‘Devary sent you,’ I said in sudden comprehension, and received an affirmative nod in response.
‘He’s a former professor of mine. I went through my first Change two weeks ago, and he sent me your way.’
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. What was he doing volunteering me to begin some kind of draykon collective? He knew how I disliked strangers.
On the other hand, Meriall was a newly-shifted draykon, and I was probably the only person Devary knew who could help her.
So, packing my ungracious feelings away, I set about helping Meriall to make herself comfortable. She talked, I couldn’t. It was awkward.
As usual.
But Pense was right about the influx. No sooner had I grown comfortable with Meriall than another hereditary arrived: a youngish, comfortably rotund Irbellian man called Larion. He could not say how he had come to find us; he had merely wandered in Iskyr, alone from the moment of his first Change, and found himself drawn to us. Larion was quiet, laconic, and clever. He soon learned everything I had to teach, and when others began to arrive, he adopted the role of instructor.
Our little colony grew quickly after that. As I write this account a moon or so later, our tiny valley is crowded with dwellings and beginning to spill over. Our residents comprise people from all over the Daylands and Nimdre; we are of all ages and, thankfully, we wield between us a useful range of professions. It is not easy to keep everybody fed and equipped, but we are steadily learning where to reliably find food up here. Ivi comes from farmer stock. She has collected up a few volunteers and begun the process of creating some fields on the northern edge of our village, there to cultivate the strange but delicious sweetgrains that grow wild in parts of Iskyr. Loret is a tailor, and he has taught Damosel to sew. Together they are producing such garments as are necessary. In time, I feel that many of us will choose to wear our draykon forms much more often — all of the time, perhaps. But what we have at present is a collective of confused hereditaries, trying to make for ourselves a little piece of the familiar in a deeply strange world.
At the heart of all of this there is Pensould, and there is me. The settlers look to us for leadership, which I hardly know how to understand. Is it because I am Lady Draykon? Do they know, or care, about this title? Few have used it. Is it because I was the first to Change, or because we were the first to dwell here? I cannot account for it. Nonetheless, I feel the burden of this unlooked-for obligation keenly. Try as I might, I cannot deflect their expectations onto another, and to my surprise (and occasional displeasure), Pensould has consistently failed to permit me to hide behind him. I think him far more fitted to this role than I, but he only says, Minchu, I do not know the humankind like you do, and that is that. He is always at my side, but his is a silent support.
I sometimes use Meriall as a spokeswoman. She sometimes allows me to.
Our village is beginning to be known as Nuwelin, which means something like “new place” in some obscure language of Pensould’s. I did ask him to think up something a little more imaginative, but by the time he had applied himself to that task, Nuwelin had stuck.
So here we are. Eclectic in our make-up, confused to a man, and unsure what the future holds for any of us. And for some reason, all of these people are looking to me to figure that last part out.
Help.
10th day of the Seventh Moon (10 VII)
And So, The Ancients.
Hitherto, the residents of Nuwelin have been composed almost entirely of hereditaries but recently come into our powers. Pensould is the sole exception.
… or he was until this morning, when we received a new arrival. That by itself is par for the course by now, and we have grown efficient at welcoming newcomers. He or she is handed off straight to Meriall, who usually serves as our welcome party. She in turn tours them around all the useful people to know — Loret and Damosel, for clothing and repairs; Liat, who keeps us fed; Sophronia, who acts as our healer; and, of course, me. I have been introduced to so many new people of late, I could almost say I am becoming used to it. Or desensitised, which is not the same thing.
At any rate, incoming residents are soon walked through how to set up their own dwelling here, and we usually have them settled within a few hours.
This time was different. When Nyden arrived, everyone knew about it right away. This is because he showed up in draykon form.
