Dragons in the Stars

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  He is imprisoned, as I showed you.

  But why? she whispered. What did he do that was so terrible?

  The dragon vented steam. How can I explain, if you have not already seen it? How can I explain the terrible darkness that has fallen over these mountains? The dragon groaned deep in his throat, a rumble that could be felt through the stone floor. How can I describe a curse that has so poisoned the minds of my own kind—and his voice rose in pain—that I myself have become an outcast, even among my brothers? How can I explain my father's kindness to a human rigger, which I must now honor, because he asked it? I scarcely understand it myself! He sighed deeply, a great mournful breath of wind. Do the ancient words hold so much power?

  Jael shook her head. The dragon's voice seemed to have spun cobwebs between her ears. Ancient words? Although Highwing had spoken of such things, he had never explained them. And a curse, you say?

  A cloud of sparks flew up into her face, and for an instant she thought that the dragon meant to attack her. Curse—yes! What else could we call it? It is not just a great power, it is a blight that has overwhelmed our land since your departure!

  But it didn't come from me! Jael cried, her head buzzing with anger and confusion. She felt grief-stricken, and guilty, though she didn't know what she'd done wrong.

  The dragon rasped his talons noisily on the stone floor. True enough. It didn't come from you. I know that . . . now. But most in the realm blame you, even though they should not. He turned his head to stare into the hearth. His scales rippled and glimmered with the movement. Rigger Jael, it would seem that your passage through this realm somehow awakened this . . . power. Or perhaps it was there all along, but your actions caused it to reveal itself.

  She gestured helplessly. But how?

  Windrush gazed at her with eyes that were deep and sad beneath his massive brow. There is no simple answer to that question. But your appearance, young rigger, was long ago foretold. Or so I have heard, and so my father believed. The dragon's left eye opened wider, peering at her. I know little of such things, myself. It is the draconae, the dreaming ones, who hold such matters in memory for my race. But still, by such Words were we warned. I remember a few of them, correctly I hope. He spoke softly, reciting:

  From beyond life will come one

  From beyond hope will come one

  Without friend will come one

  And the realm shall tremble.

  Challenging darkness will come one

  Speaking her name will come one

  Innocent of our ways will come one

  And the realm shall tremble.

  His voice rose, grumbling. The Words are thought to say that the appearance of one from the outside will cause a confrontation between, well . . . dragon, true dragon . . . and darkness . . . such as the realm has never seen. His eyes glowed at her. Others have come from the outside, and sometimes dueled, and sometimes died, and sometimes escaped without consequence. What they really wanted, we never knew. But you were different. My father believed you to be the One of the prophecy, the One who would lead us out of a darkness that we didn't even know we were in.

  Jael was dumbfounded. She gestured futilely. But I don't know anything about any of this, she managed to say at last.

  Isn't that what I just said? "Innocent of our ways . . ."

  Jael closed her mouth, speechless.

  When you first came, and then left without incident, my father thought that he must have been mistaken, that he had somehow misread the signs. But he was not, and had not. Windrush paused, staring angrily into the fire. No, rigger Jael, this curse has not come from you. But you have helped to reveal its presence, and its power. It has, I believe, lived in this realm all along, quietly biding its time while clouding our thoughts, influencing us without our being aware of it. It has lived among us, but we have not seen it, nor wished to see it.

  The dragon snorted, chuckling bitterly. Oh, even the draconi have always known that there are powers in the world that do not love light, or mercy, or acts of sacrifice and kindness and compassion. But we have hidden from such truths and called them legend. And yet . . . even legend tells us that such powers may lie in hiding, quietly working their mischief, until the times permit their reappearance.

  He grumbled and smoke billowed from his nostrils. But they must reveal themselves, sooner or later. It was our good fortune to live in quiet times, free of care—for a while. But no longer! We did not listen to the draconae's teachings, or seek them out, until it was too late. Perhaps it was the Enemy's work, muddling our spirit and our thoughts. We did not even realize that we had forgotten our way to the Dream Mountain until it was already too late, and it was gone, and the draconae gone with it!

