Sorin’s brows shot up toward his hairline. “Princemarch? Pol’s color? But why?”
“I couldn’t say. But the dragon was most emphatic—they think in colors even more than faradh’im do.”
“So we know who to look for.” Sorin crouched beside the dragon’s head again. “We’ll get him for you,” he promised, stroking the soft hide around the eyes and forehead. “Riyan, can’t you put him to sleep now? He’s in terrible pain.”
“Move away from him. I don’t want to catch you up in it, too.”
A few moments later lids drifted shut over sleep-hazed eyes. A long sigh coursed through the dragon’s body, and then he lay still. When he was certain the dragon was oblivious to all physical sensation, Sorin began removing one of the spikes from the wings. Riyan helped. It took all their strength to work the steel from the wood. At last it was free, stained with blood that superstition said was poisonous to the touch. Untrue, of course, just as the legends about dragons having a taste for virgin girls or being able to kill with a glance were untrue. Dragons were dangerous only when their food supply was threatened or when they were directly attacked. The wolves of the Veresch were the same—but wolves did not inspire the same fear dragons did. Wolves were, like men, creatures of the ground and could be fought more or less as equals. But wings made dragons terrifying.
Then again, Sorin thought suddenly, Riyan had said that the dragon had been capable of killing him while in contact with his colors. Perhaps there was some truth in the legends after all. He didn’t much want to consider it.
Still, what creature would not use any means at its disposal to kill an enemy? They were men; a man had done this to the dragon, a man powerful enough to bring him down out of the sky like a falling arrow. He examined the fine, elegant structure of the wings, the sweep of strong bone and muscle covered in blue-gray hide. The contasting underwings were black, the skin almost silky to the touch. He had never seen a dragon this close. And he wished for this dragon’s sake that he had not had this opportunity.
He considered the tall, blue-eyed, arrogantly handsome man responsible for this horror. And abruptly the connection was made between what Riyan had said about the method and the dragon’s ability to kill. No Sunrunner could have done this—but a sorcerer, a diarmadhi, might.
“Will he wake up again?” he asked Riyan, who shook his head.
“He’ll only last until sunset at most. Sioned tells me the sleep-weaving is good for a whole night.” He ran one hand down the dragon’s neck. “Poor beast. Sorin, when we find the man who did this—”
“Rohan will want him brought to Stronghold for trial.” He met his friend’s eyes. “Somehow I don’t think he’ll live that long, do you?”
“Funny you should put it that way.”
In perfect agreement, they hiked back through the hills to their horses.
Late afternoon found them in the congenial comforts of Elktrap Manor, and in the more than congenial company of Lord Garic and Lady Ruala. The former had reached the colossal age of eighty-six; the latter, his granddaughter and only surviving relative, had just seen her twenty-seventh winter. Ruala’s parents had died of Plague the year after she was born, and her only sister had succumbed to injuries suffered in a climbing accident four summers ago. It was just the old man and the young woman now in the sprawling manor house, supervising a few servants, the herds of sheep harvested for their wool, and the elk harvested for meat and the tough, beautiful black hooves that were carved into anything from drinking vessels to jewel boxes. The dinner service they brought out to honor their lordly guests was a gorgeous collection of plates, bowls, and goblets inlaid with elk-hoof that Lord Garic himself had made over the course of his long life. The food was simple but good, and wine fermented from honey-pine resin was served in very old Fironese crystal stemware. Sorin and Riyan were made happily welcome, and it was not until they sat with the athri and his granddaughter in her private antechamber that they got around to explaining their presence.
Word of a slain dragon had brought them into the Veresch. Decreed with uncharacteristic imperiousness twenty-three years ago on assuming his title, High Prince Rohan’s strict law severely punished anyone who killed a dragon. Most thought the law sentimental nonsense, if not actually threatening; Rohan was known to have a ridiculous love for the frightening creatures who decimated herds and crops when food supplies in their habitual ranges grew low. It was true that he wished to protect dragons because of his feeling for them—but also because their melted shells yielded gold. Riyan, Lord of Skybowl where abandoned dragon caves were mined for their gold-bearing shells, knew this; Sorin did not. That the law was Rohan’s law was enough for Sorin, who shared his uncle’s love of dragons.
But the law had been broken, and they had come to investigate. Lord Garic told them that he had heard of a dead dragon several measures to the north, confirming their guess that the dragon they had found that morning was a second kill. Lady Ruala paled as Riyan described the scene. He apologized for the graphic description.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I had to make clear the horror of the crime.”
She nodded silently and gestured for him to continue. But he hesitated a moment, glancing at Sorin, before deciding he might as well tell it straight out. “I was able to get a description of the man. From the dragon.”
Lord Garic’s unfaded blue eyes narrowed in a direct look at Riyan’s faradhl rings. “Ah,” was all he said. His granddaughter, whose eyes were so dark a green that in shadow they seemed nearly black, merely nodded again, as unsurprised as the old man. Riyan found this disconcerting. He hadn’t thought Sioned’s trick of communicating with a dragon to be common knowledge.
But he let their lack of reaction pass. “He’s tall, with dark hair and blue eyes, very handsome, arrogant, strongly made. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve heard anything about such a person.”
Midway through his description Lady Ruala’s gaze twisted around to Lord Garic. “Grandsir—it’s not possible!”
He fixed a grim stare on the two young men. “Not only have we heard of such a person, we gave him shelter not two nights ago.”
Sorin leaned forward eagerly. “What did he say? Did he tell you his name? Did he give any clues about who he is, where he’s from, where he’s bound?”
Ruala shook her head. “None. He gave the name Aliadim, but after what you’ve said we can deduce that it was false. He told us he was of independent means, traveling through the Veresch for pleasure. He was alone and he only smiled when we cautioned him against wandering too far from the main roads.” She frowned, her eyes darkening. “He rode a very fine horse, I remember—not one of our mountain ponies, but feather-hoofed.”
“Kadar Water,” Sorin supplied. “Lord Kolya’s breed. What about the saddle, my lady? The bridle? Anything at all you can remember.”
“Grandsir? You were in the stables when he arrived.”
The old man rocked gently back and forth, gnarled fingers laced together over his lean chest. “Plain saddle, nothing special. Bridle the same. But the blanket—deep violet. Like his tunic.”
That settled it for Riyan. He had deliberately not mentioned that detail of color, hoping that Sorin’s questions would elicit the information and confirm the man’s identity. “Which direction did he ride out?”
“North, but that means nothing,” Ruala explained. “There’s a crossroad a measure up the north road. He could be anywhere.”
“We know where he was today,” Sorin said tightly.
“Not today, my lord. Three days ago.” Ruala set down her cup. “I remember now. There was a strangeness to his horse’s eyes, calm enough to ride but still skittish from some recent fright. And the first thing he asked for was a bath to wash the road from him. But dirt isn’t red-brown the way dried blood is—and that was the color I saw beneath his nails.”