The Dragon Revenant Read online

  Since sending a simple killer against a man of Nevyn’s power would have been laughable, the Old One had figured out a way to lure him to the islands, where his powers, drawn as they were from the Deverry soul and the Deverry earth, would be greatly lessened, and he would be far from the secular aid of such as Gwerbret Blaen. By all the laws of magic, in Bardek the Old One should be striking from the position of strength, the mental high ground, as it were, especially since Nevyn always seemed to work alone and thus would most likely come alone. When he looked around for bait for his trap, he fixed upon Rhodry, who was important to the barbarian kingdom’s future as well as one of Nevyn’s personal friends. Although his first thought was to merely kill the lad after using him to lay a false trail, he knew that Nevyn might be able to scry on the highest mental plane and discover that Rhodry was dead. It was most improbable that the Master of the Aethyr would come barreling across the seas just to give the boy a decent burial or suchlike. On the other hand, keeping him prisoner in his villa would have been dangerous, too, once Nevyn came ferreting around on the track of the bait. The Old One had no desire to go running—or waddling, as he wryly told himself—for his life like a badger flushed out of his hole.

  No, it had seemed best to bring Rhodry to Bardek, wipe his memory clean so that he couldn’t simply go to one of the law-abiding archons and announce his true identity, then turn him loose, hidden in plain sight as an ordinary slave, drifting wherever his fate or his luck took him. Sooner or later, Nevyn would follow. And when he did, the Old One would be waiting for him.

  Although most people in Deverry thought of Bardek as one single country like their own, in truth it was an archipelago, and only the smallest islands were under the rule of a single government. The bigger ones, like Bardektinna and Surtinna, were divided into a number of city-states. Some of these consisted of only the city itself and barely enough surrounding farmlands to feed it; others controlled hundreds of square miles of territory and even other cities, either as colonies or as subject states. Myleton, on Bardektinna, was one of the biggest city-states at the time of which we speak, ruling the city of Valanth as well as a good half of the island. It was a beautiful city then, too, perched high on a cliff overlooking a narrow harbor. Walking through the gates in the pure white walls was like walking into a forest.

  Everywhere there were trees, lining the wide, straight streets and covering them with a shady canopy of interlaced branches, growing thick around every house and building: palms, both the tall date-bearing variety and the squat ornamentals; spicy-leaved eucalyptus; purple-flowered jacarandas; and a shrubby variety, with tiny red flowers like a dusting of color over the leaves, known only in Bardek and called benato. Flowering vines twined around the trees and threatened to smother the various wooden and marble statues scattered in the small public squares or at the intersections of streets. Among the greenery stood the rectangular longhouses with their curving roofs like the hull of an overturned ship, some guarded by tall statues of the inhabitants’ ancestors; others, by pairs of wooden oars, large enough for a giant.

  Sauntering down the streets or crossing from house to house was a constant flow of people, all dressed in tunics and sandals, men and women alike. The men, however, had brightly colored designs painted on one cheek, while the women wore broochlike oddments tucked into their elaborately curled and piled hair, but both ornament and paint identified the wearer’s “house” or clan. Things were so safe then that the children could run loose in packs down the streets, playing elaborate games in the public spaces and private gardens alike without anyone saying a cross word to them or causing them a moment’s worry.

  Of course, all this splendor was paid for dearly in human lives, because Myleton was the center of the slave trade in the northern islands. With enough money and a little patience a buyer could find any sort of person there, from a scribe to a midwife to a laborer—even, on occasion, a barbarian from Deverry, though they were rare. The laws were very strict on such matters: Deverrians could be sold into slavery only for certain limited offenses against the state, such as nonpayment of very large debts, destruction of public property on a grand scale, or cold-blooded, premeditated murder. The archons of the various city-states had no desire to see a war fleet of bloodthirsty barbarians sailing their way on the excuse of rescuing some unjustly treated kinsman.

