“Well, if I was taken as a slave,” Barrett said, “and you should know that attacks happen to even the best of caravans, I’d rather be bought by someone kind and set free than keep my dignity in slavery. Now, I may not be a proud man, and I have no shame in that, but I’m sure even the most arrogant soul in the world finds actual slavery worse than being rescued. What’s the worst Alagard can do?”
“Big. Fucking. Sandstorm,” Ia pointed out.
“We’ve got that anyway,” Barrett retorted. “Don’t know if you noticed it?”
The dragon could see the reason in that, but still it hurt him. The desert was meant for his hoard, but a true hoard lord did not steal and scavenge. He took what was offered—love, loyalty, and precious things. He did not force them.
But if the desert had already been stolen from him, retrieving his property was the righteous path, whether Alagard resented him for it or no.
Looking at the gathered humans below him, facing him despite the way that some were still quaking with fear, was little comfort. They were but part of his hoard, and it was good, but he had wanted the desert so much—hot, lively, and beloved as it was. Nonetheless, he said gravely, “Then it shall be done.”
He withdrew his head, shifting his neck to snake out into the storm.
The tearing sand was starting to hurt now, grinding through centuries of limescale and quartz to score the scales below. He braced himself against it, drawing on the fire within him as he reached out into the storm.
“Alagard,” he sent into the tempest. “Little sprite. Come to me.”
But the storm kept screaming, and there was no sign the desert had heard him.
He tried to grasp at that whirling spirit next, willing it to him with all his might.
The wind tore down hard enough to rock him, forming great clawing masses that ripped at his eyes and nostrils and pounded down on his outspread wing.
The dragon closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was trying to find a different road from the Shadow. When it came to coercion and hatred, it outmatched him.
Instead, he remembered the desert as he had first seen it—the warm heat and golden rocks, the squeaking lizards and sly fox, the snake and the huffing dust devils. He held on to that, and then opened his mind to the storm again, murmuring, “Come to me. Come to this place of safety, and let me watch over you, Alagard. Come home to me.”
The agony of the storm broke across his mind, more searing than the sharp sand. It came tainted with shadow, a seeping rot of pain and despair. Grimly, he clung to the memory of the desert, offering it into the storm, holding the picture of sunlight, warm sand, and little creatures bright with love and loyalty.
As the wind roared like falling rock, and the sand heaped against his side grew hot and then splintered into glass lightning, the picture in his mind changed. A sand-colored caracal lay flat on the side of the dune, its black-tufted ears alert and its slitted eyes fixed. It was utterly still.
The dragon kept calling softly to the desert, and slowly the cat relaxed.
“Be mine,” the dragon murmured. “Take what I’m offering.”
The Shadow would not have reached this part of Alagard, he was sure. It did not understand love, of a place or another soul.
The caracal yawned, showing its sharp teeth, and stretched, arching its back and extending its legs before it deigned to answer. “And what are you offering, precisely?”
“Be mine, not the Shadow’s.”
It sniffed. “I don’t want any master.”
“If it is possible, I will release you whenever you ask. If not, know that I will honor the old laws and the rules of honor. I am not unkind.”
It narrowed its eyes, sliding back to its feet. It looked around the little memory he was holding to so hard. Then it sat back, its long ears perking, and said, “Done.”
“Just like that?” the dragon asked, startled.
It gave him a supremely unimpressed glance and then closed its eyes. “I’ll worry if you actually manage to win me away from the Shadow. It has its claws deep into this corner of the world, you know. You shouldn’t have come here. It doesn’t like you much. I can tell that.”
“I like it even less,” the dragon assured him and snapped the memory closed. He wrapped it in fire and wind and held it close to his heart. At once, he could feel the drag as tatters of Alagard came whipping out of the storm and into him.
Imitating the dozing caracal, the dragon curled around himself again and waited.
