Hodakai snorted. It sounded like a flame sputtering in the wind. I am in service to no one.
But you are held captive by those who are in service to the Nail of Strength.
I am the captive of dragons! Hodakai screamed. Don't talk to me of the Nail of Strength! I am imprisoned by dragons! It was DRAGONS that took my body from me!
But—Windrush pointed out—dragons in service to the Enemy, not to the realm.
It took a moment for Hodakai to calm down enough to reply. So you say. I only know that those who imprison or threaten me are my enemies.
Including me, I suppose!
What have you done to make me think otherwise?
Windrush thought about that for a moment. He supposed what the spirit meant was that he hadn't set it free. But in truth, he doubted that he could break the spell of the spirit jar even if he wanted to—and if he could, it would only end the spirit's miserable life. Was that what Hodakai wanted? I have learned your name, and not used it against you, Windrush pointed out.
You took my name. I never offered it, nor did you offer me yours.
That was true enough. It had briefly occurred to him to offer his name, but he had no reason to expect Hodakai to respond in friendship. Still, something made him feel that Hodakai might be turned to the cause of the realm. He needed to offer some gesture of peace.
He cleared his throat. I'll not deny your words, spirit. But remember—whatever the harm done you, it was done by those who are my enemies, as well. If you would strike back at your captors, you could do so by joining those who stand with me. You would not be the first . . . rigger . . . to do so.
The spirit's flame turned reddish orange. Help you? You're mad, dragon! Can you give me my body back? Do you think I don't know what you want? You search for your precious Dream Mountain, and you think when you have it you'll cast me aside. But you'll have no help from me! Not for you or your kind! Now, go away and leave me to my peace!
Is there nothing that would change your mind?
Nothing, dragon. Go away!
Windrush stared at the spirit, his weariness returning. He was wasting time here. Hodakai was too bitter. And yet, he was sure that Hodakai could help them if he chose to. Very well. But perhaps, Hodakai, we will speak again.
The spirit flickered toward him, as though to issue a lashing retort. But its voice sounded almost wistful. Perhaps, dragon. I do not foretell the future. Now, good night.
Windrush nodded. Hodakai, and then Windrush's own image, vanished as he drew away through the underrealm.
* * *
In the darkness of his cavern, Windrush gathered his thoughts. Surely he had done enough today! But he knew he would not be able to rest. Three other windows beckoned. And he remembered the urgency of the iffling.
He chose the window that had opened onto a barren wilderness. Something there seemed to call to him, something beneath his conscious awareness. Drawing a deep breath, he slipped his kuutekka through that window.
He tasted aridness. Hot wind sighed over stone. Heat clamped around him like a mantle, and he felt the grit of dust and the hardness of rock beneath him. A sun was low and smoky red in the sky. He was in the underrealm, but it felt like the outer world, though a place unfamiliar to him. What had called him to this forsaken place? He stretched out his senses for any track of friend or foe, any sign of magic or sorcery. He felt nothing.
He moved cautiously through the broken landscape, shards of a land that felt as if it had once harbored life and abundance. Was this another place that had been ruined by the Enemy? Or was it simply a land where life had been spent and time had moved on? It was impossible to tell.
He chose no particular direction, but allowed the land to lead him on. It was a place of tumbled and carved stone, a maze of ravines that even a tracker-dragon would find confusing. And yet, he felt that he might find treasure in this maze, if he followed the feelings that were coursing in his veins—as he had followed the urge that led to the lumenis vision.
He caught a hint of a memory-smell, the faintest whiff on the air. Was it the beginning of a track? Perhaps. For some reason, he found himself imagining Highwing whispering silently to him from the Final Dream Mountain, urging him onward. He shook his head. There was too much peril here to be dreaming of those who had fallen before him.
The landscape deepened and began to seem like a terrain of thought, runneled and carved, not by wind and water, but by years of pain. Once, he thought he heard angry laughter echoing over the tops of the ravines. It faded, but later he thought he heard music, the music of the draconae, and this time he was sure that it was an echo from long ago, somehow carried on the wind. That too faded. Other whispering sounds of memory seemed to rise and fall, never quite catching hold in his thoughts. He began to feel that he was creeping along beneath the winds of the past, the winds of time.
A little later, those winds brought him something new—a presence that felt, somehow, familiar. It made him think again of Highwing. Since his father's death, he had often thought that he'd felt his father's spirit with him, encouraging him in the struggle. And yet this was different: it was as though his father, or someone who reminded him of his father, were actually nearby.
Are you there? he whispered softly, not wanting to awaken the wrong presence.
In answer, he heard the sighing of the wind. But the wind seemed to speak. I am here, it whispered. Trying . . . And then the words faded back into a lifeless sigh. Was that all it had been—the sound of the wind? Windrush felt flame tingle in the back of his throat.
Trying?
