by Jean Rabe
“Follow me, elf-fish. We will be going alone now, just you and me.”
Feril said good-bye to Kalilnama and the others, shuddering from the cold when their hands passed through her. They begged her to return and tell them if she was successful in her mission to turn the dragon into a man again. Though she detested the notion of coming back here, she agreed she might, because after all, they had been so helpful. They would show some of the famous sights of the city then, they insisted. She offered a word of heartfelt thanks to Kalilnama, then she followed the spirit elf Obelia as he beckoned her toward his watery home.
“Believe me when I say I am grateful you did not die by the spirits of the knights. I had prayed to all the gods, elf-fish, that you would come back to this lake and would not give up just because you failed to obtain one of Beryl’s scales.”
Feril didn’t reply. She was looking around the spirit’s rooms, trying to figure out why she had been brought here—what might be important to her goal.
“There is so much life and hope in you, my elf-fish, a determination and fire that I find envious.”
Feril froze in fear. Was Obelia going to betray her again? She whirled to look for his diaphanous form, finding it hovering above a pile of brittle-looking bones.
“I think I would have faded away to nothingness, elf-fish, had you not come along and given me a fresh sense of purpose.”
What do you want? She tensed, ready to push past him and out the door.
“To come with you.”
You know that’s not going to be possible, Obelia, she said sadly, watching his expression change and harden.
Suddenly, Feril felt the warmth leave her body.
13
He felt a pleasant rush, a fuzzy taste, reminding him of the spiced ale he used to order on visits to town—when he was human and running in the company of his old friend Maldred. The ale would slide down his throat and warm his belly, the feeling slowly spreading to his arms and legs. His tongue would seem thick, his judgment and vision would blur, and he would be blissfully oblivious to his problems for a while. He’d not had an ounce of ale since his transformation into a dragon, but when the last vestiges of the pain and poison fled and his strength began to return, he had a familiar feeling which brought memories of drinking and his old friend. He wondered what Maldred was up to. Was the ogre-mage in ogre lands, getting primed to become king one day after the passing of his father? Or was he walking around some human city, looking handsome and human, and scheming, as always, to garner riches?
Dhamon’s talons tingled. He still felt a bit dizzy. Then everything began to clear and he could feel his senses becoming acute again. He dropped all thoughts of Maldred, and focused on Feril and Ragh—and himself.
What had happened to him? He remembered an army of goblins that he was cutting through like a scythe through wheat. Then he remembered feeling overwhelmed by sleep. Goblins were piled all around him, smelling worse than usual because they were dead. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, along with the hint of sulfur, meaning Ragh was nearby. He remembered looking around for Ragh and being worried that the goblins might have killed the sivak while he and Feril were away, busying themselves deep down in the Lake of Death.
“Feeling better, my friend?” Ragh stepped out from the shadows of an old oak, careful to pick his way over goblin bodies as he walked toward Dhamon.
“Better?” Dhamon opened a bleary eye. “Aye, a little.”
The draconian read the puzzlement on Dhamon’s face and so brought him up to date—telling him all about the goblin spears tipped with poison.
“You’ll soon be back to your old self,” Ragh said upon finishing the story. “You’ve amazing recuperative powers. Of course, it was a good thing the elf was around to help.”
Dhamon relished the surge of strength in his limbs. He effortlessly dug his talons into the hard ground, raking furrows. He rolled his shoulders and opened his huge wings, feeling refreshed and powerful. Did he truly want to give up this dragon form? he wondered. He couldn’t call himself happy now, but would he feel any better as a man? Did he want to return to a body that was an insect in comparison to this greatness? Then he pushed such thoughts aside, telling himself the questions were irrelevant until he knew for certain if there was a cure to be had. His muscles bunched as he stretched his front legs out toward the old oak.
“The elf thought you’d be sleeping for a few hours at least.” Ragh looked up to catch the dragon’s gaze. “I tried to tell her to stay and wait, but she was impatient. I tried to tell her nothing keeps your kind down long.”
