They got ten of the boldest onto Windcaller’s back, Aven and the bard girl pushing the last ones up as the big dragon lifted. In the center of the courtyard, Iceflower was bleeding badly but she thrashed and roared, teasing and distracting the soldiers.
Seastrider returned and Marshy slid down, panting, “Tebriel is safe on the barge.” As they pushed children onto Seastrider’s back, they saw soldiers poised on the wall above Iceflower, spreading a net.
“Heave . . .
“Now!”
The net fell over the fighting young dragon in pale folds.
“Tighter—pull it tighter!”
Iceflower plunged and flamed, burning net, burning soldiers, as Windcaller returned.
It was all Kiri and Aven and the girl could do to get the last children mounted. Where was Marshy? Then Kiri saw him in the center of the courtyard, clinging to Iceflower, both of them tangled in the net. Kiri swung onto Windcaller’s back behind a tangle of children, and Windcaller sped at the soldiers, blasting flame. Seastrider, loaded with children, dropped to fight beside her.
The dragons cut the net away, Marshy scrambled onto Iceflower’s back, and the three dragons lifted, Iceflower limping in flight, the big dragons heavy and slow with the weight of the children. They made for the cadacus field as soldiers with torches stormed out the gate.
While Seastrider and Iceflower circled, Windcaller dropped to the oak, and Kiri reached in. “Quickly, come on. Neeno, Afeena. Hurry.”
Tybee and Albee swept out to her shoulder. Afeena and Neeno crept into her hand as torches appeared, coming fast. She tucked the two owls into her tunic. The dragons pulled for the sky, fighting to lift themselves above the treetops.
High up in cloud, Kiri felt the child behind her relax against her. The pounding of her own heart eased. She felt like screaming with relief. She looked across at Iceflower. The poor dragonling was fighting the wind instead of using it, breeching across it in weak, uneven struggle. It won’t be long, Kiri said. It isn’t far to the barge. You were very brave—you did a fine job, both of you.
She could feel Marshy’s pride in the dragonling and his shivering relief that they were out of there. She could feel Aven’s wonder as the little boy looked down through the night sky. Now that they were away, the bard girl seemed strangely remote. They were just over the lights of Lashtel’s harbor when Kiri remembered what Teb had intended to do. “Drop!” she cried. “Circle, drop down!”
Chapter 17
The unliving conquer by changing all memory and naming themselves our saviors. Only the bardsong can destroy their lies, and without dragons, the bardsong is all but gone from Tirror.
*
“The ships,” Kiri cried. “Burn the ships!”
The dragons dropped with their burden of children, and skimmed low over Aquervell’s seaport, driving a wind before them that rocked the tethered boats. They belched out sheets of fire—a ship blazed up, another. Dry decks and masts exploded into flame. Soon the whole harbor was burning. In the pulsing red glare, men dove into the water or ran along the quays, screaming. From the backs of the dragons, the children watched wide-eyed. While the harbor roared and crackled with flame, the dragons rose into the smoky wind and headed for the tip of Aquervell.
The late moon hung behind cloud, the sea black shadows cresting and moving—every shadow might be the barge, they couldn’t see it clearly until they were nearly on it. Seastrider breathed a small flame, and they saw it rocking below them. In the red light, they saw Garit and the children crouched beside the still body of Tebriel. Two rebel soldiers stood guard. The dragons came down on the sea.
Children slid to the deck, the soldiers catching the smallest ones. Seastrider nuzzled at Teb. Kiri slid down, to kneel beside him.
He was unconscious, his face cold and white, smeared with dark bruises. Garit had covered him with a pile of blankets. Kiri looked up at Garit, helpless and afraid. “He hasn’t moved, or spoken?” Garit shook his head. Kiri held Teb’s hands, trying to warm them. What could she do for him? How could she help him?
Desperate, she began to talk to him—maybe the sound of a voice would touch something in him. Maybe a voice could be a lifeline of human warmth, to draw him back. She told him they had gotten the children out, that they now had two new young bards, that the dragons all were safe. She told him how Iceflower had kept the soldiers busy while they carried him out of the castle, how they got the children onto the dragons. She told him that they had burned the harbor. Teb showed no sign that he heard, and Quazelzeg’s words rang cold in her mind. The bard is mine now.
