The Dragon Who Didn't Fly

by C. M. Barrett

  Serazina stood up and touched his hand. “I’m sorry that’s how it is for you.”

  His fingers trembled. He didn’t look so old now, and he wasn’t imposing at all.

  “Guardian.” She looked at him, words lost. She took his hands, and with what was almost surely a sob, he pulled her against him. He kissed her, his lips suddenly not thin, but full and soft, the softness smoothing all the raw places inside her, allowing desire to flood her, not only in her body. She began to feel as she had the night before, when the Dragon had come to both of them, and the Lady, and the Dance.

  In the midst of her reverie she heard Berto calling and a terse dialogue between him and a bodyguard. She pulled away from the Guardian.

  “That wasn’t distasteful,” she said, “but I don’t want it.”

  He turned away from her. “I have promised.”

  * * *

  Phileas called on every method of mastery he could muster in order to stop his body from trembling and his mind from staggering off into emotional cesspools. For a moment he had wanted Serazina with a kind of desperation that had slashed through the bonds of discipline. Bonds? Why did he call them by that name? Discipline was his life.

  His mastery had become imperfect. He managed to quell his flare of desire for Serazina only because it reminded him of a greater passion for Romala. Something would have to be done about that. “Marry a nice woman.” Did he dare? Even if life with her would not be tranquil, he wasn’t experiencing vast stretches of peace at the moment.

  Though tradition dictated that a Guardian could marry only after he’d successfully produced an Heir, he could always claim that he was following the example of Zena and Nathan, who’d chosen their son as heir (and hope that no one would remember that he’d been one of the worst Guardians in history). When the dragon business was settled, he’d consider what to do.

  At least, the seesawing about the girl had ended. He’d never know whether he’d made the best decision for the country, but releasing Serazina from any obligations freed him. He argued with himself that it followed logic. The girl would never embrace the discipline required of a Healer, no matter how many precious hours Romala wasted on her. Reason dictated that Serazina, like other misfits, should follow her desires and leave the country, which would suffer not at all for the loss of her dubious talents.

  If only he could exile the errant voice shouting that the country desperately needed not only people like Serazina, but the girl herself. Intuition, he thought with disgust. There’s no evidence for that.

  He was in a foul mood when he returned to the celebration and saw Malvern Frost.

  “Grand party,” Malvern said. The old man’s face was tomato-hued from too much dancing and barley beer. No one else in the square looked to be in much better condition, though.

  It was true that the mind must occasionally rest and the lower impulses be allowed expression. Festivals and other celebrations provided organized outlets for otherwise-dangerous emotions, but Phileas preferred not to be around them. Tonight’s celebration was particularly disturbing. Though separated from the crowd by his place on a hastily erected reviewing stand, he sensed a raw, animal feeling about the throngs packed into the village square. (Or was that the raw, animal feeling Serazina had aroused in him?) The lights illuminated drink-slackened faces with eyes gleaming like those of predatory beasts. The turgid undercurrent of despair, by now characteristic of most Oasan gatherings, tonight spouted foamy crests of rage.

  Malvern slapped his leaden hand on Phileas’s shoulder. “I must confess that this was all my idea.”

  Swords flashed as two young men enacted a Dolocairn dueling dance. The glint of steel sharpened Phileas’s apprehension. “I appointed the Clare girl. The mayor ordered the festivities and invited us to attend. What was your part in it?”

  Malvern’s laughter dispersed alcoholic fumes. “I sent a contribution out to Mayor Cob to make the celebration possible and instructed him to arrange for it. Why are you giving me that snake-eyed look?”

  “Unless you made a private contribution, that was an unauthorized use of funds.”

  Malvern’s veneer of conviviality dissolved. “Don’t threaten me. The sum was less than one hundred nats, which any Councilor may withdraw in the case of emergency.”

  “That being?”

