The Forging of the Dragon (Wizard and Dragon Book 1) Read Free

firmly. It was the proper answer — the one these very elders had themselves taught him — but this time, both men turned to look at him as if he’d uttered an obscenity.
    Ranoth sniffed and glanced away, but Seagryn knew the old cleric had not taken his inward eyes off of him. “Ever notice, Seagryn, how judgment upon anyone leaves scorch marks on all those nearby?” Seagryn pondered that, but thought it wise not to try to reply. He was being instructed and he knew enough to recognize it. “I’m not really certain that the One we do not name is all that pleased that the old One Land is so divided up. After all, there were once believers in all the lands ...”
    Seagryn didn’t allow his mouth to sag open in shock, but he felt it. What his mentor was saying bordered upon heresy! He glanced over at Talarath and saw his future father-in-law spearing Ranoth with a look of warning.
    “The key issue here,” Talarath snarled, “is Marwandians in the forests and magic users at our very door. Something must be done.” Seagryn watched unspoken thoughts pass between them.
    Relieved to have their eyes off him, Seagryn muttered “Dark knows, that’s the truth.” It was an offhanded comment, one designed to finish the matter and direct the conversation elsewhere. He regretted it immediately. Both Ranoth and Talarath stared at him.
    “What do you know of Dark?” Talarath snapped.
    The question shocked him. “Why ... he’s ... he’s a prophet, isn’t he? People use his name all the time ...”
    “What people?” Ranoth asked, more kindly than Talarath but with no less intensity.
    “Why ... the ... people in the villages.” Seagryn shrugged. “You know how they are. Is he a real person, though? I thought he was a legend.”
    Ranoth peered at him for a moment, then abruptly turned to Talarath and smiled. “But why are we wasting such a marvelous occasion on such worthless chatter? Your daughter marries today — and to a wonderful boy!”
    “Yes,” Talarath agreed quietly. “Very promising.”
    Seagryn had been referred to as “promising” all his life. The term had long since lost any complimentary meaning and become a kind of reproach, as if those who used it were actually saying, “But what has he done with his gifts?”
    “We should be celebrating!” Ranoth smiled, raising both his arms jubilantly. “Talarath, come! Give the signal to begin! Let’s get these young people joined at the feet!”
    Talarath turned his head to search for the chief of his household staff. “Find Elaryl. Bring the shoes,” he commanded without enthusiasm.
    The ceremony itself was to be held in the inner patio of the mansion. There they could be open to the sky, as custom demanded, yet still could be securely defended. This courtyard already teemed with dignitaries. Elaryl ignored them as she swept around the perimeter of the court toward her beloved. Behind her ran a servant carrying an ornate, oddly shaped trio of shoes. Elaryl reached out to grab Seagryn and bussed him on the cheek, then unceremoniously dropped to the floor and hiked up her skirt. “Come on, get these on. We haven’t much time.”
    “Elaryl!” Talarath scolded. “A bit more modesty, please!”
    “Let them work it out, Talarath,” said Ranoth, grabbing his peer by the gown and pulling him toward the courtyard. “They’re going to have to, soon enough. We’ll be expected at the front.” The crowd parted to let them pass through toward the altar.
    Elaryl continued to lace feverishly. Seagryn knelt beside her, taking the shoe the servant offered. It had been tailored to fit his left foot. Except for its size, it was the twin of the shoe Elaryl laced up her right calf. He sat down, put the slipper on, and laced it up. Then he waited as Elaryl slipped her left foot into the joint shoe fashioned to hold both of their feet snugly together. She scooted over next to him, and he pushed his right foot in beside her left, their ankles rubbing together in the