The Summer Dragon

  The creases of his face were damp with tears.

  “You see here a telling not just of seasons but more importantly of the Cycles, the greater turnings of a cosmic wheel. The seasons turn. A life is born, gives birth to another life, then passes. Entire civilizations rise and fall again. There is always another turn waiting. That’s what the Cycles are—the perpetual reawakening of Asha. The Avar, whatever they are, are all of Asha, whatever Asha is. For many ages, the followers of Asha, the Ashaani, embraced an abstract philosophy that sought only Truth. They never dared to confine Asha to a description, for words limit, confine. The Ashaani made communion with Asha through spiritual practices, not rote ceremony; with questions, not infallible answers; a philosophy of careful doubt coupled with exploration, humility seeking knowledge.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  Mabir leaned toward me. “You can only know what you know. Belief is not the same as knowledge. Belief is an assumption of knowledge despite a lack of evidence. Or so the old faith explained. The Ashaani wanted proof, and made ways to test every thought. Many of our sciences are but shadows left from their time. The new Temple—the Rasaal—took what was Asha and renamed it Korruzon, which shifted the narrative of the universe. The Cycles still remain in our philosophy, but in the High Dragon Korruzon we were given an ultimate, undying champion, a living manifestation of the true God—not merely an explanation of rebirth and renewal. Korruzon displaces Asha’s inevitable turnings with purpose, replacing Asha’s simple acknowledgment of life and death with authority that will encompass all things at the ultimate end of time. The Rasaal speaks of mysteries that the Ashaani wouldn’t give voice to, because they chose not to believe in anything they couldn’t weigh or touch or see. Or so the new faith says.” He sat straight again. “Of course the names of the Avar are known throughout Gurvaan. Every loving home has an altar to Armath. Metalworkers honor Kreela, and farmers revere Amrah. And so forth. But the Rasaal gave them a new explanation, as the many guises of Korruzon.”

  He fell silent. Father and I locked gazes for several seconds, and I sensed that he deferred to me. Why? Because I had seen Getig?

  I touched Mabir’s hand. “You say that all Avar are of Asha. The Rasaal says they are all guises or reflections of Korruzon. What’s the difference? Why does that make Asha so scary to Bellua?”

  “Because the Rasaal disavows the greater Cycle. It teaches that all of creation will proceed to an ultimate end, with Korruzon as its Redeemer. But the Ashaani, who revere Asha, believe that Korruzon—even though he has been physically present for hundreds of years—will pass. That undermines Bellua’s entire faith. It makes Korruzon of Asha, too.

  “When Gurvaan conquered us, the Ashaani were declared heretics and put to the sword, hunted and sacrificed on the altar of the new truth. Convert or die. Few survive, and their church is hidden. Magha, your father’s father begged my silence when I was but the youngest acolyte of the new religion. He didn’t want you or your father to hear the stories or learn the ancient scripture because he feared it would put the aeries at risk. He converted for your sake. I’ve held this close all these years. Please forgive me.”

  Father wore an expression I hadn’t seen on his face before: Wonder. Ghosts haunted this ancient place, it seemed. The ghosts of an old philosophy or a buried truth. I looked for Bellua and Rov again—these truths would trouble Bellua—but they were nowhere to be seen.

  “I admit I didn’t know what to believe,” Mabir continued. “The old ways were simple and humble. They valued Truth, whatever it might be. They sought to move closer to Truth by discovering what was clearly not true. And yet the new faith compelled me. I grew eager to know everything the Rasaal knew that the Ashaani did not. Nonetheless, I sought to temper my acceptance of the new order with an admiration for the old. Alas, the Temple of the Rasaal would allow only its own teachings.”

  I finally understood the difficulty he faced in defending me, even if I still felt that he’d betrayed me before. He had struggled with this conflict all his life, finding a comfortable middle ground, only to see it challenged by my encounter with Getig.

  Peace transformed his expression as he studied the wonders of this temple to Asha. Neither Father nor I would interrupt his reverie. Finally, he turned to me again. “Maia, Fren spoke the name Asha to you. Did he say anything else?”

