“Well, I…I appreciate it,” said Jocelyn, finally. She cast around for something polite to say. “I’m sure you would make a good dragon father.”
Elddreki sighed, a faint smell of smoke leaking out from his recent flames. “Impossible, I am afraid,” he said heavily. He was still looking at her with uncomfortable intensity. “It is not good for me to become fond of you, Jocelyn. It is not good for me to see you as under my protection, as though we were family.”
“Why not?” asked Kincaid, sounding defensive. “If you ask me, I think that’s how you should have seen her from the moment you asked her to join your quest.”
Elddreki turned to the young man, his expression sad. “But I did not ask you, and I would not be likely to do so, being aware of how little you know of the matter.” He said the words matter-of-factly, without heat. “To answer your question, it is not good because Jocelyn will be dead and gone in the blink of my eye.”
Kincaid shifted slightly toward Jocelyn, the protective gesture seeming unconscious. “No she won’t,” he said firmly. “She’s not as frail as you think.”
Jocelyn looked at him, surprised and gratified, but she spoke to Elddreki. “I think I know what you mean,” she said kindly. “I was almost killed back there.” She shuddered as she remembered the arrow that had come so close to claiming her life. “And even if I live to be a hundred, it will be over quickly for you. I can understand why it would be painful to care too much about humans when you know you’re just going to watch them all die.”
Elddreki returned her gaze steadily. “Your words reveal your kind heart, Jocelyn, but you are mistaken. You do not understand the matter any more than Kincaid does. It is not that dragons shy away from friendship with humans to avoid the pain of loss. Pain is a part of life, and must be accepted. But for immortal creatures to become attached to mortal creatures is dangerous. It can lead to actions—choices—with catastrophic consequences.”
Jocelyn frowned. “I think that’s another thing you need to explain if you want us to understand it.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Because don’t think we’ve forgotten about the unicorns. You promised to tell us about them while we traveled.”
Elddreki smiled as well, stretching his tail out before curling it back around his feet. “You are mistaken again. I did not promise. But I did suggest it.” He sighed. “And it is part of the same tale, in a sense. I am willing to tell you, but you must understand it is not a tale to be bandied about.”
“We understand,” said Jocelyn solemnly. She turned to Kincaid. “Don’t we?”
“Yes, all right,” he said, still eyeing the dragon dubiously.
Elddreki didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on Jocelyn. “Do you remember, Jocelyn, that you asked me whether dragons can die?”
“I do,” she said humorously. “As I recall, you gave a characteristically vague answer.”
Kincaid chuckled, and even Elddreki smiled. “I said,” he corrected, “that it is almost impossible for me to die. And I spoke the truth. But it is not the case for all dragons.” He paused. “At least, it wasn’t formerly. Whether it is the case for all dragons now depends on whether there are other dragons still living, beyond Vasilisa.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jocelyn, confused.
Elddreki shook his wings out slightly, and his voice was solemn. “How much has your father told you about dragon lore, Jocelyn?”
“Uh.” Jocelyn hesitated. “Not much.”
Elddreki nodded. “I suspect even he does not know what I am about to tell you. Do not treat my confidence lightly.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “It is true I am immortal, in that time will not enfeeble me.”
The dragon paused, and the leaping light of the flames lent an eerie quality to his reptilian face. The moment was surreal, as dreamlike as the trance which had called Jocelyn from her bed in Montego and into this fantastical quest. She tried to grasp that the beast before her had not only lived for centuries before her birth, but would continue on for indefinite generations after her death. It was an impossible concept to comprehend.
“I have no expectation of death,” Elddreki continued, the firelight glinting strangely on the glassy surface of his eyes. “But when dragonlings are born, they have no such certainty.”
Chapter Twenty
Jocelyn looked at Kincaid and saw that he also was surprised by this information, but neither of them interrupted.
