The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  “Then the world goes down the tubes, I guess. Least, that seems to be what they’re suggesting.”

  Miserable, anxious, impatient, but grateful for his company, she leans into his side, and together they watch Hal ride to within a dragon’s length of the hell-priest and stop. Guillemo ignores him, or seems to. But he abandons forward motion in favor of pacing his horse back and forth within a contained area, as if he’s detected a particular source of potential converts within the enemy’s ranks. He’s reached the point in his sermonizing where the “witch-girl” comes up for specific mention. After a few paragraphs of choice invective, he turns his horse at the end of a pace and pretends to discover the red-clad knight who sits calmly leaning on the bridge of his saddle, not ten yards away.

  “Angels of grace!” the priest exclaims. “It’s the dragon lord himself! Are you resurrected, by some black magic? They said you’d fallen on the field not three days ago!”

  “It’s true I took a blade,” replies Hal amiably.

  “Then, what devil’s bargain keeps you in this world?”

  “None but the desire to see you dead and buried, Guillemo.”

  The priest looks shocked, and shoots a complicit glance at the murmuring soldiers. Erde suspects Fra Guill’s spies have told him of the superstitious fears that Hal’s eccentricities have inspired in some of the men under his command. “Sir, I am a man of the cloth. You will address me as ‘father,’ my son.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Though you are lost to Hell for your unrepentant delving into the blackest of magic, yet I will pray for your soul.”

  Hal smiles blandly. “And that’s the surest road to Hell I can think of.”

  The mutters from the infantry are clearly audible by now.

  N’Doch clicks his tongue. “Ease up, Hal. It’s not playing too well to the troops.”

  Hal lifts his sword casually from his lap, letting it hang alongside his horse’s flank. “So, what will it be, Guillemo? In the King’s name, I can offer you surrender, to save the lives of your men, or certain defeat and no prisoners.”

  But Brother Guillemo has turned away, listening, as if to heavenly choirs. Erde nudges N’Doch as the dragon stirs beneath them. “Do you feel it? Something’s . . . happening. Someone’s . . . it’s . . .”

  N’Doch hears Water’s subvocal warning just as the dark sky above the clearing is split by the flash of gilded wings. He’s not sure if Fire’s coming is good or bad, but he’s relieved to have the waiting over with. Fire circles once, screaming like a jet on a runway approach. The soldiers break ranks and run for cover. Half of Guillemo’s knights take advantage of the chaos to kick their horses into a gallop and leap to freedom over the heads of the fleeing men. The rest draw up tight around him, while the king’s captains struggle to regain control of their army. With a great splaying of talons tipped in shining gold, Fire hovers above the central bonfire as if born out of its flames. Then he settles on top of it, scattering burned logs and embers among the loyal cluster of white-robes. Only one manages to retain his control of his mount, and his position by Guillemo’s side. Two are unhorsed, but steady on their feet. The rest follow their fellows off into darkness.

  “Damn!” N’Doch whispers fervently. “Another great entrance! The dude’s timing is impeccable!” But Erde is staring at him with her usual mix of horror and condemnation. “I know, I know,” he says. “If he’s here to save Guillemo’s butt, this could be very bad.”

  Fire hunkers down in the embers for long enough to chill every heart in the Grove with his golden glower and the curl of acrid smoke escaping through the corners of his snarl. N’Doch thinks he couldn’t have scripted it better himself. After all, cliches work because they’re primal.

  To his credit, Brother Guillemo recovers first, his voice steady atop his skittering horse. “You see! He conjures yet another fiend from the fires of Hell!”

  Hal replies dryly, “No, Guillemo. I believe this one is yours.”

  Now what, wonders N’Doch. He spots Water’s sparkle migrating toward a gathering point. Gerrasch stands in the open several paces away, still as a statue, a Tinker hovering protectively to either side of him. The king’s army is settling into some measure of order, but its ranks have been thinned by desertions, squads sent off in pursuit, and others detailed to escort prisoners back to the main camp. Guillemo’s in a tough spot, and N’Doch figures it’s about time for him to try sleazing his way to a surrender. He has three men left of his own, and precious few of the king’s to preach to. He’s likely gained a dragon on his side, but he can’t welcome Fire’s support without blowing his whole cover. Brandishing his sword hilt as a cross, the priest faces the dragon crouching in the fire with as much ambiguity as he can muster. “Speak, O Fiend! What is your errand?”