Your kind. Dhamon’s eyes narrowed as he stared at his. friend, for the first time registering Ragh’s numerous wounds.
“Oh, I’m all right—now,” Ragh said, anticipating Dhamon’s questions. “Same army that went after you… yeah, they got to me first, but they didn’t use that on me, thankfully. Must have been nasty stuff if it could knock down a dragon. Bet that stuff would be worth a good turn of coin in some dark places.”
“How long have I been… how long has Feril been gone?” Dhamon’s head swiveled around and his neck reached forward into the trees, eyes peering into the shadows and nostrils quivering at the stench coming from the goblin bodies. The sound of flies and other feasting insects supplied grim background noise.
Ragh ground the ball of his foot against the earth, a gesture that usually told Dhamon the sivak was either frustrated or disappointed. “A few hours. Said she had things to tend to. I told her to stay and wait, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
Something rustled the trees and Ragh watched a small flock of night birds scattering. He eyed Dhamon, who was looking off into the distance, toward the lake.
“You’ve no idea what’s down there, Ragh,” Dhamon said angrily, turning back to stare at the sivak, his tone making the ground shake. The insects’ drone quieted for a moment, and the few straggling night birds swiftly vanished.
“I wasn’t exactly in any position to stop her.” Ragh pointed to his deepest wounds. Much softer, “No one listens to me anyway.”
Then Ragh walked past Dhamon and headed toward the lake, doing his best to step over goblin bodies and nearly slipping in the gore. He idly glanced at the corpses, scanning for gold or silver neckchains or jewels. He knew it wasn’t likely pathetic creatures such as these would carry valuables, but the sivak couldn’t shake the habit of looking.
In a few steps Dhamon was past him, stopping at the shore of Nalis Aren and craning his neck out over the mist-draped water. He could dive in after her, would dive in after her, he decided—if she wasn’t back by the time the moon was directly overhead. Ragh soon came up behind him, plopping down in the sand.
Ragh stared at the water. Even more than Dhamon, the sivak had a pronounced fear of water—especially of deep water; he couldn’t swim worth a damn and knew he would sink like a rock in the Lake of Death. Still, trying to show Dhamon how much he too was worried about the elf, he stood and waded bravely into the shallows, until the water was up to his knees. Standing there, looking around, he caught Dhamon’s eye and nodded. The two of them stood there for a long time, looking out across the water for any inkling of Feril.
Dhamon just stood there, watching and waiting. After a while, Ragh washed the goblin gore off his feet and the dried blood away from the edges of his wounds. He was thirsty, but he didn’t drink the strange lake water. When he was finished, he came onto the sand and took up a position on the bank a few yards away from Dhamon’s right claw. He leaned back on his elbows, closed his eyes, and listened to the flutter of wings, a bird flying over the Lake of Death.
The blue was darker than Feril had remembered. The cold was oppressive. She was swimming up to the warm part of the lake as fast as possible, but Feril couldn’t stroke very well with her arms, as she was carrying the heavy satchels.
So tired, legs heavy. But it won’t be long, can’t be far. I can rest next to Dhamon.
She was making progress, she knew, only it was s
low progress. The satchels were soaked with water, adding to their immense weight. Her magic gave her extraordinary strength, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to lift both of the satchels., especially after Obelia had taken away the nurturing warmth, but the Kagonesti was sorely tempted to drop one of the satchels.
She was making progress, she told herself, putting more distance between herself and the sunken city. She was ascending, yet the cold somehow intensified, and the water was beginning to turn an eerie midnight blue.
Stay, she thought she heard someone say from somewhere far below her. Staystaystaystaystay.
My mind teases me! Got to get out of here. Her legs pumped even more furiously.
Stay.
There was no imagining it—she had heard something. Only this time it came from close by, over her shoulder. Feril’s eyes went wide with horror. It wasn’t the voice of a single ghost—not Obelia or Kalilnama or any of their companions. No ghost was in sight, only the still-darkening blue waters.
Stay. The word was much louder this time.
But it wasn’t one voice, it was several, she realized after the word had been repeated several more times.
