“I’m haunted; I know.” Will shrugged and closed his eyes. He brought his father’s face to mind and heard his voice again. He could see himself in those features and catch elements of his voice in his father’s. Connections began to form.
Prior to that, he had been the Norrington because he had been told he was. Oracle told him, and used magick to prove it. Chytrine trying to kill him, Crow and Resolute finding him, Sayce seeking him out, even Scrainwood giving him a mask, all of those things were external signs that he was the Norrington. And Will had accepted that mantle because it was a responsibility he could shoulder.
Until that moment, however, he’d never truly believed he was the Norrington. He was willing to play the part, and he’d done it well. Seeing his father, though, hearing his voice, confirmed the Norrington Prophecy. Not only did he accept the job, but he now knew he was meant to have it. He was the fulfillment of the prophecy.
He opened his eyes and felt cold for a moment, then looked at Dravothrak. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing.”
“No, it was everything.” Will smiled and laid his hand on one of Dravothrak’s toes. “I am the Norrington. I will redeem Vorquellyn and I’ll kill the scourge of the north.”
“Yes, the prophecy.” Dravothrak’s voice hummed with power, sending vibrations through Will’s chest.
The thief smiled. “It sounds much more powerful when you say it.”
“The power comes not from me, but from the prophecy itself, and the people it has drawn to its fulfillment.”
Will nodded. “Well, I was pulled out of a burning building as a child, and the raid on Wruona would be our victory at sea. I guess I just have to lead folks north to the ice, to defeat Chytrine, and then we can redeem Vorquellyn.”
The dragon’s head rose, towering over Will. “The work of a lifetime. Even a dragon’s lifetime.” Dravothrak looked past him, then hissed.
Will turned and a dracomorph stood there, with his head bent forward. He hissed back at Dravothrak, but in a very polite manner. A returning hiss brought the dracomorph upright again and he waited.
Dravothrak spoke from behind him. “Will, please accompany this small one to the Congress Chamber. The others will join you there, including Kerrigan. I must travel another route and take my place in the Congress.”
Will craned his neck back. “What will we be doing?”
“Answer questions as they are asked. Just answer truthfully and all will go well. Chytrine has few friends in the Congress, and even they suspect her motives. If we succeed, you will have allies in your war against her.”
“They’ll be welcome.” Will nodded. “Thank you again.”
“It was my pleasure, Wilburforce Norrington.”
Will wandered from the chamber in the wake of the dracomorph but did not wonder at Dravothrak’s full use of his name. He did want to turn and ask the shade following him if he had chosen such a horrid name for him, but he wasn’t sure he’d get an answer. Given that his father had gotten him on a whore during a drunken binge in Alcida, he wasn’t sure his father had known he’d been conceived, much less had anything to do with naming him.
Besides, his father then and his father now weren’t the same person as the shade. The shade was happy and free. None of the tragedy that had shaped his life showed at all. The poem he recited was fun and playful, and Will imagined him that way. That’s what I got from him. That’s the foundation that makes me the Norrington.
The dracomorph led him to a semicircular shelf of stone that jutted out into a lake of fire. Will walked up to the edge and saw a line of runes ringing it. He couldn’t read them, but he could feel power humming off them. He looked past them and at the way the heat from the fiery lake made images shift. Will breathed out as Dranae had at the cavern entrance and saw his breath mist briefly in the invisible barrier holding the heat back.
He smiled, then looked past the edge and deeper into the lake. There, at various points—on tall, flat rocks, tall towers, and niches carved in the far walls—he saw dragons. Lots of dragons, and some of them were looking at him. In the distance, he saw Dravothrak settle into place, but he held back from waving.
Qwc zipped past him and, for a heartbeat, Will thought he was going to sail through the barrier. “Qwc, be careful!”
The Spritha stopped short of the wall, then turned. “Hot, hot, Qwc knows. Very hot.”
“Yeah, really, really hot.” Will winked at him, then turned and smiled as the others joined him. “I was talking to Dravothrak. As soon as Kerrigan gets here, we’re supposed to answer questions when they are asked of us. If we do things right, we might get help against Chytrine.”
Crow stared at him and paled. “Will, what is that thing behind you?”
“You should recognize him. He’s my father. Dravothrak made him appear. He’ll go away soon, but I heard him recite his poem ‘How to Vex a Temeryx.’”
The older man shivered, then shook his head and chuckled. “That was going to be Leigh’s most magnificent poem. I’d love to hear you recite it, Will.”
“Sure, tonight, after all this is over. It’ll be fun.” Will let his voice sink. “Sorry if seeing him was unsettling. I just needed to prove that I am the Norrington.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Was that ever in doubt, really?”
Will shrugged. “Never hurts to have more proof?”
Crow patted him on the shoulder. “None of us has ever doubted it, Will. You’ve proved it over and over again.” He looked past Will and at the dragons. “And here you’ll have a chance to prove it yet one more time.”
72
Despite his having dozed on Vriisureol’s back as they flew to Vael, Kerrigan hardly felt rested upon his arrival. Two of the ten-foot-tall dracomorphs guided him and Bok to the chambers they would occupy. The cozy suite reminded him of an urZrethi cork, though it had been built to more human proportions and had only three rooms off the main chamber. He occupied one, and Bok took another.
Kerrigan was uncertain how long he had slept, but the scent in his nose and the rumble in his belly seemed to decide between them it was more than long enough. Out of the clothing Bok had unpacked and laid on a shelf, he pulled a tunic and trousers, then stamped his feet into worn boots. He knew he looked nothing like a mage, but that didn’t matter to him. He was hungry. Still, the ease with which he shed his concern about what was proper raiment for a mage, and the distance he felt between himself and Vilwan, marked how much his experiences had changed him. Some of it, he knew, was the fellowship he felt with Will, Alexia, and the others. He was more a part of their group than he was a citizen of Vilwan. On Vilwan he had been a thing to be trained, a weapon to be honed—though exactly for what purpose no one ever bothered to tell him. But, then, Crow does not tell his sword what he intends to do with it. To his friends he was more than an object, and to him they were more than dulls who had to be tolerated.
Another piece of it was because of the revelations Rym Ramoch had made about Vilwan and the nature of magick. He’d seen more of that in Muroso. Vilwan was not the wellspring of all magickal knowledge. Even the Conservatory in Aurolan had found other ways of approaching things. That all made sense in a way it never had before. Kerrigan never would have supposed there was only one way to make a chair, or only one thing that would function as a chair, so why would the same be expected of a spell? There are many paths to the same result.