It is very beautiful, she said softly. But what does it have to do with me? And I want to know, what did you and that other dragon say to each other?
Highwing did not answer for a moment. He hovered, motionless and silent, then suddenly craned his neck to peer back over his shoulder with an enormous, faceted green eye. Little one—such endless questions! I wish I could remember your name. What was it?
Jael! she said stiffly. Then she saw the fire glittering in his eye and realized that he was teasing her. She flushed with embarrassment.
Little Jael, the dragon said.
Quit calling me little!
The dragon shivered, his scales rippling under her. But you are—physically, at least. Don't you know that if we are to share a friendship, we must be truthful with each other?
She bristled, before snapping, We won't have any friendship if you keep calling me that!
Highwing cocked his massive head in amusement. You say that now, large Jael. But you would not duel, as a demon-spirit should. You convinced me that you are no demon. You gave me your name—and commanded my honor. The twinkle was gone from his eye now. And so we have come here, to this place where I might weave together certain powers, where we might learn more of the truth of each other.
Jael hiked herself up to look the dragon squarely in one eye. Hah! she was going to say, but her gaze locked with the dragon's, and the word never came out.
Suddenly she knew what he meant by power. She had looked into the dragon's glowing eyes once before, but this was . . . different. His gaze seemed infinitely deep now; it drew her inward, enveloping her. She felt herself falling deeper, deeper, into the luminous abyss of his inner eye, toward a cool faceted fire that burned within that emerald lantern. She fell through one of the dazzling facets and into a stream of upwelling light. It seemed a warming light; and she sank into it as though falling weightless down a twisting spiral pathway, toward the inner fires, and into the light of the dragon's very essence, its consciousness . . . its soul. And she found a mind peering back at her in wonder and curiosity.
Dimly, she recalled something like this in the dreamlink. Then she had been afraid, but now she felt no fear. This being was different from anyone she had ever encountered before, more powerful and curious by far. But beneath the layers of curiosity she glimpsed a deep sorrow, an unexpected kindness, and an interest that was without malice, though overlaid with caution. She caught reflected images of herself and realized that the other was peering deep into her own thoughts, probing her memories and her fears, probing her very being. For an instant, she wanted to resist. But no . . . this was a gentle probing, and she found herself wanting to be open . . .
A host of memories rose up like silvery bubbles, floating free into the light. She was aware of her feelings drifting by as though they were something separate from herself. She saw herself rigging with schoolmates, and later with Mogurn. She saw herself walking in a meadow with her mother, identifying flowers. It must have been long ago, because they seemed happy. It was before her mother had left her husband, taking Jael with her. It was before her mother had died, in the autumn of Jael's eleventh year. It was before Jael had gone back to live with her father. She saw Dap coming to see her at the rigger school, he the senior, she the novice. That was in happier times, too, sharing hopes and tales. Once, she saw her father actually being tender with her mother, and then she saw him raging, slapping her brutally. She knew he wasn't even angry with her, but with his failing business. The memories came faster . . . the dreamlink, and the pallisp . . . and the rush of bubbles was too fast and too shiny for her to follow, and it made her dizzy to try . . . and a part of her was crying now . . . and that made it all blur . . . .
There were other memories as well, but they weren't all hers. She saw dragons quarreling and contesting for power, and dragon honor darkened by jealousy and distrust. She saw weavings of spells in a place called the underrealm, spells of crafting that created garden-places like this one; and she glimpsed other powers at work, threatening to ruin them. She heard a name that sounded like Tar-skel, a strange name, murmured fearfully in private moments and dismissed in others, and she shivered at the sound of it, feeling unaccountably afraid. She saw someone named Skytouch, a fragile-looking dragon, nearly transparent, with glassy scales and wings, in a place called Dream Mountain. Words she could not quite catch echoed around that memory, and she knew only that they were laden with both uncertainty and expectation, with ancient hopes and fears. A terrible hurt seemed to well up with the memory—an absence, and a deep and bitter longing.
She drew away from the pain with a cry, and the sound resonated down the pathway into the light and reverberated back in a sympathetic chord of dragonly surprise. She felt a great fear and a need being closed off, hidden. The pathway between the minds flickered, and parted. Astonished, Jael pulled free of the dragon's gaze and sat back blinking.
What had just happened?
She wasn't sure. But though her head was ringing like a muffled bell in the aftereffects of the broken linking, one fact echoed with remarkable clarity. She had hardly been aware of it during the linking. But this dragon counted himself as her friend and companion. He truly did.
She wasn't sure why. Was it because they had exchanged names and stopped their dueling? That was part of it, but not all. He had looked deep into her, into her soul; and though he had not understood everything he saw there, he seemed to have understood enough. He counted her as a friend. And he was violating dragon tradition to do so. Because he had somehow, on some level she could not understand, expected her.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember what she had seen. For she had looked into his memories as he had into hers, and she had witnessed something—barely a glimpse, really—of the world that Highwing inhabited. Dragon honor . . .
