The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  Are you ready, dragon?

  I AM . . . HERE.

  And he is. Crouching neatly in the center of the space, with little room to spare. The ranks of the curious gasp and draw back. Prayers and blessings are mumbled. Weapons rattle as their owners’ fists tighten on them in terror. Horses neigh and the dogs bark or quickly slink away. The dragon looms over the camp, a bronzy mountain. The squared plates of his hide shine as the gloomy daylight picks out its concentric ridges, like the coffering in a cathedral ceiling. Erde’s heart warms to see him, so vast and magnificent, but her joy is not shared by those around her. She hears the words “witch” and “antichrist” muttered around the field. She’d like to scold them all for their foolishness and superstition, but men do not like to be told they’re wrong about something, especially by a girl.

  The dragon, too, is nervous. He’s never liked crowds. Nonetheless, he is soothing the panicked animals, smothering the fright signals they’ve picked up from the humans with calming messages of his own. Soon, the dogs and horses are quiet, but the men have grown restless, ashamed of their fear and resentful of the dragon that caused it. Emboldened by his placidity, several of them step forward, halberds gleaming wickedly. Erde sees crossbows armed and cocked, and guesses herself to be the most likely target, though enough arrows shot at close range could do serious harm to the dragon as well, perhaps before he could stop them or remove himself from danger. His legend has followed him, she surmises. They’ve all heard he doesn’t fly or breathe fire.

  Can’t they see we’re trying to help them?

  THEY COULD . . . IF THEY LOOKED FAR ENOUGH.

  Erde decides she might actually be in danger. She glances back at the silent pavilion. She tries to sound casual. “Captain Wender?”

  The men with the halberds advance more boldly. One of them mimics her call to the captain in falsetto.

  “That’s it!” calls another. “Bring the damned turncoat out here!”

  Behind them, the crowd murmurs encouragement. Erde understands that her arrival has fanned the flames of an already existing animosity toward Wender and the man he now serves. What has become of the king’s once noble army? She’d like to give them a piece of her mind about the nature of duty and loyalty, but recent months have taught her the value of discretion. Instead, she strides to the tent flap and draws it aside. “Captain?”

  Wender stoops out from under the gathered canvas with the limp and shrouded knight cradled in his arms like a child. He looks anguished, and Erde sees no sign of life on Hal’s slack face.

  “Oh! Is he . . . he isn’t . . .?”

  “Collapsed. But there’s still a breath. It’s very close, milady.”

  The emboldened soldiers are moving in to cut the pavilion off from the center of the field and the dragon.

  Wender scowls at them. “What’s going on here? Out of my way! We have vital business to attend to!”

  “The devil’s business!” snarls one, stepping forward and leveling the point of his halberd like a spear. “There’s no denying your witchcraft now!”

  The crowd calls out its agreement with raucous threats and cheers.

  “This man is dying!” says Wender angrily.

  “Let him, then!”

  “Then maybe our luck will change!”

  Wender growls, “If you fought with more heart, you’d change your own luck! Out of my way, I say!”

  Small wonder these men resent him, Erde muses. He’s brought with him some of his old master’s arrogance. She hears shouts in the distance, and the pounding of hooves. She prays it’s not more bad news. The crowd’s grumble rises like a nest of hornets. A string thunks and an arrow slams into the mud at Wender’s feet.

  “I am unarmed!” Wender fumes, his arms sagging with the knight’s dead weight.

  “So much the better,” calls the man with the halberd, advancing another step. The shouts and hoofbeats are nearing.

  Dragon! We need your help!

  He could transport the three of them to safety, but she needs to be touching him. And where would they go? Four more foot soldiers have moved to stand beside the man with the halberd, blocking the way.

  I WILL COME FOR YOU.

  Earth slews his giant horned head toward the pavilion and lumbers to his feet. Simultaneously, the approaching shouts resolve themselves into audible words. “Make way for the king! Stand aside for His Majesty!”

