by Byron Preiss
Ephrion hurried to the middle of the craft and Amsel saw a concave metal container filled with jewels.
“Now, watch,” said Ephrion. He started to spray the brazier with water from a small leather sack. As it squirted on the blue Sindril crystals, they hissed and steamed.
Amsel watched in amazement as the sails above began to fill. The jewels were producing an incredible amount of gas. Soon it would be enough to fill the windship’s sails.
“I must go,” said Ephrion. “Continue this until the sails are full. The sheets function in a manner similar to a sailboat. There are simple levers at the back of the ship to control them. It is an understanding of the wind that is most crucial. From your other exploits, tacking should not be too difficult for you to do.”
Ephrion glanced back at the station door. “We are fortunate,” he said, “that most of the palace guards have been recruited for war. I will delay the remaining sentry as long as I can.”
Amsel nodded and continued to stoke the fire. “I must have directions!” he said. “I know far too little of Overwood to go north blindly. And what about food and water?”
Ephrion nodded and took the scroll from the lining of his robe. “This is an old map of a respected Windrider. His name was Eilat.” He placed it on the roof of the low cabin. “Supplies are in the cabin,” he continued, and then pulled a long pole from a rack on the hull. “When the sails are full, use this to free the ropes of the moorings.” Returning the pole to its berth, Ephrion extended his hand to the inventor and said, “You will return, Amsel of Fandora. You will return in peace.”
Amsel grasped the Monarch’s hand.
“Remember the legends you heard as a child,” said Ephrion, “for from my experience of the past few days, they may have more truth than we had ever imagined.”
He looked up and saw the sails filling quickly. “I must leave you now,” he said. He descended the rope ladder. “A safe voyage, Amsel!”
Amsel waved silently and then started to free the ropes of the windship.
“A safe voyage!” he muttered as the old man’s footsteps faded. “I’m off to face man-eating creatures, and he wishes me a safe voyage!”
When he had detached all but a few crucial ropes, Amsel hurried back to the jewels to spray them again. Then, picking up the map, he went to the bow of the windship. He wanted to make sure he was familiar with both his plans and the operation of the craft before leaving, and he observed with fascination the intricate riggings and billowing sails above him.
He did not have nearly as much time as he would have liked. The door at the far end suddenly opened again, and two guards entered. Amsel presumed they were under orders from Evirae, for as soon as they saw the windship hovering slightly above the floor of the station, they ran forward, shouting at him to give up.
“It’s time to leave,” Amsel murmured, “but I wish I had had a chance to practice!”
He cast the last rope from the ship, and pushed against the sloping dock with the pole. The sails were not completely filled—the craft rocked dangerously beneath him, throwing him off his feet. The guards cast spears after him, which fell short. Amsel struggled to his feet. He glanced over the side and immediately decided that he should have stayed close to the controls. The top of the palace, and the forest around it, were already beneath him. There was evidently too much gas in the forward sails, for the deck was tilted at a steep angle. Amsel trimmed the flow of gas, seized the steering levers, and began cautiously to pilot the ship. To his relief, he soon found the proper adjustment to steady the craft. The sails firmed. He returned to the center of the windship and picked up Ephrion’s map to chart a course toward Dragonsea.
The low clouds were starting to clear, he noticed. Far away, across the green roof of the forest, sunlight poured. Amsel watched a flock of dark birds wing through it. Up here, things were so peaceful. It was hard to believe that people carried on such foolish things as war and intrigue in such a beautiful land.
The thought of the war brought back thoughts of Johan and the Wing, and so he set to work, securing the ropes of the windship. There would be little time for enjoyment of the scenery. The ship was still rising, and was now dangerously close to the north-blowing winds. Above, Amsel could see the higher layers of clouds breaking up under their currents. Then he noticed the flock of birds in the distance was coming toward him. Or so it seemed. As the clouds cleared, he could see that it was a single bird. Odd, Amsel thought, how the lack of perspective in the sky could fool him.
Then, with a chill as cold as the subterranean river, Amsel realized that the winged shape was much, much too large to be a bird. He stared at it, watching it come closer and closer.