  I looked between Father and Mabir. I swallowed. “He said, ‘I knew that you were a sign to me, that Asha has not been displaced, that the world is still true. I will wear my scars with pride, for they helped to send you on your journey.’ Then he said something strange, ‘One will lead and one will follow. One will rise and one will fall.’ Then he said that there is darkness coming. That I should hold to Getig, and to Asha.”

  Mabir didn’t speak for several long seconds, with the splash of water and its eerie echoes the only sounds.

  “What did he mean, dhalla?”

  “As you might guess, Fren is an elder in Asha’s hidden church. His simple forest life masks a well of knowledge in the old ways. But he spoke from delirium. It may have been no more than an expression of his faith.”

  I shook my head. The religion of our lives in the aeries was the work that we did, with very little time for thoughts about the finer points of history. “Dhalla, what do you believe?”

  He dabbed at his eyes with his beard, studied me for what seemed like an age, then bent to pick up a long stick. He turned to the fountain. “One of the lessons I recall from my childhood came from the Ashaani—that of the Eddy in the River.” With the stick he pointed toward a rivulet coursing a path through the matrix of stone and crystal. “Do you see that spot where the stream swirls into an eddy behind a loose stone?”

  I nodded.

  “What is an eddy? Is it a thing that you can hold? Could you remove that eddy, take it to another place and still have an eddy? Of course not. And yet there it is. Water moves through it, for a time becomes its substance. Then the water moves out. All things are like that eddy, dependent on a very precise set of circumstances to exist—persisting for a time, occasionally for a very long time. But it’s all in motion. You are made of the food you eat, the air you breathe. Much of you has moved on. Your skin sloughs off, your hair falls out. Trees grow from the forest mulch, then topple and decay, or they’re hewn into lumber and made into houses. The houses fall, the wood rots. Mountains are torn down to reveal the bones of sea creatures imbedded in the cliffs. Languages change and become new languages. Beliefs are altered by other beliefs. All things have the appearance of solidity, but it’s an illusion, a trick of perception drawn from our eternal entrapment in the present. Only memory reveals the truth, yet even memory is but an eddy in your mind.

  “Religion may be the most ephemeral eddy of them all. It persists with a name and a building where the faithful congregate over generations. The faith the first generation embraced might be unrecognizable to the last, even though the building and the name have remained unchanged.” He reached out with the stick and poked a pebble into the eddy. The swirl of water changed shape.

  “We are all eddies in a great stream of perpetual change. The universal engine never slows, never fails. It is the Evertide. A simple truth that threatens the authority of the Rasaal.”

  I didn’t know what to think at first, but when I recalled my experience in the valley of Cinvat where a forest grew up through the bones of a lost civilization, it made sense.

  He took a long breath before continuing. “Fren may have been delirious, but he would not be alone in wondering if Getig’s appearance kicked a stone from beneath the foundation of the Rasaal.” Mabir’s chin jutted out, his mouth firm with resolve. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. Then he looked at me. “I have spent my entire life doubting the faith I championed.” He turned back to the fountain and pushed the stone out of the path of the rivulet, and the eddy disappeared.

  “Before your e
xperience, Maia, I was still torn. But now I know. When answers are so difficult, an assumption of certainty is a hindrance. The path of acceptance, of not-knowing, is closer to the ways of the Ashaani than of Korruzon. By leaving you open to the voice of the universe—or of Asha, if you will—doubt can lead you where certainty never will.” He smiled, a look of joy tinged with regret.

  “That’s what I believe.”

  Shuja stood and whirled, looking toward the northern portal, beneath Waeges. He clicked once, loudly. Echoes returned.

  “What is it?” Father stood, too.

  “Fee-t. Come fass-t.”

  I heard them too, and then Tulo burst into the chamber at full speed. Father and Shuja were already at the door as Bellua and then Zell charged through. “Get out!” Bellua shouted, pointing at us. “Get Mabir out of here!”

  Two of the militiamen rushed through the door next, one of them dragging the third, hanging limp in his arms. Then Cheien backed out with Rov beside him, loosing arrows through the door into the darkness beyond. Something had chased them out of the deeper cave.

