by Robert Beers
“Ah,” Replied the Dragon. “Reminds me of someone I used to endure not so long ago.”
Milward winced.
“So,” Adam thought. “They have a sense of humor.”
“I smell magik.” The Dragon's rumble brought Adam out of his reverie.
The Winglord, Adam figured this Dragon had to the one, swung his snout around until it centered onto Adam's chest.
Adam found himself being the central object of a Dragon nose. He wasn't comfortable with it.
Mashglach sniffed deeply, and then he focused his gaze upon Adam and pointed with a forelimb. “What is on your chest, child?”
Adam looked down to where the Dragon pointed. “Just my rock. It's kind of an heirloom.”
“Let me see it.” The Dragon held out a front foot, palm up. Adam could have climbed onto it.
He took hold of the chain the amulet was attached to, and pulled it over his head. He placed the amulet into Mashglach's palm and waited. “What's going to happen now?”
“I thought there was something special about that stone,” Milward mused to himself.
“You have good instincts, Wizard,” the Dragon murmured. “Niamh. Your aid, if you please.”
The fattest Dragon Adam had ever seen since arriving in Dragonglade waddled over to where they stood.
Milward leaned over to Adam and whispered, “before you say anything, she's pregnant; near the end of it. She only has another twenty years to go.”
“Twenty years!?” Adam blurted out the exclamation before he could stop himself.
“We do not rush things, as mankind does,” Mashglach said, without looking up from his study of the amulet. He held it in his palm and carefully turned it over with the tip of a claw.
The Dragon called Niamh reached The Winglord's side and peered over his shoulder. “A magic talisman, interesting. Have we ascertained its strength?”
“Not yet.” Mashglach held up the amulet between two claw tips. “It smells ancient to me, what say you?”
Niamh arched her neck to sniff the amulet. She closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. “Not the gems ... no. Stone only ... the smell ... familiar...”
Her eyes opened with a click and she turned quickly, dropping her head so that she could look Adam in the eye. “Your name, child, and your lineage, if you please?”
“Huh?”
* * * *
McCabe was a sneak thief and proud of it. His small stature helped him in climbing through windows and drains. He spent hours without number, perfecting his climbing techniques, for Grisham was a city of tall buildings, and if one intended on making his life's work robbing the well-to-do, one needed to be able to climb.
The poor and working class had to make do with single story huts and cottages. They were child's play to break into, but doing so was a waste of time. Besides, the poor made for scant play after the robbery. Their tolerance for pain was far too high to suit him.
McCabe was also a sadomasochist. He'd discovered his enjoyment in inflicting pain when still a toddler. There are some that say there is no such thing as a bad boy. The fools never met McCabe. They'd also never met someone whom enjoyed receiving it as much as he did. Over the years, he'd learned to discipline his self-pleasuring activities in order to remain alive and still able to function. He still limped slightly because of a night years ago when he discovered what he could do with his left knee and an ice pick.
He also liked children. They screamed so beautifully.
* * * *
All cities have their areas where nice people do not go. Some call that place the Shades, the Mission District, Deadman's Alley and other names descriptive of the sort of existence experienced there.
Grisham had a reputation of being the richest port city on the eastern sea, and it was well deserved. Marble palaces graced the slopes above the sea, and the mansions of those whose wealth plied the sea lanes lined the bluffs along the shore. There were those who said Grisham's streets flowed with gold, and for some this was true, but as with all great cities, Grisham had its darker, seamier side.
Welcome to the Lowers. Beyond the hills of the wealthy lay a valley with a creek running down its middle. The creek carried the waste of the wealthy away from their noses as it supplied drinking water to the poor.
Welcome to the Lowers, a maze of twisted alleyways and spaces between rows of rock, mud and thatch huts that passed for streets of a sort. Here, the poorest of the poor lived, not thrived. Rats feeding upon smaller rats. No one kept pets in the Lowers; their neighbors ate them. Nor did the Watch venture within its boundaries, unless it was in force and in armor. The only safety there lay in being so poor and so wretched that others in the Lowers felt you had nothing worth stealing.
