by D. H. Dunn
He saw not a son, but a villain.
The image faded from the mountain, its sides returning as it became an Everest of clear crystal again. A paper upon which their pain and anger could be drawn and shared, if only the Thread would do so.
“Show me,” she repeated to the Dragon. “Please.”
There was no wind in this world, no stars or sky. There was nothing but the mountain of crystal and the colorless abyss around it. Nothing to show Nima the passage of time. She could still sense the Thread’s presence though, so she pressed on.
“Then I will show you more,” she said. “There is more to who I am than what happened to me. My pain, my hurt and anger began there for me. With Ama. They are inside me still. But I chose not to water that seed.”
Again the crystalline slopes of Everest brought to life her memories. She showed the Thread Valaen, let him see them run laughing through the forests of Sirapothi. Showed him how Val had brought back the Scrye, risking his life to save his people. The same people who had rejected him, branded him a traitor.
She showed him the moment where she and Val had kissed, had planned to perhaps explore a life together. A future that was cut by Tanira’s knives, Val’s blood and Nima’s tears mixing on the snows of Varesta.
She ended with the simple image of Val that she carried in her heart, a man who smiled at her. A man who loved her. A man who was not a traitor, but a hero. He loved her for her joy.
“I am happy, not because I ignore what happened to me. I can’t do that. I am happy because what happened to me is not all of who I am. I have to be more.”
The images on the mountain blurred, taking the form of the Under. They showed Drew climbing down into the chasms inside the mountain, saving Kater when he nearly fell. Freeing Upala, and helping her and Merin reach their home. As Drew journeyed through Aroha Darad to Sirapothi and back, even as he struggled with changes, his expression began to lighten.
Nima and the Thread saw a man changing. Accepting. Growing.
Not a statue, but clay. Perhaps defined by the past, but not confined inside it. Altered. Willing to listen, willing to change.
The mountain cleared again, now an empty cathedral of crystal. There were no more images for Nima or Drew to show, nothing left to do.
The pressure of the Helm increased on Nima, the pain in her head growing. She ignored, and again reached out to the Thread. Not commanding, but asking.
“Show me. Show me as we have shown you.”
The whole of the mountain began to shimmer, as if it were snowing on the inside of the structure. The flakes shifted to become many colors, and those colors coalesced into forms.
The Thread showed them a group of Dragons, fourteen in all. Gathered on a world that had been built, just as they had been. Placed on an artificial construction of Sessgrenimath, a place for experiments and study. Their creator would bring other creatures to their world for them to test themselves against, and always the Dragons would prevail.
But for one Dragon, this was not enough.
The Thread had a gift which allowed him to link with the other Dragon’s minds, and this built in him a desire for more. He wanted to bring new Dragons into the world, to build a society of their own where they could decide their own challenges and fates.
But the Dragons had been made sterile and barren, for their creator did not want more of them.
The Thread began to work on this in secret. When he discovered he could not complete his work on his own, he augmented the local Rakhum to assist him. Giving them some of the powers of his own race, he created the Manad Vhan.
This angered Sessgrenimath, and he closed the portals to his created world, trapping the Dragons within it. Chastising them for wanting more than they deserved, he abandoned them inside the prison world of Aroha Darad, reminding them not to forget what they were.
“Not beings, but tools.”
The image blurred and shifted. Nima could see a great city, with many Manad Vhan living amongst the Dragons. Yet the city was for the Dragons, the Manad Vhan lived in the desert in simple dwellings. Even as the image showed the Thread laboring on a great machine in caves, the rest of the Dragons were shown pushing the Manad Vhan as slaves, for their work or amusement. The Thread even showed himself using the Manad Vhan in his construction efforts, pushing them mercilessly.
“Treating them not as beings, but tools. Just as I had been taught.”
The regret in the Thread’s voice was clear as the visions faded, but there was surprise there as well.
The increasing pain and pressure on Nima’s head made it difficult to focus on the Dragon’s words. Red light began to show at the edges of her vision.
“But what am I to learn from this?” the Thread continued. “That my existence has been even more wasted than I imagined? I see that the Manad Vhan and Rakhum are merely trapped in the same cycle we have been. We visit upon our creations that which was done to us.”
“I don’t know,” Nima admitted. “I think I wanted you to see that you could break that cycle. Look at the Manad Vhan and Rakhum as beings, like yourself. Seeing what you have in common with them.”
“And Sessgrenimath? My true enemy? I watched you fail to kill yours. The one who took this Valaen from you. Is that the path you recommend? Forgiveness?”
“No,” Nima said. “Maybe just acceptance. It happened. What do you want your life, the life of your kind to be about now? The past and what was done to you? Do you want Sessgrenimath to decide your future too?”
Everest’s crystals had begun to take on a crimson glow as the pain increased. Nima felt like tiny crevasses were forming within her, thin tendrils that burrowed and twisted. It was as if her insides were becoming more brittle, like ice in the morning sun.
Kater’s device was too much for her, her mind and body could not withstand its staggering power for much longer.
Yet she could not back down now.
Finally, the Thread responded.
