Hanna cringed at the boldness of her promise. The sleepers were so young. Where were all these children from? And anyway, they still hadn’t reached Oth. She couldn’t turn around now and take them home.
Taunier helped Hanna with another child. They freed the boy’s muddy boots, untangled his short legs, and tenderly unwrapped his arms. Each sleeper had come awake when his head was freed from the roots’ embrace. As they uncovered the boy’s face, Hanna burst into happy tears. “Tymm?” she choked. “It’s you! It’s really you! I can’t believe we found you!” The wind had blown them here? Why? Her head spun, but she was overjoyed. She hugged her little brother and caught the earthy scent in his curly blond hair.
“Is it morning already, Hanna? I had so many dreams!” he said groggily. Then he must have noticed the dark passage. “You woke me in the middle of the night.”
“I had to.” Hanna laughed though her tears. She was still holding him and didn’t want to let go.
“You’re squeezing too hard.”
“Sorry.” Hanna pulled back and began to wipe the dirt from his cheek. He turned his head before she was done and said, “Hey, Taunier.”
Taunier chuckled and rubbed the top of his head.
“Leave off,” protested Tymm. “I’m no baby.”
“You did it, Hanna,” said Taunier. “You found the Wind-taken, just as you said you would.”
“I …” Hanna stuttered. “I just tried the way Meer Zabith wanted to go.” She watched the old woman adjusting a child’s wrinkled cloak. “The Blind Seer showed us the way,” she added. “And now you won’t be doubting the words from that old game,” she teased.
“Aye, well.” Taunier shrugged. “I can’t say it isn’t true, but give me some time to get used to it, will you?”
He flashed her a rare smile, and her heart felt light. She’d left off hugging Tymm and longed to throw her arms around Taunier. To curb the impulse, she pressed them tight against her sides. Taunier touched the base of her jaw, caught a tear on his fingertip, then playfully shook it off.
“No need for those now,” he said.
The buzzing of the bees no longer puzzled her. The sound only added to the sense of light, of spring gardens and renewal. It meant there was a way out of this dark place somewhere ahead. If the bees were getting in, they must be getting out.
Tymm tugged her shirt. “I’m hungry, Hanna.”
Hanna counted the other children huddled together under the sprawling roots. Tymm’s friend, Cilla, stood near Evver, rocking back and forth on her feet. Including Tymm, there were sixteen children in all, as many children as deyas. Hanna wondered at that. Some of them rubbed their eyes, yawning, but a few of the youngest ones had begun to cry. The deyas knelt down and spoke to the little ones tenderly.
“Can we all sit here a moment?” Hanna asked gently. The children gathered around the place where the torches were jammed in the ground, and the deyas settled in a circle behind them.
Hanna looked at the children’s frightened, dirt-smeared faces. “We have a bit of food with us,” she said. She asked Taunier to pass his rucksack and reached in for some of the dried fish. A small head poked up, blue eyes blinking.
“Thriss? What are you doing in there?” Hanna lifted the golden pip from the rucksack. The crying stopped as the children scooted closer.
“She is so small,” Cilla said with a laugh. “I thought dragons were bigger than that.”
“She’s still a hatchling,” Hanna explained. Some of the children extended grimy little hands to pet Thriss. A soft rumbling came from the dragon’s throat.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Thriss,” Hanna scolded. “I’m supposed to take the deyas to All Souls Wood. And dragons are not allowed in Oth. What am I to do with you?”
Thriss poked her head in the rucksack, bit the end of a grass rope, and tugged it out.
“Hey,” said Tymm. “That’s mine. You should give it to me.”
Hanna had asked Taunier to bring it along, and now she was glad he’d remembered. Thriss trotted about playfully with the rope until Tymm caught the other end and gave it a tug. She flitted up, spun around once, and let the rest of it fall on top of his head. Everyone laughed. Even the youngest ones were giggling as the baby dragon landed again and purred.
