It was too much for her to bear. Take me to him! Please! she cried out to Windrush, falling to her knees beside the great dragon. I can't just let him die—not because of me! Not like this!
And what will you do to prevent it? Windrush rumbled, his voice a confused echo in her mind. No, there is nothing you can do, and there is no point in all of us dying together. But I promise you this: My father will die proud.
Jael wept helplessly, leaning against the dragon's forelimb. Die proud? What good was dying proud? It was too much; she could not even think or reason or speak anymore. It was all turning to a blur in her mind. Highwing, no . . . no . . . no . . . !
Someone was speaking to her.
She blinked away her tears and realized that the face swimming in front of her was not the dragon's but Ar's, and the voice rasping in her ear was Ed's, crying her name over and over. And then Ar folded her into his arms, and the tears welled out of her eyes again as she wept with great, quaking sobs.
* * *
The cavern was cold, and no amount of pacing before the fire could warm Jael against the chill in her bones, and in her heart. Ar sat and watched her as she paced. He had tried once to coax her into withdrawing from the net for a time, to rest, to sleep. She'd refused, unwilling to leave this realm for even an instant, fearful that she would somehow lose even this last tenuous link with her old friend.
Windrush was lost now in what seemed a strange and tormented sleep. His eyes were half-closed, rolling in their great sockets. From time to time a rush of smoke and sparks issued from his nostrils. It seemed as though he had fled away in spirit, as though his thoughts were somehow abroad in the land, listening for rumor or news, seeking word of hope or peace in a realm that had forgotten those qualities.
Jael had no choice but to accept Windrush's answer about trying to reach Highwing. If Highwing was being held by spells of confinement inside the black peak, there was probably no hope of reaching him—not tonight, at least. But when morning came, she would ask again. The morning light could bring new answers.
Right now, she wished desperately to learn more about the events in the dragon realm since her first visit. She stared at the sleeping Windrush, not daring to wake him, but wanting to question him while there was still time. How much longer could she and her shipmates remain in this realm? Would the currents of the Flux remain still for them, or did those currents hold any force here, in this peculiar pocket of reality? She didn't know. Despite her wariness of the sleeping behemoth, she could not resist tiptoeing close to the dragon's head, studying the rotating, half-closed eyes. Ocean green, even in sleep, the left eye seemed to focus upon her as the faceted fire inside shifted, moving into view between the half-open lids. She hesitated, then found herself stepping closer, gazing into the living light. And before she knew what was happening, she was drawn in again, into the bottomless well . . .
What do you want to know now? she sensed a preoccupied voice saying, and she felt her own mind answering, Everything . . . everything about your world, about what has been happening . . . And she felt sad laughter echoing around her in answer, as the owner of the voice opened its consciousness to her, or a part of it, even as another part of its mind was occupied in searching out pathways and powers that lay far beyond her comprehension.
Visions seemed to unfold all around her, and the voice spoke as if continuing a story that had been interrupted: . . . at first there seemed no cause . . . malice and confused desires growing among dragons who had once dwelt together in peace. There have been times in our history when such things have happened before, but we do not remember those times well. Only the crystal ones remember, the females, the draconae. But stories began to emerge of outsiders appearing in the realm—some being chased away, others captured and transformed. No one seemed to know the truth, and many discounted the stories altogether, but the stories themselves came to be a source of discord and strife. What were these demons, these riggers? Were they intruders, to be killed or enslaved? Were they innocent wanderers? Were they a prelude to events foretold by the Words? Rumors abounded, but where was the truth? The strife finally erupted with accusations against my father, and quarreling over who would exact punishment for his actions.
Images unfolded of dragons feuding, coveting one another's lairs and secret entrances, and breaking the binding spells that held such places of wonder as Highwing's garden. That garden, and others like it, were now destroyed. Images unfolded of jealous contests for power among dragons to whom honor meant nothing. Images of dragons being killed in duels. Of a great mountain disappearing. Of fledglings vanishing from the few remaining places where they had been sheltered. Of the same brothers who had once joined Windrush in flying the length and breadth of the realm, now forcing him into hiding, fearing for his own life.
