King's Dragon

Wolfhere, ahead of her, stopped, and she steadied herself, one hand on his shoulder. It was utterly black. The crypt smelled of clay and lime. It was damp. At the edge of her hearing came the sound of the slow drip of water.



It nagged at her, that uneven sound, a droplet of water shattering to pieces on stone, then, finally, another. It reminded her of the water in the crypt of the church where Marshal Liudolf had locked her up after Da’s murder. It had been dark there, as well, and she had been imprisoned. Until Hugh came.



Her chest was tight with fear and she clutched convulsively at Wolfhere’s shoulder, suddenly terrified. What if Hugh lurked in these shadows?



“Call light, Liath,” said Wolfhere.



“I can’t.”



“Seek in your mind for the memory of light, and call it forth.”



She shook her head. She was sweating now, although it was cool in the vaults. Strange noises caught in the air. She knew Hugh was far away and yet felt him as if he was just about to touch her.



Wolfhere continued, as calm as ever. “If I remember, there is a torch here. Think of flames, then, and call fire to it.”



“I was not taught these things!”



Air stirred behind her neck. Light! She shut her eyes, though it was hard to find the courage to do so, even when she couldn’t see. She formed a picture of light, the chamber illuminated, sunlight streaming in through the windows of her memory tower to limn the four doors of her tower that led to nowhere and to everywhere, to cover as with a gold wash the fifth door, set impossibly in the center of the room. Light.



But nothing came. In the frozen tower, the light was as cold as midwinter’s kiss and though it illuminated, its touch did not bring life. A tendril, like a spiderweb come loose from its moorings, brushed the nape of her neck. She flinched and batted it away, but there was nothing there. And yet there was something behind her, always stalking her.



She could stand it no more. “Better to go forward,” Da always said, “than to look behind at what’s creeping up on you.” She shoved past Wolfhere, stumbled on level flagstone floor, and groped along the wall. Her hand came to rest on the stem of a torch. She wrenched it free and spun, holding it out like a weapon, but it touched nothing. There was nothing, except her own fear.



And that sparked anger. What right had Hugh to plague her like this? Would she never be free of him?



His was the dark presence always at her back, and yet there was another, which she could not name, whatever had stalked her father and herself for all those years.



“Leave me be!” she cried. The stone walls of the crypt sucked her voice away, muffling it.



“Now, Liath—” Wolfhere began.



Ah, but she was furious by now, a raw anger that throbbed through her like fire. The torch in her hand caught flame and burned with a strong, uncanny light. She started back, blinking away tears. Wolfhere looked sickly pale, but then her eyes adjusted and she saw he was smiling wryly.



“That’s better,” he said.



Liath was horrified. She had called fire, by what means she did not know. Now Wolfhere thought she knew the arts of sorcery.



And yet, if she could call fire, why should she not learn the arts of sorcery? Why should she not become magus and mathematicus? Was it not her birthright?



Wolfhere made no more mention of the blazing torch, nor did he ask her how she had accomplished the deed. He crossed the crypt floor and because she did not want to be alone in this buried chamber, she followed. Under the broad stone arches that held up the crypt he paused to study the famous tomb of Biscop Mariana, predecessor of the current biscop. Nestled between her grave and the heavy stone wall of the crypt lay another tomb. Carved of less imposing granite, it nevertheless displayed a more elaborate epitaph.



Here lies Flodoard, presbyter of the Holy Church, servant of Our Lord and Lady, guide and instructor to Louis, king of Varre. Devout in practice and humble in spirit, he was the best among us. So does he rest in the light of truth above.



Liath became aware all at once of the space opening behind her, the vast womb of the cathedral, and the monuments that marked the graves of the women and men who had served within these precincts. Best among us. She felt at peace, here among the holy dead. She might not be safe with Wolfhere, or any other mortal man or woman, but surely these holy ones remained her guardians as they guarded all who kept faith.



“I have heard it said a saint’s tomb lies hidden in the crypt of Gent Cathedral.” Wolfhere surveyed the dark cavern. The hush was profound. She could hear not even the least sound from above, though several hundred refugees crowded the church and beyond the doors the city of Gent certainly lay restless in its uneasy sleep, one eye always open toward its besiegers. Tombs faded into the darkness, marking distance by their shade of gray in the torchlight. Liath could not see the far walls or even the opening that led to the stairs. Gent was an old cathedral, its foundations laid, some said, in the last years of the old empire by a half-elvish prince who had converted to the faith of the Unities as the empire collapsed around him.