by Thomas Locke
“Your mate is hungrier than us,” Hyam replied. “Feed her.”
“My mate receives the first of everything. There are others in far worse condition.” The dragon inspected Hyam gravely, then scooped up the fish. The dripping wings extended to offer balance as it crossed the beach and entered the meadow.
Hyam followed at what he hoped was a respectful distance. The dragon set the fish by an inert form. He nudged the mound, which was only slightly smaller than the Alyss tower Hyam had scaled. When the animal did not respond, the dragon tore off a strip of flesh, nudged the mound once more, and chattered, “For the little one.”
The hillock shifted, a neck uncurled, and a skeletal head lifted, but only slightly. The skin had stretched so tight Hyam could see the bones shift as she replied weakly, “What does it matter?”
“Two lives are at stake,” the dragon urged. “You must eat.”
The female’s chatter was slow as a funeral march. “I depart today or tomorrow, and the one asleep in her egg will soon follow.”
“I do not bring just fish,” the dragon replied. “But hope.”
At this, several of the other mounds shifted. Weak-eyed behemoths studied Hyam and the male dragon. But none made a move toward the fish.
Hyam called, “I will bring food.”
The female’s eye was almost as tall as Hyam, palest yellow and very dim. “What can a puny mortal do for the likes of me, and for what purpose?”
Hyam heard her reluctance to return to the realm of life and of hope. So he replied at length, pausing now and then to translate for his company, who had now joined him in the meadow. “The Milantians called together an army of beasts known as golems.” There was no term in dragon speech for the monsters, so he used the human word. “Some are almost as large as you and eat constantly. The enemy then raised another army of the nonliving, in the human shape, but giants. They too ate.”
“They stole our fish,” the male dragon rumbled to Hyam, steam emerging with the words. “And our lives. For this is my race’s only breeding ground. One male comes to hunt for all those resting upon the nests. Our treaty governing this island holds this limit. One male to tend the mothers and eggs. Until this breeding season, there has never been need for more.”
“The Milantian monsters were bred for war, and while their masters prepared, the golems cleared the seas of fish,” Hyam said, casting his voice loud enough for all the nearby dragons to hear. “They used magic to sweep the ocean. But the Milantians have been defeated, and Alyss is home to nothing save dust and heat.”
“But the seas remain empty,” the nearest female replied.
“We will not bring you fish,” Hyam replied. “But sheep.”
There was a word in dragon speech for the wooly beasts. Hyam hoped this meant the animals would make a tasty meal. This was confirmed by how his news turned the male dragon entirely around. The movement revealed an ungainly awkwardness. The wings extended partway and he shifted like a beached cormorant, the body leaning heavily from side to side. When he was fully facing Hyam, he chattered, “Truly, this is so?”
“Hundreds of them. Spread the news. Tell your friends not to lose hope.” Hyam trotted toward the meadow’s perimeter, calling back, “Selim!”
“I come!”
49
Hyam walked to where a clutch of windswept pines formed a living canopy. They were angled against ocean storms that did not blow this day. Hyam’s shirt buttons were encrusted with salt and old grime and opened reluctantly. He drew out the chain, gripped the crystal pipe, and blew.
The shadows between the wizened trunks solidified and became a portal that opened into a tunnel of living green. Elven guards stepped out, saluted Hyam, and signaled him to wait. Moments later they were joined by Darwain and his queen.
The Elven ruler demanded, “What news?”
“Sire, the Milantian foes of Alyss have been vanquished. More than that must wait. How is Joelle?”
“She lives.” Darwain’s gaze widened as the dragon poked his head through the branches overhead. “Legends upon legends!”
“These are our allies, and they are dying,” Hyam said, pushing his own heartache aside. “And this too is the Milantians’ work.”
Darwain was nodding agreement before Hyam finished explaining. “This we can do. Who will speak to the shepherds of Olom?”
Hyam gestured to his friend. But Selim did not step forward. Hyam turned to discover him staring at the newcomers in genuine fear. He stepped back, gripped Selim’s arm, and said, “These are friends.”
