The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Read online

  “They’re coming,” said Gwen.

  Dylan looked around — nothing disturbed the crystalline silence of the sky. “I don’t see anything.”

  “They’re here.”

  The great black dragon dropped its cloak right above them, blotting out the sun. Dylan picked up Nodwydd’s unease. The Gorllewin monster descended parallel to them. The rider dropped the grey hood and studied Dylan and Gwen for a while.

  “You’re far away from your empire, Dracalish,” he shouted. He spoke in Prydain, with an odd, archaic accent. “Go back to the rebels while you can.”

  “Your threats don’t frighten me, Grey Hood. I’m here to talk.”

  The rider shrugged. “Then talk.”

  “I want to speak with your commander, not his lackeys.”

  “The Komtur’s not here. There are only three of us here in Kokura — as you well know.”

  Dylan feigned bored exasperation. “I also know you have a way to communicate with him from here.”

  The Grey Hood opened and closed his mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Fine. I must’ve made a mistake.” Dylan tapped the dragon’s side with his heel and the mount slowly turned back toward the south.

  “Wait!” The Grey Hood was as young as Frigga, inexperienced, nervous. “How come you know about it? It’s a state secret.”

  Dylan halted. “Will you take me to your commander or not?”

  The rider mulled over the response. At last, he nodded.

  “Wait here. I’ll let you know the Komtur’s reply,” said Frigga. Her voice was as cold as her eyes. She relished the reversal of the roles, however brief it was.

  Of the three Grey Hoods living with a couple of natives in a tiny village on the edge of Kokura, she seemed the oldest, and the most senior officer. This was a surprise to Dylan. They were all barely older than cadets in the Dracalish army.

  Is Gorllewin lacking riders?

  All inhabitants of the village had been resettled, leaving empty houses and farmsteads. Frigga’s dragon slept in a withered rice paddy, next to a heap of deer carcasses. The others soared above the village like vultures, vigilant.

  Dylan and Gwen were ordered to stay in one of the thatched huts. They sat among the remnants of a hurried evacuation: a few overturned clay pots, a straw cushion, a wooden rice scoop. Dylan’s stomach rumbled. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “What do you think is their secret?” asked Gwen.

  “I have no idea. And I doubt we will learn it today, either. Speaking of secrets — how did you see past the glamour?”

  Gwen shrugged. “I’m not sure. A subtle change in the air, a rustle of wings—”

  The door squeaked open. A Yamato peasant entered, bent in half, carrying a steaming bamboo box filled with rice and vegetables. He left it on the clay floor and vanished before either Dylan or Gwen managed to say anything. By the time they finished the meal, Frigga had returned.

  “You may come with me,” she said. “You, stay here,” she told Gwen.

  “She’s my Reeve,” said Dylan. “She goes where I go.”

  The rider bit her lip and tapped on the door frame. “Fine. Doesn’t matter.”

  She led them to the dragon resting in the rice paddy. “Get in the saddle,” she ordered. “I can only take one of you — you’ll have to stay,” she said to Gwen. “Here, if you want.”

  Dylan climbed the tall saddle. The dragon’s neck was broader and more squat than he was used to, forcing him to adopt an uncomfortable position.

  “Close your eyes,” said Frigga and tied a tight blindfold around Dylan’s head. She then tied his hands with a set of spare reins. “Hold tight. It’ll get bumpy.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Dylan waited. The dragon remained still and silent. Suddenly, the air around them changed. It got noticeably colder, and a metallic, unpleasant smell filled Dylan’s nostrils. He heard a distant hum of a thousand voices crying in unison.

  The dragon rose into the air and flew onwards, at breakneck speed, without turning or banking even once. Dylan tried to locate the sun, in vain: its heat seemed to have vanished.

  “Don’t squirm around,” Frigga said; she sounded annoyed. “If you fall off here, I’m not picking you up.”

  Here … where is here?

  He counted the minutes. A quarter of an hour passed before the dragon began its descent. At length, it touched the surface. Dylan felt a fine dust settle on his arms and legs. The rider helped him down. The ground was soft, like a sandy beach. Still blindfolded, Dylan entered a cold building and climbed a winding staircase. A gust of wind came from an open window.

