by Byron Preiss
“We are sorry to inconvenience your method of travel,” Willen said stiffly.
Thalen raised an eyebrow. “That was not what I meant,” he said, still wanting to make conversation. “I simply wished to reassure you that there is little danger of sudden high winds and shifting air currents at this altitude. You need not grip the railing so desperately.”
Willen’s suppressed nervousness turned quickly to anger. Before he could think better of it, he snapped, “I’m aware that we groundfolk seem cowardly to the Brothers of the Wind. But there are dangers we face on the ground that are far more threatening than any in the air, especially in time of war. Climb down from your safe heights then and fight alongside us, and we will see who is braver!”
Thalen drew back at the rebuff. He had enough worry with Kiorte’s disappearance. He walked quickly toward the stern to inspect a pulley and line. Willen felt his face burning in the cold breeze. His loud words had caused what little conversation there was around him to cease, but the words had been said, and his pride would not allow them to be taken back.
He sighed and stared straight ahead, trying not to look down. It was too easy to imagine himself impaled on leafy needles below the ship.
* * *
Blackness and cold rushed up at Amsel. The fall seemed endless; then suddenly he was gripped in an icy whirlwind. His body felt numb, his chest tightened like a fist. He had landed in an underground river! Fortunately, he had hit it feetfirst. Amsel forced his legs to kick, and swam upward with maddening slowness.
A few moments later he surfaced. There was a roaring in his ears as he gasped and coughed until his lungs were filled with sweet air. The current was quite strong. Amsel hit a rock with his back, and as the river dragged him, he hugged it with both arms and refused to release it. He had no feeling in his fingers, but he pressed his arms as hard as he could against the smooth surface of the boulder. The river tugged at him, but he stubbornly maintained his grip.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, calming his pounding heart. He did not know how far he had fallen, but he did not think it was very far. He could not see at all, and though he kicked out with his legs in all directions, he could not find any indication of a left or right bank, or of a shallow area. He dared not lose his grip, for he did not know if the river would take him farther underground.
Amsel thought for a moment of the warmth and solitude of his tree house in Fandora. Then a cold slap hit him and he was once again tossed into the currents. He struggled to keep his head above water, bobbing, stroking, and treading, until, in a relatively tranquil interlude, he floated feetfirst, on his back. He kept moving his arms and legs to keep them from becoming chilled, and then he realized that he could see the cavern roof above him. A dim light suffused the underground river. He felt like cheering—the river was taking him toward the surface!
A moment later he floated into the daylight, which, dim and gray though it was, nevertheless hurt his eyes. He saw trees arching in a canopy overhead, and through them patches of clouds. He passed beneath a tree root that also functioned as a bridge. The river, once it had emerged from the underground channel, widened into a peaceful flow. Amsel forced his weary arms to paddle toward shore. He seized the grassy bank and pulled himself onto it, shivering. “Well,” he said through chattering teeth, “I suppose there’s some good in everything—at least I’ve washed away the mud. Now, I must find something to eat.”
He lifted his head and spied a magnificent tree across the river, but as he did, a sharp spear was thrust into his field of vision.
“Do not move!”
For a moment Amsel was sure that he had been retaken prisoner. Then he looked at the spear and realized that its head was not made of metal. He touched it curiously, and it bent beneath his probing finger. Amsel turned and discovered a tall boy, perhaps eight or nine years of age.
“You’re my prisoner!” the lad said loudly. Behind him stood an even younger girl.
Amsel smiled. “It appears that I am.” He rubbed himself briskly. His wet garments were not drying rapidly—the air was humid, heavy with the suggestion of rain.
The girl wore a beautiful red cloak. “Are you cold?” she asked Amsel.
“Very much so.”
“Here.” The girl took off her cloak. “You can dry yourself with this, but please give it back. My mother made it. It’s just like Lady Ceria’s.”
Amsel accepted it gratefully. “Lady Ceria, you say? Does she wear a cloak like this?”
