by Sharon Lee
“Now!” Anthora’s voice came, though whether in answer or in direction to Jeeves, Kareen was unsure.
Nor did it matter.
She was across the kitchen, the hideaway she had used to take the life of her oldest and dearest friend in her right hand. With her left, she slapped the button—and reeled back a step as the door slid away and the interior of the dumbwaiter was revealed.
It was much smaller than she had recalled, nor was she an adventure-blind boy with a child’s understanding of danger.
The front door caroled again, chiding her for leaving guests languishing on her doorstep.
She thought that they would not ring a third time.
Teeth drilling her lower lip, she pushed herself into the tiny space, crouching in a most undignified manner, her knees practically in her ears and every muscle protesting. She extended an arm and clumsily slapped at the wall, hitting the button on the third try, barely snatching her hand inside before the doors snapped closed.
* * *
She would, she decided, tell Daav alone of this, if he lived and if he inquired. Else it was good to have secrets, after all.
The motion was abrupt, jerky, and her stomach, already at risk from the day’s bloody adventure, nearly gave up its wine and pastry. Darkness engulfed her; the drop seemed both precipitous and overlong, the racket of machinery an assault upon her ears. She hung on desperately against nausea and vertigo, the twomping sound and shock of the stop all the more unsettling for the continued darkness. Had the mechanism malfunctioned? Was she trapped here, in this small space, in the dark—and above! A noise! Had they broken down her door already? How long would it take them to—
A breath, now! she counseled herself, panting in the dark. A breath!
Think!
She groped, skinning knuckles on wire mesh, tearing a nail as she found the latch, and pushed. It resisted. She felt a rumble—certainly the thing wasn’t moving again?
But there, no, the gate opened suddenly, spilling her out of the compartment, her gun-hand striking gritty ’crete with flinching force, and a knee close behind. Some switch sensed her, and light flared, nearly blinding in actinic purity. She thrust her gun into her pocket, and kept her hand on it.
The room was painted white. Ahead, a platform, empty save for some pallets and a motorized hand-truck. A door, at the far end of the platform. Again the rumble, vibrating in her chest as she hurried toward the door, hating to trust in the luck, hoping that they had not yet set anyone to watching—
She hit the bar. The door popped open, and immediately swung back toward her face, slammed by the wind.
Kareen caught the door on her shoulder, and pushed out into a bewilderment of winds, a rush of rain so heavy it seemed that the lake itself had been upended.
Pausing inside the slender vestibule, she took another breath, and gathered her wits.
There was a flight she must make, and those who wished her not to make.
“Flaran cha’menthi,” she muttered, and stepped forward into the storm.
The wind tore, snatching the tuque, and she flailed for a disoriented moment before snatching it back and holding it to her head. Sodden locks of hair straggled into her eyes, and the sturdy baker’s jacket was soaked through.
There!
Light beams fought the abnormal weather; the blue cab sat quietly, near the usual service doors.
Beating against the wind, she pressed onward; the driver or some sensor sliding the door to admit her. If there were others she could not see them.
Within, in livery, a wide-eyed taxi attendant spoke in rapid familiar Low-Liaden.
“Are you all in? I’ve never in my life seen a storm come up like this in Solcintra. You’ll need a good stiff drink to dry you out after this . . . ”
It was the tuque that saved her, dripping collected water in her eyes.
Yes. She wore the white tuque and livery of her own. Korval’s livery.
“I’ll have one,” she said, answering also in the Low Tongue, though she had to her knowledge never seen the man before, much less counted him an intimate, “as time permits. There’s a rush of work needs done first!”
“Oh aye,” agreed the driver, “there’s always a rush of work.”
Mortification set in as she looked at the cab rate info.
“I’ve come away without payment,” she admitted.
The driver—her rescuer—laughed, allowing the cab to accelerate into the gloom.
“Address?”
“But . . . ”
“Not a regular for this house, eh? We’ll just invoice at end of the relumma, like always. Korval’ll pay, just like they always do. Code and Balance. Korval don’t play games with their name, is what I think!”
The car stuttered across some standing water, and if the driver saw her sag into the seat, shaking, likely he thought it was because she needed that drink to fend off the dampness.
She looked into the camera feeding her image to the driver.
“Yes,” she managed, her voice shaking slightly—but he would surely put that, too, down to chill—“that’s what I think as well.”
She closed her eyes then and leaned back, the gun weighing in one pocket, the tickets in another.
Flaran cha’menthi.
Dragon Tide
The promise of morning was brushing the sea as Stregalaar stirred, the down of his forewing barely tickling his outer eyelids, the light barely touching his consciousness.
A breeze was up but fitful, not yet fully streaming in from the ocean, still burdened with upland scent from the river coursing into the sea nearly below his branch. Later would come the salty freshness as both tide and breeze turned and then he would know if his day was spent best scavenging in the hills or fishing along the curling beachfroth.
His usual foraging choice was along the waves, although some days, especially if he woke early like today, he’d have a wanderlust and find his wings set for hills and heights, allowing the sea breeze to waft him as high as the clouds. Those days he’d sight a distant grove and glide there, or perhaps to the one beyond that or the one beyond that.
