by Byron Preiss
What followed was a ballet of terror. Amsel remembered the rocks slipping beneath his hands, scratching and tearing at his clothes as he scrambled up the slope. He had not turned to see how close the coldrake was; his attention was focused on the climb. He barely made it through a crest at the bottom of the cliff, as the coldrake swooped angrily upward to avoid hitting the rock itself. Then, with a wail, it attacked again, and Amsel heard a shriek of disappointed rage as the creature realized it could not pass through the crevice.
Panting, he stared out and saw the coldrake’s claws scrabbling for purchase on the loose rock outside the cliff. The leathery booming of its wings echoed through the cavern behind him.
The creature peered through the crack in the cliffs. Its odor filled the passage and Amsel fought a sudden surge of nausea. He dashed deeper into the luminous tunnel.
Minutes later, there was the echo of sliding rock, and the flapping faded. Amsel turned around and glimpsed the coldrake flying away from the cliff. It frightened him to think that one of the creatures had been dispatched for the purpose of following him, but he knew now that he was safe. At least, he was safe from the coldrake.
He looked around the cavern. It was the first time he was able to notice where he was. The passageway was high and quite wide, growing wider as it went farther into the cliff. Evidently this had once been a much larger opening, but had been blocked long ago by a landslide. Regaining his balance and breath, Amsel saw that the walls and floor of the passage glowed. They felt somewhat warm to him, and soothing to the touch. He had no idea what accounted for the phenomenon at first, but closer investigation indicated that the rocks were uniformly coated with some sort of lichenlike growth. Amsel scraped a few flakes from the wall with his finger. They glowed for a moment in his palm and then faded to ash. Amsel instinctively deposited them in his pouch, but as he did, scientific curiosity gave way to childlike excitement. He suddenly realized what he had found!
“The walls are glowing,” he said breathlessly, “and this is indeed a cavern!” He touched the lichen gently. “The Glowing Caverns! These are the Glowing Caverns!” According to legends, it was here that the dragons had lived. He had seen a dragon frozen in the ice outside the cliffs. Perhaps others yet lived within them!
Amsel started to run deeper into the cavern, but as he did another thought pushed its way into his mind. If the dragon in the ice had been so close to the Glowing Caverns, why did it meet such a horrible fate?
Amsel had no answer. He descended farther into the cavern, anxious but wary.
The glowing lichen covered everything, and its varying thicknesses produced different intensities of light, from beige to sunny yellow to orange. Amsel wandered beneath natural archways, past huge stalagmites and stalactites. Although winds swept occasionally through the tunnels, the temperature was quite comfortable. “All in all, quite a nice place to make home,” he told himself, “but I think it would be quite lonely here.” That statement made him blink in surprise. Solitude had always been one of his prerequisites in choosing a home. Yet here he was uncomfortable with the thought of isolation.
Mindful of what had happened to him the last time he was underground, he kept a careful mental map of his route. The large passageway he followed soon joined another, even larger tunnel, and down the middle of this flowed a stream—no doubt a branch of the river he had rafted. The general slope of the passageway was always downward. Amsel walked for some time before the passageway forked. The route he was following sloped down to the left, and he continued ahead into a larger area. As he descended, the stream disappeared into a small tunnel on his right. “I’m getting close to something,” murmured Amsel, and as he passed the opening where the stream vanished, he realized that the passageway ended at the edge of a cliff. The noise of the stream faded, and he became aware of another sound replacing it—a vast, slow regular passage of air, like the intake and release of breath. That could not be, he thought. What could take one breath that was equal to ten of his? Then he realized what it was, what it had to be.
The long search had come to an end. Amsel walked toward the edge of the cliff. Looking out slowly, he saw an enormous subterranean chamber illuminated by the glowing lichen. Within it, a pair of fabled wings beckoned silently.
A dragon was sleeping on the gray stone floor.
* * *
Vora watched Kiorte’s windship descend in the predawn light. The Prince rode with a palace guard. Vora knew this soldier bore ill news for Hawkwind. Kiorte and the guard approached, and without a word the guard handed him a rolled proclamation.
