Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [0]
OF THE
DRAGON
Tor Books by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Bones of the Dragon
Secret of the Dragon
SECRET
OF THE
DRAGON
MARGARET WEIS
AND
TRACY HICKMAN
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
SECRET OF THE DRAGON
Copyright © 2010 by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-1974-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-2692-8 (first international trade paperback edition)
First Edition: March 2010
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Brian Thomsen,
with much affection
PROLOGUE
I am Farinn the Talgogroth, the Voice of Gogroth, God of the World Tree. Attend me! For now I will tell the tale of Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, the greatest of the Chiefs.” He paused and then said, with a sigh, “The greatest and the last.”
The pause was for dramatic effect. The sigh was genuine. Farinn the Talgogroth was an old, old man, the oldest in the Vindrasi nation. Being a Talgogroth, he knew the history of the Vindrasi, and he maintained proudly that he was the oldest Torgun who had ever lived, reckoning that he had seen eighty-five years. He was the only living Vindrasi who had actually known and sailed with the fabled Skylan Ivorson on his epic voyage in the dragonship that was now almost as legendary as its master, the Venjekar.
There was some bustle in the hall, as the women poured mugs of ale, then sat down on the long bench beside their men. Children ceased romping and ran to sit on the floor in front of the Talgogroth so as not to miss a word, for the old man’s voice—once a vibrant tenor—now tended to be thin and cracked. The Vindrasi had heard this story many times before, but it was one of their favorites and they never tired of listening. Every child there, boy and girl, dreamed of growing up to be a hero like Skylan or Garn or Aylaen or Bjorn or Erdmun or the others whose names rang through the hall.
All now dead. All except the one who had been the youngest on that voyage. The old man regarded the children with wistful sorrow.
The tale he told could be likened to a tapestry in which bright colored threads were stitched close together to form a stirring and beautiful picture of brave men and women doing battle with fearsome enemies. Viewed from the front, the tapestry appeared flawless. Every stitch was perfectly sewn, each thread blending together in harmony with every other thread to form a wondrous picture.
Seen from the back, the picture was not as pretty. The embroidery that was smooth and beautiful and glowing on the front looked broken and fragmented when viewed from the other side. Threads were knotted, snarled, or tangled. Some of the threads had snapped and had to be tied to other threads. If the strand had frayed, the thread was pulled out and tossed away and another, stronger thread used in its place.
Farinn the Talgogroth told the tale as seen from the front. He knew quite well that if the people saw it from the back, no one would ever want to listen to it. All men need heroes and they need their heroes to be perfect; never mind that it is the knots in the threads on the back of the tapestry that make the work strong and enduring.
The Talgogroth’s grandson, who was now in his forties and would be Talgogroth when his grandfather died (Farinn had outlived both his sons), brought the old man a mug of ale. Farinn took a drink, to ease the dryness in his throat, and began to speak.
“Hear now the tale of Skylan Ivorson, son of Norgaard Ivorson, Chief of the Torgun during the time of what would become known as the Last War, the War of the Gods.
“Skylan Ivorson had seen eighteen winters when the first spark of the raging fire that would eventually