McCabe was born there, but he had only stayed as long as it took to develop his skills as a thief, and McCabe was a good thief. He was good enough that if he put his mind to it, he could have earned enough to purchase his own house, but his hobby kept getting in the way.
Tonight his hobby was a young girl, a child really. If she had lived it would have been at least another five years before her first blood. Her screams brought no response, except McCabe's pleasure. No one came to see who or what was torturing her. He would, on occasion, do his hunting in the lowers for that very reason.
McCabe looked down at the twisted body beneath him as he worked to bring his breathing back to normal. An urge came over him and he obeyed it. No one looked to see who laughed so loudly as he left the alley. They had their own problems.
* * * *
The Great Library perched on the rough point of land across the strait of Grisham from the city itself. It clung like a giant growth of fungus to the rocks above the strait; its many additions adding to the illusion. A series of steps carved into the living rock wound their way to a single pier below. There, the occasional boat docked to unload a researcher, a member of the literary cast, or the rare Sorcerer in search of hidden treasure within the stacks.
The Librarian lived for his books. It mattered not who wrote them, they were his. He loved the musty smell of the stacks, and could easily lose an entire day sorting and cataloging the scrolls, vellums and books that made up his collection. Some of the writings in his collection were so well known to him that they seemed to have acquired personalities of their own. One was the collected works of Labad, the Philosopher King. A few of the vellums within the folio were impossibly rare originals, but his prize possession was a second-generation copy of Labad's prophecy. No one knew where the original was, or if it even existed.
He had a staff, of sorts, an ancient crone and a lame boy who someone once taught to read. The crone he allowed to stay in a small room tucked into the outer wall of the library in exchange for cooking and the occasional dusting of the stacks. The lame boy was to become his replacement when he eventually passed on, but before that day came, the boy had to memorize the contents of the library and where everything was stored. That involved getting to know the whereabouts of over a million pieces of literature and reference, including a working knowledge of what they were about. It was a daunting task, unless your master had a touch of the wizard within him.
The librarian sat in his personal chamber reading a letter from an old friend. It told him the friend hoped to visit next spring with his new apprentice, as well as something he would find of great interest. He was wished well, and then the letter wrapped up with some items of personal small talk that infrequent letter writers use to try to fill the page.
He set the missive back onto the side table and picked up his cup of hot Tisane. “Well, Milward.” He thought as he sipped. “What is it you aren't telling me?”
* * * *
“You heard me, child. Your name and your lineage, surely you know that.” The Dragoness held Adam with her gaze as she voiced her question.
“My apologies, Niamh, but the boy is an orphan. His lineage is unknown to him, and he was named by an Aunt and Uncle outside of the Royal line.”
“Hmmm.” Niamh's mouth curved int
o a frown of deep thought. “The Philosopher covered himself well, for a human.”
She reached behind herself and plucked the amulet from Mashglach's palm. She held it in front of Adam; Milward hid a smile. The size disparity was beyond ludicrous.
“Where did you come by the stone in this trinket, child? I must know.”
Adam's mind reeled. The phrase Milward used, Royal line, had a portent he didn't like the sound of, and Niamh's interest in his rock brought back the feeling that forces outside of his control were guiding his life.
“I don't know where it came from. I've always had it. Aunt Doreen and Uncle Bal said I had it with me when they found us.”
“Us?” Niamh pounced on the word. “You have a sibling?”
“My twin sister.”
“Yes!” The Dragoness’ shout blew Adam backward onto the grass surrounding the cherry tree.
“It begins, Wing Lord! It begins!” Niamh was practically dancing. Milward skipped back a few yards to be sure one of those huge feet didn't inadvertently land on him.
Mashglach looked at Adam closely as he climbed back to his feet. Fortunately, the grass was soft. “As I suspected, Niamh. The child has the scent of ancient blood, but what he does with it is his affair, not ours.”
