Dragonborn (20 page)

Now he was puzzled. He circled slowly over the castle. Where were the lights? The music? The clatter of horses' hooves on the cobbles? The trumpets, announcing visitors? The smells from the kitchens? The running feet of pages? Where was the life?

It had all been such a rush. If only Sam hadn't met that roffle. If only Starback had had a little more time. If only Flaxfield had warned him that he was going. If only the wizards had listened to Sam. If only things were as he remembered them.

He dipped, tilted, and flew down to the castle. He was tired and lonely. Since leaving Sam, Starback had felt an emptiness, like a pain. He had been looking forward to this visit. Now it looked deserted. Swooping low, he could see that there were figures in the courtyard, even though there were no lights, no torches burning. He shook his head. Dragon-sight doesn't need torches in the darkness, but he could barely make out what was beneath him. The castle was caught in a web of magic. Someone in there had spun a veil of secrecy all around it.

He flicked his wings to fly higher. Still he slowly sank toward the castle. He could see figures running into the courtyard, pointing up at him. He was being tugged toward it, like a boat being hauled into harbor by a rope. Wings weren't enough. Struggle was only making it worse.

Old dragons know many tricks. Starback stopped struggling. He hovered for a moment, then allowed the magic to draw him down. The figures below him cheered and yelled. Starback, wings outstretched, swooped toward them. All at once, they realized what it was to have a dragon flying at them. He was an arrow, swift and deadly. They fell back, scattering. Starback roared. Fire flowed from his mouth, and with the fire, the thick, black shape of a broken dragon, which faltered, then flapped clumsily to the tower window. Starback's mind cleared. He saw what he had done wrong. He flicked his wings, around and back up, shooting high in the air, using the force of the magic that had pulled him down to send him soaring back up.

In the instant that he changed direction, he saw, clear as
cruelty, the shape of one who was the center and source of the magic. It was as though they recognized each other; and then he was gone, flying up and free.

He was lost. Since coming back he had been with Flaxfield and Sam. He had played like a young dragon again. He had watched over Sam, and Flaxfield had trusted him with Sam. The old wizard had told him many times that he would not be able to finish Sam's apprenticeship, and that Starback would be needed when the time came. And now Starback had let him down.

Starback flew in a circle, high and distant, but never taking the castle from his sight. He could smell the magic down there, taste the malevolence. Something had been born here while he was away, something that would reach out and hurt.
Sam.
All other thoughts left his mind. He must find Sam and help him now. Forget the wizards who were chasing him. Forget everything except looking after Sam. He knew where Sam was. Starback always knew where Sam was. That was the way of things. Leaving the castle behind him, he flew toward the mines.

Ash leaned eagerly toward the black figure that squatted behind her.

Bakkmann shuffled forward.

“The boy,” she said. “He's trying to perform a Finishing. I can feel him. He's opening a door that's forbidden to him. Quickly. It's a chance.” She jabbed her finger into Sandage's face.

Bakkmann clattered with pleasure when he saw the old wizard flinch.

“Can I kill him? Kill him? Kill?”

Ash nodded.

Bakkmann scuttled forward and spat a jet of acid at Sandage, missing his face and sizzling on his shoulder.

“No,” said Ash. “No. Not this one.”

Bakkmann hissed disappointment.

“Kill me,” said Sandage.

Ash smiled.

“No,” she said. “I need a quick kill today. You will be slow.”

She darted to the next cell.

“Kill. Quickly,” she ordered Bakkmann.

Bakkmann hurled itself at the dazed prisoner and stabbed into his heart, once, twice, then started to suck and bite noisily at the body.

Ash gabbled the words and the door to the Finished World opened. She leaned in.

the opening to the Finished World before.

Everyone had fallen back at the entrance, save the roffles and Tremmort and Sam. They had walked deep into the earth, the path sloping steeply down. Burning torches lit the way.

