by Holly Lisle
All she could smell was singed hair and blood. She felt like she had the worst sunburn of her life, and if what she knew of burns was correct, that pain was only going to get worse. She needed to look at the compass to see which way she had to go, and she couldn’t slow down enough to pull it out of her bag. The damned buggy had two speeds; stop and one-hundred miles-per-hour.
On the other hand, she thought, brightening a little, I’m not stuck in the bathroom anymore, and now I don’t have to walk.
* * *
“She shouldn’t have a flamethrower or a machine gun,” Birkwelch said.
Darryl ignored the dragon. “All right!” he screamed. “Good save, Minerva! Way to go.” He typed furiously:
Miraculously, Minerva didn’t run over anyone. She got out of town without crashing, and raced toward the place where her children were being held hostage.
“Does she always drive like that?” Birkwelch interrupted.
Darryl looked closer at the mirror. For the briefest of instants at a time, he would get a glimpse of the speedometer. The needle looked like it was glued at one hundred. He thought about it for an instant, then nodded and laughed. “Yeah. Usually worse.”
“Eeep!” The dragon rubbed his long muzzle thoughtfully. “She was driving a station wagon and nearly ran me down — guess I should have known.” He watched a little longer. “I wish she’d look behind her. I’d like to know how many of the Weirds are keeping up with her.”
“You don’t think she lost them?”
“Not a chance.” The dragon sighed. “Their magic doesn’t compare to hers while she’s wearing a Ring, but flying is one of their specialties. She won’t evade them just by driving fast.”
Darryl felt confident. He’d figured out the trick of making messages appear in the air. He’d gotten her safely away from the disguised Weird who’d caught her. And she was out of the town and hadn’t flattened a single pedestrian. He was getting the hang of magic.
“So what does she need? What could get rid of flying Weirds?”
The dragon gave him a sidelong glance and said, “Well, I could, if I were there. But I’m not.”
“Can you get there?”
“Not in time. I’d have to go through the gate — which would dump me at the Hallyehenge, and that is a couple hours from where she is, flying fast.”
Darryl nodded. “I see.” He studied his typewritten page, with its cryptic descriptions of the events he’d made happen in Eyrith, and nibbled on the skin on the inside of his lower lip. “Yeah. Birkwelch — do dragons come in flocks — or what?”
“Only during orgies.”
Darryl gave the blue dragon a nasty glare — and the beast grinned.
“The term for large groups of dragons is a thunder. A thunder of dragons.” Birkwelch sighed and said wistfully, “There haven’t been enough dragons to make up a decent thunder in more than a century.”
“A thunder.” Darryl nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Thanks.”
Darryl began typing again.
Out of nowhere, a thunder of dragons darkened the sky. They plummeted into the center of the Weirds, and drove them from the air. The Weirds fled into the woods, and the dragons hunted them down to devour them.
He looked up at the mirror, eager to see his next miracle take place. Immediately the fact occurred to him that it took a hell of a lot of dragons to darken a sky. A whole hell of a lot. He hadn’t seen so many flying things since he watched Hitchcock’s The Birds.
A second fact followed right behind that first one. Birkwelch had fainted. At least Darryl assumed he had only fainted. He was sprawled out beside and behind Darryl, his eyes partly open and rolled back so only the whites were showing. The dragon’s mouth gaped, and his tongue lolled out to one side.
Birkwelch looked disgusting, Darryl decided.
He checked the mirror. Minerva had come to a complete halt. She was firing the flamethrower with one hand and the machine gun with the other. She was shooting indiscriminately, he noted — and hitting more of his dragons than she was the Weirds he’d sent the dragons to get rid of. Then he saw why. One of the dragons came in at her — low, fast, and from the side. Minerva caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned in time to lay down a steady pattern of machine gun fire. The big beast went down, crashing into the side of her buggy. Then he saw the world lurch, as Minerva turned to face another monster that had attacked from the other side.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” Darryl yelled and ran back to the typewriter. He sat down and wrote—
The dragons quit attacking Minerva and concentrated exclusively on the Weirds. They did not bother the little buggy as it drove off to safety.
“That ought to fix it,” he muttered.
He watched the mirror. Minerva was in the middle of a flame duel. A dragon on her left belched huge gouts of fire at her. One on her right was keeping low and just out of range of her machine gun. Others hovered in front... waiting. The Weirds were nowhere around, but that seemed less comforting than it would have seconds earlier.
“So leave her alone already!” he yelled. “Leave her alone, dammit!”
His hands pounded the keyboard.
The dragons are her friends. They will not hurt Minerva. They are good, friendly dragons who eat Weirds but will not touch Minerva!!!
“That won’t work.” Birkwelch had come around, and was staring over his shoulder. “Dragons are like people. We’re creatures of free will. You can set us up to fit into a scenario, but once the scenario is set, you cannot change the natures of dragons on a whim.” The dragon shook his head slowly. “You’ve established your characters. You created man-eaters there. They aren’t going to turn all nice and cozy for you after they’ve done your dirty work.”
