by Bryan Davis
Marcelle moved the swords to safe positions, slid down his scales, and landed upright. Her knees buckled for a moment, but she managed to keep her balance. “From whom are we hiding?” she asked, trying to match his volume.
His head swung toward her. “Did you see the wall?”
She nodded.
“The wall surrounds the dragon empire, and we are on the outside. Sentries are stationed there, dragons selected for their keen eyesight. They are charged with not allowing anyone, dragon or human, to cross the boundary from either direction. Although evening is descending and detection is less likely, I wanted to conceal you by landing at this distance.”
“If no dragons are allowed, then how will you—”
“A dragon priest is the only exception,” he growled, his red eyes flashing. “Now I must go. Even if they cannot see you, they might be able to see me, and I do not wish to explain why I have tarried here. Although I have permission to come and go, this liberty is tenuous.”
“But how do I get across?”
As he drew his head back, his long neck formed an S shape. “I assumed your people would send skilled trackers and warriors. Freeing your people is your purpose, not mine. I kept my promise to allow your entry into our world, and now you will have to manage on your own.”
“How do I find the other portal?”
“How, how, how,” Arxad said, his tone growing irritated. “Again, they are your people, your mission, but I will tell you that you must search the mines. If you are skillful enough to pass the wall safely, you will soon learn what I mean.” He waved a wing toward the trees. “Now hide there until you decide what to do. I must leave immediately.”
As he unfurled his wings, Marcelle ducked low, ran into the copse, and huddled among the short, stubby trees. She watched the dragon from behind a skinny trunk with multiple bends, not exactly a good hiding place.
Arxad pushed off the ground with his rear legs and vaulted skyward, his wing beats sending gusts of air and sand into her face.
She blinked away the grit. The reddish brown dragon lifted higher and higher, rising in a tight circle before straightening and heading toward the wall. Soon, he appeared to be no more than a paint splotch, an artist’s mistake on the canopy of pristine violet.
After backing deeper into the copse, Marcelle stood upright, set her hands on her hips, and stared in the direction Arxad had flown. Now what? Should she wait for Adrian and Edison? Arxad had said they would be told about her drop-off point, but they could be delayed by hours, maybe longer. Wouldn’t it be better to scout the wall to see where its weaknesses might be?
To her left lay a broad open expanse—stony ground with sparse vegetation, a few solitary trees here and there and some tufts of wiry grass—certainly not a good choice for a stealthy approach. To her right, the wooded area widened into a forest, still somewhat sparse, but likely enough to cover her.
A slight tinkling rose above the diminishing breeze. Running water? She followed the sound, glancing in all directions. Leaves and needles littered the ground, preventing any footprints, but every step raised a crunch. If anyone haunted this desolate region, surely her noise would alert him … or it … to her presence. Approaching nightfall wouldn’t hide her if she kept raising a racket.
After a minute or so, the sound led her to a stream spilling from a fissure in a cliff face. The stair-stepped wall of dark rocks rose to at least three times her height, and water poured from about halfway up, cascading to the level where she stood and down a pebbly creek bed, about as wide as a running leap.
Using her hands along with her feet, Marcelle scrambled up, bypassing the water’s exit, and peered over the top of the cliff. A meadow of dry grass began here and extended to the wall, too open to walk across without being seen, except maybe by night, but the darkest hours had not yet arrived.
She rotated, then sat on the cliff’s second step from the top, now facing away from the wall. Could the sentry dragons see in the dark? Probably. What good would it do to guard a wall that could be approached without notice during the night hours? Still, with darkness as her ally, a low crawl through the grass might work.
She looked at the sky. Evening was giving way to night. Maybe it would be better to rest here and see how dark this world’s night would get.
She took off her bag and belt and lay on the rocky step. As tired as she was, falling asleep would be easy, yet potentially dangerous. The sound of running water could mask the approach of an enemy, or she might roll off the step as she dozed. Her battle training had made her a light sleeper, but exhaustion could easily hold sway, even if a hundred roaring dragons descended from the sky.
Closing her eyes, she let out a sigh. She would have to take the risk. She was a warrior, and warriors took risks. Still, taking a risk by leaping out and going with Cassabrie to this world seemed pretty stupid after the fact. Now she wandered alone in a world of dragons with only a shadow of a hope that Adrian would join her. She couldn’t rescue the slaves by herself. Who would rally behind a woman, especially a woman in trousers who too often let her sword speak for her? She was foreign to her own people at home, probably much more so to the slaves here.
She slid her hand over the hilt of her sword. How many times had she acted on passion? How many times had she chosen boldness over caution? Glory over incognita? Would she ever change? Would she ever learn to be more like Adrian?
As his name came to mind, the image of their recent non-battle came with it. He stood in the tourney ring, his face beginning to flush as he made ready to forfeit once again. Surely he must have battled within his heart far more fiercely than in any tournament bout. He gave up any hope of glory and instead chose shame, not only for himself but also for his family. Would he have won? Probably. His victory over Darien proved that. He was stronger and quicker, and they both knew it. Yes, even before tonight.
