The Fire Dragon

by Katharine Kerr

  “Way to what?”

  “Get Salamander home, of course.”

  Dallandra waited for him to say more, but he merely turned away with a long, sad sigh and resumed his slow walk along the riverbank. In the west the sunset began to streak the sky with burnished gold.

  “We're all going to be leaving soon,” Dallandra said. “I was hoping you'd take us through your Lands to Cerr Cawnen.”

  “Of course I will. It's a long journey otherwise.”

  All round them birds sang. Evandar walked as slowly as an old man to the streamside and stared into the water.

  “There's somewhat wrong,” Dallandra said. “What is it?”

  “Naught.” He looked up abruptly and forced a smile. “When will you want to go?”

  “In a few days. Shall I send the Wildfolk for you when we're ready?”

  “Yes, do. I've got so many errands to run that I know not where I'll be. But as for Salamander, he'll be returning to the Westfolk's lands by ship, sometime in the summer. They should put in to shore just west of Cannobaen.”

  “They? Who?”

  “It's a surprise.” Evandar grinned at her, and for a moment he looked his usual merry self. “One you'll like. The elephant won't be with him, though—I'll tell you that much.”

  “That gladdens my heart. But—”

  “Ah! No prying! I need to find Devaberiel soon, in fact, and tell him his son's on the way home. He can wait for them down on the coast and get word to you, I suppose, somehow or other. No, wait, I've a better idea. I'll get Salamander's old dweomer teacher to go with Devaberiel, and then she can call you through the fire.”

  “Valandario? Yes, she'll do that if you ask. But I thought you'd be the one bringing him home.”

  “I may not be able to, what with Shaetano working harm. Do you see, my love? I'm learning the lessons you've tried so hard to teach me—thinking ahead, laying plans, considering how it all fits together.”

  “Well, truly, I'm proud of you.”

  “My thanks.” He glanced her way, then looked up at the golden sky. Was he near tears? she couldn't tell.

  “Evandar, beloved, what's so wrong?”

  “Naught.” He forced a smile false even for him. “Well, I'd best be off to Cerr Cawnen. I need to keep an eye on my wretched brother.”

  Evandar turned and took off running. For a moment it seemed that he would run right into the stream, but at the water's edge he stepped up onto the sunlight and disappeared.

  For a long time Niffa kept her conversation with the Spirit Talker locked up in her heart. On the day when the black dragon had flown over Cerr Cawnen, Werda had made her see a hard truth, that Niffa's life work lay upon the witchroad, no matter where it led her. At the time, the road had seemed so clear, but now, days later, Niffa found herself wavering. Never will I leave my home! she would think. I'll marry Harl, mayhap, and live close to my mam and da for always. Yet, even as she treasured her defiance, she knew that she was only postponing the inevitable moment when she would admit that the black dragon had shown her Wyrd.

  When she slept, she often dreamt of the dragon, but always she would see the beast from some distance, flying across the sky perhaps, or perched on a high cliff. She could never get close enough to speak to it. Finally, one night when she walked in the green fields of dream, she met Dallandra at the glowing red stars.

  “It gladdens my heart to see you!” Dallandra called out. “You've not come in a long while.”

  “I've not,” Niffa said. “But please, think not that it had somewhat to do with you. I've had much to ponder these past days.”

  “I see. Well, I've got some grand news. We'll be bringing your Jahdo home soon. We leave Cengarn tomorrow.”

  Joy rushed up and nearly washed away the vision, but over this past winter Niffa had learned to steel her will. In a moment the purple moon held steady over the grass and the warding stars. Dallandra's image returned, smiling at her.

  “That gladdens my heart beyond all else,” Niffa said. “My thanks! But who will come with you, then?”

  “Rather a lot of people, and an escort of armed men, but all of them friends.”

  “Then welcome they'll all be. Will the black dragon be with you?”

  “Here! How do you know about Arzosah?”

  “Be that her name? One of the great wyrms did speak to me, some days just past, and somehow I—” Niffa hesitated, puzzled. “I know not how I know, but somehow I do feel in my heart that the beast be tied to you in some way.”

  “Your heart is right. She'll be coming with us. You know, lass, it's time we spoke of your future. Do you know what the dweomer lore is?”

