by Marc Secchia
Since she was dreaming, what harm could come to her? Perhaps she should not traipse gaily over that metaphysical bridge just yet. She might not enjoy the answers.
Cunning. Let cunning be her watchword.
“Dragon, I –”
“Ghastly!” he interrupted.
“I’m –”
“Disconsolate.”
Zaranna disguised a snort of laughter rather poorly.
“Immedicably wounded,” he mourned. “See the power of your words? I warned you about names, filly, but words? Oh, these cruel revelations will never be forgotten.”
“It was a poor way to repay your kindness,” she agreed. Cue a cautious conversational sidestep. “You rescued me from the swamp, healed me, and gave me safe harbour to rest upon your, uh –”
“Elbow,” he supplied.
“Elbow. Yes. Please help me a little further, Dragon, I beg you. For I know nothing of Equinox, and I am greatly dismayed, for it seems that Rhen – er, the Red One?” He nodded encouragingly. Evidently, this was an acceptable way of not naming the Dragon. “The Red One and the Hooded Man are my enemies. They seem to have pursued me through my dreams, even into my own world. I believe they may have tried to kill me and my mother there.”
The eye-motes flashed red, churning in visible agitation. Zaranna became aware of the furnace-bellows of the Dragon’s breath and suddenly, a radiant heat began to emanate from within the beast. Rock, mud and vegetation sloughed off its back and flanks. Everything began to boil madly. The boulders tumbling off his back plopped into the water with angry hisses and clouds of steam.
He roared, “If what you assert is possible, if the Red has indeed pierced the Loom to attack another world, then the danger is far graver and more imminent than we ever imagined!”
Lifting her aside, he shook himself from head to tail like a wet dog. Zaranna rather wished he had not, because she realised the hillock had been a much friendlier sight than the armoured monster emerging from beneath it.
“I must warn the Dragonkind beyond the mountains. Forthwith. Time flies against us.”
Abruptly transformed to a mist-wreathed mound of bluish-grey scales, the vast Dragon peered at her as if he had quite forgotten he held a horse in his paw. “Would you share your name with me?”
“You said it was dangerous.”
She hated her voice’s quavering, even if it seemed quite reasonable given the ponderous majesty of the dinosaur lizard overshadowing her. Bones in a museum of natural history simply did no justice to a creature larger than the average building, with a tail and head tacked on either side for good measure, and a personality sized to match. The overlapping, serpentine scales were larger than dinner plates upon his flank, reducing to the size of her hand – or hoof – near his eye. A monstrous, leathery wing broke free from his side, jutting up into the mists above her head. He waggled it with a sigh of evident pleasure. Zaranna eyed the size of his flight muscles in disbelief. Unholy, popping striations – any bodybuilder would have given his biceps for muscle like that!
“Many are the names of the creatures of Equinox,” the Dragon said. Abruptly, he broke into song:
First is the Common name, a name of small power,
A hook and a blossom, that nary will flower.
Second is the Clan-name, a name of ties profound,
Histories, mythologies and deeds within resound.
Zaranna knew her jaw hung agape, but she could not help it. His song was rich and overwhelming, stirring emotions within her she could not begin to name. Her mind’s eye filled with a whirl of butterflies dancing to the song’s rhythm. Her hooves and tail twitched uncontrollably as he continued:
Third is the Soul-name, fresh water and life,
Dread follows revelation; dark magic breeds strife.
As many as creatures the Creature-name be,
Wingéd-name, Fire-name, Earth-name … and me.
On a whimsical, mischievous half-note, the Dragon ended his song. Zaranna gave a feeble but heartfelt cheer, then blushed as the Dragon lowered his head graciously.
He said, “I’m a male Dragon, as you ascertained, little Dreamer. Last spring, I turned seven hundred and nineteen years old. My Soul-name is –”
Zaranna thumped down on her haunches with a whinny of shock. Bells? Raging wildfires? Jasmine-scented enchantment-science, nuances of omnipresent carmine-and-yellow butterfly magic, and comets blazing through space, if she was not mistaken. A name, a history and the praise of mighty deeds rolled into sweet combustion upon the tongue?