It was not a bird. Not a flock of birds. It was a coldrake.
Amsel gripped the rail in fear. The creature’s giant wings propelled it faster than the wind filling the windship’s sails. Its yellow eyes, each as big as Amsel’s head, were fixed on him with a singular determination. It swooped toward him, its talons extended toward the windship. Such talons could rend the sails to shreds.
Or rend a Wing, ridden by a laughing child . . .
Amsel began to shudder. He had not had much time to think about Ephrion’s words. The startling statement that dragons and coldrakes existed had so many implications that he had put it in the back of his mind until the craft had left the skies of Simbala. Yet now, in the instant that he stood watching the creature, a myriad bits and pieces of previously unrelated information fitted together in his mind. What Ephrion hinted at was true! He had never seen the wreckage of his glider or Johan’s body, but he had heard Jondalrun’s description. The Wing had been shredded, and Johan savagely mauled and broken, in a way that no fall could explain. The Shepherd’s daughter had been snatched into the sky and similarly treated. Jondalrun had blamed a Simbalese Windrider—and indeed, how else could it have possibly happened?
How else, indeed, save by those cruel talons and teeth now approaching?
Amsel leaped backward and opened the flue of the brazier. The windship leaped upward in response, and rocked as the coldrake passed beneath it, stirring the air. He watched it turn slowly, almost leisurely in the air. It came by again, quite close this time, but made no attempt to attack. Then it had passed him and was continuing north, rising higher and higher.
Amsel stoked the brazier again, and the windship also rose. He had to keep the creature in view! Above it, he could see the clouds being torn by the northerly winds. If he rose much higher, he would be in the grip of their currents. Already the lower fringes of the wind were plucking at the tops of the sails. It reminded him of the forces that had pulled his boat out into the North Sea, where he had sighted the coldrake and thought it a dream.
“Johan,” he murmured, “was that yellow eye the last thing you saw in life?”
The coldrake turned again, swept toward him, circled the windship, then continued on its flight to the north. Its actions were eminently clear—it wanted Amsel to follow! It was not attacking—at least, not yet.
Amsel looked at it. “Are you the reason they fight?” he said softly. “Are you behind this war?”
He thrust the brazier lever firmly down. The windship rose quickly upward, into the grip of the northerly winds. There would be no turning back now. He was caught in the currents that would take him out over Dragonsea, to the unknown land where a legend was legend no more.
* * *
“At this hour tomorrow, I shall be Queen!” Evirae’s words were like a dagger to Ceria’s heart. “Hawkwind will be impeached, my dear. On that matter the Family will be united.”
The Princess faced Ceria in a small room in her mansion. It was a guest chamber, opulently furnished, with a round bed and a dresser beneath a fenestrella window. But Ceria knew she was far from a guest. She had been taken prisoner in the kitchen of the palace, then transported quickly away, before guards loyal to Hawkwind could rescue her. Evirae’s actions had been supported by the Baron.
“Hawkwind will soon
no longer be Monarch,” the Princess said again, “and you, my gypsy miss, are the instrument of his deposition!”
Ceria gave no sign to acknowledge the sudden fear within her. She had never seen Evirae this sure of herself. The vacuous, petty-minded Princess was gone, and in her place was a woman attempting to be sinister and deadly. Though her cruelty seemed overdone, her cloak of villainy faintly absurd, still Ceria could almost believe that those long nails were really poison-coated.
“You see,” Evirae continued, “conspiring with an enemy spy is a traitorous act. Several guards and many of the palace personnel saw you attempt to save that Fandoran spy from arrest. As Minister of the Interior, as an adviser closer to Hawkwind than the Family itself, your actions are attributable to him! We have little alternative but to presume that he knows what you have been doing.” She lifted a hand to her chest in a gesture that made mockery of Ceria’s plight. “It is a sad day when a Rayan seeks to aid an enemy of Simbala!”
Again Ceria was silent. She could not bear the thought that the Princess would use her against Hawkwind. They had fought too long for acceptance, she had waited too long to bring a Rayan voice to Simbala’s affairs to be defeated now.