“Of course she does,” the lad with the spear said. “Everybody knows she wears it. At least, everybody who likes her. Where are you from, anyway? You talk funny.”
“I’m . . . not from around here.” Amsel finished drying himself as best he could and carefully hung the cloak on a nearby branch to dry. “Thank you,” he added.
“Is your father a miner?” the boy asked. “I never saw you in Overwood. Where do you live?”
They think I am a child because of my size, thought Amsel. Shortness can be an advantage. He looked around him. He was standing on the edge of a flagstone walkway that curved through an arch formed of blooming bushes. On the other side of the arch was a small park. Beside him were several steps leading to what seemed to be an outdoor portico. Amsel realized that he had to be careful; if he were seen, he would surely be recognized as a Fandoran.
This area he was in seemed quite tranquil; perhaps it was a play area for children. There were few sounds besides those of the river, the gentle wind, and a few birds. Perhaps there was still time to find Hawkwind before hostilities started. He wondered who the woman was, the woman called Lady Ceria.
“You didn’t answer my question,” the lad said. “How old are you, anyway? You have to be at least six to play with us.”
“He looks older than six,” the young girl said.
“I am,” Amsel agreed. Then he asked quickly, “Who is Lady Ceria?”
“Don’t you know anything?” the boy said. “Everybody’s been talking about her. She’s in love with Hawkwind.”
“Monarch Hawkwind? Do you know a lot about him?”
“He’s going to defeat the Fandorans,” the boy said proudly.
“The Fandorans?” Amsel sat down on the step. He felt like crying, but instead he whispered, “Johan, I must not give up hope!”
The girl overheard him. “Johan?” she asked. “Does he live near here?”
Amsel shook his head. “He was a friend of mine from far away.”
At that, the boy looked worried.
“Where do you live?” he asked again, this time with more suspicion than friendship.
* * *
The chamber was silent, save for the sound of Hawkwind’s footsteps. He no longer wore the familiar blue robes of the monarchy. A chain-mail shield covered his chest, and on his arms were the heavy cloth-and-copper sleeves of Simbala’s infantry. Hawkwind’s hair was combed back freely, no longer restrained by diadem or jewel. In the darkness of Ceria’s chamber he appeared to be a shadow, swiftly moving to a hiding place away from the light.
He crouched at her bedside, beneath a large tapestry of silk. Ceria was sleeping, still resting from the vision that had rendered her unconscious not long ago. Hawkwind touched her with tenderness.
“My love,” he whispered, “I shall return while you are still dreaming. There shall be no bloodshed, for the farmers will learn the foolishness of war.”
She lay still beneath him, unaware of his words.
“Ceria,” he continued softly, “I know not how you tolerate the feelings of the Family toward you. When I return, you shall no longer bear the burden of their prejudice.”
He gently kissed her on the cheek. “May you have dreams of peace,” he whispered.
Then he vanished, to descend the stairs of the palace, to meet General Vora and begin the long ride to the edge of the forest.
* * *
The coldrake returned to the spire and reported what he had learned to the Darkling. The Guardian’s claims we
re true. He had flown over a warm valley in the land of the humans, and there he had seen humans flying. Then he had approached the spire of the humans, the highest tree in the forest, and as he did, he saw closely another of the silent beasts in which the humans flew.
The Darkling shrieked, for he understood that the humans had made these flying craft. They were most frighteningly clever, and they were certainly hostile. The thought of what they had done once again made the Darkling want to lift his head and shriek out his rage, but he did not. He felt the burning within him. He summoned another coldrake, telling him in their hissing speech that he wished to inspect a human creature at close range with one of their flying craft. He had to learn exactly how dangerous they were. Despite their size, the Guardian had said they were many—and the strength of the coldrakes had been diminished by the cold.
The emissary returned to his warren, to feed on the sparse meal he had found. Then he rested near the bottom of the spire, close to the steam and heat of the hot springs, preparing for the long, cold flight over the sea.