Again came the awareness of some tiny movement, some minute shifting of weight or a motion he had not made, as when a sharp wind might tug at wings on high.
He opened his eyes more fully then, his neck and head still, wings yet locked, the down fringing his vision momentarily.
Something—not the light on the horizon and not the breeze—had woken him. He listened; it wasn’t the usual wind warning that the groves of greenkin might rattle to each other across the fields and ravines, though it held a faint tinge of that, and it was of the greenkin.
On the rumpled breeze now came the smell of ground-creature fear. Not enough to excite the muscles that made his jaw twitch, not enough to make him turn to find the source. A distant mutter from the tallest tree on the hillcrest suggested that one of the other wingfolk also sensed something, but in the breeze was no message other than unease. Perhaps that tree, already lit with full greening light, was already starting its peculiar morning evictions. Not all trees were so populated that they needed to chase their dragons away to preserve pod and leaf.
His own home tree, the Laar, was still in green slumber, and there was no current need for morning evictions—if ever there had been!—for Stregalaar was the only regular resident now that his ancient cousins had flown their final trip into the oceanic mists. Some days—most often at morning tide and sunset—he yearned for company and wished one of the ground-browsing grove youngsters might stay and use his juvenile bedding now that he’d taken up the top nest, as was his right and duty as Tree Master.
True, he was young for it, and true, he was inexperienced in the finer points of tree-keeping. His cousins had done the bulk of the guarding once he’d moved from the groveflock, protecting him to some extent, until that frost-ridden day when Levanlaar’s flight became hesitant. She and Hargalaar had gathered in with him, inviting him to add a stick to the top nest and make it
his own, and then flown from their ancestral grove and nest tree toward open ocean and the Island of Constant Summer, never to return.
His time so far as Tree Master had been eventful only in that he was still discovering his world and himself: the Laar had already done much to establish itself, after all, being the only remaining greenkin on this clifftop outcrop. The rest of the extended grove was on higher, richer, and more level land where they stood in close formation, inviting root-grubbing rodents, wandering pod thieves, and all manner of lesser pests. There had been other greenkin here on the outcrop, he’d been told, but they had been uprooted by storms. Perhaps they had not the knack of drinking from the brackish waters and giving back sweetwater fruit to their dragons, and so had fallen to root-grubbers, maybe they were merely that much older and unable to root deep because of rock rubble. Surely Laar was fruit of another tree, after all.
Overhead, the patterned night guides gave way to a finer blue-green and the horizon’s glow flared with his morning’s first sight of the day guide. From his vantage, he could see wavecrests where tide met estuary, and now the telltale signs of fins!
With no repetition of the strangeness that woke him, and with the invitation of a quick breakfast before him, Stregalaar stretched, and then whistled the Tree Master whistle.
No, no response. He rarely had visitors, and usually knew as soon as another dragon landed, even if he was asleep, for his tree was as vigilant as he was. Still, one whistled and listened.
After a few moments he heard other treefolk responding from the grove; as if his call was the first of the day.
Duty done, he climbed to the rim, and fell toward the sea. On his way down, he saw the telltale ultra-green of new leaf cradling a pod.
Wings opening as he sped toward the foam, he tucked the promise of an extra delight in memory and dropped his hunting eyelids into place.
* * *
His approach was that of a simple skim-and-snatch. He’d settled on the shadows of three fish swimming together at the surface as a target. As he closed, one of them would be more exposed and he felt the claws begin their tension—but no!
The light reaching him was obscured quickly once and twice and he found two other dragons diving, come from high above, choosing the same fish, sweeping toward him. These were no random beach interlopers but grove members several seasons his senior, now Tree Masters of the tallest tree in the grove. He thought to outspeed them, but they hunted together: Klenveer hunting the fish, Trunveer intent on shouldering him aside.
He tightened wings, not turning away but diving yet quicker, loath to give up the smooth form gliding below. Still, Trunveer came on, now giving out a keening hunting call meant to declare the target as caught and held.
This was where he was weak; with no huntingmate for his nest and that season yet approaching, the older wings could control the beach run all morning if they desired.
With Trunveer’s weight and wings pressing him from sunside, Stregalaar let the target slide by, but felt the excitement rising in him as he turned to follow.
“Away, ours!” Trunveer’s declaration was a brittle screech.
“My track!” he insisted into the winds, and pivoted against the prevailing breeze in time to see Klenveer miss what should have been a clean strike. The grove wings were unpracticed, sometimes going days without turning to the sea. Why should they interfere when they had as much rodent meat as they could use at root edge on any day?
Klenveer’s shriek was clear insult, blaming Stregalaar for his own fumbled approach.
The fish were gone now; the shadows of multiple dragons was enough to drive them down and out.
Still, this was the time for fish and he would fish.
Stregalaar’s turn toward the sea was met by the rising Klenveer and Stregalaar felt the tension build again in the claws. This interference was—
“Childwing, stay away!”
Trunveer closed, but she scolded both of them, “Fish and eat, fight later if you must.”
