Unfettered

by Terry Brooks

  Gods, what a dream! It wasn’t the first time he’d died in his dreams. Not the first time by a long stretch. The details were familiar: towers of acrid smoke and blinding flame, a tumult of screams, clashing metal, and bellowing rage. But he’d never before faced the Dahak itself, the monstrous, sentient dragon whose armies terrorized his city of Cinvat. Many priests insisted that the Dahak was a High Dragon—something far greater than the beasts Cinvat’s warriors rode into combat. True or not, the beast in this dream was bigger and more terrifying than any dragon he’d ever seen.

  He shook his head to evict the last ghosts of his nightmare. He was in the mountains, in the fog. The wet mist must have put out his fire in the night. His third night—and he still hadn’t found any cinderblack for Mer, his master, the Keeper of Memory.

  Cinderblack. Mer had sent him up the mountain to find the dark berries of the cindervine for the priests. They needed the cinderblack for their inks, for the magic that they hoped would help turn the fortunes of war. With it they tattooed sigils of strength and stamina into the flesh of the warriors and their dragon mounts. The science was young but promising; the staying power of the cinderblack inks allowed for greater complexity and nuance.

  Daen wasn’t a warrior, he was an acolyte of the temple, and they didn’t fight. Most acolytes assisted the priests who graved the sigils onto the skin of those who fought. They tended their wounds, or delivered them to their pyres on the rare occasion when their bodies made it home. He knew war, if only from a distance, from seeing its aftereffects: the broken, the dismembered, the maimed who’d returned on their dying beasts; the grieving wives and mothers, the wailing children…

  Daen’s task as Mer’s acolyte—one of four—was markedly different. As the Keeper of Memory, Mer had dedicated his life to preservation of the city’s long history. Daen studied in Mer’s library, and hoped to be his successor. Already the entire history of Cinvat resided in Daen’s head, after years of hard study and drill and rote memorization. He knew the name of every man who had fallen, every dragon mount that failed to return. He committed every one to memory, scribed each into a record book that he kept with him at all times—

  He sat up straighter in panic—where was his record?

  Daen untangled the blanket from his legs and jumped to his feet.

  His basket nestled in the elbow of a tree root, empty of all but his meager food supply. Foolish! I must have kicked it in my sleep and sent it rolling. His toothscrub and pens lay nearby. The box containing his flint and steel had spilled into a puddle.

  A fine Keeper of Memory he would be one day; he couldn’t even keep track of his most important possession! He imagined his master’s scornful rant, felt the sharp crack of the old man’s hand on the back of his head. He was Mer’s best student; he knew that. But he couldn’t lose his first record book in the mountains—his very first personal entry into the great Library of Cinvat. That would be disaster.

  He scanned about quickly, shook out his blanket, raked through wet grass with his hands. It wasn’t here. His search became frantic. Not under the bushes, not in the puddle. Could it have landed in his fire? With sinking stomach he poked at it, but the wood wasn’t even completely burned. Surely a piece of the book would remain if it had. At last he picked up his basket, and there between the tree root and a hummock of moss lay the small, leather-bound book. With a sigh of relief, he brushed it off and held it to his chest. When his heart stopped pounding he kissed the book and stuck it in his tunic.

  Taking a deep breath, he shrugged off his shame at panicking and acting like a child.

  Cinderblack. The very thought of berries made his belly grumble. On Waeges’ Day, the autumnal equinox, there would be autumn berries everywhere—but the cinderblack were rare, and not for eating. He pulled a knotted cloth out of his basket and opened it. Less than half a loaf of his waybread remained, and the cheese was gone. Unhappily, he broke off a small knob of bread and bound the rest up again. Water shouldn’t be hard to come by, but he would wait to drink until he found a stream where he could refill his waterskin.

  Daen slid the straps of the basket over his shoulders. It bounced lightly on his back. Too lightly. Don’t return until your basket is full, Mer had told him.

  He set out.