The Darkling remained perched on the top of the spire. In a way that he did not entirely understand, he welcomed the cold and the pain it brought. It seemed fitting for him to be isolated this way—he who was neither dragon nor coldrake, with the blood of both within him. He had been raised in isolation. If either dragon or coldrake had known of his existence, he would have been banished or killed. He had always been alone. Nothing would change that now.
The Darkling flapped his wings and shrieked in anguish. The coldrakes echoed the sound from their warrens, knowing but not understanding his pain. Never understanding.
XXIV
There were nine of them gathered in the bedroom of Prince Kiorte and Princess Evirae. Four stood near a large wooden dresser distinguished by its sweeping curves and luminescent wood. They were members of the Royal Family—General Jibron, Lady Eselle, Baroness Alora, and her husband, Tolchin. Near the door of the room stood Mesor, and next to him a trusted guard of the mansion. In a bed at the north end lay Evirae, still recovering from the effects of the tunnel’s collapse, while beside her, Kiorte, in a robe, stood watching his wife enigmatically.
On the edge of the bed sat the young physician who had accompanied them back from the mines. He had just prescribed rest for both, but the scene remained far from tranquil.
“You say I am not seriously injured,” Evirae complained, “but you insist I confine myself to our bed. It makes no sense! Suggest to me a physic and get back to those who need you.” She sat upright in the bed.
The physician made a valiant effort to explain. “You may feel alert now, but fatigue can set in later. Medicine is an art, not a trade. Please do not argue with me.”
“Nonsense!” insisted Evirae. “How can you know what is best for me? You are no older than I am! Look at me! Do I look ill? Do I appear fatigued? Am I on the verge of physical collapse?”
The physician looked at the Princess. Her long hair, which was usually woven tightly on top of her head, cascaded in tangles down her back and shoulders. Her right cheek had been scratched by the jagged edge of a falling rock, and her splendid clothing had been replaced by a brown silk robe. Despite a generous application of soap, water, and cologne, her pale skin still retained the odor of the tunnel mud.
“You are as beautiful as ever,” said the physician. He wearily lifted a small silk bag from the side of the bed. “Now I must leave.”
Evirae smiled playfully. “Perhaps I have been too quick to dismiss your opinions,” she said. “I thank you for your advice.”
With a look of mild impatience the physician nodded and then headed toward the door. When he had reached the staircase outside, Evirae turned to her father and said, “What is of such urgency that you and Tolchin have rushed back from the palace? Has our miner invited the Fandorans to tea?”
“Do not jest,” said her father. “He has—”
“Wait,” said Kiorte. “This is a matter for the Family, not the Circle.”
All heads turned to Mesor.
“I shall wait outside,” the Bursar said.
“Downstairs,” suggested Tolchin.
The Bursar nodded. “Of course. I will chat with a tree bear in the garden.”
Jibron waited as Mesor made his way down the stairs. When the footsteps could no longer be heard, he said, “Why do you keep that man at your side, Evirae?”
“My wife has many plans these days,” Kiorte interjected. “She cannot always depend on my approval. Mesor provides her support when I do not.”
“Mesor is merely an adviser,” Evirae answered softly. “The threat of the Fandoran army weighs heavily on my mind. It is you whom I trust in matters of state, my darling.”
“The matter has gone from bad to worse,” said Jibron. “The Fandorans have reached the hills that face the forest!”
Kiorte shook his head and walked slowly toward Tolchin. “Surely my brother has ordered the windships to push back the invaders!”
“Thalen has been told to do otherwise by Hawkwind. The miner has openly defied both the General and myself!” As he turned to face the other members of the Family, Tolchin removed the diadem and jewel from a pocket in his doublet. “Perhaps this will convince you!”
Lady Eselle gasped. “You hold the Ruby!”
Alora watched her husband. “What are you doing with it, Tolchin?”
“Hawkwind sees no need to wear it. He is a renegade and a traitor.”