Klenveer rose, fishless, squawking complaints, going so far as to spit and show talon with each wingbeat.
“I’ll take you down, Childwing,” he repeated, unable to gain height on Stregalaar’s position. One erratic lurch with talon bared was enough to make Trunveer squeal again.
Klenveer’s bluff was obvious, but with hunting partner beside him, they turned toward the beach where the smaller fish were easier prey.
Unsettled, it took Stregalaar a few moments to locate the area he sought, where the sea and the sweetwater met and frothed, where the sparkle fish hunted their own prey and—distant motion caught his attention.
Dragons were streaming toward the same beach stretch as Trunveer and her mate; as if the whole grove flock rose and fell in constant swoops. The yells and screeches were angry, even frightened, as they scoured the beach.
Stregalaar lifted with the grace of the sea breeze, leaned away from the brightness of the day guide, and saw both fish for targets and even more dragons coming from the land. With economic dip of wing he fell, set for the strike, letting the tension in his claws build, and with a quick jarring of talon, grabbed his prey almost before the cool drag of water registered in his brain. Turning speed to height he rose, scanning for other wings, till a convenient turn let him glide at a simple angle all the way to his nest tree.
* * *
The Laar was unsettled; Stregalaar could feel it. Sap ran; tiny leaves sprouted ahead of time. The new pod leaves he’d seen before were gone to yellow, and the seeds themselves were ripening rapidly. On the branch opposite, where Levanlaar had preferred to eat, grew another pod, though the tree had long realized he kept the nest alone and allowed that branch to go fallow.
His incoming whistle had been unanswered but with the unsettled nature of the morning, he was not surprised. This was not a day for casual visits.
Stomach full but putting off the usual postprandial half-nap, Stregalaar evaluated the scene before him. He’d seen rare times when the broad fish arrived in huge schools and leapt from wavetops, a dangerous and rewarding prey because they were large enough to offer damage and willing to engage any who ventured to try them. Dragons gathered then to feast and fight the fish, and after that, sometimes each other, for the prey brought with them some strangeness inspiring mating out of season.
This was not that excitement. His grovemates, most older than he, were also not sleeping in the warm sun. Some kept to the grove, standing side-by-side on branches until they threatened to break. Some wheeled overhead, and if they searched for the root grubbers there was no hunt; to Stregalaar’s sight there were none to be found. Others departed in a slow and deliberate stream to the hills, carrying with them seed pods from the grove.
Unable to pull reassurance from his own thoughts and finding his tree’s reaction as odd as that of his grovemates, the Tree Master finally brought himself to the place where the broad trunk wall nearest the nest had been willfully shaped by dragon and tree.
Here there were claw marks of a dozen dragons who had slept in the nest before him; here was the place he felt his first understanding that this tree recognized and accepted him in ways the rest of the grove trees did not.
Hargalaar had allowed him to roost in the tree the night that he had been expelled from the inner grove, the night that he had resisted Pauveer, the shoving, pod-greedy son of Trunveer and Klenveer, and bloodied him for eating the barely ripe pod Stregalaar had claimed as his own.
The next morning, he had gathered in with Hargalaar and copied the stance shown him, placing his forehead firmly against the Laar’s trunk and leaning into it. He had closed his eyes—difficult, when so much information came from his eyes! Still, he could smell and hear—and then he was dreaming. Awake, the dream came upon him, and he stood, forehead pressed to living wood, barely breathing.
The tree’s presence had been clear, its welcome brave and bright, the gift of a special pod a bonus unexpected. Since that morning he had been Stregalaar, branch-with-wings to Laar.
Now, with the strangeness of the morning troubling him, Stregalaar pressed his forehead against the spot. The dream was upon him quickly; a sense of concern, and a sense of urgency. Something growing—the pods! The feeling that Hargalaar was lecturing him distantly:
Greenkin can provide only to the limit of our branchlings, and not always that far. Together, young creature, we can withstand many dangers. We are not stronger than the rock that falls, though we may split rock, nor do we prevail always against the flames of summer fires nor against the waters and winds of the great gyres though they may pass us by while taking others. You remove the beasts who would feed from our roots; you peel away the tiny flyers who foul us with toxic sap to weaken our bark and burrow under to eat us from within. Too, by sharing our branches, you protect our seeds from those others who feed without thought.
In thanks, we give you branches for your nests, in thanks we offer to you, Tree Friend, foods of special nourishment in the times of ice, and as learned by the grove, even foods for your time of mating and your times of final flight.
These things we share, Flyer, and we share this as well. Our grove tells us through root and branch of distant hills and other rivers, of places changing—
Here the visions were odd indeed, of flying things which were not quite dragons, of rivers drying to nothing, of rocks rising and great moving walls of snow pushing all before. His dreams had never been so full of terror for him, nor so solid that he felt them to his very bones.
The distant groves we rose from feel what we feel, Young One. The tree that sowed me has long ago fallen and returned to the soil, for the root diggers and the swarms are but life, as we are. The dangers that come from things which are not life—from the rivers and the winds, and the rocks and the fire—these dangers we cannot measure and against which we can give you no aid, other than the pods and a place within our branches.