“I believe you have not yet found the spy,” Ceria said softly to the Princess. “Perhaps I can help.”
Evirae’s eyes widened as if she were a child seeing a toy for the first time. “You wish to make a confession?”
Ceria did not gaze at Evirae directly, focusing instead on the dresser behind her. “I do not know,” she answered. “Perhaps if there were some reason for me to talk . . . It has been so long since I have visited my family . . .”
Evirae smiled. “I am loyal to those who help me, my dear. Certainly, a sudden departure could be arranged if you fully confess Hawkwind’s role in this affair. I am less worried about the spy. There is no way he can leave the palace grounds undetected.”
“There is so much to tell, Princess. I know not where to start.” Ceria stared at the door near the dresser. “I must be assured that we speak in total confidence. I am very confused.”
“Why, we are alone, my dear.” Evirae glanced nervously around the guest chamber.
“No,” answered Ceria. “I sense there is someone outside the door.”
The Princess softly spun about, pulled the knob behind her, and spotted Mesor in the hall walking quickly away. “Come back!” she shouted. Then she slipped her head back into the guest chamber. “I will be only a moment, Ceria. . . .
“Mesor!” she whispered. “The Rayan wishes to confess! Make sure this hall goes unattended until you hear further from me.”
Mesor sighed. “Are you sure, Princess? She might attempt—”
“She insists on privacy!”
“How could it hurt if one sentry remains—”
“You know she senses things! Now, hurry! Leave! Tell the others before she changes her mind!”
Mesor nodded reluctantly and hurried down the small landing. Evirae closed the door of the guest chamber and smiled.
“Now,” she said, turning, “what did you have to say to me, Ceria?”
Ceria picked up a spiceball from a dish on the dresser and turned it over and over in her hands. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, approaching Evirae. “My life is coming apart—like this!”
She quickly thrust the spiceball beneath Evirae’s nose and squeezed. The dry aromatic ball disintegrated; Evirae gasped in surprise, then sneezed as the powder filled her nose. Ceria lifted a small statue sculptured of talc from the fenestrella’s ledge and swung it, striking Evirae at the base of her head, below the cushioning pile of hair. Evirae dropped to her knees with a cry. Ceria leaped to the small window of the chamber.
“As long as I am alive, you shall never be Queen!” she shouted, and then disappeared.
“Mesor!” cried the Princess. “The Rayan is escaping!”
The door burst open a moment later to reveal both the Bursar and a guard.
“She’s gone!” Mesor cried. He lifted Evirae to her feet.
“That filthy Rayan!” Evirae sneezed again. “Oh, Mesor, my head is shattered! Is there blood? Tell me there isn’t—it will ruin my gown! Oh, I’ll have her endungeoned for this!”
“She won’t get far,” Mesor said. “She leaped from the window. It is a two-story drop—she must have broken her legs.”
“She did not,” said the guard, who was peering through the window.
Evirae and Mesor looked out in bewilderment. There was no sign of Ceria on the patio.
Hidden by the bushes of Evirae’s garden, Ceria ran stealthily toward a neighboring mansion. She had landed squarely on the broad, cushioning leaves of a pillow plant below the guest chamber’s window, and was now running to a horse tied to a nearby tree.
“There!” shouted Mesor. “The Rayan is headed toward the house of Lady Tenor. Get her!” he shouted to the guard.
The guard started toward the door, but as he did, the Princess stopped him.
“Wait,” she murmured, her nails digging gently into his shoulder. “Stay here.”
Mesor stared at her in shock. “Are you mad? After all we—you—have done? The Rayan is the key to your plan!”
Evirae nodded. “You are correct, Mesor. Her actions are crucial.”
“Then why do you stand by as she escapes?”
“If Ceria escapes, she cannot be questioned. If she cannot be questioned, then the Baroness will be unable to challenge any of my accusations against her. She too saw Ceria take the spy across the palace lawn. That, and the traitorous actions which followed, are more than enough to win the vote of the Family.”
