Ingavar tipped his snout. “Kailar is standing by the eye of Gawain.”
“What?!”
“What does it see?” the fighting bear asked, turning his head to avoid the bird’s screech.
“Kill him!” squawked Gwilanna. “Kill him, you fools. Kill him and give the eye to me!”
Kailar let his tongue settle onto his teeth. Somewhere between his upper incisors was space for one more piece of raven meat, surely? He spread his claws and thrust them into Gwilanna’s ice block, missing her head by the width of a feather.
Ingavar said, “Be wary, Kailar, this irritating creature does have a function. She will guide us away from here, to a place where ancient lines of power meet. We will place this piece of dragon at their intersect and use it to look into The Fire Eternal.”
“NO!” screamed Gwilanna. “Don’t listen to him! He’s crazy! He’ll turn the planet inside out!”
Raargh! roared Kailar. That was it! His patience was now so desperately thin that he pressed down instinctively and broke the ice block in two.
Gwilanna was almost, but not quite, flattened. Somehow, she managed to squeeze her body free, only to have Avrel reach a paw forward and pin her down again by the tail. “What does she mean? What is this fire?”
Ingavar looked at each bear in turn. “Below your feet, at the center of this world, is a fire as old and bright as the stars. At its core, it burns with a pure white light. At the center of that light is all creation.”
“All death, you mean!” Gwilanna screamed again.
“Creatures known as dragons were made from it. They were fashioned in the image of the earth itself: a body of clay, a heart of fire. They were the guardians of this rock before bears existed. The last of their kind was the dragon Gawain, who still protects the northern lands now.”
“What are you talking about?” Gwilanna almost hooted. “He’s in pieces of stone with a mile of water over his head!”
Kailar swung his thick neck toward the eye. “It seems to me that the bird speaks the truth. How can a dead thing protect the ice?”
Ingavar trained his gaze on Gwilanna. “When a dragon dies, it cries a tear. Contained within that tear is an element, a spark, of The Fire Eternal. Tell them, Gwilanna. Tell them what became of the fire of Gawain.”
“How would I know?” she bickered, still struggling for her freedom. “The stupid girl took it to the ocean and drowned!”
“Girl?” said Avrel.
“Her name was Guinevere,” Ingavar said, staring deep into the Teller’s eyes and opening Avrel’s mind to the edge of his perception. “She brought the tear here, far into the north. Look back carefully. You will find her in your memories.”
Despite his sturdiness of shape, Avrel swayed a little as he cast his mind back, suddenly giddy with newfound images. “She is distant,” he said, stretching his neck as if trying to hear her voice on the howls of the wind, “but …”
“But what?” said Gwilanna, becoming interested now. “Come on, Teller. Tell us something useful! Let’s see if you’re any better than that idiot Lorel you’re no doubt descended from.”
“She is … everywhere,” Avrel reported. “Her spirit flies with the wind. And the dragon …” He snorted suddenly and retracted his claws, enough to let Gwilanna wriggle away.
With a squawk of triumph she fluttered upward. But her joy was as short-lived as her flight. With so few tail feathers to give her balance and wings still hampered by the extreme cold, she spiraled hopelessly out of control and came crashing down to bounce off Kailar’s rump. Kailar swept around in a hustle of fury and would have crushed her to juice if Avrel had not said, “The ice. The fire of the dragon is in the ice.”
“What?” growled Kailar.
“What?” Gwilanna repeated with a squawk, poking her head from the shadows of his paw. “What did he say? What did he say?”
Ingavar rolled his shoulders. “Spare the bird, Kailar. She can lead us quickest to the place we need to be.”
“And where is that?” said Avrel, his young face almost gray with awe.
“The place where your history begins,” said Ingavar. “The place where your common ancestor, Thoran, first put his claws into fire-frozen water. Where his brown pelt softened to a yellow shade of white. Where he became as one with the North. We are going to the place where the dragon lines are strongest: to the point where the tear of Gawain was dropped into the ocean we are floating on …”
17
GROYNE RETURNS
Gretel did not like Wednesday mornings. If business was quiet (and it usually was), Zanna insisted on running a check of everything she had in the shop. It was a job that bored the scales off Gretel, who was expected to fly around the shelves counting stock (sometimes even dusting stock) and reporting back while Zanna checked numbers on an order sheet.
