The Dragon's Path

Well, ever, I suppose.”
    “Let me go with you,” Geder said.
    “No no no. It’s your night. Enjoy it.”
    “I’d enjoy talking with you,” Geder said, and his father’s eyes softened.
    “Well, then.”
    Together, Geder and his father found Lady Kalliam and offered their profound thanks. Somehow the conversation turned until they were accepting her kind words, and they left with the feeling that the night had been an intimate affair with old friends they’d rarely seen. She insisted that they take the litter that had carried Geder through the streets earlier. Walking through the darkened streets wasn’t safe, and even if it had been, it wouldn’t do. Jorey appeared as they were about to take their last leave and offered Geder his hand. Geder almost wept, taking it.
    As the Tralgu slaves hauled them through the night-dark streets, Geder looked at the stars scattered across the sky. Away from the gleeful crowd, the elation of relief cooled a degree. He was surprised to find that some part of the dread was still there, not sharp anymore, not strong, but present. Not even fear, but the as yet unbroken habit of fear.
    His father cleared his throat.
    “You’re on the rise, my boy. You’re very much on the rise.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Geder said.
    “Oh, no. No, I heard those men tonight. You’ve caught the court at a delicate time. You’re in very real danger of becoming a symbol of something.” His father’s intonation was merry, but there was something in the way he held his shoulders that made Geder think of a man bracing for a blow.
    “I’m not a court pigeon,” Geder said. “I’ll be pleased to come home and work through some of the books that I found down there. You’d like some of them. I’ve started atranslation of an essay about the last dragons that claims to date from only a few hundred years after Morade fell. You’d like it.”
    “I’m sure I would,” Lerer said.
    The Tralgu in the lead grunted expressively and the litter spun elegantly around a tight turn, dipping just a degree to counterbalance the shift.
    “I saw Sir Klin didn’t attend tonight,” Lerer said.
    “I wouldn’t have expected him,” Geder said. For a moment, he was on a frozen mill pond again, discovering the fortune that would have saved Klin’s protectorate. “I imagine he’s feeling a bit chagrined after all. Vanai was his, and he got called back on a leash. It must embarrass him, seeing me greeted with all this.”
    “It must. Indeed it must. Lord Ternigan didn’t come either.”
    “He may have been called for elsewhere,” Geder said.
    “That’s it. I’m sure that’s it.”
    In the dark streets, a dog yapped and complained. The breeze that felt cool in the crowded ballrooms and gardens was chill now.
    “Court events usually don’t have everyone appear,” Geder said. “I wasn’t even expecting this much.”
    “Of course not. And it was quite a thing, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    They lapsed into silence. Geder’s back ached. Between riding and dancing, he expected to feel half crippled in the morning.
    “Geder?”
    Geder grunted.
    “Be careful with these men. They aren’t always what they seem. Even when they take your side, it’s best to spare an eye for them.”
    “I will,” Geder said.
    “And don’t forget who you are. Whoever they want you to be, don’t forget who you really are.”
    “I won’t.”
    “Good,” Lerer Palliako said. He was hardly more than a shadow against a shadow, except that the starlight caught his eyes. “That’s my good boy.”

Marcus
     
    M arcus leaned low, arms to his sides. The pommel of the blackwood sword in his hand was slick with sweat. The Firstblood boy shifting on the far side of the pit wore a pair of fighter’s trousers and a serious expression. Marcus waited. The boy licked his lips and hefted his sword.
    “No hurry,” Marcus said.
    The air of the gymnasium was hot, close, and damp. The grunts and shouts of the other fighters struggled over the rush of water in the pipes that fed baths. At least a dozen men stood around the edges of the pit. Most were Kurtadam or Firstblood, though a pair of Timzinae held themselves a little apart. And Yardem Hane, panting and sweat-soaked. No Cinnae had come.
    Marcus saw the boy’s weight shift, committing to the attack. The boy held his sword to the side, eastern-style, so he had some training. Marcus blocked, chalk dust rising from the blackwood blade, and moved to the boy’s