Dragon's Rise

by Lou Hoffmann

  As if just roused from a dream, Thurlock said, “Eh? Oh… no. Not at all. You did very well, and you seem to have recovered all right.” Beginning to sound dreamy again, he added, “Remind me to teach you about… drawing energy from… elsewhere… less exhausting….”

  They stayed there long enough, doing nothing, discussing nothing, that the sun fell into the tops of the trees behind them to the west, and the air cooled. Lucky had long since pulled his feet out of the water, and now he stepped back to sit by Thurlock’s slowly burning rainbow flames. As the sun descended the ladder of branches, casting shadows that grew longer and bluer against the gold of sunset, Lucky got up to care for the horses. Mostly because they needed it and deserved good care, but also because he was getting antsy and really spooked by Thurlock’s behavior.

  When that chore was done and he’d returned to the fireside, and still Thurlock sat staring, Lucky couldn’t stand it any longer. He blurted, “I thought you wanted to be in the city by nightfall.”

  “Huh? Yes. The city…. Yes. By nightfall. We’ve time. We’re almost there.”

  “Well,” Lucky started, but then he hesitated. After a moment he thought, To hell with it, and said, “Something’s wrong, Thurlock.”

  Finally, Thurlock met his gaze in such a way that Lucky thought the wizard actually saw him.

  “Tell me what it is, please,” Lucky said. “Are you sick or something? Did you… I don’t know, hurt your magic or something when you…?” He found himself unable, for some reason, to say killed that wizard. Instead he said, “Did it tire you out?”

  “No.”

  Nothing more was forthcoming, and Lucky started to get angry as well as a little scared. “No? What do you mean, just no?”

  “Calm yourself, Luccan,” Thurlock said, but it didn’t have any of the sarcastic bite such an instruction would normally carry when coming from him and directed at Lucky. He took a deep breath. “I mean no, I’m not ill. And no, the use of magic to kill did not exhaust my resources or leave me physically weary. Anger and fear are two of the most readily available sources of magical power—a sad thing but true.”

  The answer only frustrated Lucky more. “Thurlock!”

  Before he could think of what else to say, Thurlock abruptly stood, cast a sharp one-handed gesture at the fire—extinguishing it immediately—and said, “Let’s go.”

  Lucky felt sick. He knew he must have done something wrong for Thurlock to behave toward him as he was, but he couldn’t for the life of him think what offense he’d committed. He went to get the horses ready, and then he packed up what little they had taken out for their stop. Prepared to head back to the road, he picked up Zef’s reins. He took a step, but then felt Thurlock’s hand rest on his shoulder.

  Thurlock whispered, “Wait, Luccan.”

  Lucky turned around to face Thurlock and ended up staring at his chest. It reminded him that as tall as he’d grown—slightly taller than Han, even—the wizard was still a giant when he stepped into his truest form.

  “I’m sorry,” Thurlock said. “I’ve let you suffer with worry when you’ve done nothing wrong. What you did—what we each did—back there when we were ambushed was exactly what was needed. We caused the least possible amount of harm we could have done and still been sure we would get away safely. As for my… state of mind, well, my magic is fine and my body is fine, but my heart, if you can believe I still have one after all these years, is a little weary. Understand, I’ve known that wizard as long as he was alive. His name was Hehlios, and he’s… he was a relative, distant because of the seven centuries that passed between our births, but—like Mahros, who is his great-grandfather—descended from both my sets of grandparents. And I killed him. I obliterated him. Killing with magic is easy to do, Luccan, but for me it has ever been hard to live with.”

  Lucky had been staring up into Thurlock’s eyes, and he saw moisture in them. “I’m so sorry, Thurlock. I… maybe I should have—”

  “Nonsense. I didn’t tell you that in order to make you feel guilty. I dealt with Hehlios the only way I could, and it was necessary. If I hadn’t broken his spell it would have killed you or worse, and the only way I could stop the magic fast enough happened to be lethal.” He took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. “I told you because I don’t want you to blame yourself for my sour mood. You are a remarkable young man, and I’m not sorry I did my part to keep you in the world.”