“Dragons are born strong, certainly, and dragonlings are not prone to injury or death,” Elddreki said. “But they are not born with the certainty of immortality. It is a choice.”
“You can choose not to live forever?” Kincaid sounded startled. “Why would anyone choose to die?”
“Would you choose to live forever if you could?” Elddreki asked unexpectedly, turning his penetrating gaze on Kincaid.
“I don’t know,” said Kincaid, uncomfortably. “I suppose so.”
“At what cost?” Elddreki probed.
“There’s a cost?” Jocelyn asked, feeling vaguely uneasy. She hugged her knees to her chest, wishing the warmth of the fire could reach all the way around to her back.
“There is,” said Elddreki, his eyes returning to the flames. “Or at least, an exchange. Dragons choose between two possibilities, and they are not as simple as life or death. A dragon may choose to be immortal, unaffected by the passage of time, outside the circle of generations. Or, a dragon may choose to participate in that cycle. To pass his, or her, seed and power to another generation. In a sense you could say that either way dragons choose for their lives to continue forever, but in two very different forms.”
Jocelyn frowned. “You’re saying immortal dragons can’t have children, or rather dragonlings?”
“In simple terms, yes,” said Elddreki. He looked again at Kincaid. “Would you still choose to live forever under such terms, young man?”
Jocelyn looked curiously to Kincaid for his answer. His eyes flicked to her and away before he spoke, but he hesitated only a moment.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“So quick to answer,” said Elddreki, clearly surprised. “Are you answering on the whim of the moment, or are you certain of your opinion?”
Kincaid stared into the fire, his eyes unseeing. “I’m certain,” he said steadily.
“Why?” asked Elddreki, looking fascinated.
Kincaid shrugged. “I’m not sure how to explain it,” he said. “But the desire to pass my bloodline, my name, my heritage, on to another generation is deep within me. So deep I don’t know how to extricate it. If I was prevented from doing so for some reason out of my control, it would be hard, but I would accept it. I would have to. But if I could and chose not to, for the benefit of my own unnaturally prolonged life, I think I would regret it for the whole length of that life.”
There was a long moment of silence as the dragon processed Kincaid’s words. Jocelyn was distracted herself, picturing Kincaid with a child on his shoulders, a boy with his bouncing auburn waves, perhaps, or a girl with his clear brown eyes. She had no doubt he would make a good father one day. She chanced a glance at Elddreki, and his expression was impossible to read.
“What about you, daughter of kings?” asked Elddreki, reverting to his original form of address in his distraction. “Do you feel the same way?”
Jocelyn thought about it for a moment. She thought about her little cousins on her mother’s side, remembering her delight when they had each been born, although she had been only a child herself. She remembered pinching the babies’ sweet little cheeks. She tried to imagine a Kynton where no one died, but no new little people ever appeared. The thought was tragic.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I think I do.” She smiled at the dragon. “You said it yourself, I’m defined by who I am as a daughter of kings. If they hadn’t chosen to have children, there would be no me. Besides, history is important to humans. I want to be part of history, not watching it from an elevated but removed position.”
“H
m.” Elddreki was again deep in thought, his tail twitching in an apparently unconscious rhythm. “Humans are curious creatures. You are so frequently foolish beyond belief, but at times you have a wisdom that baffles even me.”
“So what happens to dragons who choose not to be immortal?” asked Kincaid. “Do they die as soon as they have a dragonling?”
Elddreki shook his vast head. “It is not so simple. Dragons who choose mortality will die even if they do not end up having dragonlings. They have a lifespan, long compared to a human, but still only two, perhaps three centuries. It is not always predictable, but there is reason to think that their decline is hastened by each dragonling’s arrival.”
“Why?” asked Jocelyn.
Elddreki gave her a long look. “As I said, we do not know for certain. But dragons are creatures of magic, Jocelyn. We are born with a certain amount of power. A dragon like me, who has chosen not to pass that power on to another generation, retains that power indefinitely. In fact, if anything, it seems to grow and build with time. One could argue that for a new dragon to be born, the power that will reside within him must come from somewhere. Our best understanding is that it comes from his parents. They give it as a gift, and it passes from them irrevocably.”