  And our world—if you could see it now! Friendships and clans lie in ruins. War and madness abound. Dragon honor, true garkkondoh, is condemned as unworthy. And our magic! He rumbled, deep in his throat, a rumble of dismay. Ahh . . . even our powers to create and cherish places and spells of beauty have betrayed us. Our weavings have become fickle and difficult. Many of those who have the skills of the underrealm have been ensnared by the Enemy's promises of power, and turned their skills to his service. Windrush's voice grew despairing. My father's garden—his lovely place of sanctuary—has been destroyed. Even this place of safety—it is all I can do to keep it concealed.

  Jael struggled to absorb what Windrush was saying. Highwing's beautiful garden, destroyed? What a terrible crime! She wanted to ask more and to learn about this thing, the Dream Mountain. But even more urgently, she needed to know—and she asked in a whisper—What exactly has happened to Highwing?

  Windrush's voice rumbled louder. My father has stood trial before a dragon assembly, on charges of treason to the realm. And a bitter and vindictive assembly it was. Windrush's voice hardened. Highwing stands condemned to die.

  Jael's breath exploded from her. She reached out, her hands clenched helplessly in rage. Why? she whispered. Why?

  The dragon considered her with his gaze of shimmering emerald. For an act of foolish kindness to a stranger, perhaps. An act of friendship to a demon-spirit. They hold you, and my father, responsible for the madness that has overcome them all.

  Jael was silent.

  But they are wrong. I see that, as my father saw it. Nevertheless, your visit and my father's unveiling of our world to you—that perhaps above all!—his revealing of secrets of our realm to one who is not of us—has opened the door to much grief, and the promise of untold grief to come.

  Jael turned away, numb with disbelief. How could such a thing be possible? How could she, merely by entering this land, have sentenced the dragons to a world of madness, and her friend Highwing to death? She turned back to the younger dragon. This . . . darkness, she said slowly. This influence. What is its source? Does it have a name? Something was jangling at the back of her mind, a name she thought she had heard from Highwing, a name that at the time had provoked a feeling of dread.

  Windrush fumed, clenching his talons. He didn't seem to want to answer.

  Caww! Ed fluttered back to Jael's shoulder from the hearthside, where he had been sitting quietly. Not fair! Not her fault! Not Jayl's fault!

  The dragon's eyelids blinked ponderously, as Jael hushed the bird. You may speak rightly, parrot, Windrush answered. But the truth is that evil cannot abide the presence of good—and when it is brought to light, it lashes out. My father realized that his actions had fulfilled a dangerous prophecy. He had been told, and he believed, at least in part, and he feared the consequences as much as any. But he knew that there was no turning back. And he exacted a promise from me—a rush of smoke went toward the ceiling—that I would honor his pledge of friendship to you as though I had made it myself.

  Despite her heartache, Jael could not help but be moved by Highwing's determination. And was it just you? What of your brothers?

  They refused. The dragon's voice sharpened with anger. Turned against him. Called him a betrayer of the realm, and a sower of trouble.
It was two of my brothers who were attacking you when I arrived to bear you away.

  Jael blanched.

  My own clan, Windrush muttered, as though he himself could not believe it.

  A loud crackle came from the fire behind Jael, and she started, as a flame sputtered up from the embers. She glanced at Ar, his eyes wide and sober. A lump grew in her throat as she turned back to Windrush. Then . . . he must hate me, she whispered. For what he did for me, all of this has happened? His own sons turning against him?

  Never! Windrush thundered. My father never regretted what he did for you. He would do it all again—and I half wonder myself if he isn't mad. I believed in him. But how long can I believe? Windrush raised his head and loosed a tongue of flame that blasted the ceiling, and a wail that shook the cavern.