  Again at a loss for anything else to say, Lucky resorted to a simple “thank you.” But then he realized he should clarify. “I mean, of course, thank you for saving my life, but also thank you for trusting me enough to tell me about… your heart, and all.”

  Thurlock picked up Sherah’s reins, caught Lucky’s eye, and nodded. It seemed to mean a lot of different things, and Lucky let it ride.

  They made it to the road just prior to dusk, having come the whole way in the kind of silence that is more than companionable, silence that speaks of a link of true friendship in a difficult time. Once they were mounted up and starting to ride once more toward Nedhra City, though, Thurlock had things to tell Lucky.

  “We will be very careful while we’re there, Luccan. We would have anyway, but after the things we’ve encountered on the road, we’ll step up the caution. I have an apartment in a professors’ residence hall at the university, and it’s heavily warded. We’ll stay there, but—”

  “You’re a professor?”

  Thurlock huffed out a sigh, which Lucky knew meant he was annoyed at the interruption. But it was familiar, a return to what felt normal to Lucky. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Not lately,” Thurlock answered. “Not for the last several centuries. However, they haven’t seen fit to kick me out, yet. Now, as I was saying, we’ll stay there at my apartment. But I’ll be meeting with people throughout the day, and I don’t think it will be best to have you with me. Nor do I want to leave you by yourself at my place, since that is where people—some of whom might be dangerous—would probably expect you to be. I haven’t worked out exactly where I’ll put you, but don’t worry, I will. Meantime, this business with Mahros will have unfortunate repercussions. We’ll have to report it to the council, and to the City Watch, which has jurisdiction over crimes within twenty miles of the city wall.”

  “Crimes? Thurlock, they won’t… you won’t…. Thurlock!”

  “Relax, Luccan. I will be questioned, and you will be questioned. They will want to examine my staff, and unless I fear someone has the means to tamper with it, I will let them. We’ll both tell the truth as we saw it, and my staff will bear witness. It should be enough to make it clear that it was a necessary defensive… killing. Not a murder.”

  “‘Should be’?”

  “And if it isn’t, well, I have a lot of power. The political kind, I mean. Having to throw it around makes enemies, and that will be unfortunate at this particular time, but if it can’t be helped… I’ll do what’s necessary.”

  Lucky took a few minutes digesting what Thurlock had told him, wondering all the while why he would ever have thought a man’s death by magic wouldn’t have such consequences. “Thurlock, should we maybe talk about what happened so we both say the same thing?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Um, why?”

  “First, it would be unnatural for two people both caught up in the middle of a frightening event, each with their own perspective and background knowledge, to see and remember events in precisely the same way. Also, if we try to tell matching stories, it would be disingenuous, to say nothing of a little dishonest. Not only might that make one or both of us a little sick, but the people who will be questioning us will, I guarantee you, have ways of spotting dishonesty. If they see us as less than fully truthful, it undermines our credibility, and they are more apt to draw unfavorable conclusions. Trust me, Luccan. All you have to do is tell them what you remember. Especially, do not try to whitewash my actions. I did what I did. You saw it. I’d venture to say you will never forget it.”


  Chapter Seven: Dragon, Fly with Me

  “I’LL VENTURE to guess,” Henry said, “you’re never going to forget that first moment you knew yourself as Dragon.”

  Han grunted an affirmative, but otherwise remained quiet, sitting on the bank of the stream in the place behind his little house that he liked to think of as hidden. Henry sat nearby, close enough that their hands brushed against each other now and then when one of them moved. They were fishing, but not really—a favorite way to relax for Han, and he felt easy in the moment. Having had a few opportunities to spend an hour or two—and once even an enchanted night—with Henry, he no longer harbored so much anxiety about “what if”: What if Henry didn’t stay? What if Henry didn’t care?

  With so much on Han’s “must get done” list, the quiet lunch and hour in the sun was like medicine, or refueling, maybe. He listened to the fish in the stream for a moment, then turned to Henry with a smile. “The fish are arguing over whether the knot in the end of your fishing line is food.”

  “Seriously?” Henry didn’t wait for an answer. “So are you going to avoid thinking about the Dragon forever?”

