There Weren't Always Dragons

 

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. At least there hadn't been, but imagination was a powerful thing in Kourin’s hands.

 

A hush came over the great hall of Illyria as a gust of wind extinguished the braziers that lined the walls, like a breath blowing out candles. An uneasy anticipation gripped the room as the court waited in silent darkness. Slowly, motes of blue-white phosphorescence faded into existence, drifting up to the ceiling like bubbles, bathing the roof mosaics in eerie light. All eyes turned up to the serpentine dragon depicted there, its emerald body coiled around a lake like the hills of a valley, its wicked claws reaching up from the lake’s depths, trying to drag the island city of Illyria down into the water. Conversely, its great maw was turned towards the sky, roaring, forked tongue hissing, beckoning life giving rains to the city below.

 

Mist seeped out of the ceiling, imperceptibly at first, but soon it enveloped the mosaic in thick, menacing rain clouds. Shadows slithered in the backlit fog for a moment before the motes winked out of existence and darkness took over the room again. Then, light flashed through the gray clouds accompanied by the rumble of thunder and the gentle patter of rain that eased into the scene, promising a storm at any moment. There was a great deal of murmuring and pointing, of people saying they thought they saw something moving in the gloom. As if to prove them right, there was just enough light to make out a swishing of the still clouds, to glimpse a slithering tail, a menacing claw. The murmuring got louder.

 

There was a violent flash and those watching flinched away, gasping in fear as lightning streaked the air above them and thunder rang in their ears. When they had recovered their senses, the braziers were burning bright again and there was a dragon in their midst. Vivid, rippling muscles beneath an alluring scale hide of gradating emerald and sea green, turquoise and aquamarine, clawed legs dancing through the air. There were gasps from the crowd as a great yellow snake eye surveyed them knowingly, wet tongue licking at rows of razor sharp teeth.

 

“Marvellous.” The Archon of Illyria fumbled the word out around a mouthful of food, and his few lazy claps led a chorus of unsure applause from the crowd. “Truly, marvellous. More wine!”

 

Kourin’s heart sank, but he took the hint. Above him his illusion continued to whirl, but he brought it close enough to the crowd that they could feel the rush of wind, smell the scent of burning incense, feel the adrenaline in their chests as the constructs claws raked the air around them. After he had given everyone a good long look, the dragon swerved, jaw snapping viciously as it dived towards him. At the last moment his illusion veered to miss him, circling around his body and up into the air in a blur of color. Its scales became a shower of silver sparks that built to a crescendo of multicoloured explosions as the dragon disappeared, leaving the onlookers staring up at the Archon’s beautiful mosaic ceilings.

 

“A round of applause for Kourin Ynzunza, mage from the far west!” Someone announced, and indeed there was a thunderous applause. Kourin felt himself beam, soaking it in. The Archon might not have reacted with the enthusiasm he’d been hoping for, but everyone else had. He somehow remembered to bow, once for his audience and once for the Archon himself just like he’d been told, before hurrying off the floor. He felt relief flood through him as he stepped out of the spotlight, but at the same time a little shaky as the adrenaline wore off. It was a good feeling.

 

It quickly became apparent to him that the spotlight wasn’t going anywhere, as a multitude of people gathered around him, pushing through each other to get to him, talk to him, shake his hand. He was carried from one introduction to another, names and faces immediately lost in the sea of courtiers and aristocrats, garments and gowns. He did his best to politely make his way through the crowd, not really sure where he was going, just knowing that he wanted to get away from the attention.

 

They were all so excited to talk to him, it was overwhelming. One man wearing a ridiculous plumed hat offered a strange greeting and a visit to Kaemenor, far to the east. Kourin had no interest in accepting, he was far enough from home already, but by the end of their short exchange of words he was pretty sure he had somehow agreed to the proposal. Before he could clear up the issue he was being introduced to a duke, who at least greeted him with the customary bow but who spoke too fast and in an accent too distinct from Illyrian for Kourin to catch more than half of what was said. Here, too, he felt that he made a mistake, as he replied in his tongue tied mockery of the language and watched the Duke’s face scrunch up in confusion. He was in the process of mumbling out an apology when he was interrupted again.

 

“How did you do that?” a young woman asked, her flushed face looking up at him wide eyed. Kourin had to pause for a long moment.

 

“You mean the dragon?” People were always shocked and delighted by magic, but didn’t usually ask how it worked.

 

“A trick of the light my dear, nothing more.” Someone answered for him, the Duke maybe, and Kourin was rolling his eyes before they even started speaking. People could be so ignorant.

 

“Well, there is a little more to it than that.” Kourin said to anyone that was listening. “You see illusions are simple figments of light and shadow, they give you the visuals without any substance.” He conjured for the woman a shower of silver flames cascading down her already resplendent gown. There were some murmurs from the crowd, and a bit of sporadic clapping from a few people.

 

“Maybe you heard the snapping of its jaws, or the heat from its breath?” Kourin asked his fan, who nodded vigorously.

