Corwin kept his anger in check when Murphy came out of the cabin without Roelle or Marcus. Both were gone and had obviously not been in either bed. After a fruitless search by their whole party, they knew the pair weren’t on the ship.
“What do you think they did, my Lord?” The Captain asked.
“You know your sister best. What would she do?” The Prince returned.
“Roelle would dare anything, risk all for her friend,” her brother said softly. “You said the boy’s a Mage in training? Perhaps he made a spell to transport him to the Capital?”
“My Lord Prince?” Murphy said and turned into his flying form. “I will search for them.”
“Go, Murph. Keep hidden if you can,” the Prince offered. “I’ll see what I can do about speeding up this tub.”
The gargoyle launched himself into the air and in mere moments had become as small as a bird. Corwin went in search of Roger Carron.
***********
Marcus and Roelle admired each other. Freshly bathed in hot springs in the private bath inside the Cliff wall that ringed the village, they had luxuriated in the twin rooms for an hour emerging clean, wrinkled and soft need from the heat. Fresh clothing lay on the stone benches with new footwear. Marcus’ were sturdy boots, thick brown work pants, and the linen blouse with a leather vest covered with pockets that laced up the front. In his pockets, he found his wallet, coin purse and magic trinkets all untouched. Roelle’s garb were soft blousy pants that were almost a skirt, leather boots that hugged her calves and off the shoulder pink blouse that tied in front and had a black lace up vest. There were light cloaks made of a green leathery substance which she knew suddenly was from the skin of the giant eels. The inside was lined with silk and smelled of fresh herbs.
Smoke drifted up from the floor and dried her long hair. She left it down. Marcus met her in the short hallway that connected the two bath chambers and took her hand. “Ready?” He smiled. She nodded and both of them went back into the cottage to greet the old woman. She was busy in the kitchen, cooking on a giant stove with a metal top, half of which was graded and the other solid. Sizzling on the flat side was an enormous fish ablaze with colored scales and covered with herbs and butter. It smelled wonderful and both of their stomachs grumbled. Marcus could feel his mouth drooling.
Beside the fish were clay pots wobbling with other things that smelled equally delicious. Peggotty handed them each a deep green bowl painted with black geometric designs that were oddly compelling. “You can eat here or in the parlor,” she said.
“What is this?” Marcus stirred the bowl with a pewter spoon.
“Oyster stew, sautéed ocean trout and marinated Leek roots.”
Marcus shoveled the food in and uttered not one word, testament to how good the fair was. “My dad the chef,” he mumbled. “This is delish.”
Peggotty pushed him towards the parlor where there was a round table of Cherrywood Elm that shone with years of waxing. Four different chairs were around it and she watched as lad and lass chose one. Marcus took the Mage’s chair and Roelle the wicker Healer’s. She sat herself in the Wise Woman’s bench seat knowing that the last chair, the Warrior’s chair would remain empty because he was far away from the pair.
There was silence as they ate until the spoon scrape the bottom of the bowls. She rose, went to the kitchen and opened the hatch cover in the wall to pull out a pitcher of cold milk and several marks. Roelle rose to help her and this surprised the woman. She had the thought the girl would be more accustomed to being waited on.
“Let me help, ma’am.”
“You’re a lady,” she said bluntly. “Why would you want to?”
“Because I was raised to be, because if the son of a king could offer up his life for me, I could do no less,” Roelle said sadly.
“You seek a spell. A strong, dangerous and difficult spell. A transformation spell. Would it not be easier to seek another of its own kind?”
Roelle studied her face and wondered how the woman knew or was implying. “He is one-of-a-kind,” she whispered and Peggy put an orange flower still unopened in her hand along with a pouch that was stuffed with the leaves that they had been plucking.
“Star anise,” she said quietly. “Guard it well. Not only is it extremely rare and costly, but worth killing for. You will need it for the spell.”
“Where will we find the book?” Roelle asked, her heart in her eyes.
“There is no book, lady. There are clues to its riddle in books, one of which is in the library of the Palace and under the tutelage of the former Queen Witch. It is said that the articles of the Book of Life hold such a ritual but it is Black Magic and carries a heavy price.”
“A blood sacrifice, yes we know.”
“Are you willing to pay that price?” The old woman asked fiercely, and her eyes blazed with an unholy fire.
“If I have to, I will,” Roelle said quietly and calmly.
“And the boy will perform this ritual spell?”
“He has been studying towards that end, yes.”
“Even if it means his life, too?”