I was sitting with Damosel at the time. We were mending shirts and chatting without too much awkwardness, which is an achievement for me. Damosel’s more than thirty years older and treats me in a mildly motherly way which I don’t mind at all. We were setting stitches at a leisurely pace and talking about Ivi’s new crop projects, which was all peaceful and lovely, until a shattering roar threatened to blow away the shirt I was stitching up. Something properly vast shot overhead — so fast, it was gone in an instant and we couldn’t even tell what it had been.
It came back a couple of minutes later. A shadow passed across the suns as an enormous, sable-black draykon sailed over our village, banked and came at us again.
It roared a second time, a sound which shook me to my bones. If you were in Waeverleyne during the draykon war, you would understand full well what I mean when I say that. It is a war cry. It sounds terrifying enough to human ears, but to a draykon it resonates on several other levels too, filling all of our senses with the promise of ruin.
Nuwelin erupted. Most of us shifted by instinct, and within moments the sky was full of draykoni ready to defend our home. Pensould was foremost among us as we rounded up the newcomer and forced him to land, arranging ourselves thereafter in a containing ring around him.
It was only as I came to land myself, threat resolved, that it occurred to me to wonder why it had been so easy. The sable draykon sat quietly, surrounded, his tail swishing lazily back and forth over the grass.
I felt an odd shiver in my mind, emanating from the menacing newcomer. I tensed, wondering what new form of attack this was. Then I realised.
… the newcomer was laughing.
Not out loud. He was snickering in my mind, helpless with mirth. He waved the tip of his tail at us in a cheery greeting.
Then he said something in a language that sounded very much like Pense’s: I would translate it loosely as: ‘Howdy!’
Pense — handsome and majestic in his draykon-form, with those gorgeous blue-green scales — reared up and beat his wings back and forth. He roared, rattling my bones again.
The black draykon did that mental-smile type thing that Meriall had done, only with almost painful enthusiasm. He positively radiated open-hearted friendliness, which would have been lovely if he hadn’t started out with scaring us silly. Nyden! he said. Ny for short. Sorry, I could not help myself.
Pense settled down, his tail swishing with irritation. The other draykoni in the circle shifted and muttered and I sighed, fighting back a desire to smack him. A prankster… goodie.
Nobody spoke. It took me a while to realise that they, like me, were waiting for somebody else to take the lead in deciding how to greet Nyden. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that they were all waiting for me.
‘Hello, Nyden,’ I said with another sigh. ‘I suppose it was necessary to scare the living daylights out of us?’
Nyden grinned at me, a physical gesture this time, and I can tell you, it looks alarming when a draykon does it. There’s an awful lot of teeth involved. Come on! It was funny. You all jumped like rabbits.
‘Well.’ I considered how to answer that. ‘This is a small village, and there was a war not long ago. We haven’t yet seen anything of the draykoni who attacked Waeverleyne, but we expect to someday.’
Nyden flexed his wings, still grinning. His black scales rippled in the sunlight, and I began to understand something about him.
He is bigger than me. More than that: he is bigger than Pensould, and Pense is one of the largest drayks I have seen. Those scales are blacker than black, nightier than night. His eyes are dark,
too, and narrow. If this was a storybook and I was in a fairy tale, Nyden would be the villain. He was the very image of typical wickedness, in his every feature.
Apparently he found that terribly amusing.
Whoops. I didn’t think of that, said Nyden, and belatedly added, Sorry.
‘What brings you to us?’ said Pensould.
Nyden beamed again. I just woke up. Actually, a little bit ago. It’s been a loooong time. He put a drawling emphasis on the last two words, and twitched his wings. So, the ones who woke me were the old kind. And they were so. Dull. They have some kind of purebreed-only colony down south a ways, and there’s a lot being said about humans and half-breeds and how wretchedly unfair it is that they are confined to Iskyr when they should rule the world. Or something. Nyden snorted softly through his teeth. ‘I got bored with that. I mean, who wouldn’t? So I came to find you lot. He snorted again, and added, ‘The upstarts. The half-breeds. He snickered, shaking his head. You’re a lot more fun than they are already. Can I stay?
