I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. I’d never seen it before. But there was a familiar weight on my feet which, when I looked at it, was indeed Sippy and not an impostor, and then I looked a little farther and discovered Setyep sitting tipped back in a chair, reading something. He looked up when I moved and put the book down. He didn’t waste words. ʺHungry?ʺ he said.
The water rushed into my mouth so fast I could barely say yes. He had a basket of rolls and a ewer of water next to him, which he shifted to the table at the head of my bed, and then he stuck his head out the door of the strange room I was in and shouted, ʺHe’s awake! Bring supplies!ʺ
I don’t remember much of the next hour or so either. I was too busy eating. (Then someone had to tell me where the loo was, and then I came back and ate some more.) When I could finally think of something besides food again there were only a few people left in the room, although I had some memory of a lot more people coming in and being forced back out again, protesting, and the door being not only closed but bolted behind them.
By that time I’d noticed that the room was a kind of small dormitory although mine was the only occupied bed, so there was room for everyone who was still there, plus Sippy weaving through the chairs scrounging for crumbs and attention (in that order). Dag was there (who’d been the first through the door when Setyep shouted and almost broke some already-sore-from-bouncing-around-on-a-dragon bones when he hugged me) and Setyep and Eled. The one I didn’t know was the old guy from breakfast in the food halls two (three?) days ago—the one who’d wanted something for his aching shoulder. Zedak-something Something. I couldn’t remember his name either. Lormon? Ormlo? I hadn’t noticed him coming in or sitting down. (I was really hungry.)
I was seeing him up close for the first time—or anyway I was looking for the first time. I’d been kind of preoccupied with other things that time in the food halls. His white hair had the occasional black thread running through it, and the wrinkles on his face were so deep, some of them, you could’ve planted corn in them. The person-in-authority aura was worse close up, like sitting too close to the fire, and having him staring at you from only a few handspans away was a little like being pricked with the end of a very sharp dagger. I had to restrain myself from jumping to attention. Or running away. But I wasn’t going to do either one. All I could think of, now, after what had just happened, and still feeling as wobbly as a convalescent, was, he was one of the people responsible for letting Hereyta’s name go on the First Flight list. I was just as bad as Dag. Once I’d met Hereyta I’d probably always been as bad as Dag but it had solidified after what we’d been through. I knew I didn’t have the courage to tell him what I thought about him for that, but I could at least try, I don’t know, to stare back.
He was sitting down but he sat just as straight as he stood, as if he had a broomstick up the back of his coat; and those big square shoulders hadn’t sagged at all over the years he’d been carrying the world on them. Or maybe that was just the most comfortable position for him. I wondered if the delor leaf had helped.
In almost any other situation he’d have scared me witless before he said anything but . . . we’d done something, you know? Dag and me and Sippy and Hereyta. The Academy—who at the moment was this guy—had tried to do something horrible to Hereyta, and we hadn’t let them. Rot them. Rot them all. See if I cared. I even had the cheek to ignore him long enough to ask Dag, ʺHow’s Hereyta?ʺ
ʺShe’s great,ʺ he said, and I thought I saw something of my feelings in his face too. ʺShe’s not even stiff.ʺ I risked a quick look at the old guy, and he was looking just a little amused. A little ironic maybe. Even a little guilty? No, I was imagining that. Authority stays in charge by never feeling guilty. Although when I say things like that at home my dad says wait till I have kids of my own.
There was a general air of barely suppressed frenzied impatience which began to make itself felt even in my still-half-zonked state. I was still in my clothes from First Flight—yuck—I had Sippy drool down my front and dragon dust and oil over most of the rest of me—next thing was a bath—but at least it meant I could sit in a chair too and pretend I was a part of the group. As long as no one asked me anything and I had to try to answer sanely. Like, ʺWhat the hells did you think you were doing???ʺ The kind of authority that had kept Dag in a classroom for a year and made him think about six hundred forms of correct address doesn’t like you doing stuff you shouldn’t, even when it works. Maybe particularly when it works.
Although I didn’t like this old guy looking amused.
ʺThere will be a council meeting about First Flight later,ʺ he said. ʺBut I thought a few of you—especially Dag and Ern as the most closely involved—might like the, er, simple version first. There will probably be a bit of an uproar at the meeting.ʺ He paused and looked thoughtful. And not at all amused.
