The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal

by Chris D'Lacey

  “Scientists,” sneered Gwilanna. “What would they know?”

  She was about to turn away when Zanna stopped her and showed her the obsidian knife. “How do I dispose of this?”

  “Throw it in the garbage,” Gwilanna said tiredly.

  “It’s not dangerous?”

  “Only if you’re foolish enough to fall on its point. Its poison was discharged into Elizabeth.”

  “Where would Lucy get this? It’s beautifully made. And quite brilliant the way the light reflects inside it.” She held up the knife and twisted it. A spot of light, no larger than a grain of sand, tumbled in a figure eight at its center. “That’s incredible,” she said. “If this didn’t have such a stigma attached to it, I’d sell it in my shop. People would pay a fortune for it.”

  Gwilanna poked her face forward and seemed now to show a much greater interest. “Perhaps I should take it after all,” she said. “There may be some residual —”

  “Um, no. Nice try.” Zanna snatched it away. “This is going straight into the trash.”

  “No, wait!” cried Gwilanna.

  But the lid went up and the knife was dropped.

  The sibyl winced as she heard a breakage.

  Zanna dropped the lid again and rubbed her hands. “Promise me you’ll stay till Liz is safe.”

  Gwilanna considered it. “Are there mushrooms in your fridge?”

  “Sometimes,” said Zanna, with a less-than-smug grin. And she turned away and walked back into the kitchen.

  Gwilanna gave a humph and glanced at Bonnington, who was sitting, appropriately, on a stone mushroom. “Well, cat, shall we look?”

  Bonnington twitched his nose.

  Gwilanna checked the house for prying eyes. Then she opened the trash.

  The knife lay in three clean pieces at the bottom. The twisted tip had broken in two, but the thicker body part was still intact. Gwilanna took it out and turned it gently. “Well, well,” she whispered, “how did you get there?” The dot of light was still present.

  She drew the isoscele of Gawain from a pouch in her furs. Hmm. All in all, not a bad day’s work. What was that ridiculous human saying? It’s an ill wind…? She looked at the sky again as if she owned it. Perhaps she did? For now she possessed two of the most powerful weapons in the known universe: the blood of a dragon and … no, not the obsidian knife, but what was trapped inside the knife.

  The tiniest spark of pure dark fire.

  Epilogue

  Suzanna Martindale had been a mother for the best part of five years. For much of that time, she had often felt like an understudy to Elizabeth Pennykettle, whom she considered to be just about the perfect parent. She had learned a great deal from Liz, not just about motherhood, but the complete dynamics of running a home and family. In the days following the events in the garden, her apprenticeship was put to the test.

  With Liz very ill and likely to be bed-bound for several weeks, Zanna was catapulted into a matriarchal role. She accepted it without complaint or fuss. She hired help in the shop (even employing Henry for two afternoons a week) and stepped full-time into Liz’s shoes. It wasn’t easy. Alexa and the dragons were no trouble at all, and Arthur, although he complained deeply at first, was soon persuaded to go back to the university and do what he did well: teach and earn a living. Bonnington was Bonnington: happy with a bowl of Chunky Chunks and a tickle behind his ever-changing ears. Even Gwilanna wasn’t overly disruptive. She would sweep in and out to great thespian effect, shouting bossy orders (usually to Gretel) and demanding to be waited on, hand, foot, and feather (she still had a black one riding in her hair). Alexa, who found her “aunt” quite fascinating, often trailed in her wake, running errands, and even started up a mushroom colony for her. All of this Zanna managed to tolerate benignly without falling into a single face-off. And though it was obvious to anyone above the age of five that Gwilanna was milking the gravity of the situation, no one could deny that she had saved Liz’s life. Liz’s scar was healing well, and Gawain’s auma, through controlled applications of his blood, was gradually overpowering the poisonous obsidian. One had to be grateful to the sibyl for that. It wasn’t easy to live with the obnoxious old witch, but Zanna could have no grounds for putting her out on the street.