  The king! The crowd parts hastily as two mounted knights trot into the open. Behind them, Erde sees another pair of knights, a flurry of banners and color, and a flash of gold warming the dull air. Then the entire throng is kneeling, herself included. Even Wender manages to sink to one knee while holding his unconscious burden well above the snow and icy mud. Erde is more than grateful for the interruption, which has probably saved their lives, but Sir Hal’s failing health is of equal concern. His Majesty has heard about the dragon, no doubt, and has come to see it for himself. She is glad that the ailing old monarch is well enough to travel on horseback, but she prays that he will not require too lengthy a show of ceremony. If Hal is to live, the dragon must get on with his healing.

  Her head bowed with the proper respect, she hears horses approaching, murmured commands, then a single horse coming nearer. It halts and two pairs of muddy boots race up to catch its bridle. She hears the soft clink of mail and the creaking of harness. The rider dismounts, more easily than she’d expect from a sick old man.

  “Well, little sister. We meet again at last.”

  She forgets all the protocols drilled into her as a baron’s child. She looks up, gaping at the man standing in front of her, helmetless, a thin, bright band of gold embracing his brow. He looks older, less by the march of years than with the maturity gained from the weight of his royal responsibilities. He is still tall and thin, but his boyish beauty has sobered into something more august, as befits a king.

  Dragon! It’s Rainer! Alive!

  “You . . . Your Majesty?” she splutters.

  Rainer grins down at her, enjoying her astonishment, then spreads his hands apologetically. “You see? I have regained my heritage. Are you surprised?”

  “Yes . . . no . . . I . . .” I’m just so glad to see you well! A thousand memories come flooding back, not all of them comfortable. “So you are . . .?”

  “I am. The lost prince.” His shoulders twitch in the faintest of shrugs. He lowers his voice. “Or so they believe. In that case, what does it really matter?”

  She stares at him. Why does he greet her with such ambiguity? Does he fear she’ll challenge his legitimacy? “It matters not at all . . . my liege.”

  Rainer smiles, satisfied. “You’re looking well, little sister.”

  Erde recalls her reasons for urgency. She must put her discomfiture and wonderment aside for later. She gazes up at the new king imploringly, gesturing behind to Wender and the man in his arms. “Please . . . it’s Hal . . . he . . .”

  Rainer frowns. “Yes, I was in to see him yesterday when they brought him from the field. Is he worse?” He offers her his hand, not so that she might kiss the royal ring, but outstretched to help her up. “Is it true your dragon is a healer? Hal has told me some amazing tales. Can you help him?”

  “Lord Earth will do what . . .” she begins weakly.

  But Rainer has moved past her to Wender, waving him also to his feet. “How is he, Kurt?”

  “It’s very bad, Sire.”

  “We must hurry, then!” Erde blurts. “Oh, forgive my rudeness . . . Sire.”

  “No, we must. You’re right.” For a moment, the king looks very young again, and at a loss. “What do we do?”

  “Bring him here. Oh, Captain, hurry!” The way to the dragon is clear. Erde shows Wender where to place his burden, between Earth’s massive forelegs. Rainer paces along beside them, silencing the mutters of the crowd with a few well-placed scowls. But between the scowls are precautionary gestures to his men. A dozen or so of the king’s knights take up stations around the perimeter.

&
nbsp; Dark times indeed, Erde mourns, when the people will not bow to the word of a strong, young king. And Rainer will be a strong king, and a good one. She is sure of it. No matter if he’s Otto’s true son or not. Even further in his favor is that he knows how to greet a dragon. He halts where he can comfortably look up at the huge jaw and golden eyes. He bows slightly, not a subservience but a paying of respects.

  “Lord Earth,” he declares, in a voice he intends to carry into the surrounding throng of doubters and dragon haters. “I never thanked you properly for saving my life back there in Erfurt. But for you, there’d be a priest on the throne today! Our gratitude is boundless!”

  To further his point, he rests his hand easily on the curve of the dragon’s foreclaw. Wender watches apprehensively, still cradling the dying knight. He’s never stood this close to the dragon before. His jaw works as he masters his fear.

