A Darkness of Dragons

by S. A. Patrick

  Wren sat up and gave a big yawn. I’ll take your word for it, she signed with a grimace.

  “This from the one who loves maggots and beetles,” said Patch, moving to the fireplace, where the model Abbeys burned brightly. He took the poker and tongs from beside the hearth and spread the Abbeys out. Once the fire was less fierce, he added his hawthorn and made a little chamber using the flat stones.

  Is this for curing your Pipe? signed Wren.

  “It is,” said Patch. He produced a pot of sandy earth and poured half into the chamber, then laid his Pipe inside and covered it with the other half. He added a few more Abbeys around the sides, and sat back, pleased with his work. “An hour in there, and the Pipe will almost be done.” From outside came the tolling of the Abbey’s bells. “That’s dinner time!” he said. “I’m off to the refectory. You want me to bring a bucket of anything back, Barver?”

  “Yesterday’s feast will last me a week,” said Barver, licking more poultice. “I really shouldn’t snack.”

  Bring some for me, signed Wren. I’ve already eaten all the beetles I could find.

  When Patch returned from the meal an hour later, Barver was sleeping in front of the fire, with Wren curled up beside him. She greeted Patch with a wave, and ran over to see what he’d brought her – a little wooden bowl of stew, with a small hunk of bread. She tucked in as Patch checked on his curing Pipe. He prodded the stones and the sandy earth spilled out. With his hand wrapped in the bottom edge of his tunic he removed the Pipe and let it cool for a few minutes before examining it carefully.

  “A good result,” he said, testing various combinations of fingering. The notes from the Pipe were steady. “I’ve borrowed a pot of varnish, so I can get the glaze done once I’ve sorted out the other ingredients.” He reached for his bag and took out the varnish. As he did, the folded Mask of the Hamelyn Piper clattered to the floor.

  Barver opened his eyes and sat up. “Can I take another look at that?” he asked. Patch handed it to him. Barver twisted the rectangle, opening it out into the Mask and studying it. “To think, this was created by Casimir himself! My mother read me the stories of the Eight, and I think he was my favourite!”

  “I didn’t think dragons were interested in the Eight,” said Patch.

  “Not usually,” said Barver. “But my mother certainly was.” He had a dreamy look in his eye as he spoke. “At first, news of the Eight was only rumour – a special team assembled to find the Hamelyn Piper and bring him to justice! It was an exciting idea for a young dracogriff, all that adventure and intrigue… But it was only once they’d succeeded that the tales of their adventures started to come out. Every week, it seemed, a new part of their exploits would be told! With her position as an advisor to the Triumvirate, my mother got copies of the pamphlets as they appeared, and I still remember them all. First was The Call, when the Pipers’ Council brought in a dozen of the greatest heroes they could find, and tested them. Lord Drevis – a Virtus in the Custodian Elite at the time, not a member of the Council – was chosen to lead them, and one by one the heroes proved their worth or were shown lacking, leaving the Eight we all know. Next was The Terror of Imminus Rock, where the Eight hoped to find a great Sorcerer to help them, but discovered instead an island full of monsters! And then came The Caves of Casimir, where—”

  “Okay, okay,” said Patch, laughing. “I was only three when it was happening and too young to understand, but by the time I was seven I knew every chapter back to front. My nan must have been tired of reading them to me.”

  I loved those stories, signed Wren. Our village had a copy of the collected pamphlets.

  “Palafox, Corrigan, Kellenfas, Stone,” said Barver, reciting the names of the Eight. “Casimir, Hinkelman, Drevis and Throne. Casimir was so mysterious! A Piper who spent decades trying to understand sorcery, and called himself the Sorcerer Engineer.”

  Wren nodded with enthusiasm, but Patch decided not to comment. While Casimir had created the Mask and various other useful magical devices, Patch reckoned that the sheer courage and Piping skills of Stone, Palafox and Corrigan had been more important.

  Barver went to the boxes at the back of the room and took a handkerchief, using it to rub at the Mask. “There are fine symbols engraved on the inner side,” he said. “I don’t recognize them. Do you?” He passed it back to Patch, who looked closely at the parts Barver had cleaned up.

