Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [230]
“Then—how did they get ahead of it to stop it?” Kieri asked. He dismounted; he wanted to see any tracks for himself.
“Someone already in place,” Siger said. “But how they stopped it, once the flames were moving like that, I don’t know.”
“There’s an arrow,” Carlion said, pointing. He stepped forward.
“Hold!” Kieri said. Carlion stopped, looking back at him in surprise. “We don’t know if the magic is exhausted: I don’t want to risk you.”
“Better me than you, Sir King. You have another good armsmaster, and the world has more of my kind than yours.” Carlion walked out onto the ash some distance and bent to pick up something. Then he whirled to face Kieri.
“Sir King! It is a King’s Squire’s arrow! One of your Squires!” He looked around. “And there’s another—and another—”
“How did the shafts survive?” Kieri asked. “It is not possible …”
“I’ll bring them all,” Carlion called. “Garris knows their marks.”
Shortly he was back, showing the five arrow shafts. “I’d think the shafts would burn, leaving only the metal tips, at most,” Kieri said. He picked up one of the shafts—scorched, indeed, but the pattern of rings that identified the archer still faintly visible on the blackened shaft. He turned it in the dimming light, trying to see … and his heart stopped, then thumped loudly before racing.
“Garris will know,” Carlion said again.
“I know,” Kieri said. It was hard to breathe. “Arian … she was coming back to … to warn …” Tears burned in his eyes; he could not blink them back before they ran down his cheeks into his beard. “She died bravely, as she would,” he said, handing the shaft back to Carlion.
“My lord—” Carlion reached out, but Kieri shook his head.
“Just—let me—” He turned his face to the north wind, struggling against the white rage that he must not indulge. White rage had brought this fire—not his, but someone’s. He had to breathe, he had to go on living, he had to be the king his people needed, and the man Arian had loved.
He looked at Orlith. “What can you tell about this fire—what is it?”
Orlith sniffed. “There’s a scent—” He too dismounted and walked forward. “Iron … stone … blood. It has been long indeed since I smelled it—I should know it, but I cannot quite …” He bent to the tracks the armsmasters had found. “Here a half-elf … but this, that wears man’s boots, does not smell like a man, nor does the taig regard it so.”
“What about these marks?” Siger asked. “I can smell something, but I don’t know what.”
Orlith bent to those and then jerked upright. “Singer’s grace! It cannot be … they never come to settled lands anymore—”
“What?” Kieri asked.
“A dragon,” Orlith said. “A dragon was here.”
“A dragon burned this? The Pargunese have a dragon on their side?”
“No! Never!” Orlith glanced at the other elves. “Dragons—adult dragons—are also creations of the First Singer, and they revere life and justice. They do not interfere in human affairs unless humans interfere in theirs, and we did not. But Pargun, it may be, did. Tell me, did you ever hear of dragons’ eggs?”
“If you mean that old folktale where a fool finds a dragon’s egg and tries to sell the jewels inside, yes. But that’s just a story—parents use it to scare their children, but everyone knows there are no dragons anymore. Camwyn got rid of them.”
“Not … quite.” The speaker, barely visible in the gloom of the undergrowth to the side of the road, stepped out into it. Kieri’s height, dressed like any winter traveler at first glance, leather cloak over leather jerkin, close-fitting shirt and trousers, tall boots. High cheekbones, long nose, slightly mottled dark skin, and surprisingly light tawny eyes gleaming from beneath the hood of his cloak.
Carlion, Siger, and two King’s Squires had drawn blades all around Kieri before he could say anything. Kieri noticed the man wore no sword, not even a dagger.
“Dragon,” Orlith said, hardly loud enough to hear.
The man tipped his head to Orlith, then looked back at Kieri. “You weep,” he said.