Mesor shook his head. “You are too confident. Ceria will reach Hawkwind and warn him.”
“You are too nervous!” snapped Evirae. “Ceria will go south to rejoin the Rayan camp. They are thieves and liars, despite their talent. Hawkwind is of no use to her any longer. She will look for her fortune elsewhere! I do not think we will see Ceria again.”
Evirae turned toward the window once more. From it she could see a small red figure on horseback rushing toward a gap on the edge of the palace grounds.
“Summon the Family,” she said calmly. “I wish to discuss the miner’s status.”
“We should at least alert the guards between here and the Kameran Valley,” said Mesor. “If Ceria attempts to reach Hawkwind, then they—”
“It does not matter,” said Evirae calmly, “if she is found in the miner’s arms.”
* * *
As the Princess watched, so did another.
In a small chamber high above the courtyard, Ephrion was soothed by the sight of a black horse leaping a narrow row of bushes on the edge of the palace grounds.
“She’s worthy of you, Hawkwind,” he murmured. “We have lost time, but we have not lost hope. The Fandoran pursues the dragons as Ceria pursues their past.”
He rose slowly to prepare for his departure from the palace. There was a message whose delivery he would trust only to an old and loyal friend.
* * *
The fog had finally lifted, for the most part, in the Kameran Valley. This, however, had been accompanied by a rising of the winds, and so using the windships was still rather risky.
The Fandorans had now returned to the hills, and the Simbalese had regrouped on the opposite side of the valley, near the forest. Hawkwind had delayed the order to charge toward the hills, because of the possibility of another attack by the dragon.
“We can surround the hills and wait them out,” the General said to Hawkwind, “but there are plenty of fruit trees and small game in those hills—they could last for days.”
“And the dragon could return at any time,” Hawkwind commented.
General Vora shrugged. “We need more troops to make a successful assault into the hills.”
Willen was standing nearby when this remark was made. He turned to the General and said, “We could win this war for you, General Vora. My people can go through brush and forest quicker
than you go through a good meal, and a good deal quieter. We could penetrate the hills and flush the Fandorans out for you.”
“You are insubordinate,” Vora snapped, “and that is precisely the reason I refuse to consider such a move! Your people are too hotheaded! This is a war, not a personal vendetta!”
Willen turned and walked away angrily. Thalen said to Hawkwind, “My brother and I must return to Overwood, to lead the Windriders against that dragon!”
“Very well,” Hawkwind said. “I agree; you will be of more service there. Go, then, and quickly!”
The two Windriders, most skilled of all their elite corps, ran toward the ships. Kiorte swung himself onto the deck of his ship and began spraying the Sindril brazier. Thalen watched him as he boarded the other windship. He felt a pang of envy and loss. Kiorte was aboard his own ship, a craft he had built himself, and loved almost as a parent loves a child. Thalen would ride a stranger this time—his own ship, the pride of his life, was a broken and charred ruin in the middle of the valley. He put such thoughts out of his mind with an effort, and began raising the sails. There was no time to think of his loss now. The safety of Overwood came first, much as he would have liked to sail again against the Fandoran soldiers who had brought his ship down.
The prisoner watched as the two windships were readied for launch. He knew he would have to make his move now. He was quite frightened, but he was even more frightened of remaining a captive of the Simbalese. So far, they had not treated him ill, only asked him a few questions about the battle plans of the Fandoran army. He had refused to answer—not out of any particular loyalty, but because he simply did not know. He was still afraid that they would work some terrible magic on him, though they had shown no inclination so far to do so. Still, he knew that he had to escape before they did.
Suddenly, he had his chance. As the two windships left the ground, an errant burst of wind caused one of the ropes still dangling from Kiorte’s ship to whip about, threatening a group of men and women, who ran to get clear of its lashing end. His guards’ attention was focused on that. He took a deep breath and put his strength against the rawhide loops. They cut into his skin; then they snapped, and he was free. Before his guards were aware of it, he had seized one of them and hurled him into the other. Then he turned and ran toward the other windship, to which no one was paying any attention.