The wind gusted suddenly, and a cloud of dust whirled up from the ravine ahead of him. As the dust spun, the air slowly cleared and in the place of the dust he saw a face—the face of a dragon. He gasped in recognition. It was a male face, but shimmering and near-crystalline, almost like a dracona's. The eyes were dark, like wells of emptiness.
FullSky? he whispered in shock. FULLSKY?
It seemed an eternity ago that FullSky had vanished. Windrush's heart trembled at the thought that his brother might still be alive. He rushed forward, sure that the apparition must be unreal.
Stay! the dragon's dark eyes seemed to warn. Come no closer!
Is it you—my brother? Windrush asked, barely able to contain his grief and wonder. We thought you were dead.
The other dragon gazed at him with what seemed an expression of exquisite pain. He shook his glassy head. Not yet, his eyes said. Not yet.
You're alive! Windrush breathed. But you cannot speak?
There was no answer, but the eyes agreed. FullSky glanced meaningfully up into the sky.
Danger near? Windrush drew a sharp breath. Dream Mountain? he whispered. Can you help us find the Dream Mountain? His brother nodded slightly. Windrush felt dizzy with astonishment. But he remembered as if it were yesterday—FullSky's powers of the underrealm were like no other living dragon's. He thought suddenly of the lumenis feeding. The vision! Was that your doing?
His brother's eyes met his, but were unreadable now, and somehow unutterably distant. With a pang, he realized how much he had missed that annoying trait in his brother. He had never been able to tell what FullSky was thinking. He would give anything to know now. Was it a message from you? he breathed.
His brother's kuutekka rose large before him, those dark, bottomless eyes seemingly focused in another realm entirely. Yes, they seemed to say, he had had a hand in the creation of the vision. What did Windrush think?
Windrush remembered suddenly the iffling telling him of one who was trying to help. Had it meant FullSky?
FullSky's eyes shifted and grew wide with alarm. Go! his gaze cried almost audibly in Windrush's mind. You must seek help from beyond the realm!
Wait! Windrush protested. We have to find the Dream Mountain; we are lost without it! Can you help? Where are you? How can I find you again!
His brother's gaze was like the fire of lumenis. Go! it cried. Seek help! Then, without any perceptible change in the
underweb, he was gone. The ravine was empty.
Windrush hissed in dismay. He crept forward, looking for any remaining sign of his brother's presence. But FullSky's kuutekka was gone without a trace. Had he not actually seen FullSky, seen those eyes . . . But Windrush had no doubt he had just seen his brother alive—no more than he'd doubted the lumenis vision.
Looking skyward, he saw a formation of dark clouds coiling strangely. There was a terrifying sensation in the air now, the underrealm ringing soundlessly, as though a great change were coming, a power moving nearby, approaching from beyond the ravine. Some servant of the Enemy—or perhaps the Enemy himself? Windrush sensed that it was looking for him and knew that he was here, but perhaps did not yet know precisely where. And perhaps it did not yet know his name. FullSky's command echoed in his mind: Go!
Windrush turned and fled the way he had come, with the speed and silence of thought. Within moments he had left that place behind—and the underrealm as well. Emerging in the outer world, he stared in hissing astonishment at his own cavern, glowing redly about him in the light and silence of the hearth.
Chapter 8: Children of the Iffling
For a long time afterward, the dragon lay staring at the draxis burning in his hearth. It seemed that the more he learned, the less he understood. First the demon. Then the vision. Now the strange paths of the underrealm, and his lost brother. FullSky! Still alive! But where was he, and what was he doing, and why? Seek help from beyond. Clearly FullSky was aware of the struggle, and was on the side of his brothers. Had he created those pathways?
Windrush sensed footsteps nearby. "Iffling," he murmured, shifting his eyes. "Have you observed my efforts since we last spoke?"
"We know that you moved in the underrealm," the iffling answered. "Did you learn anything helpful?"
Windrush rumbled thoughtfully. "Helpful? Who can say? I met my brother FullSky, whom I had thought dead! The lumenis vision was his work. He seems to want to help us, but is hindered somehow."
"Ah," whispered the iffling, dark animal-eyes blinking. "Indeed!"
"And he said that I must seek help." The dragon hesitated. "From beyond the realm."
The iffling seemed to tremble.
"That is what he said," Windrush repeated, suddenly thinking: From beyond life will come one. Jael!
"Did you learn . . . anything . . . of the Dream Mountain?" the iffling whispered.
Windrush shook his heavy head. He dug with a foreclaw at the stone floor of his cavern. He knew now whose help he must seek. But he didn't know how. The iffling swayed, waiting for him to speak. Windrush drew a breath. "I cannot tell you how terribly I miss my friend Jael—how often I have wished that she could return to aid us, as she aided my father!" Windrush's breath whistled in and out as he jabbed at the unyielding stone with his talon. "And now the vision, the Words, FullSky—everything says to me that she must return, if we are to have any hope. Perhaps she can find the draconae, where we cannot. Perhaps she could appeal to the rigger-spirit, Hodakai, to share his knowledge with us. Perhaps," and his voice became husky, "she could unite us, as we cannot seem to unite ourselves."
