by Various
She came up close to him and he flinched a little, even though her eyes were still hidden. Then she leaned forward suddenly and kissed him full on the lips, an old-fashioned kiss, lips closed, though they felt hot upon his own. Kind of like after eating a Mexicana pizza, which he liked, the after burn of chili spreading across his mouth.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Good luck,” she said. “For both of us. Get your suit ready.”
She opened the fishing-rod case and took out the harpoon. It looked old to Jaxon, the shaft a pale aged wood and the head a dark iron with a bulbous ridge to hold the explosive. Ylane checked it over, and screwed something into the bulb, while Jaxon got his breathing apparatus back on and went through his checklist, tasting the cool, metal-tanged air flowing through his mask, making sure his hood was closed, that all seals shut tight at wrist and ankles, his gloves secure. He had a gold coin in each hand. The one in his right hand to go on the circle, the one on the left he figured he could keep as a souvenir.
Ylane moved back about ten feet and took her sunglasses off, throwing them aside. Then she adopted an Olympic javelineer’s pose: legs spread, left arm forward, right arm with harpoon back ready to throw.
Jaxon knelt down carefully, balanced on the balls of his feet. He held the coin between thumb and forefinger, an inch away from the circle, and looked over at Ylane.
“Now!”
The coin went down. Jaxon spun half-around, already moving, legs stretching out as he went up one side of the tunnel, like a bicycle on a velodrome, and back down again to sprint along the middle, and even through the suit he heard a vast bellow and a wave of air pushed him in the back like the pressure wave from a subway train, sending him stumbling, and he glanced back, even though he knew it was a bad idea, and he saw the great orange snout break through the tunnel floor, sending bricks exploding like a Lego disaster, and Ylane, the flash of movement and
Bang!
That was the explosive harpoon, but the dragon didn’t just die. Instead the air pressure in the tunnel reversed. A savage wind smacked against Jaxon, dragging him back. The dragon was breathing in, sucking in oxygen, oxygen to fuel a fire Jaxon just knew was going to be hotter than anything he’d ever seen or heard or even believed could exist upon the earth, and Ylane’s talk about the wet woolen cloaks was horseshit and he was going to die in this tunnel after all, and his name would go up in gold letters on the memorial board at his old company …
But he kept trying to run forward because you never gave up, not even when everything was gone to hell, especially then, because if you had to die then you did it doing something, not just giving up—
The flame was more than a hundred meters long, and in its hair-thin core, as hot as the outer reaches of the sun.
Jaxon dove for the floor a moment before the flash came, but he was too close and it was too late to make any difference. The straps holding his air cylinder vaporized, the cylinder itself deforming as it fell. The suit, the best money could buy, fared little better, though its makers could be proud that even as ash, small pieces of it clung together in useless clumps.
His skin, which should have charred through to the bone in a microsecond, did not char. His hair, short as it was, did not go up like a lit match. The soft, wet tissue of his eyes and ears and mouth did not instantaneously boil away.
He felt only pleasantly warm, though he was lying on bricks glowing as red hot as the day they left the kiln, and he was entirely naked.
In his right hand, he held a globule of molten gold.
Something fluttered in the air above him. Jaxon rolled over and looked up. There was a tiny … dragon, all scarlet and green, its eyes as golden as Ylane’s …
“Ylane?” croaked Jaxon. The croak was psychological. There was nothing wrong with his throat. He just couldn’t believe he was alive at all, or that he could speak. He looked at his hands, and saw that his skin was as red as the bricks beneath him, but it was whole, and he felt no pain.
Yes, said the dragon, though her voice was not audible. Jaxon heard it in his head.
“What the hell happened?”
You know, said Ylane.
Jaxon thought about it for a moment, and he did know.
“A dragon dies, a dragon is born,” he said.
Yes.
“I am a dragon,” he said, and as he spoke he realized he was OK with it, because he knew what it was to be a dragon and to be a dragon was immeasurably better than to be merely human.
He popped the cooling, misshapen gold disc into his mouth and ate it with some relish, the metal soft under his teeth. Then he jumped up, and in that motion, there was no longer a man with golden eyes and skin the color of dusk, but another small dragon, as resplendent as the first.
Yes, said Ylane. She led him into the hot bricks and the bedrock beneath, and they dove into it together, heading deeper and deeper toward the hot center of the earth where dragons lived and grew, till they became ancient, and rose like salmon to a waterhead, to seek their birthplace, and begin anew.
A dragon dies, a dragon is born. But sometimes they need a little help.
Copyright (C) 2013 by Garth Nix
Art copyright (C) 2013 by Robert Hunt
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Contents
Begin Reading
Preview
Leon hauled himself up the ledge of Gaia’s window, peered in, and tried to make out her bed in the shadows.
“Gaia?”
“She’s not here,” said a voice behind him.
Leon dropped to the ground and reached instinctively for his knife.
“It’s just me,” Peter said.
Leon located the quiet figure in the darkness and slid his knife back in his belt. Behind Peter, the forest was impenetrably dark, but the moonlight washed the yard beside the lodge with a cool, gray hue, and glinted on the water tower above.