“Well those aren’t a trick of the light.” he concentrated on making the flames crackle, on filling the air with the smell of pyrotechnics, on creating the imitation of heat where there was none. The woman jumped out of her skin and gave a little yelp, but then the flames washed away like they were never there. She smiled sheepishly at the nervous laughter around them as she realized she was fine.

 

“Believable constructs require smell, sound, and sensation, not just tricks of the light. So it’s really a-“ he struggled for a moment to find the word. “A working of two kinds of magic. A visual illusion, sometimes, but also a kind of enchantment that go together hand in hand.”

 

“Enchantment? You mean you controlled our minds?” There was some grumbling now from the crowd, and it just now occurred to Kourin that not everyone would be happy to learn how his illusions worked.

 

“Well, in a way, but-“

 

“Forgive my apprentice, lords and ladies, he gets a little excited talking about his work, such as it is.” Kourin was at once relieved and dismayed to see Ezequiel walk out of the crowd, doing a lot of hand waving as if to urge for calm. “His magic is entertaining, nothing more.”

 

Kourin saw him doing a lot more than hand waving, the threads of power thick in the air around them. It was a complicated pattern, one that he wouldn’t have been able to decipher if it hadn’t been so similar to his own magic. His master was muddling the minds of the crowd around them, clouding the particular memory of Kourin’s indulgent explanation until it felt to them like nothing but a distant dream.

 

“My apologies, lords and ladies.”

 

“No harm done. Young men can be quite excitable.”

 

“After the ladies attention no doubt.” There was a chorus of chuckles, not least of all from the lady in question, who giggled drunkenly. Kourin felt himself blush, suddenly aware of how dumb he must have sounded with his cumbersome tongue, of how much of a stranger he was in this land.

 

“Yes, quite. Please, excuse us.” Kourin grimaced as Ezequiel grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and dragged him away from the scene to a secluded corner of the room.

 

“You should know better than to divulge about our craft. No one likes understanding how they were duped into seeing a magical dragon burst into pretty lights. What storybook inspired that fantasy, anyway?” Kourin flinched but started to explain. He had studied the Illyrian creation myth almost from the first moment he set foot at court, fascinated to find such belief in a dragon god whose rains are simultaneously life-giving, yet who brings yearly floods to the city.

 

“Speak up.” Ezequiel scowled at him, and Kourin knew his master wouldn’t care to hear his explanation even if he did say it again.

 

“I’m sorry, I just got caught up in everything.” He said instead, but Ezequiel didn’t seem to hear him.

 

“I have enough going on without worrying that you’ll work the court into a frenzy. This isn’t Ara Quorem you know, it wasn’t so long ago these people were burning practitioners at the stake.” He jabbed Kourin in the chest with a thick, wrinkled finger. “Don’t speak about magic again. Avoid the topic entirely. No one here needs to know how it works, only that it does and that you and I are the only ones that can do it. Understood?”

 

“Yes.” He wished, just then, that he was back home in Ara Quorem. Wished he could cross the sea in an instant and be back among the familiar people speaking a familiar language in a familiar place.

 

Ezequiel meanwhile had walked up to a table full of platters of food, dragging him along, and started browsing the selection of what seemed to Kourin to be deeply unappetizing dishes. “The word you were looking for is weave, by the way, not working. And you still sound like you’re choking when you speak. I can’t believe I still have to teach you basic Illyrian. You’ll review pronunciation tomorrow morning.” Kourin just nodded, looking around desperately for someone to come interrupt them, to give him a way out.

 

“Sulk all you want, but keep the entertainment going. And don’t mingle so much, everyone here is eyeing you like you were an appetizer.” he said, popping a piece of dark fruit covered in honey into his mouth and licking his fingers. “I have a busy night ahead of me.” That caught Kourin’s attention. Ezequiel would certainly not be entertaining courtiers.

 

“What are you going to do? Is something going on?” Kourin didn’t disguise his curiosity, but he wished he had when Ezequiel shot him a withering glare.

 

“You need to learn to be more discrete.” Ezequiel again pulled him away from anyone that might overhear.

 

“I might be able to help-“

 

“A lot more is going on than you know. You didn’t think we were here just to be dinner entertainment did you?” Ezequiel looked Kourin up and down, like he was appraising a mediocre sculpture. “Well, you might be. I am here because the Archon needs to reign in his court.” Ezequiel looked around them pointedly. “All these people are conspiring against him, looking for a way to seize power from him, looking to leave the league he leads and weaken him irrevocably.”

 

“I thought the league was a defensive alliance, with all its member city states being autonomous. If they all want to leave than why are they here?”

 

“Fear.” The way he said it didn’t sit well with Kourin. “Fear makes Illyria one of the most prosperous and powerful cities in the world.”

 

“What are you going to do?” Kourin whispered.

 

“What I’m being paid for.” Ezequiel's attention had already been pulled away from Kourin as someone came out of the crowd beckoning. Kourin didn’t know him, but given the quick, silent conversation of looks they had, he was important enough that Ezequiel did.

