The Lost Dragons of Barakhai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Zylas slapped his forehead in mock horror. “Great. Now I’ve got my life depending on a fool.” He looked stern. “I picked you for a reason, Ben. And it wasn’t because you’re a fool.”

  Collins laughed, his somber mood lifted by Zylas’ even more serious one. “I didn’t mean I’m a permanent fool. I just meant I was being foolish about this.”

  “Ah.” Zylas’ cheeks turned pink.

  “But that was pretty good. Save that motivational speech for later. I might need it.”

  Zylas glanced at Prinivere, who was lumbering into a deeper, darker portion of the cave. “Riches come in many forms, Ben. They can buy a lot of happinesses, but they can’t fill the empty places in your soul.”

  This time, Zylas hit the problem directly, but Collins no longer wanted to talk about it. “Did she go to . . . change?”

  Zylas followed the direction of Collins’ stare. “Yes. Prinivere went to find privacy while she takes switch form.”

  Takes switch-form? Collins considered, then remembered that Prinivere had started as a dragon, then had the human-time inflicted upon her. Over the centuries, she had narrowed her switch time. By Collins’ reckoning, she took human form from three to seven P.M., which reminded him to set his watch the moment Prinivere revealed herself as human. “And then what?”

  “We let her eat. Which might take a while.” Zylas pursed his lips and looked toward the chest where they had taken lunch and now Aisa busied herself setting out a feast for Prinivere.

  “Then we discuss the details of tomorrow’s castle break in?”

  “Right,” Zylas confirmed. “Mostly how to convincingly take on the personalities of the guards we’re imitating. The rest we’ll have to play somewhat by ear.”

  Though Collins would have preferred an airtight plan, he was not dumb enough to expect one. Only so much of the kingdom was predictable, and no renegade but Collins had ever set foot in the rooms on the upper floors of the castle. His thoughts betrayed him. No renegade but me. I’m here a few hours, and I already consider myself one of them. Oddly, the realization seemed more comforting than shocking, and he could not find it in him to laugh. It reminded him of the night he had dreamed that his Great Aunt Irene, ten years dead, had called and requested he repair the porch of an elderly couple on a fixed income because an elephant’s foot had broken through the steps. In the dream, it had all seemed natural and plausible, and he had only questioned why the couple had chosen to paint the wood olive green. He had felt useful and needed, the one his wise old aunt turned to in a crisis. He looked from Zylas to the massive space Prinivere no longer occupied, to Aisa shooing Ijidan from the feast. The squirrel chittered angrily in the parrot/woman’s direction, and Collins wondered dully whether he would survive what his desire to feel wanted and appreciated had gotten him into this time.

  Chapter 4

  THREE hours later, Benton Collins perched on a boulder outside the hidden cave, watching the sun dip toward the horizon he considered west and wishing he had brought a compass. He wondered if magnetic north would even exist here as a concept and realized it did not matter. He could just as arbitrarily call it magnetic southeast. If it made him feel comfortable to consider the sun’s passage east to west, like home, it made little sense not to do so.

  Gaze fixed on brilliant blue sky, broken only by white puffs of cloud, Collins enjoyed the fresh scent of damp greenery and natural pine, untainted by the greasy odor of rotting garbage or the bitter tinge of carbon monoxide. He knew from experience that the sunsets here dwarfed anything he had seen back home, the colors vivid and alive, undiminished by artificial lights or by plane trails. Everything seemed brighter here, as if an omnipotent haze grayed every part of his world and it took seeing Barakhai to bring the realization. The cliff tops pointed sharply upward, treelined and spreading as far as he could see by eye or with the binoculars. Zylas had said they would leave for the castle from a much closer hiding place than this. Clearly, Prinivere would have to carry them there again. Even if a climb were possible, it would take weeks to get to the lowlands.

  Without fondness, Collins remembered the stomach-churning flight that had brought them here. He appreciated that Prinivere had brought him to a truly safe haven where the king’s men could never reach them. Nevertheless, the idea of what had to follow seemed raw agony: whizzing through the air without the body of an airplane cocooning him or even a safety harness to keep him in place against gusts or sudden movement. He had enjoyed some of the roller coasters on his senior class trip to Busch Gardens, but no one would consider him an adrenaline junkie. Still, he planned to take part in an excursion only a stuntman could relish.

