[Firebringer 03] - The Son of Summer Stars

by Meredith Ann Pierce

  The wyrm had seven heads. Realization seized Jan with a start. Each head possessed a hood, bristling whiskers and dozens of needle-sharp teeth. The eldest, central pate was also the largest. It lay dozing, long neck stretched along the ground. Other heads twined about it. Two were nearly half as large. These also slept. The rest were smaller, younger, wakeful. Of them, the final, seventh nob was a mere slip, whining and nibbling at its own gill ruff. Its three companions stirred restively, glancing about the room as if on guard. A firebrand smoldered smokily nearby, only the smallest stack of twigs heaped by for future fuel. Furtively, in whispers, the four smallest heads argued.

  “Why must we always keep watch,” the next-to-smallest complained, “while the large ones sleep?”

  “Silence!” the fourth-largest head hissed. “You’ll wake the One.”

  The complainer and its closest companion both hissed and turned to eye the largest pate, which slept on, unperturbed. The tiniest sniffed at a fellow’s gills, parting colorless lips for a tentative nibble. The second-to-smallest spun and snapped at the tiny head, driving it back. The fourth-largest clucked at the other three, then cast about suspiciously, eyeing the egress to the wyrm king’s den as if impatient for some visitor. The second-largest countenance, flanking the One, stirred. All four of the small aspects riveted their gazes upon it for a few heartbeats, then lost interest when it made no further move.

  “Where in all the burrows is the kindling?” the fourth-largest demanded. “Our brand’s near burnt out.”

  “Do you think it was the peaceseekers, waylaying the wood gatherers again?” the fifth-largest nob ventured.

  “Peaceseekers!” the next-to-the-smallest growled, then spat.

  “Stingless grubs.”

  The tiny head hissed furiously, a tangle of sounds that might have been, “Stingless! Stingless!” Its three walking comrades ignored it.

  “It was when our queen died, five seasons past,” the fifth-largest muttered, “that was when our fortunes fell.”

  The next-to-smallest one beside it harrumphed. “They were wretched before.”

  “Hardly!” the fourth-largest snapped. “While our queen lived, she kept the barbless freaks in check.”

  “Verminous peaceseekers!” its companion, fifth-largest, snarled.

  “We were never cold then; that I’ll grant,” the next-to-smallest face conceded.

  “Peace! Peace!” the tiny head hissed as though it were a curse.

  “Killed by those thrice-cursed unicorns,” the fourth-largest head murmured.

  Its slightly smaller companion added, “Our gallant queen. Priestess of the divine fire.”

  “She never let our torch grow cold,” the second-to-smallest added.

  The tiny head alongside hissed out, “Torches. Cold.”

  The gazes of the four small walking faces flicked between the egress and the guttering fire. The one largest pate dozed on, as did the two middle-sized heads that flanked it. The larger of those uncoiled its neck, turned upside down. Again the four small heads froze, silenced, until their medium-sized fellow again lay still.

  “Cursed be the night-dark prince of unicorns,” the fourth-to-largest whispered. “When he slew our queen, we lost our heirs as well.”

  “All those ripe eggs, ready for hatching,” the fifth-largest lamented. “Tramped under his cloven heels.”

  “His and his shoulder-friends’, the pied one and the dapple,” the next-to-smallest added.

  The fifth-largest continued, “Two dozen sharp-pricked little prits. Had they but hatched, they’d have quelled and mastered all these stingless freaks!”

  “Eggs, prits,” hissed the littlest head. “Freaks!”

  “Yes, stingless,” the fourth-largest head of the wyrmking echoed. “That’s all the wyverns were before we hatched. When our folk slaved among the thrice-cursed dragons, none bore a sting. We, Lynex, were the first. We bred our line into a race of wyverns—independent, strong!—not those cringing wyrms our folk had been. We made our followers hunters, capturers of prey, no longer puling scavengers, eaters of the dead.”

  Another head took up the thread. “And for years upon years, our line bred true. We ourself sired most of the eggs our females laid. The stingless ones were few and easily destroyed. But now the One grows old and sires no more. The eggs the unicorns crushed were our last brood. Now stingless ones hatch nearly as frequently as those with stings! Some females refuse to eat such young, hide them away instead to keep them safe.”