All was not well with dragon honor or with this realm. And Highwing thought it no coincidence that she was here now. But he did not want to speak to her of it, or to frighten her.
But what did any of that have to do with her? Was he, perhaps, mistaking her for someone else? She was supposed to be flying between the stars; that fact had almost escaped her. She stretched her senses back through the rigger-net, testing; she felt the ship, and the flux-pile energizing the net, holding her here in the reality of the Flux. And it was a reality. Should she pull clear now, try to remove herself from danger, if she could? She thought of the pallisp and its blissful release. Should she face Mogurn and explain her folly, suffer his wrath in hopes of forgiveness and a chance to try again . . . in hopes of the pallisp, to warm and fill her heart? Later, she could return and try to modify the image. But to what purpose? This realm seemed unlike other regions of the Flux; it was what it was, and did not seem to care for her attempts to change it. Besides, Mogurn was very angry with her. He would never give her the pallisp now.
And what of Highwing—this dragon who had made her his friend? He suffered his own pain, it seemed. Her heart was pounding, remembering. She opened her eyes again and looked at the dragon. His neck was still craned, and he was gazing at her silently with his huge glowing eyes. It seemed that no time at all had passed while she'd been lost in thought. Who—? she began, then shook her head. What—? She paused. The dragon's nostrils smoked inquiringly; he averted his head a little to avoid blowing smoke into her face. She sighed. Highwing, she asked, one image coming suddenly into focus, who is Skytouch?
The dragon's eyes closed. He did not answer.
I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. But I saw . . . her? And the iffling, the iffling spoke of her. So I wondered . . .
Highwing's breath whistled out in a high-pitched sigh. Jael trembled. Finally he answered, in a whisper so low she could barely hear, Skytouch was my mate.
Was . . . ? Jael felt, suddenly, a very large lump in her throat.
She is gone, Highwing murmured. Gone from this realm. Gone from this life, to the Final Dream Mountain. I miss her . . . the touch of her thought. His eyes blinked open, then closed to s
lits. It was with her help that I created this place . . . this garden. I have not been here often . . . since . . .
I'm sorry, Jael whispered. She swallowed and sat silent on the dragon's shoulders, unconsciously stroking the dragon's scales. He sighed softly. After a time, she cleared her throat. Well—she murmured haltingly, what was it that you had in mind for . . . us, then?
The dragon's eyes opened wide, and she sensed a change in his mood. He turned his head to face forward again, and with a wing thrust sent them gliding forward again, and upward, away from the magical pool. He flew with gentle down-strokes of his wings. Perhaps, diminutive one, he murmured, I can help you with some things. Then we will see, perhaps, what is to become of us. From this garden, I can reach out with certain powers, and to certain other places. If you are willing to come with me . . .
Jael tightened her grip on his neck.
From the forest-garden, they flew up through a barren landscape, a mountain slope with broken, angled rock faces, glistening here and there with ice. It seemed a lifeless place, but in its starkness it was as beautiful as the vale they had just left behind. As they flew, Jael's mind filled with questions—about the other dragon, about what it was that Highwing expected of her and why that troubled him so, about Skytouch, and the iffling, and about what Highwing was planning to do now. But she could not seem to voice any of those questions. Perhaps it was something in High-wing's mood, conveying a reluctance to talk. She rode in silence, mulling the questions in the privacy of her own thoughts.
Suddenly Highwing's massive head lifted. Look!
Above them a series of faceted, angular cliff faces gleamed faintly in the night, towering over the dragon and human with an almost glacial presence. Here and there among the broken facets of rock she glimpsed dim openings. An intuition told her that in those alcoves something lurked—dragon powers, dragon magic. She shivered and clung to Highwing in wondering apprehension.
The dragon wheeled slowly through the air, picking his way upward into a maze of ravines and passageways, all darkly foreboding in the night. Again Jael felt that curious twisting sensation of time shifting in her own mind, as though each turn through the maze moved the dragon and her backward or forward in time, compressing years or stretching seconds to infinity. She quickly became disoriented, and in the gleaming icy rock faces, she began to imagine that she saw human faces, or images of worlds she might have seen once, worlds she might have lived in, worlds that might have existed in another time and space. She glimpsed weeks and years of rigging experience compressed into a fantastic array of visions.
Highwing, what are we—? And she could not finish the question. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the dizzying feeling of déjà vu.
We're here to learn something, Highwing murmured. I don't know what we'll find, either.
Even with her eyes closed, she was still aware of the dragon's wings beating slowly, or Highwing banking and turning and climbing ever higher and deeper into the maze. She was aware of a sprinkling of stars overhead, peering down at her; aware of the flat faces of rock passing by—some glistening with a sheen of ice, some dull and dark. And when she opened her eyes, it was all just as she'd been envisioning it.
The dragon approached a sheer cliff face, with a narrow ledge across its middle and the cracked shape of a cave opening. He lighted upon the ledge, at the entrance to the cave. Shall we? he inquired.
Jael swallowed. The cave looked black and forbidding. I don't know, she managed at last. I won't try to stop you, I guess.
