The Dragon's Son Read Online Free

lords in sumptuous clothes rode
past, carrying hooded falcons and hawks upon their wrists, sometimes stopping
along the way to let them fly. Their ladies came behind, riding in sedan chairs
or on dainty palfreys. The ladies laughed and sang and sweetened the air with
their perfume. A tinker’s wagon rattled past, his pots banging and clattering.
A party of monks walked the road, their heads bowed and their eyes fixed on the
ground, so that they would not look upon a woman. A troupe of traveling actors
rolled their gaudy wagons past, drawing attention to themselves by beating a
drum and blowing blasts on an off-key trumpet.
    Sometimes fellow travelers would call out greetings to Bel-lona. She never
responded or even looked at them. She trudged the road in stoic silence,
pushing the heavy cart, where Ven rode, brushing the fur pelts and smoothing
them with his hands to make them shine and to keep off the dust of the road.
The only people to whom Bellona deigned to speak were those who stopped to look
at the furs and try to wangle a deal.
    Since she was going to the faire, Bellona could afford to refuse to bargain,
and though most shook their heads at her demands and turned away, now and then
some wealthy merchant or noble lord would pay her what she asked or barter with
her for something she needed.
    At these times, Ven was forced to clamber out of the wagon and stand beside
it. His wool trousers and tunic hid the scales, but they could not hide the fact
that he did not walk or stand like a normal boy. Depending on their quality and
breeding, the customers either would pretend not to notice him; regard him with
kind, but pitying smiles; or coarsely laugh. Ven knew enough not to answer
back, for, as Bellona said, their coin was good if their manners were not.
    Ven didn’t mind the looks that consigned him to nothingness. He didn’t
really mind the rude stares. The looks he hated were those filled with gentle
pity. He would rather have them knock him down.
    The deal concluded, Bellona would put the money in a leather bag she carried
inside her tunic and lift the handles of the cart. Ven would climb up onto the
furs and they would start once more on their way.
    At night, when he lay on a mattress of pelts, blinking drowsily at the
stars, he would wander into his cavern, there to relive, in the soothing
darkness, the clamor and the voices and the looks. This day had been a long
one, the journey tiring. He decided to risk venturing into his cave. He was
half-asleep when he heard something snuffling about his mind, peering and
poking and prodding at the chinks.
    Fear gripped him, jolted him to wakefulness. Colors filled Ven’s eyes. The
dragon called to him, urged him to answer.
    “Son,” the dragon said, his colors pretty and wheedling, his claws hidden. “My
son. Tell me where to find you.”
    Ven did not want the dragon to find him and so he curled up in a tight ball
in the very center of his cave and, eventually, the dragon grew frustrated and
went away.
    The dragon—his father.
     

3
     
    “where is he, minister?” demanded the old dragon irritably. “Draconas is
late.”
    “He is on his way,” Anora replied, her colors conciliatory. “The summons was
unexpected. He required time to travel here.”
    “The reason it was unexpected is that he has cut himself off from us,”
Malfiesto continued, his colors red and angry.
    “Can you blame him?” Anora returned, frost blue. “Two of us are dead. His
own life is in peril. He believes it is for the best—and I agree—that we have
as little contact as possible. It was with great reluctance that I called this
meeting of the Parliament.”
    Draconas, who was the subject of this conversation, could hear it clearly as
he walked the winding and twisting corridors that led to the secret cavern far
below ground. The path he walked was pitch dark, but he needed no light.
Although his eyes had the appearance of human eyes, he could see in the
darkness far better than any