Sign of the Dove

by Susan Fletcher

  “Oh, yes!”

  Kaeldra eyed her oddly, seemed to wait for more.

  “A trembling and … it hums.”

  Kaeldra nodded, unsurprised. She moved to pick up the egg. “We’re going now—you and Owyn will come with us— and we need to take this, too.” She paused, took thought. “Would you like to tend to the egg?”

  “Yes!”Lyf said. “Oh, yes!”

  Harper’s Tale

  The dragon friends were scattered throughout the land. Most knew only one or two or three of the others. It was not a thing you would boast of. It was perilous to own. And yet there was a sign, a secret sign, by which one dragon friend might be known to another. It might be carved upon a lintel, or drawn with a toe in the dirt, or worn as an amulet round the neck.

  The sign of the dove.

  Why dove you ask, my lord?

  Be still and I will tell you!

  Chief among the dragon friends were Kaeldra Dragon-sayer and her husband, Jeorg. They crossed the land provisioning the friends with banded message birds. Seabirds they were at first, but Jeorg soon found doves more suited to the work. If a friend heard of a dragon hatching, or a dragon slaying, or a dragon sighting, he would ink the dove’s band with his mark. Or, if he were schooled in letters, he would tie a message to the bird’s foot. Jeorg had trained the doves to return to a cottage in the hills of Elythia, where Kaeldra’s Granmyr lived. And she would convey the message to Kaeldra.

  And what of Lyf, you ask?

  Would you fetch me a cup of brew, my lass? This tale telling is thirsty work.

  So:What of Lyf?

  Patience, my lady I come to her anon.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dragon’ Cave

  Lyf curled up on a straw pallet with Owyn and the egg while the preparations for leaving went on all around them. Owyn snuggled close; before long Lyf could feel the slow, soft rise and fell of his breath. Sleep washed over her in a wave.

  Then Kaeldra was shaking her, rousing her. Lyf slipped into her shift and kirtle, which were all but dry. Her cloak was still damp. Kaeldra lent her one, which fit long but did not drag on the ground. Then Kaeldra showed her a carrier she had devised: a grain sack rigged with a strap to loop around Lyf’s neck.

  “Wear it thus, to carry the egg in front,” Kaeldra said, drawing the loop over Lyf’s head. Kaeldra picked up the egg and gently slipped it inside. It felt heavy, but secure. Lyf splayed her hands across it to feel it, to support it, then laughed at herself.

  “It must look as if I am with child,” she said. “Or—with dragon.”

  Kaeldra smiled wanly She picked up her sleeping son, then made for the courtyard, shooing Lyf before.

  It was well past midnight—and dark. Few stars shone in the sky, and a fine, chill drizzle sifted down. Jeorg helped Lyf climb astride his great piebald stallion, then mounted up behind her. Owyn, his face sleepy and slack, rode with Kaeldra. Kymo came last, riding one of Jeorg’s horses and leading Grumble behind. Lyf did not see Nysien; she guessed he had already left in search of archers.

  At first Lyf clutched the piebald’s mane with both hands and hugged its back close with her knees. But they moved at a plodding pace, and Jeorg kept one arm about her; there was little danger she would fall. Lyf’s eyelids grew heavy; she leaned back against Jeorg and gave herself to the horse’s swaying motion. One hand strayed to touch the egg within its sack; its vibration lulled her. She slept.

  And yet it was a fitful sleep, broken by clatterings of hooves on rock, of branches whipping at her face, of sudden lurches as the horse broke its stride on some steep stretch of path. Once, the piebald got a rock wedged in its hoof; Jeorg had to dismount and pry it out. Another time, Kaeldra discovered that the marking sack was empty. Mounted on Kymo’s mule, it had leaked out a thin stream of yellow sand to show Nysien the way. All waited, watching the dawn bloom up between the trees, as Jeorg switched sacks and cut another hole.

  Lyf drowsed again, but after a time was awakened by droning voices. “Still, when the draclings hatched, what did the three of you do to help?” Kymo was saying. “I thought you must have a fighting force to keep the queen’s men at bay. But only three—not counting the mighty Owyn, of course. But nonetheless. You’re greatly outnumbered.”

