The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal

by Chris D'Lacey

  Yours sincerely,

  Mr. David Rain

  P.S. I’m afraid I haven’t seen any dragons around lately.

  I hope this isn’t a problem.

  “This was his reply to our ad for a tenant.”

  Lucy read it under her breath. Then she pressed it to her heart, fell back onto the bed, and cried as if the tears would never stop.

  “I’ll call you when dinner’s almost ready,” said Liz. She put a kiss on her fingers and touched Lucy’s head. She closed the door quietly on her way out.

  The remainder of the evening went by peacefully. Lucy spent all of it in voluntary isolation. She ate her dinner in her room, and when she was done she left the plate outside the door. (Bonnington grew a mane and sat for half an hour licking morsels off her lamb chops, as if he’d brought down an antelope on the landing.) Arthur called to say he’d be late. Liz, although she wanted him home, was nevertheless grateful for one less complication. Arthur never interfered in disciplinary matters connected with Lucy, but he would ask about the cause and the reason and the outcome, and that, for one night, Liz could do without. So she and Zanna spent their time entertaining Alexa, making a mobile of the fairies from Henry’s cereal box. It was a great success. The fairies flew (with assistance from Gwillan), and now that Alexa had the opportunity to watch them spin and dance above her bed, she quickly changed her mind about planting them in the garden and dozed off that night singing her favorite song to them (There was an old lady who swallowed a fly …).

  Night fell. The house slept. The earth slowly turned. At precisely seven a.m., Gauge breathed a gentle hrrr into Liz’s left ear. She rose, showered quickly, and went downstairs. Within seconds, she knew that something was wrong. The kettle wasn’t on. Where was Gwillan? And why was there no greeting from the listening dragon?

  Simple. They had both been hexed. Not with any kind of serious magic, just a sleeping potion Gretel used on Arthur sometimes, when he needed to overcome one of his headaches.

  Liz snapped them out of it with ancient words of dragontongue. They were still coming to when she found the note.

  It was propped against the teapot. A single fold of paper. Dear Mom, I can’t stand it anymore. I’m going away. Don’t know how long I’ll be. Sorry. Don’t hate me. I love you, Lucy xx

  Liz felt the world rush away from her heart. “No,” she said and dashed upstairs. She threw the door of Lucy’s bedroom open, hoping it might be just a cruel joke, thinking already of the words she would say. I was SO frightened! Have you any idea? But the room was empty. The bed was made. The curtains were open. The computer was off. There were slippers on the rug. Slippers, not shoes. The wardrobe door lay slightly ajar. The hairbrush was gone from the dressing table.

  Liz fell to her knees. “No,” she sobbed.

  But the silence was deep and unforgiving. Lucy, her daughter of sixteen years, had run away from home.

  Taking her dragon, Gwendolen, with her.

  19

  FINDING TAM

  According to Gwendolen’s place-finding search engine, the offices of The National Endeavor were in a large glass building on Cambridge Street, half a mile’s walk from the T station. On her map, the thick green line of the highway did not appear especially intimidating, but even though Lucy was no stranger to Boston, the pace of life here in the rush hour frightened her. Cambridge Street was a busy four-lane highway, yet there was traffic congestion on one side of the road, made worse by a fire truck and a clutch of police cars, which were throwing their red lights into the rain. Lucy could not be sure whether something was on fire or a water main had burst or if a building had been cordoned off because of an emergency. She just pulled up her collar and hurried on past, half wondering if a missing Pennykettle child would be reason enough to warrant an all-out runaway search. She decided not, and checked her map again. By now, if her bearings were correct, she should be right near the magazine’s offices. A truck powered by, rattling every pane of glass in sight. Then a horn blared, making her squeal in fright, driving her toward a revolving door. She saw the word Endeavor and just kept on moving, glad to let it carry her out of the noise.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  The voice floated across a spotlit foyer, decked on either side by artificial plants. A young blond receptionist, wearing a set of light gray headphones, was just visible behind a curved beech desk.

  “I want to see Tam Farrell,” Lucy said, approaching.