  “They’re an old runic language,” said Patch. “No idea what it says, but… Oh, that’s interesting.” In the places Barver had cleaned, the darkness in the engraved lines was glinting. “I’d thought it was just dirt in the engraving,” he said. “It’s not.” He passed the Mask back to Barver.

  “What, then?” said Barver, examining it.

  “I think the letters are inlaid with obsidiac,” said Patch.

  At once Barver let go of the Mask, dropping it as if it was red hot. “Black diamond,” he said, sounding angry.

  Wren looked confused. Black diamond? she signed.

  “It’s the dragon name for obsidiac,” said Barver. “The first humans to chance upon it in the Dragon Territories thought it was ordinary obsidian, just simple volcanic glass. But soon they realized it had magical properties, and because it was only ever found in the lands of dragons they called it ‘drac-obsidian’, a name which eventually became ‘obsidiac’.” He shook his head slowly. “Dragons, though, have long known that it is a dark, evil substance. Corrupting. Black diamond is a much more suitable name. Just as diamond is a rare form of beauty, black diamond is a rare form of darkness.”

  Patch picked the Mask up again, and fetched the knife from his bag. He used the tip of the blade to scratch at the dark glints in the runes. “Not leaving a mark,” he said. “Pretty sure it’s obsidiac.”

  Barver scowled.

  Why do you hate it so much? signed Wren.

  Barver sat down in front of the fire again, and added some more model Abbeys. For a moment he watched the flames in silence, then he looked at Patch and Wren with sorrow-filled eyes. “For dragons, black diamond is so dangerous it’s something only the gods can use. Digging it up is a kind of blasphemy.”

  “I thought you weren’t religious,” said Patch.

  “I’m not,” said Barver. “But most dragons are. There is an uneasy peace between humans and dragons, but there are those who dream of more, of cooperation and coexistence, working together. Truly sharing this world. Black diamond makes this impossible.”

  What do you mean? signed Wren.

  “Humans come to the Dragon Territories to steal black diamond, and dragons hate them for the blasphemous theft. Dragons burn the humans caught stealing it, and humans hate them for the killing. Black diamond creates a circle of hatred. The world would be a better place without it.”

  He fell silent again, watching the fire.

  Wren turned to Patch. When I was the Sorcerer’s captive, she signed, I read some of the books in his castle. One mentioned an old legend that obsidiac could give unnaturally long life. Is it truly that powerful?

  Patch shook his head. “Don’t believe everything you read. Sorcerers are famous for wasting their lives looking for immortality. It is very powerful, though. An obsidiac-glazed Pipe is supposed to be as good as they come. The obsidiac is powdered and flaked, then bound in a resin varnish and used as a Pipe glaze.” Absently, Patch started looking closely at the Mask again.

  “Don’t even think about it,” growled Barver.

  “Oh, I doubt I could remove it from the grooves,” said Patch, still looking at the Mask. “It’s known for being extremely tough, so unless I—” He trailed off, the tone of Barver’s warning finally sinking in. “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

  There was a cold silence.

  After a few moments, Wren broke the tension. What else can you use as a glaze? she asked.

  “Some flowers are good,” said Patch, flustered. “But they have to be fresh. This time of year, the ash of feathers might be the best bet.”

&nb
sp; Feathers? asked Wren.

  “Yes,” said Patch. “Eagles are particularly effective.” He frowned, wondering where he would get any.

  “Eagle, hmm?” said Barver, his voice softer now. “How about griffin feather?”

  “That’s good too,” said Patch. “Falcons as well, and buzzards. Has to be carnivores, you see, and—” He stopped, the penny dropping. “Ah,” he said.

  Barver was holding up three of his own feathers. “How many do you need?” he asked.

  The following morning, Barver was awake the moment the dawn bells sounded.

  “What’s got into you?” said Patch, yawning. “Don’t fancy a lie-in?”

  “I’m off to the laundry,” said Barver. “They get the fires lit early, so the water’s hot by now. The laundry room fills with steam, Brother Duffle told me. I’ll get half an hour before they need me out to get the laundry started. It’ll do me the world of good.”