“I cannot say that I understand, but I can say that I no longer wish this angry path. As you say, I wish to define my future for myself.”
Relief ran through her, the urge to rip the crushing device from her head was nearly overwhelming. Yet there was still one more thing to do.
She thought back to her time in Sirapothi, in the Hero’s Temple. She conjured up as many memories of the Machine she had seen as she could recall, forcing their images onto the sides of the crystal Everest for the Thread to see. She left the final vision of the hatched egg, before allowing it to blur away.
“I don’t know if that helps you. I think that is your Machine.”
Even summoning the words into her mind were challenging. The world was becoming crimson, she could hear a shattering sound that might have been inside her. Everest in front of her eyes fractured further, splitting in two as fire streamed out of its sides.
Nima heard a scream, but was unsure if it was from her. The crushing force of pain buried her with its weight, the world turned black.
32
“Little sister?”
Nima was kneeling. She could feel the cold air on her face, the metal of the helm in her hands. She opened her eyes, the simple helmet staring back at her from her lap. She looked up to Drew’s worried face and Lhamu rushing over to her.
“I’m. . . I’m ok,” she said to Drew, taking his hand as he pulled her up. She had the biggest headache she had ever felt in her life, a throbbing, pulsing pain that seemed to jab at her from behind her eyes, but she was alive. White clouds mixed with the smoke in the dark sky above her.
The long, azure form of the Thread stood a few feet away.
It nodded at her, its deep golden eyes looking into hers.
“I have much to consider,” he said. “My kin and I have much to discuss. My anger before. . .” he looked around at the bodies of Rakhum, Kater, and the pieces of Terminus’s mutilated corpse littering the square before the bridge. “My anger was misdirected. Nothing would be gained from further conflict, but m
uch will be lost. Yet what is the path forward? Where now can we go?”
Nima began to walk forward towards the great Dragon. Her feet felt like they were walking in mud, but her heart was light. It was over, at least for now.
Succumbing to her impulses, she threw her arms around the wide base of the Thread’s neck, squeezing it as she lay her cheek against his warm scales. For all that the Thread seemed to be different, he worried about the same things she did.
In front of her she saw an enormous beast that had inside it the same problems she had carried all her life. Asking itself the same question.
What now?
“You don’t let Sessgrenimath beat you,” she said, stepping back and prodding the purple scales of the Dragon’s chest with her finger. It felt sandy, like the beaches of Caenola. “Don’t waste your time fighting him, fight instead what he has done to you. Fix it. Find a way through the portals, find a way to the machine. Or build a new one here.”
The Speaker stepped forward, Nima noticing he walked with a severe limp on his left side. His white fur was streaked with blood, and she could see several of the crystals in his back had stopped glowing.
Yet a smile seemed to glint in the Yeti’s eyes, a spark she had never seen from him before.
“My people know much that may have been kept from you, Dragon,” he said. “We may be able to assist you with the portals. It would seem to be part of our new rocha.” He reached down, putting a massive hand on Lhamu’s shoulder. “A rocha that has been taught to us by the Foretold.”
“I have seen this machine as well,” Merin said. “There are many among the Rakhum who learned the ways of gears and metal from Kater. We may not be as skilled as the Manad Vhan, but perhaps. . .”
“Perhaps working together,” the Thread said. “We might accomplish more than apart. It is . . . profound. We must discuss this, my kin and I. There are other matters of concern. Now is a time for consideration of new paths, new directions. Not an ending, but an understanding.”
Upala stepped forward, Nima watching how the crowd of Rakhum looked at her differently than before. She saw less anger in their eyes, tired though they were.
“In that spirit,” she said, addressing the Thread. “I would like to pledge my assistance to you. I have – spent all of my life in fear of your kind. Too much harm has been done in the name of fear. I would like to help you, and myself, find a new path.”
The Thread’s long neck lowered, bringing his snout within a few hair’s breadth of Upala’s face. Nima saw her shudder, but she stood as the beast looked her over. He then raised his head a bit higher, something that might have been a smile upon his snout.
“I would … confer with you, Manad Vhan.” His voice was deep, and sounded older to Nima. More tired. “On this and other subjects. Yet I would do so alone. I will meet with you, outside the city at moonrise this evening.”
Upala nodded, Drew coming over to put his arm around her shoulder. The Thread turned to Nima, twisting his long, purple neck again.
“I thank you for your gifts, small one. Both the knowledge of your past and pain as well as the machine. If you look in your mind, you will see I have left a gift for you there. I hope it may bring you some relief.”
The Thread turned and spread his wings across the courtyard. The other two Dragons on the bridge launched themselves into the night sky, but the Thread lingered for a moment, staring down at the corpse of Terminus. He then lifted, slow and majestic, into the dark, his long lavender form coiling into the clouds.
“His gift to you?” Drew asked. “What gift? What did he mean?”
Nima searched her thoughts, and suddenly it was there. She could see the mountain nearby in her mind’s eye, knew exactly its location. There was a small Vault there, now empty, but it had once held the Weight. Inside was a portal, the images in the swirling mist belonging to a place she had begun to think she could never see again.
