The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (7 page)

What do we do?

GO AFTER THEM, OF COURSE.

To Africa? Now? But I saw Deep Moor burning!

OVERANXIOUS IMAGININGS, GIRL.

IT’S FIRE’S AFTERMATH.

How can you be sure?

Cauldwell stares at the wall of blue. “You can get them back again, right?”

“Noo, noo . . .” Gerrasch is tapping, tapping at his rows of little square buttons, making soft sounds of animal distress.

HELP THE LIBRARIAN. LEND HIM YOUR VOICE.

The dragons are right, as usual, even Lady Water, always less patient with youthful folly. Erde hurries to Gerrasch’s side. She must not give in to her terrors. “I think . . . it’s not like a door. He can’t open this portal when he wants to. It has its own . . . magic.” She hesitates at the word. Notions of magic are scoffed at in this future world, despite the obvious presence of dragons. But how else to describe her intuition about the portal, without N’Doch here to help with his knowledge of what he calls “technology?”

“Can’t open it?” Cauldwell repeats. “Well, that’s a problem.”

Baron Köthen stares tight-lipped at the empty blue expanse. “He did it on purpose.”

“No, my lord, he . . .” Erde turns to him, wary of his hot temper, now that his lady has been stolen from him.

“He did! The young whelp!”

“He didn’t mean to take Paia,” asserts Cauldwell’s wife reasonably. “Why would he?”

Erde is surprised by Constanze’s innocence. Surely it’s an obvious possibility that N’Doch abducted the High Priestess in order to entice Köthen away from Leif Cauldwell’s military preoccupations. Now the baron will have to require the dragon to take him to his lady right away, as any devoted knight would do.

But Köthen makes no such demand. He stands with his arms folded and his brows drawn down in an inward stare. A conflict of interest, no doubt. He feels honor bound, Erde decides, having already promised his sword to Cauldwell’s rebellion. If so, then Cauldwell must release him, and surely will quickly volunteer to do so.

Again, she is confounded. Both Cauldwells wait silently, observing Köthen’s inner debate.

“Is Paia in any danger there?” asks Constanze at last.

“Of course!” Erde cries. “Of course she is!”

Köthen sends the Cauldwells an even glance. “No more so than here.”

“Not true, my lord! It’s beastly hot there, and the air is full of poison!”

“And so it is here.”

“But there are guns everywhere! N’Doch was killed with guns, until the dragon healed him!”

“Healed?” Cauldwell asks Köthen.

“It’s true,” admits Köthen, “or so the lad tells me. I wasn’t there.”

“Huh. Never heard of Fire doing anything like that.”

Constanze murmurs, “He’d rather destroy people than save them.”

“Healing is Lord Earth’s special gift!” Erde declares, though she knows that pride is a sin and that Cauldwell’s interest is only in the military value of such an asset.

“My lady Erde.” Köthen looses his arms as if breaking an invisible bond and bows so formally, she suspects him of mockery. “I would be eternally grateful if you and your esteemed dragon would effect a rescue at your earliest possible convenience. The whelp will keep my lady safe until you get there. He knows I’ll have his liver for breakfast if he doesn’t.”

Cauldwell nods, and his wife relaxes against him in relief. Constanze is brown-skinned and eagle-eyed. She reminds Erde of the women of Deep Moor, and of her dead grandmother, the Baroness. Women of power. She’ll not relent.

Erde gazes imploringly at the trio of Tinkers. “Help me convince him!”

“Dockman’ll do it jus’ gud, nah,” Stoksie soothes. “Yu’ll see.”

Ysabel nods, and Luther merely shrugs. There is sympathy in his dark face, but no voice on her side. The crisis here and now is more real to these people than a crisis somewhere so far away, and Erde can hardly blame them. But the image of burning Deep Moor still flares in her mind’s eye. Was it only, as Lady Water said, her fearful imaginings? Or was it a true Seeing? She looks to Gerrasch. His eyes are dark and round, and fixed on her as if he has shared her awful vision.

“Yes. Go. Quickly! Come back!”

“What? Must I go alone?”

The flames burn so fiercely in her head, and among them move the shadows of men and horses. Swords flash. She sees . . .

The hell-priest! Oh, dragon!

“You’ll have the dragons, after all.” Köthen puts out a hand to steady her. “Could you be better armed?”