But this could not have happened for no reason, Jael thought, unable to fully comprehend what she was seeing.
No. It only seemed so, whispered Windrush. But too many dragons were changing, as though they themselves had fallen under a spell—one that rules not just the air and the rock and water, but the mind, and the spirit itself. It is something that flows deep in the underweb of the realm. It is beyond my understanding, but I know I must resist it. I must believe that others, like me, are living in seclusion, awaiting a sign of hope. But while we hide, the spell continues to work its will over this land.
And . . . she hesitated, remembering that she had asked this question once already . . . does it have a name, this spell? Or its maker?
Well . . . The dragon's thoughts seemed ashamed. We did not know, or perhaps did not want to know . . . its name. To truly know its name is to admit its presence, to be linked to it forever, for good or ill. But Highwing knew, or at least suspected. And I came to suspect. And lately, I have even heard the name whispered abroad—
Yes?
The dragon hesitated. His thoughts seemed to uncoil, reluctantly, from around a great knot of fear. The name is . . . Tar-skel. "Nail of Strength." It is the name of one who would take the realm by fear, and bind it with its power.
Tar-skel, Jael whispered, shivering, remembering now. She had heard that name only once before, muttered by Highwing, and fearfully.
It is a name known to us through . . . legend. And through prophecy. The dragon's thoughts seemed to stammer. Through stories whispered by the draconae. By those who dwelled in Dream Mountain, nurturing the dragonlings, when they were not on wing themselves, singing to us words of history, and tradition, and prophecy. They, and the ifflings as well, have spoken this name, Tar-skel, warned us of its threat. We have long known it as a name to frighten dragonlings, a name to inspire fear. But it comes from legend, you see, as well as from prophecy. And we have not really believed the legend or the prophecy. And now both have become real. Tar-skel. Windrush's thoughts trembled with shame and with fear.
Jael felt a stirring of fear in her own heart each time the name was spoken. She glimpsed images—scattered and fragmentary—of the dragon realm in an age past, when terror and discord were sown through the realm like wind-borne seeds. Sown by one named Tar-skel. Felt, named, but never seen. Not, anyway, for many, many generations.
In the time of my foredragons, long ago—if the legend is true—this one disappeared from the realm, driven from our midst after a reign of turmoil and terror such as we can scarcely imagine.
Driven out? How?
I cannot say. Perhaps the draconae remember, if they still live. The rest of us have forgotten. Oh, we draconi know songs and tales of battle, of heroism and tragedy, and sacrifice, embellished over and over through the generations. The dragon's thoughts paused, reflecting. But I no longer believe that that is the important or the true part of the story. We draconi, we males, never knew or understood, I think, what sort of one the Nail of Strength was. Or even if "Tar-skel" was its true name. Or even if—as one legend had it—it was an astoundingly ancient being, but one never actually seen by any living dragon. Even after its defeat long ago, legend claimed that
it lived on, hiding and sleeping, waiting to return another time. He sighed. Would that the realm were done with its evil forever!
Windrush's thoughts were silent for a time, before whispering, Our draconi memory is long, in clans and contests and spells; in mountains conquered. But in this, our memory fails us. It is as though my ancestors did not want to remember—as though the memory itself were the evil, to be avoided. And so we believed, or chose to believe, that Tar-skel was nothing more than a tale told to frighten the young ones in their lairs.
Listening in dismay, Jael heard herself asking, as she floated in the dragon's thoughts, how it was that they had come to believe in Tar-skel now. Had some dragons spoken to the draconae?
Windrush answered mournfully. We have only their teachings to guide us now, such as we remember them. The Dream Mountain eludes us, in a manner we cannot understand, perhaps kept from us by the power of the Enemy. And without the draconae, without the Dream Mountain, our race cannot continue. There will be no memories or wisdom, no powers of creation . . . and no more young dragons.
