The dragon’s body flapped and rolled. Oddly lovely, mothlike. The last of its kind, tossed high and dropped, helpless. But still so strong; if it got back to its lair, it might be able to pick the pieces out. It might be able to heal. Again the eyes enveloped Alec, so dark they left him gasping.
He watched as the technicians struggled to attack the grappling claws. The thing bellowed hideously, leathery skin flapping. The beast had poisoned him, changed his life, infected him with its darkness.
The beast had changed him. The beast had brought out a life different from the one Alec had intended.
A darkness ran in his own veins, dragon’s breath in his lungs. Another world lay under the bridges between neural synapses, a place where dreamers and their nightmares were the same, where only dragons and their hunters might fly.
The dragon had made him fly through the dark.
I have a choice, he thought.
Alec pushed with his mind just as his people pulled him loose of the plane, almost out of range of the telemetry link with the dragon. And the dragon rose with the crumpled plane clinging to its belly.
It staggered to the cliff’s edge and went over while Alec watched, the technicians holding him back from the lip.
And under the shouts, the frantic scramble, Alec had a brief moment inside the dragon’s head as it slipped over the cliff’s edge, the wind filling broken wings, the darkness filling enormous eyes, heedless of the fire crisping its back as it dived once more into its alien world.
THE WIZARD’S BOY
Nancy Varian Berberick
The Venerable Alan is dead. In the Halls of the King they have summoned the bards to sing the lay of life, to tell the tales of his many long years. What tales they will tell, I can guess. There is one, however, which they will tell, and tell with only part of the truth. And that is the founding tale. We have become a revered Order, now. We have become wise men, counselors, respected lords. There was a time when the title “wizard” was not applied to our kind. There was a time when we were labeled conjurers, fortune-tellers, sorcerers, and worse. We were held in little respect, and much fear. It was not then as it is now. I have seen the lifetime of two kings. We are a long-lived Order. The Venerable Alan had seen the reign of two more kings than I. They love him now, and they mourn him.
Come to me, and sit close. Draw up your stools and benches. Heat your ale, and find a place of comfort. The tale I would tell you is one that I know you have not heard. The tale I would tell you is one the bards chose long ago to embroider and make more suitable to these times.
Are you comfortable? Is your ale warm? Listen, then, and I will tell you the tale of The Venerable Alan and The Wizard’s Boy.
I did not become a wizard in the usual way. There was, in the time of my own youth, no Seeking, no itinerant wizard sweeping through the villages and castles in great pomp and mystery to choose among the young children for those who might be considered for wizard’s teaching. Things, in my youth, were very much different. There was no Order. There were, at that time, but few wizards, and they were named sorcerers, and spoken of with fear and scorn.
First I was a thief. I was the son of a thief, and had to my credit the teachings of a father who ended his own long career upon the gibbet. I was privileged to attend that death. It was not I who considered it a privilege, but the folk of the town who finally caught and hanged him. It was in their minds, I think, to draw for me a lesson in the ending of a thief’s life. It was a harsh lesson, and one which stayed with me ever.
That is not to say that I never stole again. Indeed, upon leaving behind that wretched town I had nothing but the clothes upon my back, the fraying boots upon my feet, and the admonitions of the townsfolk to go and steal no more.
But I tried. I journeyed ever with the sight of my father, hanging lifeless and ruined upon the gibbet. I knew that I wanted to face no such fate. I wanted no crossroads grave for myself. I knew, as well, that I was poorly equipped for any other career than thievery. We are fatalists as children. We understand the reality of life in a world where power is held by those older and larger than we. I do not wonder that I viewed my prospects with a large degree of cynicism.
Still, the degree and reason for my thievery changed. I stole now only what I must. I stole when I could find no work, when I could not beg for my needs. There is no place for a homeless boy of ten years in a world which views strangers with suspicion and mislike. I made attempts at respectability. I would stop in every good-sized town or village, petition innkeepers, stablemen, shopkeepers, for the work which would keep me clothed and housed and fed. I was not often successful, but I was persistent. It was not until I was certain that there would be no work for me that I stole what I needed. It was in such a village that I met Alan.
My boots, which had been frayed and wearing thin at the time of my father’s death, had worn through and finally become useless. A morning and an afternoon of seeking employment had served to show me that there was no one in the village who would risk the presence of an unknown boy in his shop or inn. I had begged a few scraps of food and a sip of ale from the baker’s wife at the nooning, but it was nearing night now, and my belly was making known to me its need for more. And my feet were sore and gritty with the dust and pebbles which had worked their way through the holes in the soles of my boots. As the sun bled in setting across the western sky, I sneaked, carefully, I thought, into the back of a tanner’s shop. There were a pair of soft leather boots there which would nicely fit me. The shop was closed for the evening meal, and I did not think that the tanner would soon return.
I was wrong. I had the boots in my hand, not stopping to put them on, and was making my way back out through the rear of the shop when I was caught.
The tanner, a big, burly man, grabbed for me, missed, and sent up a shout which fair roused the whole of the small village. I ran, pelting through the narrow streets, the tanner and several others who had answered his cry giving chase. I tore past the baker’s shop, down an alley, and through the courtyard of the village inn.