Stricken, she kept talking—it didn’t matter what she said; all that mattered was that she connect with what was alive deep within him. Somewhere within his wounded mind he must hear, something of his spirit must hear her. She paid no attention to the bustle around her as the men set sail. As they sloughed through the surf, she talked about Nightpool, about the otters, about Charkky and Mikk, about how Thakkur and Hanni had been so excited to find each other. The slave children listened, entranced. As the moon dropped below clouds, Kiri could see the children’s faces, hungry for story, hungry for life and warmth. She could feel Seastrider’s smooth summoning of Tebriel, too, as the dragon sought to pull him back from emptiness with silent power. As the barge moved across open sea, Kiri spoke of the magic places, of the sacred sanctuaries, and how men and speaking animals had once found fellowship there. She could see the wonder and longing on the faces of the slave children.
They were nearly past Ekthuma, the night fading. Teb’s eyelids moved. When Kiri felt his cheek, it was warmer. She told him again that they had escaped from Quazelzeg, that the children were safe. Garit poured tea from the crock—he had given the children tea and bread and cheese. Kiri brushed the warm tea across Teb’s lips, and after a long time, when he licked his upper lip, she felt like cheering.
“Lift him, Garit. Help me lift him, to lean against the mast.”
When he was sitting up, she put the mug to his lips.
He swallowed. The cup shook in her hand. Seastrider pushed at him and licked his face. He was alive; he had come back to them.
But there was no recognition in him. He sat staring at them blankly, his body awake but his mind not yet returned. Seastrider nudged and worried at him. Then, frustrated, the white dragon began to sing to him, forming lucid visions of moments she and Teb had shared.
As the raft made its way south toward Dacia, Seastrider’s song took them across the shifting endless skies, buffeted by twisting winds, soaring on thrones of rain and swirling ice. She lifted them above islands of dark clouds humping like the backs of a million giant animals, and over cloud plains white as snowfields. She dodged lightning through crashing black storm, and she sang of silent lands like green jewels, where rivers ran in a tracery of blue.
The slave children drank in the splendid wonders, hugging to themselves hungrily all Seastrider’s wild freedom and fierce love. But Teb sat quiet and pale, staring at his hands, seeming aware of nothing. Seastrider pressed her big white head against him, and Kiri held him close, but he did not respond to them.
When an agitated rustling began in Kiri’s pack, she opened it, and little injured Neeno crawled up out of the darkness, his wings dragging. The tiny owl stood tottering on the leather strap, staring at Teb, his round yellow eyes deep with puzzled concern. “He is very ill.” Neeno blinked, clacked his curved beak in a loud staccato, and shouted with all his remaining strength, “Wake, Tebriel! Ooo, wake!” He peered at Teb. “Do you hear me? Wake!” He cocked his head, looking. “Oooo! Wake, Tebriel! Wake! Wake!” He clattered again, and his angry shout rose to a commanding shriek. “Bring yourself back, Tebriel! Wake up, Tebriel! Wake up!
“DARE you wake, Tebriel? DARE YOU? Are you afraid to wake?”
Teb stirred and looked at Neeno. That angry, clacking shout had brought him back. Perhaps it was like the angry, chittering sound an otter makes; perhaps it made Teb think of Mitta commanding him to get well. He reached to
touch Seastrider as she nuzzled him, he touched Kiri’s cheek. He looked at the crowd of children, at Marshy, at Aven and Darba and Garit and the two rebel soldiers.
He frowned at the little owl’s bloody, twisted wings and held out his hand for Neeno to climb on. “What happened? Where are the others?”
Albee and Tybee and Afeena came swooping from the top of the mast and crowded onto Teb’s shoulder.
“Theeka? Keetho?”
“They were killed,” Kiri said. “The jackals . . .”
Teb touched Neeno’s bloody feathers and held the little owl to his cheek, his eyes filled with sorrow. Neeno closed his own eyes and snuggled against Teb.
As they neared the coast of Dacia, Teb told them a little about Quazelzeg’s torture. His cheeks burned with shame that he had been so used. He did not speak of the abyss where his every human need had been a sickness, but Kiri knew, she and the dragons knew. For those terrible hours, they had felt Quazelzeg owning him. Kiri moved within Teb’s encircling arm, and he held her close. The slave children pressed against them in a warm wall of small bodies.