They reached the deepest point of the mine workings, where the wall in front of them was ready for the next day's shift. The roffles gently lowered their load to the floor and stood back, waiting.

Sam was trembling. He was tired, hungry. His neck hurt from bending to keep his head clear of the roof. He could taste the air down there, taste that it was different, and not just from the dust of the digging and the tar that they painted the roof timbers with. It tasted like milk that is half a day too old and not yet curdled—not right, but not properly wrong. Sam could taste that magic was different down here. Tremmort stared at Sam.

“Can you do it?” asked Tremmort.

Sam nodded.

He took Bearrock's hand and started to say the words of Finishing. He could tell that Tremmort saw nothing. Sam didn't know enough about roffles to know whether they saw anything or not. But he saw the door open. He saw, for the first time, a crack in the ordinary world that opened up into a way through to the Finished World. He saw Bearrock move through the opening. He thought he saw something of where the big man went.

Sam came to the end of the words and drew his hand away from Bearrock's. The door to the Finished World was starting to close. As the big man stepped away, another hand took hold of Sam.

Sam flinched. He pulled back. Half-hidden in the Finished World, a slender, gray-robed figure reached out and held Sam tight.

“No,” Sam shouted. “Let me go!”

He jerked as hard as he could, tugging the hand into the mine for a moment. Then it was too strong and pulled back at him. Sam stared at the figure, trying to see the face. She was taller than Sam, strong for one so slim. Sam could sense that she was using the wild magic of the mines to keep hold of him.

He stumbled forward. He pulled again, and he was nearly through the closing door.

Sam made one last effort. His weakened body felt helpless against her determination.

“Come on through,” she whispered.

He sagged, all strength spent. Her other hand found the seal
around his neck. She tugged it. The leather thong grew tight. Sam's head dipped and he began to move toward her.

He was slipping through. And once you step into the Finished World there is no way to step back. The door closes.

He stepped forward. He was in her hands. And another hand seized his shoulder and pulled him back. It was December. She looked through the gap to the Finished World.

“No,” she said. “Not this time. Not Sam. Not now.”

The gray figure shimmered with hatred and fury.

“Go,” said December.

“I'll kill you.”

The voice was not a voice. Yet the threat was clear and real.

“No,” said December. “You won't.”

Her hand grew hot. The half of Sam that was though the door burst into flames.

The gray figure laughed and pulled again.

“I know you,” she said.

December looked hard. Shook her head.

“No,” she said. “No, you don't.”

December raised her other arm, made a circle with it in the air. The flames died in an instant. She pointed. The gray figure froze. Froze and stopped. All strength gone. White crystals of frost formed on her lips, her eyes.

December pulled, and Sam fell back into the mine and sprawled on the floor next to the body of Bearrock.

The door closed.

The roffles turned and walked away, taking Tremmort with them. Bearrock's son rubbed his eyes and shook his head as they made their way back to the surface. Whatever he had seen was already slipping from his memory.

December leaned over Sam. His eyes were closed. He trembled more than before. He lay curled up, his knees against his chest, his mouth half-open.

“Enough,” said December. “You have done enough. More than you should.”

Sam stopped shaking.

She put her hand to his head and rested it there.

“Wake up,” she said.

Sam's eyes began to open. December stepped back into the shadows, waited till Sam stood up, looked around him, and put his fingers to the point where the opening had been, dropped his hand to his side and shuffled toward the mine entrance. December darted away ahead of him.

Sam emerged into the starlight and found his direction in the sky. He followed the music, stumbling on the uneven ground in the darkness. December watched him, hidden. She made no move to help him, to show him the path, letting him stumble.

The music was slow, sad, with a strange, rhythmic thumping underneath that Sam could not understand.

Children crowded around tables set with food. The men and women sat talking and eating on the ground, or stood in small knots of friendship with mugs of beer and cider, beakers of wine.

Sam walked through them, ignored yet not unseen. He knew they were choosing not to recognize him.

