Dragon Space

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Urrrrrawk! muttered the parrot, from another fragment of the net. He looked crumpled and discouraged.

  Ed—do you have any ideas? Any at all?

  The parrot rustled listlessly, with a flutter of scarlet and green. Ar imagined he could hear the bird's thoughts grinding like a spinning wheel, trying to generate hope. But in this case, Ed seemed to have no answer, and no hope.

  * * *

  Jarvorus listened, entranced by Jael's story.

  . . . I didn't think we could hold Highwing in the air, he was so weak from almost falling into that sun—but Windrush took the weight and slowed him—and gave him a chance to fly one last time, and speak to us before he died. And when he died, he seemed to be rejoicing, Hodakai! He was back in his own realm, among his own people! He turned to blazing glass in the sun, and vanished, and his voice was like a chime, laughter on the air. . . .

  Jarvorus wept at the end, moved by the unexpected beauty of her tale, and stunned by the emotion it stirred in him. He'd not intended to listen; in fact, he'd been on the verge of leaving to report to his master. But he'd been drawn back by her words, by the power of her memory. He'd found himself touching her thoughts again, not to control them but to marvel at her daring, risking her life to save her friend. Jarvorus felt her joy in the rescue, and the grief that followed as her friend passed from the realm.

  Jarvorus was astonished and overwhelmed by this notion of friendship, by the willingness to raise friendship over self. He knew, even as he reacted to it, that he should not be moved by this, that it had nothing to do with his mission; and yet, he found its power irresistible. He felt drawn to her story and her feelings as a cavern sprite to an upwelling of warm, nourishing heat from the underrealm. It was irrational; it was foolish; it contradicted the training of his master. And Jael, he reminded himself, was his prisoner. But what, in his training by Rent, had prepared him for emotions of such power?

  He had told himself that by listening to her story, he could more clearly identify and excise that troubling knot of sympathy that had grown in him for her. But instead, he found himself saddened and moved, and liking Jael, and even her friends. There were qualities about them that he was discovering he admired: compassion; mercy. Had he known those qualities before, in another time? He saw a few sprites floating about this Cavern of Spirits, and he felt a trembling knowledge that he had once been one of them . . .

  A hazy memory was surfacing from the dimly recollected past . . . of a fellow cavern sprite dying, when it put itself in the path of an underrealm snare, one of Master Rent's weavings, which was about to engulf several young sprites. At the time, Jarvorus hadn't thought much about it; if anything, he'd thought it a foolish thing to do. Now, though, he wondered.

  He started back from the memory, shaken a little. He thought perhaps he liked those sprites more than he liked the creatures made from them, the aggressive warrior-spirits hovering around under his own command. He even felt a grudging respect for the iffling, which in spite of everything, still remained hunkered in the shards of the rigger-net, trying to encourage Jael. It was a pity that they had to be adversaries. Rightly or wrongly, he felt a little ashamed for having caught Jael in this trap . . . even if his cause had been the right one.

  It didn't matter, of course. Nothing could change what he had done—or had yet to do. He'd bound and sealed the One, using the powers that Rent had bestowed upon him. His presence and attention were no longer needed to hold her; in fact, he couldn't free her now even if he wanted to. In a while, her purpose would be fulfilled. That was a destiny that couldn't be changed.

  But perhaps her understanding of it could be. Perhaps he could give her that much—as a gift—an understanding of what was to come. An understanding of the necessity, and the beauty.

  He moved closer, to speak with her again. He noted the two riggers that shared her net, and satisfied himself that they were well secured by the spell-weaving and could cause no difficulties. Then he slipped back into the rigger's thoughts.

  (Jael,) he whispered, (I perceive that you are troubled. But do you not understand your part in the struggle? If you could escape and join with the dragons, you could do no good! You could only endanger the greatest work of power in all the universe!)

  (What . . . ?) She sounded fatigued, and confused.

