I wish we could, he thought, with a yearning that poked him as sharply as any knifepoint. If the dragon heard, he gave no sign.
“Did Bavmorda know,” he asked instead, “of these other lands?”
“A Magus—a true sorcerer, of true power—is driven to know all there is to know. From that quest comes power. There are Worlds Within and Worlds Beyond, Willow. What you behold with your five physical senses is but one among a multitude.”
“Can’t I be satisfied with that?”
“If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”
Dineer had altered course along the way; belatedly, Willow realized the sky had darkened, from the pale blue of day to the rich cobalt of twilight and lastly to the diamond-laced velvet of full night. The dragon’s skin radiated a welcome warmth, but there was still sufficient chill from their headlong passage through the sky to allow him the sight of his every breath. He was thankful that the bulk of the dragon’s body blocked the wind of its flight from reaching him; he had no decent handholds beyond those of its spinal ridge and sensed rightly he’d be as helpless as a leaf in a hurricane. He didn’t like the road those thoughts were taking, and to cast them loose, Willow turned his eyes upward through air so clear he imagined he could see every individual flash of brilliance from each of the stars above.
He’d never given them any serious thought before. They appeared every night, so constant in shape and position they made the perfect guide for travelers. Which in turn made him consider how a bright lamp, when brought close to the eyes, tended to wash away all sight of whatever lay behind it.
“They’re always there, aren’t they?” he asked. “The stars, I mean. Day or night. If the world is a ball, floating in the sky, then why not the moon? And the sun as well? And if they’re balls, what of all those little lights beyond? Are they balls, too? Are they small because they’re small, or because they’re far away? If the world doesn’t end, what of the sky around it—how far does it go, how much space is there?”
It was more revelation than he could handle; it left him trembling with the awful sweep required of his imagination. His was a reality where the average tree was monstrous huge; celestial proportions had no real meaning to him.
Ice gripped him, heart and soul, a terror as sudden and all-consuming as the fear of his family’s death. “Why aren’t we falling?”
“There’s no need to fear, Willow,” the dragon told him. “The Mother World won’t let you go.”
“Balls don’t hang in the air, you throw them and they fall,” he cried, as close to panic as a fresh recruit in the face of his first battle. His hands closed convulsively on the edge of the nearest dorsal in a desperate, reflexive bid to hold on.
“Then don’t look. Don’t think about it. Be a farmer. Be a Nelwyn.”
Willow felt a flash of anger. “There’s no shame in either!”
The dragon shrugged, the flex of its shoulders feeling more to Willow like a minor earthquake.
“Why did you tell me these things?” There was a roughness to his voice as his fury began to turn from wayward sparks to a sustained blaze. “What do they have to do with me?”
“You’re a wizard,” was the reply, as if the answer was altogether obvious.
Willow was panting, flushed within, soaked without by sweat. His rage had been like a fever of such intensity that it consumed itself even as it tried to do the same to him. With a conscious effort of will he forced his fingers to open; they were white and swollen from the force he’d exerted on the dorsal and he hoped he hadn’t hurt the dragon in the process.
He looked about himself, taking in the dragon, the night, the world.
“We’re not falling,” he said in wonderment.
Nothing had changed. And everything.
“It’s all a matter of perception, really,” Dineer noted, tone as casually dry as any academic’s. “A ball in the air will fall. The same ball in water might float. Who knows for truth what medium the world passes through? We may well be falling, all of us together”—Dineer’s mouth creased into a grin—“but who’s to know until we hit something.”
“I feel comforted already.”
“To an ant, Nelwyns are giants. To Nelwyn, Daikini are. Everyone has their place in the scheme of things and all prefer to view that place as being the center of the universe.”
“Including dragons?”
“But of course, my friend. Save that we know we’re the center about which all revolve.”
“A rare wit. I’m laughing inside.”
“You’re learning, young magus. Give as you get, as good as you get.”
“Among the Nelwyns, the rule is to give as you would be given. There’s a difference.”
“The two aren’t incompatible, or mutually exclusive. Situation defines response.”
“Outstanding. Am I so exhausted in mind and spirit that the best my dreams can offer is a dialogue in philosophy?”
“Not what you’d expect from a farmer, or a Nelwyn, is it?”
“I am both, lizard.”
“And more?”
“Why am I here?”
“Interesting question, considering where we are.”
The bulk of the dragon’s body obscured any view of the ground directly below, and Willow had no intention of making his way to where the curve of its rib cage turned downward for a better sight. Instead, he picked his careful way along the dorsal ridge, soon finding an opening large enough to allow him to wriggle through and continue on between the double line of spinal plates, up the shallow curve of the neck until he reached Dineer’s head.
He leaned against a brow ridge, that curled back from the dragon’s right eye to form a many-spiked crest that peaked above and behind its skull. He didn’t understand how so huge a creature could remain aloft; the head alone would fill the entire market square of his village and he suspected that the dragon entire would dwarf Tir Asleen.
There was precious little ambient light, since the moon had yet to rise, but it wasn’t needed. One of the first side effects of his wizardry was a heightened sensitivity of his physical being. He could outhear a cat, outscent a hunting hound, and his sight had no peer. MageSight, he called it, allowing him the full range of vision even in pitch darkness.