Hrrr.
The Wednesday on which Jodie Simmons arrived was no different. Gretel was busy stabbing her tail into the boxes of herbal tea bags to count them when the shop bell tinkled and Tam Farrell’s stylish girlfriend walked in. She was wearing a white knee-length coat parted by a long red mohair scarf. From one shoulder, slung across to her opposite hip, she toted an unbuckled brown messenger bag.
Gretel sighed and adopted her solid form. Customers she didn’t mind, but not during stock checks. That just prolonged the procedure unbearably.
“Hi,” said Zanna, spinning around. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Jodie’s perfect eyelashes fluttered. A grain of mascara fell onto her cheek. A cabinet filled with silver pentacles and gothic rings caught her eye briefly. Then her gaze turned toward the counter. “I’m interested in your dragons,” she said. She had spotted them at last, in their display case.
“Mmm, they’re very popular,” Zanna advised, flicking through a basket of incense sticks. She frowned at Gretel, who had curled up in a Tibetan singing bowl. “Shall I get one out?”
“My boyfriend’s already got a couple, thanks.”
“Of these?”
Jodie pointed at a Gudrun. “That one.”
In the singing bowl, Gretel raised an eye ridge. Was she imagining it, or could she hear a muffled hum of dragonsong? She clinked her tail against the rim of the bowl, which responded with a pleasing, dragonlike hum. Maybe not. She settled back again.
“Really? Did he buy them recently?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jodie, lifting her chin.
Zanna tapped her pencil against her teeth. “Only, they’re a fairly limited edition. And it’s usually women who go for the Gudruns. I’m pretty sure I’d remember any guy who’d bought two.”
Gudruns? Gretel pricked her ears and peeked out of the bowl. Her eyes flashed toward the messenger bag. There it was again. Definitely dragonsong. She glanced toward Gruffen, who was back in the window, perched on a small stand. He had hooked his eye ridges into a frown. Yes. He’d heard the dragonsong, too.
“You’re very beautiful, aren’t you?” Jodie said, with all the frailty and precision of a clockwork doll.
Zanna gave an absent shake of her head. She put her clipboard down and frowned momentarily, disturbed by a sudden flurry of movement. Gretel had flown, undetected, into the back room, where she was sifting through a batch of dried flowers and dropping them into the quiver she carried around her neck. “I’m sorry, but am I missing something here?”
Jodie opened the flap of her bag. “I’m going to give you this one back intact.” She put a cardigan down on the countertop and began to unfold it as though it were a baby’s diaper. “But in the future, if you don’t want a dragon-shaped hole in your window, I’d stay away from — hhh! It’s gone!”
Gretel zoomed in and touched down on the register. She reached into her quiver for a bunch of flowers. “Wait!” snapped Zanna, warning her off with a heavily disguised growl of dragontongue.
Meanwhile, Jodie had snatched her bag open and was muttering to herself in disbelief. “That’s impossible. It was here. I could feel its w
eight. When I left the apartment there was definitely one of those dragons in my bag!”
Gretel twiddled her nose. Her clever eyes panned the room in an arc.
“I think you’d better go,” Zanna said coldly. She picked up the cardigan and thrust it back at Jodie.
Jodie stepped away, looking pale and disoriented. She clutched her upper arms as if the shop might be haunted. “What did you do, you witch?”
For the first time in years, the mark of Oomara itched on the surface of Zanna’s skin. “The door’s right behind you. Get out. Now.”
“He only wants a story. After that, you’re nothing.”
“Get out,” Zanna said again, with green-eyed menace.
The door jangled and Jodie was gone.
Zanna closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. She allowed herself the silence of the next three seconds. Then, without turning around, she said, “Where are you?”
Groyne materialized on a box of precious stones.
“Well?”
He turned to Gretel, who sighed and blew a smoke ring. The game was up, in spectacular style. She confessed about the mission to investigate Tam.