Piece by piece, he gathered the tattered spirit of Alagard within the protection of his own fires. He was dimly aware of the storm starting to slow, the wind dying down as the sand sank in great billows and surges.
Now, at last, the Shadow noticed. He felt it come creeping across the desert, low and oily and foul, but it was far from its home and weak, weaker by far than when he had faced it at Astalor, below the broken towers of Eyr. It had been like this when men and dragons first became aware of the existence of a cold and hungry power lurking in the deepest mines of Eyr, marring the glory of the Golden Age of dragons and kings. They had named it “Shadow” then, out of scorn, because it seemed such a paltry thing, nipping meanly at their heels. It had grown powerful while they ignored it, spreading slowly through the cold and dark corners of the north, until it was twisted into the land the dragons ruled like brambles through a rose bower. It did not seem so powerful now.
Of course, Tarn too stood alone, without the support of his armies or his brethren.
“You have taken from me,” the Shadow whined, sneaking out tendrils to stab and wind around his spirit. “Stranger in the desert, you should want to win my friendship.”
The dragon ignored it, brushing away each of its encroaching touches. Alagard began to take shape again within the closed circle of his memory of the desert, pulling the torn and ragged parts of himself together. He was too broken to stay safe in his own form, so the dragon pressed a command on him, willing him to be flesh.
“Give me back what you have taken, and I will give you other gifts, just as precious and twice as sweet,” the Shadow promised. It was a stain on the ground now, a darkness in the storm. “Join me, and I will give you power over men and control of the storms.”
The dragon laughed. “Oh, Shadow,” he said, low and mocking. “Do you not remember me? Do you not remember how I burned you out of Eyr?”
And he drew up the fires within him and sent flame licking out at the Shadow, searing it until it fled shrieking into the east and troubled him no more.
Chapter 9: Discovering
BY THE time the last wind had stilled, it was night. The stars blazed overhead, scattered in their countless ranks across the sky. The dragon lifted his head toward them in greeting and yearning. He and his kind had been born of star seeds.
Then, after one last glance, he turned back to the mortal world and lifted his wing, hurling the thick crust of gathered sand away into the desert. Folding the wing up against the ridge of his body, he saw that someone had rolled away the top canvas. He leaned down, going straight for the fire to see who was waking.
Dit was the only one there, looking up at the revealed sky with wonder. As the dragon lowered his head, he saw Dit swallow compulsively, though he did not flinch.
“The storm has passed,” the dragon observed, not quite certain of the social niceties.
“I suspect we have you to thank for that,” Dit managed, with only a small waver in his voice. “Is it really you, Tarn?”
“The name does not suit this form,” the dragon agreed, moving his head down to look Dit in the eye.
Dit took a slow breath and reached out before he froze, his hand mere inches from the dragon’s jaw. “May I?”
“Of course,” the dragon said, pleased. He had always been accustomed to human touch. The children of his old hoard had liked to scramble over his legs while he napped, their plump hands grasping his scales.
Dit’s hand against his scoured face was a comfort.
&n
bsp; “You shine,” Dit murmured. “You didn’t before, in the darkness, but I can see the moon reflected in your scales now. What color are you?”
“You will have to wait for the morning to know,” the dragon told him.
“Spoilsport,” Dit grumbled. He shook his head, looking up again, and blurted out suddenly, “Y’know, I’ve been looking up all night and thinking, shit, I fucked that.”
“Not necessarily something to be proud of, my dear,” Sethan commented, climbing out of his wagon. He looked immaculate again, having somehow managed to comb all the sand and knots from his hair until it hung with a smooth sheen. His clothes showed not a wrinkle.
“The deed is done,” the dragon told him. “Alagard is no longer bound by the Shadow.”
“Good,” Sethan said and looked up, his eyes narrowing. “And what price will we pay for your help?”
Wondering what peculiar stories must have been handed down through the years, the dragon pointed out, “You are part of my hoard now. You must expect my protection.”
Sethan folded his arms. “And will I get my caravan guard back?”