Dashing here and there, I made my way toward the inn, thinking to hide myself among the crowd which was surely within. There, I ran up against someone and I was caught.
I thought of nothing for a moment, for I was panicked. I heard my heart pounding in my ears, and surely I wheezed like a bellows for all to hear, for it had been a long run. Big hands grasped my arms. I staggered, for my knees were weak with the effort of the run and with fear. There would be a beating next, and I hoped nothing more.
He shook me, not hard, and not unkindly, but more to get my attention. He had it.
I looked up. Behind me the angry sounds of my pursuit faded. I knew that the tanner and his friends were there, clamoring for me to be turned over to them. I had no thought for them. There was no room for thought of anything but the man who held me.
He was tall, and not so young, but not so old. His robes were an indistinct brown color. Over these he wore a hooded cloak of fine burgundy wool. The hood was thrown back, revealing hair of darkest black, touched in places with grey and long enough to nearly touch his shoulders. His beard was thick and glossy, with more grey in it than his hair. His face, weather worn and craggy, spoke of travel. All this I saw, while trapped by the grip of his eyes. They kept me with a hold far surer than the grip his hands still had upon my arms. They were black, if they could be given any color, and they were as deep as cavern pools, running still and quiet. I looked into them, and I was lost to all around me.
I felt every secret being plumbed from me. I was convinced that this man was able to see into my most inner places and that nothing could be hidden from that dark regard. For myself, I learned nothing. That gaze which took and inspected every part of me gave nothing back. I might well have sought to use the night sky for a window. And then he spoke.
“Who are you, boy?”
There was gentleness in his voice. His eyes, then, revealed something a little like wonder and more like recognition.
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p; I could do nothing but answer. I told him my name, and he nodded as though I had confirmed information which had already come to him from some other source.
“He stole the boots!” And with the tanner’s aggrieved and belligerent cry, I was suddenly back in the real world.
The stranger looked past me then, and regarded those in the courtyard who muttered with uneasy agreement. He reached down, taking the boots which were still clutched in my hand. “These?”
“Aye.” The tanner’s tone was changing. There was a subtle undertone of fear beneath his word of agreement.
He tossed them to the tanner, who was too startled to catch them and let them fall to the cobbles at his feet. “They are returned.”
The tanner grumbled behind me and muttered of punishment. The hand still upon my shoulder turned me, and I faced my accusers. I thought then that he would turn me over to them, and I began to tremble, for I had no love of beatings. But he did not. He extended his arm so that I was enfolded in the burgundy cloak. I felt the cold nudge of the sword which was sheathed at his side. I knew then that there would be no beating.
The tanner looked about him for the support of his friends. There was none, for they were fading away, looking uncomfortable and making it clear that they would not press the matter. After all, the boots were returned, and they had business to which they should attend.
Alone, the tanner stood his ground a moment longer. His eyes went from the stranger to me, and widened suddenly with something like fear or perhaps understanding. He picked up his boots and hastily left.
“Why did you steal the boots?”
I looked up at him from the haven of his cloak and shrugged. “Mine are worn to useless, m’lord.” I did not know that he could rightly claim the title, but I sensed that if he could not claim it by birth, I might so name him and not be far wrong.
He smiled. “So you steal?”
“It was the only way at the time.”
“Ah. A pragmatist.”
I did not know what that meant, but it did not sound insulting, so I only nodded. He laughed.
“Where do you live, boy?”
“Nowhere, m’lord.”
“Your parents?”
“My father is dead this past year. My mother ten years ago.”
“I see.”
He seemed to consider something, and then nodded as though he had come to a decision. He regarded me closely again, and again I felt that I was swimming in waters too deep for my skill. I began to shake, and tried to stop it. I had little success. When he saw this, his smile deepened.
“I need a servant. But not one who will steal from me.”
I lifted my chin at that, and answered far more arrogantly than I would have had I known who he was. “I do not steal if my belly is full, m’lord.”
“Or if there are boots upon your feet?” He was amused.
“Aye.”
He loosed me then, and I stepped away, but not far. He reached into the pouch which hung at his belt and took out several coins. “Go buy the boots, boy.”
I took the coins and stared. They were twice what the boots were worth, and far more riches than I had ever held. Even so, I do not believe that I would have taken them and run. “All of this, m’lord?”
“The tanner will feel well paid for his trouble tonight. Buy them and return to me here.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
I found the tanner in his shop, alone at his workbench. He was not working, but sitting silently. I paid him with all the coins I had been given, yet he tried to return them, saying that the boots were not for sale.
“But, sir,” I said, puzzled by the refusal to sell his wares and by the long, suspicious looks he was giving me from the corners of his eyes. His looks made me shiver. “I offer you twice what the boots are worth.”
“Aye, and what do you offer me but conjurer’s gild?”
“Conjurer’s gild? These?” I held out the coins. There was nothing wrong with them that I could see. They were the small square coin of the realm, marked on both sides with the sheaf of wheat which stamped them as good king’s coin.
“No, sir, these are good.”