A world that contained her brother, her father, and many assigned tasks still undone. She found her heart fractured at the sight, just as the great crystal Everest had been in her mind.
“He means,” Nima said, watching the Thread soar into the moonlit clouds, “If we want to, we can go home.”
33
Upala watched stars gather around the mountain peaks, the fires and smoke in the air adding a reddish tint to low lying clouds that coursed through the night sky.
Around her, the fields were full of the smoldering remains of the battle, with shattered carts and farming gear strewn across the blasted grasses like twigs after a storm.
She had fought the Voice not far from here. She could see the tunnel in which she had run from the beast, the constant ringing in her ears a reminder of the Dragon’s final moments before Drew’s avalanche had buried them both.
He had wanted to come, both he and Nima had. Yet they respected the desires of the Thread to speak with her alone, though she did not understand why the creature had made such a request.
There was a soft sound behind her, a rustling that sounded to her damaged ears like sheets being rubbed together. She turned to see a Rakhum woman standing a few paces behind her, a small girl holding her hand.
Both wore the tattered, brown clothes of farmers, and each sported cuts and bruises that peeked through the rips in their cloaks.
“She’s the one, momma.” The little girl pointed up at Upala, a smile forming on her dirt-covered face, dark hair falling into her bright eyes. “The one I saw. She fought the Dragon for us!”
Her high-pitched voice mixed with the ringing in her ears, but her the girl’s grin was a loud as thunder. She moved to run towards Upala, but her mother pulled her arm back.
“Aye,” the older woman stared at Upala as she held the child’s hand. “That she did. She is also why they were here in the first place.”
The comment hit Upala like a blow, but she did not turn away as her instincts told her to.
“You are both correct,” Upala said. “May I ask your name, fair woman?”
The Rakhum seemed surprised by this question, the anger leaking out of her gaze like air escaping.
“Janal,” she said with a nod. “And this is my daughter, Tira.”
“It is good to meet you both,” Upala said, bowing. She looked past the pair, to the smoldering fields beyond them. Whatever crops might have been planted there were ruined, but she supposed the field could be made fertile again.
“There is nothing I can say to you both, except that I am sorry for all that has happened. This land, these beautiful fields and mountains, they belong to your people now. There will be no more Manad Vhan, no more Dragons. Only Rakhum, as it once was.”
“You are leaving?” Tira took a step forward, looking up at her with her eyes wide. Upala could see the fear in them. “Who will protect us?”
Upala knelt down, placing her hand on the girl’s small shoulder. She looked into her deep, brown eyes, hoping to ignite a fire there that she had needed at this girl’s age, but never found.
“You will, Tira,” she said, her voice full of conviction. “You and your mother. All the Rakhum. Protect yourselves, and believe in each other.”
She smiled, gently placing one finger in the center of the girl’s chest.
“If there is a lesson I have learned in all of this, Tira, it is that power comes from here. Your heart. Inside each person lies a passion that is the equal of any Dragon. You just have to believe in it.”
A shadow in the moonlight crossed over head, leaving the three of them momentarily in deeper darkness. She looked up, watching the Thread circle above them.
Upala stood, leading the girl back to her mother.
“Remember what I said, Tira.”
The girl looked back at her and nodded, taking her mother’s hand as they began to walk away. The woman looked back over her shoulder at Upala once, her expression difficult to read. Upala could not be certain, but she thought she recognized gratitude.
If she was right, Upala decided maybe it w
as all right to think she deserved it.
The night wind blew through the remaining stalks of corn and wheat that dotted the fields at the end of the Rakhum settlement. Upala was sure that it made a pleasing sound as the crops waved back and forth, but she could not hear it.
With its bulk carefully placed between two of the less damaged fields, the Dragon seemed to wait in the shadows for her to speak.
Very well, Upala thought to herself. At least this was one time in her life when she saw a Dragon at night, but her eyes were open.
“You wished to speak with me alone,” Upala said. “Why?”
The Thread stood before her, the wounds suffered from the battle inside the Vault of Terminus clear upon its blue and lavender skin, even in the moonlight.
He towered over her, yet his movements were without menace. Wings folded casually behind him, he swished his long tail back and forth, his whiskers twitching as he considered her question.
“To see if you would come,” the Thread said, his thin voice calm. “I have seen inside your thoughts, Manad Vhan. It is my gift. Thus, I know the traumatic memories you carry. But I cannot see your heart. To come to me, alone. Defenseless. It shows me your offers are true.”
“It is,” Upala said. “I wish to help. To build a bridge between us.”
She looked over the creature, watching as the moonlight danced over the purple and azure scales of his body, reflecting off him like he was the sea. The Thread was, in his own way, beautiful.
“Bridges are difficult constructions, Upala of the Manad Vhan. Neither of our peoples have been adept at crossing the chasms of understanding. Trust is hard when so much damage has been done.”
“Then let us start here.” Upala took a step forward. “Let us see what stones we can place for a foundation.”
Another step brought her face to face with the Thread. She could see the sharp teeth, longer than finger as they poked out from underneath its snout. Yet she also saw his eyes, a sea of hope and worry twisting within them.