  As if in answer, flames shoot up to obscure the dragon within a curtain of blinding light that burns so fiercely that the horses squeal in terror and those around it retreat from its sudden heat. Then, just as suddenly, it dies away into smoke and a shower of sparks. A man and a woman stand among the ashes. Or rather, N’Doch observes, a spectacular woman and a great, golden giant.

  “Quite the couple,” he murmurs, hoping to cheer Erde with a scandalous remark. Yet, as he watches Fire offer his hand to help Paia through the smoldering remains of the bonfire, N’Doch realizes he’s not far off the mark. He knows how lovers move together.

  The other dragons are still waiting.

  The Librarian notes how solicitous Fire is with Paia, but otherwise, the giant’s expression is grim and furious as he glares around the clearing, taking stock of who’s there and how the confrontation has so far played out. He stalks toward the priest, keeping Paia close behind him. As they leave the circle of embers, the flames spring up again to light their way.

  Brother Guillemo’s bold facade has been visibly frayed by Fire’s transformation, and the Librarian suspects he knows why: it’s one thing to rant over a snarling, voiceless reptile, but another thing altogether to handle a walking, talking man. Still, with his trio of knights clustered behind him, Guillemo sits firmly erect on his horse. Only his eyes show the true depths of his terror. Good, good, the Librarian approves. At last we’ve found something the hell-priest is afraid of.

  Fire stops at the point where a perfect triangle could be drawn between himself, the hell-priest and Hal. His towering, muscular body is wrapped in a long robe of cloth-of-gold that reflects the firelight and hisses faintly as he moves, then continues to shimmer and dance long after he’s eased to a halt. His glimmering hair is braided and bound at the back of his neck, but it, too, seems to have a life of its own. Despite himself, the Librarian has to admit that if he believed in a god, he’d wish it to look this magnificent. That he has a beautiful and apparently adoring woman draped on his elbow does nothing to disturb the Librarian’s notions of deity.

  When the giant speaks, his voice is a modulated tenor, a cultivated voice, and in its cool formality, the Librarian hears the echoes of ritual.

  “I come to claim the kingdom you promised me,” Fire says to the priest.

  Guillemo lifts his sword hilt higher, as if its cruciform shape might actually protect him. “Away! I know you not! Why do you speak to me?” He gestures hugely in Hal’s direction. “Look there to find your master!”

  “I have no master, and seek none. I come for repayment of the favors I’ve granted, as we agreed.”

  “I know you not, I say!” Guillemo lowers the sword slightly. “Unless you are one of God’s angels sent in disguise to deliver the just from the enemies of righteousness?”

  “Will you deny me to my face, ungrateful priest?” Fire throws his massive shoulders back. He seems to be enjoying himself, in a dark sort of way. “Again, I ask: have you prepared my palaces and lands? Is my Temple ready to be consecrated?”

  “Begone, vile imagining! Or if you be a true angel, claim your heavenly form and aid me now! Do you not see? I am beset by devils!”

  Fire’s rigid s
tance unbends. He motions Paia to remain in the warmth from the bonfire, and moves in on the priest. Guillemo’s horse lays his ears back and shudders, but stands admirably still as the giant looms over them. “That’s the required three chances, Guillemo. Do you need a fourth? It looks like you’ve failed to prepare the Faithful for the arrival of their god, but if you can offer me a comfortable castle toward the south, I’ll call it even.”

  Guillemo turns his horse, circling his three stony-faced knights. “Fear not, men of good faith! A test is sent us from above, but we shall show ourselves equal to it!” Now that he has put the knights between him and the dragon, he faces Fire again. “You! Angel! Prove the truth of your divine origins! Defeat our enemies! Destroy the witch-girl and her warlock mentor! Depose the false king! Then all just believers will bow to you as God’s representative on earth!”

  Fire says, “The witch-girl. Ah. There’s an idea.” He turns away, and for the first time, looks around at the scattered ring of watchers. The Librarian knows this is only for show. Fire knows exactly where Erde is, where each dragon and dragon guide stand, awaiting a sign of his true intentions.