  On that score, however, there was an extraordinary twist. Henry Bacon, like so many others in the Crescent, had been held in a trance when the omnipresent mantra had drawn the world together in semi-conscious prayer. This explained why he had not gone charging out with a stick to defend his piece of land when the crowds had appeared by his garden gate (though he’d since inquired, with no success, if the local government would compensate him for the loss of his herbaceous border). But when “the gathering,” as the media were labeling it, was over, he was over within the hour. He and “Gwyneth” (the name Gwilanna adopted when forced to interact with “primitive human society”), seemed to “click.” Not even her furs or the waxy smell of raven feathers could put Henry off. After just one cup of Earl Grey tea and an impenetrable discussion of the health-giving properties of shiitake mushrooms and other spore-bearing fruiting bodies, he invited her to stay in the guest room at his house. Gwilanna, having nowhere else to go, accepted. Zanna’s jaw dropped. She tried to find a reason to object, but had none. She just prayed that the sibyl would not turn Henry’s guest room into a cave the way she had when she’d lived at number 42, once. Gwilanna, crashing at Henry’s pad: It was far too freaky to think about, but it did at least keep the sibyl out of the way.

  And that was important, because of Lucy. After the general domestic workload — the laundry, the cooking, the ironing, the paperwork — Lucy was Zanna’s greatest challenge. The girl had gone into a shell so deep that she might have been lost for good were it not for the tide of her mother’s breathing. She wouldn’t talk about what had happened in the garden and refused to do anything around the house unless it was directly helpful to her mom. She sat with Liz all day, every day, sometimes neglecting her personal hygiene, usually dozing off in mid-to-late evening and sleeping overnight in the chair beside the bed. She was becoming a hindrance, especially to Gwilanna, who had twice been on the brink of zapping the girl with magicks for getting in the way when she was checking Liz’s progress. Zanna would not allow that. But on those nights when she came to drape a blanket over Lucy and settle the girl’s hands and place a kiss on her forehead, she would stand a moment over her, wondering what to do. It was a delicate matter, one she wished she didn’t need to address. But in the end, the problem resolved itself.

  For the first days of her illness, Liz had been fed on herbal infusions prescribed by Gwilanna and wafted into her nostrils by Gretel. Though her eyes had blinked open several times (a dreadful sight to witness, for the whites were the grayest shades of death), she had still been far too tired to speak. But as the herbs began their work and Gretel’s soothing dragonsong stirred her, she began to have more prolonged wakeful periods, usually early-to mid-afternoon. During one of those times, she asked about Gwillan.

  Zanna was there. Waiting. Ready.

  “Where is he? I haven’t seen him,” Liz said.

  Zanna picked up her hand. “He cried his fire tear,” she said. And there it was, done. Evenly and swiftly, the way Arthur had counseled her. No stalling. No sorrys. The hard plain truth. “He saw your body on the patio and thought you were dead.”

  Liz’s face began to drift into agonized despair.

  Lucy covered her mouth and ran from the room.

  “I should go to her,” said Zanna. A tear carved her cheek. She raised Liz’s hand and held it to her lips. “He’s in the den, by Guinevere. I’m so, so sorry.”

  It was horrible, but it was a breakthrough of sorts.

  Lucy had not gone far. Her run had come to a halt in a fetal position at the bottom of the stairs. Zanna sat her upright and cradled her closely, using every healing technique she’d ever learned. The girl was crying hysterically.

  “Why? Why did you have to tell her?”
/>   “Because it would have been worse if I hadn’t,” Zanna whispered.

  And the tears went on. And the guilt poured out. “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Zanna told her, time after time.

  Then the dam broke and Lucy began to blubber frenziedly, finally spilling out what had happened after Blackburn, words about the island, and the Darkling — and Tam.

  Zanna pulled back a little so she could see Lucy’s eyes. “You mean Farlowe Island? That’s where the time rift took you?” She gave the girl a shake. “Lucy, talk to me. This is important. Tam went after you. No one’s heard from him since. Did he reach you on the island? Lucy, what happened?”

  “They got him,” she said. Her head lolled against her shoulder.