The General glanced at the wax seal and frowned—it was the signet of all the royal crests, indicating a fiat by the Royal Family. He opened it, read, and looked up in shock. Evirae was to be made Queen tomorrow! Kiorte had been sent to assume control of the troops.
“I am sorry,” Kiorte said. “But it is for the good of Simbala.”
“It is for the good of Evirae!” Vora shouted. “She has wrapped all of you in her web! I refuse to have anything to do with this,” he continued in a softer voice. “Hawkwind governs Simbala, not your wife.”
Kiorte showed no emotion. “Where is Hawkwind?” he asked. “I have papers ordering his arrest.”
Vora sneered. “Papers! More papers! She will not have him, Kiorte. Hawkwind has gone to the south to bring back the missing troops.”
Kiorte looked appalled. “He has left the army with you?”
“Yes! What else could he do, with your wife accusing him at every turn?” He turned away in disgust.
Kiorte looked at Vora disdainfully. “A true Monarch would never desert his army,” he said.
“A true Windrider would not use his wife’s ambition to gain control of it!” Vora glared at Kiorte, as if ready to flight.
“That is enough,” Kiorte whispered. “There shall be no arguments in front of the men. I suggest we work together in the best interests of Simbala.”
“Never!”
“I am in charge of the army now, Vora. It would be foolish for you to turn your back on its affairs.”
“The situation is under control!”
“Control? Vora, my brother was murdered!”
These words stung the General, for he felt some responsibility for what had happened. He turned away. “It was the fault of a Wealdsman,” he said in a lowered voice. “Not a soldier.”
“The Wealdsfolk were recruited by Hawkwind in another attempt to change our ways!”
Vora did not look at Kiorte. “The Wealdsfolk are worthless to us, I agree.”
“Where are they?” asked Kiorte. “I wish to see the man responsible.”
Vora glanced up. “They are stationed in a clearing behind those trees, awaiting new orders.”
Kiorte shook his head. “That clearing is empty. I saw it as I landed.”
“You are in error, Kiorte. I assigned them there myself.”
Vora sent a messenger to bring back Tweel, but minutes later the woman returned alone. “The Northweald soldiers have decamped,” she said. “Nobody seems to know where they have gone!”
* * *
Baron Tolchin hummed a favorite tune as he strolled down the walk to Evirae’s mansion. He observed the sentries outside with amusement, and looked up to the bedroom window. He spied the red-cheeked face of General Jibron inside and overheard the words he was saying to Eselle.
“It is over at last,” puffed Jibron. “Tomorrow Evirae will be formally installed as Queen. Kiorte has already left to take over the troops. The Fandorans will soon be driven back to shore!”
The Baron nodded. Although he still felt uneasy about defying Ephrion, he did not regret it for the lives of too many men and women were at stake. He felt the diadem in a hidden pocket of his coat. The whole affair had been an ordeal. He did not wish to see the miner imprisoned, but he knew Evirae would offer no pardon.
He passed the guards and entered the mansion. Above it were the friendly sails of two windships Kiorte had ordered into duty as a d
efensive measure against the dragons.
* * *
Although he had not played a direct role in the meeting itself, Mesor viewed the outcome as the culmination of his work for Evirae. All of her petty intrigue he had turned into politic action; his ambition had resulted in her success. With Evirae in the palace, his position and safety would be assured.
He had Couriers spread word, in subtle language, to merchants and officials that there would soon be a change, and that the Princess would remember old friends—and old enemies. Many ignored this veiled threat, but from a few it brought quick response—assurances that those who once sneered at him now were capable of seeing the sterling qualities they had previously overlooked.
Mesor knew that if he moved quickly, he could make himself a fortune in took as. On the unfortunate possibility that Evirae did not rule more than a short time—the Royal Family would be watching her closely—he would still have those took as.