Zanna was not impressed. “What? You sent a special dragon out?”
Gruffen raised an apprehensive eye ridge.
We don’t trust him, hurred Gretel, frowning in defense.
“Not good enough,” said Zanna, dark with fury. “You could have exposed us. I’ve told you before you never act without consulting me or Liz. And what do you mean you went to investigate Tam? What did this grand ‘mission’ uncover, exactly?”
Gretel nodded at Groyne, who told them now of what he’d seen in Tam’s apartment: pictures of David and the Inuit mark.
“Are you sure? Like this?” Zanna pushed back her sleeve.
Groyne gulped at it and nodded.
“That’s impossible,” she said, more to herself than the dragons. “How could he have made a connection like that?” She brought her hands together around her nose, thinking about her encounters with Tam, thinking about Jodie’s parting comment. He only wants a story. After that, you’re nothing. Story. Nothing. Two betrayals in one. She felt abruptly sick.
Gruffen spotted Lucy arriving and announced it.
“Not a word to her,” Zanna snapped, “or you’ll all be in a gift box before you know it.”
The shop bell jangled and Lucy breezed in. Zanna gunned her down with a gothic stare.
“What?” said Lucy, pulling gum from her teeth. “Am I late or something? What?”
Zanna folded her arms and looked her up and down. “What’s with the skirt?”
The shoulders rose. The hip went out. The red lips pouted. “School uniform, hel-lo?”
“I’ve never seen you out of pants before.”
“They’re in the wash,” Lucy said, chuntering to herself. “Honestly, you’re worse than Mom. Always criticizing everything I do.” She dumped her bag.
“And the hair?”
“It’s just a clip.”
“Pretty little clip.”
“So? It’s not a crime to look pretty, is it?”
Zanna didn’t pursue it. “I’m going upstairs to get the therapy room ready. Show Mr. Farrell up when he comes.”
“Mister Farrell?”
“Like I said: We’re not an item, OK?”
“Whatever,” Lucy said, in mock surrender. She dropped onto a stool behind the counter, took out a nail file, and started to rasp.
Zanna snapped her fingers. “Gruffen, Gretel, Groyne. With me.”
“Misery guts,” said Lucy, under her breath. She stuck out her tongue as Zanna clumped up the stairs.
Three minutes later, Tam walked in. He was wearing a striped green T-shirt and an open brown coat, faded blue jeans, and distressed leather boots. Lucy stood up as if she’d been hydraulically lifted.
“Hello,” he said, drowning her in his smile. “Are you Zanna’s assistant?”
“Sort of,” she muttered, aware that she probably needed to breathe, or run to the bathroom, or at the very least close her mouth.
He gave a quiet chuckle. “Is it me, or is there something in the water around here?”
Her facial muscles responded at last. She almost said hrrr? like the dragons would have, but at the last moment managed an inquiring look.
“Your hair, it’s stunning.”
“It’s my mom’s,” she said, which made him laugh and made her squirm. What was she thinking? How could she have said something so totally, totally DUMB?!
“Well, if your mom’s half as pretty as you are,” he said, “your dad’s a very lucky man.”
“My dad …,” she began, and her mouth dried up. How cool and freaky would it have been to tell him she was actually descended from a dragon, born from an egg, delivered by a witch? She thought of Gwilanna briefly and shuddered.
“Is Zanna here?”
Zanna. Mistress of the dark. Lucy snapped to attention. “Uh, yeah. She’s upstairs. She’s waiting for you.” She moved aside and invited him through.
“Thanks,” he said, peering into the prep room where Gretel worked. He gripped the handrail and took a step up.
“I’m Lucy,” she said, too quickly, too desperately. To avoid the possibility of shriveling with embarrassment, she nailed her gaze on a rack of horoscope books.
He leaned back, smiled, and made sure she noticed it. “I’m Tam. Pleased to meet you.”
“I know — I mean …” She shuffled her feet. “I’ve read your poems.”
“Thank you,” he said with plausible grace. He looked at her thoughtfully, then went upstairs.
Zanna had closed the blinds in the therapy room, leaving it illuminated by flickering tea lights. At its center was a foam-cushioned treatment table laid with a strip of fresh, clean paper.
