The dragon dreamed. Streams of stars, galaxies and constellations, whole worlds tossed and turned in its great gaze, before vanishing away into nothing. Her consciousness rode on the waves of the cosmos, unmoored, a dangerous form of spirit-walking even for her kind – the risk of dissolution was immense. She had no choice, could no longer contain the immensity of her spirit within the ageing confines of her body – she dreamed.

—The sun beat down on her glinting scales, matching the burning warmth within as her massive leathery wings hammered through the air. Unbridled joy suffused her, at the ease with which she powered through the air – at the fear of her that coursed upward. She bugled loudly, a cry of triumph and rage – these puny things dared to encroach upon her mountain: without warning, she dived, a stream of raw fire bursting out of her bejewelled throat, incinerating the little bags of meat and bone. Their wails drifted thinly on the air, only memory now. She trumpeted again, a soaring mass of aggression and power: she owned these skies. In the distance, an answering call sounded.

—Dank, warm, moist stone – sensations assailed her. A thin stream of cool air blew over her scales, dull and colourless with age. Eyelids encrusted with age creaked open, rheumy white eyes looked out and saw:

—nothing but white, slashing snow that covered the world. She had drifted too far south, too long searching for another. Her kind were dwindling, fading, and she alone remained. No magic, no call, no presence snagged in her consciousness and now she was trapped, the warmth slowly leeching out of her, dying. Below, atop a glacier, three motionless dark forms stood, arms raised, keening. Fear stabbed into her heart, for even her kind had cause to fear these creatures. A roar of fear and pain ripped out of her and somewhere, somewhen, something responded in kind

—And her spirit snapped back, animating ancient muscle and bone. Desperate, pathetically, her claws scrabbled against the stone. She was safe, in the here and now. But for how long? Of creatures and spirits long dead did she dream, and their memory could spill out of her, reborn in her madness, into creation. Seshkozhiel needed to find a solution, needed help. She opened her eyes and saw:

**

The heavy gold of his chain of office glinted in the light, swinging off his chest. The Chancellor was hunched over his desk, peering at a much crumpled letter by the light of a single candle. Apart from his desk, and stuffed bookcase, there was no other furniture in the sparse, austere room. Lean, fit and powerful despite his greying hair, his office was a reflection of his personality; it was a sign of status to have others stand in your seated presence. A knock interrupted his thoughts and he scrambled to stuff the letter in a draw.

‘Come in.’

A servant, clad in the blue and white palace livery scurried in under a stack of paperwork. The chancellor raked his assessing gaze over the boy, finding nothing of interest, irritation sparked in his gaze.

‘Out with it boy, what brings you here?’

The servant boy dropped the paperwork on his desk in an untidy sprawl. ‘Sorry, you’re Lordship, but I was instructed to deliver these to you,’ he said, dropping his blonde head in deference.

‘Yes, I can see that fool, but who sent you?’ It was late, and he refrained from asking the obvious, why was it being delivered now and not with the morning round? The boy hesitated, unsure of where to go from here. He had been ordered to deliver the papers and leave, nothing more, and paid well for it too. Keen interest gleamed in the chancellor’s eyes now, as the boy wrestled with himself and more details emerged in the flickering, yet bright light: the boy’s tussled hair, bleary eyes and unkempt appearance meant he’d been wakened for this job, a fact which begged even more questions.

He reached into a draw, pulling out a purse that chinked heavily as he placed it on the desk. All palace servants were spies for one noble or other, and a boy as young as this – most likely just off the street – was probably still up for sale.

‘You’re afraid to lose what might be a profitable patronage, not something the likes of you come across easily,’ the words were said without censure, only understanding. ‘Fear not lad, it’s expected of you. Here, a gold crown for your troubles and your report.’ He threw the coin at the startled lad, who gawked at it. It was more then he could expect to make in a year; in a flash it was gone, secreted on his person.

