The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet Page 2

  No wind among the rocks, wreathed in heat and stubborn smoke, pressed down by the yellow dome of sky. No sound. Only the brittle rattle of pebbles beneath the soldier’s boots as he paces out the blackened circle for a third or fourth time. No one has said a word, the Librarian notes, since the Fire-breather vanished.

  Ah, good, he muses, when his feet more or less respond to his orders, and shuffle him forward. Perhaps now the words will follow.

  The pale girl finally finds her tongue. “We have to go after him!”

  In her widened eyes, the Librarian sees the stark reflection of the Fire-breather’s long list of parting threats, each one pointed and personal. “Now! Before he . . . we have to warn everyone!”

  Her name is Erde von Alte, and she is fourteen. The Librarian has met her before, in earlier times. The same time as the elder knight. Even then, she was given to overemphasis and passionate exaggeration, in the way of fourteen year olds, which is unsurprising since in the eleven hundred years since he first encountered her, she has aged but two months. The Librarian feels he has permission to note her overzealousness, having been a fourteen year old himself several times in his life, though never a girl. Besides, young Erde came to the present the easy way, dragon-back, while he has had to live each day and every year in between.

  “Everyone! Please! If we don’t hurry, he’ll get to them first! He’ll . . .!”

  “Whoa, girl, easy.” The tall youth stops rubbing his eyes and stands blinking. His lanky ebony body cuts a hard profile against the sun-splashed rock. “Can’t just race on off. Gotta figure where he’s headed.”

  The Citadel, thinks the Librarian, so sure he’s spoken aloud that he’s confused when none of them react to the visions of seared flesh and broken bodies writhing so vividly inside his own eyes.

  The girl shoves away the dark youth’s raised palms. “We’ll go everywhere, then! We’ll have to split up!”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” He shrugs, an uneasy dance of flatly muscled shoulders beneath his charred T-shirt. “Let’s see what they say.” He glances toward the two dragons and spots the soldier, still in restless, impatient motion. “Hey, Dolph! C’mon over! Battle conference!”

  The tall youth is called N’Doch. He is West African, and from a time in the world’s history when his homeland was not yet under water. The older man is Luther Williams, a local in the present time, from one of the itinerant Tinker clans. The soldier is from the girl’s place and time. The Librarian is not yet sure about this one’s preference in a name. A different version is used by each of the dragon guides. The knight’s squire he met so long ago was Adolphus Michael von Hoffmann, heir to the sizable estates of Köthen. Germany, it was. Tenth century. A baron, he thinks. The Librarian cares little about such things.

  The soldier glances up at N’Doch’s summons. He frowns, already pondering solutions as he paces across the tarmac to join them. Gently but firmly, as he passes, the baron scoops up the Fire-breather’s guide and urges her forward under the shelter of his arm. She leans into him, drying her eyes, flicking dubious and apologetic glances though damp lashes at her fellow guides. The Librarian feels shy as she approaches, uncomfortably conscious of his wild hair and his shambling, graceless bulk.

  For this is Paia, after all. The High Priestess of the Temple of the Apocalypse, the Fire-breather’s cult. The Librarian knows everything about her. His machines beneath the mountain are hooked to her machines in the Fire-breather’s lair, though she was unaware of the connection—and of him—until their meeting mere hours ago. He’s always known Fire’s priestess was a beautiful woman, but he finds the reality of her . . . go ahead, Gerrasch, say it . . . her flesh quite overwhelming. Small wonder that Dolph or Hoffmann or Baron Köthen or whatever the soldier wishes to be called soothes her along like something precious. She is that rare occurrence, especially nowadays: unblemished, unmutated, undeformed. A perfect physical specimen. Of course the soldier is in love with her. Who could blame him?

  A loose circle coalesces in the center of the old landing pad. First, all of them talk at once, a burst of babble that manages to express only their relief at being still alive. Then they fall silent to gaze expectantly at the Librarian, as if an urgent meeting has been called to order, of which he has unaccountably been elected Chair.

  Not so unaccountably, the Librarian reminds himself. Not a moment to waste, and there’s a major language barrier here.

  He visualizes the problem as an interlinked flow chart. For him, an image is always more articulate than words, and so, words are a wonder to him. Words are his long life’s study, which is why he comes armed with a solution.