“What are you doing here?” Leon said.
“Preventing a break-in, looks like,” Peter said.
“Very nice,” Leon said, brushing grit from his palms. “Where is she?”
“Out and about. You must want to see her bad to come in all this way unannounced.”
“Where?” Leon repeated.
Peter jerked his thumb to his left. “Out on Bachsdatter’s Island. Adele’s having her baby.”
Leon instinctively turned toward the marsh, as if he could penetrate the darkness all the way through the village and out across the water to where Gaia was now. He tried, unsuccessfully, to curb his disappointment, and started around the lodge.
“I thought Adele planned to come into the village for the end of her pregnancy,” Leon said.
“Turns out she didn’t,” Peter said, following him. “Bachsdatter came in for Mlass Gaia this afternoon, and she took Mlady Maudie out with her, too.”
“So she could be out there a while.”
“I hear that’s how childbirths go,” Peter said.
“Did she bring Maya with her?” Leon asked.
“Maya’s with Mlass Josephine.”
Leon glanced up at the lodge windows, not exactly sure which one belonged to Josephine, but they were all dark and peaceful.
“Do you want to leave a message for Mlass Gaia?” Peter asked. “You’re not having trouble with the crims, are you?”
“No. They’re fine back on the trail,” Leon said. He could smell mint as he passed the garden fence, and it made him oddly thirsty.
“I left Malachai in charge. We have another week’s worth of work to do before we come in again for more supplies.”
“How’s that third station shaping up?”
“It’ll be ready by September,” Leon said. “There’s time yet.”
“Are you sure it was safe to leave the crims?” Peter asked.
“What are they going to do? Run away?” Leon asked.
“Circle back and attack us.”
“On foot? With you on patrol? Not likely.”
They came around the last corner of the lodge and the commons opened up before them.
“Do you want to leave a message for Gaia or not?” Peter asked.
“No. I have something I need to deliver myself.”
Leon touched his shirt pocket where he kept a red, woven bracelet he’d made, just to check that it was still there, ready like always. For days, he’d been obsessing about Gaia. He’d been missing the way she laughed late at night when she was too revved up to sleep. Usually, he could shake the craving to see her, but this time, maybe because the moon was practically full and bright enough to show the way, he’d finally given in. He knew every meter of the trail by now, even by night, so he’d come into Sylum to find her, to be with her for a couple hours.
Or just an hour, if that was all she had for him. He’d take whatever he could get. He grinned in the darkness. He shouldn’t rub it in. He knew he shouldn’t. Gaia for sure wouldn’t want him to.
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing special,” Leon lied.
Peter sent him a quick, hard look. His pace picked up. “You’d better be good to her.”
“Or what?” Leon asked, amused. “You’ll beat my brains in?”
“Close enough.” Peter swung up onto his horse.
Leon was good to her. As good as he knew how. “Does she ever complain?”
“She barely talks to me,” Peter said tightly. “How could she complain?”
That was exactly what Leon wanted to hear. He untied his horse.
“Where are you headed?” Peter asked.
“Down to the beach.”
“What for?”
“To get a canoe.” His horse sidestepped delicately in the dark grass and Leon settled him with a hand on his neck.
“You can’t go out now,” Peter said. “I’ve seen you in a canoe. You stink at sterning. And it’s dark.”
“So? It’ll be light soon.”
“Will you wait until then?”
Leon looked at him curiously. Peter couldn’t possibly be concerned for his welfare. “What is this?”
“I’m on patrol. This is my job, remember? Village security.”
“Some job,” Leon said. “You didn’t see me until I was practically in Gaia’s window.”
Peter shook his head. “I followed you since you first rode into the village.”
“You knew I was here for Gaia,” Leon said, annoyed. “You could have told me where she was.”
“I could have,” Peter agreed.
Leon hauled himself into the saddle.
“You’re still not engaged, are you?” Peter asked.
“No.”
“Eats at you, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all.” Leon’s mount shifted heavily under him, and he kicked him into motion.
It ate at him, all right. It was a perpetual, burning, gnawing irritation. The few times he’d brought up marriage again, even vaguely, Gaia had withdrawn, and that was the last thing he wanted. It set them back by weeks, every time. Conversely, when he didn’t mention it, she gradually let down some inner guard, and there was nothing as sweet as Gaia when she let herself love him.
Leon was vaguely aware that Peter had pulled up to ride alongside him.
“What are you doing?” Leon asked.
“Patrolling.”
“Cut it out.”
“Why? Am I bothering you?”
It was so juvenile, Leon didn’t bother to answer. Peter pulled his horse slightly ahead as if he were in charge. Or more masterful.
What a tool, Leon thought.
They rode down the familiar main road, passing the quiet houses of the village, the closed shops and tavern. The more he thought about it, the more Leon hated being on a string. He wondered why it wasn’t the other way around. Why was he always the one who was begging? He didn’t actually beg. He never would. But it felt like that. Even now, he was the one riding in the middle of the night for hours, trying to get in her window, then taking up a paddle to cross a dark marsh, while she was delivering a baby, not thinking about him at all.
