Jasra goaded the Dragon with voice and magic, kept him aloft and flying almost to the very ramparts of the Castle upon the Blood Range that she had stolen from her mentor. And murdered.
The Black Dragon simply heaved a huge breath and fell out of the sky to crash through the dense treetops breaking branches and trunks as it plummeted to the ground. He managed to encircle one front arm around her slender waist and tucked her into his body close to his chest. Protecting her even as he took the brunt of the fall. It seemed as if they fell forever and when the stop came, it was abrupt and sudden. Trees and branches continued to crack around them, leaves fluttering much more gently to the forest carpet.
The ground was damp and mushy. She knew the area was marshy and the crown trees liked wet roots. It made travel through the woods difficult. Slowly, the ordinary noises of the forest crept back and she pushed the scaled leg off her flesh. She found only a few scratches and bruises on her own body, the Dragon had shielded her from the worst of the damage.
“Dragon, wake up,” she said and poked at his eye. Remarkably, he opened it and stared blearily around. “Are you broken anywhere? Bleeding?” She laid a seeing spell on him and saw that indeed, he was broken in too many places to count. Conjuring, she wove the spell to fix the broken bones and torn flesh but could do nothing as yet to fix the flagging core of his strength.
“How am I going to get you to the Castle?” She mused. “You’re too big to move and there’s no road here anyway.”
“Shrink me,” he said trying to stand but failing as his weakened muscles revolted. Tears dripped from his eyes and she was astonished as they fell to the ground and became diamond hard gems of such purity that they gleamed ice white.
“Do you know the spell?” He told her what he remembered from Marcus’ recitation. “Ah, simple.” She repeated the spell and the great Black Dragon shrank to the size of a small eagle. Carefully, she picked him up, wrapped him inside her cape and walked. The area around the Castle was warded and she could not transport herself into the tower without first crossing the boundaries. She struggled to climb over the fallen trunks, the boulders covered with slippery moss and cursed the delicate and fancy sandals she had worn in the Palace. Totally unsuitable for a romp in the forests.
“This sucks,” she grumbled under her breath. “I have no clue which way to go.”
He pushed his way out of the cape’s folds and sniffed the air. His body which normally felt hot to the touch was nearly ice cold. “That way,” he mumbled pointing with his head towards her left hand. “I can smell habitation.”
“Habitation?” She grunted sliding across the fallen Cherrywood that would’ve brought a small fortune had it been close to a town or sawmill. The land sloped upwards and she followed a ravine that cut deep but it was devoid of moisture. Tree trunks bisected it but they were small and it was obvious that great torrents came down this place and ripped loose whatever was within. The rocks were round and polished in shades of brown, sepia and off-white with the look of hardened granite. The very same rocks that had been hewn by magic and stonemasons that had created the keep.
“How do you know which way to go, Dragon?”
“I can smell your sewage and feel the presence of magicked wards above us,” he announced. “What are you going to do to me, Jasra?”
“Queen Jasra.”
“And I am the son of a king,” he retorted. “So what?”
“Why were you coming to Khafra, Raven?” She slipped, nearly dropping him and she stopped as he let out a small bleat of pain. “If you eat of the flesh of man, Dragon it will strengthen you so that you will live.”
“I’d rather die,” he spat and hissed.
“You’re rather unrepentant on the Atarax pollen, Dragon. I find you a less than willing slave.”
“You bind me to your will but you don’t own me,” he returned and shivered in her hands.
She stared up at a giant wall of rock that went up further than she could see. The moment she rested her palm on the slab, she could sense the magic of rune stones that held the Citadel together and understood, finally how the Castle had obtained its name. And she could smell a sewage pipe. Unfortunately, (or perhaps not) it was too small to enter, even for the mini Dragon.
“How do we climb it?” She asked. “It’s impregnable and designed to be unreachable.”
“How do you get in?”
“I usually transport myself through my cloak which carries the rooms that allow me to breach the wards.” She unwrapped him and was dismayed to see that he was bleeding and her cape was more blue than red. Wrapping it around both of them, she threw the hood up and the sensation of whirling through the void assailed them. She hugged the limp Dragon to her chest and slipped out into the tower room that held her witchcraft, startling a maidservant and a guard.
“Mistress!”
Jasra laid her burden on the table, tossing everything to the carpeted floor. The others came round to stare at the creature.
“Bring me the Healer and my elixirs. Hurry!” She ordered, placing her finger over the area where the Dragon’s heart should be. She found a slight pulse but no breathing.
When the healer named Bremer arrived at a jog trot, he found Jasra breathing into the creature’s mouth. “Let me help, Jasra,” he took over from her, allowing her to concoct potions as well as spells. The next fifteen minutes were frantic and finally, the two sat back with a sigh of relief as the little dragonet’s chest rose and fell evenly.
“He’s stable,” the healer said and studied not the animal but the Queen. “What happened?”
“Do you know who or what this is, Bremer?” She asked instead, striding the tower room. In her absence, the staff had kept it clean, change the bed linens and wash the windows. Not one item of her sorcery had been moved or touched. Her bed was between two walls and the fireplace which was burning fiercely this high in the mountains. The walls were honey colored Wychwood, spelled to protect the occupants an impermeable to outside conjurations.