  Again Niffa nearly lost the vision, but she steadied it so easily that she knew her Wyrd had come upon her.

  “I think me I do,” Niffa said. “Be it what we call the witchroad here?”

  “Just so. Do you realize how strong a gift you have?”

  “The Spirit Talker did say somewhat about it, truly.”

  “Well, I want you to think very carefully about that while you wait for us. If you want to follow the witchroad, the dweomer road, then I'll take you on as an apprentice.” Dallandra held up one hand for silence. “Say naught now. Think upon it most carefully. This is no light decision to make.”

  “That I do understand. And my thanks from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Splendid! Now, I've no real idea how long it will take us to reach Cengarn, but we'll be there as soon as we can. Fare thee well for now.”

  Dallandra waved her hand, and the vision seemed to roll up like a blanket from one edge to the other. All at once Niffa lay awake in her bed, with dawnlight silvering the room. She got up, and as she dressed she could hear her mother and father, speaking in low voices. I'd best tell Mam, she thought. But not today—I'll wait till Jahdo's home. There be no use in her losing me till our lad be back to give her joy.

  On the day of their departure, Jahdo woke long before dawn. For a while he lay awake in the straw by the dragon hearth in the great hall—the bed he shared with the other boys in the dun. He tried to get back to sleep, but finally, when windows turned grey with the dawn outside, the excitement drove him up. Since he slept fully dressed, all he needed to do was pull on his boots, and he was ready. The night before he'd made his meager possessions into a bundle. By the light coming from the main door he wrapped them in his blanket and tied the corners to secure them.

  By the hearth one of the boys sat up, looked around, and then got up to join him: Cae, the only real friend he'd made in the dun. For a moment Cae stood rubbing the sleep from his eyes on the sleeve of his torn and dirty shirt.

  “Ah well,” Cae said finally. “You'll be off, then?”

  “I will, truly.”

  Cae stooped and took one end of the bundle. Jahdo took the other, and together they carried it out to the stables. In the grey dawnlight Cae's dark eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I wish I had a home to go to.” His voice ached with them, too. “Think of me now and again, will you?”

  “I will.” Jahdo hesitated, wishing he could think of something to say. “Uh, I'll pray to the gods that you fare well.”

  Cae turned and ran for the great hall. His day of hard work in the kitchens would begin soon. Jahdo took a few steps after him, then stopped, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would ease the loss for either of them.

  He went into the gwerbret's stables for the last time and led Gidro, the brown mule, and Bahkti, the white packhorse, out of their stalls. Gidro belonged to the town council of Cerr Cawnen, but Bahkti had come with Meer the bard from the lands of the Gel da'Thae. Although Jahdo had inherited all of Meer's worldly goods, he thought that the horse perhaps still belonged to Meer's tribe or mother—no one had been able to tell him.

  “We're going home,” Jahdo said to them. “Well, it's home for you anyway, Gidro.”

  The mule tossed its head as if it understood. Jahdo led them out to the watering trough and let them drink while he watche
d the eastern sky silvering with the first of dawn. Home. Soon he would be home. Over the past year he had longed for home so often that he refused to let himself believe that this time his hope would come true.

  “Meer did promise us,” Jahdo said to the mule. “And he were killed by that demon-get archer. Then did Jill say the same, and she died. I do wonder, truly, if we be some sort of curse.”

  Gidro snorted in a blow of water drops, as if to tell him to stop talking nonsense.

  Sure enough, some hours before the sun hit its zenith the travellers assembled in the ward or above it, in the case of Rhodry and Arzosah, who stood ready to fly on the roof of the main broch. The dun turned out in force to see them off. Gwerbret Cadmar and his lady stood in the doorway; the servants and the warband clustered round out in the ward. Prince Dalanteriel on a splendid black horse headed the line of march. Beside him, riding Gwerlas, her dun gelding, Princess Carra held the baby in a leather sling across her chest. Behind them came an escort of ten mounted archers leading pack mules with supplies for the journey, Dallandra mounted on a grey palfrey, and Jahdo himself, riding his mule and leading a laden Bahkti—all in all they made an impressive expedition, as Dallandra remarked.

  “I'm so glad we're leaving,” she told Jahdo. “I hope I never spend another winter in a stone tent.”