Of course she wasn’t thinking about him. Only an egotistical jerk would expect her to think about him while she was tending a childbirth.
This timing was not going to work. He knew that, so why couldn’t he give up?
They passed the willow and wound down toward the shore. Moonlight on the marsh made the water glow in silvery patches between the black hillocks of grasses. He was going to miss the marsh. Not much else about Sylum, but the marsh he’d miss.
Along the shore, a dozen small houses stood back from the water, with the beach sloping before them. Several piles of wood were accumulating for the next bonfire night, after the Thirty-Two games. Only two more now, before they left. Everything was in countdown mode. He rode over the sandy shore to the canoe rack and dismounted.
“Here,” he said to Peter, holding out the reins. “Take care of my horse. I’ll pick him up tomorrow from your barn.”
“I’m not taking your horse,” Peter said, swinging down from his own. He looped his reins over the rail, near a water trough.
Leon waved instinctively at a cloud of gathering mosquitoes. “I didn’t ask you to go out there with me.”
“You’re right. You didn’t. Take the end,” Peter said, gesturing to a canoe on the rack.
“You’re not coming,” Leon said.
“Do you want to get there faster, or do you want the romance of a solo paddle?” Peter asked.
Leon took a brief look at the sky, which showed a faint edge of gray, and then he tied up his horse beside Peter’s, took one end of the canoe, and carried it down to the water.
“You’re in the bow,” Peter said, tossing him a paddle.
Leon recognized the satisfied taunt in Peter’s tone. He’d learned enough to know a canoe moved more efficiently with a more experienced canoer in the stern. Peter would handle the subtleties of steering and leave Leon to supply the brute muscle in the bow. It was not a compliment.
“You paddle like a beauty queen. Lengthen your stroke,” Peter said.
Leon bit his blade into the black water.
“More,” Peter said.
“Why are you even coming?”
“You think I know? Paddle.”
Leon reached again, farther, until he felt the difference in the canoe. Smoother. As long as they moved, the mosquitoes didn’t settle along his neck and face, or at least not much. He peered ahead. A mist hovered over the dark water and clung to his arm hairs. Peter steered them effortlessly through the winding waterway, much faster than Leon could have done alone, calling occasionally to switch sides. Despite himself, Leon had to respect Peter’s skill.
They came around a bend to a longer, open stretch, where chirps and croaks droned over the water.
“How’s your family?” Leon asked, back over his shoulder.
“What do you mean? They’re good.”
“Has your father decided if he’s coming with us or not?”
“He’s not. My uncles aren’t, either.”
“Why not?” Leon asked.
“My dad says this is his home. He says he’s known for a long time he might never have grandchildren. This is where his roots are. He wants to grow old here.”
“Even if his sons move away?”
“Maybe he’ll come later,” Peter said. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
It drove Leon crazy, these people who refused to come on the exodus. Home was more about people than a place. Didn’t they see what
it would be like in Sylum once everyone else was gone? They’d be living in a ghost town. But the old matrarc’s husband, Dominic, had gathered two hundred of the most traditional, bull-headed villagers around him, and they could not be persuaded.
Leon felt bad for Gaia, who kept trying to convince them and kept getting snarled in negotiations about what to take and what to leave behind. She wanted everyone, every single person on the exodus.
“Mlass Gaia thinks they’ll let us have water when we reach the Enclave. Do you?” Peter asked.
Leon thought ahead. Outside the walls of the Enclave, they’d find the opposite of what they were experiencing now, surrounded by gurgling water and the rich, loamy scent of the muskeg.
“I think we’ll have to fight for it,” Leon said.
“What with?” Peter asked.
“Our heads,” Leon said.
“Switch,” Peter said, and Leon lifted his paddle over to stroke on the other side.
When they reached Bachsdatter’s Island, Leon climbed out of the canoe, and with Peter, wordlessly turned it over on the rocky beach. A pearly, evanescent light muted all colors into gray, and the cliff rose before him, cold and inhospitable. Maybe this was a mistake. He hadn’t been to the island since the previous fall, when they’d gone to fetch baby Maya from the Bachsdatters.
What a mess he’d been back then, furious with Gaia, hating everything about Sylum. He’d wanted to hurt her and see her as miserably tortured as he’d been. He’d wanted to get to her through Maya since he couldn’t reach her himself, since she didn’t care enough about him directly for his opinions to matter to her. Punishing her for not loving him enough had been his single goal.
Real smart. But then, he wasn’t smart where Gaia was concerned. Was it that different now, really? He would never hurt her now, but still she didn’t care enough for him. He didn’t know if she ever would. He couldn’t understand this sick thing inside him that made him love her so intensely even when she kept holding back the last sliver of herself.
“Is there a problem?” Peter asked.
“No.”
Leon took to the path, leaving Peter to follow. At the top of the cliff, the homestead huddled, waiting. A few sheep scavenged between scrub and windswept trees, while the clotheslines cut a black web across the fresh orange glow of the sky.
