by E. E. Knight
Wistala almost snorted, never having heard money and easy so closely associated from Ragwrist. It took her a moment to answer the question, so conflicted were her thoughts.
Oh, the allure of familiar routine! Drained in body and brain, she could eat the wheel-size fish of the delta—
“I must think on this. I told you I would travel with you until I had my wings. But I must decide what purpose to put them to.”
Wistala’s wounds ceased bleeding whenever she moved the next day, though she suspected she still had an arrowhead in her, for if she struck her left sii out far forward it pained her.
Despite her fatigue she went across the bridge, and saw Jessup and some of his family rebuilding their brewery. She didn’t pause to talk—though she did touch the sign for luck, which caused one aged man sitting on the doorstep to touch a phantom mug to his lips—but instead went to Mossbell. There she took Stog in mouth, holding him as tenderly as a gamesman’s bird dog would carry a duck, and crossed Mossbell to the grove of Rainfall’s ancestry.
She had to keep her eyes averted from the ruin. Remarkably enough the two trees flanking the front door still lived, though their smaller limbs had been burned they were still green far above.
At the glade of Rainfall’s ancestors, she found the remains of days-old campfires and a garbage pile, and noted that the barbarians had carved rude symbols in the tree bark with their blades and left their filth all about the roots. Whether it was chance or purpose, she could not say.
She laid Stog beside Avalanche and gathered rocks, and over the course of the day built such a cairn that not even the strongest badger would be able to dig his way through. When it was done, she sat atop it and looked across the gorge. She could just see a brown dot, Rainfall’s cocoon, from which a tree would hopefully emerge.
Utterly sapped by the effort, she slept. She dreamed the trees were whispering to her, soft words made of wind and leaves.
Chapter 22
Even before the circus left, Wistala occupied the old troll cave overlooking the Whitewater River west of the bridge.
It wasn’t a bad cave. The outer length stank of gulls; the cave mouth looked like a running sore, so thick were their droppings down the rocks below.
Farther inside bats clung to the cave roof. They were oddly comforting, reminding her of the home cave. The more responsible part of her mind, which often spoke with Mother’s voice and silenced those bits interested in old Elvish poems, Hypatian architecture, or the taste of sweetwater fish mixed with gar-locque or other herbs—and occasionally considered what composition of length, curvature, thickness, and number might make the most pleasing array of horns on a dragon, told her that the bat droppings would hide dragon odor. Not that the dog had yet been bred who could negotiate the cliff and stick his wet nose in her temporary lair.
At night she would visit burned Mossbell, which now belonged, as all ruins must, she supposed, to the cats. Jessup told her that Old Yari-Tab was sharing an upstairs room with Widow Lessup at the Green Dragon Inn until a house could have its roof and doors repaired.
Jessup also mentioned that the thane’s men had already set up a bridge toll and expected their mead and meals free as part of “guarding” the ruined village.
The younger cats ran wild in the ruins and gardens, hunting the birds and mice and rabbits that came for the beans and vegetables, but scuttled away whenever she approached one—as if a rangy cat would make more than a snack!
She climbed the burnt bark of the doorway trees and wrapped herself around the trunk at their height and tried to ignore the yowls of mating cats below. She looked off toward the ridge that shielded Galahall’s rooftops from her vision, or the two hills, or the long lines of mountains disappearing north and south—she could just make out one of the peaks that bordered the Wheel of Fire dwarves to the north—and the Dragonblade, if he still lived among them.
“What dragon lives that doesn’t count his enemies on more than one limb?” she said to the wind, wishing she had the strength to at least burn Galahall. But Lessup told her that some years ago Hammar had Galahall’s roof re-covered with slate and his cornices and towers shingled with dragonscale, bought at great expense from the Wheel of Fire dwarves.
Wistala knew, too well, how they acquired dragonscale. How much was Mother’s green, or Father’s bronze?