  “The old queen knew how to find and devour them,” its companion beside it interjected. “But she is dead now, and the One has lost interest. He dozes his hours away, content to let others address our woes…”

  “But others do not remedy as they ought,” another interrupted. “The stingless peaceseekers are becoming a troublesome faction. They speak out against the spring hunting. They themselves seek only carrion to eat—”

  “Carrion!” squawked the next-to-smallest head, and the fifth-largest spat, “Filth!”

  “They refuse to take fellow creatures’ lives!” the fourth-largest ranted. “Pledge not to hunt living prey!”

  The voices of all four of the smaller heads had risen, becoming both louder and more shrill. They hissed and squabbled among themselves until the two middle-sized heads—flanking the largest, still-sleeping visage—jerked awake. Clear, crystalline eyes fixed on the smaller four, the middle-sized pair rose hissing.

  “Stingless freaks,” one crackled.

  Its mate echoed, “Witless ones, more like.”

  “Still your prating tongues before you wake the One,” the second-to-largest muzzle cautioned, reaching to sink its fangs into two of the smaller four in turn. All of the little heads leaned frantically away, but the necks of the middle-sized heads were longer.

  “No more talk of peaceseekers and unicorns,” the third-to-largest head commanded. “Such dross troubles the dreams of the One. Our late queen is gone, but our fire burns on.”

  “Hist! Hist!” the youngest head broke in. Behind, the fire was nearly out.

  “Quick, lackwits!” the second-to-largest pate snarled. “Feed the flame. If it dies, the One will snap you four off at the chins and devour your brains.”

  “You were ordered to watch,” its companion, the third-largest, berated. “A fine mess you have made of it, too. This torch is the last in all our dens, to be hoarded and tended with utmost care!”

  Frantically, the four smaller heads snatched up tinder and twigs to add to the dwindling fire. At first it seemed they had smothered it, but then smoke curled up and bright tongues of red and yellow burst across the fuel. The two middle-sized maws snicked and snorted, the four smaller pates sighing with evident relief. Five of the wakeful, coherent heads turned to cast angry, hopeful looks toward the chamber’s egress.

  “Where in all the dens is the wood gatherer?” the third-largest demanded of the one beside it. “Could it be the stingless peaceseekers again? You know they preach life without reliance on fire.”

  The second-largest muttered. “Fire savages the blood. Fire first gave us stings and a taste for live meat…”

  All five watching the door continued to grumble. Behind them, the wyrmking’s one great, original head dozed on. Meanwhile the littlest face watched the bright, short-lived flames consuming the last of the firebrand’s fuel. For a few moments, the fire guttered, fizzing, then shrank still further. It became a blue flicker, vanished in a waft of pungent smoke. Sudden chill swept the room. The nostrils of the five other waking heads flared. Gasping, they wheeled to gape at the shadowed remains of the burnt-out branch. Not a sound broke the stillness but the tiny maw’s whimpers.

  The eyes of the one great head snapped open, stared for a moment at the newly darkened chamber. The only light now illuminating the den was a distant lightwell’s feeble glow. Lynex’s central head reared on its muscular stalk. All around, the other crania writhed, wailing, even the second– and third-largest. The great head ignored them, glaring
straight at the empty fireledge, now nothing but ashes and char. The wyrmking’s knifelike claws dug into his gleaming belly below his savagely scarred breast.

  “Which?” he growled, voice deeper than any Jan had ever heard. “Which one of you let my fire go out?”

  Jan felt himself in motion again, rising, pulling aloft. He left the crystalline dens of wyverns beneath the Hallow Hills and crossed the Plain, traversed the Pan Woods. He found himself hovering above the Vale once more. The snows had passed. Another ceremony, similar to the kindling that had marked winter’s onset, was now under way. Again unicorns circled the great bonfire, still burning. The air had warmed, cool yet, but with the promise of balmier days ahead. Some of the herd were already shedding their heavy shag. It had been another mild winter, Jan could see: thanks, no doubt, to the weather wych, Jah-lila.