  Despite the bonfire, Paia is stunned by the cold and the dank sucking mud, and the cinders still half alight beneath her sandaled feet. As usual, the dragon has neglected to clothe her adequately. But this new place he’s brought her to seems half familiar, even shrouded in fire-lit darkness, as if remembered from dreams. Or from borrowed memories. Memories from the Meld. For the darkness isn’t empty. The others are here. The girl Erde, and N’Doch, and Gerrasch, oddly abstracted. Paia greets them, glad for the company, but only Erde replies.

  Why has he come? For our side or theirs?

  I don’t know!

  And then Fire issues his summons.

  His voice rises again in its formal pitch. “I call Erde von Alte to speak for the Eight!”

  Dragon! What must I do?

  YOU MUST ANSWER HIM.

  But why?

  BECAUSE HONOR REQUIRES IT.

  It helps that she feels her own reluctance echoed in his tone. She gathers herself to climb down from the safety of his forearm.

  N’Doch grabs her. “You’re not going out there!”

  “I must.”

  “Then I’m going, too. We should face him together.”

  They slip through the whispering crowd of Deep Moor refugees. Rose embraces Erde silently. Raven says, “You’ll know what to tell him!” Erde moves into the open, N’Doch a half step behind. On the far side of the smoldering fire, Hal sees them coming.

  “No!” He spurs his horse into the path between them and the waiting giant, then dismounts, sheathing his sword. “Lord Fire! If you require a life, I offer you mine!”

  Erde breaks into a run. “No, you shall not!” She knows Fire will not be satisfied with just any life, but probably wouldn’t mind doing away with one persistent opponent in order to get at the other he intends. She reaches Hal and brushes past him, shaking off his arm when he tries to hold her back. “Earth will protect me,” she murmurs. To N’Doch, she says, “Stay with him.”

  But Hal has made his formal offer, and understands it has been refused. Out of the dark behind him, Gerrasch appears, and Paia moves over to join them, shuddering with cold. N’Doch hauls off his top layer and wraps it around her. What fit him as a vest shelters her as a cloak.

  Erde approaches alone. Fire glares down at her from his smoke-wreathed heights. Scales glint on his cheeks. She sees his whispering robe is made of chained links of gold. She’s relieved to find him decently clothed for a change. She prepares to meet him glower for glower. Yet it seems that the flames leaping in his golden eyes are fed by exasperation rather than rage.

  “Do you come ready to lecture me about my sacred Duty, witch-child?”

  Overhearing, Brother Guillemo cries, “His duty is to punish you! And he will, by all that’s holy!”

  Erde folds her arms across her chest. “You know your Duty better than I, Lord Fire.”

  Fire sighs. “You virtuous ones. Such a bore, really, but so much more reliable.”

  Erde frowns. “For what have you Summoned me? Time is passing, and the Purpose requires our attention!”

  Much to her discomfiture, Fire drops gracefully into a crouch before her, so that their gazes are level. His is hot and cynical, reflecting the fire behind her. She wishes she could look away. He smiles, as if to a much younger child. “So eager for it to be accomplished, are you? You’re not even sure what it is.”

  “I know it is right.” Erde’s voice catches slightly, despite her efforts to hold it steady. “Whatever else it is, I’ll bear up with.”

  Fire’s eyes lid shut briefly. “Ah. Heroics. Again.”

  “You shall not stir me to rage with your mockery, Lord Fire.”

  “Really? Then that fierce little scowl and those shoulders up to your earlobes have nothing to do with anger?”

  Erde smoothes her face, and lifts her chin out of her neck.

  “No, keep your anger, witchling! Nurture it. It’s a proper righteous anger, after all. You’ll need it for the task at hand.”

  “The Purpose should be accomplished with a calm and glad heart, Lord Fire. I know little, but I know that much.”

  “Ah, but I mean the task I have for you . . . which must be finished before the other can even be attempted.”

  The frown returns. She cannot banish it. “What task is that?”

  “Ask my brother Earth. He will tell you.”

  “I’d rather you did.”

  “So be it, then.” He straightens, shifting his glare from Erde back to Hal. “Now, sir knight. Front and center.”