Still appearing uncomfortable, he hesitated again as one of the most powerful men in the kingdom watched him calmly over laced fingers. ‘Well, strictly speaking Sir, I don’t really know anything…It was an unmarked man who gave me the instructions…’ He glanced up quickly, but reverted to staring at his feet almost instantly. He paused expectantly, heart pounding in his chest.

The chancellor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, as he realised the boy was awaiting more coins for his trouble and he threw back his head, roaring with laughter. ‘By the Gods’ boy! You have some nerve,’ he chuckled. ‘Another crown for you bold faced audacity.’

The boy grinned, glinting gold vanishing as fast as it was revealed.

Confidence rising, his shaking knees firmed. ‘I was instructed to tell you he was from the Chapel of Sorgo.’ The boy’s frown indicated the name was unfamiliar to him, as well it should be. The words hung in the air for a moment, seeming to gather weight in the silence. The candle flickered, small flame nearly winking out of existence. Under the chancellor’s cupped hands, it firmed. His dark eyebrows drew down, face forbidding. The boy had been right to hesitate before saying the name of that dreaded sect of mystics. He clearly had little knowledge of them, else very little would have brought him to say it aloud, certainly not a measly few crowns.

‘Strange,’ he meandered on, forgetting who he was speaking to, ‘everyone knows only assassins and thieves go around unmarked and even then, they’ve sense enough to be discreet about it. Whoever this Sorgo fellow is he wants to be notice’— the flow of words faltered, eyes widened as they focused back onto the hawkish eyes that glared at him.

‘Say nothing of this to anyone!’ he heard hissed from behind clenched teeth. ‘It’s worth more then your life boy, mark my words.’ The boy nodded solemnly, clearly terrified. ‘If not for the sense of your words, and your usefulness as a spy, you’d be dead, make no mistake. Now be gone from here and forgot this ever occurred.’

Without another word the boy turned and fled.

Moments afterward, the chancellor’s laughter rang out in the night.

*

Chancellor Marcus de Adair sat, unmoved. The pile of missives he left untouched, knowing nothing of import was contained therein. As the candle stick burned to a stub, a soft scratching came from his right. He stirred at long last, flowing into motion, swiftly lighting a strong lantern meant for just such a time as this. He strode over to the bookcase, touching several seemingly random titles fleetingly. The effect was instantaneous as a man shaped door of books swung outward with barely a squeak.

An old man in a night robe stared at him, blinking owlishly in the sudden flood of light. ‘Oh really, Marcus, is that necessary?’ he snapped irritably. ‘You knew very well it was me.’

Marcus smiled, the effect making him seem ten years younger. It had been too long. ‘Serves you right for the tripe you fed the boy earlier, you conniving old fraud. Chapel of Sorgo indeed.’

The old man chuckled ruefully. ‘Ah yes, that. You must admit it was amusing,’ he said, casually moving into the room, seating himself in a chair that plainly had not been there a moment ago. Marcus’ lips twitched, it was easy to forget that this man was one of the most powerful wizards still living. A roaring fireplace soon eased the ageing Spymaster’s tired bones.

‘That nest of deluded monks weren’t so amusing when they were inciting riots, proclaiming the end was nigh.’ He calmly readjusted his robes as he seated himself once more, hidden doorway once more an ordinary bookcase. ‘You know your little ploy with the servant boy will fire up the rumour mill,’ he remarked.

‘Good,’ his old mentor replied. ‘It’s been far too quiet around here lately, makes me suspicious, and more importantly, bored.’

‘It’s the dead of winter, Sera, what did you expect?’

Behind this question a tentative inquiry lurked – just where had he been that was so exciting as to make the cutthroat politics of the Capital boring?

‘I expected Caelum to impress you.’

‘And impress me he did, a pickpocket, yes? I did wonder how he ended up in palace livery. Your influence no doubt.’

‘That was all his own doing, but he is quick and talented, and with training, he’ll be quite the agent.’

Marcus nodded assent, he didn’t doubt the old man’s eye. ‘And the real reason you’re here?’