  Erde, N’Doch, and Baron Köthen have been speaking tenth century German. Though N’Doch’s native languages are twenty-first century Wolof and sub-Saharan French, he’s learned the antique German recently and precipitously from the dragons, who can download entire databases into a linked human mind, the only issue being how fast the mind can accept the input. Köthen speaks German and passable Old French, but is not dragon-linked like the guides. Still, he has a quick ear and a quicker mind, so he’s fast picking up the contemporary English that is Luther’s only tongue, as it is Paia’s—except Luther speaks his own “Tinker” dialect of English, which sounds different from Paia’s. But Paia, as Fire’s guide, is mind-linked to the other guides. Translation is automatic. Maybe the worst of this chaos is N’Doch’s slang-ridden English, learned watching old twentieth century American videos. It makes the Librarian’s teeth itch.

  The conundrum is, of course, what language to use in spoken conversation? Once Köthen is more fluent, English will be the obvious lingua franca. For now, only the Librarian can resolve the confusion. Hence their breathless attention.

  He fishes in the deep pockets of his jumpsuit for his remote keypad and activates the translator program. He holds up his little device like a beacon, nodding around the circle. Again, they all start in at once.

  “He’ll go right to . . .”

  “We gotta see what . . .”

  “What about the . . .”

  The soldier shakes his head and backs off a step.

  “He’ll go to Deep Moor first!” Erde exclaims breathlessly.

  “Why would he?”

  “Wait!” rumbles Luther. “Fust t’ing, we gudda tell da uddahs.”

  The Librarian is still struggling to vocalize. His voice is stuck, like an unoiled hinge. “Yes,” he manages finally, grateful for any coherent sound at all.

  YES.

  The echo booms in his chest as well as in his head. It makes him want to cough. The dragons have ended their private conference. The Librarian feels his brain crowd up as the other guides drop into mental contact.

  Earth lifts his horned head. WE MUST POSTPONE THE QUEST UNTIL OUR FRIENDS ARE SAFE.

  Yes! Erde’s slim fists ball up for emphasis. We’ll go now and warn Deep Moor!

  N’Doch shakes his head. Faster if we stopped by Papa Dja’s on the way!

  The Citadel is closest! We should go there first!

  The Librarian recalls that he must tell them about his new difference, about his true moment with his dragon, the missing sister, and the object of their Quest. But time and minds run breakneck in the Meld. So long-schooled in waiting, the Librarian is like a timid driver on a freeway ramp at rush hour. He can’t get a word in edgewise. Need info, he offers instead.

  YES. WE MUST GATHER TO DISCUSS THE BEST COURSE OF ACTION.

  A chorus of distress rises from the minds in the Meld, who know how long a dragon discussion can take.

  Dear dragon, we haven’t time!

  So many lives are in danger!

  JUST HOLD ON, ALL OF YOU. Water’s music for once rings harsh. THERE ARE A LOT OF INTERESTS AT STAKE HERE, INCLUDING A FEW YOU SEEM TO HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT! OUR SISTER AIR STILL LANGUISHES IN CAPTIVITY, FAR AHEAD ALONG THE TIME LINE.

  Where?

  Farther in the future?

  The Librarian recalls now what terror had pushed from his m
ind. In the midst of the firefight, the dragons’ hasty revelation: We know where she is!

  Erde subsides with an anxious frown. She would never contradict a dragon, not even someone else’s.

  But no one’s been there. We can’t go there dragon-back without an image to travel to.

  Fire’s been there. Let’s send Paia to pick his brain.

  WE HAVE BEEN PONDERING THIS, AND AS YET, SEE NO SOLUTION, Earth told them.

  Water reluctantly agrees. YES, FOR NOW, WE’LL DO WHAT WE CAN DO. WE’LL HELP OUR FRIENDS.

  ASK THOSE BELOW TO CLEAR SPACE IN THE LARGEST CAVERN. WE ARE COMING TO JOIN THEM.

  The Future. An image. A future image. What if . . .?

  Can’t hold on to that train of thought against the pull of a dragon imperative. The Librarian gives up and thumbs his remote, calling up the gawky boy he’s left listening at the console in the complex far below. He summons words enough to be understood. Mattias is used to supplying the ones in between. The Librarian often dreams of vocalizing his thought-images. If, when he opened his mouth, the pictures just flowed out, as detailed and coherent as they are in his head, or as words are in the mouths of others, he’d have no problem communicating with the world. But what would the response be, he wonders, to his cloud-tower image of the dragon Air?