Niamh looked at the Winglord. “I know our law, Winglord. Yet, I can still hope, can I not? I carry my child, the only one I will ever carry because of what was done to us ages past. Is it so wrong to desire to see the change come in our lifetime?” Her wings flexed with the passion of her speech.
“It is not wrong, Mother-To-Be.” Mashglach used the description as a title. “To desire our world healed is never a wrong thing. Please forgive my unclear speech. I rejoice with you in seeing the promised one's arrival. Dragonkind will aide him ... within the law.”
Adam could contain himself no longer. They were obviously speaking about him, and again he understood only every other word. “Excuse me.”
The two Dragons turned towards him. There was a large pink granite boulder set as an ornament into the lawn. He walked to it, and climbed to the top.
“I feel less tiny here.” He explained. “I have a few questions.”
Milward grimaced, “I knew it.”
Mashglach looked down at the Wizard. “Like, and yet unlike.”
The gentle rebuke was ignored.
The Dragon nodded to Adam. “Speak your questions, child.”
“Ok,” Adam had considered how to phrase what he wanted to know but now his brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton. “Uh ... you seem real interested in my rock. I think I'd like to know why first. It has something to do with my shaping powers, doesn't it?”
Niamh's expression showed more deep thinking. “Mmmm ... a part. It has a part in them. Though no more than any other Wizard's staff has.”
Adam looked at Milward accusingly. “You knew this?”
The old Wizard shrugged his shoulders and looked guilty. “I ... suspected it.”
“And you didn't tell me? I could have been killed...” He counted on his fingers, “At least four times, maybe more and you kept that a secret?”
Milward's temper flared. “Don't you take that tone with me. I only suspected what that stone was, and I certainly didn't want to confirm it, with you more of a danger to yourself as a Wizard than not.”
Adam yelled back. “Then you should have told me that, along with telling me about my rock. Maybe I could have used it to keep Charity from being taken. I should have at least been allowed to make my own decision about it.”
They were nose to nose. Adam had jumped down off the boulder to face Milward, and they appeared to be almost at the point of blows when a huge pair of hands reached in and forced them apart.
“The peace will not be broken. Wizard.” Mashglach turned his eye onto Milward. “You know enough of our law not to have done this. It was your fear that caused you to act, not your wisdom.”
Adam saw Milward shrink within himself as if he was a bladder someone had stuck a pin into.
The old Wizard looked up at Adam. He hadn't realized until now that he'd grown taller than Milward.
“I suppose I owe you an apology, lad. Mashglach is right. I was afraid of spoiling the prophecy's fulfillment, as if I could actually affect the course of such an event. You're correct, you did have a right to know, and I should have told you.”
He turned and walked away from Adam and the Dragons, his head bowed. He leaned on his staff as if needing the support. Adam anger changed, and he suddenly felt thoroughly rotten, as though he'd just finished kicking a dog. He started to go to Milward when the Dragon's hand stopped him.
“Give him his time, young Wizard. He needs to consider his path, as well as his part in this story.”
“Why'd you call me young Wizard instead of child?”
A Dragon eye dipped down level with his. “Because that is what you are now. Not human, not Dragon ... Wizard. Niamh's witness established what was suspected.”
“That's why he brought me here?”
“The old Wizard?” Mashglach's voice was a bass rumble that vibrated the ground beneath Adam's feet. “Yes, your instincts are right. We've known him for just these few centuries, but know this, young Wizard.” His volume raised slightly. “He is a man of strong conviction and honesty. His pride is both his weakness and his strength, and what he does, he does so because he absolutely believes it is the right thing to do.”
“Like keeping me in the dark.”
“Just so.” Mashglach reared up to his full height. “Ask your other question.”
“It's about the blood.”
Mashglach nodded, his forelegs crossed on his chest. “Ah, you wish to know my meaning when I spoke of you having the scent of ancient blood.”