  “Don’t you think you should give Falima some privacy for her switch time?”

  The voice, so near Collins’ ear, startled him. He loosed a noisy breath and skittered sideways, banging his shin against an outcropping. He glared at Zylas. “What did you do that for?”

  Hunkered on a rock, cloth bundled under his arm, Zylas blinked, expression genuinely bewildered. “What did I do this time?”

  Collins put a hand over his pounding heart. “Snuck up on me.”

  “I’m in man form. I figured you’d heard me.” Zylas looked at his shoes, composed of thin wood and string. “I’ll practice making more noise when I walk from now on, okay?”

  Collins suspected walking lightly came naturally to an outlaw, let alone a rat, with good cause. He believed Zylas, attributing most of his startlement to his own deep concentration. “Don’t go stomping around on my account.” He considered. A touch would surprise him at least as much as talking, maybe even result in someone getting hurt if his mind registered it as an attack. “Maybe you could just start speaking from a little farther away.”

  “Deal,” Zylas said. “Anyway, what about that privacy for Falima?”

  Collins looked at the horse grazing placidly, black mane striping the golden fur like spilled ink. “She doesn’t look too upset.”

  “Agreed. But remember the other time you came to Barakhai and saw her human form naked?”

  An image rose in Collins’ mind of Falima’s magnificent, muscular curves that complimented her high cheekbones, spare lips, and even her generous nose. “Yeah,” he said dreamily. Thirteen or fourteen hours ago, she had emerged, unclothed, from the portal; but he had barely noticed, more concerned about their survival. Finally, he recalled Falima’s previous discomfort. Accustomed to nakedness, the denizens of Barakhai seemed not to notice one another or to feel conspicuously vulnerable in a state of undress. Collins’ lustful stare, however, had bothered Falima. She had seen it as hungry.

  Apparently unimpressed by Collins’ answer, Zylas pressed, “And remember how you paid for it?”

  Collins’ cheeks turned fiery. They had made him disrobe in front of everyone, no matter his worry about how he would stack up compared to the other men, mostly stallions, in Falima’s life. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested coolly.

  Zylas laughed, dropped his bundle, and headed toward the cave.

  Collins recognized the cloth as a crude dress and leggings before limping after his friend. “I should have thought about bringing her clothes.” Gradually, the ache in his shin subsided, and his walk became less wobbly.

  Apparently reading the guilt in Collins’ tone, Zylas shrugged off the words. “You’re just not used to switchers and switch-forms.”

  Collins did not let himself off so easily. “Actually, I was looking forward to talking to Falima. I just wasn’t thinking about the . . . whole nude thing.”

  Zylas gestured Collins through the opening. “Ah, so you knew you were hovering. I thought you might have been doing it without thinking.”

  Hovering? Collins had considered his choosing to study the outdoors near Falima’s switch time a coincidence; but, before he could say so, he caught sight of Prinivere.

  The ancient, withered woman was sitting, eating with a vigor that belied her primeval appearance. She wore no clothing. Her skin was carved into wrinkles, loos
e upon her bony frame. Her breasts sagged into her lap. Fine, white hair dangled to her shoulders. Her eyes were green, contrastingly vibrant, and catlike, with slitted pupils. She had no nose to speak of, just a pair of slitlike nostrils lost in the creases beneath her eyes.

  “My lady.” Zylas made a short bow.

  Collins pried his gaze from the dragon in human form and copied Zylas’ gesture of respect. The stark contrasts that composed this woman drew his attention like nothing else in either world. She seemed so far past death, as though she could crumble to dust at a touch, yet strangely vivid and alive. She was utterly asexual, yet the oddities of her appearance brought no feelings of revulsion. Had Collins caught his grandmother so exposed, he would have covered his eyes, to purge the image from memory; yet Prinivere gave him no such urge. Her nakedness simply was, a phenomenon of nature and without shame. Clothing the dragon matriarch of Barakhai, even in his mind, seemed insolent.

  Prinivere returned a nod of acknowledgment, barely glancing up from her meal.

  Aisa hummed softly as she moved with slow deliberateness around the cave, serving Prinivere and tidying up around her. Ijidan occasionally crept in to swipe a piece of the dragon’s bounty. Korfius remained huddled miserably in the corner, his snores rising and falling in regular rhythm.

