by Bryan Davis
For a moment, Daphne just gawked, her mouth agape. Then, shaking a finger at Penelope, she said, “You see? Absolute proof. An eyewitness.”
Penelope looked at Marcelle, her brow rising as a timid smile appeared. “Did you see Rondi?”
Marcelle shook her head. “That’s why I suggested they were unable. The King of the Dragons is served by invisible spirits that can be seen only when they move, so grabbing one and having a conversation wasn’t easy. And I think they change their names when they arrive. The one I met went by Deference, but she said she had a choice of names, so I assumed she had another name before.”
Daphne and Penelope glanced at each other, then stared at Marcelle. Vanna also stared, now sitting up with her pillow in her lap. Shellinda swallowed a mouthful before letting her jaw go slack.
Finally, Daphne clapped her hands and laughed. “Oh, I see! You’re a jester! You’re mocking those who make up wild tales and report them as truth. Deference, indeed! Very clever.” She leaned over and pushed Marcelle’s knee. “I am impressed. You had me convinced for a moment, and I am not easily fooled.”
Marcelle let out a nervous laugh. Should she let them believe it was a joke? Would it do any good to try to convince them of such an impossible story? Probably not. Maybe it would be better to stay quiet and let them believe what they wanted to believe, at least for a while.
“Now we must hear your story,” Daphne said. “Where are you from? Are there places in this world where humans are free to travel? If so, why did you come here and risk becoming enslaved?”
Marcelle looked at the four pairs of eyes, again staring at her. What should she say? How much should she reveal? Probably a little at a time, but they needed enough of a spark to ignite their passion. “I do come from a land where humans are free, and I traveled here to rescue the slaves and take them to my home where they, too, can be free.” Marcelle took in a breath. The next statement would be a huge gamble. “I am the raven.”
Daphne’s brow shot up. Penelope looked at Vanna, and a wide grin spread across the face of each girl.
“The raven!” Daphne reached out and touched Marcelle’s black sleeve. “Then is the Starlighter within you?”
Marcelle studied Daphne’s countenance, bent and wrinkled. Was she asking this out of curiosity? She seemed disappointed, or perhaps even angry. Maybe she was asking so she could report her to the dragon authorities. Still, the issue was now out in the open, and the question couldn’t just lie there naked and exposed.
“Cassabrie the Starlighter is within Adrian,” Marcelle said, “my traveling companion. I am the raven perched upon his wing. The dragon guardian of the cattle camp captured Adrian and took him to the Zodiac, so I need to go there to rescue him.”
Every face in the room turned downward. “The Zodiac?” Daphne asked. “There is only one reason humans are ever allowed in there.”
“To witness an execution.” Vanna quickly clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”
“Not the only time,” Penelope said. “Promoted humans go there before being transported to the Northlands. The Separator himself told me I would go there when Trisarian rises toward its zenith.”
Marcelle nodded, pretending to know what Trisarian was. Since she had gone along with their idea that she had come from another place on their world, she couldn’t ask. Was it the name of one of the moons? Perhaps it was a star. “I have lost all track of time.” She reached for the remaining bread, hoping she appeared nonchalant. “How long until Trisarian reaches that point?”
“About four hours,” Penelope said. “I have been commanded to be at the gates of the Zodiac an hour before its peak.”
Daphne swung toward her, a scowl forming. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I …” Penelope looked at each face in the room. “I hoped to leave after you fell asleep, so I wouldn’t have to say good-bye.”
Daphne gave her a one-armed hug and set her gray head against Penelope’s dark brown locks, but her scowl persisted. “Oh, I understand, dear girl. It is very hard to say good-bye, but you need to tell me these things. We could have pulled a few extra treats from the food cache and given you a farewell meal.”
Marcelle glanced at Penelope’s hands. Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap. The poor girl wasn’t a very good liar, and apparently Daphne was more easily fooled than she thought. The short trousers meant that she planned to run away, perhaps with the other promoted girl. Natalla? Yes, that was her name. Since runaway slaves tried to find refuge in the wilderness, maybe the mention of that destination really did provoke her coughing fit.