  “And so do I hope, my lady,” Jahdo said. “And I'll pray we don't go meeting any Horsekin on the road, too.”

  “We'll have the best scout in the world to protect us.”

  Dallandra pointed at the dragon and her rider. As if in answer, Arzosah spread her wings, leapt, and flew, circling the dun once and heading off to the west.

  “They'll keep circling round us,” Dallandra went on. “And then they'll join us for the evening camps. Any stray Horsekin will be sorry they rode our way if Arzosah gets hold of them.”

  Up at the head of the line, Prince Daralanteriel raised his silver horn and blew one long note. The horses tossed their heads and danced in anticipation.

  “Farewell to Cengarn!” he called out. “Men, ready and march!”

  In a flood of laughter and farewells, the travellers set out, walking their horses sedately through the dun's great iron-bound gates and down the twisty streets of the city beyond. Jahdo felt as if they were creeping like snails, but they reached the towering walls and the open gates at last. With one final round of waves and farewells, they rode out into the green countryside. Jahdo laughed aloud in sheer relief.

  “So far so good,” he said to Dallandra.

  The western road ran across the flat grassy meadows at the foot of Dun Cengarn's cliffs. They rode past the mass graves from last summer's fighting, long low mounds like welts from a flogging on the grassy skin of the earth. Jahdo was glad to leave them behind, but one more grim memory awaited him. When they splashed across the ford of the stream where Jill had died, he had to swallow hard to choke back tears.

  “We all miss her.” Dallandra had noticed. “It's no wrong thing to weep, you know.”

  “I do know. But truly, I've had so much to weep over this year past that I be sick to my gullet of tears.”

  “No doubt! Well, let's hope that better times are coming for you.”

  “I do hope so every day. Tell me, my lady, if it be no burden upon you, will Evandar come and make our journey shorter?”

  “He will, but not till tomorrow. We want to be well clear of settled country first.”

  They did indeed travel through farmland for most of that day. Out in the fields the farmers were planting the seed corn from the king's own stock, and Jahdo noticed how carefully they went about it. No broadcasting by the hand-fuls here—men and women stooped to trickle a line of the precious seeds into plowed furrows while the children followed along, covering the grains with earth and driving off the circling birds.

  By twilight they'd left the farms behind. Dar called for a halt in a last stretch of meadow near the forest edge, where a stream ran clean for water. The men were unloading the packhorses when Arzosah returned, gliding down to settle some distance away. Jahdo saw Rhodry slide gracefully from her back, but he was too busy with his horse and mule to pay much attention. He'd gotten his stock tethered out with the rest by the time that Rhodry returned to camp, carrying the heavy coils of Arzosah's harness. Jewels glinted here and there on the black leather.

  “She's gone to hunt,” Rhodry said. “And the harness gets in her way.”

  “Tell me somewhat, Rori. Be it a splendid thing to fly?”

  “It is, once you get used to it, like. At first—well, I have to confess that I was sore afraid, looking down from so far, and then the way she rocked on the air under her wings was enough to lose a man his stomach. But after a bit, I grew to love the freedom of it.” Rhodry paused, smiling. “Would you like to come with us on the morrow?”

  “I would, but I'd best not. I have Gidro and Bahkti under my care. Mayhap one day though she'd take me just a little way, just so I'll ken what flying means.”

  “I think that could be arranged, truly.”

  “Oh, that would be splendid! To fly above the earth—” Jahdo could think of no word for it. “But often do I wonder why she does obey you, since no longer do you have that dweomer ring.”

  “I'm surprised myself, truly.”

  “And she be so strong, so dangerous. Why would such as she stay with us?”

  “I think we must amuse her, for now anyway. We're like the minstrels the high king keeps at his court. No doubt one day she'll get tired of bothering about us and fly off.” Rhodry looked away, suddenly melancholy. “I hope she stays with us a good long time.”

  “So do I.”

  As they walked into the camp together, Jahdo began to sing, and Rhodry joined him, improvising harmony in his clear tenor. Jahdo was so intent on their song that he forgot to look where he was going. All at once he felt his foot kick a stone and trip him. He flailed, nearly fell, then caught himself with a laugh.