Jocelyn frowned. “But if your power grows with time, why can’t theirs just…replenish after they have a dragonling?”
Elddreki did his strange rippling shrug. “Even dragons do not have all the answers, Jocelyn, despite what you might think. All we know for certain is that dragons who have chosen mortality will die, sooner or later. My best guess is that a dragon’s choice to procreate rather than to be immortal is a choice to allow his power to leave him, and that in a sense this process begins immediately. The power once ignited in the dragonling could grow indefinitely, if that dragonling becomes immortal. But it cannot be reignited in the parent.”
Jocelyn thought this over. “How does it work?”
Elddreki looked at her, surprised. “The procreation of dragonlings? In much the same way as the formation of humans, as I understand. Do you really wish me to explain it to you?”
“No, no,” said Jocelyn hastily, her cheeks flushing. Kincaid had been seized by a sudden coughing fit. She could feel the grin he was trying to hide, and she resolutely refused to look at him. “I mean how does the decision work. Do you decide at a certain age? Is there a ceremony? Who…receives the decision?”
“Ah, I understand what you mean,” said Elddreki. “There is no ceremony, and there is no set age. The question is always there in your mind, from earliest memory. At some point it begins to tug at you more insistently, until it consumes much of your thoughts. The decision is not made all at once. It grows gradually as an inkling, until it is a certainty. Then one day you simply realize your decision is made, and there is no going back.”
“And you chose to be immortal,” interjected Kincaid.
Elddreki nodded. “I did.”
“Why?”
Elddreki was silent for a moment. “I am not sure how to answer that, Kincaid,” he said at last. “There were many thoughts in my mind as I considered the matter. But I will say that the fact that everyone else in my colony had chosen such influenced me.”
“Do you regret it?” Jocelyn asked curiously.
Elddreki looked at her with eyes that seemed ancient and sad. “That question is more complicated than you realize, and I will not even attempt to answer it.”
“Everyone in your colony chose immortality over having offspring,” repeated Kincaid slowly.
“Over many generations,” Elddreki clarified. “Those who had chosen to have offspring obviously died. Those of their offspring who chose to have offspring themselves eventually died too. More and more of the dragons being born chose to be immortal instead, until eventually there were no more dragonlings being born to make the decision. I was the last. My parents have long since gone on.”
“That’s why you’re looking for more dragons,” said Jocelyn softly. “You want to see if the dragons who left Vasilisa all those centuries ago ended up in the same state, or if their colony—assuming there is a colony somewhere—still has dragons who are choosing to give life to new generations.”
“That’s right,” said Elddreki. He took a deep breath. “Vasilisa is a wondrous place. Every dragon there is both good and wise. But there is no change, nothing new. Only further building on an old foundation. I think many of us see the wisdom of having at least some dragons choose dragonlings over immortality, so that new generations can come. The trouble is, none of those who are in Vasilisa now wished to make the sacrifice of their own lives to that end.”
He sighed. “I considered it, I really did. But a dragon must pair with another dragon who has made the same choice. Otherwise the union will be barren and full of grief. One dragon will live indefinitely, to experience eternal loss, and the other will face the bitterness of death without the comfort of passing on power to the next generation. And had I chosen differently, I would have been gambling on the chance of finding other dragons out there somewhere.”
“I see,” said Jocelyn softly, suddenly full of sympathy for the dragon, so powerful, and yet as little in control of his destiny as she was, it seemed.
“But what does all this have to do with the unicorns?” Kincaid cut in, a little insensitively, Jocelyn thought.
“Well,” said Elddreki, “the unicorns, as you call them, are part of the story of why dragons left Vasilisa in the first place.”