“It looks like a dragon. Is it hatchling? Where did you find it? It’s beautiful.”
“It is a full-fledged, forty foot Dragon, Bremer. Shrunk with a minimax spell. He is the Black Dragon of Amber, bound by its magic and because he is far from the source, his power has faded. He could not sustain his flight here and fell to the forest. If you look southwest, you can see the damage done in the canopy. He’s broken in many places.”
“I saw. His legs, arms and ribs. His heart is struggling but maintaining its rhythm. The fractures are holding together but he needs blood.”
“Do you have an elixir that will help him?”
“What have you used to gain his compliance?” Bremer knew the history between Jasra and Corwin.
“Atarax,” she said briefly.
He nodded and his hands were gentle as he manipulated legs and arms, stretched the thin wings out to their full-length and worked the bones. Scales fell off in his hands. “He’s cold, he needs heat. Janess, bring me heated blankets and one of those baskets you use for your cats.”
The maid, a pretty girl with yellow hair and blue eyes bobbed a curtsy and ran for the doorway to return in a minute or so with the requested items. Together, they lifted the Dragon into the bed and covered him with the wool blankets.
“I thought perhaps the heating bottle,” the girl offered and Bremer gave her a grateful smile.
“The very thing, thank you.” He slid the hot leather bottle underneath the fragile body and covered him. “We need to warm his insides as well. Beef broth with brandy, Janess. Can you do that?”
“My Lord, Mistress?”
“Go, Janess,” the Queen Mother said and` the girl flew to her task.
Bremer turned back to the Queen. “What is his name, Jasra?”
“Raven.”
“He is Corwin’s son?”
“Grandson. Merlin is his father.”
“The Prince that died?” He looked puzzled. “How, then does he live?”
“Through Amber’s magic. His human body perished when he killed Jurt. Only later did this form return. He is here I think, to search for the Seven Stars.”
“The Seven Stars…how would he have heard of that?” The Healer turned his graying head to his Queen’s face and was not afraid of incurring her ire. It was hard to be frightened of the woman whose diapers you changed and kissed away their hurts.
“Because I leaked its rumored existence to his friends to lure him here,” she returned calmly placing rune stones around the sleeping Dragon. “Is it safe to leave him, Bremer?”
“I have a string on his heart and lungs that will warn us if they falter. Between the two of us, he’s covered with enough spells to see him through this crisis. He’ll sleep the rest of the night through and probably for the next three days. I suggest you do the same.”
“After a bath and a hot meal,” she sagged as the fear and worry left her. “I have to let Ryan know what has happened.”
“Ryan?” Bremer rose and went to the double doors carved of the rock of the Citadel and hinged with steel fallen from the skies. The doors opened, heavy, silent and smooth with just one finger shuttling behind them like the vault doors they were. Goblin faces chased each other in the living rock as she countered the locking spell.
“My partner in this endeavor.”
“Why have I not heard of him?” he asked as he followed her down the spiral staircase to the warmer kitchens.
The healer made sure the Queen ate, drank and was resting comfortably before he returned to the tower with the maid. She waited with a tray containing beef broth, a brandy decanter and hot mulled wine. The smell of warmed spices and bay leaves made a homey feel to the top of the stairwell. The door locks opened to his muttered password, the goblin faces of the enchanted locks ignored even though they could be frightful. They entered the room together and Bremer checked the black creature’s heart and breathing.
“Sir Bremer, what is it?” The girl asked, setting the tray down.
“It is a wounded Dragonet. He can breathe fire and those claws are anything but ornamental so don’t mess with him unless one of us is in here. He can and will slit your throat, disembowel you or bite off your fingers. Or nose. Treat him as you would any wildcat or eagle.”
He filled a baster with the hot soup and carefully inserted it into the corner of the dragon’s mouth. Slowly and patiently, he fed the creature until he had nearly emptied the bowl of soup raced with brandy. The Dragon swallowed and did not fight, it seemed resigned to being fed even though it did not wake to eat or drink. “I am Bremer. Are you hungry?”
“Where am I?” The Dragon lifted his head and Bremer saw that his eyes were bright golden yellow and that he was blind in his right. He had an endearing quality of turning his good side towards the speaker.
“In the Citadel. Jasra’s retreat. Your name is Raven?”
“Are you my jailer?” His voice was that of a youngster certainly not that of a mature manner warrior.
“How old are you, Raven?” He was curious and held up the Bole of rich feel stupid he brought up from the kitchens.
“I died when I was seventeen,” he eyed the bowl and fished into it, pulling out chunks of meat. “Actually,” he said cheeks bulging. “I prefer it live and bloody. Mice, chickens and doves.” He sat up and winced. “Ahh,” he moaned in a long drawn out hiss. “I hurt.”
“Yes. Here,” he held out a small blue bottle filled with a faintly oily liquid that smelled like pine trees. “It’s poppy elixir and will help the pain. Take it.” Obediently, the Dragonet swallowed, holding the vial in his front talons. He blinked slowly. “You’ll want to sleep, Raven. Let the potion work,” Bremer said and helped the Dragon back into the basket, covering him up.