  Jael trembled. An image rose in her memory, from the mindlink with Windrush, an image she only now understood: three of the four sons betraying their father—two flying away in open rebellion, while a third was already lost, seduced by the enchantments of a power that would not even reveal itself to the realm. Only Windrush had stood firm, and Windrush was devoured by grief and by fear.

  And following that image, another rose: a carbon black peak thrust tall against the sky, the tallest peak in the realm. Gathered near its summit were hundreds of dragons. She hadn't understood that image, either, when she had glimpsed it in Windrush's mind. But now she did. A lone dragon awaited a sentence of death on that peak. And nothing could stop it from happening. Nothing human, and nothing dragon.

  It was too much for her to bear. Take me to him! Please! she cried out to Windrush, falling to her knees beside the great dragon. I can't just let him die—not because of me! Not like this!

  And what will you do to prevent it? Windrush rumbled, his voice a confused echo in her mind. No, there is nothing you can do, and there is no point in all of us dying together. But I promise you this: My father will die proud.

  Jael wept helplessly, leaning against the dragon's forelimb. Die proud? What good was dying proud? It was too much; she could not even think or reason or speak anymore. It was all turning to a blur in her mind. Highwing, no . . . no . . . no . . . !

  Someone was speaking to her.

  She blinked away her tears and realized that the face swimming in front of her was not the dragon's but Ar's, and the voice rasping in her ear was Ed's, crying her name over and over. And then Ar folded her into his arms, and the tears welled out of her eyes again as she wept with great, quaking sobs.

  * * *

  The cavern was cold, and no amount of pacing before the fire could warm Jael against the chill in her bones, and in her heart. Ar sat and watched her as she paced. He had tried once to coax her into withdrawing from the net for a time, to rest, to sleep. She'd refused, unwilling to leave this realm for even an instant, fearful that she would somehow lose even this last tenuous link with her old friend.

  Windrush was lost now in what seemed a strange and tormented sleep. His eyes were half-closed, rolling in their great sockets. From time to time a rush of smoke and sparks issued from his nostrils. It seemed as though he had fled away in spirit, as though his thoughts were somehow abroad in the land, listening for rumor or news, seeking word of hope or peace in a realm that had forgotten those qualities.

  Jael had no choice but to accept Windrush's answer about trying to reach Highwing. If Highwing was being held by spells of confinement inside the black peak, there was probably no hope of reaching him—not tonight, at least. But when morning came, she would ask again. The morning light could bring new answers.

  Right now, she wished desperately to learn more about the events in the dragon realm since her first visit. She stared at the sleeping Windrush, not daring to wake him, but wanting to question him while there was still time. How much longer could she and her shipmates remain in this realm? Would the currents of the Flux remain still for them, or did those currents hold any force here, in this peculiar pocket of reality? She didn't know. Despite her wariness of the sleeping behemoth, she could not resist tiptoeing close to the dragon's head, studying the rotating, half-closed eyes. Ocean green, even in sleep, the left eye seemed to focus upon her as the faceted fire inside shifted, moving into view between the half-open lids. She hesitated, then found herself stepping closer, gazing into the living light. And before she knew what was happening, she was drawn in again, into the bottomless well . . .

  What do you want to know now? she sensed a preoccupied voice saying, and she felt her own mind answering, Everything . . . everything about your world, about what has been happening . . . And she felt sad laughter echoing around her in answer, as the owner of the voice opened its consciousness to her, or a part of it, even as another part of its mind was occupied in searching out pathways and powers that lay far beyond her comprehension.

  Visions seemed to unfold all around her, and the voice spoke as if continuing a story that had been interrupted: . . . at first there seemed no cause . . . malice and confused desires growing among dragons who had once dwelt together in peace. There have been times in our history when such things have happened before, but we do not remember those times well. Only the crystal ones remember, the females, the draconae. But stories began to emerge of outsiders appearing in the realm—some being chased away, others captured and transformed. No one seemed to know the truth, and many discounted the stories altogether, but the stories themselves came to be a source of discord and strife. What were these demons, these riggers? Were they intruders, to be killed or enslaved? Were they innocent wanderers? Were they a prelude to events foretold by the Words? Rumors abounded, but where was the truth? The strife finally erupted with accusations against my father, and quarreling over who would exact punishment for his actions.