The old man leaned forward, eyes lit with a familiar conspiratorial gleam. His frail body fairly quivered with excitement. With his balding head, slightly singed tufts of white hair poking out from behind his ears, and fiercely intelligent green eyes, he looked quite demented. ‘I’ve found the lair of Seshkozhiel.’

Marcus froze, stunned for a moment only, before he leapt up and began pacing furiously. ‘You’re sure of this Sera Aya?’ he demanded. His mind raced at the implications.

Wordlessly, Aya nodded. .

‘I’ve got the marking to prove it,’ he added, pointing to the singed tufts of hair.

Marcus’ eyes widened. ‘You approached the lair of one of the last known and most notorious Dragon Lords – alone?’

‘Well I hardly knew whose lair I was trespassing on, now did I.’

Aya squirmed under his former protégé’s sceptical gaze. ‘Bah! Pointless specifics mean nothing boy, think of the potential, the importance of this find!’

As quickly as it had come, the excitement rushed out of Marcus, leaving him drained. ‘And what can I do? I’m a free agent no longer,’ he said, fingering his chain of office with bitterness written on his face.

‘Come now Marcus, self-pity ill becomes you. And you know very well that title does little to restrict you – in truth, most of the tedious details are dealt with by your very able assistant’

‘But appearances—‘

‘Will be kept,’ came the smooth interruption. ‘Congratulations, Chancellor, your status can only rise upon your diplomatic mission to the Queendom of Mersinias.’

‘And the King -’

‘Gives his full support; he only wishes he could accompany you.’

Cautious hope began to emerge in his eyes as the prospect of returning to his roving assignments on behalf of the Crown, solidified into a very possibility. For his old mentor, it was almost painful to watch.

‘What will I need?’ he asked, trying to get a rein on his rampant excitement.

‘Your humanity,’ the wizard said.

Marcus stared at him, nonplussed. Aya seemed suddenly lonely, in his night robe, on the chair, toying with a great golden ring, inset with a brilliant amethyst.

‘There are benefits, as you know, to being a wizard. Our abilities, our longevity – for the trueblood anyway, the inherent status…but it is nonetheless incredibly sad to realise you are different. It is so lonely.’

Marcus was more then concerned at this sudden bout of vulnerability from his master, his sera, the man whose boundless enthusiasm, skilled passion and cunning had kept this nation protected for so long.

‘Sera –

‘Hush, Marcus, I can teach you no more. That title is bestowed upon you now, for another. What I mean by all this, dear boy, is that the Dragon Seshkozhiel will not tolerate the presence of a wizard – his kind have long been wary of mine, but ever since…’

‘The War of Cages,’ Marcus finished.

‘Yes, their hostility has increased tenfold and with due reason. I cannot approach her, as it is, I was lucky to get away alive.’ He ran a hand through his singed tufts. ‘You, however, should be able to slip past her guard. She is ageing, even for a dragon, and the danger’s are immense – in her delirium, she can cause unimaginable damage – this is not only a mission of retrieval, but of execution.’

Sweat slipped down his back, the robe of office clinging to him slightly. The flames roared in the hearth, and for a moment, he almost imagined he saw a giant golden eye staring out at him. He shivered, casting off his flight of fancy. From beneath the shutters, the dim grey light of dawn filtered in. Marcus rubbed tired eyes as Aya prepared to leave, the preliminary meeting over. There would be more discussion of this later no doubt, down to the intricate details of the mission. The hidden door swung open.

‘Sera Aya,’ Marcus said with a pained expression, ‘if you would, please.’

Aya chuckled from the doorway, waving a hand behind him carelessly. The room shimmered, and changed back to its normal state.

*

As the announcement of the chancellor’s imminent departure swept the Palace, and the outer city, a sense of excitement and anticipation stirred the populace out of its winter lethargy. The massive city of Carinae, capital of the Kingdom of Rho sparkled under a light haze of snow – an unusual event in the naturally tropic city.