  After the dancing, Teki again ascended the council rise. This time he sang of Tek’s flight from the Vale, how his foster daughter had carried Jan’s unborn offspring through bitter snows and taken refuge in the wilderness with her then-exiled dam. He praised the pan sisters Sismoomnat and Pitipak who had delivered Tek and described the torrential floods that had overwhelmed the murderous warparty Korr had sent against her in the spring.

  That had been the ending of Korr’s power, if not his madness. Jan had returned from captivity among the firekeepers just as Tek and her newborns had made their own return. The lay ended with the reunion of mates and Jan’s embracing his twin filly and foal. Many of the youngest listeners had drifted into sleep. The fire priestess, Ryhenna, addressed the herd, reminding them that once moon reached its zenith, the bonfire would be tended no more, its flames allowed to flicker out, coals left to cool.

  This night, however, she added new words, urging all full-grown unicorns to sharpen their hooves and horns, then tread as she now trod upon the embers rimming the dwindling tongues of flame. Into these she dipped her horn, holding it in the swirl of fire that it, like her fire-hardened hooves, might toughen beyond all previous strength, the better to pierce the wyverns’ bony breasts.

  Eagerly, all of fighting age complied: newly initiated half-growns, seasoned warriors, elders, a dozen of whom formed the Council which confirmed all kings’ judgments and granted each succeeding battleprince his right to rule. First Tek, then Dagg, then Jah-lila and Ses, followed by Teki and the rest, bent to run keen ridges of spiral horn against flint-edged heels, honing both edges in the same smooth stroke, then came forward to join Ryhenna.

  Those colts and fillies and suckling foals still waking looked on with longing. Too tender for war, they were forbidden to sharpen their hooves and horns. At last, the long procession ended. Their elders, weaponry now tempered, returned from the council rise and lay down among their offspring to doze the weary night till dawn.

  Jan watched the moon climb, pass zenith, decline. The whole valley lay silent, still—except for furtive movement atop the rise. Jan beheld his own sister Lell, barely five years old, not yet initiated, clumsily keening her hooves and horn. At last achieving a respectable edge, she crept forward, ears pricked and eyes darting. Gingerly, she stepped onto the bonfire’s coals, dipping her young hoof into the last red wisps of flame.

  “I don’t count what Ses says,” Jan heard her muttering between clenched teeth. “I am ready. I’m not too young. I mean to be a warrior, and I might as soon begin by battling wyverns. She’ll not keep me from this fray.”

  “Bravely spoken,” a voice behind her quietly replied.

  The timbre was a low, throaty growl like the purr of a hillcat. Lell jumped stiff-legged as a startled hare and whirled. Silhouetted, a gryphon sat on the council rise. Jan himself was amazed. He had not observed the other’s approach, nor heard his wings. The tercel had alighted in utter silence, cat’s eyes dilated in the blazing moonlight.

  “Illishar!” Lell hissed, her joyous whisper just short of a shriek that would have wakened others and given them both away.

  “The same, little one,” he replied. “I bid you hail. Only lately arrived, I wished not to disturb your folk.”

  “You are most welcome,” Lell answered fervently, then hesitated, casting a glance at her sharpened hooves, then over at the fire. “I beg you,” she burst out softly, urgently, “do not speak of what you have just seen…”

  The wingcat smiled. “I see naught but a gracious filly who, waking at my approach, arose to welcome me.”

  Lell eyed him fiercely. “I mean to be a warrior,” she said. “Jan would let me. I know he would! If he were here—I mean to join this fray against the wyrms.”

  The green-winged tercel nodded. “So I see. And now, little one, may I beg a boon? Fall back, if you will, a pace or two and allow me a place beside your fire. My flight this day has been long and chill.”

  Lell stumbled back from the bonfire hurriedly, allowing the gryphon space to move into the glow of the coals. He crouched, then stretched himself, forelegs laid upon the ground, wings not folded, but raised, the better to catch the fire’s heat. Jan heard the deep, steady rumble of his purr. Lell stood awkwardly, seeming not to know what next to do. The gryphon beckoned her.

  “Step closer, little darkamber,” he bade. “Do not grow cold on my account. Rest and tell me of your warrior dreams. I, too, sought to join my clan’s battleranks against great odds. I succeeded, as you see, and have won a perch high on the ledges beside my leader’s wing.”