When he looked at the iffling, he was surprised to see its dark, oversized eyes moist as though with grief. It was blinking slowly and repeatedly, in apparent distress. "Dragon Windrush . . . what you seek may be possible. But we dared not try . . . without knowing."
Windrush cocked one eye down at the creature. How much rakhandroh could he experience in one night? "Iffling! You know a way to reach Jael? Why haven't you said this before?"
The iffling craned its neck to peer back up at him. "Dragon, please—we seek the Dream Mountain as much as you do."
"That is not what I asked."
The iffling trembled. "It is far from sure. There are grave risks. I cannot say for certain. I cannot say."
"Do not toy with me!" the dragon roared.
The iffling flickered, losing its solidity for a moment. Windrush flared his nostrils angrily. The iffling seemed to regain its strength. "There is one way that we might be able to reach out to her world. But it could cost us dearly, dragon—more than you can know. I must return to speak with the others."
Windrush squinted. "What is this cost that you speak of?"
The creature became transparent, then a thin flame dancing in the air. "That," it whispered, "must be our concern alone. Dragon, what we can do, we will. But do not abandon your search! It may yet be the thing that will save the realm!"
"But—" The flame was gone, before Windrush could complete his question. He stared at the spot where the iffling had stood. Rakhandroh! But as exasperating as the ifflings were, he knew he would hate not to have them as allies.
At last he vented steam from his nostrils. I hope the cost is not too great, he thought. Farewell, iffling.
The draxis-fire was burning low. This night had drawn on long already. He closed his eyes, thinking of the underrealm windows that awaited him. Before the thought was finished in his mind, he had drifted into an unquiet sleep.
* * *
The ifflings spoke softly but urgently together, their thoughts murmuring in the flickeringly luminous place that was their home in exile. There was a great disturbance among them. Whatever they decided, there must be no delay.
The path to the Dream Mountain must be found, or it would not be just the dragons who faced the choice of dwindling and dying, or being transformed by the Enemy into something ungarkkondoh. The ifflings too would fade from existence if the Mountain were not found, if they did not rejoin the heartfires from which they had sprung. But even if they succeeded, even if they brought the One of the prophecies back to the realm, the sacrifice required could threaten their own survival. They had so little strength left before their own fires were exhausted!
And yet, if they refused, the future seemed clear. The dragons were foundering in the struggle. The dragons' strength, already failing, would die as their deeper vision and wisdom grew clouded, as the prophecies were lost. Too many of the draconi had already forgotten their history and their knowledge of why the draconae were important, beyond reproduction of their kind. And even for that last, many had already lost their concern. They cared now only for some hollow notion of victory, as their numbers dwindled and lumenis was destroyed by the Enemy. The draconae were their wisdom; without the draconae, they were missing the heart of what made them dragon, garkkondoh. Even the ifflings missed the songs and tales of the draconae!
Nor was it just the dragons and ifflings who were endangered. From the tiny cavern sweepers to the trees and shadow-cats and flyers of the forests, to the distant denizens of the seas, all creatures of the realm were falling under the shadow of the Nail—and not just the creatures, but the realm itself. It could survive without ifflings, maybe, but never without the dragons to defend it. And if the realm fell, the Enemy would gain complete control of the underrealm—and more than that. The ifflings had glimpsed the vast web of power that the Enemy was spinning, a web that could reach across the twists and layers and folds of reality into entirely different realms, perhaps even the static realm of Jael and her people. That was what the ifflings had seen in Windrush's vision—FullSky's vision. Not until this night had they truly understood the Enemy's avarice, or the reach of his claw. It seemed that more of creation than they had imagined might be threatened by the one who called himself Tar-skel, the Nail of Strength.
Therefore, they must do what they must. They might even die as a result—but if they did not die now, what would life under Tar-skel be, if not a living death? Should they not therefore act as they could, in keeping with the Words, to bring life to the ancient prophecies?
The discussion seemed to go on for a very long time, flame mingling with flame, the glow flickering around them, brighter and dimmer. As might have been measured by any others, the debate took hardly any time at all. The voices whispered:
—to touch the static realm with our thought—
—to be heard there—
—we must s
end the children—
—the last!—
—but only born into that place can they seek out and speak to the One, where she dwells—
—and if they fail, there will be no others, none to seek out the Dream Mountain—
—and without its fires, there can never be others—
—-no other children—
—but if we do not send them, the Nail will triumph. Shall we save them, only to be the last to search and struggle in vain?—
—they must go—
—but first let us reach out with our thought to listen, to find the One!—
—we have listened—
—we sense her dreams and her longings for this place—
Dragon Rigger Page 8