“Since time immemorial, Dragons and Dreamers have shared a special bond. I would be your mentor, if you wish – once I return from the Beyond. To summon me, sing the first syllable of my Soul-name, which is also, unusually, my Common-name. Thusly.”
A complex syllable zinged from his mouth to blast her already reeling mind with a further cannonball of astonishingly beautiful conception.
“Uh … like this?”
It took her no less than eleven tries to produce something akin to the syllable, but when she did, Zaranna thought she saw – what else – butterflies wink across the corners of her vision. Turquoise, this time, for variety’s sake.
“Very good, little filly. Now, your Soul-name is for you alone to discover. What’s your Common-name?”
“Zaranna. And yours means – Illuminate? No, Illume the Stars. That’s it, right?” The Dragon clicked his dangling jaw shut with a massive ‘grrraaaarr!’ A second growl greeted her delighted laughter as she leaped to her hooves once more and danced a four-footed jig of sorts upon his splayed palm, tangling her legs and almost tripping, but who cared? “Did I get it? Did I understand?”
“Nobody likes a show-filly,” grumbled the Dragon. “Perfectly on the nose. Stop your ridiculous prancing this instant. It’s disgraceful, that’s what it is.”
She nickered happily. “Thank you for your unique teaching, Illume. I’ll never forget this lesson.”
“Hoofalump!”
Yet his eye-sparks frolicked in the darkness.
Illume the Stars explained that Zaranna and Jesafion were Common-names. A skilled Wizard could divine a drop of magic from them, but not a great deal. The name Rhenduror had given her – he carefully referred to the Dragon as ‘the Red’ – was a Fire-name, and Zaranna had unwittingly evoked whatever summons-curse the Dragon or the Hooded Wizard had placed upon her by speaking the Red’s name, and, far worse, sketching his exact likeness. That was a blunder of epic proportions. Dragons were resistant to many forms of name-magic, but not the Soul-name, he warned. She nodded gravely, beginning to comprehend what a risk he had taken in revealing his name to her.
“When you return to your dream, you must burn the Red’s likeness – or,” he mused, “be canny. Change it. Turn his body into a cat or a donkey. That’ll throw a Dragon’s-load of acid into his machinations.”
“This place is the dream,” she replied.
“Is it?”
A thought to make a girl – or filly – quake!
Yet, the Dragon’s explanations had only begun. Equinox was a vast, mountainous world troubled by extremes of magic, he informed her. Some valleys formed natural safe harbours amidst the chaos – wild, inchoate fountains of magic rising from what he called the ‘Earthen Fires’, which Zaranna pictured as caves or fissures in the earth, or ‘Sky-Fires’, the magic of the air which Storm-Pegasi harnessed and rode in spectacular, continent-spanning storms. She had invoked a type of wild storm-magic? But she had to scramble to keep up with the pace of Illume’s account. The Vales were protected by powerful magic generated and upheld by the magic-wielding Clan Magi of the Unicorns and Pegasi. Many creatures relied on the sanctity of Vales for safety of home and hearth, not least, the Humans who lived in small villages concentrated in this Vale’s south-eastern quarter. The Pegasi dispensed a firm and fair brand of justice, but even the peaceful Vale had its outcasts.
One such outcast was the Darkwolf Clan Wizard Zaranna had called the Hooded Man. Valesfolk
simply called him ‘The Wizard’. No-one knew exactly who he was or where in the Outland he lived, but rumours abounded. The only certainty seemed to be that he was bent upon raising an army of Twisted – creatures formed from wolves and wolverines in the main, for which the Wizard had a particular affinity. In times past the Horse Clans had cast out the Darkwolf Clans for a long list of crimes against Valefolk.
“Which brings us to you, Dreamer,” said Illume, yawning massively. “What does the Wizard want with you?”
“I was rather hoping you’d tell me.”
“I’d rather slap you for being a sarcastic ingrate.”
“Sorry, Illume.” Zaranna wished she could fold her arms and stare mutinously into space. She had to settle for the latter.
