Shadowing the unsuspecting iffling-children, they learned the skills of movement with their bodies of light, and they dreamed of the new bodies into which they might transform themselves when the need arose. Skating on space and time, they followed the iffling-children, moving toward a world that floated blue and innocent against the eternal night.
* * *
It was sometime during the night—he was not sure precisely when—that Windrush stirred in his sleep and felt a presence close by. He opened one eye, without lifting his mind from the dreamland of sleep.
It came as a flame this time, and it flickered, as though in weariness. It danced with a sence of urgency that caused him to awaken enough to speak. "Iffling?" he whispered.
Dragon. It has been done, all that we can do. She will come, or not. We can only hope, and trust. The iffling's flame dimmed, then flickered a little stronger.
Windrush regarded the being in silence. "Will you not tell me what you have done?" he murmured finally. "Will you not tell me, so that I may hope?"
There was an almost imperceptible sound, a mournful sound. The iffling shimmered, trying to become a soft, sleek animal; but it was unable to hold the form. As a flame, it whispered, Messengers have been sent—at great cost, dragon. If they succeed, value their work well! Much has been sacrificed that they might do so. And much will yet be sacrificed—and by none more than by your friend Jael.
Windrush peered at the iffling, uncertain how to respond.
Do you not know the Words? the iffling asked, sensing his uncertainty. "The One will fall as the battle is fought; upon her death is the ending wrought." Do you not know these words? The iffling dimmed with the question.
Windrush stared at the iffling, dumb with horror. If he had heard those Words, he had long ago forgotten them. Had he called for his friend to come to their aid, only that she might die? For an instant, as he stared at the iffling flame, he felt its spirit touch his with something like understanding, as though it were a dragon and their gazes had met. He felt in the iffling a fathomless loss, and low keening grief, and a terrible fear for its own kind. And yet, beneath all that, deep within the well of its soul, he glimpsed a ray of hope.
If the iffling could have hope, he thought, then so too could he. The dragon drew a breath and the connection was broken. He said very softly, "For the dragons, I thank you. Go and rest, as will I. Iffling, farewell."
Farewell, Windrush. The iffling darkened and was gone.
Windrush stared into the emptiness of the cavern where the creature had been, and despite his words, he knew he would have no more rest this night.
PART TWO
THE RIGGERS
Prologue
IT WAS a memory that sparkled with life in the deeps of the mountain. The refrains rang like chimes as the draconae sang the ancient memories, keeping them strong and intact. It was a memory of days long departed, of a time before their imprisonment. Without such memories, the draconae would surely have withered and died. The crafting of the images was their only remaining defense against the Enemy's sorceries, against the darkness that sought to control this place of power; and so the draconae sang the memories ceaselessly, preserving that which was beautiful and good in the history of the realm.
At this moment, a handful of draconae were gathered near the fire at the heart of the mountain. They sang in a soft choir:
Suns sunk low, moons risen high,
The joining ones spiral in a deepening sky
Creating fronds of living pearl,
Living glass where dreams may swirl,
In a barren vale where life ebbed low
Until the mountain's breath might blow . . .
As the draconae sang, motionless except for the quivering of their wings of glass, the image formed like a perfect crystal in the air:
Two dragons in flight—the dracona Clearsong, her wings shining of amber and sapphire and her eyes of golden flame, and her mate FlareTip, a male of pewter scales and red-tipped wings. The memory caught them over a vale of stone and parched earth, under a sky of brooding twilight. They sang and flew, surveying the vale that was soon to be transformed.
Their flight was a dance, their song a throaty hum. Their voices floated in the wind, and the wind flowed over their wings, as they banked and soared in unison. Their eyes shone golden and crimson, and their gazes joined as they flew, not touching and yet spiraling downward as one into the vale. It was a dance of weaving, a crafting-dance upon the currents of the air, but reaching down into the underrealm, as well—a spinning of threads of power.
Below them, the land was changing.