  Han huffed out a sigh. “Of course not,” he said, a little annoyed at having his peace broken with a topic that still, despite time to get used to the idea and many assurances from Thurlock, left him disquieted. “I can’t, anyway, can I? Every time I look in the mirror, or see someone staring at my eyes, I remember.”

  Henry smirked at him, and gently plunked his bare foot down in the water, scaring the fish and splashing Han with cool spray. “Sorry to bug you about it, Han. I bring it up because I think I can help you make it… maybe easier, maybe in your case just more useful. You could control it—make it happen on purpose when you need it, possibly also keep it from happening otherwise.”

  Han nodded, once again gazing into the depths of the stream, eyes locked on a red, red stone that reminded him of the intensity of his own changed eyes. Finally he swallowed and said, “Henry, I just don’t want to be a dragon. At all.”

  “What if I said you were a beautiful dragon, Han? What if I told you I thought you might be the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, in both your forms?”

  Han chuckled. “Uh, thank you?”

  Henry smiled, and it seemed to Han something warmer and better than the late afternoon sun caressing his skin.

  “Well, it sounds corny, I know, but I’m not joking. And I’m not joking when I say can help you… let’s say, embrace your Dragon.”

  Han scratched at his chin, a habit of thoughtfulness that mirrored Thurlock’s beard scratching, though Han would scarcely have a fuzzy scruff if he let it grow. He took a deep breath as if preparing to dive into deep water. “Okay. Tell me about it. What do you mean, and how would you go about it?”

  Henry nodded vigorously. “Okay, then. First, let me ask you, have you talked with Thurlock at all about how I shift differently from the other shape-changers?”

  Han’s eyes widened at the question, which bordered on nonsense to him, and then he shook his head.

  “Okay, well, do you know about shamanism? I understand it’s not a thing here in Ethra, but when you were in Earth, maybe—”

  “I saw a TV documentary once. It’s about… praying?”

  “Sort of. Sometimes. But at its core, it’s about understanding how everything—especially all life—is connected. The world of living things is a big web—thousands of strands that touch each other, cross over or wind around each other. But each type of life is a web of itself—a piece of the great web, but made of many strands. And then down through the levels—each family or pride or pack, and each individual. Do you follow?”

  Han thought for a moment, absentmindedly warning off the fish who’d stopped to gaze at Henry’s toes as if they might be an especially yummy bite of lunch. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “It makes perfect sense. I recognize what you’re talking about, in a way, because it’s what it’s like finding a mind and listening to it. Even the simplest minds have multiple… I call them waves, but I see you could think of them as strands. I think I’m with you so far.”

  “Right, good. So, understand, the first time I shifted, it was all physical, just like any other shapeshifter.” He stopped for a moment and made a face, then said, “Well, I don’t know about the ones you have here—”

  “One. We only have one.”

  “Right, and I don’t know, maybe he’s different. But for Earth shifters, it’s—” He stopped suddenly and smiled, as if he’d had a moment of pure enlightenment. “I know how to do this! Instead of telling you, I’ll show you. Let me shift so you can read my mind, and I’ll go through those early memories.”

  Han said okay, and he couldn’t help but smile a little, because “enthusiastic Henry” delighted him. In the next breath, Henry perched on a rock, black feathers gleaming, very serious black-bead eyes set in the reddest bald head Han had ever seen. But the images Henry began to transmit to him—complete with fear and pain and a desperate kind of loneliness—soon wiped away any penchant for smiling. The pain he felt in his muscles and bones was only the edge of what Henry remembered from that time long ago; Han knew that from the distress that also plagued him. Slowly, cell by cell, or perhaps strand by strand of DNA, the transformation took place in Henry’s memory. Long and painful, the process finally sped up as it neared completion, and finished in a bewildering rush that left child Henry, long ago, lost within himself.

  Han reflected that, although he hadn’t been a child when he first became Dragon, he’d felt for just a moment that same confusion, as if he was lost in a wilderness that existed inside him. It had passed as much because Luccan had beckoned him out of it as because of anything he’d done to make it happen. It struck him, reflecting on it now, that deep inside, he still felt that same perplexing ambiguity.