Yet a hitherto unsuspected kindness infused his reply. “Your dreams contain power and manifold imperative, little filly. They will not cease. It is said that the Dreamer is the only one who can bridge the worlds. There were once many worlds connected to this one, but since the Wizard’s rise, I begin to wonder if they have not grown less in number. Ensconced here in my swamp, in my hermitage, I’ve heard little news of the outside world. I’ve been remiss.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he would choose to retreat to such a dismal place, but Zaranna withheld. Illume the Stars evidently had his secrets. She did not want to break this unexpectedly warm mood, if she could forgive herself the pun regarding a Dragon who radiated heat like an open oven.
He said, “I know this must be frightening for you, little filly, the more so since you find yourself in an unfamiliar form, let alone unfamiliar surrounds. Is there no magic on your Earth?”
“If there is, I do not know it.”
The dark eye glistened. Momentarily, the fire-motes formed a tunnel, as if inviting her to travel to a faraway galaxy. Thoughtfully, the Dragon said, “I believe you may be mistaken, Dreamer.” Then his jaw cracked open, a smile both majestic and terrifying. “Dreaming is an extraordinary power, binding entire worlds and the souls therein, young Zaranna. Never underestimate this gift you possess; never relinquish it to another. Guard it with your life – for it may well cost your life. Do you understand?”
Suddenly her heart galloped in her chest, yet her hooves would not budge. Hot and cold flushes ran amok all over her body.
“If you do not, you will come to understand, have no doubt! Now, I sensed in your mind one who will guide you in the ways of Equinox. Go to the Pegasus. For I must depart to caution the Dragonkind, if they will attend to my counsel.”
“How will I find him?”
“By using magic every Plains Horse knows. You were just dreaming of it.” When she looked blankly at him, she clearly heard fires somewhere inside that monstrous body roar throatily. He said, “Summon a pony o’ the wisp and imagine it showing you the way. They’re ever so shy, so don’t frighten them.”
He knew her dream? She forced herself to rasp, “Illume, what colour are my eyes?”
Again, one talon curled upward to touch her forehead in a gesture she was certain had to be laden with symbolism. “A very precise shade of green – let me guess…” The Dragon shifted his muzzle until she faced the twin fire-barrels of his nostrils, bringing both eyes to bear on the task. At length, he said, “Chrysoprase. Unusual for a Plains Horse, wouldn’t you say?”
* * * *
Zaranna watched Illume the Stars’ departure from a safe distance, gobsmacked. Horsewoggled, even – no, that was not a word, but the idea fit. Perhaps only Unicorns and Pegasi had horns to become hornswoggled. The Dragon reared onto his haunches and launched upward upon the springy muscles of his massive thighs, taking off as though shot from a catapult. Already two hundred feet overhead, his wings beat powerfully between the overarching trees. Illume tucked his four paws beneath his body like a bird in flight. After that initial blast of air, the Blue Dragon rose in comparative silence, as though reeled upward by cunning stage ropes, and within two more wingbeats, vanished into the mists as though he had never been.
What she would not have given for the ability to fly. Illume the Stars was immense. Frightening, yet magnificent.
Well, now she had acquired just enough knowledge to know she knew nothing at all.
Thrusting aside contemplations of wild magic, wicked Enchanters and world-bridges, Zaranna lowered her muzzle and focussed on the image Illume had smuggled into her mind.
“I need help, pony o’ the wisp. Please.”
The swamp seemed so empty without the Dragon. Forlorn. He had lain in a pool of brackish water for untold years. The force of his departure had briefly revealed a stand of towering, grey-trunked trees the Dragon had called ‘Sentalia’. This Vale, the most important of Vales, took its name from these trees dying within the swampland – Sentalia Vale. She stood knee-deep beneath one of the Sentalia now, wondering if Illume had been hinting that this land required healing.
Now the mists hung about her like dank tendrils of trailing vegetation, and the awe and surging adrenaline which had kept her warm and brave, dissipated.
What a lonely place to choose for exile.
Without warning, she caught a flicker of light in the corner of her eye. A speck of light nipped around a gigantic trunk, so deeply crenelated that ten of her could have sheltered comfortably within its folds, before clearly taking fright and shooting away.
“Wait, please. Come back.” Gently, she encouraged it to return.