Stay.
Repeated, magnified, and distorted. A dozen voices, hundreds of voices. Perhaps it was the voices of all the spirits trapped here, loud, powerful, and persuasive, in one chorus. Perhaps it was the true voice of the lake itself.
Staystaystaystaystay.
Stay? She pondered the temptation. She couldn’t, could she? There were things to do, like saving Dhamon and helping the refugees. Important things.
Staystaystaystaystay.
Earthbound duties weren’t that important. Maybe she should stay. It wouldn’t be so bad to join the elves in Qualinost, she mused, as she’d made many nice ghostly friends there. She hadn’t seen enough of the city, and she could explore it all at her leisure if she remained underwater. She would have all the time in the world to see everything. She could go back to the building with all the sculptures and talk to the artisan who had fashioned such remarkable images.
Stay, Ferilleeagh. Staystaystaystaystay.
Tempting.
The water started to thicken around her, embracing and cocooning her. It no longer felt hurtfully frigid; it was beginning to soothe her. The chorus of voices came from all around now and became superbly melodious.
Stay, Ferilleeagh. Stay.
Not so bad to stay here. Not so bad…
Stay.
Yes, I… not ever! she suddenly raged. I’ll not be tricked! The Kagonesti finally recognized that some magical force was trying to muddle her senses and seduce her into staying. Dhamon’s fate is entwined with mine, and if I die, he’ll never be human again. You’ll not keep me here. Important things to do.
She kicked her legs harder, holding tight to the straps of the satchels. They were anchors slowing her down, but she couldn’t lose their contents, so she continued to struggle, hoping the lake would not overpower her.
You’ll not defeat me, Nalis Aren, and you’ll never see me again.
Sadly she thought about the Qualinesti spirits in the city. She’d promised to return and tell them if Dhamon had become human again—and she had sincerely intended to keep her promise. But now, she realized, she could never come back… provided the lake and its spirits would let her leave in the first place.
Feril cursed the dead overlord that had settled at the bottom of the lake, that had caused all this ruin and somehow cursed and warped the water. Her anger gave her strength and helped ward off the cold again suffusing her limbs.
So dark. So cold. Why haven’t I reached the warm part of the lake?
Stay Ferilleeagh. Staystaystaystaystaystay.
Why haven’t I…
She barely made out the form of a sauger-fish swimming past her face. In the midnight water, its body was dark; all she spotted was the white of its belly and lower jaw. Higher, and she saw the pale olive stripe of a pike. Spurred on by hope, she put all her concentration and energy into reaching the warm surface.
Eventually she was rewarded.
Dhamon was listening to the birds, insects, and wind. He’d told himself he’d go looking for her when the moon was overhead, but he’d lingered on the shore past that time. Feril was wise and powerful and could take care of herself, he told Ragh more than once. He believed that, though he had to admit he was afraid of the lake. He’d wait just a little longer, he kept telling Ragh.
Finally he heard a soft splash and spotted Feril swimming toward him. Ragh jumped up. Dhamon breathed a sigh of relief as she made it to shore.
“We’re leaving,” she announced peremptorily, after nodding to the sivak and dropping the two satchels on the sand. She was gasping and took several deep breaths. “I’m never coming back to this accursed place.”
“Can’t be fast enough for me,” the draconian said. “Hope you collected Dhamon’s cure in one of those packs.” He reached for the satchels. Water poured out of the gaps as he put one over each shoulder. “I’ve a few suggestions on where we can go. I’ve been thinking about far, far north, or maybe the Dragon Isles.”
Feril shook her head, the droplets of water caught in the moonlight looking like liquid silver. “Not there. We’re not going in that direction at all.”
“Where?” This came from Dhamon.
“To Sable’s swamp,” she told them. “I’ll explain along the way, but the best chance for a cure is in the swamp… and in those bags… and in one of Sable’s scales.” She touched a scale on Dhamon’s leg and looked up at him. She couldn’t see his eyes from where she was standing. “If the two of you are feeling all right, I’d like to get started now. I truly don’t want to stay around this place.”