 

“Stay out of the way. This will be over quickly.” With that Ezequiel left, cutting a swath through the crowd as people scrambled to get out of the way of his slow, deliberate tread. Kourin felt himself disappear, just another courtier among many, out of the loop. His admirers had melted away into the whirling dance taking place in the center of the hall, or gone off drinking and talking court gossip. He thought about joining them.

 

Dancing looked like fun, but too fast and complicated, and he had never been a good dancer even when he knew the proper steps. He could mingle, perhaps, though he didn’t really know anyone and probably couldn’t contribute much to the conversation. No, better that he stay out of the way just like he’d been told. Instead he conjured up dancers, exotic and hypnotizing, draped in vibrant fabrics, that seemed to drift out of the walls of the hall, to the delight of people in the crowd. At least they seemed excited, getting closer to inspect his creations. They’re curiosity wouldn’t last long, these were just illusions, ones that wouldn’t tax his concentration. Still, their momentary attention was satisfying.

 

Kourin made his way to the front of the room and found a little nook in the wall, out of the way. He saw that Ezequiel had gone to Lisandro, Archon of Illyria, and leaned in close to speak to him. Everyone seemed to do that at the Archon’s court, like everything they said was a secret meant to leave Kourin in the dark. Besides Ezequiel, Lisandro was probably the only person here that he had ever actually spoken to. There was something about Lisandro’s thin features though, about the way he wore an annoyed snarl, that made him a little uneasy. Kourin wondered again what Ezequiel’s job was tonight.

 

Then Ezequiel was walking away, and Lisandro was standing up, clanging a glass to get everyone’s attention. “I trust everyone is enjoying the pleasures of my hospitality.” His voice easily carried throughout the room, and Kourin suspected Ezequiel’s hand. “It is such a splendid night to honor the delegation from Tarantas, our treasured ally.” He gestured over to a table at the front of the hall, where a small gaggle of people were looking around as if they hadn’t been expecting to have everyone's attention called to them.

 

“The peoples of Illyria and Tarantas have a long and prosperous history together, as I’m sure you all know.” That wasn’t so evident to Kourin given how uneasy the Tarantian delegation was looking. “Perhaps this is why I was so disappointed when, earlier today, the Duke Ferran informed me of his cities intention to secede from the league.”

 

“Is this really the time…”

 

“None better.” Lisandro interrupted the Duke. Though Kourin had to agree with Ferran, he felt like he was listening to a very private conversation and had no way of getting out of it. “You’ve come here with an intention, so declare it openly. You would weaken us even as we face a wave of foreign aggression. Such a thing should be heard by all of your allies, whom you would choose to abandon.”

 

There was a tense, heavy pause as the duke thought long and hard about what he was going to say next.

 

“You’re a tyrant, and this ceased to be an alliance long ago. Your fear mongering, your attacks on our autonomy, your intimidation tactics…” The duke gestured towards Kourin. What was that supposed to mean? Kourin noticed his concentration had slipped, his constructs fading like shadows against the palace walls. “We’re done Lisandro.”

 

“Done?” Lisandro narrowed his eyes. “Very well.” He turned his attention back to the rest of the crowd, all the other courtiers hanging on to every word. “I just thought you should hear it from him, before I do what’s necessary.”

 

The Archon gestured carelessly with one hand, waving the problem away. In the blink of an eye Ezequiel appeared behind Ferran, his hand flashing out, encased in blue fire. The flames stuck to Ferran, ignoring his fine clothes and squirming their way through to the flesh underneath. The duke yelled and slapped at them, trying to smother them or wipe them off. He only succeeded in spreading them faster, as the flame lept to new parts of his body given the slightest chance.

 

He screamed a soul piercing scream as he realized what was inevitable, as the flames spread hungrily over his flesh, as his skin sizzled from the heat. The living flame did its work quickly. It crawled up over the duke’s face, melting away his flesh to reveal the skull underneath in seconds as it enveloped his head. Mercifully, his screams ended, and as soon as there was nothing more to devour the flame burnt out, and the corpse fell to the floor with a rattle.

 

There was plenty of screaming from the rest of the court too, though Kourin barely heard it. He felt like screaming himself, felt like he might vomit. He thought there should have been some kind of acrid smell or lingering viscera, but there was nothing except hollow bones. The flame had consumed everything. Kourin felt like he was in a dream.

 

He looked to his teacher, the only person he knew in this place. Ezequiel had calmly bound the duke's entourage in wrought iron chains that anchored themselves to nothing, suspending them spread eagle in the air as they watched their leader burn alive. A few shouted obscenities or threats or simply cried out before they found their faces sealed – smooth skin where their mouths had been. Kourin watched Ezequiel hold a finger to his lips.

 

As Ezequiel floated the chained, mute captives writhing from the great hall, Lisandro somehow pulled everyone’s attention and seemed to tower over them. “You elected me your Archon to preserve and lead this league.” His smile flashed wicked teeth as if to say some dragons were real. “I hope the lengths I will go to in order to carry out that mandate are now clear.”

 

Kourin still hadn’t picked his jaw up off the floor when the ruler of the League turned to him, bemusement in his eyes.

 

“Why did you stop, boy? I have guests to entertain.”