  This late in the season, cinderblack would be hard to find. He’d found none on the southern exposures of the nearest slopes, so he set a course along a ridge for the next mountain southward, hoping for success on its north face where cooler temperatures and limited light delayed the harvest.

  Light glimmered in wan diffusion, the sun little more than a patch in the fog. Soon, Daen realized that he was lost, but he maintained his southern path. Pine trees replaced ash and birch and oak, moss gave way to grass, dirt to stony outcroppings. He knew he’d gained altitude.

  He stepped into an open space suddenly, surprised to find paving stones beneath his feet. The glowing air revealed silhouettes of crumbled wall and toppled pillars surrounding a small courtyard. It might have been a fortress, or a temple, with a commanding view of the valley on a clear day. The sun brightened, acquiring a hard edge, though he could still look directly at it. For the first time that morning, he became aware of smells—crisp pine, wet earth, and damp stone. It seemed as if this place defied the gloom, a small island of light and life. A brief gust of air caused an old leaf to chitter across the stones, then the mist swirled, parted.

  A statue appeared out of the fog. At first its subject eluded him—he saw only a tangle of roping sinew and claws and wings, pitted and worn beneath a cloak of moss. But as he studied it, two dragons emerged in realistic detail, a white one above and a black one below, locked in battle. The closer he looked, the more masterful the artifice became. They seemed almost alive.

  But their forms were exaggerated, not like the dragons men rode into war. Certainly they must be depictions of High Dragons. He hurriedly fished his record book out of his tunic. He should sketch a picture of this. His eyes were drawn morbidly to the black beast below. The Dahak was said to be a High Dragon, like this one…but the white one? In all of Cinvat’s stories was there—

  “Hello.”

  Daen jumped, barely keeping hold of his book, and spun to see a young girl stepping cautiously out of the forest and onto the courtyard, staring. She might have been six, possibly seven. Dark eyes and hair, simple homespun attire, carrying a small basket. She paused and cocked her head with a beguiling half-smile on her face, as if waiting for him to answer before she came any closer.

  “H-Hello…”

  “Who are you?” she asked, approaching again, tentatively.

  He looked around himself—for what he didn’t know—feeling awkward at having been surprised, pleasantries the furthest thing from his mind. Mer often scolded him for being tongue-tied, or for saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. He tucked his book away and straightened his tunic self-consciously. Only when she stopped again, a few feet away, did he find his wits to reply. “I…my name is Daen. And you…you’re…er…your name—?”

  “I’m Maia.” She smiled. “What are you doing here?” Her accent was odd, clipped, unlike any he knew.

  “I…well, I was admiring this sculpture here. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  She scrutinized the statue behind him, her head tilted and her mouth twisted sideways. “Well…it’s very old. It shows two High Dragons fighting, one is black and the other is white. The white one wins. Mother likes to come here on Menog’s Day to lay dried flowers under it. But I don’t remember why…that’s really all I know.”

  High Dragons! She said it so casually. Daen squatted down to bring his eyes to her level. She backed up a step, so he shrugged the basket off of his back and sat on it. “I’m surprised to see it, that’s all. I’ve never heard of this place, though it’s so close to my city. It’s a very elegant statue, isn’t it?”

  She cocked her head at him, brows pinched. “You talk funny.”

  He smiled. “No, you talk f
unny!”

  She grinned back at him. “Where is your house?”

  “I’m from Cinvat…that way.” He gestured vaguely in the direction that he thought might be west.

  “I’ve heard of that, but I don’t know where it is. Is it a big village?”

  “I should hope you’ve heard of it. It’s a city—the biggest in these parts, until you get to the coast. Trenna is on the coast and it’s the biggest city I know of.”

  “Tren-na…” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know that name. It must be very far away.”

  “Not so terribly far, really. Have you ever seen a big city?”

  “No. Just my village, Riat.”

  “And where is that?”

  She pointed back and to her right, more or less southeast. “That way, on the cliff. My father is the broodmaster there.”

  Broodmaster. An unfamiliar term. “Are you here alone?”

  “No. I’m here with my mother and Grus.”