Light glimmered through cracks in the rocks, a light that seemed to seep out as though a sun lay deep within the rock of the vale. It was the light of the Dream Mountain, streaming out of the underrealm. The dragons were creating, and yet not by their own power. Wielding the power of the mountain, coaxed here through the underrealm, they were weaving the threads that would nurture a new creation.
The cracks in the rock widened and the light blossomed. It grew in richness and color as it touched the barren rocks, splintering into hues of crimson and gold and emerald and amethyst. Everywhere, it blurred the angularity of the surfaces, until shape itself slowly disappeared in the radiance. Splinters of color burst into flame here, and pulsing beads of light there. As the crafting grew, the light billowed upward until even the air overhead seemed shot through with living flame.
The dragons blew their own fire in joyful chorus. Even in flight, they stroked at the threads of the underrealm. They spun and wove, dancing in midair, wingtip-to-wing-tip; and beneath them flowers and shrubs and lantern-trees emerged in the bathing light.
When it was done, the light faded away as quickly as it had come.
The dragons circled over the new garden and landed. The light was receding into the rock; but it left behind a treasure trove of living color, plantlife sparkling and blushing. Even the rock seemed alive, charged by the radiance of the underrealm.
The two dragons furled their wings and surveyed the crafting. They found stout trees glimmering with fire-crystal, and translucent broadleafed bushes, and lantern-trees with slender arching branches tipped with the very first ruby-colored lanterns. Here were tiny spikes of lumenis, and there shrubs made of gossamer, twinkling with starlight. It was indeed a garden, truly garkkondoh, fully dragon, and alive with magic—a perfect place for their hearts to dwell, a place to bring the fledglings soon to hatch in the Dream Mountain. . . .
And so created
A garden of light
A thing of life
A gathering of stars
Against the night . . .
whispered the draconae choir, as the image grew still and garkkondoh, as it etched itself clear and shining in the memory of those who tended the Dream Mountain. Clearsong and FlareTip were long gone from the outer world now—their spirits lofted in death to the soulfires of the Final Dream Mountain—but their song and their creation would never be gone.
Not as long as the draconae sang their creation and kept the memory alive. Not as long as they denied the Enemy what he most wanted: power over their hearts and minds and souls. Not as long as they remained faithful in their wielding of the Dream Mountain, whatever the cost might be, now and forever.
Chapter 9
Tales Retold
IN THE spaceport bar, the spectacle of a drunken ex-rigger proclaiming his duel with dragons was watched by a young woman seated as far from the shouting and jeering as one could be in the confines of the tavern. Jael LeBrae rose from her seat—astonished, delighted, dismayed—unable to speak, and scarcely able to breathe. Could she have just heard what she thought she'd heard?
"—hope his dragons hold their ale better than he does—"
"—think one of your dragons just peed on me—"
She craned her neck to get a better look, but there were too many people standing between her and the speakers at the bar. At her table, the young man she'd been talking to was waving
, trying to recapture her attention. She squeezed out from her seat, past two other crowded tables. Damn, she thought. She hated these crowded bars; she didn't know why she even came to them. Don't let that man get away!
"—you okay?" she heard the young rigger shout after her.
She glanced back. "Excuse me—I have to go!" At that moment a space opened up and she pushed her way through the crowd, determined to reach that drunken man who had just been spouting nonsense to the whole room, nonsense about a world of dragons, a world that he claimed was as real as this one.
The bar crowd seemed to have swallowed him up. By the time she reached the spot where he'd been, he was gone, and the people were laughing and jeering about something else altogether. Only a puddle of beer where the man had fallen remained as evidence of the commotion he had created, and already a janitor was clicking and whirring its way through the crowd, coming to clean up the spill. Jael rose up on her tiptoes and looked around to try to see where he had gone. An elbow caught her in the side and she smacked it away in annoyance. "Scuse me," someone grunted irritably.
Jael started to snap a reply, then shook off the impulse and instead asked a blue-tinted fellow whom she thought she'd seen near the storyteller, "Do you know where that guy went?"