  “Well, I’ll see you later,” said Patch. With Barver gone, Patch went to where he’d hung his Pipe after glazing it the night before. The glaze, with its dracogriff-feather ash, had given the Pipe a rich dark colour, a deep reddish brown that Patch hadn’t seen on a Pipe before. He touched it to test the varnish. “Dry!” he said, excited. He gave it a look over, then put it to his lips and played a few scales. “Good tone,” he said. “Let’s see if dracogriff feathers are up to the job!” He thought for a moment about which Song he should try. “A Lift, perhaps?” he said. “Yes. A Lift!”

  And what’s that? asked Wren, emerging from the folds of the blanket she’d spent the night in.

  “Battle Pipers do it a lot,” said Patch. “Lifts the mood. Raises morale.” He paused, thinking back. “When I told you about the ceremony at Tiviscan, and the moment I learned I wasn’t to join the Custodian Elite, you asked me what branch of the Elite they’d offered me. I didn’t give you an answer.”

  I noticed, signed Wren. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.

  Patch nodded, feeling sombre. “It was the Battle Elite. That was the branch that wanted me.”

  Not something you would consider? asked Wren.

  “With Battle Piping, there are Songs with the power of cannon fire; Songs to set distant tents ablaze. But it’s the Songs that increase hatred and bloodlust that are most valued. And I was so good at playing Songs that affect people, you see. That’s why they wanted me. I’d dreamed of making a difference in the world, Wren. Making people better at killing each other wasn’t what I’d had in mind.”

  Wren thought for a moment, then smiled. I’m proud of you, she signed.

  “Thank you,” said Patch. “Although I wish I’d just told them as much, rather than insulting them all and running away.” He shook his head, then looked pointedly at Wren. “So…do I have a volunteer for the Lift?”

  What, me? signed Wren. No chance. That’s an untested Pipe!

  “Oh come on, you’re perfectly safe. The chances of a new Pipe actually going wrong are tiny.”

  Find another idiot to try it on, she replied. She scurried over to the door, pointing through a knothole. One of them, she signed. They always look like they could do with a bit of cheering up.

  Patch joined her and crouched low to peer out. There was the usual solemn flow of monks, mostly individuals, sometimes pairs, quietly making their steady way around the Abbey in the time left to them before morning service. “I don’t know,” said Patch, although it appealed to a mischievous part of his mind. “A new Pipe is usually pretty weak. It might be hard to tell if it worked.” He felt something tickle his hand, and looked down to see an ant crawling over it. “Aha!” he said. “Perfect.”

  Wren was sceptical. How do you tell if an ant’s morale improves? she signed.

  “Trust me,” said Patch. “Ants are always good for practice. Plus I can keep my playing nice and quiet.”

  Fine, signed Wren. Just make sure I’m not part of your experiment.

  “Don’t worry,” said Patch. “Stay beside me, we won’t be affected. With things like the Lift it’s a simple matter of moderating the direction, range and nature of your subject, to guarantee that the Song doesn’t spill out beyond the desired target. Easy peasy.”

  Easy? signed Wren. Isn’t that what happened to make the villagers dance in Patterfall?

  Patch winced at the thought. “That was a lapse of concentration,” he said. “Could happen to anyone.” After carefully placing the ant in the middle of the room, he put his Pipe to his lips, furrowed his brow, then started to play.

  The Lift was a very simple Song at its core, and Patch had always been good at it. No wonder, really – it shared many of its patterns with the Dance, although it didn’t direct the subject in any way and was much less potent. All it did was perk them up, and the resulting effect varied considerably from subject to subject.

  Patch built up the heart of the Song. It took him back to the days when he’d sat in the woods by his grandparents’ home, whistling and seeing the effect it had on the wildlife as they drew near, intrigued and playful.

  The little ant, which had started to march back towards the doorway, stopped. Its tiny head tilted up slowly, then moved down again; then up, then down. It started walking once more, but there was a definite swing to the motion, left and right, and it sped up and slowed down to the Song’s rhythm. It began to take an extra little step to each side as it went, and from time to time it turned in a circle on the spot. It continued in the same way until it reached the door.