  Jarvorus spoke softly, aware of the Hodakai spirit watching Jael, and not wanting him to hear. He perceived that the grip of his persuasion spell on Hodakai had loosened, and he didn't want to involve Hodakai in this. He whispered to Jael, (Don't you know what is being made here? You are a part of it!)

  She seemed to be returning to alertness. (What . . . thing . . . being made?)

  The warrior-spirit hesitated. He wanted to share with her the vision he had been given by his master, but he wasn't sure how to do it. (Look,) he said, at last. (I will try to show you.) And he did something he had never tried before: he touched the net that surrounded her and wove an image there for her to see.

  Jael gasped in surprise.

  He slowly drew it into focus: a great web stretching across the sky, enveloping mountain and sky and space. (You saw this at the Pool of Visions, but there was no time then to explain it. This is the work of my masters. It is the greatest work of power since the beginning of creation! It will bring the realms together, all of the realms. And this is how it will grow.) He drew the web reaching deep into the darkness of the sky, penetrating the very stuff that formed the foundations of the sky, of other realms, of other universes. He showed it flashing with deep, violent power, reaching out to embrace Jael's own universe with its strength and its beauty.

  (NOOOOOOOO—!)

  (What? Jael—?)

  Her inner voice had failed, but she was shaking with grief—and rage, upwelling like a volcano. Her fear reverberated like a drum in the binding spell. He tried to draw the image clearer, but that just made her cry out again, softly: (No . . . no . . . never! . . . I swear, never . . . !)

  Jarvorus could not comprehend her reaction. Why did this not move her to joy? She seemed appalled by the violent forces that flickered through the web, giving it strength—the strength of pain and death. She remembered the vision from the pool, of dragons dying in battle. And it was true: violent deaths would pass before the structure was complete. But wasn't that life—contests separating the strong from the weak? And even the weak were given their part: the intensity of their emotion, their despair and their shame, was woven into the very fiber of the work. Without the violence and the despair, none of the beauty was possible.

  (Never!) she whispered. (I will not be a part—!)

  (But there is no other way!)

  He realized, as he spoke, that the other riggers in the net were able to see the image, as well; and they were as frightened by it as Jael. What was wrong, that he could not persuade them of the beauty and the truth?

  (You have imprisoned me for THIS?) she cried, her thoughts aflame with anger and hatred. (For this abomination?)

  He fell back from her in dismay, stunned by her anger. He'd thought that she would see. (I have imprisoned you for what must be,) he whispered sadly. (And now that it is done, there really is no other way out for you.)

  No way out, he thought silently, as she wept inwardly. No way except death. You have been trapped by Rent's magic, and unless the Master himself frees you, nothing but death can release you from this prison. I grieve for you, Jael, my captive.

  The thought of the Master brought him back to the present with a start. It was time he reported back to Rent on his success. Gathering himself silently, and regretfully, he sank into the underrealm away from the Cavern of Spirits.

  * * *

  Once the false-iffling was gone, the true-iffling stirred from its hiding place. There were still servants of the Enemy around, but they appeared to be keeping watch from a distance. The iffling didn't know what, if anything, it could do. It could not release Jael; the weaving had solidified around her like rock-hard ice. Obviously, though the spell had been
triggered by the false-one, it was the work of someone far more powerful. That was hardly surprising; both the iffling and the false-one were servants of greater powers. But what was that uncertainty that the iffling had observed in the false-one, just before its departure? It almost looked like doubt.

  The false-one was gone now, probably to visit its master. But where, the true one wondered, were its masters, its iffling-parents? Was it alone in the world, alone in the realm? The iffling probed outward from the cavern, stretching its senses along certain layers of the underrealm where perhaps only ifflings could reach. It felt something . . . a distant glimmer of life. That touch sent a shiver of recognition through the iffling. Was someone out there? Someone who would recognize an iffling, and welcome it home?

  With the false-one gone, perhaps it was time to seek help—for Jael, and for itself. It had not dared to try earlier, both for fear of the false-one and for fear of losing Jael. But Jael was bound now, and would not be moving.

