sake. Indeed, he would rather avoid it and he
had always felt that way. But he was, once in a while, called upon
to defend himself and so he had dutifully committed many hours of
his life to the development of considerable combat ability.
He was also
periodically required to defend others. This, he felt, was the more
important duty. To fail so completely to defend a woman committed
to his care was intolerable; worse when that charge had been
Llandry Sanfaer, daughter of his oldest friend. That he himself had
been injured almost to the point of death in her defence was no
consolation. He should have died rather than allow her to be
taken.
But taken she had been,
by some means he had been unable to prevent. And whatever had been
done to her afterwards was irreversible. World-changing.
Draykon. The
word still rang in his thoughts long after he had heard it from
Ynara. He connected it with the images in his memory: of the great,
winged, ghost-grey beast sailing down out of the skies and carrying
him away. At times he concluded he was merely hallucinating again;
in moments of greater clarity he was obliged to dismiss this most
convenient of excuses. But there was no absorbing that piece
of information. He had been warned that the furore over Llandry’s
istore stone was a greater matter than he realised, but nothing had
prepared him for this.
Such reflections were
not only unproductive, but outright destructive. Nonetheless, lying
as he was immobile and in constant pain, Devary’s mind refused to
turn on any other topics. It was as he attempted, with the utmost
care, to turn himself slightly in his bed that a man appeared out
of the air.
The man was tall,
looking down on Devary with an imposing air. He wore a slight frown
on his too-white face, and his pale hair looked as though it
wouldn’t dare to drift out of place. His appearance - his strong
features and the pale grey colour of his eyes - belonged to no race
that Devary had ever met; he couldn’t place the man’s nationality
at all. But he addressed Devary in perfect Nimdren.
Devary might wish he
did not know this visitor, but sadly the man was all too
familiar.
‘Clearly there has been
some error,’ he said slowly. ‘None of your reports have been
received by our office. A problem with the postal service, no
doubt, or with our messengers, for I am sure you have sent regular
reports as usual.’ He lifted his brows as he spoke, though his
voice never rose above a moderated tone.
Devary said nothing.
Seeing that man here, standing with casual impunity in the heart of
Ynara Sanfaer’s house, was both deeply wrong and deeply disturbing.
He had never really expected to escape the pressure of his former
employers, but he must have entertained some hopes, for his heart
sank with dismay.
‘No matter,’ the
intruder continued. ‘Your assignment has changed. There is no
further need to maintain surveillance on this house while Llandry
Sanfaer is no longer within it. Find her and bring her to us.’
Devary weakly clenched
his fists, and shook his head. ‘I am no longer your employee. I
accept no further assignments.’
The man lifted his
brows, surveying Devary’s wounds with pointed attention. ‘You do
not appear to be healing very fast. It would be a shame if you were
to suffer a relapse.’
Devary fought down a
flutter of panic. ‘This family above all others will not be
targeted by me. I have won back their trust only recently and I
will not betray them again.’
‘Your proximity to this
family is precisely why you are suited to the task,’ the man
replied relentlessly. ‘Llandry trusts you. When you find her, she
will follow you.’
Devary swallowed his
pain and fixed his unwelcome visitor with a cold stare. ‘Why do you
want her?’
‘That information is
not necessary for you to know.’
‘Then my answer stands.
I will have no part in this.’
The man said nothing
for a moment. Then, ‘You’re a rational being so I’ll make this
plain for
Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman