by Lou Hoffmann
She knew the day of need was near. She could feel it everywhere—even in the water. And when that day came she would be there to fight.
But, she decided, the time isn’t yet. At this moment, the most important thing she could do was find her father. When he’d left the Sisterhold, he was suffering. For the first time in her life, L’Aria feared for him. She had no real sense of where he’d gone, but she knew he would revert to otter form and stay near water to let himself heal. And of everyone in Ethra, she was the one who stood the best chance of finding him. She knew where his wild homes and haunts were, and she could travel quickly from one likely place to another—River Song, this magic only she and her father possessed in all Ethra, could create a portal from any pool.
She loved Han like a favorite uncle—her habit of sassing him was only meant to keep anyone from knowing how much she cared. Han’s worry could be for Luccan, she supposed, but instinct told her if Luccan was worse—or even if he wasn’t better—Han and Thurlock would be with him. No, Han’s fallen spirits were about something else. Whatever had happened to make him so sad, her heart told her to comfort him. But Thurlock was there, and he understood Han far better than she did.
She made her choice. The Sunlands needed her and her father, and she needed him. Tiro had taught her always to make choices for the greater good, and for now that meant she had to choose him. He was a singular being, but he didn’t have to—and she’d see to it that he wouldn’t—face his mysterious malady alone.
She let her love for him fill her heart so it could shine out through the magic of her song as it flowed among the lives of the world, seeking one particular echo. After only a moment, she thought she heard it, found the direction she needed to travel to meet up with Tiro.
With a shift in her song, she sank down into the pool, into the emptiness of Naught, and out beyond.
Chapter Fifteen: Except My Eyes
“HAN.”
Han turned his face away, not wanting this particular grief witnessed even though Thurlock surely already knew. When he could speak without having a sob escape, he said, “Thurlock, sir.”
Thurlock sat on the muddy bank, with no care for his robes or his old bones, neither too far from Han nor too close.
“I don’t want to talk,” Han said.
“I don’t need to read your mind to see that, my friend,” Thurlock answered. “But I think it would be more honest for you to admit you don’t want to think. But you will anyway, and it’s going to lead you into trouble—already has, I’m quite sure. So I thought I’d make myself available if you care to bounce any ideas off me, as things progress.”
It would be pointless to try to argue with the wizard; Han never won, and in any case, he was right. As ridiculous as Han knew his thinking was, he couldn’t keep it from snowballing along. At that moment it seemed like further evidence that he didn’t know himself at all, and therefore he was not to be trusted.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the wizard wave his hand, and then a multicolored blanket woven for Han by Rosishan as a birthday present years ago appeared in the wizard’s big, age-spotted hands.
“Take your feet out of the water, Han, you’re freezing. Here, wrap up in this and I’ll fix you some hot coffee.”
Surprised to see that, indeed, a heavy cloud had covered the sun and most of the sky in the last few moments, he did as Thurlock instructed, pulling his cold feet out of the chilling water.
“Come up here away from the stream,” Thurlock said, by now carrying a large mug of hot coffee apparently just then summoned into existence.
Han joined the old man on an ancient fallen log where the trees sheltered them from the surprising wind. He wrapped the blanket around his mostly bare chest, and then accepted the coffee, tested it for temperature, and swallowed half the mug in one go. It warmed him inside, but he wasn’t ready to allow himself to feel comforted just yet.
“I’d encourage you to talk to me, Han.”
“Are you planning to force me if I don’t?”
“Han, we’ve had this discussion before. I certainly could do that. At the moment I don’t think I will, because I know you, young man, and something is bothering you that you can’t answer without help. I’d love to provide that help, if you’d let me, and with so much going on, I think now is better than later. Don’t you?”
Han said nothing for some time, though he knew he would talk once he was ready. During the wait, he listened to the wind rustle the leaves, and to Thurlock’s bones creaking, and to a field mouse nearby frantically searching for the nest she’d left her babies in, though she obviously knew right where it was. He came to the stark truth that his searching for the right thing to say was as pointless as the little four-legged’s panic, and so he spoke.