  Thus, such exotic purchases were best made not in the public slave markets down near the harbor, where prisoners of war, criminals, and the offspring of state-owned slaves were auctioned off according to a registered bidding schedule, but in the smaller, private establishments scattered around Myleton. There was one such not far from the harbor, on the other side of the Plaza of Government, where a narrow, treeless alley twisted between back garden walls. As it went along, the walls grew lower until they disappeared altogether, and the houses, smaller and poorer until they degenerated into a maze of huts and kitchen gardens, with here and there pigsties, each home to a clutch of small gray-haired pigs.

  Finally the alley gave a last twist and debouched into an open square where weeds pushed aside sparse cobbles and chickens scratched, squawking every now and then at the small children who played among them. On the other side was a high wall, striped in blue and red and obviously part of a compound, with an ironbound door in the middle. Although there was no sign or no name carved into the soft wood, those who knew about such things would recognize the place as Brindemo’s market. Those who didn’t know were best off leaving it alone.

  Yet, on the inside the compound was no dark and sinister house of horrors. There was an open yard with scruffy grass and ill-tended flowers where during the day the slaves could take the sun, and clean if somewhat shabby dormitories where each piece of valuable property had his or her own bed, and a washhouse where anyone who wanted could bathe at his or her leisure. Although the food was by no means of the same high quality as would grace a rich man’s table, there was plenty of it, and Brindemo and his family ate from the same batch as the merchandise. It was just that Brindemo was known in certain circles for buying slaves that other traders would refuse, slaves whose bills of sale were perhaps not quite in order, slaves who came to him drugged and unable to protest their condition—that sort of thing, perhaps legal, most likely not. Occasionally some unsuspecting beggar lad with no family to miss him had gone into Brindemo’s for a handout of bread and never been seen again.

  It was, then, a good measure of the strictness of the laws governing the sale of barbarians that when one came his way with a bill of sale that was less than perfect, Brindemo hesitated to sell him. Ordinarily he would have shopped such a prize around to the great houses of Myleton straightaway and asked a good high price for him, too. The barbarian was in his early twenties, extremely handsome with raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes, courteous with a grace that bespoke some contact with the aristocracy, and, best of all, he already knew a fair amount of Bardekian and was learning more with a speed that indicated a rare facility for languages. He would make, in short, a splendid footman with a chance to work his way up to mayordomo someday, a valued member of the household who would eventually be given his freedom and adopted into the clan.

  Unfortunately, there was that bill of sale, and the profoundly uncomfortable fact that the slave couldn’t even remember his own name. Taliaesyn, his previous owners had called him, but he readily admitted that the name meant nothing to him. He could remember nothing at all, not his family, not his home city—indeed, no more than a few scraps about his life beyond the day he’d been sold. Since his previous owners had been giving him opium to keep him docile, Brindemo made sure that he had plenty of nourishing food and all the sleep he wanted. Unfortunately, this decent treatment had no effect; Taliaesyn could remember no more than he had before.

  “You exasperate me, Taliaesyn of Pyrdon,” Brindemo remarked, in Deverrian, one evening. “But then, no doubt you exasperate yourself.”

  “Of course.” The slave gave him one of his oddly charming smiles. “Wha
t man wouldn’t want to know the truth about himself?”

  “Hah! There are many men who hide the truth about themselves deep in their hearts, where they will never have to face it. Perhaps you are one of those. Have you done somewhat so horrible that you wipe the mind clean to forget?”

  “Mayhap. Do I look like that sort of man to you?”

  “You don’t, though I think for all your charm you are a dangerous man. I would never give you a sword nor a dagger neither.”

  Taliaesyn looked sharply away, his eyes gone cloudy, as if his thoughts had taken a strange turn.

  “A dagger,” Brindemo whispered. “The word means somewhat?”

  “Somewhat.” He spoke slowly, almost reluctantly. “I can’t find the memory. It just twitched at my mind, like.” Brindemo sighed with deep drama.