“Yeah.”
The Winglord rested his head against his chest in thought, with his forelegs beneath his chin. “I had the good fortune to know the Philosopher King. I had come into the full of my Dragonright the millennium before. He had the wisdom to see the need for unity among the peoples; we aided in that as much as we could within our law. A noble Wizard. The best of his kind, his passing saddened me, and I nearly broke our law by joining in the storming of Pestilence.”
“Milward mentioned that when he told me about the magik war. He said the Dragons joining in ending it.”
“He erred in that. The war continues, but allow me to finish the answer to your question. A Dragon can smell magik, for it is built of the essence of our world and those who work it. And it leaves some of that essence behind. Your amulet stone, for example, carries the scent of the Philosopher's shaping.”
“Are you saying my blood smells of magik?”
Mashglach smiled a Dragonish smile. “You are a Wizard, are you not? It is not a sickness, it is what you are, and the scent of your blood is the same as what I smelled when I met Labad, the human's Philosopher King.”
Adam's brain was still reeling from the shock the Winglord had given it, when he settled into the apartment that the Dragons had assigned him. They wouldn't come right out and say it, but it seemed they thought he was a descendant of Labad, the one-time Emperor of the western lands.
“Are you settled in, young human?”
Adam turned at the voice. It wasn't as deep as the other Dragon voices he'd been hearing. Nor was the Dragon sticking its head into his room as large. He judged this Dragon to be less than half the size of Niamh or Mashglach, maybe no more than twenty feet when upright.
“The room's not too big, is it? I've heard you humans like your living spaces a little on the cramped side.” The Dragonet turned its head this way and that on its long neck as it examined Adam's apartment.
Adam sat onto the bed. His feet didn't hit the floor. Like the room, it was oversized. The Dragon craftsmen probably had a time of it building what to them would be miniature models and doll's houses.
“It's good enough for me. I've almost gotten used to sleeping on the ground.”
The Dragonet's eyes widened. �
��Tell me about the outdoors, please? Was it exciting? Did you see lots of interesting things?”
Adam smiled at his visitor's eagerness. “I'd be glad to, but I'd like to get something to eat first.”
“Oh, I can show where to get some food. You can talk to me on the way. I've never met a real human before, not to talk with anyway.”
The words bubbled out of the young Dragon's mouth in a steady torrent. Adam thought he understood how Milward felt sometimes.
The Dragonet led him down the hallway outside the door to his room. Doors like the one to his room lined the hall in both directions. They were all closed. The same arched ceiling as he saw leading from Whistle Bridge lay overhead with its series of frescos.
His guide saw him looking at the ceiling. “Oh, that is our memory painting. We have it on every hall in Dragonglade.”
“It's very well done. Did the same artist do them all?”
“Oh, no. Each painting was done to remember that moment in our history. I hear a new one may be painted soon.”
Adam wondered what soon meant to Dragons.
They continued on down the hall, with the Dragonet asking Adam questions about humans. His curiosity seemed boundless, and each answer prompted a new question. Some brought an exclamation of disbelief and a question for clarification.
“No! Seriously? You actually eat other living creatures?” The subject had moved onto diet and the types of food Adam liked.
“No, I don't. That would be cruel, the animal is killed first, then cooked, then eaten.” Adam realized he'd never thought much about that part of his diet.
“Eeewwww.” The childish sound from such a large creature caused a laugh that brought out questions about what humans found funny. Adam tried to explain the reason why he did so just then.
“Ah, I think I understand.” The Dragonet mused. “Dissimilarity and contrast, creating an assumed absurdity, thus invoking the laugh reflex.”
“Huh?” His guide sounded like Uncle Bal mimicking one of the instructors at university.
The Dragonet continued on unabated. “My teacher gave a lecture on that only a few decades ago. It was fascinating, but it is much more interesting to experience the real thing. Don't you agree?” The head swiveled around on the long neck to gaze at him while they walked. They came to a branch in the hallway and turned right.