“Sit down, take off your shoes,” she said, not even looking up as he walked in.
He settled on a chair. “You’re going to twiddle my toes?”
“Yes,” she said. She lit an orange blossom incense stick.
“How are you?”
“I’ve been better. Did your niece like the dragon?”
He eased off his boots. “She hasn’t seen it yet.”
Zanna swept across the room to a sideboard where she kept towels and a tray of essential oils. She opened one and put a few drops into a dish. “Socks as well.”
“Socks?” He laughed. “Good thing I showered.”
“This is tea tree,” she said. “It’s an antifungal.”
He nodded and removed his socks, trying as he did to gauge her tone. Was she being frosty? Or was this her natural self?
“And your coat and watch — and T-shirt, please.”
“T-shirt? Is that strictly necessary?”
“You can cancel if you wish.”
Definitely frosty. He tested the treatment table for comfort, then nodded at the dragons, who were sitting on a shelf at the head of the table. “What’s with the posse?”
“Spiritual support.”
He removed his things and threw them onto a chair. “Speaking of which, I read White Fire. You were right, it is an impressive book. He’s quite an inspired writer, Mr. Rain.”
He waited, hoping she would make a comment, but all she gave out was a terse command. “Lie on your back with your hands by your sides and your palms faceup.”
His head settled on the pillow of a rolled-up towel. “You know, I’ve been thinking. You said you took a course at Scrubbley College, right? It must have been about the same time David Rain was there. Did you ever meet him?”
“Yes,” she said, and turned fully to face him.
“Yes?”
She gave a well-controlled nod. “He was my boyfriend. My partner. I fell for him from the first moment I saw him: He was playing pinball, losing hopelessly. There was something strangely endearing about him. I was in the Arctic with him when he died. He’s also the father of my little girl, Alexa. What’s the matter, Mr. Farrell? You look quite stunned. Isn
’t this what you wanted to hear?”
He gave the faintest of nods. “You’re a very unusual woman, Miss Martindale.”
“Oh, you’re not wrong there,” she said. She lifted Groyne and Gruffen and put them on his palms.
“OK, this is weird. Why am I holding them?”
“You’re not,” she said, moving around to stand behind his feet. “They’re holding you. They have the ability to center their G’ravity into a single point. It will feel as if your hands are being nailed to the table for a second. Then they’ll just feel heavy. Boys.”
Exchanging a glance too swift for any non-dragon eye to catch, Groyne and Gruffen simultaneously concentrated their “G” force.
“Agh!” cried Tam. His head jerked up and his neck muscles tightened like steel beams. He tried moving his hands, but all he could flex were the tendons to his wrists. “What is this? They feel like two lead weights.” He banged back, grimacing hard at the ceiling.
Zanna held his feet, rubbing tea tree lotion into his toes. “Which paper do you write for?”
“Paper? What?”
She squeezed hard at the base of his largest toe, making him cry out again. “That’s the pressure point relating to your tongue,” she said. “It seems to be having difficulty finding a pathway to the truth.”
Through gritted teeth he said, “The National Endeavor.”
“Oh, how appropriate. Henry’s favorite magazine. You’d have been a popular man next door — if I’d chosen to let you stay in my life.” She squeezed his toes again. This time his cries brought Lucy running.
“Zanna, what are you doing?” she gasped.
“Lucy, get these dragon things off me,” Tam panted.
She spoke to them in dragontongue. “I can’t. I think they’re hexed.”
“What?”
“She’s a sibyl. She can do spells and stuff.”
“What?”
“Let him go. Mom’ll kill you,” Lucy demanded.
“He’s a journalist. He’s been stalking us. He wants a piece of David, don’t you, Mr. Farrell?”
“Look, I only want to help!” he cried.
“Let him go!” Lucy hissed, trying to wrestle Zanna’s hands away from his feet.
“Get back!” Zanna snarled, throwing Lucy aside with a might well beyond her human frame. Lucy hit the sideboard at shoulder height. The tray of oils clattered. A tea light fell. A spill from one of the bottles ignited.
The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal Page 11