  Lyf, pretending to sleep, listened hard. She, too, had wondered about this. But whenever she had asked, her elders had made shift to speak of other matters.

  “True”—the voice was Kaeldra’s— ”if the soldiers discovered the dragons’ presence. But if we could beg or steal enough meat to keep the mother dragon fed and well in milk until the draclings were old enough to fly, the soldiers might never find them. Or so we hoped. Where we could come by fish, our task was the easier. With a full belly, a dragon need not raid, and few folk would learn of its presence. And many who did know were content to turn a blind eye.”

  “In this,” Jeorg said, “we’re aided by the queen, if she but knew it. The farmers would as lief thwart Kragish royalty as not—and the price of a lamb or two is none too great.”

  “So then, how many clutches have you saved?” Kymo asked.

  “Seven.” Kaeldra’s voice again. “But only two of the mothers have left this land alive. The rest have been killed—though we found their clutches and took them to stay with other dragon dams. This last one who was killed had the care of three new clutches, and her own as well. Now there’s only one mother left, and she’s in a cave far to the north. If we can’t find the missing draclings and fetch them to her before she flies. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Couldn’t you call the grown dragons from the place where they live to come fetch the draclings? You did that once, I know.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Kaeldra sounded angry. “But they won’t come to me anymore. It was just the once they came, and that time they were tricked! I fear they don’t trust me. Or maybe. ...I can’t hear them the way I used to—even the little ones, even when they’re right before me. Maybe I’m growing deaf to them, and they to me. Or maybe… Even my clay workings have failed me. And Granmyr’s clay workings … they’re weaker too. All magic is weaker, save for some of the herbal arts.

  “It’s as if magic is leaching out of this land as the Ancient Ones take leave of it. As if there can be no enchantments without dragons.”

  No one spoke for a moment, and Lyf thought they were done. But then she heard Jeorg’s voice, coming in low: “It’s the cogging bounty hunters that vex me most. Elythians they are-selling out to the Kragish queen for gold. And if”—his voice grew quieter still—”they believe a green-eyed child can help them find a dragon, they will not balk at taking her—or him”

  “I fear the queen’s soldiers most,” Kaeldra said. “They may have tone pipes—though I hope not. Most no longer believe in the pipes’ hold over dragons.”

  Kaeldra had spoken of these before: silver pipes whose tones could entrance a score of dragons. She had thwarted the pipes once, though Lyf did not know how.

  “And do you believe in, then, this thing the queen claims,” Kymo asked, “that if a man eats a dragon’s heart, he is proof against sharp metal?”

  Jeorg said nothing then, but Lyf felt him shift behind her. The sounds of the other horses grew fainter. Lyf peered out and saw that the trail had narrowed. Kaeldra murmured something that Lyf could not hear, and Kymo answered back, but they were well behind now and muffled by the thud of the piebald’s hooves.

  The shadows had grown long when they came to a halt. It was a high, rocky place where they had come. Clouds roiled above, bluish gray and sullen. The trees—what few there were—stood bent and hunched, cringing away from the wind. Jeorg dismounted and Lyf made to come down after, but he put out a hand to stop her. “Stay for now,” he said. “Kaeldra and I are going ahead to the cave. Wait here with Kymo.”

  Kaeldra, Lyf saw, had also lit down and was handing over Owyn to Kymo. “I beat the drums,” Owyn said.

  Kaeldra kissed a finger, then laid it to Owyn’s cheek. To Kymo, sh
e said,”Stay well back from us when we come down with the draclings. They’ll do you no harm, but the horses may well be affrighted.”

  “What will you do with them?” Lyf asked.

  “Jeorg and I will herd them before us. You follow until we reach Yanil’s farm, just east of these mountains. There’s a dove sign carved on his lintel.” Kaeldra smiled reassuringly at Lyf. “You’ve heard me tell of my friend Yanil. And he’s the one who sent the message telling of the dragon’s death. He’ll fold you and Owyn in with his own brood until Jeorg and I return. I trust him completely—and so must you.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “The last dragon mother lairs far to the north, where the land meets the Northern Sea. Jeorg and I will take the draclings to her. They’ll fly with her to their land across the waters.”

  Lyf gripped Kaeldra’s arm. “I’m afraid,” she said.