At first, nothing looked familiar.
Is that a surprise? he asked himself in a tone as wry as the dragon’s. By the way, when was it you last saw the world from such a view?
A serried line of mountains, saw-toothed and jagged like the mouth of a shark, building to the ugly hollow of an ancient volcano, which in turn gave way to an ugly valley below. Willow didn’t need MageSight or a second glance to tell him what stood at the head of that valley, dominating the highlands, with easy access to the plains beyond.
“Nockmaar,” he said in recognition of that damned fortress, his voice a rasp.
“Bavmorda’s dead,” he continued. “Consigned to the doom she planned for Elora Danan.”
“You should know.”
“I was there, Dineer, I saw it.” A pause. “Are you trying to tell me different?”
“There are Twelve Great Domains,” the dragon said, “as much of the spirit as of the flesh. Elora Danan is the Thirteenth that binds them all.”
“I never understood the how or why of that. What makes her so special?”
“Perhaps it’s time you started learning.”
“Is something wrong, Dineer? Is there some danger?”
There was a rush of wind, exceptionally gentle, considering the tremendous size of the creature that generated it, as Dineer belled his wings and extended his hind legs for landing. Willow saw they were in a different valley, in a land of rolling hills, where the peaks of the Nockmaar range were reduced to bumps along a distant skyline. Where the dominant color of one was a dank slate, here was a riot of earth tones, rich greens and browns; Nockmaar stone was leached of life, the granite of Tir Asleen fa
ir burst with it.
Willow assumed the dragon had cast some sort of glamour over the castle to mask its presence; he had no other explanation, save the rankest incompetence (which he prayed was unlikely), for the failure of any sentries to sound the alarm as the head arched delicately forward to rest on the topmost battlements.
The hint was unmistakable and Willow wasted no time clambering from his perch.
He stumbled on landing and had to take a breath to gather his legs and wits beneath him.
“I’ll ask again, Dineer,” he said as he straightened, “and I demand an answer—is there some da—”
He was speaking to darkness and open sky.
The beast was gone, as if it had never been.
An appropriate profanity made it as far as thought, though not to execution, before being derailed by the clash of steel from beyond the nearest corner tower and a level below.
There were torches everywhere, along the parapet and walls, arrayed at intervals on poles across the courtyards below, illuminating the bailey to a fair semblance of daylight. There was a day’s worth of activity as well, a tumult of people and animals, carts and their cargo, scurrying purposefully to complete the preparations for the upcoming days of celebration. The din was awful, voices of all shapes and description—human and otherwise—trying to make themselves heard over the clash of hooves on cobblestones, the crunch of crates striking the ground, hammers on anvils. They competed in turn with a valiant band of musicians off in a corner, facing a clear space whereon couples were merrily dancing and flanked on either side by plank tables on which were laid buckets of ale and rough red wine and trenchers of breads and meats and sweets, catering to the entire assemblage. It didn’t matter whether folk were noble or common, secular or clergy; for this one special night, all the arbitrary distinctions of society had been suspended, allowing people to treat one another solely as people, and everyone was making the merry most of it.
To Willow, though, it was as if all the noises he’d ever heard—up to and including the one great battle he’d fought in—had been poured into the confines of these walls, which served then to magnify them tenfold. It was a wonder anyone present could make their thoughts heard, much less their voices.
Yet once more came to him that still, pure tang of blade on blade, sharp and staccato, a summons as peremptory as any monarch’s and as impossible to refuse.
He took stock of himself as he hurried along, mindful that—dream or no—he wanted to look his best. He’d donned his nightshirt before bed, but that was long gone, replaced by boots and breeches, a light woolen shirt, a leather overshirt that was as much a jacket. Belt around the middle, traveling pouches at his sides, he was dressed for a journey. In height, like all Nelwyns, he wasn’t much to speak of, standing barely as tall as a Daikini man’s hip, the length of his body concentrated more in his torso than in his legs, which gave him a surprising reservoir of strength but made walking a trial. His hair was shoulder length and full, mahogany brown at first glance but shot through with streaks of fiery russet that manifested themselves in the right light. He never considered himself particularly handsome, no matter how often Kiaya told him different—or particularly quick, or intelligent, or brave—even though, in truth, he was all these things and more. What he saw in his mirror was a plain man, whose goal was to do honorably and right by himself, his family, his friends. That was what he offered the world, and all he asked of it in return.
If he thought of himself as molasses, then the figures dueling along the parapet were wildest quicksilver.
One was dark, the other fire. Both Daikini, a man and a woman, lithe and lean with the bodies of trained warriors and the moves to match. The man stood a head taller, but the difference offered no advantage. The woman wore black, wool and cotton and leather and mail, as though ready to ride to battle. The only spot of color about her was her hair. It was the red of fallen leaves, the dusky rose of simmering coals, making her face appear all the more pale by contrast. The man’s hair appeared black, though Willow knew it was laced with dark brown, the tan of his features complemented by the rich colors of his clothes. He’d contemplated no war in his future when getting dressed, that much was obvious; his fur-trimmed boots were more appropriate to the Royal Court, splendid for the dance, useless on campaign, and his pants were cut more to show the elegant shape of his leg than for actual comfort. His shirt was a bell-sleeved cotton so fine it most resembled silk, and the exertion of the duel had opened its laces to expose a fair broad expanse of chest. Over that had gone a sleeveless waistcoat. No doubt, there’d been a doublet—that was the fashion of the season, so Willow had been told when adamantly refusing a similar suit for himself—long since cast aside to allow for more freedom of movement.