  Zylas dragged Collins to a back corner of the cave, speaking softly. “All right. We’ve got less than a day to learn strategy, mannerisms, and voices, so pay attention.”

  “Don’t I always?” Collins grinned maliciously.

  Zylas dropped to a crouch. “Sure. You learn in your sleep.” Without awaiting a reply, he launched into the discussion. “Here’s the general plan: Orna and Narladin are off duty tomorrow. We’ve got moles set up to—”

  Collins had to interrupt. “Moles?”

  Zylas blinked in obvious confusion. “Not moles. Moles.”

  Collins lowered himself to the floor beside Zylas, legs curled up beside him. “Oh, that clears it right up.”

  Evidently catching Collins’ obvious sarcasm, Zylas crinkled his brow. “We must have hit a snag in the translation magic. Are you really hearing ‘moles’?”

  Collins nodded, trying to unravel the mystery. The Barakhains rarely used animal slang, which brought a rush of understanding. “You mean informants? Spies?”

  Zylas nodded vigorously, removing his hat in the cool shade of the cave and running it through his fingers. “Right. They have a game of dice set up and . . .” He glanced at Collins, clearly anticipating another translation problem.

  Collins gave another encouraging nod. “We have dice.” He doubted the ones in Barakhai resembled the hard plastic black and white ones in his childhood board games, nor the translucent rainbows, speckles, and opaque colors of the gamers’ dice. Recalling the ancient term “bones” for the game, he guessed, “You must make yours from bone? Am I right?”

  “Bone?” Zylas shivered. “Heavens no. That would be . . . disgusting . . . dishonorable to the dead.”

  Missed that one. Collins tried again. “Don’t tell me. You use something more palatable. Like . . . dung.”

  “Shed antlers,” Zylas corrected. “Carved into cubes. They engrave figures on each side: star, moon, sun, fire, water, and lightning. They’re thrown. Depending on how they land in conjunction, you win or lose.” He could not help adding, “Using dung for toys? That would be wasteful.”

  Collins tried not to think about proper uses for excrement, but he could not quell his curiosity. “Fertilizer?”

  “And fuel. It burns nicely, depending on the type.”

  Not wishing to get involved in a conversation over the most useful forms of poop, Collins returned to the subject at hand. “So you’ve got some spies to distract these guards . . .”

  “Orna and Narladin.”

  “Orna and Narladin,” Collins repeated, knowing the names would have to flow properly off his tongue. “Orna and Narladin. So we can move in in their places.”

  “Right.” Zylas dropped deeper into his crouch. “It’s a good-sized game, and they’ll keep it interesting. What do you think is the best time to get in the royal rooms without being seen?”

  “What do I think?” Surprised at having his opinion considered, Collins forgot to think. “Night? When they’re asleep?”

  “Guards,” Zylas reminded. “Everyone always expects problems at night. And don’t forget about switch times.”

  Collins forced himself to remember the last time he had infiltrated the castle. Then, he had moved in at mealtime, while nearly everyone gathered in one place, leaving the hallways essentially empty. The royalty made a production out of meals, all meeting together at the head table, while guards and servants occupied rows of tables in the dining hall. Collins had made it into their bedrooms without incident and might well have escaped undetected had he not stopped to pet a cat who, in his nervousness, he had forgotten would also be human. “During dinner?” he suggested next. “I could excuse myself early, and you could watch for anyone who might compromise me. It shouldn’t take me long to check out a few rooms. It’s not like they could hide dragons in a foot locker or under the bed.” He paused, considering. Scientists had once believed the largest dinosaurs hatched from eggs the size of footballs. “Or could they?”

  Zylas seemed surprised by the question. “Not in one piece. Even young dragons are huge.”

  The answer reminded Collins that Prinivere had once surprised him with the assertion that dragons gave birth to live-born young, not eggs. He revised his expectation to compare baby dragons to mammals rather than reptiles. Though much smaller than their parents, even newborn elephants and whales would overwhelm the capacity of most furniture.

  Apparently unaware of Collins’ distraction, Zylas returned to the plan. “Dinnertime sounds good to me. Now all we have to do is learn to pass for the guards we’re impersonating.”