  Kaeldra slipped a hand over Lyf’s. “No need to fear,” she said. “Only stay back! And mind you—don’t try to ken with them. Do you promise?”

  Lyf nodded.

  Jeorg drew a bolt from his quiver; they headed uphill. Lyf hugged the egg against herself. The hum coursed through her body but did not settle her mind. To see a dracling—at last. Lyf did not know whether she was more eager or more afraid. “Where is the cave?”she asked Kymo. “I can’t see it”

  He pointed to a shadow in the craggy tor ahead.

  Silently they watched as Kaeldra and Jeorg wended up the rocky track. “Mama,” Owyn said hoarsely. “Mama.”

  Kymo jostled him gently. “Did ever I tell the tale of your namesake, Owyn of—”

  Owyn thrashed his arms; his face turned red. “Mama!” he wailed.

  As they watched, Kaeldra and Jeorg disappeared into the shadow.

  An eagle soared into view and circled overhead. Jeorg’s horse snorted and twitched. Owyn calmed at last to a strip of salted meat and a tale of a changeling imp. But Lyf kept her gaze fixed upon the shadow where Kaeldra and Jeorg had vanished. Still no sight of them.

  Then at once—a movement. Jeorg. He was coming down the slope. He moved his arms in a gesture none could mistake: Come!

  They made their way up to the cave more slowly on horseback than Kaeldra and Jeorg had gone afoot. Lyf went before, wary of controlling Jeorg’s massive horse, so much higher off the ground than the shaggy little ponies she was wont to ride. The piebald stumbled on loose scree, sending down clattering rivulets of rock. Approaching the cave, it began to snort and balk. It smells dragon, Lyf thought—and a shiver ran down her spine.

  The cave was immense, angling up above them like the sky on a starless night. Two candles burned some way within, and there Lyf made out Kaeldra and Jeorg. She looked about for draclings, but saw none. And yet there was a smell—a strange, scorched smell.

  “Where could they have gone?” Kaeldra’s anguish echoed and reechoed, seeming to swell and fill the cavern.

  Gone?

  Jeorg’s voice rumbled low and indistinct. “Can’t be far,” Lyf thought she heard him say.

  So the draclings were not here. Lyf felt a flicker of disappointment.

  Kymo helped her dismount; she took care not to squash the egg. She tethered the horse to an outcropping of rock, then drew near to Kaeldra and Jeorg. They were arguing— not in anger at each other, but in vexation at the pass they had come to, and in disagreement on where to go next.

  “… must divide up and go now” Kaeldra was saying, “and catch them before nightfall. No telling what may befall them—”

  “I will not leave you,” Jeorg said. “We must stop and take thought—or end up worse than we are now. First we look for tracks—”

  “Tracks! In rock?”

  “—and if we find none, we will put our heads together, consider carefully where they are most like to have gone.”

  “Too slow! They’re fleeing as we speak! We must—”

  Now Kymo joined in the contention as well, ignoring Owyn, ignoring Lyf.

  “Boom! I beat the drums!”

  Lyf turned to see Owyn pounding on a boulder with two sticks. He pounded again, then turned and made for the dark inner recesses of the cave.

  “Owyn, no!” Kaeldra said, then cast Lyf a pleading look and held out her candle to her.

  Lyf sighed and took the candle. Kaeldra plucked at her sleeve, mouthed Thank you, then turned back to Jeorg and Kymo.

  Lyf caught up to Owyn a little way back in the cave. She considered picking him up and fetching him back to the others—but the egg would get in the way and, in any case, Owyn would likely work himself into a pother. He was well content for now to beat his fanciful drumsticks on fanciful drums. No harm in that.

  The cave narrowed as they went. Candlelight spilled on the ground before Lyf’s feet; she picked her way through the tumble of rocks. Once, she nearly stumbled on a heap of bones. She shivered.

  Dragon’s prey.

  Owyn stumped into every cranny and cavelet he encountered, beating on the cave walls all the while. It grew colder, damper, darker. Lyf had just decided to brave Owyn’s fury and fetch him back to the others when all at once there came a great echoing shout. She turned, stared back at the cave mouth. Dark shadows swarmed into the light. Men! Many men. Nysien’s archers?