Selim remained planted in the earth, rigid as iron.
Hyam explained to the Elves, “Majesty, this is Selim, merchant of Olom. His family was formerly traders of Alyss. He is the last of Ethrin’s line, and the man responsible for our having survived the yellow realm.”
Darwain offered a regal salute. “Then we welcome you as the ally you are.”
Selim did not move. “Forbidden,” he croaked. “Banished. Forsaken.”
“Already a thousand years of edicts have been demolished,” Darwain replied. “Swept away by the return of our foes.”
When Selim stayed where he was, Darwain’s wife stepped forward and offered Selim her hand. “Would you refuse a queen’s entreaty?”
Slowly, tearfully, Selim reached forward. “No, Majesty. I will not.”
“Welcome, Selim of Ethrin and Olom. I, queen of the hidden realm, invite you to enter your new home.”
Sheep spilled from the portal, a torrent of white wool and delicate hooves and frantic bleats. Far back along the green avenue, Fareed and Shona used their wands to spur the animals along.
Over a hundred dragons dotted the surrounding pastures. Many had needed to be supported, some managed to crawl over on their own. The first sheep to arrive were taken in one gulp. Most of the dragons rested now, observing in bemused contentment as the wooly animals continued to flood out, decorating the meadows.
Selim returned through the portal, surveyed the scene, and nervously cleared his throat. “I am required to raise an indelicate topic.”
“The shepherds and merchants of Olom want payment,” Hyam interpreted.
“I asked them to wait,” Selim said. “But their needs are great as well.”
“Give me the reckoning and I will—” Hyam stopped because the dragon demanded to know what concerned Selim. He explained, “My friend is asking for payment. I can arrange this through the Ashanta bankers. The Earl of Falmouth will also help.”
“There is no need.”
“The Milantians have harmed Selim’s city,” Hyam continued. “Not so severe as your clan, but bad enough. They need payment now.”
“They will be paid in full, and in gold, and by me,” the dragon replied. “Take hold of my right leg, and use the talons as support.”
Hyam doubtfully eyed the massive leg as the dragon extended his wings. “Can I not ride on your back?”
“Not without a harness, and there is no time to fashion one.”
Hyam stepped in close and gripped the leathery skin as he would a tree trunk. “I am ready. I think.”
“Hold fast!”
They did not journey far, which was good, as Hyam’s perch was not secure. The dragon flew in a series of rapid ascents and descents, as though he cast a new spell with every few beats of his wings. As a result, he flew like a snake swam, writhing through the air and almost losing his passenger a dozen times and more. When the dragon finally settled upon the island’s loftiest peak, Hyam staggered about on unsteady legs and said, “Perhaps I should walk back.”
The dragon coughed, or laughed, or both. Then, “Enter the cave behind you.”
The cave’s entrance was larger than Falmouth’s main gates, which was good, for the dragon lumbered along behind him. When his bulk blocked the sun, the dragon fashioned a mage-light. The way wound downward at a gentle slope and finally opened into a chamber so vast the ceiling was lost to the gloom.
The dragon’s chatter echoed off dista
nt walls. “One legend about our race is true enough. We have always been drawn to gold and gemstone. Why, I cannot say, for we do not spend, only hoard.”
The chamber opened into another that to Hyam appeared even larger, and then a third, and perhaps a fourth, but the distances were so great he could not be sure of anything save they were all filled with treasure.
On display were vast seas of gold and jewels. They lay in piles ten times Hyam’s height and spilled from chests scarred by coral and fire both. What appeared to be an entire bank vault lay gaping in the far corner, with gold bars spilling out its portal like a glowing tongue.
The dragon touched one chest bound by rusting iron bars and filled with coins milled in some ancient age. “Will this do?”
“It is twenty times too much,” Hyam replied. “Fifty.”
“Take it, take more. For all that you see here is yours.”