ʺThe story goes back a long way. Most of it will be familiar to you from your studies—Ern, you can get Dag to tell you anything you want to know, or Eled, who knows more of the history of this place than I do.ʺ He flicked a glance over Dag and Eled and I was startled—no, shaken—by the affectionate look on his face. He almost looked like my dad, trying to explain about authority and guilt. But he was talking again: ʺThe Academy was founded on certain principles; the invisible structure of our Academy is based on these principles and they may not be broken.ʺ
He paused. Into the silence Eled said, ʺIntinuyun.ʺ Dag shifted in his chair and Setyep sighed.
The old guy nodded and waited, looking at Eled expectantly. You could imagine this guy standing in classrooms in front of generations of cadets, squeezing stuff they didn’t think they knew out of them. Ralas did the same thing to me. Some days I felt like an old dishrag.
Eled said reluctantly, ʺIntinuyun broke one of its founding principles. Their Commander wanted his own choice to succeed him as Commander, not the Seers’ choice. The Commander won out. But his successor died in a freak accident less than two years after he took over, and when the Seers tried to read for the next Commander, the signs only gave them nonsense. Intinuyun was disbanded about a year after that.ʺ
The old guy nodded. ʺOne of every academy’s principles is that dragons and cadets are matched for First Flight by augury and token, although exactly how this is done varies a little from academy to academy. Ours are called up and laid out very carefully, exactly and secretly every year by our Seers. Although most of our dragonmasters are almost half Seer themselves; those in charge of training cadets have to have a gift for deciding which cadets will learn most from which dragons, before we even begin trying to teach the cadets how to watch and listen and respond to their dragons.
ʺEven those of us not directly involved in the practical lessons follow this progress very closely, and when the First Flight lots are drawn and our Seers read the signs, we usually know what they will tell us. Sometimes there are surprises. But in the history of the Academy—possibly in the history of all the academies—so far as we know, no one has ever had quite such a surprise as this year when we were told—nay, ordered—that Hereyta was to Fly, and that Dag was to partner her.
ʺI know you, Dag, have held me personally responsible.ʺ
Dag scowled but didn’t deny it. Dag held him personally responsible? Then who was he?
ʺAnd if it’s any comfort to you—which it probably isn’t—I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the drawing. I’ve looked for ways out—gods know I’ve looked for any possible way out—and there was none. I know Carn, who flew with Hereyta on the journey when she lost her eye; I had partnered her a few times myself, and thought she was the best dragon I ever worked with. I wished I was as lucky as Carn, who Flew with her so much oftener.ʺ
He sounded almost human when he said ʺI wished I was as lucky as Carn.ʺ That’s the sort of thing an ordinary person might say.
ʺCarn stopped Flying when Hereyta did; the official reason was the severity of his wounds, but as I say, I know Carn. That wouldn’t have stopped him.
They might have invalided him out, but he wouldn’t have quit. But he told me he didn’t have the heart for it any more: not when the best dragon he’d ever known had crippled herself saving his life.
ʺShe’s produced some brilliant babies in the years since she stopped Flying and I swear that the cadets who’ve worked with her leave here with a better understanding of dragon-nature than any of the others. I’ve wanted to feel that this was a good use of her talents—but dragons were made to Fly. Other than Hereyta, all the other Academy dragons alternate a few years here and a few years outside, Flying with experienced riders, doing what they do. Hereyta’s been here almost twenty years, either raising babies—or raising cadets. And she’s not so old that if she had three eyes she couldn’t still Fly—there’s no strain on her wing in the Firespace.
ʺI admit that for all those sleepless nights since the First Flight auguries were read out I’ve been harbouring a small terrible absurd hope that maybe there was an answer in—in what you’ve called cruelty, haven’t you, Dag. In the apparent cruelty of sending Hereyta on a Flight she cannot make. That maybe a two-eyed dragon can find the way into the Firespace. I got a lot of reading done all those nights I didn’t sleep, and in one—just one—old tale there was a reference to a dragon who’d lost an eye, who still Flew. But it was only one, and it wasn’t even a history, but a ballad. Poets will say anything if it makes a good story.ʺ
ʺWhich one?ʺ said Dag, as if the words were torn out of him. I was sure he should have said ʺsir.ʺ The old guy was definitely a ʺsirʺ kind of guy. What was the title he’d used in the food hall?