The tiny blue light returned at her request, hovering a couple of feet away, close enough for her to make out the details of an almost-translucent fairy-pony, as best she could describe the creature, which glowed and burst into a cheerful tinkle of merriment when she gasped, “You’re beautiful!” She laughed for sheer joy. Magic actually worked? Just a speck of hope …
“Please,” she repeated. “I need to find a Pegasus. I think he’s lost in this swamp. Maybe injured.”
The light danced away, clearly inviting her to follow.
Well, she could do no worse than her pitiful efforts so far. Zaranna sloshed away into the mists, tracking the giggling pony o’ the wisp as best she was able.
* * * *
To her astonishment, after several hours’ slopping through untold acres of the familiar grey-brown quagmire, the fairy-pony led her directly to Jesafion. She almost did not recognise him – he was wrapped up in a sundew’s leaves, struggling weakly. He had burned the plant, but it seemed that its acid juices had burned him too. The stale reek of burned flesh and plant matter hung over his resting place.
She rushed to his side. “Jesafion!”
Oh, for hands to trawl through this muck and haul him free! How did horses survive without hands and fingers? She pawed at the thick, flaccid leaves. Alright, engage brain. He breathed. There must be a chance. Lining up alongside his left flank, she set to work, stamping sharply with her forehooves. Better than scissors. She circled his prone form, rapidly slicing away what she could without damaging his body or wings.
Jesafion groaned, “Eyes …”
“I’m here for you, Jesafion.” She only hoped Rhenduror looked worse than the Pegasus did, because Jesafion looked as if he had crash-landed in a bonfire after a thorough dousing in the swamp and being attacked by a giant carnivorous plant.
“Spit.”
“Spit – what?”
“On my face.” She huffed, the breath misting in front of her muzzle. Her eyes crossed. Fine, seeing her white nose a foot or so from her eyes was just freaky. “Everywhere … loosens it.”
Not even at the zenith of his pig-headedness had she imagined spitting on the Pegasus. But now Zaranna found herself called upon to summon lovely gobs of horse-spit from the arid depths of her throat. Well. She would just plaster his Highness of Snoot-Land with her best offerings – and resist the urge to hawk up some phlegm and add that to the mix. Chances were good she would come out of the Realm of Freezing Paradise with a nasty chest cold, anyways.
His suggestion worked admirably. Zaranna scraped the leave
s, laden with their sticky red nodules, off the Pegasus with minimal effort once she learned how and where to spit. She used her teeth on the more stubborn bits; the rancid taste nauseated her.
Soon, he rose upon trembling legs and blinked myopically in her general direction. “I … thank you, filly.”
Nonsense. A masterpiece of stiff condescension. What kind of equine society bred a Prince of Petrified Plank, who could barely summon a gracious word to thank the girl who had just – well, covered him in saliva? Zaranna giggled. Alex had far more refined manners than this lout. He was a real prince, the genuine article.
“Jesafion, can you see properly?”
“No. The sundew sap has damaged my eyes. There’s an antidote, but it only grows outside the swamp.”
“Very good,” she said cheerily. “Make sure you stick close to me; I’ll lead you out.”
“How?” he asked bluntly.
“Pony o’ the wisp,” she said. “And don’t scare her with your galumphing hooves and booming voice, alright? Whispers. Manners.”
“You dare lecture a Pegasus Prince about the niceties of conduct?”
Zaranna stormed, “No, Jesafion. I’ll leave that pleasure to my elders and betters. What I mean is that you should be grateful to the creature who will lead us out of this bowl of pigswill. And if you can’t be grateful, you can jolly well pretend.”
He snapped at her withers, but Zaranna shied aside just in time. Yes, she had spoken more acerbically than she had intended. But she had never met a creature who deserved it more. Prince? Ha!
“Pony o’ the wisp, I’d be honoured if you’d help us again,” she said.
“Do I detect Plains magic?”
She nodded, determining in her heart not to be the one to treat Jesafion the way he treated others. “I’ve discovered a few things since … uh, running into you out there.” Why the reserve? Should she tell him about Illume the Stars? “Are you injured, Jesafion? Did the Dragon escape?”
