Sighing, he sharpened his nails, raking them on the stone floor. It felt too cold in the cavern, too dark. A few patches of luminescent moss provided the only light. He peered into the hearth where a draxis bush stood and focused his thoughts there, until he had coaxed from the bush a burst of flames tinted with amber and ruby. The flames pleased him; they were the colors of distant suns.
It was only after he had stared at it for a time that the dragon understood his desire for the flame. A memory flashed through his mind: three small figures pacing before just such a fire, in this very spot. The rigger Jael, with her friends Ar and Ed, had visited this cavern one eventful night, far too long ago.
Jael. Human, rigger, friend. It was his father who had first befriended her. Highwing had recognized in a frightened young rigger the possible fulfillment of the Words—barely remembered by most male dragons, but held at the very heart's center of the song and history of the draconae. "From beyond life will come one . . . without friend will come one . . . and surely the realm shall tremble." Jael, an outsider, had accepted Highwing's friendship; and soon thereafter, the silent corruption of Tar-skel had erupted into an open reign of terror. In punishment for trusting an outsider, Highwing was sentenced to exile and death in the static realm.
It was on the morning following the night in this cavern—the night when Jael had questioned a reluctant Windrush until he thought he would go mad, questioned him until he changed his mind and agreed to challenge the darkness—that they had flown together to the Black Peak to save Highwing. It stirred his blood to remember it—the trumpeting dragon cries, the fire and smoke, the flash of sorcery that hurled Highwing out of the realm with Jael in fast pursuit. And then . . . the anguish of waiting, fighting off Tar-skel's followers, until the riggers reappeared with the dying dragon. In the end, Windrush bore his great father on his own back, giving Highwing the precious moments he needed to die in triumph, with peace and dignity. . . .
The hearth fire danced before Windrush, throwing shadows about the cavern, shadows that jumped up to tower over him. Windrush gazed into the flames, mesmerized. He wished that the fire could help him unravel the knots of the day, or somehow transport him back to more fathomable times. He recalled the strange little parrot rigger, Ed, who had accompanied Jael—and he wished he could laugh at the memory. But laughter would not come to him, not from this fire. The flames danced bright and warm, but they seemed only to replay the puzzles of the day. What had it all meant: the demon, the vision? Even an iffling's explanation would seem clear compared to today's bewildering events.
He was scarcely aware that he was drifting in and out of sleep. It seemed as a dream to him when he first saw a small, silken-furred creature loping out of the cavern's shadows. The creature sat up on its hindquarters, peering up at him with huge, dark eyes. Windrush blinked, flexing his talons unconsciously as he tried to decide whether he was awake or asleep. "Iffling?"
"Dragon," whispered the iffling.
Windrush drew his thoughts together. "Did you hear me wish that you would come?"
The iffling blinked its dark eyes and shivered, its silvery fur rippling down its back. "We felt a need."
Windrush exhaled steam. "I hope you've come to explain the mysteries of the past day. Were they your doing?"
The being cocked its head. "My doing? Dragon, you would give us powers that are not ours. What is it that you wish to know?"
Windrush eyed the iffling. "You have to ask? I saw a vision tonight, a most disturbing vision. I hoped you would know where it came from. I also spoke with a demon who was once a rigger—and I wonder how I might gain its trust. Or should I? What can you tell me, iffling?"
The creature did not answer at once. It cocked its head the other way, its eyes half closed as though it were listening to some distant voice. It began to sway from side to side. It seemed to have forgotten the dragon's presence.
Suddenly it spoke, very softly. "I do not know all of the answers that you seek. But I can show you something. Follow me." It sprang toward the hearth and vanished into the air.
Puzzled, Windrush searched with his eyes, then probed with his thoughts down into the underrealm. He felt the quiver of an unfamiliar spell and was startled to discover that the underrealm surrounding the cavern had changed dramatically. A glow filled the cavern, penetrating into corners that had long lain in darkness. Where his own guardian spell had tightly closed the underweb against intruders, he now saw a doorway out of his cavern, leading to a place of sunshine. Sitting in the doorway, silhouetted in the sunlight, was the kuutekka, or spirit-presence, of the iffling. Behind the iffling was a vast green meadow. What is this? Windrush whispered, amazed.