The blue rigger peered at her over the top of his glass. "Who?"
"The guy who was telling the story. Just now."
Blue took a swallow before lowering his glass. "Rangoon? They tossed him out the back door. Why?" He looked her up and down appraisingly.
Jael stretched up on her tiptoes again, trying to see over the crowd. "Where's the back way?" she demanded, ignoring his expression. Blue hooked a thumb over his shoulder, past the end of the bar.
Jael squeezed urgently through the crowd. She passed a doorway to a smoky hallucinogen room, then found the rear exit behind a knotted group of bar patrons. Shoving past them, she stepped outside into the warm night air.
The back door opened onto an alley, which was lit with a shadowy twilight glow. Jael peered left down the alley, then right. She heard someone grumbling, and thought she heard the words, "From that one comes a beginning . . ."
Her heart raced. Where was that voice coming from?
The voice continued, more forcefully, "From that one comes an ending. And you can bet your ass the realm will tremble!" Then the voice broke into what sounded like tears.
At last she caught sight of a tall figure picking himself up out of the shadows close to the building. He staggered down the alley away from her. She ran after him, out onto the main street. "Wait! Hey, excuse me—!"
The man turned, peering back at her through half-lidded eyes. "Huh? D'I know you?" His brow was furrowed, and his long hair fell across his eyes. He drew himself upright in an attempt to display some dignity, but the effort failed as he staggered sideways.
"My name is Jael," she said breathlessly. "I heard you back there. Your story—"
He pressed his lips together angrily. "Now, what story would that be?"
"About the dragons."
His laugh was harsh and bitter as he rubbed his scraped elbows. "I don' know nothin' about no dragons! Now, leave me alone." He hiccuped and started to turn away.
"Rangoon—wait!" Jael cried.
The man drew himself up with a great effort. "My name," he said, with great deliberation, "is Kan-Kon."
She blushed. "I'm sorry—someone told me—" She cut herself off with a gesture of agitation. "Never mind that. I have to talk to you about the dragons!"
"I told you." Kan-Kon shook his head vigorously. "Don' know nothin' about no dragons."
"That's not what you said back there."
"Ahhhhhh . . ." He snorted, shifting his gaze away. His face was illuminated by the strange twilight from the sky. It was spillover light from an orbiting farm sat, an array of mirrors reflecting sunlight onto some round-the-clock farmlands not far outside the city. He looked back. "That was just storytellin'. You can't go believin' what some old lush says in a bar, girl!"
Jael stared at him. "You said it. And you meant it."
His voice was harsh. "Now, how would you—"
"Because of this," she snapped. She mimicked his voice:
" 'From beyond hope will come one. Speaking her name will come one. And the realm shall . . . tremble.' " Her voice started to quaver as memories of another time, another world, rushed back to her. She forced herself to continue the familiar words of dragon prophecy. " 'From this one comes a beginning. From this one comes an ending. And surely—' "
"And surely the realm shall tremble!" Kan-Kon hissed. He squeezed his eyes shut and mouthed the words again, silently. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at her with an anguished gaze. "How do you know those words?" he whispered. "How do you know them?" He stared at Jael as if he were standing in the presence of a ghost.
How do I know those words? Jael's heart ached at the memory of those words, ached until she thought it would burst. It was two years since she had heard that prophecy spoken—and not a day had passed that she hadn't thought of the realm, of the dragon Highwing, of his sons. Of the struggle that she had left behind. And just lately, hardly a night had passed without new and disturbing dreams . . .
"Miss?" the man whispered. "Talk to me!"
She came back to the present with a start. She had accosted a drunkard. A drunkard who knew dragons. A drunkard who knew the prophecy. Never had she met another human who actually had set eyes upon the dragons, or would believe her if she said that she had. "The words?" she murmured, in a voice so low that the man leaned forward, his beery breath in her face as he cupped his ears to hear. "How do I know the words?" she repeated. She shook her head, full of cobwebs—then suddenly blurted, "What are you doing? Hey! Stop that! What are you doing?"