While studying Penelope’s facial structure and frame, Marcelle imagined her own image in the mirror as she made ready to speak to her father. Yes, there was a resemblance, perhaps close enough. Could she execute such a deception? Should she? And if so, whom could she trust? Maybe not Daphne, but there was a way to find out.
“So,” Marcelle said, “have you slaves ever thought about organizing a rebellion? There are many more of you than there are of them, and they need you to survive. You have numbers and leverage.”
Daphne waved a hand. “Oh, there have been rabble-rousers who have tried, and they have brought about suffering and death for themselves and our children. The wise among us realize that we are put under the dragons for a reason, so we must surrender to that fate. Everything is determined. Nothing is left to chance. To rebel would be to criticize the choice of threads in the grand tapestry. We who sit under the stars would be fools to question where he who stands above placed them in the heavens. Yielding to what is, is the only option.”
“What if rebellion is a thread in the tapestry?” Marcelle asked. “Perhaps the grandest of designs is to allow the threads to choose the pattern. To watch the weaving of a living tapestry, I think, would bring the greatest satisfaction of all. Perhaps the one who places the stars enjoys an adventure with fire and heat and vibrant colors, a tapestry that surprises and delights. Perhaps he prefers a flying carpet to a floor mat.”
“Oh, nonsense. If we are destined to be floor mats, that is what we will be. There is nothing we can do to change it, and if we defy authority, judgment will follow. The sooner we learn to accept it, the better our future, and the easier it will be to avoid dragon fire.”
Marcelle tossed the bread into Daphne’s lap. “And the bite of a rat.”
Daphne’s scowl returned, deepening in ferocity every second. She got the message. She who would hide the prophesied deliverer and steal food to feed the enemies of the dragons had proven herself a hypocrite.
“Your tongue is sharp.” Daphne rose to her feet and stepped toward the door. “Perhaps you will find you have stabbed yourself with it.”
“Wait!” Marcelle jumped up and grasped the viper’s hilt. “What do you mean to do?”
Daphne halted and turned back. “What every good citizen must do.”
“I suggest otherwise.” Marcelle slid out the black blade. “Need I say more?”
Daphne glanced at the sword. “Is murder a chosen thread, Miss Raven?”
“It is not murder to prevent the death of the innocent.” Marcelle set the point against Daphne’s throat. “Yet, why fear? No matter what I do, it is already determined. Yielding is your only option.”
“What …” Daphne swallowed. “What do you want from me?”
“Just sit in the corner and be silent.” Maintaining a warning glare, Marcelle put the sword away. “Do you think you can do that?”
Nodding as she backed away, Daphne laughed nervously. “As you said, yielding is my only option.” She leaned against the room’s left rear corner and slid down to a seated position.
Marcelle waved toward Penelope. “Stand next to me.”
Trembling, Penelope rose. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Whatever it takes to keep you safe from the dragons.”
Penelope glanced at Daphne, then at the sword, but quickly retrained her eyes on Marcelle. “Okay. If you say so.”
Marcelle waved for Vanna to join them, then pulling the girls close together, she whispered, “I’m not going to hurt Daphne. I just need to make sure she doesn’t get in the way. Do you understand?”
Both girls nodded.
“Good. I need you both to be brave. I have an idea that might work.” Marcelle turned Penelope and set her back to back with herself. “Are we the same height?” Marcelle asked, looking at Vanna.
Vanna stared at the tops of their heads. “Very close. Why?”
Marcelle removed the band that held her hair in place and shook out her tresses. “And our hair. Does it match?”
“Not at all,” Vanna said. “Penelope’s is darker and shorter.”
“Then we will need hair dye and shears.” Marcelle looked around the room. “What is a promoted slave supposed to wear?”
“Her normal clothes,” Penelope said. “The Separator said I would be provided with a ceremonial dress when I arrive.”
“Then let’s see if your clothes fit me.”