  The iffling gently touched the glowing surface of Jael's mind, and found her agitated and despairing. (Remember,) it whispered. (Remember. And keep hope. Always keep hope.)

  (How can I hope?) Jael cried back to it, perhaps recognizing it and perhaps not.

  The iffling probed helplessly at the sorcery that bound her—and found no weakness, no hope. But the false-one had leaked one thought, one possibility, one inkling of a way in which Jael's cry for freedom might be fulfilled. The iffling didn't dare voice the possibility; it was too drastic, too uncertain. But it might be the only way.

  To Jael, it said, (You must. The realm needs you.) And in afterthought, it added, (Your friend needs you. Windrush.) It was aware of Jael's sharp intake of breath, but there was nothing more that it could say. It drew apart from her.

  The sorcery could hold the riggers—but not the iffling. It was time. The iffling slipped out of the riggers' presence, slipped away down the long, rippling silence of the place where only its kind might tread . . . slipped away, whispering and crying for anyone who might know its voice, and answer in kind. For anyone who might help.

  Chapter 34

  Gathering Storm

  LUMENIS CRACKLED and exploded, raining light through the night sky. The dragons thundered, their fever for battle rising like boiling clouds of steam. Windrush watched from one end of the Valley of Fallen Light, as the last of the lumenis disappeared into the jaws of his fellow dragons. Like many of the others, he had not fed, and would not. Those dragons feeding now were the ones who had gone hungry the longest. He would feed in flight, as best he could, if there was any lumenis dust left in the air.

  Windrush had far more on his mind now than feeding. The challenge before them was so difficult, the odds so staggering, that he had to steel himself against a mood of desperation. He trusted his leaders to lead well; but when the battle came, they must all be driven by instinct and by fierce, blinding determination.

  By tomorrow, the dragon realm could be restored to freedom and majesty . . . or it could be gone.

  SearSky had bullied the younger warriors through dozens of mock duels, almost to the point of exhaustion, before Windrush had called for a rest. They had perhaps not rested enough, but SearSky had assured him that the warriors were braver now and more determined for his bullying. Farsight had organized all of the patrols into large attack groups. All the dragons were flying, even the wounded; there was nothing left to protect here. They would fly when the feeding was done. The Enemy, he assumed, knew very well how desperate their situation was; but Windrush hoped to surprise him with the sheer audacity of their attack. The dragons would be at their peak after the feeding; and if they were wild from the lumenis intoxication, perhaps that would make them fight all the more ferociously. He remembered how SearSky had fought in the Deep Caverns, and imagined an entire army of lumenis-drunk dragons fighting like that.

  Windrush thought of his cavern, which he might never see again, and of the iffling's last visit, and of the sweepers' tiny but valiant effort to point the way for him. He still didn't understand the meaning of that last underrealm window, but he knew this: whatever help he had hoped to receive from the ifflings he now had to put out of his mind. He could not delay the attack any longer. He could not spend any more time searching the underrealm. He wanted to hope that Jael, somehow, would have a role to play, but it was hard to see how. His search parties to the south had found nothing. If she was a captive of the Enemy, his only hope was that some unimagined magic might free her for the coming battle. It was a faint hope, indeed.

  Several dozen dragons thundered and hooted and blasted the air in front of him. Only tiny shards of lumenis remained on the ground, glinting in the starlight—seed for the future. The hungry dragons were snatching up even those fragments of seed.

  "Enough!" Windrush bellowed, launching himself into the air. "Leave the seed! Leave the seed! Gather now for flight!"

  Cries of protest reached his ears, but he had no time for it. Some of them would have to fight hungry. He would have to fight hungry. "ENOUGH!" he thundered. "Gather behind me! Prevail against the Enemy, and we'll have all the lumenis we desire!"

  A rumble of assent rose around him like the sound of an approaching storm, followed by the dragons themselves, orbiting around him, their cries echoing in a great roar. Windrush vented a flame into the air and cried, "Fly, now! Fly to the camp and gather the others! Fly!"