Ragh kicked at stones, muttering. “Fine, fine. Go back to the swamp and get ourselves killed or worse. I don’t even get a vote anymore.”
Dhamon craned his neck to look in her eyes. “I’ll fly us there, Feril. It won’t take long. Perhaps it would be… safer.”
She shook her head. “I want to go by land at least for a while… if you don’t mind. I’m through with swimming for a while—and flying too. I need to feel the ground beneath my feet.”
14
The bear was a rich shade of cinnamon brown, with a lighter brown concave muzzle and a large white patch on its chest. It was more than six feet long and half again that high at the shoulders, likely weighing about seven hundred pounds. It was wading downstream from where Feril and Ragh were studying the contents of the satchels. It was diligently looking for fish, curved claws and long teeth flashing when it finally caught a thick-bodied salmon.
Around a bend and a few miles farther down the stream were two more bears, larger and stockier, and of a different breed. Their dense fur was yellow-brown, the hair tipped silvery-white in places. Each had a pronounced hump above its shoulders and claws a half-dozen inches long. Their heads appeared disproportionately massive because of long ruffs, and each weighed well more than a thousand pounds. They had been feeding well this morning and were finishing the last of the salmon they’d caught.
Dhamon suppressed his fear aura and slid closer to the two bears.
Though the trees were thick in this part of the Qualinesti forest, he managed to slip through clumps of river birch without making a lot of noise. All dragons possessed magical abilities, and Dhamon knew magic let him move almost noiselessly when he truly wanted to. He just rarely put the effort into it.
The trees ended only a yard or so from the stream, giving way to the rocky bank. Dhamon stopped to watch the bears more closely, the shadows from the trees effectively hiding him; the wind was blowing toward him strong enough to keep his stench from giving him away. They were beautiful animals, fast for their size and powerful, but they would not be long for the world, as Dhamon was hungry.
When it looked like the bears were about to move farther down the stream, he sprang forward, jaws snapping, the talons of his right claw flexing. He slammed the smaller of the two animals against
the ground. Though grievously wounded, the bear roared and tried to writhe free. Its mate made a huffing sound and bared its teeth, hair rising on its back in defiance. It looked once at its trapped mate and then raced across the stream. It gave a roar that trailed off into a wail as Dhamon reared back and struck, his neck stretching out, jaws opening wide.
He snatched the second bear in his maw and lifted it, muscles straining in his neck from its weight. He threw his head back, biting down hard, and broke the bear’s back, killing it quickly. Because of its size, he couldn’t swallow it whole, so he had to chew on it for a while. When he was finished, he attacked the first bear, still pinned under his weight, and devoured it more leisurely.
Then Dhamon drank his fill, savoring the taste of the bears. They were far more palatable than anything else he’d eaten lately. After a few minutes of washing his claws, he headed upstream and made quick work of tracking the cinnamon brown bear. He wouldn’t need to eat again for some time.
Feril and Ragh sat across from each other on a large rock at the headwaters of the stream. They were at the edge of the Qualinesti forest, the Kharolis Mountains looming to the east. Strewn on the rock were the contents of the larger satchel—colored ceramic vials, clay jars, scroll tubes sealed with thick gray wax, small leather pouches filled with crystalline substances, and an assortment of metal and bone beads and tiny figurines carved from soft green stone.
“All of this is going to help Dhamon?” The sivak was studying Feril as intently as he was regarding the assortment of objects.
She didn’t meet his gaze at first as she moved the figurines around with her index finger, lingering on one that resembled a raccoon. “There is some faint magic in these pieces, and in these.” She was touching the beads now. “Stronger magic in the bone. Honestly, I don’t know how these things are going to help.” She raised her eyes. “I will find out, I promise you.” Feril stood and reached for the other satchel, rummaging around in it until she pulled out a stoppered flask. “Leave these things be, sivak,” she ordered, pointing to the objects. Then she slid off the rock and started toward a weeping cedar, the main branch of which looked like a robed man, one arm outstretched as if pointing to something.