  “Untie him,” said a masterful voice.

  Dylan took off his blindfold. He was in a round room, with walls of raw stone. A large arched window overlooked a flatland of red dirt. The sky was dusky and drab, starless and cloudless. Somehow, Dylan knew it never changed.

  “You wanted to talk to me,” said a portly man in a hooded cloak, standing by the window. Below a receding hairline, his forehead was tattooed with the horned cross of the Sun Worshippers. A long rapier hung from his belt.

  “You are the commander of the Gorllewin?”

  “Komtur Mathiun Perai of the Western Navy.” He extended a hand in greeting. “I would offer you a chair, but no furniture lasts long in this place.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Dylan glanced out the window.

  None of this is real. What kind of magic brought us here?

  “I suppose not.”

  “Now, what is it that you wanted to discuss? I have to warn you, we can’t stay here too long, so make it quick.”

  Dylan licked his lips. The air in the room was dry and dusty. He guessed there was no more point asking for water as there was in asking for a chair.

  “Tell me, Komtur, are you satisfied with how your Yamato adventure is progressing?”

  Perai grimaced. “It was going fine, until you showed up.”

  “I’m not the one who downed one of your beasts.”

  “It was a fluke.” The Komtur waved his hand. “Some …. freak spell. The dragon’s fine.”

  “But not the rider — and you don’t have a lot of them to spare.”

  “Thanks to your son, I have even fewer.” Perai glowered, angered at the reminder. “Get to the point, Dracalish.”

  Dylan stepped over to the window. It was broad enough for the two of them to stand comfortably side by side. The cold stones around its frame shimmered, as if coming in and out of existence at random. The red plain stretched featureless as far as he could see. Over the horizon, shrouded in a rusty haze, rose mountains of white stone.

  “You’ve heard of Shimazu Nariakira?”

  “I think I razed a city of his. Even though your man tried to stop me.”

  “Nariakira believes himself the leader of the rebels. Others may disagree, but he’s making a convincing case for himself.”

  Carefully choosing his words, he told the Komtur of his conversations with the daimyo and the Mikado. He was taking a risk — he was betraying Nariakira’s secrets to the man who was still, ostensibly, his enemy.

  Perai chewed on it for a good minute.

  “They’re a dangerous people, Komtur,” Dylan added. “You know it better than anyone. Whatever they promised you, may prove not worth the effort.”

  “I’ve burned three of their cities to the ground. They don’t frighten me.”

  “It’s a whole damn country! You’re just a squadron of riders.”

  Perai pointed a finger at him.

  “Help us then. Bring the wrath of Dracaland’s fleet and together we’ll make sure they’re not a threat to anyone.”

  Dylan winced. “And have an entire nation seething with vengeance? This would be very short-sighted.”

  “Then what do you want? Spit it out, Dracalish, and be quick about it.”

  “I propose
a truce.”

  “No. Our Yamato allies won’t be interested in a truce with the rebels. They want their total annihilation.”

  “Let them bleed themselves out. I’m talking about a truce between us, civilized nations. Dracaland and Gorllewin. And, yes, maybe even Bataavians and maybe Varyaga. But it has to start with us, the dragon riders. We would still offer support to our respective allies, honour the treaties … just enough to keep them all in the fight.” Perai said nothing. Dylan sensed his hesitation, and pressed on. “They will slaughter each other while we watch from the sidelines. It will be easy pickings for us, with only Yamato to blame. We can sort out a power-sharing agreement later.”

  Isn’t this how it’s always done, after all …?

  The Komtur’s left eyebrow rose slowly. “You have signed treaties.”

  “And so have you. Yet you’ve agreed to see me.”

  Perai tapped on the windowsill. It appeared solid only for the moment his fingers touched the surface. “I still need to show something for all this effort. We came here for a reason, after all.”