Yet, why did he forfeit? Chivalry wasn’t that important, was it? Adrian and his family were the only men in Mesolantrum who practiced it. Well, there was also Noonan, the barkeeper’s son, but he did it to steal hearts, not to protect them. Since the Masters family practiced chivalry in isolation, no one understood, so no one scolded those who laughed at them. The Masters were just those old-fashioned folk who lived in days-gone-by, taught by a stubborn old soldier who never escaped from his past.
She exhaled loudly. Lying here under a foreign sky seemed to change everything. Two Masters men stood as her only hope. Now they appeared to be far more than relics. They were true warriors—men of valor who protected both body and heart.
Marcelle let her thoughts drift away from her troubles. For now, she had to sleep. Maybe it would be dark when she awakened, and maybe a new chance to make the right decision would present itself. Either way, rest had to come first. The slaves needed her body functioning properly even if her brain coughed and wheezed. At least she could give them that.
As she lay still, an image appeared in her mind, her mother’s face, pale and with eyes closed. Her dead body lay on a wheeled table, wrapped from neck to feet in white linen. Family members stood around, including herself at her mother’s side, each one holding a long candle with greenery encircling the base. With her hair down to her shoulders, clean and shiny in the light of the candles, she wore a long black dress with sleeves reaching to the heels of her hands.
Although half asleep, Marcelle recognized the scene, her mother’s funeral day. As the dream played out, her mind entered the girl’s body and saw everything through her eyes.
The candle’s wax dripped through the leaves and stung her skin. Marcelle dared not flinch. Let it stay there. Let it burn. Let God punish me for my slowness. If I had chased after her instead of running for help like a scared kitten, I could have stopped him … that man, that wicked man. I would have scratched his eyes out, and he would be the one wrapped in sheets, not Mother.
The mortician laid a white cloth over her mother’s eyes. Father handed Marcelle his bamboo pipes, the mouth organ he had crafted
as a boy. She stared at it for a moment, the holes at the ends of the reeds, the cloth strap for draping around the neck, and the insignia engraved in the band holding the reeds together, their family emblem, a dove in flight.
She glanced at Adrian. He stood with his family in the line of mourners, bravely holding back tears. He wouldn’t provide a rhythm this time. She had to do this alone.
As she raised the pipes to her lips, a song flowed into her mind—the song—the melody and words that called her to play for this occasion. Her father had encouraged her not to burden herself with such a heavy weight, but she had insisted. The world must listen to Mother’s tune once again. Although no one would hear the words she always sang while rocking Marcelle gently in front of the communal fire, she and Father would hear them in their hearts, and today, that would be enough.
She played the beginning note. Immediately, Father began to hum along, and the lyrics flowed freely through her mind.
Starlight I see at night beyond my mortal view
Daylight revives my sight and wakens me anew
O let me dream of homeland’s shores awaiting my return
O let me fly in skies so high and let my passion burn
The chains of death I toss behind and run to catch the wind
The chains of breath I now embrace and fill my lungs again
To sing of starlight, take me back to set my people free
So they can breathe the air I found, the love ‘tween you and me
When she lowered the pipes, she looked at Father. Tears rolled down his cheeks. She checked her own. Dry, as she expected. No more tears. She was empty, just a shell.
Two men pushed the table out the door and into the evening air. Holding hands with her father, Marcelle followed, feeling the dress brushing against her legs as she stepped in time with the men in front.
After several minutes, they arrived at a grassy field. A hole lay open at the nearer end, too wide for leaping across and much too long, a communal plot Mother would share with several others. The men halted the table at the edge of the hole and stood at each end, their hands folded at their waists.
“We must say good-bye,” Father whispered. He removed the covering from Mother’s face. “Take as much time as you need.”
Marcelle stood over her mother’s body. She gazed at her pale, gray face—stoic, yet peaceful, as she always looked when she was asleep.
As she stared, the color returned to Mother’s cheeks. That was it. She was asleep, swooned after a long illness that had drained her blush. Now she would awaken and take her loved ones into her arms again. She would sing in front of the fire about starlight and freedom and the chains of breath. Rainbow twilights would return in all their joy.
She laid a hand on Mother’s cheek. “Wake up, Mother,” she said out loud. “This nightmare is over. Father and I want to go home now. I will cook dinner, so you can rest a while longer. And soon we will sing together and laugh again. We will—”
“Marcelle.”
She turned. Father stood behind her, his cheeks again wet. She gave him the biggest smile she could. “Father, see? She was sick, and now we need only awaken her. We can take her home and—”
“Marcelle, no!” Father took her hand and pulled her gently away. “Mother is dead,” he said softly. “We talked about this already. She will not awaken until the angels call her name.”
Her lips trembling, she looked at him hopefully. “Let us try to awaken her now, and we will see. She always called me her little angel.”
He grabbed her upper arms and looked her in the eye. “Listen to me! A wicked man murdered her. You were there. You saw him drag her away to her death. She will not awaken for you or anyone else in this world. From now on, you and I will have to live without her.”
He pulled her close to his chest. His body quaked, and his hands trembled as they rubbed her back. “Dearest one, you and I will again hear her song, but until that day, we have to live in this world. We have to let them put Mother into that hole. We have to say good-bye.”