  “Twenty-five zotars! Easily I could sell you for twenty-five golden zotars if only we could find the truth. Do you know how much a zotar is worth?”

  “I don’t, at that.”

  “It would buy ten pigs, and five of them fertile sows, even. So twenty-five zotars … ai!”

  “My heart bleeds for you.”

  “Ah, the sarcasm, and how can I blame you? It is a good sign. Your mind is coming back to life. But, I tell you, I have a guest coming tonight. He has spent many years in Deverry as a wine merchant. He might recognize you, or know somewhat to jog your mind. I cannot stand this. Twenty-five zotars, and here you sit, unsalable. It aches the heart, as you say in your country.”

  While they waited for Arriano to arrive, Brindemo taught the slave the proper method of pouring wine and passing a tray of cups around to guests. Taliaesyn took the lesson with a grave interest that had a certain charm, rather like an intelligent child who has decided to please his parents by doing something they want even though it strikes him as ridiculous. Yet Brindemo was always aware that he was docile only because his memory had gone. Taliaesyn moved like a knife-fighter (the professional athletes of the arena were Brindemo’s only cognate for that particular gliding walk, the stance that was both relaxed and on guard at the same time), so much so that seeing him fussing over the silver tray was unsettling, as if a lion were wearing a collar and padding after its mistress like a pet cat. I never should have bought him, he thought miserably; I should have told Baruma no. Yet his misery only deepened, because he knew full well that he was in no position to deny the man known as Baruma anything.

  Arriano came promptly when the temple bells were chiming out the sunset watch. Brindemo met him at the door himself, then ushered him into the main hall, a long room with a blue-and-white tiled floor and dark-green walls. At one end was a low dais, strewn with many-colored cushions arranged around a brass table. After they settled themselves on the cushions, Taliaesyn passed the wine cups around, then perched respectfully on the edge of the dais. Arriano, a wizened little man who hid his baldness under a white linen skullcap, looked him over with a small, not unfriendly, smile.

  “So, Taliaesyn,” he said. “Our Brindemo here says you come from Pyrdon.”

  “So I’ve been told, master.”

  One of Arriano’s bushy eyebrows shot up.

  “Talk to me in Deverrian. Oh, what … ah, I know. Describe this room.”

  As Taliaesyn, somewhat puzzled, obligingly gave him a catalogue of the furniture and colors in the room, Arriano listened with his head cocked to one side. Then he cut the list short with a wave of his hand.

  “Pyrdon? Hah! You come from Eldidd, lad. I’d wager good coin on it—the Eldidd seacoast, at that.” He turned to Brindemo and spoke in Bardekian. “They have a very distincrive way of speaking there. As you might have expected, Baruma was lying like a scorpion.”

  “May the feet of the gods crush him!” Brindemo felt sweat run down his back. “I don’t suppose you recognize this supposed slave?”

  “Not as to give you his real name, no. From the way he moves and all, I’d say he was a member of their aristocracy.”

  “What? I was thinking of him as a knife-fighter or boxer or some other performer like that.”

  “You forget, my dear old friend, that in Deverry, the aristocrats are all warriors. They start training for it when they’re little children.”

  Brindemo groaned, a long rattle that gave him no relief. Taliaesyn was listening with an understandable intensity.

  “One of the noble-born?” the slave said at last. “Here, this Baruma fellow said I was a merchant’s son.”

  “Baruma lies as easily as the rain falls,” Arriano said. “If I were you, Brindemo, I’d stop babbling about zotars and get rid of this man as fast as you can—but to a decent master, mind. If his kin come storming through here with blood in their barbarian hearts …”

  “I know, I know.” Brindemo could barely speak out of sheer frustrated greed. “But twenty-five zotars! Ai!”

  “Will all the gold in the world sew your head back onto your shoulders if …”

  “O shut up! Of course you’re right. Baruma wanted me to sell him to the mines or the galleys, but that’s out completely of the question if the man’s an aristocrat.”

