Agent of the Dragon

Deep in the forests of Ellendahl, a woman stepped away from a pool of still water. It had contained images of her daughter. She was proud of her daughter, and more than a little sorry she hadn’t been part of Rhysa’s life. Perhaps she should get a message to Venusia, somehow. No. Rhysa had suffered much, and achieved much; there was no need to cloud her daughter’s mind with might-have-beens.

She turned back to the other members of the council she and Torzhestvo had created many years ago. It was a council of all the magical creatures of Ellendahl’s woodlands. “The immediate threat is over. While we must remain vigilant, we can relax for a time.”

“Then we can disband our armies?” The question came from the leader and representative of the dryads.

“I hope so.” The unicorn representative growled. “I’ve survived war and have no wish to see it again.”

Rhysa’s mother raised her hand, and the rumble quieted. “I think we have no need of the armies we’ve assembled. With the crisis averted, I’m stepping down as commander-in-chief of our combined armies. The war council shall revert to its original purpose: maintaining balance between member races.”

“Very well.” The dragons’ representative looked around. “Shall we now elect a new chair?” There were nods from all the representatives, and the dragon set about overseeing the nomination and election process.

Far to the south, a ship docked at a large town with the odd name of Pisceton. Among the passengers disembarking were an ailing man with a persistent cough, and his caretaker. They found an inn, a place called The Wheel Spoke. It was a pleasant and popular inn. Many travelers stayed there; some were just passing through, others were merchants with business to conduct in Pisceton before moving on. It was a good place, suitable for many purposes.

When they reached the room they’d rented, the man collapsed on the bed and whimpered softly. His caretaker was instantly by his side. “Are you well?” Her voice was full of concern that, to his ears, sounded genuine.

He shook his head slowly and let tears trickle down his cheeks. “No. I burn,” he tapped his heart, “here. Part of me wants nothing more than to kill her, but that part is drowned by the part that wants nothing more than to bask in her presence. I must see her again.”

The woman nodded; she knew the feeling. It kept her here, with this monster, while a small part of her mind pounded on prison walls made of lust and pain. “We’ll need new names.”

Rhysa stood outside the collapsed cave she’d once thought of as home. She’d erected a memorial plinth in front of the entrance, and draped it with flowers and plants Torzhestvo had liked. She lay one last item on the plinth; it had been Hathorina’s gift for the memorial.

“Farewell, Father.” Rhysa had hoped keeping her words formal would keep the tears at bay--it didn’t.

Jagun stepped up, silently put an arm around Rhysa’s shoulders, and let her weep for a father who’d loved his daughter so much, he’d forced her to forget him so she would learn to survive on her own. Hallyk stepped next to them, and looked at Hathorina’s gift. Then he glanced at Jagun, and the three turned to make their way down the mountain to the cortege waiting for them.

After they’d disappeared on their way back to Mestin Reach, a woman stepped from behind a tree. She looked at the item her daughter had placed on the memorial. It was a dragon scale, perforated around the edges and woven with a lock of Rhysa’s hair. In the center was engraved simply: Torzhestvo.

The woman stepped around the memorial to stand directly in front of the collapsed cave. She caressed one of the larger boulders. “Good-bye, my love. You did well. Now it’s my turn.”

***end***

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