The unemotional drumbeat carried such finality, Hyam found himself unable to keep his sorrow in check. “I have failed my beloved.”
“Your quest has faced a setback, nothing more. And know this, human. The bonds between us are not ended simply because my own needs have been met. Whenever you require assistance, in whatever form, it is yours.”
Hyam cuffed away tears and said, “I do not know where to go, or if I have the strength to continue.”
“I and my kind will help in the search. As for strength . . .” The beast extended his wings fully, lifted his head, and roared flame and power. A pillar of fire rose and spilled across the distant ceiling, transforming the dragon into a beast of lore and majesty. “To know a dragon’s name is to bind him for life. But I am already bound to you.”
“And I to you,” Hyam managed.
“My name is Tragan, king of the northern reaches.” He blasted the chamber with fire a second time. “We dwell in the land of ice and storm at the earth’s pinnacle. Once in three of your brief generations, we return to our breeding ground. The island was granted to us by the same treaty that bound us to remain beyond the reach of man. Elf and Ashanta and Milantian all built their realms and forgot us in the process. In truth it pleased us to become mere legend and myth, for in our secret tongue, our race is called the Unknown.”
Hyam forced himself to focus beyond the ache that threatened to consume him, sure as the ceramic eye. “The queen of Lystra called you the covert one,” he recalled.
“Those witches hold to the old ways, but poorly. Their city’s secrets are known to the dark ones of their race, who threaten to expose and destroy them if they do not do their bidding. But they did not pass on news of your visit and our meeting, which is to their credit. Even so, you should not trust them unless you must. If you do, be prepared, for they will demand payment of a sort. In the case of our meeting, the witches demanded magic.”
Hyam pushed aside his grief. “There is much you can teach us.”
“Again, you need ask and it is yours. We are the last holders of the ancient ways. Some among us claim the Ancients came to us to learn spell casting.” He gave a ponderous shrug. “Some of my kind show an arrogance to match their size.”
Now that this chapter of his quest was coming to a close, Hyam felt overwhelmed by the misery of fatigue. But he did not want to respond to the dragon’s gift with sorrow, so he turned and pretended to survey the treasure. “So much wealth.”
“This is nothing. We males sent to feed the nesting mothers compete to see who can draw up the most gold from the Ancients’ cities, those now scattered about the ocean floor. Our northern lair would swallow this in one small corner. You must come and see for yourself.”
Hyam cuffed his eyes a second time. “I would like that.”
The dragon saw the motion and pointed with his giant head. “Atop that pile to your left is a golden vial. Bring it here.”
Hyam climbed the hill of treasure and returned with a king’s goblet, twice the size of his joined fists and topped by an ornate cap that was held in place with a pair of gold catches carved like swans. The goblet and cap were heavily engraved with a flowing script that Hyam did not recognize, and rimmed by rubies the size of acorns.
“Remove the cap and hold it aloft.” Tragan lowered his head such that one cheek grazed against Hyam’s hand. When he spoke, he exposed teeth the length of Hyam’s thigh. “The Ancients held us in high regard for one thing above all else. They claimed that a dragon’s tears healed all wounds. But I suspect it will not bring back your beloved, bondsman.”
“I understand,” Hyam said. And he did. For Joelle was not ill.
“Even so, perhaps it will sustain her.” He leaned closer still. “You will now behold a mystery that few have ever understood.”
“Why is that?”
“Because a dragon cannot cry.” Tragan tilted his head slightly so that the lower lid of one massive eye touched the cup’s rim. “Hold very still.”
Tragan blinked and released a drop of blood the size of Hyam’s hand. Again. A third time, and the cup was full.
50
The four Elves guarding the portal’s entry watched the dragon land. Hyam found the return journey as unsettling as the first. As he stood in the meadow and waited for strength to return to his legs, Tragan opened his jaws and deposited the chest of gold at his feet.
“It is a hundred times too much,” Hyam protested again. “You could buy most of Olom with that.”
The dragon turned his back on the Elves with their bows and spears. “You have a place of safekeeping?”