He sighed deeply. We should have listened better to the draconae when we could. They understood so much. better than we. But even without them, in whispers I hear the name Tar-skel. Not openly, but in whispers of thought through the underweb of the world. Even among the draconi—yes, among my own, I have glimpsed thoughts, and a spirit blacker than night, darker than the very roots of the mountains. And corrupt. Yes. And in whispers and rumors among them I have heard the name Tar-skel spoken—not with dread—but with awe and with respect.
And now the dragon's deepest fears came rising to the surface of its soul. Behind my father's capture can be found Tar-skel. Behind his trial. And his sentence. And his death that will come. And behind the rage—and the madness—lies the name Tar-skel. The madness that I fear will destroy everything I have ever known . . .
The dragon's mind-voice was quiet, as an ocean lies quiet between changes of the tides, quiet but with surges and ripples of expectancy beneath the stillness.
After a time, Jael asked what Windrush could tell her about Highwing since she had last seen him.
Little enough, murmured the dragon. I saw him rarely, though I knew that his once mighty reputation lay in ruins. He came to me toward the end, pursued by scorn. I feared for him, but there was little I could do or say. I was kept from his trial. I only learned the details of that through rumor . . . and through the ifflings.
The ifflings, Jael thought. She had seen one once, with Highwing. She didn't know what they were, but she sensed that at least they were not on the side of the darkness. She sensed that they bore knowledge. Can the ifflings help you . . . us? Help us to learn more about . . . Tar-skel? And Highwing?
There was a long, resonating silence. She sensed a great frustration in the dragon's thoughts, ranging outward through the realm. Finally returning close to her, he whispered, Perhaps they could. Perhaps. But where are they? Where are the ifflings?
And then a new silence closed in, a sad and final silence, shutting her thoughts away from the dragon's altogether.
* * *
Jael blinked and stepped back. The connection with the sleeping dragon had been broken. There was so much more she wanted to ask him. Why hadn't Highwing told her, warned her of the danger? Or had he tried? Her thoughts and memories seemed cold and unfamiliar now, as though she were staring at them through a grimy lens. She gazed at the slumbering Windrush, whose eyelids were now closed entirely, and wished that she could somehow open his mind again and ask all of her unanswered questions.
Jael, no. She felt Ar's hand on her shoulder and turned unwillingly. You must stop this. If you hope to do anything at all, even to find us a safe way out of here, you must rest. Ar's eyes were filled with sympathy and worry. She wondered if he had felt, or heard, any of what she had just learned from Windrush.
He will wake when he wakes, Ar said. In the meantime, you, too, must rest.
I cannot, she insisted. She appreciated his concern. But what good could Ar's sympathy do in the face of the imminent death of a friend and perhaps the destruction of an entire realm?
You must. For the sake of what hope you have left.
Jael stared at him, then walked back to where they had been sitting earlier, beside the hearth and the embers. Resting her head against the stone, she tried to clear her mind, to rest her thoughts. But she kept thinking of Ar's words. Hope. When had she last known true hope? She'd felt it reawakened for a time, with Highwing. But really, when had she lost it? Years ago, in childhood, when her father had succumbed to his dark and brooding depression, when the dreams of the LeBrae business had turned to ashes? Or later, when her mother had died, forcing her to return to live with her father, whose depression had turned to bitterness and cynicism?
She felt a rush of anger at the memory, at the taste of dust that it left in her mouth. Why were these thoughts coming to her now, of all times? She had other worries, far more urgent than some lost memories of her family. She blinked, suddenly aware of her desperate weariness. Will you stand watch? she whispered to Ar. Wake me if anything happens . . . if there is any sign of . . . if Windrush awakens?
I will, Ar promised. Why don't you withdraw just halfway? You can rest without fully leaving the net. I've already rested so, while you've been waiting for the dragon to wake. I found it restoring.
Undoubtedly he was right. Beside her, the parrot was asleep on a stone perch, apparently doing exactly what Ar had suggested. She would rest, then. And with waking, surely, would come new hope. She prayed that it would. Because right now she had no hope at all.