  They surged into the cavern, still shouting. Lyf heard Kaeldra scream; then her voice suddenly ceased, as if cut off.

  Lyf started forward, stopped, stood frozen, her heart in her mouth. Kaeldra— On impulse, Lyf blew out her candle.

  What had befallen? Should she go to see? Or …

  The voices swelled in contention. Then …

  “Lyf! Owyn!” It was an Elythian voice, though one she did not know. A flickering yellow glow bobbed slowly toward her.

  Lyf hesitated If it had been Kaeldra who had called, she would have gone to her, no question. But a stranger …

  He called again. All other voices were still. And now, in the light of the approaching candle, Lyf could make out a dark form.

  “No!” Kaeldras voice rang out suddenly, and at the same time there was a sharp, guttural curse.

  Scuffling noises A muffled scream.

  What had she meant by No?

  Was she hurt?

  Was it a warning?

  Lyf waited as long as she could bear it, but the candle bobbed ever nearer, and soon she would have no choice. Then at once her feet whirled round of their own accord and raced for the back of the cave.

  Where was Owyn? She had forgotten about Owyn!

  Black. All was black. She stumbled on a pile of rocks, caught herself, slowed to a walk. The egg. Mustn’t break the egg “Owyn,” she whispered. “Owyn, where are you? Speak softly now—don’t shout.”

  “Why?” came a soft, hoarse voice.

  It was startlingly near. Lyf moved blindly toward the voice, scrabbling with her hands along the clammy cave walls. There. A niche—but too small for even Owyn. Now another—down low.

  “Owyn,” she breathed,”are you there?”

  “Why?”

  “Sh!”

  Plague him with his whys! He was ever asking why, even when it made no sense. Sometimes, Lyf thought he just wanted to keep her talking.

  She tried to crawl through the opening, but got stuck and could go no farther. The egg. Must take off the egg. She hauled it up out of its carrier, set it down on the ground, and gently rolled it through. Then she crept through herself, thankful for once that she was small. Her head bumped something soft: Owyn. She groped one hand up his face, clamped it over his mouth, then brought her lips to his ear.

  “Sh,”she whispered. “We’re playing a trick on the others.”

  Owyn pulled her hand away from his mouth. “But Mama—”

  “She’s playing too. Sh!”

  Lyf scooted Owyn away from the opening and pulled him down onto her lap. She wrested the sticks from his hands and put a finger to his lips, wishing that she could go down inside him and silence him as she had the bird.

  “Lyf?” came the man
’s voice. “Owyn?”

  Owyn shook with held-in laughter. Lyf clasped her hand over his mouth.

  “Come out now; don’t be afeared. Kaeldra sent me to fetch you.” The voice, full of false heartiness, echoed in the darkness.

  Lyf could hear footsteps now, crunching on the rocks. More than one pair, it seemed to her. Then, “They’re not here,” came the voice. “Kaeldra claims they left them at a farm.”

  “You credit what she says?” Another voice—older, deeper, but still Elythian.

  “Well, what of the draclings? He said there would be draclings.”

  “They were here. I can smell them.”

  “We should have followed longer, like Nysien told us. Till we were sure they had the draclings. We’d have got the wolf’s head for Kaeldra and the beasts.’

  Lyf started. Nysien?

  “Or lost both,” the older-sounding man said.

  “Lyf!” the other shouted. He was walking now, coming nearer. “Owyn! Come on, now! I’ve an apple for you”

  Lyf squeezed Owyn. “Be still,” she breathed.

  But her mind was working fast, groping to understand. Nysien had sent them?

  “They’re not here,” the younger one said at last. “Nysien said the girl is a cosseted milk coddle. She’d have run sniveling to her sister by now.”

  “I marked a light. They’re here—but farther back!”

  “You’re the only one who saw. Likely your eyes played you a trick, getting used to the dark.”

  “My eyes see as well as yours!” Then, shouting, “Lyf! Owyn! Come out now or I’ll flay you and string you up!”

  Lyf hugged Owyn tightly to comfort him, to comfort herself. The men were close now, so close. Light seeped across the floor, flooding the tiny chamber where they hid. Lyf’s bloodbeat pounded in her ears. Owyn wiggled to escape her restraining arms; she leaned in close and breathed,”Be still!” in his ear.