Here was troubling news. We had heard nothing of this colony yet, but I could have little doubt that this was what had become of Eterna, the leader of the war on my home city, and her warlike supporters.
‘You can stay,’ I decided, when (again) nobody else spoke. ‘But, Nyden? Don’t scare us like that again, please.’
His head bobbed and he grinned at me. Absolutely not, yes. I mean, no. He made me a funny little bow, the tip of one fang protruding. Thank you, good Lady.
I mustered a smile for him in return, hoping my desire to flee wasn’t as obvious as I feared. ‘In that case, welcome to Nuwelin.’
13th Day of the Seventh Moon (13 VII)
The Trouble With Me.
So, me being me, I have been giving Nyden a wide berth. In fact, after his arrival I retreated a little from everyone.
I feel bad about it, as I always do. But this sudden influx of people into my life and my personal space has been hard to adjust to. With the addition of Nyden, it was all suddenly too much. I ache for the peace and quiet of our little valley, when it was just Pense and Sigwide and me.
I have isolated myself nicely; even my beloved Pensould is not here with me. I found a distant tree, in the branches of which I created a sturdy hammock. Now I lie here, writing and feeling more at peace than I have in days. My only companion is Sigwide, from whom I am rarely willingly parted. He is curled up in the crook of my left arm, sleeping peacefully. He has a habit lately of radiating love, even while he sleeps. If only people knew how to do such things, I might be more comfortable around them. But humans are so closed. It is desperately hard to read them, and to my disappointment, draykoni senses have not helped me there.
The thing about people is… well, I do not know what it is about them that rattles me so badly. But perhaps such things are beyond explanation. What is your greatest fear? Perhaps it is heights, or crawling insects. Such phobias are common enough that they are broadly accepted as reasonable, even if they are not. Yes, falling from a great height will kill a wingless person, but in the vast majority of cases, people do not fall. The danger exists, but it is remote. It is no use telling that to a person standing on the edge of a cliff, however. He or she can see nothing but the drop below, and is too paralysed with fright to assess the reality of the danger.
This is how I react to the presence of strangers, and the more of them there are around me, the worse it gets. Why do I fear people? Most of them would not dream of harming me, even if they could. I know this. But fear is not rational.
I used to panic if I knew I was soon to be brought face-to-face with a lot of people. Sometimes I still do, though it is rarer now. I am growing more resilient, as I gain a little in years and strength and (it is to be hoped) wisdom. But to find myself at the centre of this growing community of newcomers is disconcerting, and I never thought that such folk would look to someone like me to lead them. I feel the pressure exceedingly, for the price of failing in this scenario is higher than it has ever been before.
Anyway, enough about that. I merely wished to explain this early, because I have no doubt that it will continue to have an impact on my behaviour in the future, and if I expect my readers to understand anything about the coming moons and the way I (and we, as a colony) handle them, then the painful process of confession must be gone through.
I can only apologise for this most absurd aspect of my nature, and move on.
Words cannot fully express my gratitude for Pensould, however. He alone understands me entirely, and loves me anyway. If I need company, he is there. If I need quiet, as I do today, then he will leave me be with good grace, and await my return. I only wish that everybody could have such a person at their side.
Which is odd, considering how—
14th day of the Seventh Moon (14 VII)
The First of Our Disasters.
I was obliged to leave off in a hurry yesterday, and I cannot now remember what I was going to write there. It doesn’t matter. I was in the midst of composing that aborted sentence when I sensed Pensould’s approach. Draykoni senses are much more… everything than human senses; we can feel each other through the aether, within a certain range. And since Pense is my spouse, our bond is stronger than most. I knew him to be on the approach when he was still a full mile away.
I also felt his urgency. He was not merely coming to check up on me, as he sometimes does. He was moving at speed, flashing through the skies so fast that he would be upon me any minute. I could feel his distress.