Chapter 26
Friend of Highwing
SHE THOUGHT, in her dream, that she glimpsed a strange, delicate creature that whispered to her of Highwing in his dungeon—of Highwing hearing her call and dying many times over because he had no way to answer her, no way to let her know that he believed in her still, that he remained faithful in his friendship. She thought, in her dream, that the creature entered the dragon's cavern like a spirit-being, emerging from the burning embers of the fire, and disappearing again the way it had come. She thought that the creature was a fire elemental, and then she thought it was not that, after all, but instead a slim lemurlike thing covered with silken fur, and that it slipped across the stone hearth with the stealth of a cat. Its appearance made her afraid at first, and then her fears were stilled.
Jael!
She felt a hand touch her, and heard a rumbling snort. She opened her eyes, and saw the rigger-station controls as a ghostly presence over her. She had nearly dropped all the way out of the net. But the sounds she had heard were from the other side, from the world of the Flux. Dazed, she sank back into the net and found herself in the gloom of the dragon's cavern, by the hearth. It seemed unreal, impossible; but she knew that it wasn't. It was as real as her spaceship, as real as her own hands pressed to the cold stone. Ar was shaking her gently. Ed was fluttering his wings, making a gargling sound.
And the dragon, Windrush, had raised his head and was looking around the cavern. Who is here?
We are, Jael mumbled. We never left.
Not you. Something else. The dragon cocked his head, snorting sparks. An iffling. While I slept, an iffling was here. His eyes rotated to gaze at his guests. Did you see it?
Ar looked puzzled. An iffling? There was a moment . . . when I thought I felt, or saw . . . something. But I don't know what it was, and it passed quickly.
Jael remembered the images in her dream. I may have seen it, she murmured. She described the creature that she had seen, or imagined, in her sleep. Was it like the being she had glimpsed once talking to Highwing? She wasn't sure; she hadn't seen either one very clearly.
But Windrush was nodding gravely, his eyes glowing with a smoky inner fire. He seemed perturbed by her report, particularly the mention of Highwing's awareness of her presence. He lifted his head and sniffed the air and shot a frustrated flame toward the ceiling.
Then it was true, Jael t
hought. The dream-visit had been real. And Highwing was alive, and knew she was in the realm. How could she not do everything in her power to reach him?
The dragon was watching her now, his eyes darkening. I sense your thoughts, he observed. You do not know what you ask of yourself. There is nothing that you can do. Nothing that any of us can do.
Jael rose and strode to face the dragon at close range. Though his head rested on his forefeet, she had to look up into his eye. He seemed more massive than ever before. The scales that covered his head shone dimly in the cold light of the dying hearth fire. I must try. And if that means trying alone, I will do that, she said flatly.
Smoke billowed from the reptile's nostrils. Are you so certain of what you wish to do?
I know what I must do.
May I point out, at least, that your strength is limited here? You would not last. It would be best if you let me fly you to the edge of our world, so that you could leave all of this safely behind you. His gaze narrowed. In truth, you know, our troubles are not your concern.
Ar made a clearing-of-the-throat sound. He has a point, Jael. Our ship is damaged. We limped into these mountains. I don't know how we can expect to—
But Windrush could help us, Jael interrupted. Couldn't you?
The dragon gave her a measured look. I confess that I do not understand your powers, or your role in our world—if you still have a role to play. He hesitated. The Words of prophecy, I admit, seem to suggest that you might. But I perceive that your strength has been weakened by the . . . mishap . . . that brought you here.
Jael could not dispute the point. She scuffed at the stone floor of the cavern with her booted foot. The floor was solid, cold, hard. A part of her wanted to believe that this was all a rigger-illusion, but she knew that it wasn't. Her debts, and her honor, were as real here as they were back in that world of space and stars and planets. Turning to Ar, she said, I know you don't think we should do this. I wish there were some way that we could split up, so that you could take the ship to safety, and I could go on with this alone.
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