An army of servants charged through the broad avenues of streets that spread out from the hub of the giant metropolis, gradually thinning and winding, criss-crossing through the Artisan and Noble Quarters into the Poor Quarter of narrow alleys, thousands of shanties and garrison outposts, decking out the Processional Way for the ceremonial launching of the diplomatic mission to their warrior neighbours. The mercantile people of Rho loved theatre, and repressed for so long by the inclement weather, turned out in force for this event.

Bright streamers decorated the streets, with pennants and shop stalls setting up all along the route as eager merchants seized upon this chance to sell their goods. Roving minstrels and performers plied the crowds as the day took on a festive air with the Crown distributing free food and drink. Munching happily on some hot mutton, Caelum pushed his way through the crowd. None of his usual cronies would recognise him now, he thought happily, decked out as he was in some new britches and a blue tunic, over which a comfortable travellers cloak kept off the cold. He looked quite the charming squire. And it was thanks to his lordship the chancellor no less, ever since that night he had delivered those missives.

His fortunes were rising; there was no doubt about that. Only a moon’s phase earlier he’d been nothing more then a malnourished street rat, running the odd errand for the street gangs or shadowy Under-guild. A fierce will to live drove him; at twelve he’d already seen too much death, decay and despair. So it was that he was on the look out for opportunities to advance his station in life. When a frantic, and none too sober noble’s son had accosted him on the street, all those weeks ago, desperate for a way home he had seized the opportunity and wrested a promise from the man to be put up in the palace. Knowing the man’s lineage and House (he’d been foolish enough to wear House clothing during his excesses) had been the deciding factor and now he found himself in the eye of the chancellor himself!

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of trumpets and marching boots. Small and wiry, he managed to slip and dart his way through the crowd till he reached the edge and was able to see two cohorts of the King’s Army in full battle regalia marching in lockstep. In the middle of the ranks of soldiers an open horse carriage was being pulled by four matching black stallions. Standing atop it in the official robes and wearing the chain of office of the chancellor, Marcus de Adair waved, smiling hugely.

Something wasn’t quite right with the picture though, it was as if the image was distorted, and flickering. Caelum felt his heart stop. He got a cold tingle just from looking at the man, as if something was trying to assert itself over his vision but kept breaking against him, like a wave against the cliffs. He turned to the roaring fat man next to him, his whole body shaking as he shook his fists in a show of patriotism. Caelum tried to keep his footing and not be swept away, as he hailed the man’s attention.

‘Is that the Chancellor?’ he said, eyes bright, in a show of childish innocence.

‘Of course, child!’ the fat man screamed at him, face ruddy in the bright light.

Well, that was that. Still, he hesitated. He had to be sure.

‘Are…are you sure?’ he ventured, scampering backward as the man’s eyes bulged in outrage and he began screaming obscenities. After he judged the distance safe enough, he turned his back on the man only to slam into someone. He stared up at the kindly old man who beamed down at him.

‘My dear boy, how are you?’

Caelum glared suspiciously at him. Clad in nondescript clothes, of a nonetheless fine quality, he had the look of a genteel old grandfather. The image would have been complete if it weren’t for the eyes, deadly grey and alive with knowledge. It made for a sinister tableau.

‘Beggin’ your pardon sir, but does I know ya?’ he said, slipping into a street-brat’s tongue.

His captor – hand lightly holding onto Caelum’s arm with astounding strength – continued to smile. ‘A foolish tongue to slip into, given the quality of your clothes boy – unless you’re a remarkably better thief then I imagined.’

Caelum cursed his slip in three different dialects. ‘What do you want, old geezer? I ain’t done nothing. Just leave me be.’ He heaved at the arm holding him, but he might as well have been tied to a mountain for all the good it did him. As he turned to shout for help, he felt something heavy smack into the back of his head. The last words he heard sent a stab of fear through his heart.

‘My name is Aya, and I have a proposition for you.’