ʺErzaglia and Sorabulyar,ʺ the old guy said. ʺIt’s in the Old Library; I’ll give you a pass if you want to read it.ʺ
I didn’t mean to move, I was just so startled. Then I was even more startled when everyone turned and looked at me. And I’d been relieved when the old guy had stopped staring at me.
ʺErn?ʺ said the old guy. I didn’t like the way he said it. It wasn’t unfriendly, but it had that interested, open-ended sound, like Ern? was only the beginning.
ʺIt’s just I know that story. A little,ʺ I said. ʺIf it’s the same one.ʺ The one I’d been trying to remember enough of to ask Eled about. I was thinking: Erzaglia and Sorabulyar, gods have mercy. No wonder I couldn’t remember the title.
ʺIndeed,ʺ said the old guy, sounding even more interested. ʺAnd how do you happen to know it?ʺ
ʺR-r-ralas tells it,ʺ I said, wondering if I was betraying her somehow. ʺIt’s got a foogit in it, you know. After I’d—uh—found Sippy, she used to tell me all the foogit stories she knew.ʺ I went on, knowing I was blithering, but the old guy’s interest was unnerving, ʺF-f-foogits aren’t very popular, at least not where I—Dag and I—are from. S-she was trying to make me feel it wasn’t s-s-silly or dumb to have—uh—adopted one, sort of. I mean, he stayed with Ralas most of the time.ʺ
ʺNot silly at all,ʺ said the old guy. ʺFoogits have a long and honourable history.ʺ
ʺRescued,ʺ said Dag. ʺHe rescued Sippy. Sippy’d’ve died.ʺ
I could feel the blood beating against my skin as if the Firespace had got inside me. I knew Dag was trying to say that I’d done a good thing, but it was way too near my secret, that I wanted to be a healer. Besides, I hadn’t done such a great job healing Sippy.
ʺAnd who is Ralas?ʺ the old guy went on smoothly.
I didn’t say anything. I could feel the stutter waiting to happen some more. I stared at the floor. Then Sippy inserted himself between my knees and I had to look at him instead. He put his head on my leg and stared up at me with his two big fringy eyes—foogits have amazing eyelashes: they’re good at everything to do with hair—as if he was trying to tell me something. He needed a good brushing. He was covered in dust and dragon oil too. The third eye was hidden again, under his topknot.
After the pause got long enough to be uncomfortable, Dag said, ʺRalas is our village all-sorts wizard. But she’s a good one. She can do all kinds of stuff and never makes a fuss about it. None of us knows why she stays in our little nowhere village.ʺ
ʺAnd how did you come to adopt—rescue—your foogit?ʺ the old guy went on implacably.
This time when I still didn’t answer Dag leaned over and banged my foogit-free leg with his hand. ʺHey. Wake up. This is your story.ʺ
I raised my eyes to the old guy’s face and sighed. ʺWe—my parents and I—were at a craft fair a few towns away from home. Sippy was just a pup, and he was lost, and he had a broken leg. He was crying, and everyone was ignoring him because he was a foogit and he had a broken leg. So I picked him up. The town wizard’s door-keeper wouldn’t even let me in, so there was only me, and I made a mess of setting his leg and by the time we got back to Ralas, who will help anyone, it was too late and he’ll always be lame, but at least he’s alive. And he doesn’t seem to mind. And he eats pretty well. Sir,ʺ I finally remembered to add.
The old guy took his way-too-penetrating eyes off me for a minute and looked at Sippy. As if Sippy could feel that gaze burning into his butt he lifted his head off my leg and pranced around the room a time or two.
ʺI don’t see any lameness,ʺ said the old guy.
Dag made a little grunt I knew well. It was a big-brother-about-little-brother grunt. ʺSippy hasn’t been lame in years. Ern seems to need to go on believing he did it wrong.ʺ
Stop, I thought at my brother. Just stop.
ʺAre you Ralas’ apprentice then?ʺ said the old guy.
ʺNo, sir,ʺ I said, trying not to look miserable, which is how I felt every time I thought about not being Ralas’ apprentice. And before he asked me the next obvious question, I said, ʺI’m not anybody’s apprentice.ʺ I could feel the old guy’s eyes boring into the top of my head again but I refused to look up.