Darryl stared at the dragon, and his mouth fell open. “You mean I’m stuck with them like that? I can’t fix them?” He stared at the mirror in horror. Minerva was fighting for her life on the other side of it, and she looked like she was losing. “I thought I could do anything.”
“Everything has rules. You can do anything, as long as you work within the rules.”
Darryl wrapped his arms around himself and looked through his wife’s eyes at the steady stream of oncoming horrors.
“What can I do?”
Beside him, the dragon sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe she knows.”
Darryl rested his fingers on the keyboard. Don’t fuck it up this time, he told himself. Minerva couldn’t survive too many more of his mistakes. He had another idea. This one, at least, seemed harmless. He took a deep breath, then typed—
Darryl spoke to Minerva, and for the first time his voice carried to her, and when she spoke to him, he could hear her.
“Minerva?” Darryl said softly. He became aware that he could hear a thread of conversation in the back of his mind. It went, “...goddamned sonovabitching luck to get run over by dragons how the hell am I going to get myself out of this one; I can’t even take the time to draw anything...”
That was Minerva. Evidently she was talking too loud to hear him. He yelled, “Minerva! Listen! Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”
The steady stream of profanity died, cut off in mid-verb.
“Darryl?”
“Yes, baby. It’s me. What do you need?”
Minerva had her answer ready. “I need to get rid of these dragons.”
“I know that,” he shouted. “I can see that. But what do you need to get rid of the dragons?”
“It would be nice if they could just disappear the way they appeared. The machine gun and the flamethrower seem to have an unlimited supply of ammo, but they’re both getting too hot to handle.”
“Can I make the dragons disappear?” Darryl asked Birkwelch.
“You can.” Birkwelch looked grim. “That’s Unweaving — and every time you do it, you hand the Unweaver some of your magic. But I don’t see any other alternative this time. Just promise to replace them when you can — maybe that will repair the U
nweaving.”
“Fine,” Darryl said. “Someday I’ll make you some more dragons.”
He typed—
As abruptly as they’d arrived, the dragons vanished.
This time his magic worked. The dragons melted away without a trace. He could tell Minerva had dropped into the seat of her buggy.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
“I’ve been better. I’ve got some bad burns, and I’m cut up. And I’m tired.” She sounded damn near dead.
“The Weirds are gone. With any luck, you won’t have any more of those to bother you. But watch for the green eyes, okay? That’s your tip-off.” Darryl couldn’t help but be happy. The two of them could talk to each other again. He’d missed her — missed her touch and her presence and her warmth, but hearing her made her seem not so far away. It was easier to believe she really was alive somewhere when she talked to him.
“The Weirds — the big flying things... and the farmer, too?”
“Yes. They can change shapes — look like anything they want. They’re the ones who want us dead.”
“Figures.” Minerva opened her duffel bag. Darryl could see her pulling Murp out of it and stroking the cat. “It’s going to be okay now,” she crooned. “We’re going to get the kids.”
Darryl noticed Minerva’s vision becoming blurry in spite of her glasses. He saw a slight edge of gray around her field of vision.
She’s about to faint, he thought. “Minerva,” he shouted, “lie down. I’m going to send you a first aid kit and some Gatorade. Drink as much of it as you can and keep your feet up.”
Minerva lay her head on the back of the seat and stared up at the darkening sky. “Okey-doke,” she agreed.
Minerva never said “Okey-doke.”
A gallon of Gatorade and an incredibly complete first aid kit that contained a handy field guide to first aid appeared on the floorboard of the buggy next to Minerva.
Minerva looked down, and saw the rucksack in the floorboard. “Thanks, Darryl,” she said.
“I love you, baby,” he told her.
Darryl heard an ambulance siren screaming up the street. “I love you, too,” Minerva told him. It felt good to hear her say that—
Boy, that ambulance is loud, he thought. It sounds like it’s right outside the house. “Min — I’ll talk to you later. Find someplace safe, and get some rest.” He heard her muffled reply as he headed for the door. He opened it.
His mother stood on the other side. Darryl yelped and said, “Mom!”
The ambulance was outside his house. The siren quit howling. The ambulance doors slammed. Oh, God, he thought, something’s happened to Dad. His mother’s face was ash-gray, and she wrung her hands. She looked like she’d been dancing with the dead. “Mom... is Dad okay?”
Downstairs, he heard people talking — voices he didn’t recognize. His mother nodded vigorously, but didn’t say anything.
She watched him as though she thought he might suddenly sprout wings and fly; it was only when he realized she was worried for — or about — him that it occurred to him she might have overheard him in the art room.
“Mom,” he said, trying hard to sound calm, “when did you get here?”
She gnawed on her bottom lip and frowned. “About ten or fifteen minutes ago,” she admitted.
Best case, ten minutes. What had he said and done in the last ten minutes? He’d shouted at his dead wife. He’d talked to an invisible dragon. He’d typed lots of oddball stuff on the typewriter that, if taken seriously by anyone, would certainly seem to indicate he was nuts. Not good. Not at all good. He took a deep breath. Smiled.
“Mom,” he said, “there are a lot of things going on you’re going to have to trust me about. It will all make sense soon,” he promised. I hope, he added silently.