“You had them of the—” He stopped, shook his head once, and picked one of the coins from my hand, examining it closely. “You had them of the man in the stable yard?”
“Aye.”
He peered more closely at the coin. “Well, it seems sound enough.” Squaring his shoulders, he took the rest of the coins. “Very well, then, boy. Take the boots. And take something else.”
“What then?” I asked, my hands already stroking the fine, soft leather of the boots which were now mine.
“Take heed, boy. You throw your lot in with a conjurer.”
Again I shivered. “How do you know that? My lord seems a right enough man.” Still, there was doubt in my mind, cast there by the certainty in his own expression.
“He is a conjurer. We know his kind here. We know his tricks and schemes.” The tanner’s smile was sour.
“You name him conjurer…” I whispered.
“Aye, and that he is. Have a care, boy, that you sell your soul for more than a pair of boots for your feet.”
My soul! The boots grew heavy in my hand. Was that the price of footwear? I remembered his clear dark eyes, the firm, kindly way in which the stranger, now named conjurer, had stood for me against the tanner and his fellows. My soul? I did not think that he was bargaining for my soul. I did not think, then, that he was what the tanner named him. Shrugging and tucking the boots under my arm, I left the tanner to his profit.
Still, the tanner’s words were much with me as we began our journies. Alan did not try to hide his identity from me. Neither did he at once disclose it. It came soon enough. As he wished, I acted as his servant. He did not have a horse, so we traveled on foot. It was not long before I discovered that the tanner’s warning held truth: I had fallen in with a conjurer.
There was a night, not long after our association began, when we were camping in the depth of the forest. I had trapped two rabbits for our dinner. The night was chill and wet. It had been raining since the dawn of that cold, grey day, and while Alan skinned my catch, I tried to light a fire from the best of the wet wood that I had gathered.
I had no success with the kindling. The sparks from my flint would leap, arc, and fall to their deaths upon the wet twigs and leaves. After many attempts, my hands stiff and awkward with chill, I cursed roundly.
Alan laid the meat aside, glanced up at me, and smiled from the shadows of the hood which he had drawn over his head against the drizzle. “A strong oath for a lad so young,” he said softly.
“Aye, but not strong enough to light a fire,” I grumbled.
“It is a wet night. It might be that you ask too much of your flint and tinder, boy.”
“I ask it to do only what it should.”
“Aye, but not what it can.”
I sat back on my heels and tossed the flint aside with an expression of disgust. My anger was, I thought, a good covering for the disappointment which I felt at the prospect of a cold camp and no dinner.
Again Alan smiled. “Let me see if I can help.”
I wished him luck, hunkered upon the damp ground, and watched with little hope for a fire this night.
He moved closer to the ring of stones I had fashioned to contain the fire. He rearranged the kindling only a little, then took a small breath.
“A fire,” he said softly, and I knew that he was not speaking to me. Neither, I thought, was he speaking to himself, as a man does when reviewing the tasks at hand. “A fire. To warm our meal, to warm our night. A fire for kindly purposes only.”
It was as though he asked a boon of someone. I shivered, and the shivering had little to do with the cold or the damp. The warning words of the tanner came into my mind, and I hugged myself against the chill and the advance of fear.
“A fire, bright and hot. A fire for comfort.” He lifted his eyes, his gaze passing over me as though I
were not there. It traveled high, and I could not but follow where it went, past the heights of the trees, up to the grey and starless sky. The forest became still around us. The drip and sigh of the drizzle seemed to fade to nothing. The soft rustle of forest creatures, hunting in the night, vanished.
His voice was a sigh. “A fire.” My eyes came back to him, and I was not able to see his face now. Shadows had drifted across it, shadows which did not touch his shoulders or the rest of him. And through the shadows I could see the light of his eyes.
Words fell from his lips, now, and they were words which I had never heard before, but which were, in some frightening way, familiar to me.
“Fūrr haētu flamma cuman hēr for thes tīma ti wearm! Fūrr! Cuman hūr!”
The words spilled from him like silver water. It seemed to me, crouched before the lifeless fire ring, that I could see the words, feel them. I was too frightened now to even shiver. I would make no move at all which might call his attention to me.
“Fūrr haētu flamma cuman…” His voice rose, loud and strong, and then fell fully away. There was no echo of his words among the forest trees. He lifted his hands then, and placed them above my little pile of kindling. He left them there, only a scant inch above the wet wood, for a long moment.
Then he moved. Only his hands, but the motion caught my attention and held it. He lifted his hands slowly, as though pulling with them a great weight. His fingers curled, gripping something I could not see.
“Fūrr!” he said again, his voice a whisper now, and strained. “Furr, cuman her!”
And it came. It came first as soft, thin tendrils of smoke. But soon the tendrils thickened, became darker, and at their roots, far down among the larger pieces of wood which I had laid as a base for the fire, flame licked. He raised his hands higher, straining now, and the flame became two, and three, and leaped triumphantly into the night.
There was fire.
Slowly I got to my feet, keeping my eyes ever upon the enchanted flame. I thought of flight, I thought of bolting through the wet forest, running until I became lost, running until he could no longer find me or my soul.
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