  I grabbed Mabir’s elbow—fear had charged him with unexpected energy. I steadied him as he made for the exit below Menog’s image. Bellua met us there with Zell beside him and took Mabir’s other elbow.

  Shouts turned my head. Cheien and Shuja, side by side, their wings folded back tight, lashed out with talons at figures running through the portal. The two militiamen laid their wounded comrade down and drew their bows. Father loosed arrows now, too, at the shrouded mass pouring through the door.

  Harodhi.

  THIRTY

  THEIR ARROWS FILLED the air, but the Harodhi died quickly with a slash of talons or snap of jaw. More streamed out to replace them. Father and Rov were forced to retreat, their dragons following in their defense. But something was off. The Harodhi seemed panicked, as if they fled something.

  One of the militiamen took a crossbow bolt in the chest. He fell backward, his crossbow clattering to the floor. Bellua had hold of Mabir, so I dashed to the townsman’s side. He looked up at me and gasped, “Ma’am, you must leave.”

  I took up his crossbow and slung it over my shoulder, then sat him up with my arms beneath his and pulled him backward. He groaned in pain but did his best to help me with his feet, then scrambled upright.

  Rov returned volleys with his longbow at a rapid pace. Another militiaman fell with an arrow in his neck. Father loosed directly into the face of a fighter who had slipped past Shuja, then nocked another arrow. I pulled the crossbow off my shoulder.

  From the Waeges portal came a rumble, and then screams of terror. Several more Harodhi soldiers tumbled out in full panic. The air suddenly turned icy cold, and a shadow emerged.

  Gigantic. Intangible. Like a winged shadow cast upon the walls. The air around it rippled like heat-shimmer off hot stone. Two Harodhi soldiers, too slow to escape its touch, dropped, clutching their heads.

  I heard Mabir cry out behind me. He and Bellua stood motionless. “Go!” shouted Father, looking back at us. He and Rov and their mounts backed toward us quickly now, maintaining a wall that no Harodhi passed.

  But the thing did not follow us. Its presence was insubstantial, confusing. It strode or swarmed into a position between the portraits of Getig and Waeges, and crouched with cat-like menace.

  The Harodhi now had room to spread out, threatening to surround Father and Rov, Shuja and Cheien. I eased the militiaman down and then spanned his crossbow. He watched, handing me a bolt from his quiver. I loaded it, listening as Father’s shouts and Rov’s commands took on a tinge of panic.

  Suddenly every nightmare image from my first trip through the caves exploded in my head. Not trickling in and then spilling out, as they’d done over the past weeks, but all at once—an eruption—as if they’d been forced into my mind from without. I froze, stunned. Pain burst behind my eyes. I heard screams all around and knew they were fearful. Vaguely, I saw the flurry of attacks by Shuja and Cheien. My vision tunneled past them to the thing hovering like ichor in an eddy of shadow. I knew it was looking at me. It had no eyes, but it saw me. Through me. Into me. I was reminded of Getig’s meaningful gaze, but where the eyes of the Summer Dragon lent warmth and purpose, this abomination offered only fear: Darian’s festering wound, fire, pain, exhaustion. A heroic dragon’s dying breath. Blackened carcasses, with cold green flames lighting wounds that should have killed them. A fly crawling on an eyeball. My own fears, turned back on me like weapons.

  But I’ve already faced these specters and won.

  Aru, his strength ebbing, Darian unwaking.

  Darian lives!

  My mother, seated on Grus, scorn in her voice, disappointment on her face. Guilt pierced me, and I faltered, cried out in shock.

  A dragon rider with her head in the clouds is cursed.

  Did it speak to me? Or evoke my own voice, testing me? It didn’t matter, it couldn’t show me a fear I hadn’t fought already. I’d faced these demons, put them behind me, and won my Keirr.