It was not long before his new status was confirmed. At just past midnight, the news of Evirae’s impending coronation was announced by criers throughout Overwood. Hawkwind was Monarch no more!
* * *
Dawn had come and gone. The rising sun turned the dew to wisps of fog, giving an ethereal quality to the plains. Ceria sat by the cold ashes of the fire, staring intently into the shining globe before her. She had sat thus for hours focusing her mind on the Dragonpearl, but what she had learned had already been discovered by the Rayan in the past. The people of the wagons who had at first gathered about her in interest had now drifted away to their morning chores. Only Zurka and Balia still waited, the old woman appearing tense as she watched her foster daughter. Even Balia, though pleased by Ceria’s apparent failure, was anxious to see if anything more could be learned from the stone.
Ceria was beyond fatigue. Her body seemed distant to her, and she scarcely felt the aching in her muscles brought on by the long journey and the stillness with which she sat staring at the stone.
She had unlocked the same information as the other Rayan easily enough, and the gently rolling clouds had seemed to part almost eagerly as she watched. She and those around her had viewed within the jewel a green and lovely land. Slowly, as though borne by giant wings, they traveled through the blue of a cloudless sky, over rivers and rugged mountains whose caps were laden with snow and whose sides were thick with forest. Although the scene was blurred and indistinct, it was clearly a land abundant with life. Ceria had felt herself growing closer to it, seeing vast hazy shapes at rest in the valleys beside gently flowing streams. They appeared to be sometimes with four legs, sometimes two. Despite their varying sizes, all had wings. Accompanying this scene, Ceria had sensed a deep peace and contentment. The creatures basked in the sun, bathed in hot springs, and found food among the trees. It was an age-old paradise; the sense of centuries passing was strong as one scene melted slowly into another. The dragons seemed to prosper; the two-legged ones became more numerous, but the larger creatures continued to dominate the land. After a time, however, like a single disharmonious note in a beautiful symphony, Ceria sensed a feeling of dread. There appeared clouds above the dragons’ land and she struggled to see beyond them with her mind. Then the rainbow mist closed over the scene and the Dragonpearl returned to a pearly silence. She could not probe further. The tale within the sphere remained a mystery, a story without end, as it had to the other Rayans who had attempted to fathom it.
Now Ceria felt her exhaustion. Her weariness was weakening her concentration. She became aware of the pains in her body and the need for food and sleep. She tried to ignore them, for she knew that if she gave up now she would have to return to the forest without the Dragonpearl. She had to stay awake. She knew the answer to the mystery of the dragon’s attack could be found within the jewel. Her fatigue would not disappear, however, and even as she fought to stay conscious, her thoughts became fragmentary and incoherent, and faded into the familiar blackness of sleep.
Zurka held Ceria as she started to slide sideways toward her. Balia continued to stare at the stone. The mist had faded, but the color was not that which it had been when Zurka had removed it from her wagon earlier. Despite Ceria’s state, it still seemed to be functioning.
Zurka pressed her fingers against her daughter’s neck and listened to Ceria’s regular breathing. The color was returning to her cheeks. “She is resting,” said Zurka. “There is nothing more she can learn from it now.”
“Wait!” gasped Balia. “Look at the stone!” As her stepsister spoke, Ceria’s serene expression became troubled, as though she was experiencing a nightmare. Her hand in Zurka’s felt suddenly cold, and gooseflesh rose on her arms.
“The stone, Mother! Look at the stone!”
Zurka looked.
At first, she saw only shifting white, as though the clouds inside the stone had been drained of their colors. Then she realized that she was looking at a blizzard inside the sphere. She watched it, and, as others returned to see what had happened, the Dragonpearl seemed to expand, to fill their visions and their minds.
Then again they saw the valleys and mountains of the land of the dragons, now covered with snow. Snow gathered in drifts and fell in avalanches that buried the dragons. They saw the peaceful streams freeze over with ice. As they watched, the scenes of winter continued, terrifying in intensity and puzzling in their meaning. Freezing wind cut through mountain passes. Glaciers moved slowly but inexorably through valleys, their blue ice shearing trees away and scrubbing the mountains bare.