  “A crisis in confidence which would impact on all Councilors and you in particular.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  “Don’t mock me, Speaker. I live among these people; I understand how they think. The villagers are worried about the drought and the Earthers but even more about the succession. You’ve heard them. Do you want an army of field workers marching on the Council chambers? Better to distract them until the time comes to point their anger in the direction it belongs, out there.” His finger vaguely indicated the general area of the swamp.

  “When the time comes for what?” Phileas demanded. “The plan villagers will find particularly congenial?”

  “All to be revealed in the fullness of time. I don’t ask you to produce an heir, do I?”

  “Is a Councilor a hen to sit on a plan until it’s hatched? Tomorrow at the National Council meeting you’ll give me an account of yourself, and it had better be a truthful one.”

  Malvern’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, but it’s only fair to warn you that some begin to question your right to your title. Would a true Guardian allow the Earthers to rampage unchecked? Would he leave his people in jeopardy without an heir? If he can’t produce an heir is it because he is himself perhaps a . . . fraud? Not my words, of course, but they are spoken. I leave you to ponder them. Mayor Cob is signaling me to lead a dragon drill.”

  “Kill the dragon!” the crowd roared at the sight of the old man. “Malvern! Dragonslayer!”

  It was clear that he had men planted in the street and equally clear that Malvern was no fool. He hadn’t spoken as one who let alcohol douse his better judgment but as a man so confident of his power base that he was certain the Guardian would be ineffective against it. Who knew how many webs the wily spider had woven: enough to give him confidence that Phileas couldn’t avoid becoming caught up in one of them?

  “He’s your enemy and the enemy of Oasis,” Romala said.

  Phileas began to regret having given Romala a report of the previous night’s events. Her moments of brilliance were invaluable, but her emotional excesses sometimes outweighed them in the balance.

  And how misplaced she looked this morning in the sober environment of his dwelling. Her skin burned against drab gray walls; her dishevelment was a pronounced contrast to the monotonous uniformity of its furnishings. Even the portrait of calm-eyed Nathan seemed to shrink from the fire in her eyes.

  Romala was altogether desirable. He skidded away from that thought like a car avoiding an accident.

  “Enemy or not, he’s right about the people,” Phileas said. “Their temperature is unstable and dangerous.”

  Like your own, he was tempted to add. As if she heard, she smoothed her hair, tidied her collar, and assumed an expression of intelligence.

  “Guardian, something disturbs me. Ever since you first told me of the peoples’ mood, I’ve been doing research. The other day I discovered an obscure text by Nathan, Mirror of the Mind. Do you know it?”

  The book had been haunting him recently. “It was one of Nathan’s few failures in logic. No Guardian has ever agreed with it. His theories are grandiose and ego-ridden, an exercise in megalomania. In my view they should have been suppressed.”

  “Why is it megalomania to state that the people’s mental wellbeing reflects that of the Guardian? You’re worried about the succession, so the people worry, too.”

  “It has a limited application,” Phileas said. “Naturally a Guardian must always appear confident and optimistic, but you’re implying that this mysterious communal malaise reflects some inner disturbance of mine. It’s preposterous.”

  “When you were ill—”

  “I wasn’t ill.
I was injured by an assassin’s bullet. I’m quite well now, I examine my mind on a daily basis and there’s nothing out of order.”

  “As you will,” she said, her head bent in false deference.

  Phileas was given a sudden insight into the roots of wife beating. “Shall we continue? Malvern is my enemy. He’s tried to corner me with his evaluation of the peoples’ mood, but I’m not a dog to whine for mercy. I’ll attack by charging him with secrecy. The people don’t like that. He’ll have to reveal his plans.”

  “If only we knew how the other Councilors will react. Daria Turley is hopeless. I do think it’s time to abolish the precedent that a descendant of Nathan—other than the Guardian, of course—must always be represented on Council. His blood has thinned considerably.”

  Phileas allowed himself some tension-releasing laughter. “Daria is wedded to the old ways with no understanding of them. What about Kermit?”

  “His mind isn’t bound,” Romala said. “He considers issues carefully, he’s guided by his conception of what’s best for the people. He’s certainly above bribery or coercion.”