  Zanna swallowed tightly and looked away. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know.” And the tears came again.

  “All right,” Zanna said, rocking her gently. “Listen, I want you to go to bed. I want you to sleep for as long as you need to. You’re exhausted, Luce. You need to lie down and rest.”

  “Can’t. Mom needs me. She —”

  Zanna cut her off with a gentle shush. With a palm supporting Lucy’s cheek, she said, “Your mom is better left alone right now.”

  Alexa came into the hall just then, carrying a half-peeled mushroom. She paused, knock-kneed, wondering what was happening.

  Zanna said, “Lexie, will you sit upstairs with Lucy? She’s tired — but she wants someone to talk to for a while.”

  Alexa put the mushroom on a step of the stairs. She called Bonnington, who came trotting on four kitty paws down the hall. Alexa picked up Lucy’s hand. “Shall we read a story?”

  Lucy’s bottom lip trembled.

  “A story would be perfect,” Zanna said. And to her great relief, all three of them went up.

  A dark silence gathered at the foot of the stairs. Zanna took out her cell but didn’t dial. She stared at the door and thought about Tam. His quest to find David, his bravado at Blackburn. And how she had cursed him a dozen times since, not because it should have been her on that island, but because she had known that one day she might have to sit like this and deal with the crushing responsibility of the moment.

  She called Arthur, seeking advice.

  He called back ten minutes later. He had tried to contact Bernard, but that line was dead, and the brethren’s general communications had only just been restored. There was “sickness” on the island, he said.

  “Sickness?”

  “A partial euphemism. They don’t want visitors, Zanna.”

  “Did you ask about Tam?”

  “The brother I spoke to claimed he knew nothing. When I pressed him, he was clearly too afraid to speak out. But before he hung up he gave me a clue: He said their rowboat was gone.”

  Zanna looked at the door again, at the chain bolt dangling free. She walked away from it, down the hall into the kitchen. “Are we in danger?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe the Ix are defeated — for now. Have you had the television on today? The mist across the Arctic has bulged near the pole. Reconnaissance photographs are showing some kind of developing activity. One of the pilots who witnessed it said it was ‘like a child playing underneath a blanket.’ An aircraft dropped a probe into the cloud, but all signals were immediately lost.”

  “And this is good?”

  “I don’t feel it’s bad. Has … Alexa said anything?”

  Zanna peered at the drawings, still tacked to the kitchen wall. Dragons and polar bears. That fabulous eye. “No, nothing. But Liz knows about Gwillan.”

  “Shall I come home?”

  “If you can. It might help. I’ve asked Gretel to give her a potion. She’s resting now, but when she wakes again the grief is going to come back hard. It would comfort her to know you’re around.”

  There was silence a moment, then Arthur said, “She’ll be grateful you told her — you know that, don’t you?”

  Zanna touched the hollow at the nape of her neck. “I hate myself, Arthur.”

  And she ended the call.

  For the next half hour, Zanna busied herself with the stuff of housekeeping, mainly preparing an early evening meal. She was putting dinner into the oven when the doorbell rang.

  The listening dragon pricked its ears.

  Alexa came thumping down the stairs and as usual reached the door first. As she opened it, Zanna gave a terrified start. It was him. Tam Farrell. Clean shaven. Kind eyes. Heart-melting lowlands accent.

  Tam.

  “Hello, Zanna.” He glanced sweetly at Alexa. A genuine smile. No hint of any threat.

  “You’re Lucy’s friend,” said the child.

  He gave a splutter of surprise. “Yes. Yes, I am. Is Lucy … in?”

  “She’s sleeping,” said Zanna, moving forward. She grasped the edge of the door, making a barricade in front of Alexa.

  Tam eased back, sliding his hands into his pockets. There were raindrops staining his black pilot jacket. “I’ve come a long way, Zanna. Farther than Blackburn.”

  She let his gaze sink into her, and hated him briefly for disabling all her doubts.

  “Are you going to stay for tea?” Alexa asked Tam. She was up now, turning sideways on her toes.