  Collins groaned. That seemed like an impossible task. His one maternal uncle shared only his mother’s maiden name, which she never used. He looked like their mother, she like their father. They even lived in different states. Nevertheless, a new employee at Collins’ mother’s workplace had once pegged them as siblings based only on mannerisms. He did not believe most people were quite that observant, but basic changes in his friends’ demeanors or behaviors might raise some red flags. Yeah, but would I assume imposters? Collins shook his head. I might accuse them of becoming pod people, but I wouldn’t really believe it. “All right,” Collins said, resigned though filled with doubts as to why he had allowed himself to get talked into doing this. Again. “How do I become Orna?”

  To Collins’ surprise, he found the ride to the lowlands more exhilarating than frightening. To decrease their chance of being discovered, Prinivere glided low over the mountaintops and hills, skimming the tops of the trees and using her wings mostly for balance and banking. She made the occasional leathery flap with a slow solidness that barely stirred the air around them. Clinging to her back, rather than suspended from a claw, Collins settled into a sturdy crevice between back and wing muscles and enjoyed the view. The ground did not seem that far below him; he believed he could survive a fall. The wind felt like gentle fingers rushing through his dark brown hair and caressing his face. Bathed in twilight, the world seemed vibrant with magic, the greenery a vivid emerald untainted by smog or artificial light.

  In rat form, Zylas planted his forepaws on Collins’ knee to look out over the landscape without losing the safety of the inner crook of the American’s jeans. Falima settled into another niche in Prinivere’s musculature. Korfius sat between the humans, doggy head outstretched to catch the wind in his face, tongue lolling, ears flying like streamers. Aisa perched near the base of Prinivere’s tail, flapping her wings and squawking every time a movement off-balanced her.

  They touched down on an outcropping that jutted into dense forest. Prinivere folded her wings and lowered her head, her breathing a heavy wheeze beneath the rustle of autumn leaves in the wind. Still in place, Collins looke
d out over the trees. Leaves in myriad shapes and sizes clung to the branches, their green shot through with amber, shades of ginger, and brilliant slices of scarlet. He especially liked the star-shaped leaves of a gnarled tree that did not exist in his world, and he wondered if he could drive the botany professors wild by claiming to have found it on one of Algary’s walkways.

  With a squeak, Zylas leaped over Collins’ leg and slid down Prinivere’s side, a reminder for Collins to do the same. Careful not to hurt the dragon, he scooted across her scales on his buttocks, not daring to stand on her back. When they had all dismounted, Prinivere wordlessly trudged into a cave, leaving Collins, Falima, Korfius, Aisa, and Zylas outside. The animals scampered after the old dragon, leaving Collins and Falima alone, both studying the vast expanse of forest.

  Falima cleared her throat. “I’m going to switch again soon and won’t be back until after you and Zylas . . . go.”

  Collins turned to look at her. The twilight sparked a rainbow of highlights through her ebony hair, including blue and green. It brought back a long lost memory of a fifth-grade babysitter who had watched him after school while his mother worked. The sitter had a black Labrador retriever named Shelby who was very shy around adults but loved and protected the children. One day, an anxious three-year-old girl who was the sitter’s only African-American charge approached a Caucasian preschooler with a deep tan. “Look,” the first girl started, excitedly comparing their arms. “You’re black, just like me.”

  “No.” The second one glanced at the two arms, brow scrunched, obviously thinking deeply. Collins recalled holding his breath, wondering what a guileless preschooler might blurt out when it came to a child of a different race. “Shelby’s black,” she finally said. “We’re brown.”

  And, Collins realized now with an adult biologist’s perspective, the girl was right. The racial differences that seemed so important to some people came down to little more than the quantity of melanin in their skin. All humans, except albinos like Zylas, were some shade of brown. Human hair, too, varied only in the amount and intensity of its brownness, which was why so many elderly men appeared to have smeared shoe polish on their heads when they tried to recapture the “black” of their youths. Falima’s long tresses, however, defied the rule: true, deep, animal in their blackness. It was only one of several exoticisms that might make her seem freakish in his world, that made her consider herself unattractive in her own. Too animal, she had once told him, too much overlap between her horse appearance and her human one.