  Phileas agreed, but he mistrusted the tone of admiration in her voice. “Perhaps you have some romantic feelings toward him?”

  Fireworks ignited in her eyes again. “I don’t, but if I did it certainly wouldn’t be any of your business. I’m deeply offended . . .”

  She went on and on, as only a woman could, until at last he was forced to apologize, inwardly cursing himself for his unforgivable and strategically unsound breach of discipline.

  Chapter 18

  Serazina should have been reassured by the Guardian’s promise, but the next morning when she got up, tendrils of fear gripped her. Danger lay ahead.

  Her tension seemed to be contagious. At breakfast her parents sniped at each other in a manner unbecoming to sober, restrained mates, and Elissia tried to make peace between them. “You must have had too much wine last night,” she said. “I have a headache myself. Drink some calming tea.”

  “She’s probably right,” Johar said. The effort of smiling made him wince.

  “Perhaps,” Fiola said. “It’s logical. I think I’ll go to work a little early. Being in the city is sure to improve my mood.”

  She washed her dishes and left the house.

  Her absence didn’t do much to improve Johar’s mood. His fingers drummed against the saucer of his teacup.

  Serazina thought of something that might make him happier. “I spoke to the Guardian last night, and he has released me from any necessity to breed.”

  Johar’s eyes briefly brightened. “You must be very persuasive.”

  “I’ve never thought of myself as good at that. It’s more likely that the Guardian is a decent and honorable man.”

  “Let us hope so,” Johar said, “and let us also hope that he can prevail against those who lack all decency and honor.”

  “What do you mean?” Elissia asked.

  “I can’t speak of it now.”

  Berto reacted with much more exuberance when she told him about the Guardian’s promise. “So we’re free to plan on leaving?”

  “We are, and that means we can take our time and do it right. Having another month or so to save money will help us settle in Tamara more easily.”

  “I agree.” Berto hugged her. “ Serazina, aren’t you excited?”

  “I can’t get used to the idea,” she said. “I can’t convince myself that I’m safe, but I’ll try.”

  The kitten wasn’t around as much as usual, but whenever she appeared, she stared at Serazina and mewed frantically. That only heightened Serazina’s anxiety because she thought something was disturbing the creature.

  Serazina was a disturbed creature, too. Every night, when she fell asleep, she dreamed that the dragon was weeping. “You’re leaving?” it cried. “And we haven’t even met.”

  She was probably going out of her mind.

  * * *

  Orion assured Tara that cats never lost their minds, but her brain cells were melting with the effort to reach the girl.

  When she was asleep, Serazina’s mind was receptive, accepting the idea of talking animals and the notion that the dragon held no threat for her. Tara’s attempts to communicate when Serazina was awake, though, smashed against a shield of disbelief. The girl understood her urgency but misinterpreted it as distress. More than once Tara had seen pictures in Serazina’s mind of a cold, shiny table, a man who poked at and probed Tara, and the word, “Vet.” Tara scampered away from these images.

  Worse, Tara sensed in the girl a deepening conviction that she needed to leave the country before she had a total mental meltdown. The Quest would have looked like a hopeless venture, except that the city cats and a few volunteers from the village were organizing themselves into effective intelligence teams. Though they hadn’t yet come up with any substantial information, they were positioned so that any useful news would come to their ears at once.

  Three days after the celebration for Serazina, Orion approached Tara. “Isn’t it time to try again?”

  “You don’t know what you ask,” she said. “I need to rest my brain before making another assault.”

  She squirmed in his unblinking gaze. “All right, I’ll go to her tonight. I promise.”

  * * *

  Druid had been suffering for two days when, while wandering on the beach and thinking about how gritty sand really was, his oldest friend, the century-old turtle, Seafoam, hailed him.

  “You look more depressed than usual.”

  Druid was pleased that someone had noticed. “Much more. I’m suffering greatly.”

  He was disappointed when Seafoam, instead of asking why, said, “Our wisdom tells us that suffering, when experienced fully, leads to the end of suffering.”