Terror and outrage push Erde toward the edge of a tantrum,
which only frightens her further. She’s never been given to tantrums. Of course they are right to send off the least valuable fighter. Doubtless her real, her innermost reason for demanding Köthen’s company is that she can’t bear to part with him. Every day, for the two weeks since she dragged him unwilling into the dragons’ Quest, she has been able to think of him as part of her life. His stern grace and beauty have been the chief pleasure of her days—except, of course, for the dragon. She even thrust her own feelings aside when the arrival of the High Priestess woke Köthen from his gloom, for Passion is one of the High Ideals, and Erde can recognize—and must honor—a True Passion when she sees it, even though she is not its object.

But here is Baron Köthen refusing to bow to the Ideal and let it rule him, as a True Knight should. She should not love him. And yet, she does. Nor should she waste another moment arguing. And yet, she does. Because to allow his willfulness to go unchallenged means forsaking her own Ideals.

“Adolphus Michael Hoffman,” she hears herself declaiming. “Thou art not a man of honor, to leave thy lady thus endangered!”

Ah! She’s touched him. He looks quite taken aback. But only long enough to study her with that dark gaze, so surprising beneath his shock of blond hair. She seems to have done something he approves of, though she can’t understand what or how. Despite the faint, satirical gleam in his eyes, Erde blunders onward. “Nor is it worthy of a True Knight to send a lady unchaperoned into the wilderness!”

“Two dragons are not chaperone enough? Then we’ll find a knight more honorable than I to guard your journey.” Köthen lifts his head, unable any longer to subdue his ironical grin, and scans the faces crowded around. “Who’s for a quest on dragon-back?”

Erde is stunned speechless. This is mockery for certain! Is the dragons’ sacred Purpose mere child’s play in his mind, and only war the work of adults?

A portentous silence gathers around her, but for the shuffling of feet on the hard, smooth floor. In the back, murmuring. Someone clears her throat. Then Luther Williams steps forward.

“I, fer one.” He turns to Cauldwell. “S’all ri’, Leif?”

Cauldwell nods, surprised. “Good choice. What d’you think, Gerrasch?”

“Yes. Yes. Go.”

“Are you armed?” Köthen asks him.

Luther pats the large knife shoved into his waistband.

It’s like being put up for auction. Erde cannot believe how badly her efforts have turned out. But she must get to Deep Moor somehow, and it will be good to have Luther along. The Tinkers are extremely resourceful, and Luther is a man of piety and principle. “Thank you, Luther! Will you really come?”

“Betcha!”

With that, the matter is settled. Baron Köthen turns away to talk strategy with the Cauldwells. Gerrasch bends over his keypad, the chatty disembodied voice of the machine called House nattering in his ear. The wall again fills with ranks of moving pictures from the Citadel. For a moment, Erde could almost weep from loneliness, so she calls to the only being whose love she is sure of.

Oh, dragon! I am so weary!

YOU NEED FOOD AND REST, CHILD.

And when shall I find them?

SOON.

But not yet
.

FOOD, PERHAPS. BUT NOT REST. NOT YET. NO REST FOR ANY OF US UNTIL OUR SISTER AIR IS FOUND AND LIBERATED. ASK LUTHER IF FOOD CAN BE SPARED FOR OUR JOURNEY.

And you, dear dragon? How long since you’ve eaten?

TOO LONG. THE LAND HERE IS BARREN. NOTHING LIVING BUT HUMANS AND THE TAME CREATURES LEFT TO THEM.

Lady Water chimes in impatiently. I’LL TAKE YOU FISHING WHEN WE GET THERE!

Erde hopes the dragon can wait just a little while longer. For time is of the essence and since everyone is so sure that N’Doch can handle his situation, she plans to head to Deep Moor first. She can warn the women about Lord Fire’s threats, and tell them of her vision of flames. They will understand. Then she can rush back to N’Doch’s time with a clear conscience. It’s a good plan. But to forestall
further argument, she’ll not inform the other humans of this minor alteration.

While the warriors gather to plan the assault on the Citadel, Erde draws Luther aside, fingering his thin shirt and woven string vest. “You’ll need some warmer clothing when we get to Deep Moor. Would N’Doch’s fit you? I think his pack is put away somewhere in your wagon.”

Stoksie has tagged along to help them prepare. “I know weah dat is.”

Luther says, “Cold deah, izzit? Mebbe snow, eben?”