Only Aven stood apart. His rusty brown eyes had changed suddenly and grown dark with excitement.
“What is it?” Kiri said.
“There are four dragonlings in Dacia,” Aven said.
“Yes,” Teb said. A smile twitched the side of his mouth.
“One is blue,” said Aven.
“Yes!” Teb and Kiri cried together. The dragons’ eyes gleamed.
“He has named himself Bluepiper,” Aven said, “after a snowbird from across the western sea.”
Teb laughed out loud—the first time he had laughed—and hugged Aven.
Darba pressed against Aven. “You . . . you have found your dragon.” Excitement filled her dark eyes, but beneath that excitement were shadows of loneliness. Kiri drew the little girl to her. She studied Darba’s heart-shaped face and dark, tangled hair, then dug into a pocket of her tunic and took out her small shell comb.
She combed Darba’s hair as gently as she could, taking her time, working out the tangles, humming to Darba. The questions Aven was asking about Bluepiper, and Teb’s exciting answers, came easier for the little girl when she was stroked and loved. By the time Garit put ashore at Dacia, Aven knew almost everything about Bluepiper and the clutch of young dragons. And Darba’s longing jealousy had eased. Kiri tied the child’s shining hair back with a bit of white leather. “You are lovely, do you know that? Some decent food, and you’ll feel better, too.” She drew Marshy to her, so the three of them stood close.
‘Take Darba to the palace with you, Marshy. Iceflower’s wounds will be all right; she’s bathed them in the sea, and she’s rested. Shell be strong enough for the two of you for that short distance.”
Marshy put a protecting arm around Darba. “Come on,” he said. “Iceflower will take us home.” He gave Darba a leg up onto Iceflower’s back and climbed up behind. As dawn touched the sky over Dacia, Iceflower lifted carefully into the wind and headed for the palace.
Chapter 18
I watch the sky for dragons that will never come. My king knows my pain; he knows that Tirror is dying. He knows the empty faces of the young.
*
Garit and the two soldiers bent heavily to the oars, pushing the raft through shallow surf toward Dacia’s wooded shore. As Kiri leaped to the bank to make fast the line, the dark branches above her shivered and a big winged shadow burst out, to dive straight at her. She ducked, laughing, as the big owl flashed dark, gleaming feathers in her face. “Red Unat!” She held out her arms, and Red Unat dropped into them so powerfully he nearly knocked her over. He clacked his red beak, and shook his big ears. His yellow eyes blazed fiercely. His manners were as abrupt and crusty as ever. But he was a true friend—a skilled spy and messenger for the underground. She and Papa had worked with him here in Dacia, and Teb had known him in Nightpool. The big owl snapped his beak again. His voice was coarse and gravelly. “About time! About time you got here! Tired of waiting! Thought that dark continent swallowed the lot of you.”
“It almost did,” Kiri said, stroking his dark, sleek wing.
“The wagons are waiting,” Red Unat said. “Hitching up now, to take the children.” As he looked up at the sky, now growing bright, the pupils of his eyes narrowed to slits.
Teb stood up, leaning on Garit’s shoulder. “Red Unat! What brings you? Has Sivich attacked Nightpool?”
Red Unat shook his feathers. “Sivich’s warriors gather for attack. Every traitor the dark can muster is camped at the Palace of Auric.” He stared at Teb. “You look terrible—all scars and bruises. I’m glad to see you are alive, Tebriel.”
“So am I,” Teb said. “What is Sivich’s plan of attack?”
“He means to destroy Nightpool just at dawn, then go straight up the coast to burn Ebis’s palace. He waits only for additional troops.” Red Unat smiled, a wicked smile. “Sivich doesn’t know the otters sank his courier boat, so his plea for troops didn’t get through.” He clacked his beak in an owlish laugh. “He’s furious at being tricked by animals, his horses taken, half his supplies gone, half his soldiers dead. Our owls have spy holes in every nook and attic of the palace; we hear everything.” The big owl stretched his wings, then snapped them closed. “But we cannot be overconfident. Sivich is a pawn of the dark powers—they will not let him lose so easily again.” He looked around the little group. “Another owl will come when Sivich is ready to move. Tell me what word has reached the dark leaders at Aquervell.”