“Soon,” the dragon promised. “It would be unwise at this time.”
“And why’s that?”
“On my other side,” the dragon explained, “the sand reaches my knee.”
Sethan looked up, to where the dragon’s leg towered four times as high as the tops of the caravans. This time when he spoke, the gratitude seemed more genuine. “For our lives, I thank you. Is it safe enough for us to move on? Our supplies are limited.”
“The storm is over,” the dragon said, looking out. “The road lies buried, but with the stars to guide us, we may find it again. The dead still await us, but they need to crawl out from beneath the sand that buries them.”
“That would be a yes, then?” Dit asked brightly. “You talk a lot more in this form, friend.”
“Let’s start uncovering the wagons,” Sethan said grimly. “Dit, spread the word.”
Soon the camp was bustling, as guards and traders began to dig away the sand around their wheels. Most of them sent darting, nervous glances up at the dragon, but did not speak to him. Only Dit chattered as naturally as he had before.
Saddened, the dragon began to open out the circle he had made with his body, brushing aside the drifts of sand on that side with his tail and shoulder until the desert lay flat before them, its dunes turned into long faint ridges and its pillars and arches of rock merely breaking the surface like the swell of a whale’s back.
“Wonder where the road is?” Dit said cheerfully. “Wonder where we are?”
“Ask not me,” the dragon told him. “When last I was this far into the desert, it was an ocean.”
“It was not,” Dit breathed and snagged Barrett’s sleeve. “Did you hear that?”
“It’s in some of the old chronicles,” Barrett said and took a shaky breath before he smiled up at the dragon. “Tarn, thank you. We are in your debt, and I’m sorry I tried to stop you. I didn’t realize—”
“Do not apologize,” the dragon said, embarrassed. “And, yes, an ocean. The Gulf of Gardalor.”
“We found fish skeletons in the sand last time we came south,” Barrett said. “All set in stone, so big.” He held out his hands to show the size.
“They lie in the high mountains of Amel too,” the dragon commented, watching Dit sidle off to finish digging out Barrett’s wagon. The older man was looking flushed and breathless from the work, so the dragon continued the conversation. “The world has shifted and changed many times over the ages. The earth moves to cast up mountains where there were valleys and fills the plains with oceans.”
“I’ve seen the volcano in Nol Salath,” Barrett commented, rubbing his back. “It’s smoking now, but they think it’s due to erupt. Last time, it buried the city.”
“Nozalth?” the dragon queried. “There was a salamander there once, one who followed the Laws of Amel. If he has woken, he may be able to spare the city.”
“I hope so,” Barrett said and smiled at him more easily. “Perhaps we could send you as an emissary. There aren’t many elementals who seem friendly toward mankind. You may be unique.”
“I,” the dragon said, yawning a little, “am no mere elemental. I am a dragon.”
Barrett laughed, the lines easing from his face. “I see the stories about dragons’ pride, at least, were right.”
Not long after that, the wagons began to rumble out. The dragon waited until the last of them was well clear before he began to move himself, shifting delicately against the piled sand in the hope it would hold its shape briefly for a few moments after he was gone.
It was too dry, though, so he simply lunged away, running as fast as his short legs would carry him as the sand slid and spumed around his ankles. As soon as he was clear, he shook himself, throwing off the sand from his wing and side until he was engulfed in a cloud of his own making.
He stalked out of that with as much dignity as he could still summon, only to see the caravan halted in front of him. He hadn’t expected them to wait, so he broke into a run, spreading his wings to coast forward.
As he got closer, he could see that there were no dead forces attacking, so he called fire on the next step and flared back into his human form, where two-legged running was far more comfortable and dignified.
Making his way to the front of the caravan at an easy jog, he found Jancis with her bow arched, focused on a still shape in the sand before them. Cayl and Ia were talking softly and urgently, their faces filled with shadows under the moonlight.