  Like a frenzied armada, the flight of dragons abandoned the Valley of Fallen Light and churned through the night sky to join the rest of the patrols, already waiting at the encampment. Those who had fed were bright with fire, and lusting for battle; the unfed flew just as fast, hardened by hunger and anger.

  As they passed over the encampment, Farsight rose to join them, followed by wave after wave of dragons, roaring and fuming, until it seemed that the sky could hold no more. Even Rockclaw came, and Windrush called out to him, "Are you ready to fly so far?" The gnarled dragon, pumping his wings, called back, "You lead, and I'll get there! Someone has to remember this properly for the next younglings!" Windrush chuckled, his spirits lifted despite his worries. "For the draconae!" he bellowed to the growing force.

  The responses echoed in the sky:

  "For the lumenis!"

  "For Treegrower and the egg!"

  "For the fallen!"

  "For the realm!"

  Soon, with over a hundred dragons circling in the air, several dozen more came in from the north and south, from the smaller camps. The night air was alight with the flicker of dragon flames, despite Windrush's warnings to save their fire for the fight.

  "TO BATTLE!" he thundered at last.

  "TO BATTLE! TO THE ENEMY!" came the answering cry, reverberating from the mountainsides.

  Windrush flew westward, climbing to crest the Scarred Mount Ridge. Following him were nearly two hundred dragons, their eyes afire with battle fever. Almost a hundred more had set out earlier under Stronghold and Longtouch, splitting far to the south and north to enter the Enemy's realm from flanking directions. Windrush's flight would not divide; they were crossing the Valley Between as one, and all going over the top of the Borderland Mountains together. It was a dangerous approach, and it would take them close to the Enemy's east camp; but Windrush hoped that the core of his flight would make it through to strike at the Enemy's heart in the Dark Vale, far to the west. What would happen then, only tomorrow would tell.

  Windrush's blood burned hotter as they flew; he burned with a growing lust to meet the Enemy and destroy him. High and fast the dragons flew, and if those who had not fed were laboring harder than those who had, it didn't show when Windrush glanced back. All he saw in the sky behind him was a night full of fiery, battle-hungry eyes. He nodded in approval and pounded the air harder than ever before.

  * * *

  The realm shall tremble

  when dragons assemble

  to strike out of fear,

  with hope nowhere near.

  The One comes,

  the end comes,


  and who shall prevail?

  Who knows where a friend

  Shall be found close and dear?

  The Words reverberated in FullSky's mind.

  His presence in the Dream Mountain was becoming more strained, as forces in the underrealm shifted about with growing turbulence. Powers were gathering everywhere. FullSky knew he could not remain here much longer. But surely his role had not yet ended! The draconae were busy strengthening their defenses against the Enemy's inevitable assault upon the dreamfires, upon the binding and creative force that sustained all the life in the realm. But what was he to do?

  With the draconae, FullSky had watched helplessly as the Enemy had stolen the power of the Deep Caverns; as he'd snatched the remaining lumenis—and the Grotto Garden, with Treegrower and the egg; as he'd captured Jael at the Pool of Visions. Now they watched as the dragons launched their desperate attack—an attack with no hope of success, against a foe who was now aware of every move that they made.

  The Enemy must have delighted in letting the draconae witness his victories. FullSky knew, as did the draconae, that their despair only fed the Enemy's dark sorcery; but being aware of it was not enough to save them from it. Jael's capture had discouraged them most of all. Even they, with their prophecy, hadn't expected her to fall to the Enemy before the final battle had even begun.

  It's not over yet, he'd told them. But his words had seemed hollow even to him.

  FullSky felt the underrealm quiver with the approach of battle, and he drew his kuutekka close about him. Even if his presence here went unnoticed by the Enemy, he had very little time left in which to do anything useful. His strength was already drawn thin. His body, imprisoned in the Dark Vale, was battered and tortured beyond healing; and while he could draw some strength here from the draconae's power, he could not be wholly divorced from the state of his physical body. He had never expected to emerge from this struggle alive. But as long as he still had some power to act, he was determined to make his presence count for something.