His mother pressed her hand to her cheek. She looked ready to cry. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve been under so much pressure—”
“He’s upstairs right now,” Darryl heard his father say. The tread of heavy feet echoed in the entryway, and two burly EMTs came around the corner of the stairwell.
Thanks, Dad. Darryl looked down at them, they looked up at him — the whole scene reminded him of a shootout at high noon. Any second one of them was going to say, “Are you going to come quietly or do we have to shoot you?” — Darryl could feel it coming. His mom said, “Darryl, we called the ambulance. These nice men are here to help you.”
Birkwelch peeked out the art room door. “Nice men? Now she’s talking baby talk, no less,” the dragon said. “If I were you, I’d pretend to be sane.”
Pretend? I am sane. I hope. Darryl wanted to tell the damned dragon off, or at least give him a dirty look — but he didn’t dare. All those people were watching.
“Mr. Kiakra,” one of the EMTs said, “we really think you ought to come to the hospital with us. The doctor can help you, and you will feel better.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Darryl said, backing up. “I feel just fine already — all things considered.”
His mother stage-whispered, “Darryl, you were talking to Minerva. And saying things about making dragons disappear—” She seemed to don resolution before his eyes. Her hands went to her hips and her voice grew firm and sure. “I want you to go to the hospital and let them check you out. Maybe the doctor can give you a prescription that will help you. Everybody needs help sometimes, and we all understand how terrible all of this has been.”
Then her eyes filled with tears. He hated it when she cried. “Darryl,” she whispered, “I’ve lost my grandchildren and my daughter-in-law. I don’t want to lose my son, too. Please... for me...”
Darryl knew when he was beat.
“I’ll go,” he told her. “For you. But I’m not crazy, Mom. I’m really not.”
He walked down the stairs to meet the two EMTs and said he could drive himself. They told him that was all right, and they were sure he could, but since they’d come all the way out and had to go to the hospital anyway, there wasn’t any need. They were giving him the kid-gloves treatment, but he didn’t protest. Protesting your sanity to people who’ve already decided you’re nuts, he thought, is a sure way to convince them, you’re nuts.
Birkwelch rode with him to the hospital, sitting primly in the shotgun seat of the ambulance, leaning around the corner from time to time to make faces at the driver. Darryl pretended not to notice.
* * *
“I don’t know where we’ll get food now,” Jamie complained.
Carol shook Barney again. “He won’t even move. Jamie, I’m really scared.”
Barney listened to her, but he didn’t respond. He wished she would go away. He wished everything would go away.
“The Unweaver isn’t going to give us food or water,” Jamie said. “He wants us to starve.”
“Barney doesn’t care anymore.”
“I care.” Barney could hear Jamie pacing back and forth in the tiny cell. “The monsters — didn’t they say something about how they couldn’t see the road because you had to have the right kind of magic to see it?”
“Well, yeah,” Carol agreed. “But they musta’ been wrong, ‘cause we could see it.”
“What if they were right, though? Would that mean we could do magic, too?”
Barney began to take a slight interest in the proceedings. Could they do magic? he wondered. No — they just hoped they could.
“How did he do it — do you know?” Jamie asked.
They couldn’t do magic. Only he could. He’d show them.
Barney sat up. At first, he felt weak and floaty, almost like his body was mostly air. As he sat, though, he began to feel more solid — and as he felt more solid his feet started hurting again.
He whimpered from the pain.
“He’s awake!” Carol said, and ran over and hugged him.
“No mushy stuff,” Barney growled — but he was secretly pleased with the attention.
“Okay.” Jamie sat down and looked at the cut places on Barney’s fe
et. “Those are getting kind of bad, Barney,” he said. “If you know how to make them better, you ought to do it.”
Barney smiled a little smile. “I know how to do magic.”
“Then do it. Don’t leave your feet like that.”
Barney nodded. His big brother made sense, he thought. He stared at his feet. They were all red and swollen, and the bottoms were all slashed up, and had yellow stuff running out of them. He felt a little sick. He tried to do something to make them okay — but the more he tried, the more he couldn’t do anything.
He sat back, feeling maybe he ought to just curl up in the corner again.
“Can’t you fix them?” Carol asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Barney yelled, “I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know!” He started to cry.
His brother sat down on the mattress beside him. “Can you do other magic?”
Barney sniffled. “I... I don’t know.”
“Try something,” Carol whispered. “Try some chocolate. That would be nice.”
Chocolate, Barney thought. Even through the haze of pain, with his feet throbbing and burning and hurting so bad, he could think chocolate. The taste, the smell, the feel — Barney could make chocolate real. He held out his hand and the candy shimmered to life in his palm.
“Here,” he said, and handed it to Carol. “You can have it.”
Jamie grinned broadly. “See? You can do it. You really can. So do some magic, and make your feet better.”
“I — I can’t.”
Jamie snorted with frustration. “Tell me how you make chocolate. What makes the magic work? ‘Cause if it works for chocolate, it will work for your feet, too.”
Barney didn’t want to be stubborn, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “It won’t.”