The iffling's answer came soundlessly. It is our memory of the place where the Dream Mountain stood before the Enemy stole it away. I know your question—but we cannot tell you where the draconae have gone, or even if they have truly moved at all. The Enemy obscures our sight of that place, and makes the way impossible to find. But . . . there may be other ways to find it.
Windrush muttered, If there were a way in the outer world, I would have found it by now! If you know some other way, I would be grateful if you told me! He narrowed his undersight, trying to see more clearly the meadow beyond the doorway. He thought he heard faint singing, draconae singing. It felt more like a memory than an actual sound.
The iffling flickered in the sunlight. Dragon, I am sharing with you our own vision, our memory, as clearly as I can. Unfortunately this is not a doorway through which you can pass.
Windrush scowled. If you can, why not I?
Dragon, my undersight is not your undersight. I walk where you cannot; and where you go with strength and pride, I may go with great peril.
The creature paused. You must find your own way. Not on wing, but in the underrealm. But take comfort in what I have come to say: You have more friends than you know.
Windrush stared at the iffling, puzzled by its words. He recalled the lumenis vision, in which the realm had been lost to the Enemy. Who had created that vision? Was it a warning from the ifflings? A warning to act quickly?
You say I must search the underrealm, he replied at last. I doubt that my skills are sufficient to the need.
Windrush, your skills are the greatest of any dragon flying free in the realm today. And tonight, when you ate the lumenis, your skills grew.
Windrush blinked. If you mean the vision . . . will you explain it to me?
It was not from us, but from another. Know this: there is one who is trying to help. You must seek in the windows he has left you here. Find him, before it is too late! Start tonight! With those words, the iffling suddenly turned and bounded through the doorway and was gone. The doorway vanished as well.
Windrush stared after the being, blinking in bewilderment at its parting words. What exactly did it want him to do? As he peered again about his cavern, his bewilderment grew. His haven was a changed place. There were openings in the weave of the underrealm, passages out of his cavern that did not exist in the outer world, that had not existed here before. Someone had cleverly penetrated his protective spells—someone who knew his mind and his thoughts. This was truly rakhandroh—astonishing, and most unnerving.
The passages were dark; he could not guess where they led, or what lay beyond them. But he sensed that they were windows onto other places in the underrealm. Rakhandroh! He caught hints of smells from them: salt and tree, sulfur and fire, wind and dust. As he sat and studied this puzzle, he came to realize that the passages might open further in response to his active touch.
After a long hesitation, he stretched out his thought to one dark passage. With a shimmer, the weave in the underrealm became an open window. Peering through it he glimpsed a barren land, a sun low and red in its sky. It looked remote, and oppressively empty and desolate. He pulled back, uncertain what sort of spell this was. Could his thoughts, his kuutekka, actually come and go through these windows? It darkened as he drew away.
He touched the next on
e with his thought. It opened to a view from a great aerie, high over a woodland. Yellow sunlight glinted from the tops of the trees, and shone from within the forest. He smelled a distant ocean, mingled with the forest smell. It was not a place he recognized. Most strange. He let the window close.
The next opened onto darkness, a subterranean gloom lit by a red flicker of distant fire, volcanic fire. He could not see much, but he sensed a labyrinth of underground passageways. He smelled sulfur; he sensed, though at a great distance, the presence of the enemy. He pulled back with a shudder and made certain that the window drew itself tightly closed again.
The fourth window opened onto darkness, also. But it was a kind of darkness he understood; it was the natural gloom of the underrealm. He could see connecting threads rippling outward, twisting and joining and stretching off in various directions. He was surprised by the clarity of the view. One thread seemed particularly bright and promising, and he thought he heard a faint tinkle of laughter from it. He sniffed cautiously—and thought he caught the smell of a demon-spirit. He was startled to realize that he recognized the smell. Start tonight, the iffling had said. Find your way in the underrealm.