Cilla fingered Tymm’s grass rope. She was a talented little weaver herself, and Hanna could tell she admired the handiwork. Tymm wrapped the rope about his narrow waist five times like a belt. It was a small thing that couldn’t have saved him from the Wild Wind, but it was a thing he’d made all the same.
Taunier gave each child a bit of fish. There wasn’t much, but they ate and passed around the water pouch.
“Do you know why you are here?” asked Hanna.
The children whispered among themselves. Tymm said, “A wind made me fly.” He stretched his arms out and yawned.
“What do you remember?” asked Hanna.
Tymm sucked his lip, then said, “I had lots of dreams. You were in one dream riding on a dragon, Hanna, and the dragon fell from the sky and there was blood,” he said excitedly. “You asked me to help you with that dream.”
“What?” Hanna said, startled.
“You forgot how to dream because it had been all dark in your sleep, and so you asked me to help you dreamwalk. You were curled up in seaweed when I helped you.” Tymm pointed to the ceiling. “Those roots helped me dream bright dreams.”
“I dreamed, too,” Cilla said. And the smaller children nodded, big-eyed.
“Was that why the Wind-taken were held in the roots?” Taunier said. “So they wouldn’t lose their dreams?”
“Why else would they sleep in Taproot Hollow,” said Zabith, as if the answer were as clear as day.
The oldest-looking boy stood and tightened his belt. He gazed across the circle at Hanna, his black skin shining in the torchlight. “I’m Kevin.” He introduced another girl and boy. “The three of us were apprentices from the meer’s school on Othlore,” he said. “We were all at the top of our class in Restoration Magic.” Kevin drew in the dust with his boot and squinted at Meer Zabith. “You used to live in the woods near the High Meer’s river house, didn’t you?”
“I’m Meer Zabith,” she said simply. Kevin bowed to honor the meer, and though she could not see, Zabith nodded back in his direction.
The boy looked around. “The wind that blew us here called ‘Tesha yoven.’ ”
Tymm and the other children nodded.
“Tesha yoven,” said Evver. “Bind the broken.”
Hanna remembered Tymm’s cry, and talking about its meaning later with Miles on the Leena. She put her arm about her little brother, taking in the scent of his sweat and soiled clothes.
“Who wanted you to come here and bind the broken?” she asked.
“Who?” Kevin frowned. “I don’t know. I thought you were here to tell us that.”
Hanna stared back, incredulous. In the dancing torchlight, all eyes were suddenly on her; even the deyas searched her face, as if an answer lay there. She hadn’t called them here. How was she supposed to know?
Hanna sputtered. “I … I …”
Stark silence. One child coughed.
Evver’s long brown hand swept the air. “The Old Magic is at work, and the ways of this magic are beyond speech. The two worlds are breaking apart. Would the wind have brought you here without purpose?” he asked. “We will put our trust in the Old Magic and follow the way as it opens,” he said quietly. It was not an answer, but the words seemed to calm the crowd. Evver’s voice had a power in it, clear as rain, deep as a lake.
“But I’m still hungry,” Tymm grumbled.
Taunier snorted a laugh.
“Well, I don’t blame you,” said Evver, bending low to pat Tymm’s head. “Essha, boy,” he said tenderly. “Do you hear those bees? There may be some honey farther along. Why don’t we go and see?”
“All right.” Tymm stood and wrapped his hand around Evver’s smallest finger.
; “Well, Kanameer,” said Evver. “Lead on.”
Taunier took up Hanna’s torch, and they started off again. In the broad cavern the darkness was complete, and the torches gave no more light than they had an hour before, but Hanna gave silent thanks to Zabith for her stubborn insistence on this tunnel, and to Evver for his confidence in the power of the Old Magic.
The way felt open now.
PART THREE:
THE WORLD TREE
THIRTY-ONE
SONGS OF THE MISHTAR
When the dragon wars ended, the Mishtar turned his sword into an ervay to play his Dragons’ Requiem.
—A MEER’S HISTORY OF NOOR
Rain spattered the dragons as they rode the storm’s chill drafts high above the East Morrow Sea. From Kaleet’s back, Miles could just make out the small sailing vessel the Cutters had abandoned in their harbor far below. Meer Eason used it now to cross the miles of ocean between Jarrosh and Yaniff.