“The dragon.”
“Yes.”
“Why, Thurlock? It should have been Lohen.”
“Honestly, Han? Was there ever anything about Lohen that suggested a dragon nature?”
Han’s lip quirked in a one-sided smile at the thought. Calm, cool, gentle, deadly, loving, sorrowful Lohen, a dragon? No.
“It’s in your nature,” Thurlock added. “You’ve known that since you were a small boy. And though you’ve tried to deny it, you’ve always known this could happen—probably must happen. Do you care to talk about what’s really bothering you?”
Han swallowed the rest of his coffee, dropped the mug onto the soft leaf mold on the forest floor, stood and, pulling the blanket around hunched shoulders, went to stand at the stream’s edge again. Even with his back to the wizard, his throat was so tight it hurt to speak, but he forced the words. “My family. The house. The stead. Thurlock—did I burn them?”
He was surprised to hear Thurlock gasp in surprise. Apparently, he’d done a very good job of fooling the wizard into thinking he had no such fears—better than the job he’d done fooling himself, even.
“By Behl’s sweet breath, Han. How long have you held this fear bottled up? Ach! Never mind. The answer to that question is obvious. The answer to your question, dearest Han, is no. No, you did not do that.”
Han stood where he was, unable to make himself turn to face Thurlock, unable to believe his assurances, unable to speak. He heard Thurlock approach and then, for the first time in many years, felt the old man’s strong arm wrap around his shoulders and the comforting squeeze of his big hand. He felt like he’d changed suddenly back into the young, frightened boy he’d been when Lohen had first brought him to Thurlock, not knowing how to care for him, and the wizard had taken him in.
“Listen to me, Han. First, the dragon games you used to play as a boy, they were just that—games, imaginings, make-believe. Surely, your dragon came out to play at those games with you, but they were the same kind of pretending all children do, like a rehearsal for being grown-up. There was nothing real about the flights over the stead you used to babble on about to anyone who would listen. Don’t look at me like that, Han. It’s true, you were quite a babbler as a young child.”
Han smiled a little, trying to see himself that way. But he wasn’t reassured, and the smile fell away almost instantly.
“I know your memory of those years is vague, and I’ll wager you have at times nearly convinced yourself of your guilt. It may be difficult for you to accept your innocence simply on my word, so I’ll offer this as well: Think on the nature of your dragon, Han. All through your games, was the dragon ever ruthless or cruel? The answer is no, and the reason is because the dragon is you, and cruelty is not in your nature. I know this because I’m a wizard, but mostly I know this because I’ve spent two centuries in your company.”
Thurlock’s words helped enough that Han’s embarrassing need to sob retreated, but he wasn’t totally convinced. “But, Thurlock, what if sometimes—or even just that one time—the dragon in me did come out into the world, became physical? Maybe…. Could I have done it by accident? I was young and the dragon’s fire—”
“Wait a moment, Han. I’ve just realized th
e problem. You don’t remember what you saw that day, do you? Or at least you’ve never let the memory come to mind?”
Nail on the head and all that, Han thought, because of course what Thurlock had said was absolutely true. Thurlock didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, though, so Han remained silent and waited. The old man took a few steps away and then paced back, scratched his beard thoughtfully, mumbled to himself. “Yes, I see,” he said at last, as if answering somebody only he could see or hear. “Well, Han, it’s like this. I can, if you want, give those memories back to you, but sometimes when we bury things it’s because they’re better left alone. If you’ll believe my word, there’s no need for you to endure that. I’ll leave it to you to decide.”
Han didn’t know what he would decide in the end, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to relive anything “better left alone” if he could avoid it. “For now,” he said, “just tell me.”
“Your family, Han… they were not just burned. They were tortured. They were tormented and abused in several very sick but creative ways. You, a beloved and loving child, could not have conceived of these punishments, dragon or no. It’s not possible that you were responsible. What is possible, something I have long pondered, is that your dragon saved you—took you away from the home at the critical moment so that you escaped death.”