The dragons appeared again, and now there was a terrible feeling of loneliness and fear. The creatures dwelled now in caverns, their numbers much fewer. As the cold grew worse, some began to leave, in small groups at first, then in larger numbers, flying to the east and the west. There came now a sense of loss and agony. The glow of the Dragonpearl grew dimmer. They looked into the darkness and saw the remains of dragons—bones and the dried flesh of gray wings strewn across the floors of the caverns. These corpses, these ghastly relics of the beautiful creatures, were both large and small. As they watched, the scene drew closer and closer, a sea of ivory, and the sense of sadness was overwhelming. . . .
Ceria moaned and sat up. She saw the mist fill the sphere again and its radiance diminish. She tried to stand, and Zurka helped her to her feet. “The dragons perished,” Ceria said in a shocked tone.
Zurka stroked her daughter’s arm gently and whispered, “Ceria, you have delved deeper into the Dragonpearl than any other I have known. It is time that you rested.”
Ceria nodded, but said, “I must bring it back to Overwood. There is much that we have seen that we do not fully understand. I must show the Dragonpearl to Ephrion. I must prove my—”
“You shall have it,” said another, deeper voice. All eyes turned to Balia, who had also risen. There was no anger in her words, but her feelings were evident to all who knew the story of the two sisters. The spectacle of Ceria’s triumph had once again undermined her own importance. Had Ceria remained at Shar Wagon, she would have been chieftess. She was favored by all, even Zurka. “It is rightfully yours to take,” said Balia. “It is needed by Simbala. You have proven yourself worthy of it. I do not object any longer.” Balia started to walk away from those that had assembled. Ceria pulled away from Zurka and rushed toward her stepsister, barely able to keep her balance. Balia turned and caught her.
“Do not be angry with me,” Ceria whispered.
“Angry?” said Balia. “I am not angry with you. You have lost little of your skill during your absence. I am as impressed as the others. There is nothing else for me to say.”
“You envy me, Balia. Do not deny it.”
There was a look of resentment on Balia’s face, but she did not argue with what Ceria said.
“You are beautiful,” Ceria continued softly. “Far more beautiful than I. You have remained in Shar Wagon and I have not. You have cared for Mother. I have cared more for myself. There is no reason to envy me, Balia. My talent is a gift. I have
not earned it the way you have earned the respect of our people. I have come to find a way to help end the war and to help Hawkwind. In doing so, I may be able to prove my innocence to the people of the forest. I come not to compete with you, Balia. Can we not truly be sisters?”
Balia stared at the young woman. Her face was worn and pale and her hair dangled clumsily down the side of her head. Balia knew there was truth to Ceria’s words and knew also that the camp could use a friend of such commitment and intelligence in Overwood.
“We have always been sisters,” Balia said gently. Then she waved to Zurka.
“Mother!” she called. “Prepare a bed for Ceria!” Balia felt her sister’s weight against her and murmured, “I think she is about to faint!”
* * *
Ceria dreamed of dragons as the sound of hoofbeats filled the campsite. There was much shouting and confusion for a few moments as the intruder dismounted to ask questions. Then the Rayan watched quietly as he walked toward Zurka’s wagon.
The noise outside had awakened Ceria and she caught the light of the moon through a window of the wagon. “Balia?” she whispered. “Is that you?
The door to the wagon opened, and Ceria heard a man’s voice as she focused her eyes in the shadowy light.
“My love,” said Hawkwind. “We must leave at once.”
Ceria noticed his scars and the slashes on his cape, but before she could learn what had occurred, Hawkwind silenced her. “Evirae has won the approval of the Family,” he said. “We must return to the forest! Have you succeeded in your quest?”
Holding herself close to Hawkwind, Ceria nodded. “Yes, I have found the Dragonpearl. If what I have learned is true, then the dragons threaten us alone. They are not the allies of the Fandorans. They are few in number and I sense that they are frightened.”