  Wren looked at it, delighted. That’s one happy ant, she signed. The ant tapped out the music for a moment, then made its way under the door and outside. Wren watched its progress through the knothole. Suddenly she turned back to Patch. Hold on, she signed. I think your Song has spilled out a little!

  Patch stopped playing, and the Song faded gently. “Oooh, listen to that,” he said, distracted by the Pipe. “The sustain is impressive! It usually takes a few more—”

  Wren interrupted him with a cough, and pointed at the knothole. Patch crouched down to look out again.

  The monks were still making their way around the Abbey, but now their pace had picked up, oh-so-slightly; from time to time, some had a bit of a skip in their step. The clearest change, though, was that most were smiling. There were even, shockingly, a few laughs to be heard.

  Did you have another lapse in concentration? signed Wren.

  “Not this time,” said Patch. The Pipe was silent at last, and he looked at it with genuine satisfaction. “This packs a punch, let me tell you. Dracogriff feathers are now officially my favourite.”

  How long will the Lift affect them? asked Wren.

  “That depends on the monk,” said Patch. “Some, I imagine, will decide that they’re far too serious for all that smiling. Others, well…it might stay with them for a few hours.” In the distance, through the meandering monks, he caught sight of someone who definitely did not have a smile on his face. “Look who it is,” said Patch. “Brother Duffle.”

  Duffle had a stern expression, but there was a hint of puzzlement there, too. He paused, looking at the smiling faces of the strolling monks. He shook his head and continued, making a beeline for the pigsties.

  Wren frowned. What’s troubling him? she signed. I hope Barver’s okay!

  “What is it, Brother?” asked Patch when Duffle reached them.

  “There’s a dire situation,” said Duffle. “Brother Tobias needs you in the infirmary, right away!”

  With Wren in his pocket, Patch followed Brother Duffle to a small room within the infirmary. On one wall were shelves of old books, bottles and containers. Brother Tobias was standing by a table on which sat various sizes of pestle and mortar, and bunches of herbs and plants in the process of preparation.

  “You can leave us, Brother Duffle,” said Tobias. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll return to Barver,” said Duffle. “Some light massage as he takes in the steam, I think.”

  Once Duffle had gone, Tobias gave Patch a cold look.
“Henry Smith,” he said. “An interesting choice of name. As an escaped convict, you could have spelled trouble for the Abbey, Patch Brightwater!”

  Patch felt his ears redden, but before he could ask how Brother Tobias had learned the truth, the monk turned and left the room through a second doorway. As he went, Patch could see he was holding something in his hand. He almost gasped to see it – a Pipe. What was a monk doing with a Pipe?

  A moment later he did gasp, because through the doorway Tobias had left by, someone else entered.

  Erner Whitlock.

  “Patch!” cried Erner, hurrying over to him. Wren emerged from Patch’s pocket and climbed up to his shoulder. “It’s really you! And Wren! I thought you were both dead!” Erner flung his arms around Patch and gave him a hug, a look of immense relief on the Apprentice Custodian’s face.

  When Erner let go and stood back, Patch stared at him. “Oh no,” said Patch. “Oh no, oh no, oh no…”

  Erner looked at him, confused. “Why do you look at me with such horror? I can’t tell you how thankful I am to see you alive! Virtus Stone and I were travelling to Yarmingly when news came through of the attack on Tiviscan. We heard that the Hamelyn Piper was dead, and that some prisoners had died too. Including the young lad who’d only just been locked away, they said! The Piper of Patterfall!” He shook his head, clearly distressed. “An awful thing to hear, Patch. Awful. When we arrived at the Abbey just an hour ago, Brother Tobias told me that Wren was here, accompanied by a dracogriff and a young lad calling himself Henry Smith—” Erner shook his head, smiling now. “I didn’t dare hope, but here you are. Both of you!” When Patch and Wren still said nothing, Erner’s confusion returned. “But still you look at me so strangely—”