“I’m but one dragon, what can I do? Assemble an army of dragons? From where? I’ve not seen another of my kind since—”
She could keep neither the promise to her Father nor her private oath of vengeance—the scroll of the family slaughtered now included Rainfall and probably Rayg, for the barbarians could make cruel sport of captives—without knowing another dragon. A dozen would be better, but as far as she knew numbers like that had not gathered since the days of Silverhigh. Even Auron, scaleless and thin, would have been a comfort as an ally with his sparks of inspirational courage.
She would have to improvise.
She almost chuckled, she’d been so long among hominids. At least Auron wasn’t keeping the rain off some grasping thane with delusions of kinghood. Did dragons naturally indulge in the humor of the funeral pyre, or had they developed it through dark years of murder and assassination? Poor Auron. She tried to imagine him curled around the tree opposite, probably complaining about his empty stomach or talking of the stars.
Where is his star again? Follow the Bowing Dragon. There. Susiron, always in your spot.
How sad that Auron never learned the joy of flight. She threw herself from the tree and opened her wings—she still wasn’t strong enough to take off without a drop from some kind of height, and flapped up into the clouds.
She was still weak. To regain her strength, she’d go far away, and work herself until she was as strong and single minded as the toughest barbarian. She would go north.
“It’s as good a place as any for a dragon,” Ragwrist said with a shrug.
She had heard the circus was going to leave the next morning and had sent a message through Jessup, and they met at Rainfall’s grave on the eve of departure. The clay pyramid now sprouted at the peak like a four-head cluster of broccoli. “But . . . brrr. Not for me. And the tribes up there, they’ll slit your throat out of pure meanness and take your skin for coat-shell.”
“You won’t find any libraries up there,” Dsossa said. “Rainfall always appreciated the volumes you sent, you know.”
Wistala hardly believed her eyes, but it seemed the growth atop the clay pyramid tilted ever so slightly in her direction. Had the broccoli bowed to her? No, it was simply responding to the moon above and behind her.
Maybe.
“I must go north. According to the librarians, there are others of my kind there,” she said. “But I will come back to visit. Perhaps to your winter camp, so I don’t get frozen solid up there when the sun runs south.”
“Don’t expect to lie around all day stuffing yourself with veal at my expense,” Ragwrist said. “You winter at my circus, and you’ll be speaking to select seekers at a commanding price!”
“Oh, give it a rest. I’ll buy her a bullock or two,” Brok said. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll show you your new harness.”
He’d made a leather neck pouch, easily expandable, that had stiffened cases all around the sides, about the size of the ones the dwarves used for their crossbow bolts.
“I put a couple vesk-stone of good softmetal in for you. Metal is rare up there, I understand they use bone fishhooks and flint scrapers and such. Or at least that’s what the traders bring back.”
A transparent blister showed at the buckle on her breast, and a familiar blue sat within. “That’s the old elf’s battle sash. Safe from weather and wet in there, though honestly I wasn’t expecting the cold of the icelands. If you open the latch,” he showed her how, “you can unscrew the crystal if you’d like to take it out for some reason, but remember to seal it up again with good wax to make it airtight.”
“You raided my ironmonger?” Ragwrist said
. “Are you trying to ruin me, Brok? Am I to support the family of every blacksmith in Hypatia?”
Brok ignored the protestations and slipped it over Wistala’s outstretched head.
Wistala thought it looked like an oversize gem, and wearing such a thing would make her feel flashier than a proper young dragonelle from her family should—Your wings and scales should be advertisement enough, Mother always said, no need to adorn for Silverhigh aerials—but had to admire the workmanship.
She put it on. It turned on her neck easily enough, and she could reach the cases, probably even while flying.
“Rub some fats into the leather now and again,” Brok advised. “It’s the finest hardened cowhide, but don’t mistake it for steel. It needs care.”
“Improvident—,” Ragwrist sputtered. “He speaks of care. Care! Have care to my balance book!”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Brok,” Wistala said, ignoring the byplay. “You should have my coin savings.”
“Ha!” Brok said. “I loaded two of these cases with it. Eat them sparingly, good dragon.”