“I can’t answer for Marcus but I believe he would, also.”
“This friend of yours must be someone to know,” the woman laughed. “I would like to meet him.”
“Perhaps, you will.” Roelle followed Peggotty back to the table carrying the mugs, the herb and flower tucked into her pocket.
***********
Jasra was alone with Dieterhof in a tavern not far from the palace armory. There were many off-duty soldiers drinking, gambling and enjoying the barmaids yet not one had noticed the tall good-looking redhead as she entered the common room to search out the Captain. Even he did not see her until she threw back the hood of her scarlet cape and her features melted to that of the former Queen.
“My Queen,” he stammered and she tightened her grip on his throat until his eyes bulged, the whites became blood streaked and leaked down his cheeks.
“You idiot!” She hissed. “You fed the Dragon the powder? I warned you not to do that. I said, blow it in his face only. Do not let him EAT IT. Do you know what you have done?” At his frantic shake, she answered, “You bonded the Black Dragon of Amber to you for all your lifetime. To you, not you pathetic fool. Now, I must kill you to take back control of the Dragon.”
With horror filled eyes, he watched her plunge a red dagger into his belly and draw it up. Saw his bowels fall out onto his lap steaming, disgusting as the thin tissues burst their contents onto the floor. The smell of shit and digested food filled the air. The occupants of the tavern cried out as they saw a man standing on his tip toes with his guts writhing yet nothing held or touched him that they could see. She cut out his heart and as the last light of life left his eyes, packed the gory organ in a cloth, flipped her cloak over her head and disappeared.
The cape was more than disguise, invisibility and protection – it was also a means of transportation. Within seconds, it had carried her to the black arena where the Dragon slumbered on the heated sands.
He barely raised his head when she stepped out of the cloak’s folds. His nostrils flared at the strange scent of bloody meat. Almost tempting his flagging appetite. “My Lord Dragon,” she said in her sweetest voice and he opened his one to stare dully at her.
“Jasra,” he groaned.
“I bring you a potion that will aid you.”
“As if I could trust you,” he returned.
“Does it matter? Without my aid, you will die. With it, you just might live,” she returned.
“Better I die then betray my father or Amber.”
“A dead Dragon is no good to me or to anyone. Eat or I will force it down your throat,” she snapped.
Raven sat up and towered over the little female. Snorted a faint puff of scented smoke. “Think you can make me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can.” She blew the yellow Atarax pollen in his face and watched calmly as the deadness rolled over his form.
“Mistress,” he sighed.
“Eat this, Dragon, I command you.”
Obediently, he swallowed the human heart and blinked. Howled, a long mournful cry that echoed back at them from the ebony walls and brought the King’s Guards running. “What have you done?” The head Praetorian demanded and Jasra smiled thinly.
“Dragon, do you hear me?” The creature panted in its distress and dug its claws into the hot sand floor leaving gouges as deep as a man’s height. A wheelbarrow full of sand went flying as its tail thrashed the ground and knocked over a dozen men. Six managed to rise, the rest were dead or broken.
“Aye, Mistress,” it cursed and she threw herself atop its shoulders to grasp the horns above its eyes. The creature was warm, the horns felt slick and faceted like a diamond. She stroked the sides of his neck. He was truly a beautiful deadly creature.
“Kill them, kill them all,” she said simply and the Black Dragon did with tooth and claw until not one man was left standing. “Will you eat?” She asked and felt the shudder that racked the emaciated frame of the beast.
“I cannot,” it whispered. “I cannot eat of the flesh of men.”
“You already have done so, Raven,” she said in a sneer. “You swallowed the heart of the man who stole your will and your body. Now, up. I would have you fly me to my home.” She kicked him in the ribs and with a great bound he leaped, his wings opening to catch the heated air above the sand.
Arrows mocked them, hit him on the chest and legs to bounce off. He circled the arena just as the King and his archers arrived and with them, pikes and lances. Though they threw them with unerring accuracy, none penetrated his rock hard scales. He caught dozens in his talons and threw them back at the soldiers, killing many with their own weapons.
“Flame,” she ordered. “Burn them where they stand.”
“I cannot, Mistress,” he said. “My flame is fed by the blue soil called Firestone. I have been too long away from it. Also, I find I am weakening. My wings cannot keep us aloft much longer. To whence do you want me to fly?”
She cast a spell and wind developed under his wings that pushed him in the right direction. Heading for the distant mountains behind which their sun set and with her spells and aid, he managed to struggle on.