
Behind him he heard Ferrezin calling orders, and booted feet running. A door slammed somewhere.
"Brook!" Black called, striding on into the gallery. "I'm home!"
Arlian wished he were so confident; this was nominally his home, yes, and certainly he owned it, but he had spent so little time actually living in this house, and it had been so long ago . . .
He sank slowly onto a brown velvet settee, and dropped his hat—
which Ferrezin should have taken, along with his cloak, but had not—
onto a nearby table.
The Grey House, home to Lord Enziet for several centuries—could this ever truly be Arlian's home? This was the house where Dove was murdered, where Sweet was tortured and fatally poisoned, where Enziet had conferred with the dragons and experimented endlessly in sorcery in his attempts to secure true immortality for himself. Arlian had acquired it as part of Enziet's legacy, and for fourteen years he had lived in it when he was in Manfort—but he had been in Manfort so rarely!
The Old Palace, where he had dwelt when he first came to Manfort, had been his home in a way the Grey House was not—but the Old Palace was gone, set ablaze by dragonfire and burned to the ground.
The stony walls and vaulted ceilings of the Grey House could never burn; if the dragons sought to destroy this place, they would have to smash it with brute force, not merely spray it with flame. As long as he fought the dragons, the Grey House befitted him—cold and hard, resistant to the monsters' threats—but he was not sure it was truly home.
And when the day came that the last dragon was dead, the last dragonheart dead or cleansed, what then? Would he stay in this fortress when there was no longer a foe to defend against?
He grimaced to himself. That assumed that he would live to see such a day, which was hardly a sure thing. Forty-six dragons still lived, and twenty-six dragonhearts older than himself—but he had come so far, so fast! The possibility that he would survive to see his campaign's end was quite real.
And if he did, he would not stay in this house. He would find another, a place less drenched in blood and sorrow and sorcery, less fraught with memories and meaning...
Or he would die. Suicide would be the simplest way to ensure that no dragon ever burst from his bosom. Having his heart ripped out, cleansed of its hideous taint, and then restored to his body hardly seemed worth the trouble; what would he have to live tor, with his enemies gone? What future could he expect that would justify such pain?
And what need would he have for another home, in that case? No, the Grey House would serve him well enough.
He heard voices, and the sound of doors and footsteps and luggage bumping walls. His servants were attending to their duties.
He was shirking his, merely by being here—he should be in the northwestern mountains, hunting for that next lair, or he should be at the Citadel, reporting to the Duke. Coming here was self-indulgence, yielding to his doubts and fatigue.
Nonetheless, he told himself, he was here now; it was far too late to reach another of the dragons' hiding places before spring arrived and the monsters woke, and the Duke had not requested his presence. He might as well indulge himself.
He rose
It was just as well Arlian had returned now, and not left the matter any longer. Four or five years was clearly too long an absence.
When Ferrezin was out of sight, Black and Arlian proceeded on into the parlor. There Arlian stopped, to look about and re-acquaint himself with his surroundings; after his long absence the room was not as familiar as he might have liked. Someone had made changes while he was away; the cabinet by the door was gone, the draperies had been replaced, and he did not recognize a gilt-trimmed chair that now stood in one corner.
Well, it had been years, and the house had not been empty.
Behind him he heard Ferrezin calling orders, and booted feet running. A door slammed somewhere.
"Brook!" Black called, striding on into the gallery. "I'm home!"
Arlian wished he were so confident; this was nominally his home, yes, and certainly he owned it, but he had spent so little time actually living in this house, and it had been so long ago . . .
He sank slowly onto a brown velvet settee, and dropped his hat—
which Ferrezin should have taken, along with his cloak, but had not—
onto a nearby table.
The Grey House, home to Lord Enziet for several centuries—could this ever truly be Arlian's home? This was the house where Dove was murdered, where Sweet was tortured and fatally poisoned, where Enziet had conferred with the dragons and experimented endlessly in sorcery in his attempts to secure true immortality for himself. Arlian had acquired it as part of Enziet's legacy, and for fourteen years he had lived in it when he was in Manfort—but he had been in Manfort so rarely!
The Old Palace, where he had dwelt when he first came to Manfort, had been his home in a way the Grey House was not—but the Old Palace was gone, set ablaze by dragonfire and burned to the ground.
The stony walls and vaulted ceilings of the Grey House could never burn; if the dragons sought to destroy this place, they would have to smash it with brute force, not merely spray it with flame. As long as he fought the dragons, the Grey House befitted him—cold and hard, resistant to the monsters' threats—but he was not sure it was truly home.
And when the day came that the last dragon was dead, the last dragonheart dead or cleansed, what then? Would he stay in this fortress when there was no longer a foe to defend against?
He grimaced to himself. That assumed that he would live to see such a day, which was hardly a sure thing. Forty-six dragons still lived, and twenty-six dragonhearts older than himself—but he had come so far, so fast! The possibility that he would survive to see his campaign's end was quite real.
And if he did, he would not stay in this house. He would find another, a place less drenched in blood and sorrow and sorcery, less fraught with memories and meaning...
Or he would die. Suicide would be the simplest way to ensure that no dragon ever burst from his bosom. Having his heart ripped out, cleansed of its hideous taint, and then restored to his body hardly seemed worth the trouble; what would he have to live tor, with his enemies gone? What future could he expect that would justify such pain?
And what need would he have for another home, in that case? No, the Grey House would serve him well enough.
He heard voices, and the sound of doors and footsteps and luggage bumping walls. His servants were attending to their duties.
He was shirking his, merely by being here—he should be in the northwestern mountains, hunting for that next lair, or he should be at the Citadel, reporting to the Duke. Coming here was self-indulgence, yielding to his doubts and fatigue.
Nonetheless, he told himself, he was here now; it was far too late to reach another of the dragons' hiding places before spring arrived and the monsters woke, and the Duke had not requested his presence. He might as well indulge himself.
He rose
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