“We don’t know,” Teb said. “We . . . were lucky to get out of there.”
“That I can see. Well, no matter. I have sent owls on, to Quazelzeg’s palace, to find out. Let’s get these children onto the wagons. Did you get the bard children out?”
“The girl has gone on, with Marshy,” Teb said. “The boy is here.” He drew Aven to him.
Red Unat stared at Aven. “Fine boy!” he shouted. “Hair as red as my beak!”
Aven blushed.
“We lost two brave owls,” Teb said. “The jackals killed Theeka and Keetho.”
Red Unat’s feathers bristled. His glare was terrible.
“Neeno and Afeena are badly hurt,” Teb said. “They’re in Kiri’s pack, warm and as comfortable as she could make them.”
The big owl poked his face at Kiri’s pack and murmured to the small owls. He remained talking to them until the wagons came rumbling out of the woods.
The children were bundled in among blankets. Teb and Kiri rode with them, while Seastrider and Windcaller swept off toward open sea to feed.
By the time they reached the palace, Kiri could think of nothing but food. She took Teb’s hand, and they headed for the kitchen. Garit carried the little owls into his chamber to doctor them, calling for raw meat. Red Unat rode on his shoulder, giving instructions.
In the kitchen, two townswomen were frying wheat cakes and lamb. They shouted when they saw Kiri, and hugged her. Both had fought beside her. The younger woman was a crack shot with bow and arrow, the thin, older lady had run the candle shop where the resistance hid weapons and food. Kiri kissed them and stood with Teb at the stove, eating as fast as they served up the food, blowing on each piece of lamb or wheat cake as it came out of the pan. Nothing in her life had ever tasted so wonderful. There was all the milk they could drink, and all the bread and cheese and fresh fruit they wanted. It took her a long time to get filled up, much longer than Teb. He soon pushed his plate away, looking tired and pale.
They stayed in the bustle of the kitchen, at the big table, as platters were carried out to the hall for the children. Teb was morose and silent.
“It’s all over, Teb. We did it—we got the children out.”
He didn’t say anything.
“It’s over, Teb.”
“I should have fought Quazelzeg harder. I . . . kept dropping into blackness, where I thought there was nothing to fight against. I—I wanted to belong to him, Kiri.”
“I know. The
dragons and I sensed your battle.”
His eyes searched hers, sick at what she had seen.
She took his hand in both of hers. “I’m glad I was with you.” She tried to see his strength, see the old rebelliousness in his eyes, but she didn’t quite find either.
When they left the kitchen at last, to look for Marshy and the bard children, Kiri felt cold and disturbed. They found Marshy and Darba tucked up in bunks, under linen sheets and warm blankets, sound asleep. Aven lay awake, too filled with thoughts of Bluepiper to sleep.
“When will I see him? When will we be on Windthorst?”
“Soon,” Kiri said. “Very soon.” She straightened his covers and hugged him. They stayed with him, talking softly, until he drifted off. When they returned to the great hall, the children were still feasting, whispering softly, still too unused to their freedom to be loud and natural. Kiri wanted to gather them all in and care for them.
When she sat on the raised hearth, beside Teb, a thought kept nagging at her, that Teb might be much harder to heal than she had thought. She pushed the idea away. When she looked up, a big owl was hovering in the sun-filled doorway.
It was a brown barn owl with a face like a mask, its eyes squinting in the sunlight. When it did not see Red Unat, it dove straight to Teb.
He was smaller than Red Unat, but bigger than the little gray owls, brown as chocolate, with a creamy face. His voice was as deep as a drum.
“Sivich will attack tonight. He will ride straight for Nightpool.”
Teb sat up straighter, studying the owl.
The owl said, “Sivich was overheard to say he intends to sleep in the bed of Ebis the Black tonight— after a supper of roast otter.”
“He’ll burn in hell first,” Teb said.
“His armies wait for darkness, in the caves north of Auric.” The owl smiled a fierce hunter’s smile. “At nightfall, Camery’s troops will gather on the high ridge above them—where they can come down on Sivich like an owl on a tangle of mice.”
Dragonbards Page 10