“I find that very difficult to accept,” said Kiorte as he took the jewel in his hand. “Hawkwind is loyal to Ephrion, if not to us. For what reason could he possibly risk his position by rejecting—”
“He resents the opinions of the Family!” said Jibron. “He and Vora feel they can run the affairs of Overwood without us. They have ordered Thalen to prepare a small fleet of windships to frighten off the Fandoran army in the hills. Should this prove ineffective, they will attack the Fandorans in the Kameran Valley.”
Kiorte frowned. “Hawkwind plans only to use a small fleet? That is a foolish way to face them. This is a matter of war!” Kiorte wrapped one hand tightly around the jewel.
“Hawkwind wishes to protect the windships. He feels their presence in the sky will be a lure to the dragon!”
“The dragon? What nonsense is this? Surely you do not take a legend for truth?”
Jibron shook his head. “The dragon is more than a legend, Kiorte. I have seen it myself!”
Kiorte looked shocked. “A dragon? In Simbala?”
Tolchin nodded. “I think there is no longer any reason to doubt it. Vora and the others think the creature to be controlled by the Fandorans. Why else would they risk an invasion?”
“Fandorans or no Fandorans, a creature of the sky should be faced by the Brothers of the Wind!” Kiorte reached a dressing booth near the guard and said, “I must see this madness myself. How long has it been since Thalen’s fleet departed for the valley?”
“Before we confronted Hawkwind,” said Tolchin. “I do not think you’re in any condition to overtake him.”
“Darling,” said Evirae from the bed, “listen to Tolchin! You need to—”
“Do not argue with me, Evirae!” Kiorte vanished behind an ornate wooden door.
Evirae tapped her nails together gently. My husband is determined to reach them, she thought. Soon we will see how long the miner can defy the Family.
“What plans does Hawkwind have for the remainder of the fleet?” Kiorte asked from the booth.
Tolchin answered. “They will remain grounded until the truth can be learned about the dragon.” He continued to pace nervously in the front of the room.
“We are a match for any dragon!” said Kiorte. “Thalen would not agree to such a plan until he had conferred with me.”
“Thalen thinks you missing still,” said Jibron. “He has not been to the palace since you and Evirae returned to the surface. Hawkwind had sent him to the Northweald on a mission to bring back recruits.”
“R
ecruits from the Northweald? Ruffians?”
“It meets with Vora’s approval.”
“It is a foolish plan.”
Jibron nodded. “Hawkwind’s General is a foolish man.”
Evirae got up from the bed. “It seems that what we say matters little to Hawkwind. His mind is open only to Ephrion and the Rayan.”
“That is why we have returned,” said Tolchin. “Hawkwind must not be allowed to take Simbala into war! He knows nothing of battle!”
“He is Monarch,” said Evirae. “It is his right by office.”
“Then he must not be Monarch,” said Tolchin gravely. “On this your father and I agree.”
They looked at Kiorte as he reappeared in the uniform of the Brothers of the Wind. The Prince shook his head. “I wish to see the situation for myself first.”
“There is no time!” warned Tolchin. “You of all the members of the family must understand the urgency of our action! Surely you do not favor the plan of Hawkwind and General Vora!”
“I do not,” answered Kiorte, “but I will not call for their removal blindly. That is not the issue. The issue is our defense.”
Jibron could barely restrain his anger. “Listen to Tolchin,” he said. “It is senseless to confront the miner! He has thrown away the Ruby, he has ignored the advice of both the Baron and myself! Renounce him now! There is still time to prevent bloodshed!”
Kiorte observed the Family. He knew Jibron and Eselle favored the removal of Hawkwind. Tolchin was angry, but Kiorte had seen him angry many times. He knew Tolchin had been embarrassed by his request for the troops to the Southland. His rejection of Hawkwind could be attributed in no small measure to his own error.
Kiorte looked at Tolchin’s wife, Alora. Did she agree with her husband? Although they were very close, they often argued, for between them they represented on the one hand, the interests of the merchants, and on the other, the Bursars of Simbala.