“I thought you said you don’t speak of why they left,” said Jocelyn.
Elddreki turned his gaze on her for a moment. “I did say that,” he acknowledged. “But you confound me, Jocelyn. I think to understand the enigma of your power, I may need to examine a part of dragon history we usually prefer not to recall.”
Jocelyn just frowned, waiting.
“I told you dragons are born with a certain amount of power,” said Elddreki. “And it stays with us indefinitely if we make the choice I made. I also told you it is almost impossible for me to die. Meaning, of course—”
“That it is possible,” interrupted Kincaid.
Elddreki inclined his head in assent.
“How?” asked Jocelyn, adding hastily, “Not that I want to do you any harm, obviously.”
Elddreki gave a rattling laugh. “You cannot do me a mischief, Jocelyn, even if you wanted to. No one could. Only I could choose to die.”
“But…” Jocelyn frowned. “I thought you said your choice was irrevocably made.”
“Oh, it is,” said Elddreki. “I no longer have the power to decide to have offspring and so to die. But I could, at least in theory, choose to pass my power on in another way. But it is not to be done. It is an abomination.”
“What is this other way?” asked Kincaid, clearly intrigued.
Elddreki paused for a moment, as if considering whether to answer the question. He twisted his neck where he sat, looking back in the direction of the distant Kyonan mountain range. At last he let out a huff, the exhale sending the flames in front of him dancing dangerously close to his human listeners, who both leaned back quickly.
“It is not easy to explain,” he said. “Perhaps it will help if I show you.”
“Show us how?” Kincaid started, but Elddreki was already opening his jaws. A small stream of fire came out, nothing like the white-hot torrent that had deluged the top of Dragoncave.
Jocelyn frowned in concentration as the dragon sustained the flame, trying to test the air around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and it was easier to concentrate on the familiar but much more potent sensation. Elddreki was releasing magic with his flame, steady and intricate.
Kincaid’s gasp pulled her eyes open again, and she drew in a sharp breath herself. The fire had changed. It was no longer simply orange and yellow. Other colors streaked through it, and the flickering tongues were forming themselves into shapes.
“As I said,” Elddreki continued, and although he was no longer breathing fi
re, the magic continued to pour from him in a constant stream. “Dragons are creatures of power.”
As he spoke, the flames seemed to become miniature dragons, different in color and size, but each glowing with an identical light. These small spots of radiance were not simply glints of firelight—they were something more.
“Our magic is our lifeblood,” the dragon added, and the glow seemed to spread like veins throughout the tiny, moving figures. “We cannot live without it. Without it we are not…dragons. We simply cease to be—perhaps not all at once, but inevitably.”
Jocelyn watched, mesmerized, as the light died out of one of the flame dragons, and the flickering image returned to nothing more than a tongue of fire.
“But the power doesn’t disappear on its own,” Elddreki went on. “It must be passed. A dragon who is not capable of passing his power to another generation of dragons, but who wished to forfeit that power and free himself to die, would have to pass it to someone.”
In her peripheral vision, Jocelyn could see Elddreki look up at her, but she kept her eyes on the fire, fascinated by the sight of one of the mini flame dragons breathing a stream of actual fire onto a clearly formed sword of flame that had appeared alongside it.
“We can pour magic into objects,” Elddreki was explaining, “like the sword your father carries. But that is a passive process on the part of the receiving object. It does not drain our power.”
Jocelyn saw that, as Elddreki described, the dragon who was breathing onto the sword retained its inner glow, the light inside it not dimmed at all.
“For the power to properly leave us, there must be a recipient.”
“You can pass your magic to another creature?” Kincaid asked. His eyes flicked to Jocelyn, and his voice sounded strange. “You can give someone magical ability?”
“Yes,” said Elddreki. “Or at least, so I understand. I do not know how it is done, precisely. It is not something we are taught how to do—as I said, it is an abomination.”
Legacy of the Curse Page 24
