Rap, who had died for her.
Rap, whose wraith had haunted her the night she left Arakkaran.
Crazy dreams!
4
“Why aren’t you sleeping in the bed?” Ugish demanded, nudging Rap with a toe.
Rap groaned, rubbed his smarting eyes, and sat up. Then he sneezed six times in rapid succession. Faint traces of dawn showed through the eastern window. He was stiff and chilled, and filthy as a gnome.
“Is that for me?”
“Uh-huh.” Ugish had brought a robe, a fine-looking linen garment whose obvious newness suggested that it had been specially made by his father. Unfortunately Ugish had been dragging it, and that showed also.
There would be no chance for shaving or washing here. Rap heaved himself to his feet and took the robe. “You can have your loincloth back, thank you very much.”
Ugish shrugged. “Don’t want it. Why do I have to get all dressed up just because we have visitors?”
“Mothers are funny about things like that.”
“Uh-huh. Why didn’t you sleep in the bed?”
Rap ran fingers through his hair and regretted the action. “Because it’s full of mice.”
The little gnome’s glorious bronze eyes widened. “Babies; too?”
“Yes,” said Rap. “But you’d better save them for later. If you spoil your appetite now, your mother will scold.”
Ugish nodded reluctantly. “Awright—if you promise not to tell the others!”
As Rap walked out onto the great terrace, the first pinks and peaches of the rising sun were just starting to blossom on a forest of crumbling towers and turrets behind him. Warth Redoubt was ten times vaster than he had even guessed, a sprawling landscape in its own right. Once it must have clasped a whole city within its throbbing heart, but it had long since fallen into ruin. Shattered pillars and broken statuary lay thrown around in weedstrewn rubble.
Warth perched like an eyrie on the lip of a huge natural arena. On all sides jagged peaks stood dark against the brightening sky.
Ishisi was waiting, with Darad and Gathmor. The two jotnar had been healed and restored, as Rap had been, and they wore white robes like his. Their faces showed great relief when they saw him.
“I thought you might like to watch the dawn rising,” the sorcerer remarked. “We are sheltered here.”
Rap had already registered the occult barrier enclosing the terrace, and he supposed that there would be other spells that he could not sense, for it was not the sun they would be watching rise.
Far below, the blasted, barren valley was still dark except where awakening dragons were glowing and breathing jets of many-colored fire. Their rumbling anger echoed from the rocky walls. He wondered if the worms .themselves could have excavated so enormous a pit, even if they had started before the coming of the Gods.
“This is Warth Nest, of course,” Ishist said, “home of the largest surviving blaze. In its prime it nurtured several times as many as it does now. It was from here that Olis’laine drew the sky army that he used to waste the Cities of the’Ambly Pact. From here too came the Legions of Death in the Second Dragon War.” He droned on for a while, obviously enjoying having an audience, however unappreciative. Rap did not know much history, and soon concluded that he did not want to.
Then a dragon spiraled up and up, until it was a dark shape against brightness; and yet the sun flashed brightest on its scales and wings. It was followed rapidly by others, and the sorcerer fell silent. Deadly the monsters undoubtedly were, but their beauty was undeniable, too. Soon the sky was filled with them, a hundred or more, and they danced for the dawn. They soared too high for sight, they swooped like falcons girt in thunder, they spun and rolled in pairs or groups, in wild confusion like schooling fish or in the rigid ranks of geese. Some were as small as ponies, others longer than longships and older than storied cities. Their voices roared and rang like every instrument ever known, reverberating in chorus from the peaks, and Rap thought he also heard some hint of mental song, the secret melody of dragon serenading dragon.
They shone in the hues of pearls and dew and the wings of butterflies; they blazed like a Winterfest ball. They were at once the most awesome thing he had ever witnessed and the most glorious. He felt tears run down into his stubble and he did not care. He wished Jalon had been here to see this, or Inos to share it with. And when the blaze had scattered and noise had faded and the last few were vanishing into the distance, he felt both crushed into insignificance and yet strangely uplifted.
He wiped his cheeks as he looked at the tiny old sorcerer. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”
“You are welcome, lad,” the gnome said wryly. “You enjoyed it.”
“It was so beautiful! How many men have seen that?”
“Very few in these times.” Ishist glanced at the stunned horrified expressions on the faces of the two jotnar, and he chuckled. “Not many deserve it. Let us go and have this meal my wife is so excited about.”
Oftentimes the banquet hall had rung to the laughter of famed heroes, Ishist said, and mighty kings. From here Alsth’aer had marched to meet his doom foretold. Olis’laine had feasted here, and the grim Jiel, and their noble companies had cheered them, clashing silver goblets in toast and making sterner metals ring in pledge of honor. Here the brave and the beautiful had trod and sung and sworn historic oaths. Trumpets had brayed to the banners on the hammerbeams, viols had lamented, and many a nimble dancer had been showered with gold. Warlock Thraine of high renown had visited Warth more than once, ‘twas said, and had wrought many marvels in this very chamber for Allena the Fair.
But now the fine-arched windows held no glass and the subtle panels had all fallen from the walls. Now it belonged to the rodents, the birds, and the gnomes. In places the planks had rotted away, and a careless step might drop a man four stories to the cellars.
But in the center of the dusty, windswept desolation stood a long and shining table. Gold plate glinted on damask, and crystal sparkled. The sorcerer had been at work, Rap saw, and he wondered whether the gold was shielded from the dragons or was merely an illusion that would not deceive them. As the men approached, Athal’rian was adjusting eight children around her, while clutching a baby. Her family seemed to increase each time Rap turned his back. The smaller ones kept pulling off their wraps, and she kept telling Ugish and the older girls to dress them again. Ugish himself was setting a poor example.
She handed the baby to one of the older children so she could embrace her husband. By the time the long kiss was ended, more than half the children had stripped again and one of the toddlers was heading for a chasm. Rap himself went after it and brought it back. It bit him.
“Now, are we ready?” Ishist inquired. “Chairs, dearest?” Athal’rian said. “Chairs of course. Describe them.”
Athal’rian became flustered and made vague gestures. “Blue velvet. Oak. About so high. Backs carved, tall . . .”
Three chairs appeared at one end of the table, and about a dozen at the other.
Her greasy face lighted up. “Thank you, my love. Master Adept, perhaps you and your friends would like to sit at that end, where the children will not disturb you?” Such tact was oddly touching in a woman so obviously addled.
Rap seated himself at one end of the long table, with Darad and Gathmor flanking him. Both seemed too overcome by emotion to speak, and from the greenish tinge of their cheeks, Rap suspected that their noses were working at normal efficiency.
There was a fair breeze blowing through the ruin, but even so the idea of dining with gnomes was enough to stun anyone. For the first time he now saw inhabitants of Warth Redoubt other than the dragonward and his family. He had already sensed them with farsight, and the Mews floor had certainly suggested a large population. A troop of servant gnomes brought in dishes and laid them before the diners, and then mercifully departed. The first course was a thin soup. It was cold and greasy, but Rap gulped it down manfully, choking on the gristly lumps and ignoring floating feathers. The others copied him with grim dedication. The wine had a sour flavor but it was drinkable, and probably occult.
Then the gruesome company of ragged footman returned with the second course. And departed.
“This was . . . is . . . fish,” Rap remarked cheerfully. “Her ladyship tells me that she uses freshly ensorceled supplies, prepared according to famed elvish recipes.” He gave each companion in turn a steely look, and each groaned softly and grudgingly addressed his high-piled plate. The fish was a sort of pike, mostly bones, and smothered in sickly caramel sauce.