Highwing chuckled softly and crept forward into the cave. Jael's fingers whitened as she clutched his neck. A roof of shadow passed over them, and they were suddenly enveloped by darkness. She struggled not to tremble or cry out. He is not doing this to harm you, she thought. Trust him.
Look ahead, Highwing murmured.
She rose up cautiously and peered past his head. A pale glow was visible in the darkness. As Highwing moved forward, she became aware of the stone walls widening outward. They were entering a cavern, and it was filled with a pale silvery light that shone down through the ceiling. Far in the back, an enormous spiderweb shimmered, spanning the width of the cavern. It seemed alive. There was a brief sparkle of light across its strands, then a vertical rippling of cold fire.
Jael watched without understanding, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. What is this? she whispered.
A place where we will see . . . whatever we may see. From your thoughts, Jael, your deeper awareness . . .
The web danced with ghostly quicksilver, and suddenly stilled. Jael found herself gazing into a living window.
She was gazing into the past. Her past.
Gazing at Mogurn.
It was Mogurn at the spaceport, not on the ship. The background came slowly into focus: the dispatching room at the spaceport, the rigger lounge off to the right, the stewards' offices to the left. But large and clear in the foreground was Mogurn: Mogurn the businessman, the thief. Mogurn the trader in illegal and immoral goods. The image quivered momentarily, and then she saw that he was talking with someone, with the spaceport crew steward. The steward to whom Jael had complained. The steward who was to respond by selling her into bondage.
This was not the scene as she recalled it. Was it possible that some part of her mind had seen this and remembered it without her conscious awareness? Hanging tightly onto Highwing's neck, she strained to hear what the two men were saying. She could hear nothing; they moved their lips in silence. Both men smiled meanly at something Mogurn said, and then the steward turned and pointed. A female rigger sat some distance beyond them, in the rigger lounge. Jael squinted, and trembled, recognizing herself. She was dozing in her seat. She was stunned to see the fright and the loneliness apparent on her own face, perhaps set loose in her sleep.
Mogurn leaned toward the steward, grinning. He withdrew from a hip pouch—just far enough for the steward to see—the pallisp. The steward nodded, winking. The two men touched hands, and something twinkled between their fingers. A bribe. Then the steward called over another young female rigger, Toni Gilen, and whispered something to her. And Toni nodded and went to speak to Jael—who awoke and rose, bewildered.
Jael clutched the dragon's neck in anger, as she watched herself approach the two men, conclude the transaction, and give up the one promise, the one vow she had made to herself—never to accept work from an unregistered shipper. Then she watched herself prepare, unknowing, to surrender to the pallisp.
Her stomach knotted, as for the first time she actually saw the greed and the arrogance in Mogurn's face as he presented her with his proposal. Had she been too blind to notice it before—too desperately wanting to fly? It was so obvious that he had intended, from the very beginning, to enchain her with the pallisp!
The dragon stirred as she struggled with her rising anger, as she admitted to herself the hatred that was growing, like a malignancy in her heart. She felt a profound humiliation welling up, so powerfully, she hardly heard Highwing whisper, This is how it began, then? May I see more? Without waiting for an answer, the dragon fell silent, and the image rippled and changed.
It was Mogurn's cabin, and Mogurn was standing above her, smiling as he lowered the pallisp to the back of her neck for the first time—smiling, because despite his protestations of innocence, he knew what he was about to do.
Her humiliation burned, became rage. You bastard! You lying bastard! she whispered. God, how I hate you!
And beneath her, the dragon stirred and said softly, I begin to understand. Shall I burn him for you, Jael?
Yes! she cried, blinking back tears, not even knowing what she was saying or thinking, just hating from the depths of her soul this man who had enslaved her. Dear God, yes! Burn him, Highwing! Burn him!
Highwing lifted his head and breathed fire. His breath was a blowtorch, a leaping flame that engulfed the cavern. Jael drew back from the heat, shielding her eyes. The ghostly Jael in the spiderweb vanished, but the ghostly Mogurn whi
rled in surprise. He screamed, just once, before he died in the incinerating fury of the dragon's fire. Jael shuddered as the scream died away, shuddered at the sight of this man dying in hellfire at her command. She shook with rage and fear and remorse, but did not take her eyes from the fire, from the blazing tatters of the spiderweb that were all that remained of Mogurn. She thought she smelled burning flesh, and that only made her tremble even harder, choking. She wept, pressing the side of her face against Highwing's neck. What have I done? she whispered to herself. What have I done? And she felt a great poisonous cloud of hatred churn up out of her heart and leave her, joining the smoke and fury that filled the air.
But when the fires died and the smoke cleared from the gutted cavern, from the place that had held the image of the man who had bought her and used her, she felt something else rise up inside her and release itself—a great breath of cold fresh air in her heart. She felt a cry of freedom bubbling up, rising—a rush of jubilation—and she wept again, but this time with joy instead of sorrow. And when the flood of emotion drained away at last, it was replaced by an enormous backwash of weariness.
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