Han went back to the fallen log and seated himself again. Thurlock sat next to him, content to wait quietly for Han to arrive wherever his thoughts took him.
Finally Han lifted his gaze to Thurlock’s. “Are my eyes still different?”
Thurlock nodded. “I’m afraid the color change will likely be permanent, though the slitted pupil seems to fade within minutes after your return.”
“Oh! I hadn’t seen that part. It must look… scary.”
“It is odd, I’ll admit.”
Han actually laughed at that, but then he grew serious again. “Do you think the change in my eyes… well, I mean, will the rest of me change too? Do you think I’ll turn into the dragon for real?”
“Hm. I don’t think so, Han. We do know that this is a trait you’ve inherited, and though it hasn’t surfaced—that we know of—in a couple of generations, it was at one time at least common enough not to be extraordinary. As you know, I’ve been around since before dirt, and actually you are not the first Drakhonic dragon-kin I’ve met. Your ancestors were neither monsters nor shifters, Han. As I understand it, your dragon is a part of your consciousness—or maybe your subconscious is more accurate.”
“Except my eyes—”
“Yes, yes. Except your eyes. It’s quite a stunning coloration by the way. But the bottom line is, no, Han. I truthfully don’t think you’re on your way to becoming a smart but scaly reptile, and I don’t believe you will ever even shift when you’re in the everyday waking world, fully conscious. The dragon, I think, is meant to help with what lies beneath, so to speak.”
Han sighed, nodded. “Okay,” he said, and then, using Earth slang, “Well, he—the dragon—was pretty damn badass today. I suppose he could be useful.”
Thurlock’s stomach rumbled, and by unspoken consent, they began walking back toward the Sisterhold, Han feeling easy in Thurlock’s company, as he had for so long. “And somehow, my leg got healed.”
“Interesting,” Thurlock said, and they walked on.
As they came near his small house, Han turned his mind back to the many items of business waiting to be dealt with. He asked, “Do you want to know about the bodies, now, sir?”
“Go get properly dressed, Han. There’s an old maxim well known among wizards of worth: supper first, bad news and strange bodies later. We’ve missed dinner at the Hold, so let’s eat at Chez Thurlock. We’ll talk when we can be heard over my stomach grumbling.”
Chapter Sixteen: Magic is a Wonderful Thing
LUCKY FELT weak and sick while he gathered a few things from his room. Truthfully, he didn’t have much there he felt he just had to have. He’d only spent a few months there before he’d left in the fall and stayed gone for months. He’d brought nothing with him from Earth except the Key, and he had that hanging around his neck on its mended sun-metal chain. He slipped his tunic on, picked up Ciarrah, and said, “I’m ready.”
Olana tilted her head and gave him a grandmotherly kind of side-eye, then said in her pleasantly accented Karrish, “You can bathe at the wizard’s home, I’m sure, Luccan, but you will need fresh things to wear. I’ll help you get them. Where do you keep your underclothes?”
Lucky supposed it wasn’t too much more embarrassing having an old woman he’d never met before pawing through his “loinies,” as he called the strange underpants of the Sunlands, than it was to have her talking about them, so he pointed to the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe in the corner.
“You got shoes, kiddo?” Henry asked.
“Oh,” Lucky said. “Yeah, sandals.” He started to get up from where he’d sat down in the chair by the window to get them, but Henry had spotted them side by side near the door. He brought them over and actually knelt in front of Lucky to put them on his feet. Lucky opened his mouth to protest, I can do that, but what actually came out was “Henry, I’m so glad you’re here!”
Henry glanced up with his familiar, sorely missed, easy smile, and Lucky lost control. He leaned forward and grabbed the tall man in one of the mightiest hugs he’d probably ever given. Henry’s large-ish, slightly hooked nose met Lucky’s collarbone with a small crunch, and Henry jerked back, holding his nose.
“Oh crap! I’m so sorry!”
Lucky’s mortification added a new layer to the nausea he was still struggling with, but Henry shook his head—still holding his nose but laughing.