  And what is that reason? We both know this isn’t about trade and customs …

  “Play your cards right and they will never know anything’s amiss. And who knows, the rebels might offer you the same reward, if they win,” Dylan pressed. “Your side doesn’t have the monopoly on ancient mysteries.”

  The Komtur gave him a swift, sharp glance. “You’re bluffing. You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “My son briefed me quite thoroughly. Have you forgotten? He’s been here longer than any of us.”

  “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten your son.” Perai scratched his chin. “It’s not that simple. The people we’re dealing with … if you can even call them people …” He sighed. “I am getting sick of this place, Dracalish. They’ve forced my hand in Heian, and it cost me a rider. Who knows what more they’ll ask of me … and what the price will be this time.”

  He stepped back. “We would still fly reconnaissance and communication missions,” he said. “My dragons need to be seen in the air.”

  Dylan nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “When your armies reach Kokura … We will be expected to prove our allegiance.”

  “Some casualties are inevitable.”

  “Fine. You’ll have your truce.” The Komtur reached out to shake Dylan’s hand. “One month. Nothing in writing. I’ll make something up to placate my allies.”

  “Let’s see how this mess sorts itself out.” Dylan sealed the deal. “I’ll let Curzius know.”

  “Will he agree to it?”

  Judging by the devices we found in Kurume Castle he already did.

  “It shouldn’t take much to convince him.”

  “There is … one other Westerner that will need to be informed of this,” the Komtur said.

  “Leave Bran to me. He won’t bother you.”

  Frigga ran into the room. “They’re coming, Sir.” There was a hint of panic in her voice.

  They? Dylan looked out the window, but saw nothing. The ubiquitous humming, however, grew louder and even more sinister.

  “Take him to safety,” the Komtur ordered, nodding at Dylan. “We’re done anyway. Oh, and Frigga — come back to Shimoda as soon as you can. I may need you here more than down south.”

  Dylan allowed them to blindfold and bind him again. He stepped onto the winding staircase.

  “You’re a cynical monster, Dracalish,” said the Komtur after him, with a grudging admiration.

  “I’m a diplomat,” replied Dylan. “It’s in the job description.”

  Edern listened to Dylan’s tale, nodding his silver-haired head after every sentence.

  “Gwen, you say they never moved from the field?”

  “They all seemed in a trance,” she replied. “Even the dragon. A purple glow enveloped them at some point, a shield of crackling light. And I heard the humming Dylan mentioned. Like a distant choir of a thousand voices.”

  Edern touched Nodwydd’s forehead and closed his eyes. A content, knowing smile brightened his face.

  Pan aetham ni gan Arthur

  Afyrdwl gynhen

  Namyn seith

  Ny dyrreith

  O gaer annwfn

  When we went with Arthur

  into the mournful war,

  except seven

  none returned from

  the Fortress of Annwn

  After a pause, the Fear added, “You’ve travelled to the Hills of Annwn.”

  “Annwn? The Otherworld? You always said that was just a Faer Folk myth,” said Dylan, looking more than sceptical. “A fairy tale.”

  Edern ginned.

  “Some things had to remain a secret even between us, Commodore. But now it seems Arthur’s Road is a secret no more.”

  “Arthur’s Road … what, the travelling magic? On Owain’s Sword, have you known it as well, all this time?”

  “I’ve known of it. The travelling magic has been lost since Arthur’s days … all we have left are the ruined Gates.”

  “The Dancers in Brycheinniog,” said Gwen.

  “My mother’s folk.” Edern nodded. His eyes misted up as he stared into nothingness. “We know the red dust plain well … It opens for us on the eve of the Calan Geaf feast. But we forgot how to navigate its winding roads, and can only dance in the eternal dusk.”

  “And now the Gorllewin have rediscovered it. Interesting.”

  “Who knows what other ancient magic they possess,” mused Gwen. “Madoc ab Owain took many secrets with him to the western continent.”

  “And now they want Necromancy,” said Dylan.

  “Are you sure this is what they came for?” asked Gwen. “Bringing back Necromancy would make them pariahs in our world. Not even Rome would want to talk to them.”