ʺHmm,ʺ said the old guy. ʺWell. I had better warn you you’ll be expected to come to the council meeting.ʺ
I jerked my eyes up then, really fast, to see if he was talking to me, and he was.
ʺYou and Sippy are rather the heroes of the hour, you know,ʺ the old guy went on, ʺand the fact is that most of the Academy is very eager to know more about how you did it.ʺ
ʺDid what?ʺ I said. I was too terrified to stammer, but my voice went up about three octaves.
ʺBrought Hereyta into the Firespace, and brought her back out again, of course, you idiot,ʺ said Dag, before the old guy could say anything. ʺIt wasn’t me!ʺ
ʺI didn’t do anything!ʺ I squeaked.
ʺYou jumped off Hereyta’s back when she was about a league up in the sky!ʺ said Dag.
ʺThat was just stupid!ʺ I said.
The old guy laughed. ʺIt worked,ʺ he said.
ʺIt was still stupid,ʺ I said, truthfully. ʺAnd I didn’t jump. I went after Sippy. Which is even stupider.ʺ
The old guy looked at me thoughtfully for a minute or two. I glanced at him sideways. I was longing to know about the delor leaf. I couldn’t see any self-protective rigidity when he moved but he’d be the kind of guy who wouldn’t let pain show until it killed him. ʺYou said your Ralas told you a lot of stories about foogits. What sort of stories were they?ʺ
I stopped looking at him sideways and stared. What sort of stories?
As if I’d said it aloud, he said, ʺWhen there’s a foogit in a story, what usually happens?ʺ
ʺOh,ʺ I said slowly. ʺThe foogit usually does something really stupid.ʺ I added reluctantly, ʺAnd then something good happens that wouldn’t’ve if it hadn’t’ve.ʺ
ʺYes,ʺ said the old guy. ʺAnd since I think getting the rest of what I want out of you would be rather harder than wringing blood from a stone, I’ll say it myself: and usually the person who then makes the something good happen after the foogit does something ridiculous—I’m not going to call it stupid—is a rather special person, and often the hero of the story.ʺ
ʺOr if he isn’t the hero he steals the story away from the hero,ʺ said Dag dreamily. I hadn’t realised he’d ever listened to any of Ralas’ foogit stor
ies. But Dag likes all animals, like me.
The old guy laughed again. He had a rather nice laugh. If only he’d slouch a little. ʺWe all saw what happened when you disappeared—I don’t think anyone on the field was looking at any dragon but Hereyta from the moment the first one lifted off the ground—did you dive after Sippy to get back out again as well?ʺ
ʺNo,ʺ said Dag. ʺErn just stood up and looked around a minute and then pointed.ʺ
I hadn’t known Dag had seen any of it. Last thing I knew he was leaning on his hands with his eyes shut. ʺNo,ʺ I said in my turn. ʺIt’s something about making a triangle with three of us looking in the same direction, Hereyta, Sippy and—someone. I think the two of them and Arac had been doing something like it as part of Sippy’s running-around game, on the ground. I don’t know why it seems to take three of us when Hereyta’s only missing one eye. I don’t know anything. I don’t know why it worked and I don’t know how to do it again. Maybe you can train Arac to do—whatever.ʺ
ʺMaybe we can. And if important discoveries were easy more people would make them,ʺ said the old guy.
ʺMaybe it’s not an important discovery!ʺ I said. I wanted to lie down again and put the pillow over my head.
ʺOh, I think it is,ʺ said the old guy. ʺIf this were a battlefield situation you might be right—at the end of everything anything is possible, and the gods sometimes send a miracle that will not be repeated. But this—pardon me, Dag, Eled and Setyep—this was only one year’s First Flight at this Academy. What you did, Ern, is something that can be done. We need only learn the mechanism for it.ʺ
Only. I wanted worse to lie down and put the pillow over my head. And for everyone to go away.
ʺYou’re tired,ʺ said the old guy. ʺAnd not surprising. What you did . . . well. You’ve proved it was possible but it was not easy. The council meeting is tomorrow. You and Dag will be called for midmorning. You can rest till then.ʺ
Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits Page 27