There were no more living azures for the dragons to guard, and knowing the Cutters would return to harvest the fallen logs for the King of Kanayar to rebuild his city, the Damusaun had withdrawn her forces. She would hold her dragon council in Yaniff.
Miles shivered under his soaking cloak. Across the sea he saw the jagged outline of the snowcapped mountains beyond the expansive flatlands.
No man had set foot on Yaniff since the time of the great Mishtar. He would be the first. Miles hummed “Avoun Darri,” the song the Mishtar had played on his ervay when he sailed from Yaniff to his first dragon battle in Reon.
They crossed the shore and sped over the wide mouth of a river. A deep, shuddering sound filled the air, loud as thunder, though it had not come from the clouds. The land below them shook. To the north, great pieces of the mountainside broke off and tumbled down ravines. The foothills rolled like swelling waves, and in the flatlands below, Miles saw tall stone pillars topple over, breaking as they hit the earth.
“The split between the worlds grows wider!” the Damusaun called. “No one is to land!”
An hour after the quaking stopped, the dragons wheeled down and landed near the river’s mouth. The wind picked up as Miles dismounted, sending a chill across his back. By the time Eason’s ship arrived, they had set up camp along the river, well away from the remaining pillars that might be the next to fall if another tremor came.
The Damusaun left the rest of the group to walk toward the last remains of the ancient ruin. Miles knew he should leave her be, but he could not. He shivered as he followed her, his hair and cloak still sodden from the storm. It would be colder still when the sun set in this desert.
He walked in the undulating pattern her tail left on the damp sand. The patterns matched those the wind had made on the sand, like waves on a dry sea. Each swish of her tail erased her large footprints so it was as if no creature had walked there. She was making herself invisible. He wondered if she meant to do this.
As they came closer to the towers, he remembered how they’d looked from above. Before the quake he’d seen five or so ruins like this one across the landscape, with rows of enormous white pillars resembling jutting teeth in the desert’s mouth. Many pillars in the ruin ahead had beams rising at an angle near the top—roof supports, Miles guessed, though the roof had crumbled long ago. What sort of building or temple had they once supported? He felt sure the monoliths were not the work of men, but dragon-made, a place of worship or sacrifice or both.
Had the queen come here to worship? He paused, waiting, and was nearly jolted from his spot by her sudden loud wail. There was fire in the scream. The piercing sound shook his bones and made his jaw ache. The bright hot fire burned his eyes. He covered his face with his hands, feeling this wasn’t meant for his ears or anyone else’s. This was why she had come away from the others.
They had lost.
The Waytrees and their deyas were gone.
She was the queen of a homeless clan.
He was not supposed to be witnessing this, but he felt the resonance of her angry cry in his bones.
When her screams were done, she wrapped her tail about a pillar and leaned her head against the white stone. Miles thought to turn back then, but she spotted him and motioned to him with her talon.
Miles bowed, then rose again. “How long do we have before the worlds split apart completely, Damusaun?”
“How long,” the Damusaun repeated, her eyes half closed. It was not an answer, nor a question. The knowledge of the splitting worlds was beyond even the ken of dragons, the oldest living creatures in Noor.
The queen turned and surveyed the weary gathering far away by the river. “Tell them to fish,” she said. “We all need to eat.”
“I have to ask you something. It’s about Hanna and Taunier and—”
“Not now. I am weary. We will rest before we hold the council.”
Miles saw she was in control again. She would hold whatever anger she felt about their defeat, keeping it to herself.
He was sure the queen had brought them here for a reason. The way between worlds was lost in Jarrosh. But there had to be another way to cross over. It would do him no good to argue with the Damusaun when he needed the dragon’s help to find his sister, his best friend, and his little brother.
Bearing his disappointment and worry, Miles walked to the riverside to deliver the queen’s message. Soon terrows and taberrells were catching fish in their great claws. Miles helped Eason make three tall brush piles. When the bonfires were lit, the dragons made ready to eat their meal.