  “I don’t know.” Dylan rubbed his chin. “That Komtur doesn’t feel like somebody who wants to dabble with the dark arts. I sensed some … decency in him. He certainly wasn’t happy about having to work with the Serpent. But if it’s not that … then what?”

  “I’m sure Bran knows something he hasn’t told us yet,” said Gwen. “If he does, I’ll get it out of him.” She stroked the dragon’s neck. “Nodwydd needs rest. And so do we. Will your map be ready in the morning, Dylan?”

  “It will. Let’s go back to the inn.”

  “Arthur’s Road … Just think — we could return home,” said Edern, dreamily, as they headed for the town centre. “We could rebuild the Gate … Wait, what was that?” He halted and reached for his sword.

  “What is it?”

  “Didn’t you feel …? Something passed between the trees …”

  “I felt a cold waft,” said Gwen. “I think.”

  “Must have been a breeze from the river,” said Dylan. “I didn’t feel anything.”

  CHAPTER IV

  “Please turn towards the sun, hime,” said the painter. “It brings out the inner light in your face.”

  Even the slightest shift of Atsuko’s head was difficult under the coating of thick make-up and the ceremonial robes heaped upon her frail body. The under-layer, the tail-apron, the five-coloured cloth, the glossed robe, the inner uwagi jacket, and the outer coat … the entire outfit weighed half as much as she did, and made it almost impossible to move.

  The court ladies had started, painstakingly, layering the robe around her at dawn, and finished just before noon. The result resembled an upturned rose flower, with pink and red petals flowing from the veranda in cascades of light and colour.

  It was a moment of hubris, if not outright blasphemy, on the part of her husband, the Taikun, to have her dressed like this for the official portrait. These were the robes of an Imperial family member. She had only worn them once before — at the wedding — and expected to be dressed in them at her funeral, but other than that, a Taikun’s wife was destined to wear a simpler garment.

  What had given him the confidence necessary to come up with this idea? Was he asserting himse
lf against the new Mikado through this painting?

  She wished he’d asked her opinion first. The robes were stifling and hot, the under-layer was soaked with sweat, making her too conscious of her odour. The court ladies did their best to waft her with great paper fans, but the artist hired to draw her insisted they stood out of the frame of the painting, which meant the fanning did little to ease her discomfort. Worse still was the rigidness of the pose inflicted upon her by the robes and the painter’s instructions. She had been, of course, trained to withstand any discomfort in the name of elegance, but this was too much even for her. Her left calf itched with an incoming cramp, her neck, twisted unnaturally towards the sun, ached as if on the verge of breaking. A tear trickled from her eye, smudging the make-up, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

  “How long will this take?” she asked through tight, blackened lips.

  “I will have the preliminary sketches ready before the evening prayers, hime,” replied the painter, bowing.

  “Sketches?” She wanted to scowl, but that would ruin the thick coating of powder on her forehead. “Why can’t you draw me like the old masters, in a few strokes of ink?”

  “Hime,” the painter said with an even deeper bow, “his Exaltedness requested this painting to be done in the Western manner, as detailed as possible. For this, I need many sketches.”

  Western manner? What is my fool of a husband thinking?

  “How many copies have you been ordered to make?” she asked.

  “Three, hime. One for the living quarters, one for the audience hall, and one for the embassy at Shimoda.”

  “I see.”

  A gift for the Barbarians. I suppose I should be glad it’s just my portrait he wishes to give away.

  A large black butterfly landed on one of the flowers embroidered on her robe, in a futile attempt at drawing nectar. The painter frowned and gestured at one of the handmaidens. The girl waved the butterfly away, but in doing so, she damaged it. The insect fell to the ground, spreading and folding its gossamer wings in its death throes.

  This was the last straw for Atsuko. The black butterflies were her favourite creatures in the garden. “Enough of this,” she said, and stood up abruptly. The cramped leg buckled and she fell on one of the court ladies. The girl stepped away clumsily, a second too late to either avoid her fall altogether or help her up, and they tumbled down from the veranda. Mud stained the outer robes, and wood splinters tore a gash in the uwagi jacket.