  He looked at Zanna. She let her shoulders fall. “Go into the kitchen,” she said.

  They had a cup of tea. Cake. All the Pennykettle trimmings. Alexa chattered furiously and showed Tam her drawings. He in turn recited poems that made her laugh. Zanna found it all just a little surreal. She was beginning to wonder just where this was going when Bonnington put in a moody appearance. He was trying to escape from Gwilanna, who entered via the back door just as Tam was offering to juggle apples for Alexa.

  He rose politely instead.

  “Who is this?” Gwilanna snapped, every bit as austere as the gray two-piece suit she was wearing.

  “A friend,” Zanna said.

  Tam proffered a hand.

  The sibyl refused it and quickly passed her right hand in front of his face. Zanna saw it was a hex, a mild form of hypnosis, and was about to utter sharp words of rebuke when she realized Tam Farrell hadn’t flinched.

  Gwilanna breathed in sharply. With a voice that might have driven forth a blizzard she said, “He has the mark of Oomara upon him.” She gave a disgusted sniff. “And he smells of bears.”

  “I like bears,” said Alexa.

  “Be quiet, child.” Gwilanna narrowed her gaze. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  He sat down calmly, slipping his fingers through the handle of the mug he’d just emptied of tea. “My name is Tam Farrell. I’ve come to fulfill a promise to Lucy. I said I would help her to … protect the environment.”

  “He’s a journalist,” said Zanna.

  “Is he,” said Gwilanna, but it was not a question. She ran an overgrown fingernail under Tam’s eye, digging down slightly to lower the lid. “You’ve commingled,” she whispered, reading his retina with the telescope of her witchery. “You —” She stopped speaking and pulled away sharply. “You and I have met before. How can that be?”

  “Tam tells poems,” Alexa said gaily.

  “And stories — of the North,” he added darkly, turning the handle of his mug toward Gwilanna.

  The sibyl, slightly startled, jutted her chin. “How is Elizabeth?” she snapped at Zanna.

  “Talking. I had to tell her about —”

  “Good.” The sibyl opened the door again.

  “Hey, slow down. Aren’t you going up to see her?”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps. Gretel knows what to do.” And glancing warily at Tam, the old woman swept out as quickly as she’d come in.

  Zanna threw up her hands.

  Alexa said, “Hhh! She didn’t take her mushrooms.”

  “Good, ‘cause I’d be tempted to —”

  “Poison them,” Zanna was about to say, but stopped herself when she realized that this was her chance to be alone finally with Ta
m. “Yes, well, you’d better run after her, then. Stay a while if you want to.”

  Alexa grabbed a basket. “Will you juggle apples for me when I come back?”

  “Four,” said Tam. “And an orange, too.”

  Alexa’s eyes grew as large as saucers. She set her shoulders straight and whizzed away.

  “She’s cute,” he said, as Zanna shut the door.

  “She’s none of your business. All right, talk.”

  “I would like to see Lucy.”

  “She’s asleep. You talk to me.”

  “You still hate me?”

  “Not if you tell me the truth.”

  He put a hand to his heart. “You saved my life, Zanna. Lucy’s, too. Why would I want to lie to you?” And he told her all that he remembered from the island. Everything about the Ix, the Darkling, and how he had escaped. “At the end, I couldn’t be sure whether the Ix had left the monks completely, so I stowed away in the boathouse and rowed off the island the next day when the water was calm. I’ll go back at an appropriate time and tell the brothers what I know.”

  By now, he was onto his second mug of tea. Zanna opened a fresh box of cookies. “That creature you mentioned, the one that disappeared. What do you think happened to it?”

  “The Darkling was on a time rift. Something either cloaked it — or moved it for safekeeping.”

  “The Ix?”

  He shook his head. “No, don’t think so. Not unless it was an emergency measure. They appeared to be defeated by then anyway. I think it was the same source that sent the snow.”

  She raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. It made her look quirkily beautiful, he thought.

  “Snow is a natural phenomenon, Tam. It’s not sent, it falls.”