Miles patted the ground at his side for Breal. He shared his dinner, carefully removing the tiny fish bones before feeding his dog. When both were satisfied, he adjusted his damp shirt and held his hands out to the popping fire.
“You don’t want to do that,” said Eason.
“Do what?”
“You’ll want to keep your meer sign to yourself unless you’re asked to show it.”
Pulling his hands away from the fire, Miles inspected his left palm. The blue spiral had already begun to show. It slowly faded as it cooled.
“We are only two now,” said Eason.
Miles looked down at his scuffed boots, remembering Kanoae’s death. After the battle, they’d brought her wrapped body to the dock and placed her in one of the Cutters’ abandoned boats. Meer Eason had buried her at sea on his way to Yaniff.
“She was a warrior,” said Eason. “I sang Kaynumba on the ship’s deck before her sea burial.”
“She would have liked that.” Miles didn’t try to hide his tears, and the heat of the fire took them from his cheeks soon enough.
Eason said, “Kanoae would have wanted to die the way she did.”
“She didn’t want to die!”
“I did not say that, Miles. But all folk die sometime. Kanoae wouldn’t have wanted to end her life old and feeble. As a warrior she chose to fight among dragons. Do you see?”
Miles frowned. He was about to say that she was as brave as a man, but he caught himself. The Damusaun was female, and she was the most courageous being he’d ever met. Like Kanoae, he’d been proud to fight alongside her and the other dragons, even though they’d met defeat.
“We lost everything,” he said. “Kanoae’s dead. The azures are gone.”
Firelight bronzed Eason’s thoughtful face. “It’s true the battle is over,” he said. “But eOwey’s song is not over yet. We still have our parts to play.”
Miles deepened the sandy rut around the fish bones. “What is my part?”
“It is not mine to say. But listen, and you will know when to join in.”
“How can you still hold on to your belief now?”
“What else is there to hold on to?”
Anger, Miles thought. Revenge. But they wouldn’t fix things, either. He knew the Damusaun felt the same when he’d witnessed her fiery scream, yet she wasn’t giving in to it. What good was anger now? Where would it get them?
He tasted Eason’s words. It was one thing to speak of eOwey’s great s
ong, another to live in this broken world. The earthquakes had come, as the High Meer warned they would near the end. Taunier and the deyas were somewhere in this world or in the other, following Hanna, looking for Tymm and the other children to bring them back before the worlds split completely.
Across the shooting flames, the Damusaun was eyeing him, her pupils glittering like black diamonds. He would ask her now to help him find Oth. There must still be a way.
But she spoke first. “The newest meer will help us now that the meal is done,” she ordered. “Play your ervay to ease our company before I begin our council.”
Miles stood unsteadily, feeling for his leather pouch. “It’s been a while since I’ve played.”
The Damusaun shook her head and snapped her teeth. She did not like to be kept waiting. Meer Eason gave him an encouraging nudge. The thought of playing before the Dragon Queen sent a jolt of fear down Miles’s spine. No one but the great Mishtar himself had ever played before dragons.
Miles raised his ervay. The queen had promised to call the council soon. If his song pleased her, he could approach her again with confidence. His hands were stiff and awkward, and he felt like a beginner.
The ervay was cool against his fingertips as he began “Avoun Darri.” He’d hummed it flying here with Kaleet, but it was a difficult piece to play. The opening notes were not as perfect as he wanted them to be, but he kept going. He went on to play the sweet, deep melodies he’d heard in Othlore Wood. He’d thought the tunes were his own, composed on woodland walks during his first year as an apprentice, but he knew as he played them now that the melodies belonged to the ancient Waytrees on Othlore, to the deya spirits in the wood. He’d heard them from the singing boughs, the murmuring leaves, and translated them note by note.
The stone pillars, towering as high as Waytrees, cast long moonlit shadows across the ground. The tune spread out like invisible waters, encircling all, connecting everyone. The dragons joined in, singing, tails drumming on the sand.
The Dragons of Noor Page 18