  Images unfolded of dragons feuding, coveting one another's lairs and secret entrances, and breaking the binding spells that held such places of wonder as Highwing's garden. That garden, and others like it, were now destroyed. Images unfolded of jealous contests for power among dragons to whom honor meant nothing. Images of dragons being killed in duels. Of a great mountain disappearing. Of fledglings vanishing from the few remaining places where they had been sheltered. Of the same brothers who had once joined Windrush in flying the length and breadth of the realm, now forcing him into hiding, fearing for his own life.

  But this could not have happened for no reason, Jael thought, unable to fully comprehend what she was seeing.

  No. It only seemed so, whispered Windrush. But too many dragons were changing, as though they themselves had fallen under a spell—one that rules not just the air and the rock and water, but the mind, and the spirit itself. It is something that flows deep in the underweb of the realm. It is beyond my understanding, but I know I must resist it. I must believe that others, like me, are living in seclusion, awaiting a sign of hope. But while we hide, the spell continues to work its will over this land.

  And . . . she hesitated, remembering that she had asked this question once already . . . does it have a name, this spell? Or its maker?

  Well . . . The dragon's thoughts seemed ashamed. We did not know, or perhaps did not want to know . . . its name. To truly know its name is to admit its presence, to be linked to it forever, for good or ill. But Highwing knew, or at least suspected. And I came to suspect. And lately, I have even heard the name whispered abroad—

  Yes?

  The dragon hesitated. His thoughts seemed to uncoil, reluctantly, from around a great knot of fear. The name is . . . Tar-skel. "Nail of Strength." It is the name of one who would take the realm by fear, and bind it with its power.

  Tar-skel, Jael whispered, shivering, remembering now. She had heard that name only once before, muttered by Highwing, and fearfully.

  It is a name known to us through . . . legend. And through prophecy. The dragon's thoughts seemed to stammer. Through stories whispered by the draconae. By those who dwelled in Dream Mountain, nurturing the dragonlings, when they were not on wing themselves, singing to us words of
history, and tradition, and prophecy. They, and the ifflings as well, have spoken this name, Tar-skel, warned us of its threat. We have long known it as a name to frighten dragonlings, a name to inspire fear. But it comes from legend, you see, as well as from prophecy. And we have not really believed the legend or the prophecy. And now both have become real. Tar-skel. Windrush's thoughts trembled with shame and with fear.

  Jael felt a stirring of fear in her own heart each time the name was spoken. She glimpsed images—scattered and fragmentary—of the dragon realm in an age past, when terror and discord were sown through the realm like wind-borne seeds. Sown by one named Tar-skel. Felt, named, but never seen. Not, anyway, for many, many generations.

  In the time of my foredragons, long ago—if the legend is true—this one disappeared from the realm, driven from our midst after a reign of turmoil and terror such as we can scarcely imagine.

  Driven out? How?

  I cannot say. Perhaps the draconae remember, if they still live. The rest of us have forgotten. Oh, we draconi know songs and tales of battle, of heroism and tragedy, and sacrifice, embellished over and over through the generations. The dragon's thoughts paused, reflecting. But I no longer believe that that is the important or the true part of the story. We draconi, we males, never knew or understood, I think, what sort of one the Nail of Strength was. Or even if "Tar-skel" was its true name. Or even if—as one legend had it—it was an astoundingly ancient being, but one never actually seen by any living dragon. Even after its defeat long ago, legend claimed that it lived on, hiding and sleeping, waiting to return another time. He sighed. Would that the realm were done with its evil forever!