  “You may set him down and step back, if you wish, Captain,” Erde tells him. “Lord Earth will keep him warm.”

  “I’ll stay.” Wender kneels, eyeing the stout pickets of ivory enclosing him on either side, taller than his head. “He’s grown some, all right, milady.”

  Erde allows herself the ghost of a smile. Perhaps even in the midst of horror and crisis, a touch of wonder will lighten the heart of this stalwart and deserving soldier. She kneels beside him to murmur, “You must expose the wound, Captain.”

  Wender stretches Hal out on the frozen mud, with the blanket under him and the dragon-hilted sword clasped long-ways on his chest. Erde shudders because he so resembles the funerary statues of her ancestors in the crypt of Tor Alte. The dragon lowers his head.

  Dragon, is it bad?

  VERY BAD INDEED.

  Oh, but not . . . you can help him, can’t you?

  I CAN HEAL THE WOUND AND QUIET THE FEVER, BUT HE HAS DONE MUCH INNER DAMAGE WITH HIS GUILT AND WORRYING.

  But he will live . . .?

  HE WILL, I THINK. BUT HE MUST REST, AND TAKE BETTER CARE OF HIMSELF. HE IS NO LONGER YOUNG.

  Just like you to be worrying about the long term, when all I can think of is, will he live now?

  HE WILL.

  Erde’s eyes squeeze shut against a threatened flood of grateful tears. If only this was to be the end of it, and the revived Sir Hal could ride off home to Deep Moor to rest and recover in the care of his loving lady Rose. Happily ever after in Deep Moor. A vision rises of Erde’s vanished paradise, so sweet that it pierces her heart like love, and the hot tears prick her eyes again.

  Not to be, not to be. Not ever. Deep Moor is in ashes, and Fra Guill is cutting down the Grove!

  And then she is dragged from her mournful reverie by Wender’s glad cry. “He wakes!”

  The exclamation is repeated among the watching soldiers, passed around the circle like a prayer and a prophecy. Hal’s chest heaves as if drawing his first true breath in days. He coughs but the sound is functional rather than strangulated. He opens his eyes. He’s staring straight up into the dragon’s golden gaze. “My lord Earth! You’ve returned at last! Thank good Providence for that! There’s not a moment to be spared!”

  He struggles to sit up, brushing the sword aside in his haste and confusion. Wender supports the elder knight with one arm, and snatches the sword up from the mud with the other. He cannot repress a quick accusing glance at Erde. “Is it the fever still?”

  Erde rests her palm on Hal’s brow. “I feel no fever now.”

  “Fever? What fever?” Hal’s eyes narrow in suspicion, then clear, and he gently lifts her hand away. “I recall. I took a blade.” He looks to Wender.

  “Indeed you did, milord.”

  “And it went bad.”

  “Aye, milord. And before that . . .” Wender reconsiders and falls silent.

  “Before that, what?”

  “You’ve . . . been unwell, milord. For a while.”

  Hal rakes a thin hand through his hair, his habitual gesture of bewonderment. “Well, I’m fit as a fiddle now, and a good thing, too. We have much to discuss! I beg you, Kurt, help me to rise.”

  “You mustn’t . . .!” Erde and the king speak simultaneously.

  “But I must,” replies Hal. On his feet but tottering, he grabs the dragon’s claw for balance. He squares his starved shoulders, lifts his stubbled chin. “Lord Earth! At last I can repay you for the many favors you’ve done me and my king! I believe I have uncovered the final purpose of your Quest!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Librarian is grateful to Water for retaining her human shape while in the garden at the Ur-Deep Moor. It reflects an empathetic understanding of human sensibilities that his own dragon appears incapable of. And it gives him something to do while the two dragons greet and debrief, strolling up and down the lawn: the tall black man and the stubby bearish one, walking side by side among clusters of sober observers without speaking. N’Doch and the two Tinkers can easily imagine the silent conversation going on at light speed, but it must look peculiar to the Deep Moor ladies, who aren’t so used to dragon oddities. The Librarian listened in on the dialogue eagerly enough at first, and then with waning concentration as he realized that, despite Water’s obvious advantages, the process of communicating with Air is not a whole lot easier for her than it has been for himself. If all these avid watchers have expectations of immediate answers, they will be disappointed.