With her cheek pressed against his body, she glanced at Mother out of the corner of her eye. The color in her face had faded back to ashen. Tears trickled down the cheeks of the two men as they continued waiting. She turned her head to see Father’s sister and three brothers. They, too, wept.
Marcelle pulled back and looked up at her father. “You say good-bye. I have something to do.” Then, she grabbed Adrian’s hand and, running as fast as her legs would carry her, she dashed with him toward the commune. Along the way, he mumbled a halfhearted protest but kept up without further prodding.
Once inside, she led Adrian to his bedroom and set her hands on her hips as she panted for breath. “Do you have any trousers that no longer fit?”
He looked at her, his eyes wide. “I think so. Mother is saving them for Jason.”
“Get them. When Jason’s old enough, I’ll give them back.”
Adrian hustled to a closet, rummaged through it, and came out again with a pair of trousers. “Here.”
She snatched them out of his hand and ran to her family’s side of the commune. Now in the bedroom she shared with Father, Marcelle yanked the dress over her head and threw it to the floor. She pulled the trousers on, buttoned the fly, and looked in an oval mirror propped on a stand. Wearing a camisole for a top, she flexed her bare arms, skinny and pale.
Anger boiled within. Like a cooker loaded with steam, the pressure built up, higher and higher. Finally, she picked up the dress and threw it at her reflection, shouting, “No!”
Marcelle shot to a sitting position. The mirror disappeared along with the bedroom. The darkness of twilight had returned. It was all a dream.
She grasped her bicep, muscular and tight. She moved her hand to her thigh, toned and strong. Then, she touched her cheek. Dry.
Lying back, Marcelle looked up at Starlight’s darkening sky. The tune she had piped at the funeral played again in her mind, and she sang the final words.
To sing of starlight, take me back to set my people free
So they can breathe the air I found, the love ‘tween you and me
As the last word trickled out, a sob followed. Tears flowed, dampening both cheeks. “Mother,” she whispered, “when I find your killer, Father and I will sing your song again.”
ELEVEN
STANDING at the river’s edge, Adrian looked back at the castle. Father lay inside on a feather mattress, warm and cozy. Apparently, he had struck his head on the ice, and the dragon didn’t know how soon he would be well. Still, he breathed easily and displayed no obvious signs of trauma. Not only that, three unusual attendants saw to his comfort, among them a delightful young lady named Deference who spoke of Marcelle’s brief visit.
Conversing with a person who became visible only with motion took some getting used to, but after she followed his suggestion to sway as they talked, their discussion became rather entertaining. Also, learning that Marcelle had gained airborne conveyance to the Southlands made him feel at ease. Now he just had to find her.
After drying himself and his clothes in front of a roaring fire, he bundled together a thick cloak the king had bestowed. It felt good to be so warm.
“So, Cassabrie,” Adrian said, pressing a toe into the riverbank’s icy surface, “shall we be on our way?”
“At your pleasure, Adrian.” A soft laugh flavored her voice. “As the king instructed, I am to be your guide, not your mistress, so the departure time is yours to decide.”
“Is downstream that way?” he asked, pointing. “It’s too frozen to tell.”
“Yes, but we will not follow this river for more than a few minutes. Another one will come into view that will guide our way.”
Adrian marched in that direction, watching his steps to make sure he didn’t accidentally meander into the ice. The waterproofing his mother had applied to his boots worked perfectly, but it wasn’t designed to withstand a tumble into a river. Although his feet and toes still suffered from cold, at least t
hey would stay dry.
As he trudged through the snow, Cassabrie’s warmth spread through his limbs. She was walking with him, apparently enjoying the feeling of physical motion. “Now that we have some time,” he said, “would you like to tell me about how you lost your body? Were you a slave?”
“Oh, yes. I was a slave. All humans in the Southlands are slaves, but some of us get what the dragons call Promotions.”
“Promotions? We have those in our military.”
“I am not familiar with your military, but they are likely not at all similar. I can’t imagine that any human organization would create such a system.”
“Then tell me about your promotions.”
“Not mine. I never received one, but other slaves did, Deference, for example. I am in my state for another reason, which I hope to explain later rather than sooner. Since the king sent me to be your guide, I prefer to fulfill that purpose before I explain my presence in this state.”
“Very well, one explanation at a time.” Adrian scooted down a gentle slope that led into a forest of snow-laden spruces. “What happened to Deference?”
“All she knows is that she was awarded a Promotion. She didn’t understand why, because her exam scores were the lowest in her class. As you might expect, since you spent some time with her, she received outstanding marks for conduct and demeanor, so I think that’s why she was Promoted.”
“She is a sweet young lady, to be sure.”
“Indeed. Anyway, she remembers very little of her Promotion day. Arxad took her to a place called the Zodiac where they gave her a syrupy drink that made her groggy. He is a priest among the dragons, and that’s the place he watches the heavens, looking for signs of future events. She stood in the middle of a room with a dome ceiling, but in her dizziness she couldn’t tell if anyone else was there.