“I see your plan.” Vanna wrapped her fingers around Marcelle’s waist as if measuring it. “Her skirt will probably fit you, and you’re about the same height, but your body shape isn’t the same.”
Marcelle looked at Penelope’s torso. Vanna was right. Penelope’s bust was still that of a preadolescent.
“Her tunic is loose-fitting,” Vanna continued, “but even a dragon will notice the difference if you wear it. They’re not stupid enough to think you’re a twelve-year-old.”
Marcelle glanced at her own chest. “A little binding should take care of that.”
“True, and the looseness will hide your muscles.” Vanna took a step back and surveyed the two, tapping her finger on her chin as she studied them. “It might work, but we’ll need gwillen root dye and shears for your hair and bandages to flatten your chest.”
“Good,” Marcelle said. “Let’s get started.”
Vanna’s brow furrowed. “We have a blade but no gwillen root.”
“I can get that,” Shellinda said, now standing. “I remember where it grows.”
Marcelle touched Shellinda’s black tunic. “You’re dressed for stealth, but be careful. With all that’s been happening, the dragons will probably be watching for anything unusual.”
“I will lead her to the entrance,” Penelope said.
Vanna nodded. “Then come right back with a sharp knife from the kitchen. I’ll need you as a model while I cut Marcelle’s hair.”
“I will.” Penelope, now smiling, took Shellinda’s hand and led her into the dark corridor.
“Can we do anything while we’re waiting?” Vanna asked.
Marcelle picked up one of the three bed sheets. “Just to be safe, help me tie up your mistress.”
“Oh, I could never do that.” Vanna turned away from Daphne and suppressed a grin. “Unless, of course, you forced me.”
Marcelle grasped her sword’s hilt and faked a threatening glare. “Consider yourself forced.”
“Since you insist,” Vanna said, taking the sheet. “I know a really good knot.”
TWENTY
STRADDLING Arxad’s neck as they glided over the dragon village, Adrian held on to a spine that rose between his thighs. Just before they left the Zodiac, Arxad promised a short trip to a building he called the Basilica. Even as he spoke, he kept a wing draped over the ovular bundle, as if petting it. And when they took off, he picked it up with both rear-leg claws, carefully, almost motherly, and carried it with him.
Adrian scanned the ground quickly, trying to memorize the layout. Although the dizzying height and whistling air brought a rush of exhilaration, there was no time to enjoy the ride. He had to get all the data he could in a hurry.
Below, several humans walked from building to building, some carrying lanterns and others striding confidently in the moonlight. Unlike the cattle children, clothing covered them from ankles to neck, though not in rich apparel, more like the peasant class in Mesolantrum, at least that’s how it appeared in the dimness.
Adrian clutched the spine more tightly. Arxad had said he would ascend and descend at sharp angles in order to avoid revealing his passenger, and he had just leveled out, so …
Arxad’s body tilted forward. Then, he folded in his wings and dropped. Cassabrie squealed with delight. Adrian held his breath. What was she so happy about? The trial lay ahead, then possible execution. Yet, he couldn’t ask. The whipping wind took his breath away.
Arxad fell past the top of a bell tower, thrust out his wings, and caught the air. The sudden deceleration forced Adrian’s backside against the scales underneath, but when the dragon flapped his wings twice and slid through an opening in the roof, the pressure eased.
They glided downward and entered a huge chamber where a healthy fire licked a stack of logs at the center of the room. The flames created a dome of orange light, vibrant and steady in the center, and fading toward the edges.
After setting the bundle down near the flame, Arxad landed next to it and spoke in a quiet tone. “You may dismount now.”
Adrian slid down the dragon’s scales and looked around. In front of him, a chest-high stone pedestal stood within reach, a lectern of sorts, upon which a large open book lay, a page rattling in a gentle breeze. Three feet beyond it, a platform filled half of the room, a stage big enough for performing dragons.
He pivoted toward the opposite half, now facing the fire. Open floor space backed up to a curved wall, as if the space had been planned for an audience. Perhaps dragons gathered there to watch proceedings on the stage, and the firelight provided illumination for the actors.