  Lell happily approached and lay down facing the green-and-gold tercel. Jan marveled at his sister’s lack of fear. She treated Illishar as she would her own folk, appeared to regard him as no different from a unicorn.

  “Gladly,” she answered. “I welcome your company.”

  The gryphon bowed his head in a flattered nod. “And I yours, little darkamber, for I sense that like me, you mean to win your way to the ledges of honor among your flock.”

  17.

  Spring

  Spring, Jan saw, and no longer first spring. A month or more had passed since equinox. Watching in the dragon’s pool, Jan felt uneasiness. He saw the future Vale spread green below him, his fellows grazing its hillsides, their winter shag long shed. But he saw no sign of himself, no indication that by the time predicted in this foreseeing, he had returned. And he would need to be returned by spring if he were to lead the march to the Hallow Hills.

  Jan saw his sister Lell high on the Vale’s grassy steeps. She looked older, less a filly than a half-grown. Her legs had lengthened, as had her neck and mane, her horn no longer a colt’s blunt truncheon, but a slim flattened skewer, pointed and edged. Standing on a rocky outcrop overhanging the Vale, she looked a young warrior. Illishar sat beside her. His feline form—huge almost as a formel—dwarfed his unicorn companion. Lell had not yet reached a half-grown’s size, but she had attained the shape, leaving fillyhood behind. Within the year, Jan felt sure, she would be initiated. How soon, he wondered, before she joined the courting rites by the Summer Sea?

  Breeze lifted Lell’s mane, her face grown longer and more slender, a young mare’s. Beside her, Illishar’s raised wings cupped the breeze, one curving above Lell’s back. He and she watched a group of warriors sparring far below on the valley floor. Jan spotted the black-and-rose figure of Tek directing the exercises, the dappled yellow and grey of Dagg alongside her. Lell tossed her head.

  “They won’t let me join in,” she said. “They say I’m too young. Jan would never exclude me so! So every day I watch them, then steal off and practice by myself.”

  Illishar stretched to let breeze rime his feathers. “So, too, did I in my youth—until I had won me a spot among the formels. They would not grant it willingly. I had to prove myself beyond all quarrel. They called me a little, useless tercel squab, keen enough for hunting, perhaps, but never so much as considered for a perch beside the wingleader or for serious war.” He laughed his throaty, purring laugh. “I proved every one of them wrong.”

  Lell turned to him. “We don’t do that. Among my folk, we don’t discount our he-colts. All
half-growns are expected to become warriors. Besides, with unicorns, it is the stallions who are heftier.”

  Again Illishar laughed. “I know! Such an odd and fascinating flock. Though Malar did not deem my joining your war a savory task, I relish it, for I have learned more of your folk in one short moon than ever I could have done in a lifetime otherwise.”

  Together they watched the maneuvers below. Tek and Dagg’s shrill whistles reached the heights. Jan had never seen the warriors so crisp. He felt a surge of pride, gratitude to Tek and Dagg, then regret that he was not to be among them. He shook it off. The herd need fear naught from lack of practice or skill when they met the wyrms. He could not have trained them better himself.

  “You see? You see?” he heard Lell whispering. “The left flank doesn’t swing fast enough. They must wheel more sprightly if they’re to close the trap ere wyverns flee. When Jan arrives, he’ll chase them into step.”

  Beside her the green-winged tercel nodded. “My flock employs similar stratagems, but ours are all airborne.”

  “Will you teach me?” Lell asked him. The other laughed, eyeing her wingless shoulders. Lell sighed heavily. “I wish I could fly.”

  “Become a gryphon, and you shall,” her companion teased.

  The darkamber filly whickered and kicked at him.

  “I want you to teach me another lay!” she cried.

  “What?” the tercel reared back in mock surprise. “I have already taught you Ishi’s Hatching. It is the talk of all your flock. Next they will say you are my acolyte.”

  Lell shook herself. “I would not mind a bit. I want to learn every song I can ere you must go.” Her tone abruptly saddened. “After we fight the wyverns, you will return to your mountains, and I’ll not see you more.”