  “Now,” Henry thought to him. “Stay with me as I shift—in the real world this time, not memory—back to being human. I’ll go slow—much slower than usual—but it will still be over very quickly. I’m hoping you can see the difference, anyway, between how it worked then, and how I make it work now.”

  Han journeyed with Henry through a moment that, in Han’s mind seemed timeless, even though he knew it was almost instant. He felt something when Henry touched the web of humanity, maybe a reverberation as Henry sorted through it. It reminded him of the way animals, or people too, sometimes, would touch one memory after another until they found the one that applied. It happened so fast that they weren’t aware of it at all, usually, but sometimes Han could see it anyway.

  And then the contact broke as Han sensed Henry slip out of the Condor and into the man.

  A silence followed, and then Han said, “There’s something sort of… wondrous about that, what you did.”

  “I know, right?” Henry laughed. “But I had to learn how to do it. My grandfather taught me with a great deal of patience, but it took me years to learn it well. I think maybe, because your shift isn’t completely physical to start with, and because—like you said—you already know the web of life, or at least an aspect of it, it won’t be as hard for you. What do you think?”

  Han took a deep breath, leaned over and kissed Henry lightly, and got to his feet. “I think,” he said, “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Henry stood as well and they started to walk together back toward the military compound, where in a moment they would part ways.

  “But also,” Han said as they picked up to a more industrious pace, “I think you’re right. It will be good if I can learn to have some control of the Dragon. It… he… I….” Han shook his head at his own pronoun confusion and laughed again. “Whatever I should call the Dragon, it’s useful, another tool, and I can’t make good use of it if I’m afraid of it, or even if I shun it. So next time we’re together, maybe you can help me get started.”

  Henry pulled him into a tight hug as they prepared to go their separate ways. “Han, I just want you to know one thing: I love you when you’re Dr
agon and when you’re not.”

  Han stood with his mouth hanging open, watching Henry walk away. Except for family—including Thurlock—never in his long life had any man said, “I love you.” He wasn’t sure how to feel at first, until finally he laughed, deciding it felt kind of nice.

  Work went especially well that afternoon, despite the fact that nothing proceeded according to plan.

  AFTER A few stolen hours for lessons with Henry, Han had begun to feel at peace with the Dragon, and also with the idea that he would have a future with Henry, as long as he was willing to wait for it. But productive and enjoyable moments with Henry served as exceptions in days filled with hard, frustrating work. As another summer day drew down to late blue dusk, he closed his office door behind him and stepped out into the cooling air, heading to the hold kitchens to scrounge what he could after having missed the meal.

  Han had well-respected ability as a military leader, but his strengths lay in strategy, tactics, and fighting skills. Matters of logistics—that catch-all area that included all the practicalities of running a military organization—annoyed him at best. At worst, though he hated to admit it, they confused him. This day had been half-full of questions and problems about food, equipment, housing, and movement—things Gerania would have managed easily if she’d been there. At least ten times Han stopped to thank his desk sergeant for catching some error he was about to make to the detriment of his entire organization. If Lem hadn’t been handling everything to do with the horses and cavalry, things would have been still worse.

  Note to self, Han. Find someone who can do this stuff and give them a nice, fat promotion—big enough to bribe them into taking the job.

  The remainder of his long day had been a struggle with civil matters, which created even more strife for him. The last thing Han had ever wanted was to be in charge of the Sisterhold. He had gotten over his resentment that Thurlock had left him in this position, but he didn’t feel confident or at ease with the responsibilities. Still, he desperately wanted to do the job well—the welfare of the Hold was far more important than his comfort level. As daily matters came across his desk, he called on Rose for help, and truth be told she figured out and accomplished most of what needed to be done. But for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom—because since when did he outrank Rose when it came to the business of the Sisterhold?—those decisions that would have been Liliana’s had she not fallen, or Thurlock’s had he not gone to the city, were foisted right into Han’s lap. Mostly, those were the things likely to mean real trouble if not handled with finesse, foresight, and wisdom. Han knew himself well enough to know he had those qualities on tap, but he wasn’t used to applying them to contentious social situations, crop difficulties, invasive species, or government-to-government relations.