  The woman threw out a practiced smile. The word “bored” was practically stamped on her face. Before Lucy could answer, she had pressed a button on a switchboard in front of her and was speaking with sugarcoated cords into her mouthpiece. “Hello, National Endeavor? Thank you. Putting you through.” She pressed another button and came up for air. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Lucy shivered and shook her head. A droplet of water winged off her hair onto a notepad the receptionist was using. The woman drew herself up like a bear. She tore the page off, crumpled it, and threw it away. “If he’s not expecting you, I can’t send you up. I’m not even sure he’s in the building, actually.”

  “Can you check?” Lucy said, leaning over the desk. “It’s important. Really important.”

  The revolving doors caught another visitor: a longhaired messenger, in leather. The receptionist signed for a package and took another call before speaking to Lucy again. “Is it about a story?”

  Lucy said, “I’m here about David Rain.”

  “Who?”

  “David Rain. The author. Can you please get Tam?”

  The woman flexed her shoulders. She was small and a little too plump for her suit. “Your name is?”

  “Lucy — but he won’t remember me.”

  “Then what’s the point of calling him?”

  “He might know me if he sees me.”

  The receptionist sat forward, twiddling a pencil. Her tongue took a layer of gloss off her lips. “Is this personal?”

  “Sort of.”

  A half-triumphant smile broke across the woman’s mouth. “Hmm, thought as much.” She pointed to the door. “Good day.”

  “No,” Lucy said, bringing all her youthful hormones into play. “I’m not leaving.”

  The switchboard buzzed again. The receptionist, stunned by this defiance, let it flash. “This isn’t a lonely hearts club, darling. And I don’t have time to argue, OK?” She clicked her fingers. From the shadows of a pillar, a security guard stepped forward.

  “Stop. You don’t understand,” Lucy said, as he took her (gently) by the crook of her arm. “You can’t throw me out. I’ve come all the way from Scrubbley!”

  “Have a pleasant journey home,” the receptionist fluted, giving Lucy a patronizing wave.

  “Come on, miss,” said the guard, pulling her away. “The more you struggle, the worse it gets.”

  “Get off me!” Lucy said, wriggling free. She opened her bag and brought out Gwendolen, holding her up like a spiky green chalice. “At least give him this. Please?”

  The guard tugged at the peak of his cap, then at the knot of his immaculate tie. A coat of sweat broke out on the lines of his forehead. After several indecisive attempts to go forward, he turned back to the receptionist.

  “What?” she said, catching his look.

  “She’s brought him a dragon,” he said.

  The receptionist ground her teeth. “I don’t care if she’s brought him Godzilla. Just do your job, Leroy. Throw her out.”

  “But it’s important,” Lucy pleaded. “Really important.”

  Leroy shushed her. He circled his hands. “Did you say it was about David Rain, the author? The guy who wrote that awesome book about the polar bears?”

  Sensing a breakthrough, Lucy stepped forward. “Yes!”

  He held up his hands to warn her “not too close.”

  “That was a cool read — no pun intended.”

  “She’s still here,” the receptionist intoned.

  Leroy tapped his thumbs together. He rais
ed a finger to indicate that Lucy should behave herself, then he loped back to the desk. “I think she’s for real.”

  The woman sat back, infuriated. “It’s not your job to decide, is it? Just throw her out, OK?”

  “But what harm’s it gonna do? Just call the guy.”

  “She might be hostile, Leroy!”

  “Well, if she is, I’ll take her down, won’t I?” He grinned and tugged at his cuffs like a gangster. “Get him to the lobby. I’ll stand guard.”

  The receptionist breathed in, as if she’d been hijacked. “This is on your balding head, okay?” She punched out a four-digit number. As it connected, her face changed from inclement to fair (like Mr. Bacon’s barometer, Lucy thought).

  “Hi, yeah. It’s Chantelle, in reception. There’s a visitor for you. A girl called Lucy. No, no appointment. She says she knows you. Just a moment.” She muted the line. “He wants to know your last name.”

  Lucy gulped. On the way here she’d thought about this. Any mention of Pennykettle might leave a trail that her mother could scent. “Black,” she said.

  “Black?” The receptionist didn’t seem convinced.

  Lucy smiled. The color of your heart, she thought, but wisely kept her silence.