Swords clashed high, low, then the woman lunged to full extension, apparently intending to impale her foe through the heart. Only that heart wasn’t there to receive the fatal blow. The man spun away from her attack, making a full revolution down the length of her arm to stand behind her. As he went he caught hold of her wrist in his free hand; he lifted it, and her sword, and twisted to force her against him. Then, his other hand—which held his sword—pulled tight to the small of her back and he moved the pair of them as one along the length of the parapet, in perfect time to the music from the castle mainyard below.
He offered a smile, she kicked him in the knee.
“Sorsha,” he cried, more in dismay than pain.
“Madmartigan,” she mocked in return, matching his tone and coming for him once more with her blade.
He hopped clear as best he could, both swords moving too fast to follow as every attack—his to hers as much as the reverse—met its parry. Willow dropped to a seat where he stood; he had a splendid vantage point, and enjoyed the show. He’d never met a more devoted couple, or one more likely—at any time, for the most absurdly trivial of reasons—to kill each other.
“It’s a night of celebration, woman,” Madmartigan insisted in asperity.
“Well, I’m certainly having a wonderful time.”
“Where were you raised?”
“You know damn well where, and by whom.”
“You’re a Princess, damn it. Try acting the part. I’m supposed to be the rogue here!”
“Oh,” she said, and it was immediately clear Madmartigan had said exactly the wrong thing, because she redoubled her already considerable efforts, forcing him to drop his irreverent mask for a time and concentrate on swordplay. “I see,” she continued, speaking in the same staccato rhythm formed by the impact of their blades. “You get to carouse, you get the comfy clothes, you get all the fun, while I wave sweetly from my window? I don’t think so.”
“It won’t break your soul to set aside your sword for an evening and take up dancing instead?”
To emphasize the point, he somehow slipped around her guard again. Willow was looking for the move, watching with all his formidable concentration, and still couldn’t tell how the man accomplished it. All Sorsha could do was fume and follow as he led her gracefully across the stone in a way Willow had never seen before.
She clocked him solidly with her sword hilt, and when he cried out, clutching reflexively at himself, she tripped his legs out from under him.
Before his rump struck stone, she was away with the merriest of laughs, daring him to follow her up a flight of stairs and around the corner of the battlements.
He cast about, seemingly in confusion, as if unsure of which way to go. A moment later he’d launched himself into the air, describing a great arc across the bailey at the end of a halyard normally used for lifting armaments to the top of the wall. His plan was to swing ahead of her and be waiting when she emerged, hopefully winded, from the corner tower.
Unfortunately, he chose to land right where Willow was sitting.
It was a most impressive collision, despite the Nelwyn’s last-ditch and frantic attempts to scramble clear.
“Damn you, Nelwyn,” he heard as they untangled themselves, though the affection in the Daikini’s voice belied the profanity he used. “What God did your kind annoy when they were handing out sizes, eh? Too small to notice, too bloody big to avoid.”
“I’m pleased to see you, too, Madmartigan,” he grumbled in reply.
Sorsha’s contribution to the conversation was a delighted bubble of laughter, occasioned by her holding a pair of swords—hers and her husband’s—crossed at Madmartigan’s throat. He was sprawled amidst a jumble of collapsed crates, legs outstretched and splayed apart, while she straddled his hips, perfectly balanced on the balls of her feet; a twitch of her wrists would be all that was required to finish him.
“No fair,” Madmartigan protested. “I cry interference.”
“Nice try,” was her response. “Better you should watch where you’re going. I certainly did.”
“Do you see what I’m supposed to see in her?” Madmartigan asked Willow, with an exaggerated roll of the eyes.
“Your equal?”
“Not tonight, my little friend.” Sorsha smiled. The swords stayed where they were.
Madmartigan crossed his ankles beneath her, and his hands behind his head, looking like a man without a care in the world.
“I yield,” he told her. “Now may we dance?”
Carefully, for the blades were honed more keenly than any razor, Sorsha set aside the weapons, rolling forward to her knees in the same motion so that her face was above Madmartigan’s.
Willow looked away and didn’t remind them of his presence—with a discreet cough—until their second kiss.
“What was that all about?” Willow wondered aloud as the three of them made their meandering way along the parapet to a bridge connecting it with the inner keep.
“All work and no play—” Madmartigan began, but was as quickly cut off by Sorsha, whose tone—this was evidently an old argument between them—made Willow fear the duel would start up all over again.
“I’m a warrior, Madmartigan, why is that so hard for you to accept?” Sorsha took a hefty swallow of wine from a skin Madmartigan had produced and passed it along to Willow.
Shadow Moon Page 2