“With the Ashanta bankers,” Hyam said.
“Hold it for what comes next. Who knows what our quest will require.”
Hyam felt an uncommon urge to hug the dragon, which of course was absurd. “Our quest.”
“I must determine a means for you to contact me that will not break the treaty. I have no idea how. But I will find a way.”
He was struck by a thought. “Can you help free the ghostly army?”
“I am aware of your vow to assist your new allies.” The dragon extended one wing partway, a vague salute. “It speaks well of you, bondsman.”
Hyam had started to take his leave when Tragan began a series of motions that could only be described as awkward. He ducked and weaved his head and massive frame, almost like the nervous desert eagle.
“What is it?” Hyam asked.
“The elixir you hold—most likely it will not heal your mate.”
Which the dragon had already said up in the cave. “I do not hold you accountable for my failure.” Hyam lifted the covered goblet with both hands. “I thank you for this gift, as I do for the honor of knowing your name.”
“You misunderstand me, bondsman.” The dance grew more frenetic. “The gift of tears, they are intended to heal.”
Hyam froze.
“A dragon’s life cannot be counted in your years. Our memories are shared and thus stretch farther still. But never have I heard of a mage who burned away his magical abilities. Even so, I would call this a wound.”
“But if I . . . Joelle . . .”
“There is more than enough for you both. Give her a spoonful, take another for yourself. No more, lest you do harm with the unleashed potency. Hold the remainder in safekeeping.” The dragon’s tail whipped about, sending one of the trees crashing to earth. The Elves cried in protest, but it seemed that Tragan neither noticed nor heard. “Each tear is a vital portion of my life’s energy, bondsman. I will sleep now for several months of your time. My wife will give me her place upon the egg and she will tend to me as I have for her.”
The dragon started away, saying as he departed, “Never before has there been this shift, a male guardian of the island taking his place upon the unborn. Nor has a human ever set foot in our breeding ground. Nor a dragon risked breaking the treaty by entering the human realm through dreams. Nor has one of our kind shared tears with anyone save the Ancients. Or given one of your race our true name. So many components of our primeval ways have been broken. And yet I count myself fortunate to know you, b
ondsman, and to call you my friend.”
51
The Elves were still watching Tragan’s departure when Hyam asked, “Where is my company?”
The Elf who had accompanied Hyam into the Emporis battle replied, “The head mage of Falmouth, the one who summoned our king with fire and havoc . . .”
“Trace,” Hyam replied.
“That one summoned Meda, Alembord, and Fareed to a council gathering. Bayard ordered Shona to meet with her king.”
“And Selim?”
“He wished to show his mate that he had succeeded in the quest she set out for him.” The Elf shrugged. “He said you would understand.”
“I do indeed.”
“Selim also said he awaits your call to resume the quest.”
Hyam found it very good indeed to have such friends. He said, “Take me to my wife.”
The Elves had given Joelle her own palace. The haven was formed from a single tree. Living pillars covered an area larger than the Emporis citadel. The branches wove together into floors and ceilings and even a circular staircase that Hyam climbed to the balcony where Joelle lay. Two female attendants greeted Hyam with a sorrow that turned their greetings into a shared lament.
The healer was summoned, and he assured Hyam that Joelle took water and an occasional mouthful of soup, enough to sustain her. The Elf exclaimed over the goblet of dragon’s tears. He and Darwain and the Elven queen all fretted and argued over dosage and such, for none could say whether Hyam should use a dragon-sized spoon. Tragan had, after all, referred to the goblet as a vial.
When the moment finally came, Hyam found himself unable to administer the dose. So the queen knelt by Joelle’s side, dipped the spoon into the ruby liquid, and administered the dose herself.
When the liquid touched Joelle’s lips, she swallowed. Again. And then went still. The queen refilled the spoon and held it out. Four times she touched Joelle’s lips, but Hyam’s lady would take no more.
Finally the queen stood and said, “Now we wait.”