  So the Librarian listens with a part of his brain, and concentrates on his balance and footing with the rest. He constantly has to counteract Air’s tendency to let her intensity spill over into his physical being. Twice he has nearly slammed his elbow into Sedou’s ribs. Without warning, any one of his limbs might be flung suddenly outward, or his head made to nod violently, as the dragon struggles to convey to her sister a certain crucial point. In sympathy, Sedou/Water now grips his arm, for support as well as gentle restraint.

  So the Librarian is not the first to see it happen, though he is the most likely to comprehend what it means. It’s the murmur that snags his attention, beginning as an ominous undercurrent to the hushed fits and starts of conversation across the lawn. Soon enough, however, it rises to a descant of wonder and dismay that can no longer be ignored by man or dragon.

  Beside him, Sedou lets out an involuntary grunt of surprise.

  The Librarian glances up from his stumbling toes. The women are staring and pointing. Above the sloping roof of the Deep Moor farmhouse, the background profile of barns and trees is mutating, sector by sector. Leaf, branch, and human architecture are being replaced, three dimensions by two, organic by inorganic, natural randomness by abstract symmetry. The new is no less beautiful than the old, the Librarian observes impartially. But it’s not human.

  “Ask her,” he suggests to Sedou. “Would she keep the nanos in line a while longer?”

  Sedou frowns, but does not say, “Why don’t you ask her?” He’s silent for a space, then his mouth draws tight in concern. “She feels it is not important.”

  “But the women are frightened. They have no understanding of this.”

  “I’ve little more myself. But I mentioned the ladies. And actually, my sister didn’t say it was unimportant. I said that. She just refuses to focus on anything peripheral to her central priority: gathering the eight. The only words involved in this transaction were . . .”

  “I know. Hurry, hurry.”

  Sedou nods. “Perhaps this is her way of forcing us into action. She’s going to let the city fall apart around us, and we’ll have no choice but to go where she wishes.”

  The Librarian is not surprised. He’s concluded already that the dragon inside him is heartless. As in, lacking any sort of human pity. Or if she has any heart at all, it’s his. Not the physiological organ so much as the awareness of a connection to others, to life-forms that it might be one’s duty to protect. If she were human, she would be called driven, obsessive, perhaps even autistic. But Air is hardly even a dragon, in the organic sense. She is an impulse, an eternal intention housed in pure intellect. A force not ent
irely immovable but requiring his constant surveillance and direction. Otherwise, she would mow down everyone and everything in her path.

  The Librarian accepts this because he must, but he finds it perplexing in the extreme. He has supposed that the dragons’ great Purpose of saving the Earth inevitably involves the rescue of humanity. Yet because she has no further use for it, Air is letting the White City disassemble itself. She has withdrawn from its systems, now that she has his own organic circuitry to inhabit. Her energies no longer direct the nanos’ programming, so the nanos are taking the city back. They’re reassembling it according to nanomech standards, which will soon render it inhospitable to human survival. What need, after all, have the nanomechs for the sort of life-support systems that once served the City’s human population? Nanomechs can function quite successfully in lethal doses of ultraviolet, or in the thin and poisonous vapor which, in this far future, is all that remains of Earth’s atmosphere.

  It’s a delicate line he has to walk, the Librarian reflects. He can’t allow Air to ride roughshod, but neither can he point her too boldly away from the line of her Purpose. It will seem to her like resistance or rebellion, and she has no time for that. She’ll simply hijack his body again, and get him and everyone else killed in the process.

  What is it, then, that she’s so hell-bent on saving? Is her concern only for the Earth itself and its ecosystems? If so, it seems to the Librarian that the chance for that rescue has already long gone by.