“No worries, Lucky,” he said. “I’ll consider it payback for the time on the Harley when I dodged the grasshopper and it hit you in the eye.” He chuckled again, and then he dropped his hand from his nose, and his smile faded to a small and serious one. “And I’m glad I’m here too, kiddo. It’s really good to see you. I worried about you—looked for you—after Hank died and you ran off. You’re very good at hiding, it seems. I never saw you again until that day—” He shook his head as if still disbelieving of what he’d seen in Black Creek Ravine last summer. “—you know, with the tower and the… all of it. And now, here we are. Who would have thought, am I right? But listen, let’s try that hug again, shall we, and then we’ll get you out of this room. It smells bad.”
Lucky thoroughly enjoyed the hug redo—it even seemed to settle his stomach a bit—but his thoughts took a detour while it was happening. He remembered a moment from his recent adventures. He, Zhevi, and Han had taken shelter from a blizzard under a tree so massive, he’d at first thought the trunk was a wall. Zhevi’d gone to sleep, but Lucky and Han drank hot coffee and had a talk, leaning their backs against the trunk. Lucky had told Han about the serious crushing he’d been doing for Zhevi, and the jealousy that hit him when he realized it was L’Aria who Zhevi thought about that way.
“Let things unfold the way they will,” Han had said, “and if Zhevi finds love with someone else, try to be happy for him. And don’t, whatever you do, pine for a love you know will never be yours for a couple hundred years.”
“You and Thurlock?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Are you still pining for him?”
“No, not at all, wonder of wonders. Now I’m pining for someone I’ll never see again.”
Henry had been the one Han was talking about, and now he was here. It was a happy thought—the idea of his amazing uncle finding love with his fabulous friend poked through the still-hovering shadows in his mind and let in a little more light.
Clothes collected and shoes on, Lucky called Maizie to his side and followed Olana and Henry out of his room, but just before he closed the door behind him, he ducked back in. He took a garment made of worn white cotton dotted with boring little blue emblems from a shelf at the top of the wardrobe, rolled it up quickly and tucked it under one arm. Back at the
door, Henry and Olana were looking questions at him.
“What?” Lucky said. “Thurlock’s pajamas. Maybe if I’d been wearing them….” He left the thought unfinished and once again stepped out the door.
A few steps down the hall, he stopped, turned, and went back into his chamber once more. He wasn’t sure at first what he wanted, but as soon as he saw light glinting off the mirror hanging on the wall, he knew that was it. It had showed him the truth about his mother, he remembered that much. Truth was a valuable commodity. He took it off the wall, wrapped the wizard’s PJs around it, and headed back out of the room with it held securely against his chest. He was feeling much better already, and he harbored no doubt at all that once he was safe in the wizard’s tower, everything would truly be fine.
He led Olana and Henry to the tower, thinking neither of them probably knew where it was. Of course, it would be hard to miss, as it was the only thing that could be honestly called a tower in the entire Sisterhold community, barring only a sort of belfry atop one wing of the manor house. Still….
He felt strangely eager on the way, as though he was going home after a long absence. And even though the tower had been home to Lucky for less than a week in another world, when he once again stepped past the wizard’s threshold, he almost wanted to shout, Home at last! He didn’t, but he did head straight for the stairwell, only remembering his manners at the last minute and telling Henry and Olana to make themselves comfortable. “I’ll be right back. I just want to see my room.”
He stood in the doorway for a moment, his hand resting on Maizie’s head, happy she was with him. There it all was—his room. The bed with its patchwork quilt. The maple outside the window making patterns out of late summer sunlight and an evening breeze. How was it he’d forgotten about this room? When he’d first come to Ethra with the wizard, he’d stayed in the room in the manor house, which had always felt more like a guest room than something that he belonged to—that belonged to him. If he’d stayed here at Thurlock’s instead, maybe he wouldn’t have gone all crazy and started thinking people didn’t love him, and he would have stayed put instead of wandering all over the countryside getting in one kind of trouble after another.