Sighing, he stretched his kuutekka cautiously outward through the window, into the underrealm beyond his cavern. His thoughts ranged down the thread, searching and testing every knot he encountered, taking note of each change in direction. The laughter grew louder, but came to sound more like crying than laughter. In time, there was a faint yellow glow ahead, and the demon smell became stronger. Windrush sniffed the underrealm for treachery. He heard a faint metallic jangle of protection spells, but easily swept them aside. A moment later, a lazily dancing figure of light came into view. When he had last seen it, it had been a figure of shadow-fire, but there was no mistaking who it was.
Hodakai, he called.
There was no answer. The figure seemed to be stretching its arms and turning about, as though pretending to be soaring—diving and banking and climbing. He was muttering words that Windrush couldn't understand. ". . . Vela Oasis off the port bow . . . let's take her straight on through, and leave the spiral arm behind . . ."
Hodakai! Windrush shouted.
Gaaahhh! cried the demon, jumping and twisting around. Who's there?
The dragon hesitated. Surely Hodakai should have been able to see him—unless he was not manifesting his kuutekka visibly here. Do you not recognize the presence of a dragon? he inquired.
Dragon—it's you! Yes—of course I do! Hodakai gulped. I was just—ahhh, testing your honesty!
Ah, said Windrush. That is a good thing to do . . . Hodakai. He repeated the demon's name deliberately—not that there was any real power in doing so. The demon, after all, had not given his name, and it was the willingness to be known that gave a name actual power. But there was no harm in reminding the spirit of how much he knew.
Hodakai seemed a little unnerved. If you wish me to judge your honesty favorably, he grumbled, perhaps you wouldn't mind showing yourself.
Windrush wasn't sure why he was invisible, but he didn't want to say that. He cleared his throat. Considering your treatment of me when we last spoke, wouldn't you say—?
The spirit twisted in space. You come here interrupting my peace with your sorcery, and now you wish to discuss old grievances? Let me tell you—!
I did NOT come to discuss old grievances! Windrush snapped, cutting him off.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Windrush didn't want Hodakai to regard him as a foe, if he could help it. However much the rigger-spirit hated the dragons who had captured him, it was Windrush's impression that Hodakai was not a committed ally of Tar-skel. Perhaps, he rumbled, we can agree that your little trick on me was very clever, if not very hospitable.
The figure of light danced, bending toward him. So why have you returned to hide in the shadows harassing me?
Windrush sighed, allowing his breath to escape in a plume that materialized before him in the underweb. The spirit pulled back, growling, Don't try sorcery on me, dragon!
I am not using sorcery on you, Windrush said in irritation. He didn't remember the rigger being so jumpy the last time they'd met. But if the plume of steam had become visible with his unconscious thought, then perhaps he could materialize an image of himself, as well. He recalled his own face as it appeared to him in the surface of a still pool. He felt his kuutekka become solid, a craggy, silver-scaled head with faceted green eyes, glowing nostrils, and enormous jaws. There, he said. Is that nonthreatening enough?
Hodakai twitched and danced wordlessly.
Can you see me all right now?
Is that supposed to be funny? Hodakai snapped.
I would not presume to attempt humor with you, one called Hodakai. From your reaction, I will assume that you can see me.
Okay, I can see you. Why are you here?
I have come . . . Windrush paused and thought a moment . . . to ask whether you are in service to the one who is called Nail of Strength.
Hodakai snorted. It sounded like a flame sputtering in the wind. I am in service to no one.
But you are held captive by those who are in service to the Nail of Strength.
I am the captive of dragons! Hodakai screamed. Don't talk to me of the Nail of Strength! I am imprisoned by dragons! It was DRAGONS that took my body from me!
But—Windrush pointed out—dragons in service to the Enemy, not to the realm.
It took a moment for Hodakai to calm down enough to reply. So you say. I only know that those who imprison or threaten me are my enemies.