  “I’m an expert at suffering fully, and I haven’t noticed it ending.”

  “Did you really suffer fully? Or at some excruciatingly painful point, did you back away and say, ‘I can’t take this any more’? Or are you perhaps resisting it all the while?”

  “Of course, I resist it. It hurts.”

  “And do you tell yourself constantly how much it hurts? What if you told yourself that this feeling would teach you something?”

  The turtle raised a flipper. “Do me a small favor. Try it.” Then he slid into the sea.

  Druid wanted to ignore the turtle’s advice, but it stuck to him like a stubborn barnacle. He sat down, leaning against a sand dune, and thought.

  I’m suffering because I’m ashamed that, even though Tara was very honest with me, I didn’t tell her the full truth about myself. And part of that full truth is that I’m now humiliated by the realization that basically, I’ve had a centuries-long temper tantrum.

  Maybe I could let go of that suffering, but it’s only possible if I admit that misery prevents me from recognizing that Destiny is calling—in the form of a kitten who is both charming and bad-tempered, who may be wise and certainly courageous but who has no physical power. In fact, she needs my protection, I, who gave up the power of flight. I have to come into that power and probably many more. Now.

  And that is very frightening.

  Druid supposed that Seafoam would have advised him to fully experience the terror, but he’d experienced enough for one day. The time had come for action. He had to prepare the swamp animals for the arrival of a human.

  He was deciding whom to contact first when Tomo strolled by.

  “I heard that a certain small kitten came to the swamp,” the cougar said.

  “Yes, and I want to tell you about it.”

  Druid left out Tara’s rapid-fire questions about his relationship with the Mother, even though he felt they could have just as accurately been directed at his friend, but Tomo caught the drift.

  “She’s ferocious,” he said. “And brave to live with humans. She said that all animals must defend the swamp?”

  “She did. Now here’s the tricky part. Her idea is that humans have to get involved, speci
fically the girl she lives with.”

  “Typical kitten logic.” Tomo shook his head. “Regardless of the species, they’re all examples of courage and common sense leaping in opposite directions.”

  “But how can we save the swamp without the humans? We have to make them change their minds.”

  “Do you hear yourself? This place will turn into a mountain meadow—which I have never seen—before that happens. Although . . . .” He sank onto his haunches. “I can’t forget the effect that kitten had on me.”

  Druid remembered how Tomo had briefly turned into a cougar of great faith. It could happen again. “She came into the swamp, all alone. Imagine what else she might be able to do. Tomo, we won’t know what’s possible unless we let the girl come here. You need to help me convince these stubborn animals that they should welcome her into the swamp.”

  “Maybe you’re too ambitious,” the cougar said. “How about ‘tolerate the girl’s passage’? That’s going to be difficult enough. Half the animals will be convinced that she’s a spy, sent by the humans to map out the paths of the swamp so that they can launch a full-scale assault and wipe out all of us.”

  “I’d be the largest target, and I don’t fear the girl,” Druid said.

  “All right. Since the alternative is to sit and brood about doom, I’ll help, but I’m not dealing with the wolves.”

  Druid sighed and trudged off to speak to them.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, someone shook Serazina. She opened her eyes to see her father standing over her bed.

  “Come outside for a minute.”

  Serazina put on a robe and followed him down the stairs, her heart pounding. “What’s wrong?” she asked when they reached the pond. “Do you have a meeting in the city? Why are you leaving in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m not leaving for the city.” He shuddered, and moonlight gleamed on the buckles of his travel pack.

  “Have you had another fight with Mother?”

  He shook his head. “I love your mother, but I’ve given up hoping that she could accept me as I am.”

  “Who you are?”

  Johar’s smile was as frail as the lacework of a spider’s web. “I’m surprised you haven’t guessed by now.”

  With a guilty start Serazina realized that she’d been so involved in her own miseries that she’d barely exchanged a word with him for days—if she were honest, for weeks. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I haven’t paid attention.”