  Hal glares back, uncomprehending. N’Doch moves to grab hold of him, but Erde shake her head gently, and Gerrasch says, “Yes.” N’Doch shrugs and urges the knight forward. “Might as well see what he wants.”

  Shrugging his tunic and mail into order, Hal hurries to Erde’s side. “Lord Fire,” he acknowledges crisply.

  “I have need of your sword.”

  Hal’s jaw tightens. “My sword is sworn to my king, and to the Great Purpose. I cannot . . .”

  “Oh, please! No more lofty rhetoric. I wish only the weapon itself, not your undying loyalty.”

  Confounded, Hal lays his hand on the sword’s gilded hilt.

  “Yes, yes, that’s the one. Draw it and give it to the girl.”

  As Hal hesitates, Brother Guillemo crows to his men, “Now you’ll see how he’ll punish the witch!”

  “Do it, dear knight,” Erde urges. But when she holds the dragon-hilted blade, so heavy that she must use both hands to keep its tip from being fouled in the mud, she says to Fire, “I will not swear to you either.”

  “Of course you won’t. I’m not that delusional. But hear this: will you accept the gift I offer, in recompense for all you’ve suffered? In doing so, you will also open the way for the accomplishment of the Purpose which has been the cause of that suffering.”

  His silky tone alerts her. “I think I must know the gift first, my lord, to see if I am worthy of it.”

  “Oh, take my word for it, you are.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “By all that’s eternal!” Fire snarls, while Brother Guillemo dances his horse into a gloat behind him. “No wonder you people never get anything done!” He turns, picks the stunned priest out of his saddle by the hood of his cloak, and flings him at Erde’s feet. His terrified horse careens off into the trio of his knights who have pointedly not ridden to his aid. Resilient as always, Guillemo scrambles up, groping for his own weapon. But he has lost it in the transfer. Erde braces herself and lifts the point of Hal’s blade. She faces the priest with the same horrified fascination that he’s always aroused in her. His black eyes bore into her. His pouty red lips repel her. He is the thing that, in all of life, she comprehends least: the personification of badness. How can a being so wrong support enough life to draw breath?

  “Again I am tested,” croaks Guillemo, brushing sno
w and mud from his cassock.

  “This looks like a fair fight,” observes Fire to Hal, as if soliciting his approval. “He is the stronger, but she has the weapon.”

  “But . . .” protests Hal. “You can’t . . . this is monstrous!”

  Fire only laughs, though his laughter dies when Paia steps back into the glow of the firelight. “This is petty vengeance, my Fire. Do you call this a clean kill?”

  The smoldering giant shrugs. “Depends on how good she is.” Hal begins another protest, but Fire waves him to silence. “Of course, I could show the further depths of my generosity, I suppose . . .” Abruptly, he shoves Guillemo from behind so that the priest stumbles and falls flat. Before he can rise, Fire places one clawed foot in the middle of his back. “. . . by holding him down for her.”

  Erde stares at the fallen man. A sudden bloodlust grips her heart, as tightly as she grips the sword. Here, under her blade, is the evil who corrupted her father, murdered her dear nurse, set the barons against their king, destroyed the country and the people with war and famine and superstition. It’s an opportunity she should welcome. It would be treason not to. And it would be easy. She has only to lift the blade, the great dragon-hilted sword, and the perfection of its edge plus the weight of it falling would sever the priest’s neck with little effort on her part. The sword will do the killing, not her.

  Dragon?

  She hears only disapproving silence in reply. She glances back at Hal, and his eyes are also saying no. She turns away angrily. Stupid dragon! Selfish man! He only wishes to do the deed himself! She strains to lift the blade level with her shoulders. She approaches the struggling priest.

  BEFORE YOU STRIKE, ASK: IS THIS RIGHT?

  Memories of her first encounter with Guillemo rush back. How he ogled her and confused her and made her feel dirty and stupid. She was too innocent then to recognize that his interest in her was sexual. He was a priest, after all. A man of God.

  IS IT RIGHT?

  Dragon, you were not there!

  IT IS DESERVED, BUT IS IT RIGHT? LISTEN TO YOUR HEART.