“What of you, Dsossa?” Wistala asked. “Will you live near the inn?”
“I will still breed my horses, though on this side of the river, and Hammar won’t get one for any price. Old Avalanche left some colts on this side of the river, and I’ll see if I can’t better the bloodline.”
“Stog might suggest a dose of donkey.”
“Yes, I’ll breed mules too. Less money in mules, but they are more easily sold in any market.”
They looked at each other around Rainfall’s rooting place.
“I shall be sorry to leave you all,” Wistala said.
“That’s circus. You’ve outgrown us,” Ragwrist said.
“No. I’ve learned so much, and I could lear—”
“I don’t mean that,” Ragwrist said, waving away the dragon breath. “I mean the circus can’t afford to feed you any more, or employ an army of shovelers to keep the air breathable.”
Wistala slept out the next day in the old troll cave, half a horse inside her—she’d flown up to Galahall and snatched one from an outer pasture as it stood sleeping—and the other half hanging for breakfast, when she heard a faint shouting.
“Wistala! Wistala!”
It was a female voice. She sent the seagulls flying as she crawled out the entrance—from the noise they made anyone would think it was their cave—and cautiously peeped up the cliff.
Lada lay flat on her belly. She waved.
“I hate heights, you know,” Lada said.
“You don’t look well,” Wistala said. “But I’m glad for a chance to say good-bye.”
“I need to speak to you. Please!”
“I’d prefer if you’d come after dark. I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Speaking of which, how did you find out?”
“Jessup told me. His oldest pointed out the cave from chalk hill. And tonight I must stay with a sick family.”
Wistala sighed. It would be easy to fly up there, but any fishermen along the river and every shepherd on the hills would see her.
She climbed. Amazing how much stronger her forelimbs felt with her wings out. In a moment she stood on the thick pasture grass.
“Let’s try that little hollow over there, out of the wind,” Wistala suggested. Also out of view.
Even without the hat Lada’s priest’s robes made her look older than she was. A summer ribbon bound her hair with the aid of a bean-stake. Her eyes were dark and worried.
“So this is more than just a good-bye, or a last moment of consolation over our father’s death,” Wistala said, once in the hollow.
Lada brushed some snails from a rock and sat down. “It’s Rayg. His body was never found, you know.”
“I saw several carried off,” Wistala said. “He was taken at Quarryness?”
“Yes. Another low priest with experience in these matters says he’s most likely been made a slave. He’s at the perfect age: old enough to work intelligently but still small enough to be overpowered by the least housewoman. Mod Daland believes him to be alive.”
“But in barbarian hands.”
“I went to see Hammar, you know,” she said, her thin lips almost disappearing. “Just yesterday. Just—it took all my nerve.”
“He claims to have influence with them.”
“His hall is full of their banners, drums with claws and feathers on the heads, and that horrible reeking charcoal they use to toast their flesh. You can scarce see through the glass in the windows. But I threw myself down before him, on those stones full of dog hair and spit, and begged him. I told him that he could have anything—anything—if he’d help find my son. His son.”
She hid her eyes under her hand. “He took my offer, took me. Took me and made a sport of my body . . . I can’t describe more. But afterwards when I asked him to get Rayg back, he laughed and said he didn’t need another bas—boy hanging about the place, counting on a position or thinking of the throne. He calls it a throne now. He said he’d make inquires so I could go north and seek him.”
Wistala watched one of the brushed-aside snails go back up the rock. “I’m sorry to hear your troubles. But if you think I need more reason to hate Hammar—” She began to describe the scene before the fountain, but it so upset Lada that she stopped. “How can I help?” Wistala asked.
Lada wiped her eyes. “I’m supposed to be the priestess—oh, well, an inworld acolyte, I should say. This is so selfish, I’ve left the world behind but—he’s my son! I’m supposed to be the one who helps people with their troubles. The world is wheels within wheels, and each turn grinds . . . but the words aren’t helping me.”