No one stopped him taking a chunk of bread and a slice of warm chicken. He folded the bread around the meat and raised it to his mouth.

He could not chew it, could not swallow. His mouth was still too dry, his tongue too big from the days without water, the lack of food. He spat it into his hand and didn't know what to do with it.

There was water in rough clay jugs. He didn't bother with a beaker. Finding the edge of light of a torch, he sat in half darkness, sipping slowly, watching.

The water was making him light-headed. For a moment everything became blurred; then he was high above the crowd, looking down at them. He was a dragon again. Hunger gone, thirst forgotten, he soared above it all, rejoicing in the splendor of the air. No longer black and white, in dragon's eyes the scene was rich in color. The dance now was a pattern of precision and grace.

He saw a small procession returning from the mines—Greenrose, Temmort, the girl Goldengrove, the four roffles. He saw December, and, seeing her, faltered in his flight, dipped down, unsteady, confused. Regaining his wings, he lifted and steadied. He could see himself, the jug on the ground beside him, the bread and meat in his hand, uneaten. He looked defeated.

Thinking of himself sent him back into himself, and he looked around, the images becoming blurred, fading to black, then reappearing with bright clarity, dreamlike detail.

The music began to change, to speed up; the notes slid from
sorrow to settled. Sam tried to stand, faltered, and slid back down the ground. He tried and failed to raise the jug to his lips. And then he was up in the air again, looking down.

The small procession had reached the crowd. Sam felt the music take him and he darted through the air in time to its beat. Women joined the men, took their hands, and together they danced the night clear of sadness.

December moved toward Greenrose, leaned her head to the other woman's, whispered, and drew back.

They were talking about him. He could hear them.

“I must have him,” said December.

Greenrose shook her head again.

“He's worn out,” she said. “And he was here for my husband while you were missing. He can stay with us.”

“With me,” said December.

Tremmort spoke to his mother, too quietly for Sam. But it was clear what he meant. He looked at December. “Take him,” he said. “There's no room for him with us.”

Sam smiled. It did not matter to him what they decided. He was not staying at the mines. Whatever happened, he would get away from there as soon as he had eaten and slept.

The dancing was changing again. The jigs were giving way to other tunes, slow, solemn, joyful melodies. The men and women wove intricate patterns of steps, always returning to the place where they began.

Sam flew higher, letting the music rise to him, watching the undulations of the figures below, like patterns in rich brocade.

If only he could be a dragon forever.

Greenrose danced with Tremmort. The boy was surprisingly strong in his movements and graceful in his steps. Something of the sorrow of his father's death left him, and Sam could see a new certainty wrap itself around the boy like a cloak.

The night was nearly spent. Parents picked up children and carried them, half-asleep, their heads resting on strong shoulders, through the dark town, home to bed. Sam tried to remember if anyone had ever carried him like that. He was sure they had not. His had been a walking life.

Greenrose stooped to pick up Goldengrove, but the girl refused, taking her mother's hand and walking by her side.

Would they go back to work tomorrow, these sturdy miners, after a night of dancing? Or did a death bring a holiday? Sam knew nothing of the rhythms of life and work. Flaxfield never took time off.

December had not danced. Nor had she spoken to anyone save the family of Bearrock. Now she was making her way toward his sleeping figure. Greenrose saw her, and crossed in that direction, too.

Another confrontation. Another argument about where he would sleep that night. Well, he would settle it himself. Go back, wake up, and go with Greenrose. Tremmort would have to accept it. One night should be enough, two at most. He could repay them with a little magic to help them in these first days of loss.

They stood over him now. He must hurry to wake. He altered his wings to swoop, but they wouldn't obey his mind. Instead of lowering, he rose. Instead of finding himself, he lost the sense of who he was, down there. Ears sharp with dragon sense, he listened.

Greenrose reached down and shook his shoulder. She turned to look up at December. Sam could see the panic in her face.

“Please,” she said.

December stooped down, put her palm on his forehead.