  “Grus…is that your sister?”

  She laughed briefly, a melodious sparkle of sound. “No! Grus is Mother’s dragon!”

  “Her dragon! You have a dragon?”

  Maia studied him through squinted eyes. “Of course we do. We have six dragons—three breeding pairs. I told you: my father is the broodmaster.”

  Dragon breeders? So close by and he had never heard of them before? Surely the Council knew every breeder for leagues around. Perhaps he had wandered farther off his course than he realized, or Maia and her mother traveled a long way on their dragon to be here. Six dragons would scarcely compare to the hundreds bred in the aeries of Cinvat, but in such times as these, every dragon qit mattered. He fished his record book out of his tunic, fumbled his pen and a bottle of ink out of his basket.

  Maia’s eyes grew round. “What is that?”

  “This is my record book. I write everything important in here.”

  “Are you going to write me in there?”

  “I most certainly am. You and your mother and…Grus, did you say her name was?”

  Maia nodded happily, pleased to be accorded such importance.

  His hand hesitated before making a mark, though. He didn’t know how far off his trail he might have wandered in the fog. He drew a quick map of the valley and the surrounding peaks and ridges, put an X as a best guess, then added some notes about the statue and Maia. “I suspect some of the elders would like to visit your father and meet Grus. Is your mother nearby?”

  Maia nodded again.

  “May I meet her?”

  The girl’s brow pinched into a frown, her lips puckered in thought. “I don’t think she will see you.”

  Daen pulled upright. “Why ever not?”

  She crossed her arms. “You don’t belong here.”

  Daen felt indignation rising, but he struggled with the voice of Mer in his head, warning him to stay polite, to consider his words wisely. Even as he swallowed his anger, the girl said, “Why are you here really? Not just to look at statues. Are you lost?”

  Perceptive child. He slumped and nodded. “Yes, I admit that I am a little bit lost. The fog disoriented me…” He shrugged. “I’m supposed to collect berries for the priests.”

  Her face brightened, if only a little. “We’re gathering berries too! We come here sometimes to picnic, but today we’re gathering berries for the Waeges’ Day banquet.” She held up her little basket as proof. He now saw that it was full of dark red bunchberries.

  “So you are! Do you know where to find the best berries?”

  She nodded. “Where you’re from…you get to eat berries?”

  “Of course, sometimes. I’m looking for a very specific kind of berry, though. Do you know cinderblack?”

  “Nooo…” Said like a question.

  “They’re very dark, not shiny like some berries. They grow in the shadows, on vines with blazing red leaves. Do you know of these?”

  “Do you mean charberries? They’re not very good. Birds and faerie dragons like them, but that’s ’cause they swallow them whole. Then their poop stains never come clean.”

  Daen leaned forward in excitement. “That sounds right. Yes! Do you know where some are, right now?”

  She nodded again, slowly. Apprehension now seemed to jostle with her interest, so he pulled back. “Can you show me? I would be very grateful.”

  She scrutinized him for a moment. “Why do you want those awful things? I can show you good berries.”

  He considered how to answer such an innocent question. He could invent something simple, but he suddenly felt concern for this wilding child and her family. Her guileless curiosity put an unexpected lump in his throat. She deserved the truth. She should know the truth. “We are hard-pressed by the Dahak’s forces, and we need every advantage we can get—”

  She looked truly puzzled now. “You’re pressed? Like squashed?”

  She didn’t understand at all. How could she not have been touched by war? Were they so isolated that the Dahak hadn’t found them yet? It seemed impossible.

  “No…Yes. The Dahak squeezes us. All of us. We need the…charberries because they make the best ink for the priests. The best inks make the strongest gravings.”

  She nodded. “My father has gravings.”

  “Does he? Is he a warrior?” He stood, and she took a step back, shaking her head.

  “Maia—our people are at war, and whether you realize it or not, you are in great danger. The Dahak won’t stop until its armies have taken everything. Have you seen strange and horrible armies, with dragons that are…dark and misshapen?” He reached out to her, but she took another step back. Was it possible that her family had already been turned? Is that why Maia’s mother might refuse to meet him?