  “I should think so! May Baruma’s sphincter loosen and his manhood plug itself.”

  “And may diseased monkeys feed someday upon his heart! Very well, then. I’ll sell him as soon as I can find the right sort of buyer. If you hear of someone, let me know—for a commission, of course.”

  “Of course.” Arriano held out his hand. “More wine, Taliaesyn.”

  Even though Taliaesyn served the wine exactly as he’d been taught with all the proper courtesies, the harsh, brooding look in his eyes made Brindemo profoundly uneasy. I’d best get him out of here soon for my own sake, he thought, but ai! twenty-five zotars!

  Taliaesyn had been given a cubicle of his own to sleep in, because Brindemo was afraid to have him gossiping with the other slaves. If Baruma came back, neither the slave nor the slave merchant wanted him to know that they’d been trying to unravel his secret. Although the cubicle had room for nothing more than a straw pallet on the floor, and a tiny niche in the wall for an oil lamp, it was private. After he’d been locked in for the night, Taliaesyn sat on the pallet for a long while, considering what Arriano had told him. Even though the lamp was out of oil, he could see perfectly well in the moonlight that streamed in the uncurtained window. It occurred to him, then, that it was peculiar that he could see in the dark. Before he’d been taking it for granted.

  A few at a time, Wildfolk came to join him, a gaggle of gnomes, mostly, all speckled and mottled in blue and gray and purple, quite different from the ones in Deverry, or at least, so he remembered. At the moment, he was disinclined to trust anything he “remembered” about himself. Who knew if it were real or some lie of Baruma’s? He did, however, have a clear memory picture of solidly colored gnomes, in particular a certain gray one who was some sort of friend. Apparently he’d been able to see these little creatures for some time.

  The ability to befriend spirits was so out of character for what he knew of Deverry aristocrats that he considered this strange fact for a good long time. Although he remembered little about himself, his general knowledge of the world seemed to be intact, and he was certain that your average warrior-lord did not go around talking to Wildfolk. Yet here was a particularly bold gnome, a dirty-green and grayish-purple with an amazing number of warts running down its spine, who was climbing into his lap and patting his hand with one little clawed paw as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “Well, good eve, little brother.”

  The gnome grinned to reveal bright purple fangs, then settled into his lap like a cat. As he idly stroked it, scratching it behind the ears every now and then, Taliaesyn felt something pricking at his mind like a buried splinter trying to force its way out of a finger. The Wildfolk, the very phrase “little brother,” both meant something profound, something that would give him an important key to who he was if only he could find the lock. It was a secret, a very deep, buried secret, hidden even
from Baruma, perhaps.

  “I wish you lads could talk. Do you know who I am?”

  The pack all shook their heads in a collective yes.

  “Do you know my name, then?”

  This time the answer was no.

  “But you somehow recognize me?”

  Another yes. He wondered if he’d ever been an introspective man—probably not, if he reminded people of a warrior-lord or a knife-fighter. The bits of truth he was finding made less sense than all the lies. One of the noble-born, or an athlete, but either way, he saw the Wildfolk, and they considered him a friend. Again came that twitch at his mind. One of their friends or one of their kin? The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled as he said it aloud.

  “Or one of their kin. I should know what that means, curse it all to the third hell!”

  But he couldn’t remember. All at once he was furious, furious with his mind, with Baruma, with the twisted fate that had stripped him of himself and dropped him here, a piece of human trash in Brindemo’s market. He slammed his fist into the wall, and the pain and the rage mingled to force a brief moment of clarity out of his maimed consciousness. The Westfolk, The Elcyion Lacar, the elves. They saw the Wildfolk; they called them little brothers. He’d known the elves once—hadn’t he? Hadn’t he ridden to war with some of them for allies? Once, a very long time ago.

  “Or one of their kin,” he whispered like an exhalation of breath.

  He went cold all over in the warm night. It was a hard thing, after all, for a man to realize that he wasn’t completely human.