Including me, I suppose!
What have you done to make me think otherwise?
Windrush thought about that for a moment. He supposed what the spirit meant was that he hadn't set it free. But in truth, he doubted that he could break the spell of the spirit jar even if he wanted to—and if he could, it would only end the spirit's miserable life. Was that what Hodakai wanted? I have learned your name, and not used it against you, Windrush pointed out.
You took my name. I never offered it, nor did you offer me yours.
That was true enough. It had briefly occurred to him to offer his name, but he had no reason to expect Hodakai to respond in friendship. Still, something made him feel that Hodakai might be turned to the cause of the realm. He needed to offer some gesture of peace.
He cleared his throat. I'll not deny your words, spirit. But remember—whatever the harm done you, it was done by those who are my enemies, as well. If you would strike back at your captors, you could do so by joining those who stand with me. You would not be the first . . . rigger . . . to do so.
The spirit's flame turned reddish orange. Help you? You're mad, dragon! Can you give me my body back? Do you think I don't know what you want? You search for your precious Dream Mountain, and you think when you have it you'll cast me aside. But you'll have no help from me! Not for you or your kind! Now, go away and leave me to my peace!
Is there nothing that would change your mind?
Nothing, dragon. Go away!
Windrush stared at the spirit, his weariness returning. He was wasting time here. Hodakai was too bitter. And yet, he was sure that Hodakai could help them if he chose to. Very well. But perhaps, Hodakai, we will speak again.
The spirit flickered toward him, as though to issue a lashing retort. But its voice sounded almost wistful. Perhaps, dragon. I do not foretell the future. Now, good night.
Windrush nodded. Hodakai, and then Windrush's own image, vanished as he drew away through the underrealm.
* * *
In the darkness of his cavern, Windrush gathered his thoughts. Surely he had done enough today! But he knew he would not be able to rest. Three other windows beckoned. And he remembered the urgency of the iffling.
He chose the window that had opened onto a barren wilderness. Something there seemed to call to him, something beneath his conscious awareness. Drawing a deep breath, he slipped his kuutekka through that window.
He tasted aridness
. Hot wind sighed over stone. Heat clamped around him like a mantle, and he felt the grit of dust and the hardness of rock beneath him. A sun was low and smoky red in the sky. He was in the underrealm, but it felt like the outer world, though a place unfamiliar to him. What had called him to this forsaken place? He stretched out his senses for any track of friend or foe, any sign of magic or sorcery. He felt nothing.
He moved cautiously through the broken landscape, shards of a land that felt as if it had once harbored life and abundance. Was this another place that had been ruined by the Enemy? Or was it simply a land where life had been spent and time had moved on? It was impossible to tell.
He chose no particular direction, but allowed the land to lead him on. It was a place of tumbled and carved stone, a maze of ravines that even a tracker-dragon would find confusing. And yet, he felt that he might find treasure in this maze, if he followed the feelings that were coursing in his veins—as he had followed the urge that led to the lumenis vision.
He caught a hint of a memory-smell, the faintest whiff on the air. Was it the beginning of a track? Perhaps. For some reason, he found himself imagining Highwing whispering silently to him from the Final Dream Mountain, urging him onward. He shook his head. There was too much peril here to be dreaming of those who had fallen before him.
The landscape deepened and began to seem like a terrain of thought, runneled and carved, not by wind and water, but by years of pain. Once, he thought he heard angry laughter echoing over the tops of the ravines. It faded, but later he thought he heard music, the music of the draconae, and this time he was sure that it was an echo from long ago, somehow carried on the wind. That too faded. Other whispering sounds of memory seemed to rise and fall, never quite catching hold in his thoughts. He began to feel that he was creeping along beneath the winds of the past, the winds of time.
A little later, those winds brought him something new—a presence that felt, somehow, familiar. It made him think again of Highwing. Since his father's death, he had often thought that he'd felt his father's spirit with him, encouraging him in the struggle. And yet this was different: it was as though his father, or someone who reminded him of his father, were actually nearby.
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