  Arms trembling, I loosed my bolt. The arrow passed through the shadow and struck the far wall. The militiaman cried out in pain but pressed another arrow into my hand. I spanned and reloaded, gasping. Steadied my aim, loosed again, and dropped a fighter coming up on Father’s right. Something whistled past my head. I spanned the bow, felt another arrow in my hand, chose another Harodhi warrior, missed wide to the right. After each shot I met the eyeless gaze of the thing, fought a blindness of pain behind my eyes. Loosed again. Then there were only three Harodhi warriors standing, then two, then none.

  We all stood panting, waiting. I realized that Father had lifted the soldier beside me and pulled him back. Shuja backed up next to me on my right, Cheien on my left.

  The thing stretched, hovered, diminished a bit perhaps, but threw my fear at me still. I forced myself to think of Keirr, and new images flooded into me, of my own broken bones and of Keirr crumpled like a discarded chicken carcass.

  I’m not afraid of you. I tried to mean it.

  “Gods, my lady! Get out!” The weak voice of the townsman.

  Shuja roared defiance, then Cheien. Bellua and Mabir were out of immediate danger, well up the stair behind us. Only myself, a wounded militiaman, Father and Rov, and our dragons remained. All of us had faced fear before and overcome it. We wouldn’t fail this test.

  The creature threw this morning’s nightmare at me, blended with the one from the night before, images of carrion and blood and fire and screaming faces, a litany of my worst dreams jumbled together.

  But every day I wake.

  The shadow reared. Wings like smoke spread out to either side, spanning the distance between Getig and Waeges.

  “I’m not afraid of you!” I shouted.

  It showed me an image of myself, small and frightened, and then crushed into bloody paste where I stood by an intangible force. I cried out but loosed my last arrow into the place where it swam like a black fog. The thing swirled, coiled, and charged.

  Shuja and Cheien leapt to meet it, roaring defiance, and slashing with talons and teeth. Where they ripped, it swirled like smoke and dissipated. When it struck back, our dragons roared with pain and confusion, though it left no marks. Cheien gave ground and it followed, but Shuja swiped at what might have been wings. When it turned to Shuja, Cheien delivered a flurry of blows. It seemed scattered now, like a fog of rain evaporating over a fire. Then it retreated, but our war dragons followed unrelenting.

  It faded, and then disappeared entirely. We waited several minutes, but save for our labored breathing and the ever-present trickle of water, only silence followed. Every face was streaked with sweat. Cheien plucked an arrow out of his foreleg with his teeth. Shuja shook several arrows out of his left wing and roared, but his tone was different than I’d ever heard. Anger with an edge of fear.

  “Sweet Avar, what in the name of holiness was that?”
asked Father.

  “Cold,” said Shuja. “Cold fire.”

  “Like the Horrors,” I said.

  No one answered, but realization struck me with the force of a dragon’s tail swipe that the thing had been in my head, reading my memories, taunting me with them. I felt a tickle in my right nostril, on my lip, and touched it—blood stained my fingers.

  I wiped it off on my pants and turned to see Father supporting the militiaman’s head in his lap. The man’s eyes were fixed on me, and he reached out with a shaking hand. “Young ma’am, you are unhurt?”

  I nodded yes, shocked at his pale face. He smiled weakly. “You were brave,” he said, then coughed. A spout of blood splashed on his jerkin and ran down his chin and neck. With a shudder, he crumpled in Father’s embrace. Father placed a hand over the man’s eyes and looked at me. I fought back a sob. I didn’t even know his name.

  Rov knelt next to me, where one of the Harodhi lay. “This one here still lives.” A crossbow quarrel thrust up from the man’s chest. Blood pumped out around it.

  Bellua joined us and bent close to the pale face, made even more ghostly by blood loss. “What was that apparition?” he demanded.

  Rov repeated the question in the strange cadence of the Harodhi tongue, and the foreigner replied haltingly, eyes darting back and forth between Rov and Bellua, blood trickling from his mouth.

  “He says it forces them somehow.”

  Bellua frowned. “That makes no sense. They had battle rage.”

  Rov spoke again in the harsh tongue and shook the man when he seemed about to pass out. The answer was a mumble. “It drives them, he says. Like dogs. Fills them with something . . . a word I don’t recognize. Something to do with, not hunger, but eating. He says it’s not one of them, and he begs for mercy.”