  “Lucy Black,” the woman said, in a voice charged with bittersweet cynicism. There was a pause. Lucy crossed her fingers behind her back. The receptionist played with a strand of hair. “Okay. I’ll tell her.” Her expression changed again, back toward stormy. “Take a seat. Mr. Farrell will be with you in a moment.” She glared at Leroy and got on with her work.

  A minute later, a pair of elevator doors opened and Tam Farrell came striding into reception. He looked at Chantelle, who pointed savagely at Lucy.

  Lucy jumped up.

  “Miss Black?” he said, sounding charming but confused.

  Amazing. Not a flicker of recognition. Lucy prayed to every star in the sky that her plan was going to work. “Listen,” she implored him, coming up close. “My name’s not Lucy Black, it’s Lucy … something else. You know me, but you’ve been made to forget me. This is Gwendolen. She’ll help you to remember — I hope.”

  She stepped forward again and tried to place Gwendolen on Tam’s left shoulder. Tam backed away instinctively, looking alarmed.

  “I told you. She’s crazy. Get rid of her,” said Chantelle.

  From the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Leroy fingering his collar. He was having third thoughts, never mind second. She felt Gwendolen’s heartbeat and tried again. “Please, she won’t hurt you.”

  Tam said, “No. What is this? Who are you?” and stepped back so quickly that he stumbled and fell.

  Leroy made a sound like a whale blowing air.

  Lucy knew there was only one chance. She dropped to one knee beside the startled journalist and whispered her orders in dragontongue to Gwendolen. “Do it quickly. Then tumble to the floor if you need to.” She threw the dragon at him.

  “Whoa! That’s it,” cried Leroy.

  “Hurry,” Lucy cried, as a suited arm looped around her neck and she was dragged along the floor for several feet.

  Chantelle was on her toes now, baying like a spectator at the Coliseum. “She’s out of some institution. I’m calling the cops.”

  “Leave it. She’s a kid. I can handle this,” said Leroy. He pulled Lucy to her feet and lugged her toward the door.

  Suddenly, Tam Farrell let out a short squeal. His hand felt for the top of his spine, where Gwendolen had just spiked him with the tip of her tail, twisting her isoscele deep into the core of his cranial nerves. In less than two seconds he’d located the pain, but in less than one she had interfaced with his cerebral cortex and downloaded a vast stream of data and images. She fell away, hopeful at best. Memory swapping was an untried process. Dangerous. Unpredictable. But if it worked, Tam would now have a bundle of memories, Lucy’s memories, dating back to his visit to Zanna in the shop …

  “Oh.” He fell forward, with his face in his hands.

  “What’s she done?” Chantelle squealed. “He’s gonna die — in my foyer! I’m definitely calling the police.”

  To her amazement, Tam raised a hand and croaked, “Wait.” A string of saliva dribbled out of his mouth. He wiped it on his sleeve. Grimacing, he rolled into a sitting position.

  “You okay, Mr. Farrell?” Leroy said, still holding Lucy firmly in place.

  “It’s all right. Let her go. She’s a friend,” he replied.

  Lucy gasped in relief.

  Not so Chantelle. “What? But she tried to brain you with that dragon! I’ll be a witness if you want someone!”

  “Lucy, help me up.” Tam stretched a hand.

  Reluctantly, Leroy released his grip.

  Lucy shot forward. With her help, Tam staggered to a broad leather sofa and plunged into the spacious cushions. “Sit still, let me look at your eyes,” she said. She slapped his cheek lightly to make him concentrate. “You were hexed,” she whispered, “by Zanna’s dragon, Gretel. Do you remember? Upstairs, in the therapy room?”

  “Water,” he said, having difficulty swallowing. His pupils were dilating, a reasonable sign.

  “Already on it,” Leroy said, approaching with a plastic cup in hand. On the way, he crouched down and picked up Gwendolen. “This is cute. Where’d you buy it?”

  “Um, Scrubbley market,” said Lucy. There seemed no harm in giving that away.

  Leroy nodded and handed her over.

  To Lucy’s relief, Gwendolen hadn’t suffered any damage or injury. Lucy praised her with a quiet word of dragontongue, then slipped the special dragon back into her bag. She took the water and handed it to Tam.