  “Ye gods, lad!” Rhodry said. “Pick up your feet!”

  “I do try.” Jahdo tried to look humble but failed. “Ah, Rori, tonight I cannot care if I be clumsy or no. We're going home!”

  That night Niffa dreamt that a caravan came through the gates of the city. When she woke, she pulled on her pair of dresses, grabbed a chunk of bread and some cheese, then rushed out of the house. She ate while she walked down the twisting streets of Citadel. At the lakeshore, a scatter of little leather coracles sat drawn up, waiting for any citizen who needed one. For a moment she stood finishing the last of her bread and watching mist tendrils wreathe upon the water. Not since Demet died had she gone across to the town, and she hesitated now, her grief a thong that seemed to bind her hands. What if she should meet his mother or some other of his kin, who all looked so much like him?

  “Oh come now!” she told herself. “T'would be a wrong thing to hide on Citadel all your born days!”

  Yet it was a moment more before she could make herself choose a coracle. She hiked her skirts up, shoved the boat out into the shallow water, then scrambled aboard. While she paddled across, she concentrated on the town looming out of the mists on its crannogs and pilings, and she took care to land her little boat far away from the weavers' compound as well.

  Cerr Cawnen sported two sets of gates in its high stone wall, a grand pair looking south and a smaller set facing east. Although logically Jahdo should return by the east gate, her dream had shown her the southern pair, Niffa realized—something of a puzzlement, and perhaps a disappointment as well, if the dream failed to prove a true one. Well, I'm across now, she told herself. We'll just wait and see. As she made her way through the jumble of wood piers, houses, stairways, shops, and rickety bridges, the various towns-women she knew stuck their heads out of windows to hail her or came out to stand in their doorways and wave.

  “Niffa, 'tis so good to see you, lass! How do you fare, my friend? Ah, it warms my heart to see you out and about!”

  The greetings were so cheerful, so sincere, that sh
e suddenly realized that indeed, she had missed them too, shut up with only her grief for a companion. Laughing and smiling, she waved back, but with the dream urging her on, she had no time to stop and gossip. She hurried to the south gates, where running parallel to the wall stretched a narrow but long commons, pale green with new grass and dotted white with the first daisies. Niffa sat down cross-legged on the green to wait.

  Some long while later a caravan did indeed turn up. Niffa was ready to give up her vigil and go home when she saw through the open gates travellers coming. First she saw dust pluming at the horizon. Slowly the cloud approached and finally resolved itself into packhorses, led by tall figures sporting masses of dark hair. Farther back in the cloud she could see riders as well.

  “Gel da'Thae!” The men on watch sang out the name. “Gel da'Thae merchants!”

  Silver horns rang out in greeting. A militiaman hurried down the ladder from the catwalk and raced for the lakeshore. The members of the Council of Five would need to know about this arrival. Niffa got up and stood watching the caravan come closer and closer, leisurely in the hot sun. Why had her dream foretold this? Surely it had naught to do with her. A crowd began to form behind her, as the town turned out to watch the first real event of the spring. She could hear the people murmuring to themselves, studying the caravan as it drew near and wondering if this arrival meant trouble or trade.

  Calling out to each other, the council members hurried past, their streaky-red cloaks flapping behind them. First came Burra, a merchant not much older than Verrarc, with yellow hair and a thick yellow moustache to match. Stocky Frie hurried after, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his arms black with charcoal up to his elbows—he must have come straight from his forge. When Niffa saw Verrarc she started to turn away, but too late—he saw her, waved at her, then trotted on past. Last of all came the two elders, skinny grey Hennis and stout bald Admi, puffing in the hot sun. By then the caravan was ambling through the gates.

  At its head rode two Gel da'Thae warriors, dressed in leather trousers, carrying spears, their bare chests covered with blue tattoos. Behind them came a long line of pack-horses, led by human men wearing cloth trousers, each with an iron ring around one ankle—slaves, Niffa realized, not that they or their Gel da'Thae owners would ever admit such a thing whilst they were staying in this free city. In the middle of the line rode a richly dressed Gel da'Thae man on a roan gelding, most likely the merchant who owned this caravan. His huge mane of black hair, all braided and hung with little charms and talismans, fell past his waist.