I dropped my journal and pen into the hammock without a second thought. Honestly, I cared nothing for what happened to them at that moment. I leapt out of the hammock and let myself fall from the tree — an exhilarating experience when done for pleasure or practice, but undertaken on this occasion for speed. I Changed halfway down, as soon as I was clear of the lower branches. Then I lifted my vast draykon wings and soared skywards, just in time to see Pense appear on the horizon.
Minchu, he called to me — speaking without words, his mind to mine. I need you to come with me.
What is it? I tried not to let too much of my distress show, but I think I failed. Pense can lose his temper sometimes, and it can be a little bit terrifying when he does. But it is not like him to fear, and fear is what I sensed from him as he reached me.
He soared in a circle around me and flew back in the direction he had come from. I followed. Something is badly wrong, he informed me.
Nuwelin?
Nay, all is well with our colony. But I have found… something. He was struggling to frame his thoughts in words, which shocked me. At last he gave up on the attempt, and instead a brief image flashed into my mind.
I saw a copse of trees: spindly, frail growths, with ice-white bark and pallid, wan-looking leaves. Their lack of colour surprised me, as such pallor is more usual in the Darklands and the Lowers. It is out of place in bright, sunlit Iskyr. The mosses and grass sparsely covering the damp earth below were also bone-white.
Beneath the pale grass, dimly sensed in the earth below: the bones of a long-slumberous draykon, its flesh long since decayed. Ordinarily this would be cause for cheer, and we might now be launching an expedition to wake a prospective new fellow.
But Pense was right: something was amiss.
A little perspective, first. As strange (and wrong) as it sounds, I first encountered my Pensould in a similar state: he was a collection of bones, and naught else. With most creatures, such a state is simply death, ended, done. But draykoni do not precisely die, or not eternally so. When I found Pense like that, I could feel the life-force radiating from him. It was sluggish and distant, for he had been long, long asleep, but some essential part of him still lived. Thus was he roused, and regenerated, and given life again.
These bones were dead.
Dead, utterly. There was not the faintest shimmer of potential about them, not even a whisper of energy waiting to be roused. There was nothing at all.
I did not need to ask whether Pense had ever
known the like. His fear and confusion answered that question for me. We flew in silence until we arrived at a small wood, and I followed Pensould as he tucked his wings and dived for the ground.
I noticed in passing that most of the trees in the wood were not pallid at all, nor were they delicate. They grew tall, their branches thin but strong. Their trunks were covered in mottled purple and green bark, and their leaves were glorious viridian. The pale trees were confined to a spot perhaps a hundred feet wide in the centre.
Once on the ground, Pensould pawed restlessly at the earth with his great talons, ripping up chunks of mud and grass. I joined him, and we soon uncovered the skeleton.
We have highly unusual bones, as you might expect; what else is normal about a draykon, after all? Instead of bleached white, the bones of a draykon (at least a pure, ancient one like Pense — I do not know about mine) are deep indigo in colour, and they shine a bit silvery in the right light. When I saw the array of bones sticking sadly out of the earth my heart stopped dead in horror. These bones were unquestionably draykoni, but they were as pallid and stark as the grass and trees around them.
I could not detect any life about them, either, though I strained every sense I had in the attempt.
Pense stopped digging and sat back on his haunches, as speechless with horror as I. We leaned against one another and I drew a little strength from his nearness and his warmth. I was so shocked I could not think, but that would not do. Pull yourself together, I ordered myself, with the addition of a choice name or two which I will not repeat.
I looked again at the trees and moss and frondy plants around me, all wilting and drained of colour. Prowling about with my tail twitching with unease, I began to notice other things: a daefly lying dead upon a thin, brittle branch, the bright hues of its fragile wings bleached to sickly white. A small colony of tiny insects lying scattered across the earth several feet away from the draykon grave, every single one dead. I do not know what colour these ought to have been in life, but their dull shells were as waxy-pale as everything else around me.
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