  “If you’re at war, why are you here gathering berries?”

  Her voice in that moment seemed wiser than her years, her face so pinched with distrust that Daen regretted his surge of honesty. “It…It’s my duty. They are needed. Please, Maia…Can you show me where the berries are?”

  She pointed to the west without taking her eyes off of him. “Up there, in the rocks.”

  “Thank you! And now, may I meet your mother? I would love to talk to her…”

  Maia shook her head again. “She won’t see you. You should go back where you came from. I think you’re scaring me.”

  “Maia, no! I’m not scary…I…I’m scared for you. I really need to talk to—”

  “I think I should go now.” She turned and headed into the forest, into the mist.

  “No! Please don’t go! Maia—wait!” He stuffed his pen and his record book into his tunic, stoppered his ink and poked it in too, then snatched up his basket and followed after. He suddenly found himself surrounded by soft gray shadow, as if the edge of the courtyard defined a boundary between light and gloom.

  The fog had swallowed her. It still lay thick under the trees, but he thought he heard footsteps and cracking twigs ahead. “Maia! Please don’t go! Please take me to your mother!” He stopped to listen for her, but the dense air muted all sounds. Beneath this canopy of shadows he felt disoriented again, and cursed himself for a fool.

  “Maia!”

  Not even an echo.

  “Please!”

  Surely her mother would have heard his shouts, even in this fog. “Maia’s mother—if you can hear me, please answer!”

  He waited long minutes for some sort of response—a shout, returning footsteps, the beat of a dragon’s wings. But the air only grew heavier, the silence more dense.

  And what if her family had been turned? For whom did her family breed dragons? He shuddered to think that he stood here shouting out his position, inviting his own doom.

  He turned to retrace his steps back to the statue in the ruins, his hands shaking and his feet numb. He needed to reclaim his sense of direction. After several minutes of tramping, he knew that he had missed it somehow. He took a bearing on the brighter patch of sky where the sun dwelled, then started a circular path, expanding with
each turn, in hopes of coming across the statue in the courtyard again.

  When the bright patch neared its zenith, he abandoned the effort. If it could be found, he most certainly would have found it by now.

  What had happened here? He trudged through the wet undergrowth toward the ridge the girl had indicated, watching each approaching shadow with supernatural fear until it confirmed itself as a tree or log or pile of stone. He touched them as he passed, to be certain of their solidity. Shaking, he drew his tunic closer. A strange, arcane glamour permeated this mist, something dark and elusive that teased him with statues, and with images of little girls, who then vanished without trace.

  The voice of young Maia repeated in his head, again and again, If you’re at war, why are you here gathering berries? Why had Mer sent him into the mountains? He’d be far more useful recording events in Cinvat.

  “Oh Asha, Source of All Truth, without doubt I am the most miserable servant you ever endured.”

  Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he stumbled upon a thick patch of cindervine growing out of the cracks in a rock outcropping. The leaves blazed with their autumn colors, the vines laden with cinderblack, dripping with dew.

  He fell to his knees and bowed his head. “Praise to the Source for showing mercy to this humble fool. I terrorize myself with imagined dangers, when all along you only mean to show me what I seek.” A tear of thanks melted into the dampness collecting on his skin. He emptied the contents of his basket—pens and ink and flint box—wrapped them together with the bread in his parcel, and poked it all into his tunic. Then he slung his waterskin on his shoulder and set to filling the basket with fruit. Soon it was heavy enough that it no longer bounced on his back. He sat with the basket resting on the ground behind him long enough to make an entry in his book:

  Waeges’ Day, 207th y. 4th Age: Huge patch of cinderblack on the high ridge east of Cinvat, possibly one day (?) on a direct path. Revealed to me by Asha, Source of all Truth, through the auspices of a young girl, Maia, whom I met in a courtyard previously unknown to me. This was a singularly strange event; I pray one day to retrace these steps, to find the ruins and the girl again.