“Corruption?” Nemienne repeated uncertainly and grasped after his meaning. “You mean—you mean, Prince Rette? And before that, Prince Gerenes and Prince Tivodd?”
“That is exactly what I mean.” Mage Ankennes gave a short little nod. “Yes. The ill-considered and inevitable betrayals and treacheries of the elder princes were obviously—and predictably—a consequence of the dragon’s baleful influence, increasing through the generations in the family that most depends upon it.”
Nemienne stared at him. This was awful, and yet something about it seemed wrong to her. At first she did not know why she should feel that way. It wasn’t just what Kelle Iasodde said… Then she remembered about Karah and Prince Tepres, and realized she didn’t believe her sister could possibly have fallen in love with the prince if he had really been corrupted by the dragon. But she did not know how to say so to Mage Ankennes.
The mage was not looking at her. He went on, but he was now clearly speaking almost to himself. “The Seriantes of Lirionne have been deaf to all warnings I could give them. They will not set aside this dark draught. Anyone not blinded by the love of power and the ordinary shortsightedness of men could see what the consequences of this must be. I have warned them. They will not hear me. The entire Seriantes line has become inextricably corrupted.”
Nemienne opened her mouth, but then closed it again without protesting. She did not know what to say. She was afraid to say anything. Mage Ankennes was different here within the mountain: He seemed darker, more gripped by purpose, somehow dangerous.
She stared again at the dragon, trying hard to see the evil that Mage Ankennes said was in its heart. Yet she found she could not make herself view the dragon with horror. She might feel terror of such a magnificent creature, at the thought of it waking and lifting its great head, spreading its splendid wings—but not horror. What she felt was still, despite everything the mage had said, something more akin to awe.
“But even quiescent, the Dragon of Lonne is extraordinarily difficult to destroy,” Mage Ankennes concluded. “I had arranged a method that seemed to hold promise, but unfortunately the necessary sacrifice appears to have failed.” He contemplated this failure, eyes hooded and dark.
“Oh,” Nemienne said faintly.
As though this whisper made him suddenly recall her presence, the mage turned his head to look down at Nemienne. “Well,” he said after a moment, his tone once again ordinary and kind, “that is a heavy load to set on small shoulders. Never mind, Nemienne. The dragon and its effluence is a puzzle and a problem for me, not for you. We shall go back to the light and warmth, yes? And you shall tell me again of your night. I should particularly like to hear in more detail your description of the music you believe you heard.” He lowered his lamp, shadows swinging around them in disturbing confusion, and turned back the way they had come.
Nemienne flung a glance back over her shoulder at the supine form of the Dragon of Lonne stretching back and back along the cavern wall. She could not imagine any work of men, even mages, that could destroy such a… creature.
But what she truly found beyond her to imagine, despite all Mage Ankennes had told her, was that anyone, even a mage, ought to destroy it. Such an act seemed somehow… somehow beyond the right ambition of men. “Mage Ankennes understands these great things,” Nemienne whispered to herself, trying to find this thought comforting, and hurried to keep up.
“Tell me again about this music,” Mage Ankennes asked Nemienne, for the sixth time. They were in the mage’s workroom, facing each other across the enormous cluttered table. Mage Ankennes lounged in a large ornate chair of wood and leather. He no longer seemed strange or frightening. Nemienne perched on a high stool that was exactly the right height to let her prop her elbows on the table and tried not to think of how he had seemed while in the dragon’s cavern. She tried instead to think of new ways to describe the piping she’d heard under the mountain. She had no idea why the first five times she had described it hadn’t been adequate; she’d even tried to hum the melody she remembered, though it escaped her best efforts. Now she dredged through her memory for details she might have missed previously.
Mage Ankennes frowned even after she had done her best, but only thoughtfully, not as though he was angry or disappointed. “A low line and a high one,” he mused, but more as though he spoke to himself than to her. “And the pipes you saw at Cloisonné House were twin pipes, of ivory and gold. Pipes that the heir had given her, or so you were told. But broken.”