“Snow, for sure.”

“Snow. Dat I wanna see.” Luther elbows the smaller man. “Yu wanna make da trip, Stokes?”

“Nah. My daddy saw’t, wontime. Leas’ das what he sed. But den, he sed a lotta t’ings.” Stoksie grins and trots off to find N’Doch’s pack.

Erde worries that these cheerful men have no real idea of the frigid dangers of true winter. Heat and drought are their only reference points. “I’m sure you have never been as cold as you will be in Deep Moor,” she tells Luther earnestly.

But Luther is sweating by the time he’s tried on as many layers of N’Doch’s heavy clothing as will fit him. Erde shakes out her own woolens and slides her feet into her sheepskin boots. They make her feel safer, like putting on armor, or some sort of shell, though she’s no longer ashamed to be seen in the scant, loose clothing that’s the only sensible thing in this desiccated future. She’s gotten used to being so aware of her body—and of everyone else’s—all the time. For the sake of her little deception, she lets Stoksie fold all the clothing away again in N’Doch’s pack. She will carry it, and Luther will shoulder the sturdy sack of food Stoksie has thrown together while up in the caverns. Blind Rachel provisions, she’s sure, and gladly given, from wagons recently restocked from the sale of Erde’s dragon brooch, which also purchased the fine and venerable sword that Baron Köthen wears across his back.

Does she now regret that sacrifice? She doesn’t think so. Despite her failure to make events turn out the way she wanted, Erde von Alte retains her belief that what is meant to happen, will happen. Destiny is too essential a force to
be turned aside by one man’s stubborn perversity, or for that matter, by the stubborn scheming of a perverse dragon.

As if aware of her thoughts, Köthen glances up from his huddle with the Cauldwells. “Don’t be long.”

She looks for a trace of gloating or victory or whatever she imagines a man might feel. But all that is gone now. She sees only dispassionate concern, that of a commander sending his man off on a mission.

“What?” he demands, for she is staring back at him intently.

Erde blinks, looks away. How can she explain what she’s just understood? How can she admit to it? She’s interpreted all of Köthen’s actions as meant specifically to thwart her personally, to make her miserable—revenge for having been brought away against his will. Now, as a larger vision opens up to her, she sees the entire folly of this assumption. Certainly he is not above rubbing a bit of salt into her wounds, but she is not his target. She’s hardly within range of his aim at all. And if she catches an arrow, it’s because he sees no need to be careful. Like a leaf to the sun, he turns toward what he knows best, what he’s trained to do, what makes him feel worthy. And that is to get things moving, men and things, to maximize the use of slim resources, both personal and physical, in order to accomplish the task at hand. Whatever the task might be. Even though the dragons’ Quest is not his own, and despite a foolish girl often putting herself in his way.

No. Not child’s play. Not child’s play at all. Rather, he’s assigned her the danger she is best equipped to cope with and live through. A blush warms Erde’s cheeks. Had she really thought that leadership only meant waving a sword about more skillfully than anyone else?

“What is it, girl?” Köthen asks, more forcefully.

Erde stares down at her sandaled feet. “I’m sorry. So very sorry.”

“Pardon?” He takes a step toward her. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I said, I’m sorry, my lord.”

“For what?”

“For all the trouble I’ve caused you.”

“An apology?” He’s actually at a loss for words. He glances back at the intent faces around Gerrasch’s swiftly
moving fingers. The glow from the many rows of little buttons lights his profile, and Erde’s heart turns over yet again. She can’t say which part of his face is most beautiful to her, or why, but she knows she could stare at him forever, and be happy. She cannot deny the truth of the sigh that wells up, as if from the very bottom of her soul.

When Köthen’s gaze returns, it is milder than she’s ever seen it. He grips her shoulder to shake it lightly. “On your way, then. Grab up my lady Paia and that kidnapping young whelp, then do what you can for the witchy women on your way back. Be quick about it!”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Luther!”

“Yeah!” The Tinker hefts the heavy sack.

“Bring them back safe!”

“Betcha!”

Erde readies the image of Deep Moor in her mind.

WE ARE GOING TO . . .?

Yes, Dragon. To Deep Moor first. Fearful imaginings or not, it seems only right. Will Lady Water agree?

IF WE DO IT QUICKLY, I’LL AGREE TO ANYTHING.

Erde grasps Luther’s arm. “Hang on tight!”