must admit that I rather like it.” Erenor stepped back. “And, in this, as in so much else, I think I may be of some help. Are you ready to go?”
*I was ready to go before I came.*
“Then …”
The dragon straightened, and Kethol put his hand on Leria’s arm, urging her back and away, trying not to blush when she smiled, and nodded, and folded her warm, soft hand over his callused one.
Erenor’s eyes seem to lose focus, and his smiling face became distant and almost expressionless. His thin, parched lips parted slightly, and harsh, guttural syllables began to issue forth.
This wasn’t the first time, or the forty-first time, that Kethol had heard a wizard pronouncing a spell. Despite knowing better, he tried to remember the syllables, to put them together into words — if you could remember the words, you could speak the words, and if you could speak the words, you could pronounce the spell, and if you could pronounce the spell, you could work the magic — but the wizard’s words vanished on the surface of his mind, skittering about like drops of water on a hot frying pan before they evaporated … gone, forgotten, not merely unremembered but unrememberable.
The spell ended with a sharp, one-syllable exclamation.
The sunlight, flashing on pools of water left from the overnight rain, suddenly became brighter, brighter than the sun itself, a white light that dazzled not only the eyes but the mind.
The wind from the dragon’s wings beat hard against Kethol, and it was all he could do to keep from being thrown from his feet. His eyes dazzled, he more felt than saw the dragon take to the air.
*Thank you, Erenor,*the dragon said, its mental voice already starting to grow more distant.
“My pleasure,” Erenor said. “And, of course, it’s not merely my pleasure — it would be terribly uncomfortable, at least for a very short moment, to have several tons of dead dragon falling out of the sky and landing on my all-too-fragile flesh.”
*Yes, it would, at that.*
Then, in an eyeblink, the blinding light was gone, and Kethol looked back to see the dragon circling above, gaining altitude as he did, huge leathery wings flapping madly until Ellegon stretched his wings and banked, flying off to the west.
*Good luck,*Ellegon said, his mental voice taking on the muted, formal tone that told Kethol that it was intended for all ears — minds — around, and not only his.
*Welcome home, Forinel, Baron Keranahan — it has been a pleasure serving you. And as Karl Cullinane used to say, ‘the next time you fly, please be sure to consider flying on Ellegon Airlines.’*
Whatever that meant. Kethol — and Durine and Pirojil — had been the only ones of the Old Emperor’s bodyguards to survive Karl Cullinane’s Last Ride, but he had never quite understood half of what the Old Emperor said.
Wings stretched out, the dragon flew low over a far ridge, and then it was gone.
Kethol found that he still had his hand folded over Leria’s, so he let his hands drop down by his sides.
***
Erenor chuckled, leaning his head close to Pirojil. “Not a bad entrance, eh?”
Erenor was far too easily amused, Pirojil decided, with the usual irritation.
Faces were already starting to peek out of windows and doorways, and one immensely fat woman — a cook, by the look of the grease-spattered apron — even went so far as to carry a bucket of something out, to dump it on the slop pile next to the stables before, after a quick glare at the newcomers, scurrying back in.
Whatever it was, Pirojil thought, must have smelled awfully horrid for her to be so willing to venture out. The idea of eating here wasn’t at all appealing, if even the cooks couldn’t stand the smell.
Pirojil wasn’t surprised that none of the soldiers had chosen to come out of the barracks at the far end of the courtyard, or from any of the guard posts at the corner towers. A new arrival was always of some interest in an outlying outpost —
*I was ready to go before I came.*
“Then …”
The dragon straightened, and Kethol put his hand on Leria’s arm, urging her back and away, trying not to blush when she smiled, and nodded, and folded her warm, soft hand over his callused one.
Erenor’s eyes seem to lose focus, and his smiling face became distant and almost expressionless. His thin, parched lips parted slightly, and harsh, guttural syllables began to issue forth.
This wasn’t the first time, or the forty-first time, that Kethol had heard a wizard pronouncing a spell. Despite knowing better, he tried to remember the syllables, to put them together into words — if you could remember the words, you could speak the words, and if you could speak the words, you could pronounce the spell, and if you could pronounce the spell, you could work the magic — but the wizard’s words vanished on the surface of his mind, skittering about like drops of water on a hot frying pan before they evaporated … gone, forgotten, not merely unremembered but unrememberable.
The spell ended with a sharp, one-syllable exclamation.
The sunlight, flashing on pools of water left from the overnight rain, suddenly became brighter, brighter than the sun itself, a white light that dazzled not only the eyes but the mind.
The wind from the dragon’s wings beat hard against Kethol, and it was all he could do to keep from being thrown from his feet. His eyes dazzled, he more felt than saw the dragon take to the air.
*Thank you, Erenor,*the dragon said, its mental voice already starting to grow more distant.
“My pleasure,” Erenor said. “And, of course, it’s not merely my pleasure — it would be terribly uncomfortable, at least for a very short moment, to have several tons of dead dragon falling out of the sky and landing on my all-too-fragile flesh.”
*Yes, it would, at that.*
Then, in an eyeblink, the blinding light was gone, and Kethol looked back to see the dragon circling above, gaining altitude as he did, huge leathery wings flapping madly until Ellegon stretched his wings and banked, flying off to the west.
*Good luck,*Ellegon said, his mental voice taking on the muted, formal tone that told Kethol that it was intended for all ears — minds — around, and not only his.
*Welcome home, Forinel, Baron Keranahan — it has been a pleasure serving you. And as Karl Cullinane used to say, ‘the next time you fly, please be sure to consider flying on Ellegon Airlines.’*
Whatever that meant. Kethol — and Durine and Pirojil — had been the only ones of the Old Emperor’s bodyguards to survive Karl Cullinane’s Last Ride, but he had never quite understood half of what the Old Emperor said.
Wings stretched out, the dragon flew low over a far ridge, and then it was gone.
Kethol found that he still had his hand folded over Leria’s, so he let his hands drop down by his sides.
***
Erenor chuckled, leaning his head close to Pirojil. “Not a bad entrance, eh?”
Erenor was far too easily amused, Pirojil decided, with the usual irritation.
Faces were already starting to peek out of windows and doorways, and one immensely fat woman — a cook, by the look of the grease-spattered apron — even went so far as to carry a bucket of something out, to dump it on the slop pile next to the stables before, after a quick glare at the newcomers, scurrying back in.
Whatever it was, Pirojil thought, must have smelled awfully horrid for her to be so willing to venture out. The idea of eating here wasn’t at all appealing, if even the cooks couldn’t stand the smell.
Pirojil wasn’t surprised that none of the soldiers had chosen to come out of the barracks at the far end of the courtyard, or from any of the guard posts at the corner towers. A new arrival was always of some interest in an outlying outpost —
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