  Leroy backed off, twiddling his thumbs. “Think I’ll let you guys … reacquaint.” He touched his cap and strolled away.

  “So, what are you doing here, Lucy?” Tam’s eyes threw a bleary blue light into hers.

  “You remember David, don’t you?”

  He spluttered a little and lifted his cup. “The mysterious author.”

  “I want to prove that he was real. Do you know where Blackburn is?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I want you to take me there.”

  “That’s a heck of a journey from here. What for?”

  Lucy reached into her bag again and drew out the letter from David to her mom. “Look,” she said, and tapped the address: 4 Thoushall Road, Blackburn. “I want to trace him, like you said. Me and you, together. This is where he lived. We can start right here …”

  20

  CIRCLES

  Immediately after revealing his intention to visit the spiritual center of the ice, the Nanukapik, Ingavar, used his healing powers to grant the raven, Gwilanna, a full set of feathers. “Fly ahead of us,” he told her. “Seek out a path. You will be our eyes, sibyl.”

  “Give me one good reason why I’d want to,” she spat.

  Ingavar lowered his snout toward her. “Because you’re curious to know the outcome of this journey.” And though she hopped from foot to foot and chuntered impatiently, the Nanukapik would reveal nothing more to her. He merely looked at Avrel, who nodded in acknowledgement. He, too, was curious, but any Teller understood that stories and legends are not always to be told in a single breath.

  “Just how am I supposed to guide you?” said Gwilanna, dipping her beak at the windswept ice, as though to prove it was nothing but a huge blank canvas.

  Ingavar’s gaze traveled up to the sky, where, Avrel noticed, the clouds were shaping into seals again. “Your ability for magicks has been subdued, but your powers of perception are as sharp as ever, particularly where dragons are concerned. You have learned a great truth today. Now that you know Gawain’s tear is in the ice, the sparks of his fire will be visible to you. Where they congregate is where we must be.”

  Gwilanna caarked sourly and flicked up her tail, throwing nubbins of ice into Kailar’s face. “How can you know so much?” she grizzled. “You were just a mere … boy last time we met, meddling in things you didn
’t understand.”

  “I understand a lot more now,” said Ingavar, angling his gaze in such a way that Avrel, looking on, thought that the two of them were communicating in some silent fashion, and this appeared to be confirmed when the raven said quietly, “You’ve crossed over somehow, haven’t you, bear? I can sense them within you. The others. The Fain …”

  Others? Fain? Avrel waited, thinking that Ingavar would comment. But the Nanukapik stayed silent, and as his gaze remained steady the raven quickly realized that her petulant questions were going to be pointless. Even so, she tried once more. “If I help you, will you free me of this ridiculous body?”

  “All things are possible with The Fire Eternal,” said Ingavar.

  “Pah!” she expostulated, ruffling her feathers. She preened several loose ones on the shoulder of her wing, then stepped forward until she could feel his humid breath on her face. “I don’t trust you,” she hissed. “And if you had any sense you’d think the same,” she said to Avrel. Then, shrieking like a wild thing, she took to the air and soared away, chased by Kailar’s roar.

  Time passed — a day or two, maybe; in the bleakness of winter it was difficult to gauge. But the bird was not seen at all during that time and Avrel was growing ever more anxious. Now and then he would suddenly throw up his head, thinking he had caught a black wingbeat above. But it was always just a wisp, another ghost in the air — a phenomenon he was growing rapidly used to. For as well as seeing walrus and seal in the sky, he and Kailar were now being visited by the dead. These usually took the form of bears and other wildlife, but there were people, too. Old brown-skinned Inuit people, whose faces were always of the normal dimensions but whose bodies were often just streaks in the wind. They came to Avrel the most, singing their rasping songs into his ears, stroking his fur, tickling his snout, howling in the pit of his throat when he breathed. Sometimes, they stood up as if to challenge him, and he would flash his paws in terror and disperse them into mist, until eventually Ingavar took him to one side saying, “Do not fear them, Avrel. They know who you are. They want to celebrate your presence here and tell you their stories. Embrace them. They want to give you their lives. At the End of Days, yours will be the voice of the north.”