  “Wow!” squeaks the remote. “Dragons?” The receding slap of bare feet is audible over the open line as Mattias abandons the console and hotfoots it down the corridor.

  “Join hands!” Erde urges. “Lord Earth will take us down!”

  Baron Köthen mutters a warning to Luther about the nauseating effects of dragon transport.

  Luther says, “Mebbe we ’umins shud take da elevader.”

  “Too late,” N’Doch replies.

  Seconds later, the hot glare of the summit has been eclipsed by the opaque weight of the mountain. They are in darkness. Wavering points of light surround them like a sea of stars. The nervous waiting silence is broken only by the resonant, far-off thump of the circulating fans. The Librarian sucks in cool air, filtered and humidified, and expels a gasping sigh of relief. He’ll be able to think more clearly now, he’s sure of it. He sees the soldier shudder just once and swallow hard. Luther groans faintly. The Librarian has felt nothing, as if traveling disembodied through tons of solid rock is perfectly natural. As if he’s been doing it for years. Sometimes he suspects he is not yet entirely “umin.”

  For instance, his nose is far too sensitive. The chill air of the cavern is redolent with the smell of humans and animals, yet he can pick out familiar individuals by their scent alone. He can still read their emotions, their lingering fear, the surge of adrenaline caused by Mattias’ announcement. In the vast, high-vaulted space, the rows of wagons and carts and campsites have been hastily hauled back. The open center is ringed by lanterns and receding, dim-lit ranks of weary, worried, awe-filled faces. Hot meals and a good night’s sleep have been rare down here for several days now. Their astonishment tickles the Librarian’s nose—a tang of citrus. After all, six people have just materialized out of nowhere, right in front of them.

  The most familiar scent of all steps out of the darkness. Leif Cauldwell—a mixed scent of smoke, leather, and a hint of cinnamon. Every eye follows him: tall and golden, head priest of the Fire Temple turned rebel leader. No living human has had more experience with the Fire-breather, except Paia herself. Right now, Cauldwell smells like a man trying hard to look optimistic. Behind his firmly sculpted mouth, his teeth worry the inside of his lip. The Tinker elder Reuben Stokes limps along at his side—brisk odors of salt and pine sap. Luther immediately goes to greet them. Cauldwell’s body is in its prime and powerful, and though Luther’s chin-forward stoop betrays his age, they both tower over little Stoksie. But no matter. All three clasp hands as if they’d last parted unsure of ever seeing each other again.

  “Yu wudnta b’leeved it, Leif!” Luther’s murmur is heartfelt and grateful. “Dey sentim packin’, dey did!”

  For the soldier’s sake, the Librarian thumbs his translator up to max.

  “No, Luther. He left, in a rage!” The remote unit mimics Erde’s girlish stridency to perfection. “You know that’s nowhere near the end of it. People everywhere are in terrible danger!”

  Luther nods, but her rebuke does little to dampen his enthusiasm.

  Leif Cauldwell’s worried gaze flicks toward the Librarian. “So what happened up there?”

  “Left, yes.” The Librarian offers his pudgy shortcut of a shrug. “Now what?” He knows what. Hurry, hurry. The message throbs in his chest like a second heartbeat. But he will not tell people what to do. He will not give orders. He’s seen far too much of that in his many lives.

  N’Doch rests both hands on Erde’s shoulders, solicitous but restraining. “Yeah, that’s it, chief. We got some hard decisions to make, and we gotta do it fast.”

  “But . . . he came? The Beast?” Cauldwell squints into the darkness behind them. “Is Paia with you? Did he take her? Is she all right?”

  “She’s here. She’s fine,” says N’Doch.

  “Yes. No.” The Librarian feels dragon pressure building behind his brow like a foul-weather headache. Not his dragon. It’s the other two. They’ve been patient so far, but silent anonymity is not their strong suit. “Not. But . . .”

  “It was rough on her,” N’Doch supplies. “But she told him where to go.”

  Cauldwell spies his former superior, mute and lovely, within the curve of the soldier’s arm. “Congratulations, cuz!” His smile offers both approval and awe: she has faced down the Fire-breather and lived. Then his edginess returns. “Mattias said you were bringing the other . . .”

