The Draykon Series (1-3)

Lokant: Chapter Four

Lying in bed in a house not his own, Devary Kant could not help reflecting that the last few weeks had not gone particularly well.

He did not enjoy fighting for its own 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.'