A man lay before them in the sand, unmoving.
“He is not of the dead,” Tarn said and strode out toward him. He was aware of Jancis still covering him from behind, and he approved.
The man was dark-skinned, young, and slim. His hair fell in twisted braids, each tied off with complex knots of multicolored thread. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed.
He was also completely naked, but bore no marks of the raging sand.
Intrigued, Tarn knelt beside him and reached out to touch his shoulder, hoping to wake him. As soon as his fingers brushed the smooth, cotton-soft skin, he knew who this was. He could feel another pulse beating against his hand, slipping under his skin to lodge against his heart, proof of the binding.
“Alagard,” he breathed. He had intended to bind him into a safe mortal form, but he had expected something wild—a caracal or lion. He had never imagined the desert as a man, let alone a beautiful one.
Alagard’s eyes twitched open, showing as silver-bright as the desert dawn, a color never seen in mortal men. Then he sat up, flailing, and shoved Tarn away. “Get your hands off me! Who are you?”
“You know me,” Tarn said, holding his hands up peacefully. “Though you may not know this face.”
Alagard scrabbled backward, not quite managing to stand. “Are you crazy? That makes no sense. What am I doing here?”
“You were held in the Shadow’s power,” Tarn told him. “I broke you free and reshaped you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Alagard snapped. “Aside from the obvious fact that you are clearly completely and utterly insane. What am I doing here?” He looked around, and some of the tension went from his shoulders as he murmured, “In the desert, after the sand stops flying and the air is still.” Then his gaze sharpened again. “But why am I here? Why am I naked?” Then, after a short aghast moment, he breathed, “Who am I?”
“Do you not recall?” Tarn asked, his heart twisting. Had he bound the desert too hard into mortal form? Had the Shadow exposed Alagard to such horrors that his mind had closed against its own memories?
“I don’t… I….” He took a shaky breath and then said, with absolute certainty, “I have been here before.”
“You have,” Tarn agreed, weighing up his options. He did not want to panic the man by trying to convince him he was a desert, not if he did not know. Instead, he held out his hand and said, “Gard.”
> “What?”
He proffered his hand again. “You are Gard. I am Tarn. We are known to each other.”
“Gard,” the desert murmured, rolling the name across his tongue, as if to taste it. Then he took Tarn’s hand and pulled himself up, rolling to his feet with a light, easy grace. His hand was warm and dry against Tarn’s, and it was a disappointment when he let go and strolled toward the rest of the caravan, quite unconcerned by his nakedness.
“So,” he called back, his voice sharp with bravado, “am I traveling with you? Am I a trader? Tell me I sell something naughty.”
“No,” Tarn said, striding to catch up, “to both. But you will travel with us now.”
Gard tossed his braids over his shoulder with a sniff. “Somebody’s feeling masterful. Do I not get a choice in the matter?”
“Certainly,” Tarn agreed. “You may choose to come with us, or you may choose to stay here, alone and naked, and wait for the dead to claw themselves out of the sand to feast on your flesh. I would advise the former, but you are a free man.”
“Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it?” Gard bounced on his heels, stretching his arms out and rolling his shoulders. “Sun and stars, I feel like I’ve been locked in a box for a month. Anyhow, my lovely savage, I should warn you that I’m frightfully bad at taking orders.”
“How would you know, if you cannot remember who you are? And I am not a savage.”
Gard grinned, a quick, sharp flash of teeth. “Oh, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. You just look so marvelously ferocious. You must set all the maidens’ hearts aflutter.”
“I have no taste for maidens,” Tarn said honestly, flustered by the speed of this conversation. He had expected hostility from his desert, not flirtation. Was this how Alagard calmed his nerves? Then, trying to catch up, he added, “And if I look fierce, it is from years of ensuring that all my orders are obeyed.”
“Aw,” Gard said, leaning in to brush a kiss on his cheek. “He banters.”
Tarn, to his horror, blushed. “Er.”
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