  “Draguns, Leif! Yu kin sayit.” Luther’s wide grin reflects the flicker of lantern light. “Da gud uns!” He points to a peculiar zone of darkness in the middle of the cleared area. A blue light dances at its center. “Dey’s sistah an’ brudder ta da One!”

  A murmur rustles across the cavern, the very breath of hope and reverence. “The One!”

  The One who will save us all. The Librarian ponders his mantra, and the tall cloud towers bloom behind his eyelids. Air, Air, Air. But now is no time for preaching on his visions, even if he could get the words out right.

  Because Cauldwell needs help. This brave and seasoned warrior has backed away before he can stop himself, retreating from the mysterious looming darkness and its companion glow, though he sees Stoksie and Luther smiling and unalarmed. The Librarian smells his reflex terror, and the effort it takes for the big man to plant his feet and gaze about, as if he’d merely been making room. Leif Cauldwell has good reason to fear dragons, from his long and bitter years in the Fire-breather’s employ. The Librarian brushes away the phantoms rushing into his head—fire, smoke, human sacrifice—and shuffles over to stand close by the rebel leader’s side. Cauldwell glances down at him.

  “Ah. Gerrasch.” He grips the Librarian’s soft shoulder. “Ah.”

  Earth speeds up his metabolism toward visibility, and the huge cavern seems to shrink, relative to the dragon’s great, glimmering shadow. His eyes precede his solid form, appearing as disembodied oval lamps, as tall as a man and glowing like the sky before dawn. The crowd stirs and murmurs. His head alone is as big as their tallest wagons. His curved ivory claws and horns shine with his own interior gleam. Cauldwell stares, his jaw set, as the phosphorescent blue eddy drops to hover at the brown dragon’s side.

  The Librarian gazes up at the rebel leader, willing him toward acceptance and calm. If it would help, he would embrace the man, and each and every one of the throng withdrawing cautiously into the deeper shadows. These are his people, who have gifted him with their faith for so long. Not all of them, to be sure, especially among the Tinkers. Stoksie, for one, has remained an unbeliever, even while accepting the more secular aspects of Cauldwell’s rebellion. But Tinkers are by nature broad-minded, and Stoksie was always open to proof, so it thrills the Librarian to at last be able to offer him some. Proof of what he�
�s been promising and preaching, that great Powers will appear to oppose the Fire-breather’s tyranny, to help free the One and restore the dying planet. He couldn’t warn them that those Powers would also be dragons. His visions hadn’t been that specific.

  He watches an entire spectrum of loathing shiver across Leif Cauldwell’s handsome face as the man tries to come to grips.

  An odd sound, half moan, half sigh, escapes the High Priestess. She slips out from under the soldier’s protective arm. He takes a step after her, then falls back as she glides forward to grasp Cauldwell’s hand.

  “These are not like him,” she whispers.

  Her voice is hoarse. No wonder. She’s just been shouting down the Fire-breather, inhaling the smoke and sulfur of his wrath. Her dragon. Fire. The Librarian hears grief and guilt and confusion in every word. The soldier waits, watching his woman like the hawk he very much resembles.

  “Come. Meet them.” Paia leads Cauldwell across the open floor toward the dragons. He tries not to seem unwilling. The blue glow coalesces into something nearer form: wings webbed with gossamer, a long neck, a shimmering fish tail, appearing, disappearing, changeable. An impression of music hovers in the air. Earth lowers his huge head. His eyes are like lighted doorways. His nostrils flare gently. Warm, sweet breezes ruffle the rebel leader’s hair. Scents of moist loam and bruised grass. The Librarian cannot help but smile, though his heart pounds with that other urgency. Leaves. Grass. It’s been far too long since he’s inhaled such treasures. Paia lays her own hand and Cauldwell’s on the dragon’s shining claw. Cauldwell’s hand trembles, then steadies.

  Behind them, Luther says, “Wuz dem dat saved uz, Leif.”

  “Not a moment too soon, either,” N’Doch agrees.

  Stoksie whistles softly. “Heeza big un, all ri’.”

  N’Doch grins. “And getting bigger every day. When I first met him, he wasn’t much bigger than an elephant.”

  “Yeah? Wuzza nelefant?”

  “Yu know, Stokes,” Luther mutters. “Yu seen ’em in pitchers.”