Wistala waited.
“I heard you were going north. I ask you to look for Rayg while you’re there. If I learn anything about his location I’ll try to get word—Copex knows how—but I’ll try, and leave word with the circus. Then you can go in and get him and . . . and—”
“Burn anyone who gets in my way?” Wistala supplied.
“Yes,” she said, hard and low and with eyes alight as though she relished the thought. Perhaps Lada had her heart no more in her role as priestess than as a circus performer.
“And if I retrieve him?”
“A temple built in your honor enclosing a statue of bronze and silver, if I have to work the rest of my life toward it.”
Hominids and their strange vanities. How many times can you fill your gorge at a temple? “I’m not going to live in barbarian lands. I’m going beyond men, looking for my kind.”
“I heard some sailors saw one of your kind. But it is a secondhand story, perhaps they got it wrong?”
“Where?”
“Oh, to the north, while crossing the Inland Ocean. They’d been blown off course by a storm and they saw a dragon aloft. They thought for certain they were doomed and made their last offerings, but the dragon only swooped low over them. They said a man in heavy fur rode its back, but sailors are always telling tales.”
“Are they sure it was a dragon? Not feathered?”
“Yes, a dragon, and blue as the sky. Speaking of blue, I must admire that belt around your throat. Wait—if it goes around your throat is it a belt or no?”
“Harness, I call it, but I pity the man who holds on to it to ride my neck. He’ll need something thicker than fur to save his skin.”
Wistala pulled her griff up and back so the corners of her mouth could rise. Lada laughed.
“I used to hate you,” Lada said.
“You were young,” Wistala said.
“Fair can be foul, and foul fair,” Lada quoted. “Proverbs of Experience sixty-one. That means something to me. Now.”
“I’ll make no promises about Rayg, fair or foul,” Wistala said. “But I will keep my eyes open. I intend to travel at night, though. Your best chance is through Hammar, distasteful as he is.”
“He can be charming, as long as he’s getting his way and his appetite is sated,” she said. “I will dance to his tu
ne, but as a viper does before it strikes the bird. A fair journey, Wistala, and peril only to your enemies.”
“If I come south again, I will leave word at Jessup’s Inn and the circus winter camp. I fly north tomorrow, but one of my hearts stays at Mossbell.”
Chapter 23
Wistala flew north in easy stages, more from physical limitations than intent.
Even with her wounds healed over and her blood restored, she still tired easily and needed frequent rests, made all the more difficult by a thirst that seemed to start at her tail-tip and grow from there and a hunger that must have been worse than her hatchling pangs. (It wasn’t, but lost memories are sometimes a kindness.)
She followed the road until it broke off into a series of trails or twin ruts, irregularly filled with increasingly crude bridgework. Even the distance posts of Ancient Hypat’s short-lived Tribal Confederation, still in use to mark intervals of vesk even in lands where the word Hypat was a curse and Hypatian a synonym for “devil.”
Flying mostly at night, but doing what she could to observe the villages and isolated hutments she passed in what felt like a hopeless search for Rayg, she avoided lights below.
Hearth lights and campfires grew less and less frequent as she ranged north, until she began to travel at dawn and dusk so that she had a better chance of dropping on a hoofed-and-horned meal. The snowcaps on the mountains, rich with all the dragon colors when the sun was level with them, marched lower and lower and glaciers hanging between became commonplace.
Then, over the course of a single night, she reached new air currents. The wind ceased blowing pleasantly warm from the southwest, and instead spun down the coast from the northeast, a cold, wet breeze that helped her to glide but she had to fight like an enemy for each hop north. She found that she traveled faster with less fatigue if her track crisscrossed the wind in the manner of a serpent.
Food was plentiful. Out on the coast there were shallows thick with crabs the size of a battle shield and great waddling tubes of flesh and fat that sunned themselves on sandbars and coastal rocks, the fattest often at the top where they could bark at the lesser, but the commanding height just meant they were easily plucked up by a hungry dragonelle.