The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,44
flooded. Their contents had been hurriedly hauled to the upper rooms for safekeeping, leaving Hamanu’s normally austere and organized workroom in chaos. The treasures of a very long lifetime were heaped into precarious pyramids. Windreaver’s shadowy form would be lost amid countless other shadows, and Hamanu didn’t break his concentration to look for his old enemy.
“Do you truly believe oil from the egg-sack of a red-eyed roc will protect you from your master?”
“…nine hundred eighty… nine hundred eighty-one…” Hamanu replied through clenched teeth.
Shimmering droplets, black as the midnight sky and lustrous as pearls, dripped from the polished porphyry cruet he held over an obsidian cauldron. Four ages ago, he’d harvested this oil from a red-eyed roc. It had vast potential as a magical reagent—potential he had scarcely begun to explore—but he did not expect it to protect him from the first sorcerer.
Nothing but his own wits and all the luck in the world could protect the last champion from Rajaat.
“You’re a fool, O Mighty Master. Surrender and be done with it. Become the dragon. Any dragon would be better than Rajaat unchained. You certainly can’t fight Rajaat and your peers.”
“…nine hundred eighty-eight… nine hundred eighty-nine…”
Unable to provoke an explosion from either Hamanu or the concoction in front of him, Windreaver turned his attention to the clutter. Save for his acid voice and the swirling wake of his anger, the troll had no effect on the living world. That was his protection—he could slip undetected through all but the most rigorous wardings, including the ones Hamanu had set on this room. It was also his frustration.
Whirling through the room, Windreaver shook the clutter and raised a score of cluttering dust devils from its shadows. Hamanu stilled the air with an absentminded thought and counted the nine hundred ninety-second drop of oil. The devils collapsed.
There was another table in the workroom, uncluttered save for writing implements and two sheaves of vellum: one blank, the other already written upon, It drew Windreaver’s curiosity as a lodestone attracted iron. The air above the table sighed. The corners of the written-upon vellum rustled.
Hamanu imagined a thumb in the center of the sheaf. “…nine hundred ninety-four… nine hundred ninety-five…”
Driven by a very local wind, the brass stylus rolled to the table’s edge and clattered loudly to the floor. The vellum remained where it belonged.
“Memoirs, O Mighty Master?” The rustling stopped. “An apology?”
Windreaver’s accusations were icy knives against Hamanu’s back. The Lion of Urik wore the guise of a human man in his workroom where no illusion was necessary. Human motion, human gestures, were still the movements his mind knew best. He shrugged remembered shoulders beneath an illusory silk shirt and continued his count.
“What fascination does this street-scum orphan hold for you, O Mighty Master? You’ve wound him tight in a golden chain, and yet you plead for his understanding.”
“…one thousand… one thousand one.”
Hamanu set the cruet down and, taking up an inix-rib ladle, gave the cauldron a stir. Bubbles burst on the brew’s surface. The two-score flames of the overhead candelabra extinguished themselves with a single hiss and the scent of long-dead flowers. A coal brazier glowed beneath the cauldron, but when Hamanu stirred it a second time, the pale illumination came from the cauldron itself.
“I noticed him, this Just-Plain Pavek of yours, Pavek the high templar, Pavek the druid. His scars go deep, O Mighty Master. He’s scared to the core, of you, of every little thing.”
“Pavek is a wise man.”
“He’s young.”
“He’s mortal.”
“He’s young, O Mighty Master. He has no understanding.”
“You’re old. Did age make you wise?”
“Wiser than you, Manu. You never became a man.”
Manu. The troll had read the uppermost sheet of parchment where the name was written, but he’d known about Manu for ages. Windreaver knew the Lion’s history, but Hamanu knew very little about the troll. What was there to know about a ghost?
Shifting the ladle to his off-weapon hand, Hamanu reached into an ordinary-seeming leather pouch sitting lopsidedly on the table. He scooped out a handful of fine, dirt-colored powder and scattered it in an interlocking pattern across the cauldron’s seething surface. Flames leapt up along the powder’s trail.
Hamanu’s glossy black hair danced in the heat. He spoke a word; the flames froze in time. His hair settled against his neck; illusion maintained without thought. Moments later, screams and lamentations erupted far beyond the workroom. The flames flickered, died, and Hamanu stirred the cauldron again.