“Cassabrie,” Arxad said, “Zena keeps a selection of human clothing in her dwelling place. I assume you remember where that is.”
Her reply again came through Adrian’s mouth and voice. “I do, my lord.”
“Withdraw yourself from him and retrieve appropriate clothing. It will be better for all concerned if Adrian wore a more suitable tunic than the torn one that exposes your presence.”
As before, a cold sensation erupted in Adrian’s body, and a stream of light poured forth from his chest, but this time the pain was less severe, though it still felt as if a swarm of angry bees stung his heart.
Cassabrie again appeared in a column of light before disappearing in transparency. “What shall I do if Zena detects my presence?” she asked, sparks once more giving away her position.
Arxad petted the bundle with a wing. “Since I have not yet returned her master, she will likely be waiting for him at the incubator. Stay away from that place. Although I know what you wish to do, it is better to avoid conflict.”
She bowed her head and glided away, her form again coming into view. Although her legs moved in a normal gait, she seemed to float above the floor. She entered a corridor and began to rise, as if drawn by a vacuum. A few seconds later, she faded out of sight in the upper reaches of the chamber, and her aura vanished.
“She climbed a rope leading to a bell,” Arxad explained. “Since she has almost no weight, she did not activate it.”
“Why did you send her away? Is covering a glow that important?”
“The main reason is to let you know your options. You are already so hypnotized by her, it would not be just to allow her presence to persuade you. The choice is too vital.”
“Hypnotized by her? What do you mean?”
Arxad lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, glancing at the bundle as if concerned that it might be listening. “Cassabrie is a Starlighter. Her power is beyond your grasp, and her influence is beyond your ability to withstand. It was for this reason that Magnar put her to death years ago in an unspeakably cruel manner. When she sees Magnar again, her reaction might well be an eruption of her gift that I cannot predict. Since you have been under her spell, you will likely be swept into her influence once again.”
Adrian flinched. The pain in his wounds throbbed worse than ever. “I am not hypnotized by her,” he said, also whispering. “I am in my r
ight mind.”
Drawing his head back, Arxad raised his voice. “How can you know? Your mind is unable to judge its own state. If you are under her influence, your ability to recognize that influence would be impaired. If it is handicapped by a mesmerizing host, then its self-judgment is also handicapped. You cannot trust your self-evaluation.”
The words, spoken in the low, rumbling voice of a dragon, echoed in the massive chamber. With every reverberation, they pounded Adrian’s brain. You cannot trust your self-evaluation. Under her influence. Handicapped.
The flames sizzled and popped, as if newly fed by green wood. The page on the book rattled again. Adrian peered at the book. On the left-facing page, odd, indecipherable text covered the parchment. On the right, normal words had been written in flowing script that seemed impossible for a dragon’s clawed hand to produce. A centered headline announced the topic, The Starlighter’s Curse, and the first two sentences began the description:
A Starlighter is a human possessed by dark powers we do not yet understand. Legends from Darksphere describe these creatures as “witches,” though the description of a witch does not truly match the characteristics of the one Starlighter we cooked at the stake.
Adrian turned away. Cassabrie. Sweet, beautiful Cassabrie. These foul dragons killed her! Cooked her! Of course, he already knew that, but seeing the truth spelled out in their book, a self-confession of murder, sent a shock wave through his body.
Breathing heavily, Adrian clenched both fists. He had to control himself. A flying rage would serve only to hasten his execution. But one truth became clear—trusting this dragon would be foolhardy. Even if Arxad had nothing to do with executing Cassabrie, he still didn’t prevent her torture. He let it happen. A creature of integrity would never allow it, no matter his species. His chatter about hypnosis and self-evaluation amounted to nothing more than another attack against a poor girl who couldn’t hurt him even if she tried. With every command he uttered, she always bowed in reverence and said, “Yes, my lord.” There was no hint of deceit or rebellion in her soul. This dragon, ally of the murderers, could not be trusted.