Kan-Kon had dropped to his knees, his head bowed. He was shaking, clutching her leg. As she struggled to pull away, she realized that he was weeping, sobs racking his body. "Oh, miss—miss!"
"What? What's wrong?" Her hand went out hesitantly, but she drew it back without touching him. She tried to tug her leg from his grasp.
"Don't be doing this to me!" Kan-Kon moaned. "Don't be lying to me!"
"I'm not lying to you! Stand up, will you? Will you let go of me? I'm not lying to you.!"
With painful slowness, Kan-Kon released her and sat back on his haunches, gazing up at her like a lost dog. Embarrassed for him, she gestured to him to stand up. With great clumsiness, he rose to his feet. His cheeks were streaked with tears, and his lips were trembling. "Have you . . . been there?" he whispered. "Have you? Is that where you . . . heard those words?"
Jael hesitated, then nodded dizzily. She'd told no one of her experience, had talked of it with no one except her Clendornan friend and shipmate Ar. And even Ar, though he'd gone through much of it with her, had put it behind him in a way that she'd found impossible. And now here was someone literally crying to hear her story. Someone who knew.
A drunkard, outside a bar.
No, she reminded herself—a rigger. Former rigger, anyway. He might be a drunkard, as well—but first he was a rigger. And she could well understand how someone who had been with dragons, and been unable to make anyone believe it, might turn to drink.
He was still waiting, his eyes imploring her to speak. "I—" she began, and choked on the words that would have followed. She didn't know what to say. Several people, walking by in the night, stared at them oddly. She couldn't just spill out the whole story in public. But as she hesitated, she could see the hope fading from Kan-Kon's eyes. She had to tell him. "I—I was there," she stammered, her voice rasping. "Twice. I know . . . the realm. I know what you heard. I made friends with a—with a—" With Highwing! Highwing, why did you have to die? She gulped. "With a dragon."
The man's eyes widened. "Made friends?" he croaked. "Made friends? They tried to kill me, they did! Tried to kill me! But the iff—the iff—" His voice caught, as he struggled to shape the word.
"Iffling," she sighed.
"Yes! Yes, the iffling!. That's what saved me. Talked 'em out of it. One of them, anyway. Said I wasn't 'the one.' " He gulped, as though remembering his relief. "Did you . . . did you meet . . . an iffling, too?"
Jael was dizzy with memories. "Yes," she whispered. It was an iffling who in the darkest hour of the night in Windrush's cavern had told her to go to Highwing, had told her of his impending sentence of exile, had urged her to try to save him. And even before that, when she'd first met Highwing, it was an iffling who had appeared to Highwing and urged him to accept her, and not to kill her.
"Oh jeez . . . oh jeez!" Kan-Kon wept again. It took him a few moments, gasping, to compose himself enough to say anything more. Finally he caught her arm and gazed straight at her and said, "Please, you must tell me of these things. You must come with me and tell me!" He began to propel her down the street.
"Wait!" she protested.
"No, please—you must!" His strength was astonishing, considering how much trouble he had in just standing. He would have none of her protests, and she wondered frantically if she would have to scream to avoid being forcibly abducted.
But he apparently had no such thing in mind. He steered her to a bench on the edge of a small park, set back a little from pedestrian traffic on the street. He begged her to sit with him. She hesitated—but the park was well-enough lit by farmsat light spilling down through the trees, and his only interest seemed to be in hearing her story.
"Well, I—" She sighed, and thought of her agreement with Ar that they would not discuss the dragons with outsiders. This was different, she thought. They hadn't imagined actually meeting someone else who had encountered the dragons. She tried again. "I first flew into dragon space against the wishes of my ship's captain. But that's really . . . another story." A terrifying story: of an abusive shipowner who had tried to enslave her psychologically, and failing that, to physically dominate and rape her. She had killed him in self-defense—ejected him from an airlock into the Flux of interstellar space.
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